lated appetite. He becomes
frenzied, he bows down, he rises, takes a sight stab at crossing
himself and genuflecting, minimising the gestures, all the quicker to
reach the end. His arms, no sooner stretched over the gospels than back
thumping his chest for the I confess. Competition is joined between him
and his cleric to see who finishes first in the mumbling stakes. Verses
and responses tumble out and mix together. Half swallowed words through
clenched teeth take too long, and so tail off into incomprehensible
mutters.

--_Pray for u ..._

--_Thro ... my fau ..._

Like frenzied grape-pickers treading the grapes from the vat, they
squelched around in the Latin of the mass, slopping it all over the
place.

--_Lor ... b'ith ... yo..._ says Balaguere.

--_An ... wi ... yo ... spi't ..._ replies Garrigou; and the busy
little bell is more or less continuously in action jangling in their
ears, acting like the bells they put on post-horses to make them gallop
faster. To be sure, at this rate the second low mass is quickly
dispatched.

--And the second one done! says the completely breathless chaplain.
Then, without time for another breath, flushed and sweating, he rushes
down the altar steps and....

The bell rings yet again!

The third mass is beginning. The dining room is no more than a few
steps away, but, oh dear, as the Christmas Eve feast gets nearer, the
unfortunate Balaguere is gripped by a mad, impatient fever of greed.
His fantasies get the worse of him, he sees the golden carp, the roast
turkeys, they are there, there right before his eyes.... He touches
them ... he ... Oh God!... The steaming dishes, the scented wine; then
the little bell frantically cries out,

--Faster, faster, faster!...

Yet how could he go any faster? As it was, his lips barely move. He
doesn't even pronounce the words ... short of completely fooling God
and keeping His mass from Him. And then he even falls into that low
state, the poor unfortunate man!... Going from bad to worse temptation,
he begins to skip a verse, and then two. Then the epistle is too long,
so he cuts it, skims over the gospel reading, looks in at the I believe
but doesn't go in, jumps over the Our Father altogether, nods at the
preface from afar, and goes towards eternal damnation by leaps and
bounds. He was closely followed by the infamous, satanic Garrigou, who
with his uncanny understanding as number two, lifts up his chasuble for
him, turns the pages t