men stopped midway to take a glass of beer, and Gervaise and Mamma
Coupeau drank some cassis with water. There was not a particle of
shade, for the sun was directly above their heads. The beadle awaited
them in the empty church; he hurried them toward a small chapel,
asking them indignantly if they were not ashamed to mock at religion
by coming so late. A priest came toward them with an ashen face, faint
with hunger, preceded by a boy in a dirty surplice. He hurried through
the service, gabbling the Latin phrases with sidelong glances at the
bridal party. The bride and bridegroom knelt before the altar in
considerable embarrassment, not knowing when it was necessary to kneel
and when to stand and not always understanding the gestures made by
the clerk.

The witnesses thought it more convenient to stand all the time, while
Mamma Coupeau, overcome by her tears again, shed them on a prayer book
which she had borrowed from a neighbor.

It was high noon. The last Mass was said, and the church was noisy
with the movements of the sacristans, who were putting the chairs in
their places. The center altar was being prepared for some fete, for
the hammers were heard as the decorations were being nailed up. And in
the choking dust raised by the broom of the man who was sweeping the
corner of the small altar the priest laid his cold and withered hand
on the heads of Gervaise and Coupeau with a sulky air, as if he were
uniting them as a mere matter of business or to occupy the time
between the two Masses.

When the signatures were again affixed to the register in the vestry
and the party stood outside in the sunshine, they had a sensation as
if they had been driven at full speed and were glad to rest.