Drelindin din! Drelindin din! Midnight Mass is about to begin. In the
chapel of the château, a miniature cathedral with arches intercrossed
and a wainscot of oak mounting as high as the walls, all the hangings
have been arranged, all the candles lit.
And what a host of people! And what toilettes! First, seated in the
sculptured stall which surrounds the choir, behold the Sire de
Trinquelague in a suit of salmon-colored taffeta; and next to him all
the invited nobles. Facing these, on a prie-dieu trimmed with velvet, is
the old dowager Marquise in her robe of fire-colored brocade, and the
young Dame de Trinquelague, surmounted by a huge head-dress of lace,
made in the latest fashion of the French court. Further down, dressed in
black, with vast pointed perukes and shaven faces, are the bailiff,
Thomas Arnoton, and the notary, Master Ambroy, two grave objects among
the flowing silks and figured damasks. Then come the fat majordomos,
the pages, the grooms, the attendants; dame Barbe, all her keys
suspended at her side on a ring of thin silver. At the bottom of the
hall, on the benches, are the Servants, the yeomen with their families;
and lastly, beyond, all about the doors as they open and shut
discretely, are the scullions, who steal in, between two sauces, to get
a little of the Mass, carrying an odor of the revelry into the church,
all in its gay attire and warm with so many burning candles.
Is it a glimpse of their little white caps that distracts the celebrant
of the Mass? Or, it may be the clangor made by Garrigou's bells, that
pulsating sound which shakes the altar with an infernal vibration and
seems to say all the time:
"Hurry up, hurry up. We'll soon be done; we'll soon be at table!"
The fact is, that each time it sounds--that peal of the devil--the
chaplain forgets his Mass and thinks of nothing but the coming revel. He
pictures to himself the uproar of the kitchens; the furnace heated like
a blacksmith's forge; the vapor of opening trenchers, and in that vapor
two magnificent turkeys, buttered, tender, bursting with truffles.
Or, perhaps he saw pass the files of little pages bearing dishes
enveloped in tempting steam, and, with them, entered the grand saloon
already prepared for the feast. O deliciousness! behold the immense
table all set and sparkling; the peacocks in their plumes; the pheasants
with their open wings of reddish-brown; the ruby-colored flagons; the
pyramids of fruit peeping from green branches; and those marvellous fish
of which Garrigou told (ah! well, yes, Garrigou!) held aloft on a bed of
fennel, the mother-of-pearl scales as bright as when they came from the
water, with a bouquet of odorous herbs in their monster-like nostrils.
So distinct is the vision of these marvels, that it seems to Dom
Balaguère as if all the wonderful dishes are served before him on the
embroideries of the altar-cloth; and two or three times, in place of
_Dominus vobiscum_, he is surprised to find himself repeating the
_Benedicite_. Saving these slight mistakes, the holy man does his office
very conscientiously, without skipping a line, without omitting a
genuflexion; and all goes well enough as far as the end of the first
Mass; because, you know, on Christmas night the same celebrant must
repeat three consecutive Masses.
"One!" said the chaplain, with a sigh of relief; then, without losing a
minute, he made a sign to his clerk--or the person he believed to be his
clerk, and----
Drelindin din! Drelindin din!
The second Mass begins, and with it begins also the sin of Dom
Balaguère.
"Hurry, hurry, let's get done," cries the thin voice of Garrigou's bell,
and this time the unlucky priest, abandoning himself to the demon of
gluttony, rushes through the missal, devouring its pages with all the
avidity of an overcharged appetite. Frantically he bows; arises; makes
the signs of the cross, goes through the genuflexions, abbreviates all
his gestures, the sooner to be finished. Scarcely does he extend his
arms to the Gospel, or strike his breast where it is required. Between
the clerk and him it is a race which shall jabber the faster. Verse and
response hurry each other, tumble over each other. The words, hardly
pronounced, because it takes too much time to open the mouth, become
incomprehensible murmurs.
_Oremus ps--ps--ps--
Meâ culpâ--pâ--pâ--._
Like hard-working vintagers pressing grapes in a vat, both wade through
the Latin of the Mass, splashing it on all sides.
"_Dom--scum!_" says Balaguère.
"_Stutuo!_" responds Garrigou, and all the while the damnable chime
sounds in their ears, like those little bells put on the post-horses to
make them gallop more swiftly. Believe me, under such conditions a low
Mass is vastly expedited!
"Two!" said the chaplain, all out of breath; then without taking time to
breathe, red, perspiring, he tumbled down the stairs of the altar.
Drelindin din! Drelindin din! The third Mass begins.
Only a step or so and then the dining-hall! but, alas, the nearer the
revel approaches, the more the unfortunate Balaguère is seized with the
very folly of impatience and greediness. His vision accentuates it; the
golden carp, the roast turkeys are there. He may touch them--he may--Oh,
Holy Virgin! the dishes steam; the wines send forth sweet odors; and
shaking out its reckless song, the bell cries to him:
"Hurry up, hurry up; still faster, still faster!"
But how can he go any faster? He scarcely moves his lips, he pronounces
fully not a single word. He tries to cheat the good God altogether of
His Mass, and that is what brings his ruin. By temptation upon
temptation, he begins to jump one verse, then two. Then the epistle is
too long--he does not finish it; skims the Gospel, passes by the creed
without even entering, skips the pater, salutes from afar the preface,
and by bounds and jumps precipitates himself into eternal damnation,
always following the infamous Garrigou (_vade retro, Satanas_), who
seconds him with marvellous skill; tucks up his chasuble, turns the
leaves two by two, disarranges the music-desk, reverses the flagons, and
unceasingly rings the bell more and more vigorously, more and more
quickly.
You should have seen what a figure all the assistants cut. Obliged to
follow, like mimics, a Mass of which they did not understand a word,
some rose when others kneeled, or seated themselves when others stood,
and all the actors in this singular office mixed themselves on the
benches in numberless contrary attitudes.
The star of Christmas, on its journey through the heavens yonder by the
little manger, paled with astonishment at the confusion.
"The Abbe's in a dreadful hurry: I can't follow him at all," said the
aged dowager, shaking her head-dress with bewilderment. Master Arnoton,
his great steel spectacles on his nose, searched in his prayer-book
where the deuce the words could be. But, after all, that gallant host,
which itself was thinking only of the feast, was far from being vexed
because the Mass rode post; and when Balaguère, with beaming
countenance, turned toward the assembly crying with all his might, _Ite
missa est_, with a single voice they returned, _Deo gratias_, so
joyously, so fervently, that one might have thought them already at
table responding to the first toast of the night.