The bell rings twice!...
Midnight mass is beginning. The candles are lit and the tapestries
draped from top to bottom of the interleaved arches and the oak
panelling in the chateau's chapel. It's a veritable cathedral in
miniature. And what a congregation there is! And what get-ups they have
on! The Sire of Trinquelage is dressed in salmon-pink taffeta in one of
the choir's sculptured stalls, with all the other invited noble Lords
sitting near him. Opposite, on a pair of velvet decorated prie-dieus,
the old dowager marquise in her flame-red, brocaded dress, and the
youthful Lady of Trinquelage, hair done up in a tower of crinkled lace
in the latest style of the French court, have taken their places; and
lower down, the bailiff, Thomas Arnoton, and the scrivener, Master
Ambroy are all in black, and clean shaven, with huge pointed wigs--two
quiet notes amongst the loud silks and brocaded damasks. Then the
well-fed major-domos, the pages, the stablemen, the stewards, and Lady
Barbe, with all her keys hanging by her side on a fine silver key-ring.
Then comes the lower orders on benches; the servants, the
tenant-farmers, and their families. Lastly, the male servers, who are
lined up against the door, quietly half opening and closing it again,
as they pop in and out between making sauces, so they can soak up a bit
of the atmosphere of the mass. As they do this, a whiff of Christmas
Eve dinner wafts into the middle of the service, already warmed by so
many lit candles.
Is it the sight of these little white birettas which distracts the
officiating priest? It's more likely to be Garrigou, with his
persistent, little bell incessantly ringing on at the foot of the altar
with infernal urgency as if to say:
--Hurry up, hurry up ... the sooner we finish, the sooner we eat.
The simple fact is that with each tinkle of the devilishly insistent
bell, the chaplain loses track of the mass, as his mind totally wanders
off into the Christmas Eve banquet. He imagines the cooks buzzing
around, the open-hearth blazing furnaces, the steam hissing from
half-opened lids, and there, within the steam, two magnificent turkeys,
stuffed to bursting, and marbled with truffles....
Even worse, he imagines the lines of pages carrying dishes that breathe
out the tempting vapour and accompanies them to the great hall already
prepared for the great feast. Oh, such delicacies! Then there is the
immense table fully loaded and brimming over with peacocks still
covered in their feathered glory, pheasants with their golden brown
wings spread wide, the ruby coloured flagons of wine, pyramids of fruit
begging to be plucked from the green foliage, and the marvellous fish
spread out on a bed of fennel, their pearly scales shining as if just
caught, with a bouquet of aromatic herbs in the gills of these
monsters. So life-like is the vision of these marvels, that Dom
Balaguère has the impression that these fabulous dishes were served on
the embroidered altar cloth, so that instead of saying, _the Lord be
with you_ he finds himself saying _grace_. These slight faux-pas aside,
he reels off his office conscientiously enough, without fluffing a line
or missing a genuflexion. All went well to the end of the first mass.
But, remember, the celebrant is obliged take three consecutive masses
on Christmas Day.
--That's one less! sighs the chaplain to himself in blessèd relief.
Then, without wasting a second, he nodded to his clerical assistant, or
at least, to what he thought was his clerical assistant, and ...
The bell rang, again!
The second mass begins, and with it, the fatal fall into sin of Dom
Balaguère.
--Quick, quick, let's hurry up, cries the shrill voice of Garigou's
bell, but this time the unlucky celebrant abandons himself utterly to
the demon of greed and pounces on the missal, devouring the pages as he
lost control of his avidly over-stimulated appetite. He becomes
frenzied, he bows down, he rises, takes a sight stab at crossing
himself and genuflecting, minimising the gestures, all the quicker to
reach the end. His arms, no sooner stretched over the gospels than back
thumping his chest for the I confess. Competition is joined between him
and his cleric to see who finishes first in the mumbling stakes. Verses
and responses tumble out and mix together. Half swallowed words through
clenched teeth take too long, and so tail off into incomprehensible
mutters.
--_Pray for u ..._
--_Thro ... my fau ..._
Like frenzied grape-pickers treading the grapes from the vat, they
squelched around in the Latin of the mass, slopping it all over the
place.
--_Lor ... b'ith ... yo..._ says Balaguère.
--_An ... wi ... yo ... spi't ..._ replies Garrigou; and the busy
little bell is more or less continuously in action jangling in their
ears, acting like the bells they put on post-horses to make them gallop
faster. To be sure, at this rate the second low mass is quickly
dispatched.
--And the second one done! says the completely breathless chaplain.
Then, without time for another breath, flushed and sweating, he rushes
down the altar steps and....
The bell rings yet again!
The third mass is beginning. The dining room is no more than a few
steps away, but, oh dear, as the Christmas Eve feast gets nearer, the
unfortunate Balaguère is gripped by a mad, impatient fever of greed.
His fantasies get the worse of him, he sees the golden carp, the roast
turkeys, they are there, there right before his eyes.... He touches
them ... he ... Oh God!... The steaming dishes, the scented wine; then
the little bell frantically cries out,
--Faster, faster, faster!...
Yet how could he go any faster? As it was, his lips barely move. He
doesn't even pronounce the words ... short of completely fooling God
and keeping His mass from Him. And then he even falls into that low
state, the poor unfortunate man!... Going from bad to worse temptation,
he begins to skip a verse, and then two. Then the epistle is too long,
so he cuts it, skims over the gospel reading, looks in at the I believe
but doesn't go in, jumps over the Our Father altogether, nods at the
preface from afar, and goes towards eternal damnation by leaps and
bounds. He was closely followed by the infamous, satanic Garrigou, who
with his uncanny understanding as number two, lifts up his chasuble for
him, turns the pages two at a time, bumps into the lecterns, knocks off
birettas, and ceaselessly shakes the small bell harder and harder,
faster and faster.
Those present are completely confused. Obliged to base their actions on
the priest's words not one of which they understand, some stand up,
while others kneel; sit down, while others stand. The Christmas star,
yonder on its journey across the heavens towards the stable, pales in
horror at the confusion which is happening....
--The father is going too quickly ... we can't follow him, murmurs the
old dowager as she distractedly plays with her hair.
Master Arnoton, his large steel-framed glasses on his nose, looks in
his prayer book to see where on earth they might be in the service. At
heart, none of these dear people, who are also thinking of the feast to
come, are at all bothered that the mass is going at such a rate; and
when Dom Balaguère, face beaming, turns towards the congregation
shouting as loud as possible: _The mass is over_, it is as with one
voice they make the response, so joyously and lively there in the
chapel. You would think that they are already sitting at the table for
the opening toast of the Christmas Eve feast.