Vincent had risen to fetch the cruets from the credence table. But suddenly the door of the passage leading to the parsonage flew open and swung back against the wall, to admit a handsome child-like girl of twenty-two, who carried something hidden in her apron.
‘Thirteen of them,’ she called out. ‘All the eggs were good.’ And she opened out her apron and revealed a brood of little shivering chicks, with sprouting down and beady black eyes. ‘Do just look,’ said she; ‘aren’t they sweet little pets, the darlings! Oh, look at the little white one climbing on the others’ backs! and the spotted one already flapping his tiny wings! The eggs were a splendid lot; not one of them unfertile.’
La Teuse, who was helping to serve the mass in spite of all prohibitions, and was at that very moment handing the cruets to Vincent for the ablutions, thereupon turned round and loudly exclaimed: ‘Do be quiet, Mademoiselle Desirée! Don’t you see we haven’t finished yet?’
Through the open doorway now came the strong smell of a farmyard, blowing like some generative ferment into the church amidst the warm sunlight that was creeping over the altar. Desirée stood there for a moment delighted with the little ones she carried, watching Vincent pour, and her brother drink, the purifying wine, in order that nought of the sacred elements should be left within his mouth. And she stood there still when he came back to the side of the altar, holding the chalice in both hands, so that Vincent might pour over his forefingers and thumbs the wine and water of ablution, which he likewise drank. But when the mother hen ran up clucking with alarm to seek her little ones, and threatened to force her way into the church, Desirée went off, talking maternally to her chicks, while the priest, after pressing the purificator to his lips, wiped first the rim and next the interior of the chalice.
Then came the end, the act of thanksgiving to God. For the last time the server removed the Missal, and brought it back to the right-hand side. The priest replaced the purificator, paten, and pall upon the chalice; once more pinched the two large folds of the veil together, and laid upon it the burse containing the corporal. His whole being was now one act of ardent thanksgiving. He besought from Heaven the forgiveness of his sins, the grace of a holy life, and the reward of everlasting life. He remained as if overwhelmed by this miracle of love, the ever-recurring immolation, which sustained him day by day with the blood and flesh of his Savior.
Having read the final prayers, he turned and said: ‘Ite, missa est.’
‘Deo gratias,’ answered Vincent.
And having turned back to kiss the altar, the priest faced round anew, his left hand just below his breast, his right outstretched whilst blessing the church, which the gladsome sunbeams and noisy sparrows filled.
‘Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus.’
‘Amen,’ said the server, as he crossed himself.