winked, went
and came, twinkled at all the windows, and seemed, on the sombre
background of the building, like sparks running through the cinders of
burnt paper. Once past the drawbridge and the postern, it was necessary,
in order to gain the chapel, to traverse the first courtyard, full of
coaches, of valets, of sedan-chairs, and bright with the flare of
torches and the fires of the kitchens. There was the click of the
turnspits, the crash of stewpans, the noises of glass and silver
preparing for the dinner. From below, a warm vapor, which smelt of
roasting meat and the strong herbs of curious sauces, whispered to the
farmers, to the chaplain, to the bailiff--to all the world:

"What a revel we are going to have after Mass!"

II.

Drelindin din! Drelindin din! Midnight Mass is about to begin. In the
chapel of the chateau, a miniature cathedral with arches intercrossed
and a wainscot of oak mounting as high as the walls, all the hangings
have been arranged, all the candles lit.

And what a host of people! And what toilettes! First, seated in the
sculptured stall which surrounds the choir, behold the Sire de
Trinquelague in a suit of salmon-colored taffeta; and next to him all
the invited nobles. Facing these, on a prie-dieu trimmed with velvet, is
the old dowager Marquise in her robe of fire-colored brocade, and the
young Dame de Trinquelague, surmounted by a huge head-dress of lace,
made in the latest fashion of the French court. Further down, dressed in
black, with vast pointed perukes and shaven faces, are the bailiff,
Thomas Arnoton, and the notary, Master Ambroy, two grave objects among
the flowing silks and figured damasks. Then come the fat majordomos,
the pages, the grooms, the attendants; dame Barbe, all her keys
suspended at her side on a ring of thin silver. At the bottom of the
hall, on the benches, are the Servants, the yeomen with their families;
and lastly, beyond, all about the doors as they open and shut
discretely, are the scullions, who steal in, between two sauces, to get
a little of the Mass, carrying an odor of the revelry into the church,
all in its gay attire and warm with so many burning candles.

Is it a glimpse of their little white caps that distracts the celebrant
of the Mass? Or, it may be the clangor made by Garrigou's bells, that
pulsating sound which shakes the altar with an infernal vibration and
seems to say all the time:

"Hurry up, hurry up. We'll soon be done; we'll soon b