Ding, ling, ling! Ding, ling, ling!
Midnight Mass has begun. In the chapel of the castle, which is a
miniature cathedral, with intercrossed arches and oaken wainscoting
up to the ceiling, all the tapestries are hung, all the tapers
lighted. What a crowd of people, and what sumptuous costumes! Here,
in one of the carven stalls that surround the choir, sits the Sire
of Trinquelague, clad in salmon-colored silk, and around him all the
noble lords, his guests. Opposite them, on velvet fall-stools, kneel
the old dowager Marchioness, in a gown of flame-colored brocade, and
the young lady of Trinquelague, wearing on her pretty head a great
tower of lace puffed and quilled according to the latest fashion at
the court of France. Farther down the aisle, all dressed in black,
with vast pointed wigs and cleanly shaven chins, sit Thomas Arnoton
the bailiff, and the notary, Master Ambroy, two sombre spots amid
the high colors of silks and brocaded damasks. Then come the fat
major-domos, the pages, outriders, the stewards, Dame Barbe with her
great bunch of keys dangling from her side on a ring of fine silver.
On the benches in the rear is the lower service,--butlers, maids, the
farmers and their families. And last of all, far back against the
doors, which they discreetly open and close, come the cooks, between
two sauces, to catch a little whiff of the Mass, bringing with them
into the bedecked church, warm with the light of so many tapers,
odoriferous suggestions of the Christmas supper.
Can it be the sight of these crisp white caps that diverts the
reverend father's attention? Or is it not rather Garrigou's
bell?--that fiendish little bell that tinkles away at the foot of the
altar with such infernal haste, and seems to be saying,--
"Come, come, let us hurry! The sooner we despatch the service, the
sooner we go to supper."
The fact of the matter is that at every peal from this little devil
of a bell, the chaplain forgets his Mass and allows his mind to
wander to the Christmas supper. He evokes visions of busy kitchens,
with ovens glowing like furnaces, warm vapors rising from under tin
lids, and through these vapors, two superb turkeys, stuffed, crammed,
mottled with truffles. Or then again, he sees long files of little
pages carrying great dishes wrapped in their tempting fumes, and
with them he is about to enter the dining-hall. What ecstasy! Here
stands the immense table, laden and dazzling with peacocks dressed in
their feathers, pheasants spreading their bronzed wings, ruby-colored
decanters, pyramids of luscious fruit amid the foliage, and those
wonderful fish that Garrigou spoke of (Garrigou, forsooth!) reclining
on a bed of fennel, their pearly scales looking as if they were just
from the pond, and a bunch of pungent herbs in their monster-like
nostrils. This beatific vision is so vivid that Dom Balaguère
actually fancies that the glorious dishes are being served before
him, on the very embroideries of the altar-cloth, and instead of
saying _Dominus vobiscum_, he catches himself saying the _Benedicite_.
With the exception of these slight mistakes the worthy man rattled
off the service conscientiously, without skipping a line, or omitting
a genuflection, and all went well to the end of the first Mass. For
you must know that on Christmas the same officiating priest is
obliged to say three Masses consecutively.
"So much for one!" thought the chaplain, with a sigh of relief;
and without losing a second, he motioned his clerk, or him whom he
believed to be his clerk, and--
Ding, ling, ling! Ding, ling, ling!
The second Mass has begun--and with it Dom Balaguère's sin. "Come,
let us hurry!" says Garrigou's bell, in a shrill, devilish little
voice, at the mere sound of which the unfortunate priest pounces
upon the missal and devours its pages with all the avidity of his
over-excited brain. He kneels and rises frantically, barely sketches
the sign of the cross and the genuflections, and shortens all of his
gestures in order to get through sooner. He scarcely extends his arms
at the Gospel, or strikes his breast at the _Confiteor_. Between him
and his little clerk it is hard to tell who mumbles the faster. The
words, half uttered between their teeth,--for it would take them too
long to open their lips every time,--die out into unintelligible
murmurs,--