Like hard-working vintagers pressing grapes in a vat, both wade through
the Latin of the Mass, splashing it on all sides.

"_Dom--scum!_" says Balaguère.

"_Stutuo!_" responds Garrigou, and all the while the damnable chime
sounds in their ears, like those little bells put on the post-horses to
make them gallop more swiftly. Believe me, under such conditions a low
Mass is vastly expedited!

"Two!" said the chaplain, all out of breath; then without taking time to
breathe, red, perspiring, he tumbled down the stairs of the altar.

Drelindin din! Drelindin din! The third Mass begins.

Only a step or so and then the dining-hall! but, alas, the nearer the
revel approaches, the more the unfortunate Balaguère is seized with the
very folly of impatience and greediness. His vision accentuates it; the
golden carp, the roast turkeys are there. He may touch them--he may--Oh,
Holy Virgin! the dishes steam; the wines send forth sweet odors; and
shaking out its reckless song, the bell cries to him:

"Hurry up, hurry up; still faster, still faster!"

But how can he go any faster? He scarcely moves his lips, he pronounces
fully not a single word. He tries to cheat the good God altogether of
His Mass, and that is what brings his ruin. By temptation upon
temptation, he begins to jump one verse, then two. Then the epistle is
too long--he does not finish it; skims the Gospel, passes by the creed
without even entering, skips the pater, salutes from afar the preface,