‘Cela l’augmente-t-il?’
‘Non, dis-je, cela me la légitime.’
Certes, il m’a plu souvent qu’une doctrine et même qu’un système complet de pensées ordonnées justifiât à moi-même mes actes; mais parfois je ne l’ai pu considérer que comme l’abri de ma sensualité.
André Gide.
CHAPTER XII
THE FÊTE-DIEU
It was the Sunday of the octave of the Fête-Dieu—the Feast of Corpus Christi. God Himself had walked the streets like Agamemnon over purple draperies. The stench of the city had mingled with the perfume of a thousand lilies—to the Protestant mind, a symbol of the central doctrine of the day—Transubstantiation. Transubstantiation beaten out by the cold, throbbing logic of the Latin hymns of Saint Thomas Aquinas, and triumphantly confirmed at Bologna by the miraculous bleeding of the Host.
Seraphic logic and bleeding bread! A conjunction such as this hints at a secret vice of the cold and immaculate intellect. What if one came in a dark corner of one’s dreams upon a celestial spirit feeding upon carrion?
Past gorgeous altars, past houses still hung with arras, the Troquevilles walked to Mass. From time to time they met processions of children apeing the solemn doings of Thursday, led by tiny, mock priests, shrilly chanting the office of the day. Other children passed in the scanty clothing of little Saint John, leading lambs on pink or blue ribbons. Everything sparkled in the May sunshine, and the air was full of the scent of flowers.