ost sailed, tainted and soiled,
over the steps.

Durtal felt himself shudder. A whirlwind of hysteria shook the room.
While the choir boys sprinkled holy water on the pontiff's nakedness,
women rushed upon the Eucharist and, grovelling in front of the altar,
clawed from the bread humid particles and drank and ate divine ordure.

Another woman, curled up over a crucifix, emitted a rending laugh, then
cried to Docre, "Father, father!" A crone tore her hair, leapt, whirled
around and around as on a pivot and fell over beside a young girl who,
huddled to the wall, was writhing in convulsions, frothing at the mouth,
weeping, and spitting out frightful blasphemies. And Durtal, terrified,
saw through the fog the red horns of Docre, who, seated now, frothing
with rage, was chewing up sacramental wafers, taking them out of his
mouth, wiping himself with them, and distributing them to the women, who
ground them underfoot, howling, or fell over each other struggling to
get hold of them and violate them.

The place was simply a madhouse, a monstrous pandemonium of prostitutes
and maniacs. Now, while the choir boys gave themselves to the men, and
while the woman who owned the chapel, mounted the altar caught hold of
the phallus of the Christ with one hand and with the other held a
chalice between "His" naked legs, a little girl, who hitherto had not
budged, suddenly bent over forward and howled, howled like a dog.
Overcome with disgust, nearly asphyxiated, Durtal wanted to flee. He
looked for Hyacinthe. She was no longer at his side. He finally caught
sight of her close to the canon and, stepping over the writhing bodies
on the floor, he went to her. With quivering nostrils she was inhaling
the effluvia of the perfumes and of the couples.

"The sabbatic odour!" she said to him between clenched teeth, in a
strangled voice.

"Here, let's get out of this!"

She seemed to wake, hesitated a moment, then without answering she
followed him. He elbowed his way through the crowd, jostling women whose
protruding teeth were ready to bite. He pushed Mme. Chantelouve to the
door, crossed the court, traversed the vestibule, and, finding the
portress' lodge empty, he drew the cord and found himself in the street.

There he stopped and drew the fresh air deep into his lungs. Hyacinthe,
motionless, dizzy, huddled to the wall away from him.

He looked at her. "Confess that you would like to go in there again."

"No," she said with an effort