"That makes two," says the chaplain quite panting; then without taking time to breathe, red and perspiring, he descends the altar steps and …
"Ting-a-ring! … Ting-a-ring! …"
Now the third mass is beginning. There are but a few more steps to be taken to reach the dining-hall; but, alas! the nearer the midnight repast approaches the more does the unfortunate Balaguere feel himself possessed by mad impatience and gluttony. The vision becomes more distinct; the golden carps, the roasted turkeys are there, there! … He touches them, … he … oh heavens! The dishes are smoking, the wines perfume the air; and with furiously agitated clapper, the little bell is crying out to him:
"Quick, quick, quicker yet!"
But how could he go quicker? His lips scarcely move. He no longer pronounces the words; … unless he were to impose upon Heaven outright and trick it out of its mass. … And that is precisely what he does, the unfortunate man! … From temptation to temptation; he begins by skipping a verse, then two. Then the epistle is too long—he does not finish it, skims over the gospel, passes before the Credo without going into it, skips the Pater, salutes the Preface from a distance, and by leaps and bounds thus hurls himself into eternal damnation, constantly followed by the vile Garrigou (vade retro, Satanas!), who seconds him with wonderful skill, sustains his chasuble, turns over the leaves two at a time, elbows the reading-desks, upsets the vessels, and is continually sounding the little bell louder and louder, quicker and quicker.
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