t, where he
waited for the Abbe with dog-like patience.

'Ah! here is Monsieur le Cure!' cried all the company of Bambousses and
Brichets as Serge entered.

They filled their glasses once more. Abbe Mouret was compelled to take
one, too. There had been no regular wedding-feast; but, in the evening,
after dinner, a ten-gallon 'Dame Jane' had been placed upon the table,
and they were making it their business to empty it before going to bed.
There were ten of them, and old Bambousse was already with one hand
tilting over the jar whence only a thread of red liquor now flowed.
Rosalie, in a very sportive frame of mind, was dipping her baby's chin
into her glass, while big Fortune showed off his strength by lifting
up the chairs with his teeth. All the company passed into the bedroom.
Custom required that the priest should there drink the glass of wine
which had been poured out for him. It brought good luck, and prevented
quarrels in the household. In Monsieur Coffin's time, it had always
been a very merry ceremony, for the old priest loved a joke. He had
even gained a reputation for the skilful way in which he could drain his
glass, without leaving a single drop at the bottom of it; and the Artaud
women pretended that every drop undrunk meant a year's less love for the
newly married pair. But with Abbe Mouret they dare not joke so freely.
However, he drank his wine at one gulp, which seemed to greatly please
old Bambousse. Mother Brichet looked at the bottom of the glass and
saw but a drop or two of the liquid remaining there. Then, after a few
jokes, they all returned to the living room, where Vincent and Catherine
had remained by themselves. Vincent, standing upon a chair, was clasping
the huge jar in his arms, and draining the last drops of wine into
Catherine's open mouth.

'We are much obliged to you, Monsieur le Cure,' said old Bambousse, as
he escorted the priest to the door. 'Well, they're married now, so I
suppose you are satisfied. And they are not likely to complain, I'm
sure.... Good night, sleep well, your reverence.'

Brother Archangias had slowly risen from his seat on the old cart.

'May the devil pile hot coals over them, and roast them!' he murmured.

Then without again opening his lips he accompanied Abbe Mouret to the
parsonage. And he waited outside till the door was closed. Even then he
did not go off without twice looking round to make sure that the
Abbe was not coming out again. As for the pries