Devil Stories Part 15

However, gambling, this superhuman pleasure, had cut, at various intervals, our copious libations, and I ought to say that I had gained and lost my soul, as we were playing, with an heroical carelessness and light-heartedness. The soul is so invisible a thing, often useless and sometimes so troublesome, that I did not experience, as to this loss, more than that kind of emotion I might have, had I lost my visiting card in the street.

We spent hours in smoking cigars, whose incomparable savour and perfume give to the soul the nostalgia of unknown delights and sights, and, intoxicated by all these spiced sauces, I dared, in an access of familiarity which did not seem to displease him, to cry, as I lifted a gla.s.s filled to the brim with wine: "To your immortal health, Old He-Goat!"

We talked of the universe, of its creation and of its future destruction; of the leading ideas of the century--that is to say, of Progress and Perfectibility--and, in general, of all kinds of human infatuations. On this subject his Highness was inexhaustible in his irrefutable jests, and he expressed himself with a splendour of diction and with a magnificence in drollery such as I have never found in any of the most famous conversationalists of our age. He explained to me the absurdity of different philosophies that had so far taken possession of men's brains, and deigned even to take me in confidence in regard to certain fundamental principles, which I am not inclined to share with any one.

He complained in no way of the evil reputation under which he lived, indeed, all over the world, and he a.s.sured me that he himself was of all living beings the most interested in the destruction of _Superst.i.tion_, and he avowed to me that he had been afraid, relatively as to his proper power, once only, and that was on the day when he had heard a preacher, more subtle than the rest of the human herd, cry in his pulpit: "My dear brethren, do not ever forget, when you hear the progress of lights praised, that the loveliest trick of the Devil is to persuade you that he does not exist!"

The memory of this famous orator brought us naturally on the subject of Academies, and my strange host declared to me that he didn't disdain, in many cases, to inspire the pens, the words, and the consciences of pedagogues, and that he almost always a.s.sisted in person, in spite of being invisible, at all the scientific meetings.

Encouraged by so much kindness I asked him if he had any news of G.o.d--who has not his hours of impiety?--especially as the old friend of the Devil. He said to me, with a shade of unconcern united with a deeper shade of sadness: "We salute each other when we meet." But, for the rest, he spoke in Hebrew.

It is uncertain if his Highness has ever given so long an audience to a simple mortal, and I feared to abuse it.

Finally, as the dark approached s.h.i.+vering, this famous personage, sung by so many poets, and served by so many philosophers who work for his glory's sake without being aware of it, said to me: "I want you to remember me always, and to prove to you that I--of whom one says so much evil--am often enough _bon diable_, to make use of one of your vulgar locutions. So as to make up for the irremediable loss that you have made of your soul, I shall give you back the stake you ought to have gained, if your fate had been fortunate--that is to say, the possibility of solacing and of conquering, during your whole life, this bizarre affection of _ennui_, which is the source of all your maladies and of all your miseries. Never a desire shall be formed by you that I will not aid you to realize; you will reign over your vulgar equals; money and gold and diamonds, fairy palaces, shall come to seek you and shall ask you to accept them without your having made the least effort to obtain them; you can change your abode as often as you like; you shall have in your power all sensualities without la.s.situde, in lands where the climate is always hot, and where the women are as scented as the flowers." With this he rose up and said good-bye to me with a charming smile.

If it had not been for the shame of humiliating myself before so immense an a.s.sembly, I might have voluntarily fallen at the feet of this generous Gambler, to thank him for his unheard-of munificence.

But, little by little, after I had left him, an incurable defiance entered into me; I dared no longer believe in so prodigious a happiness; and as I went to bed, making over again my nightly prayer by means of all that remained in me in the matter of faith, I repeated in my slumber: "My G.o.d, my Lord, my G.o.d! Do let the Devil keep his word with me!"

THE THREE LOW Ma.s.sES[18]

A CHRISTMAS STORY

BY ALPHONSE DAUDET

[18] From _The Fig and the Idler, an Algerian Legend, and Other Stories_, by Alphonse Daudet. London, T. Fisher Unwin, 1892. (By permission of the Publisher.)

I

"Two truffled turkeys, Garrigou?"

"Yes, your reverence, two magnificent turkeys, stuffed with truffles.

I should know something about it, for I myself helped to fill them.

One would have said their skin would crack as they were roasting, it is that stretched...."

