Like hurried vintagers crushing the grapes in the mash-tuns, they
both splashed about in the Latin of the service, spattering it in
every direction.
"Dom--scum!" says Balaguère.
"Stutuo!" responds Garrigou, while the infernal little bell jingles
in their ears like the sleigh-bells that are put on stage-horses to
hasten their speed. You may well imagine that at such a rate a Low
Mass is soon rattled off.
"So much for the second," says the panting chaplain, with scarlet
face, in a full perspiration; and without taking time to breathe, he
goes tumbling down the altar steps, and--
Ding, ling, ling! Ding, ling, ling!
The third Mass is under way. Only a few minutes stand between them
and the supper. But alas! as the time approaches, Dom Balaguère's
fever of impatience and greediness increases. His vision grows more
and more vivid; the fish, the roasted turkeys, are there before him;
he touches them; he--great Heavens!--he breathes the perfume of the
wines and the savory fumes of the dishes, and the frantic little bell
calls out to him,--
"Hurry, hurry! Faster, faster!"
But how on earth can he go faster? His lips barely move; he has given
up enunciating altogether,--unless, forsooth, he chooses to cheat
the Lord, and swindle him out of his Mass. And that is just what he
is doing, the wretched man! Yielding first to one temptation, then
another, he skips one verse, then two; then the Epistle being very
long, he omits part of it, skims over the Gospel, passes the Creed
unnoticed, skips the _Pater_, hails the preface from afar, and thus
with a skip and a jump plunges into eternal damnation, followed by
that infamous Garrigou (_Vade retro, Satanas!_), who seconds him with
marvellous sympathy, upholds his chasuble, turns the pages two at a
time, jostles the lectern, and upsets the vases, while the little
bell rings constantly, ever faster and louder.
It would be impossible to describe the bewildered expression of the
congregation. Compelled to follow, mimicking the priest, through
this Mass, of which they can make neither head nor tail, some stand
while others kneel, some sit while others stand; and all the phases
of this singular service are jumbled together along the benches in
the greatest confusion of varied postures. The Christmas star on the
celestial road, journeying toward the little manger yonder, grows
pale at the very thought.
"The abbé reads too fast; it is impossible to follow him," whispers
the old dowager Marchioness, whose voluminous head-dress shakes
wildly. Master Arnoton, with his great steel spectacles on his nose,
loses his place every minute and fingers his Prayer-Book nervously.
Still, at heart all these good people, whose minds are equally bent
upon the Christmas supper, are not at all disturbed at the idea
of following Mass at such breakneck speed; and when Dom Balaguère,
facing them radiantly, exclaims in a thundering voice, "Ite missa
est," the response, "Deo gracias," is so unanimous, joyous, and
spirited, that any one might take it for the first toast of the
supper.