"Dom—scum!" says Balaguère.
"Stutuo!" responds Garrigou, while the infernal little bell jingles in their ears like the sleigh-bells that are put on stage-horses to hasten their speed. You may well imagine that at such a rate a Low Mass is soon rattled off.
"So much for the second," says the panting chaplain, with scarlet face, in a full perspiration; and without taking time to breathe, he goes tumbling down the altar steps, and—
Ding, ling, ling! Ding, ling, ling!
The third Mass is under way. Only a few minutes stand between them and the supper. But alas! as the time approaches, Dom Balaguère's fever of impatience and greediness increases. His vision grows more and more vivid; the fish, the roasted turkeys, are there before him; he touches them; he—great Heavens!—he breathes the perfume of the wines and the savory fumes of the dishes, and the frantic little bell calls out to him,—
"Hurry, hurry! Faster, faster!"
But how on earth can he go faster? His lips barely move; he has given up enunciating altogether,—unless, forsooth, he chooses to cheat the Lord, and swindle him out of his Mass. And that is just what he is doing, the wretched man! Yielding first to one temptation, then another, he skips one verse, then two; then the Epistle being very long, he omits part of it, skims over the Gospel, passes the Creed unnoticed, skips the Pater, hails the preface from afar, and thus with a skip and a jump plunges into eternal damnation, followed by that infamous Garrigou (Vade retro, Satanas!), who seconds him with marvellous sympathy, upholds his chasuble, turns the pages two at a time, jostles the lectern, and upsets the vases, while the little bell rings constantly, ever faster and louder.
It would be impossible to describe the bewildered expression of the congregation. Compelled to follow, mimicking the priest, through this Mass, of which they can make neither head nor tail, some stand while others kneel, some sit while others stand; and all the phases of this singular service are jumbled together along the benches in the greatest confusion of varied postures. The Christmas star on the celestial road, journeying toward the little manger yonder, grows pale at the very thought.
"The abbé reads too fast; it is impossible to follow him," whispers the old dowager Marchioness, whose voluminous head-dress shakes wildly. Master Arnoton, with his great steel spectacles on his nose, loses his place every minute and fingers his Prayer-Book nervously. Still, at heart all these good people, whose minds are equally bent upon the Christmas supper, are not at all disturbed at the idea of following Mass at such breakneck speed; and when Dom Balaguère, facing them radiantly, exclaims in a thundering voice, "Ite missa est," the response, "Deo gracias," is so unanimous, joyous, and spirited, that any one might take it for the first toast of the supper.