If I add that in rummaging through the closets and wardrobes I had found "L'Esprit des Lois" and an odd volume of the "Political and Philosophical History of the Two Indies," and that I read them, you will no doubt believe that I am trying to make myself out an infant prodigy. It was quite the reverse, for I preferred the Abbé Raynal to Montesquieu, and what I was most charmed with in the Abbé Raynal was some absurd rant about a mistress called Catchinka, whom he had lost, and who in some remarkable way formed a part of the Philosophical History of the Two Indies. This strange library produced a veritable chaos in my poor little brain, over which floated "Robinson." It was the genuine "Robinson" too,—a translation of the work of Daniel Defoe, which, as every one knows, contains as many sermons as it does events.
But what I liked better than "Robinson," better than "Celina," better than my garden, better than the eternal walks around Colas' field, was the church service on religious holidays, the "pompous grandeur of its ceremonies." Yes, the "pompous grandeur,"—I will not retract. Since then I have seen St. Peter's, the cathedrals of Cologne and Toledo, and, I believe, all the finest churches in the world; yet I never attended service anywhere without recalling the poor little church of St. Jean Brévelay. The difference between the palace of a king and the thatched cottage of a peasant is far greater than that between the august basilica and the poor little tottering chapel of a Breton village. May the artists forgive me, but a church, however poor and small, is none the less a church. Four bare walls, a wooden cross upon a table, windows so covered with dust that they scarcely let the light in,—all these things speak to the soul of meditation and of prayer.
I do not know what the population of St. Jean Brévelay was. It could not have been over two hundred; but on Sunday the people came to High Mass from the four corners of the parish, which was vast and populous. The farmhouses and thatched cottages all emptied themselves at the first glow of dawn. You could see the families making their way to the borough along every known road—the men leading the way in silence, the women following in noisy talk among themselves. They at first scattered through the graveyard, every family stopping to say a prayer at the family tomb. Then the friends and relatives came together in groups, and the men made more than one escape to the tavern. At the last call for High Mass they all rushed to the church doors, pushing, jostling, crowding one another, until the building was filled from end to end. The graveyard—I might say the borough—was now a perfect desert. The men, standing, and pressed close together, occupied all the front part of the nave; the women, kneeling, filled the rear. All, without exception, took part in the singing. The common serpent was unknown to us; but with our voices alone we managed to make a formidable noise. The people were happy to be there, not because, as Voltaire says, "High Mass is the opera of the poor," but because, as the Christian Church says, religion is the consolation of the afflicted. The rector delivered his sermons in Low Breton, and they were never anything but a paraphrase of this word of the Gospel, Love one another. And surely they loved one another, those uncultured folk. They did not know how to read, but they knew how to love. They understood gratitude too. My mother was almost an object of worship.
The great festival of the year, after that of Saint Louis, was Christmas. The King first and God next, such is the order of precedence under all governments. It is possible that our poor peasants would have reversed that order had they been able to do so.
I must say, in order not to give them more praise than they deserve, that what they liked best about Christmas was the midnight Mass,—a sorry enjoyment for you city-bred people, who are fond of your comforts. But what is a sleepless night to a peasant? Even when they had to plod along through the mud or the snow, not an old man, not a woman hesitated. Umbrellas were then unknown at St. Jean Brévelay, or at least ours was the only one that had ever been seen there, and it was naturally the object of much surprise and admiration.
The women caught up their skirts with pins, threw a plaid kerchief over their head-dresses, and started out bravely for the parish church in their wooden shoes. Sleep, forsooth! Who could have slept even had he wanted to? The chimes began the night before immediately after the evening Angelus, and were repeated every half-hour until midnight. The hunters, in order to contribute to the general beatitude, kept up a steady firing. My father furnished the powder. It was a universal and deafening clamor. The small boys took part in it too, at the risk of maiming themselves, whenever they could lay their hands on a gun or a pistol.
The vicarage was a short half-league from the borough. The rector came over on his nag, which the quinquiss (the beadle) led by the bridle. A dozen peasants escorted him, firing their pistols in his ears all the while. But this did not disturb him in the least, for he was an old Chouan with the death of many a Blue on his conscience,—withal, the kindest and most compassionate of men since the king had returned and he had become a priest.
On that night great preparations were made at home. Telin-Charles and Le Halloco measured the fireplace and the kitchen door with as much earnestness and importance as though they had not known their dimensions by heart for many years. The question was to bring in the Yule log and to have it as large as possible.
A great tree was felled for the purpose; four oxen were harnessed; and the log was dragged to the house. It took eight or ten men to lift it, and to carry it in. It would scarcely fit in the fireplace. Then it was adorned with garlands; it was propped and stayed by the trunks of young trees; and an enormous bunch of wild-flowers, or rather of live plants, was placed on top of it. The long table was removed from the kitchen. We took our light meal standing. The walls were hung with white table-cloths and sheets, just as they are at Corpus Christi; and upon them were pinned numerous drawings done by my sister Louise and my sister Hermine,—the Virgin, the Christ-Child, etc. There were inscriptions too, "Et homo factus est!" All the chairs were removed to make as much room as possible for our visitors, who were not accustomed to sitting on anything better than their heels. One chair was left for my mother and one for my Aunt Gabrielle, who was treated with much deference on account of her eighty-six years.