In this fashion dinner was prolonged. We smoked innumerable pipes, and, seized by that cheerfulness of lonely men, that infectious gaiety which suddenly comes upon intimate friends, we talked without ceasing, searching for those memories, those confidences of the heart, which escape in such moments of expansion.
The servant, who had left us a long time, reappeared and said: “I’m going to Mass, sir.”
“So soon!” exclaimed my cousin.
“It is a quarter to twelve.”
“Let us go to church, too,” said Jules. “Midnight service in the country is very interesting.”
I agreed, and we set off, wrapped in our fur-lined hunting coats.
A biting cold stung our faces and made our eyes water. The sharp air cut one’s lungs and dried up one’s throat. The deep, clear, hard sky was teeming with stars which seemed paler in the frost. They did not shine like fire, but like stars of ice, shining icicles. In the distance on the hard, crisp earth we could hear the peasants’ clogs, and the little village bells ringing everywhere in the neighbourhood, throwing out their slender notes into the cold immensity of the night. The countryside was not asleep. Deceived by the noise cocks were crowing, and as we passed the stables we could hear the cattle moving, disturbed by the sounds of life.
As we neared the village Jules remembered the Fournels. “Here is their cabin,” he said; “let us go in.” He knocked repeatedly, but in vain. A neighbour who was going to church told us they had gone to Mass to pray for the old man.
“We shall see them on our way back,” said my cousin.
The waning moon stood on the edge of the horizon, like a sickle in the midst of innumerable seeds of light scattered into space. From every direction the dark countryside was dotted with dancing lights, all moving towards the pointed spire whose bell rang incessantly. In the farm yards planted with trees, in the shadowy fields these lights glimmered close to the ground. They were the lanterns with which the peasants lit the way for their wives, who were dressed in white bonnets and long black cloaks, and were followed by children whose eyes were still heavy with sleep as they walked hand in hand ahead through the night.
Through the open church door the lighted choir was visible. Around the simple nave stood a row of penny candles, and on the floor of a chapel to the left a plump Christ-child was represented in pink wax, lying on real straw, in the midst of pine branches.
The service began. The peasants bowed their heads, the women praying on their knees, and these simple folk, who had got up in the cold night, gazed deeply moved at this rudely painted image. They clasped their hands, impressed as well as frightened by the modest splendour of this puerile picture.
The cold air made the candles flicker. Jules said to me: “Let us leave. It is better outside.” While the prostrate peasants shivered through their devotions we went along the deserted road, and resumed our conversation. We had talked so long that the service was over when we came back to the village. A small ray of light filtered through the Fournels’ door.
“They are watching their dead. Let us go in and see these poor people,” said Jules. “They will be pleased.”
Some embers were dying out in the fireplace. The dark room, coated with dirt, its mouldy rafters brown with age, was filled with a stiffling smell of grilled blood pudding. In the centre of the large table, beneath which a bread bin had been built, taking up the whole length of it, a candle in a twisted iron candlestick sent up its acrid smoke to the ceiling from a mushroom-shaped wick. There the two Fournels were celebrating Christmas Eve alone. With the gloomy, sad, stupid expression of peasants, they were eating in solemn silence. In one dish, placed between them, was a huge piece of black pudding, giving forth a powerful odour. From time to time they cut a piece off, spread it on their bread and munched it slowly. When the man’s glass was empty, the woman would fill it out of an earthen jar containing cider.
They asked us to be seated and to “join them,” but at our refusal they continued to munch. After a few minutes’ silence Jules said:
“Well, Anthime, so your grandfather is dead!”
“Yes, sir, he died this afternoon.”
The woman snuffed the candle in silence and I for the want of something to say, added:
“He was quite old, was he not?”
“Oh, his time was up,” she answered; “he was no earthly use here.”
An invincible desire to see the corpse of this centenarian took possession of me and I asked to see him.
The two peasants suddenly became agitated and exchanged questioning glances. Jules noticed this and insisted. Then the man with a sly, suspicious look, asked:
“What good would it do you?”
“No good,” said Jules; “but why will you not let us see him?”
“I am willing,” said the man, shrugging his shoulders, “but it is kind of inconvenient just now.”
We conjectured all sorts of things. Neither of them stirred. They sat there with eyes lowered, a sullen expression on their faces seeming to say: “Go away.”
“Come, Anthime, take us to his room,” said Jules with authority.
“It’s no use, sir, he isn’t there any more,” said the man sullenly.
“Where is he?” said Jules.
The woman interrupted, saying:
“You see, sir, we had no other place to put him so we put him in the bin until morning.” And having taken the top of the table off, she leaned over with the candle to light up the inside of the huge box, at the bottom of which we saw something grey, a kind of long package,
