‘We give it—it is from us!’ shouted the mob, with one savage roar.
Gougon removed his cap, and bowed in token of obedience.
‘Let us proceed in order, citizens,’ said he gravely; ‘I see no priest here.’
‘Shrive her yourself, Gougon; few know the mummeries better!’ cried a voice.
‘Is there not one here can remember a prayer, or even a verse of the offices,’ said Gougon, with a well-affected horror in his voice.
‘Yes, yes, I do,’ cried I, my zeal overcoming all sense of the mockery in which the words were spoken; ‘I know them all by heart, and can repeat them from “lux beatissima” down to “hora mortis”’; and as if to gain credence for my self-laudation, I began at once to recite, in the sing-song tone of the seminary—
‘Salve, mater salvatoris,
Fons salutis, vas honoris;
Scala coli, porta et via,
Salve semper, O Maria!’
It is possible I should have gone on to the very end, if the uproarious laughter which rung around had not stopped me.
‘There’s a brave youth!’ cried Gougon, pointing towards me, with mock admiration. ‘If it ever come to pass—as what may not in these strange times?—that we turn to priestcraft again, thou shalt be the first archbishop of Paris. Who taught thee that famous canticle?’
‘The Père Michel,’ replied I, in no way conscious of the ridicule bestowed upon me; ‘the Père Michel of St. Blois.’