"Jesu-Maria! I who like truffles so much!... Quick, give me my surplice, Garrigou.... And have you seen anything else in the kitchen besides the turkeys?"

"Yes, all kinds of good things.... Since noon, we have done nothing but pluck pheasants, hoopoes, barn-fowls, and woodc.o.c.ks. Feathers were flying about all over.... Then they have brought eels, gold carp, and trout out of the pond, besides...."

"What size were the trout, Garrigou?"

"As big as that, your reverence.... Enormous!"

"Oh heavens! I think I see them.... Have you put the wine in the vessels?"

"Yes, your reverence, I have put the wine in the vessels.... But la!

it is not to be compared to what you will drink presently, when the midnight ma.s.s is over. If you only saw that in the dining hall of the chateau! The decanters are all full of wines glowing with every colour!... And the silver plate, the chased _epergnes_, the flowers, the l.u.s.tres!... Never will such another midnight repast be seen. The n.o.ble marquis has invited all the lords of the neighbourhood. At least forty of you will sit down to table, without reckoning the farm bailiff and the notary.... Oh, how lucky is your reverence to be one of them!... After a mere sniff of those fine turkeys, the scent of truffles follows me everywhere.... Yum!"

"Come now, come now, my child. Let us keep from the sin of gluttony, on the night of the Nativity especially.... Be quick and light the wax-tapers and ring the first bell for the ma.s.s; for it's nearly midnight and we must not be behind time."

This conversation took place on a Christmas night in the year of grace one thousand six hundred and something, between the Reverend Dom Balaguere (formerly Prior of the Barnabites, now paid chaplain of the Lords of Trinquelague), and his little clerk Garrigou, or at least him whom he took for his little clerk Garrigou, for you must know that the devil had on that night a.s.sumed the round face and soft features of the young sacristan, in order the more effectually to lead the reverend father into temptation, and make him commit the dreadful sin of gluttony. Well then, while the supposed Garrigou (hum!) was with all his might making the bells of the baronial chapel chime out, his reverence was putting on his chasuble in the little sacristy of the chateau; and with his mind already agitated by all these gastronomic descriptions, he kept saying to himself as he was robing:

"Roasted turkeys, ... golden carp, ... trout as big as that!..."

Out of doors, the soughing night wind was carrying abroad the music of the bells, and with this, lights began to make their appearance on the dark sides of Mount Ventoux, on the summit of which rose the ancient towers of Trinquelague. The lights were borne by the families of the tenant farmers, who were coming to hear the midnight ma.s.s at the chateau. They were scaling the hill in groups of five or six together, and singing; the father in front carrying a lantern, and the women wrapped up in large brown cloaks, beneath which their little children snuggled and sheltered. In spite of the cold and the lateness of the hour these good folks were marching blithely along, cheered by the thought that after the ma.s.s was over there would be, as always in former years, tables set for them down in the kitchens. Occasionally the gla.s.s windows in some lord's carriage, preceded by torch-bearers, would glisten in the moon-light on the rough ascent; or perhaps a mule would jog by with tinkling bells, and by the light of the misty lanterns the tenants would recognize their bailiff and would salute him as he pa.s.sed with:

"Good evening, Master Arnoton."

"Good evening. Good evening, my friend."

The night was clear, and the stars were twinkling with frost; the north wind was nipping, and at times a fine small hail, that slipped off one's garments without wetting them, faithfully maintained the tradition of Christmas being white with snow. On the summit of the hill, as the goal towards which all were wending, gleamed the chateau, with its enormous ma.s.s of towers and gables, and its chapel steeple rising into the blue-black sky. A mult.i.tude of little lights were twinkling, coming, going, and moving about at all the windows; they looked like the sparks one sees running about in the ashes of burnt paper.

After you had pa.s.sed the drawbridge and the postern gate, it was necessary, in order to reach the chapel, to cross the first court, which was full of carriages, footmen and sedan chairs, and was quite illuminated by the blaze of torches and the glare of the kitchen fires. Here were heard the click of turnspits, the rattle of sauce-pans, the clash of gla.s.ses and silver plate in the commotion attending the preparation of the feast; while over all rose a warm vapour smelling pleasantly of roast meat, piquant herbs, and complex sauces, and which seemed to say to the farmers, as well as to the chaplain and to the bailiff, and to everybody:

"What a good midnight repast we are going to have after the ma.s.s!"

II

Ting-a-ring!--a--ring!

The midnight ma.s.s is beginning in the chapel of the chateau, which is a cathedral in miniature, with groined and vaulted roofs, oak wood-work as high as the walls, expanded draperies, and tapers all aglow. And what a lot of people! What grand dresses! First of all, seated in the carved stalls that line the choir, is the Lord of Trinquelague in a coat of salmon-coloured silk, and about him are ranged all the n.o.ble lords who have been invited.

On the opposite side, on velvet-covered praying-stools, the old dowager marchioness in flame-coloured brocade, and the youthful Lady of Trinquelague wearing a lofty head-dress of plaited lace in the newest fas.h.i.+on of the French court, have taken their places. Lower down, dressed in black, with punctilious wigs, and shaven faces, like two grave notes among the gay silks and the figured damasks, are seen the bailiff, Thomas Arnoton, and the notary Master Ambroy. Then come the stout major-domos, the pages, the hors.e.m.e.n, the stewards, Dame Barbara, with all her keys hanging at her side on a real silver ring.

At the end, on the forms, are the lower cla.s.s, the female servants, the cotter farmers and their families; and lastly, down there, near the door, which they open and shut very carefully, are messieurs the scullions, who enter in the interval between two sauces, to take a little whiff of ma.s.s; and these bring the smell of the repast with them into the church, which now is in high festival and warm from the number of lighted tapers.

Is it the sight of their little white caps that so distracts the celebrant? Is it not rather Garrigou's bell? that mad little bell which is shaken at the altar foot with an infernal impetuosity that seems all the time to be saying: "Come, let us make haste, make haste.... The sooner we shall have finished, the sooner shall we be at table." The fact is that every time this devil's bell tinkles the chaplain forgets his ma.s.s, and thinks of nothing but the midnight repast. He fancies he sees the cooks bustling about, the stoves glowing with forge-like fires, the two magnificent turkeys, filled, crammed, marbled with truffles....

Then again he sees, pa.s.sing along, files of little pages carrying dishes enveloped in tempting vapours, and with them he enters the great hall now prepared for the feast. Oh delight! there is the immense table all laden and luminous, peac.o.c.ks adorned with their feathers, pheasants spreading out their reddish-brown wings, ruby-coloured decanters, pyramids of fruit glowing amid green boughs, and those wonderful fish Garrigou (ah well, yes, Garrigou!) had mentioned, laid on a couch of fennel, with their pearly scales gleaming as if they had just come out of the water, and bunches of sweet-smelling herbs in their monstrous snouts. So clear is the vision of these marvels that it seems to Dom Balaguere that all these wondrous dishes are served before him on the embroidered altar-cloth, and two or three times instead of the _Dominus vobisc.u.m_, he finds himself saying the _Benedicite_. Except these slight mistakes, the worthy man p.r.o.nounces the service very conscientiously, without skipping a line, without omitting a genuflexion; and all goes tolerably well until the end of the first ma.s.s; for you know that on Christmas Day the same officiating priest must celebrate three consecutive ma.s.ses.

"That's one done!" says the chaplain to himself with a sigh of relief; then, without losing a moment, he motioned to his clerk, or to him whom he supposed to be his clerk, and...

"Ting-a-ring ... Ting-a-ring, a-ring!"

Now the second ma.s.s is beginning, and with it begins also Dom Balaguere's sin. "Quick, quick, let us make haste," Garrigou's bell cries out to him in its shrill little voice, and this time the unhappy celebrant, completely given over to the demon of gluttony, fastens upon the missal and devours its pages with the eagerness of his over-excited appet.i.te. Frantically he bows down, rises up, merely indicates the sign of the cross and the genuflexions, and curtails all his gestures in order to get sooner finished. Scarcely has he stretched out his arms at the gospel, before he is striking his breast at the _Confiteor_. It is a contest between himself and the clerk as to who shall mumble the faster. Versicles and responses are hurried over and run one into another. The words, half p.r.o.nounced, without opening the mouth, which would take up too much time, terminate in unmeaning murmurs.

"_Oremus ps ... ps ... ps...._"

"_Mea culpa ... pa ... pa...._"

Like vintagers in a hurry pressing grapes in the vat, these two paddle in the ma.s.s Latin, sending splashes in every direction.

"_Dom ... sc.u.m!..._" says Balaguere.

"_... Stutuo!..._" replies Garrigou; and all the time the cursed little bell is tinkling there in their ears, like the jingles they put on post-horses to make them gallop fast. You may imagine at that speed a low ma.s.s is quickly disposed of.