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Speaker 1: The three Christmas Masses by Alphons Dodey. One two truffled turkeys, garygool, Yes,

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Resverend Father, two magnificent turkeys stuffed with truffles. There's no

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mistake where I helped to stuff them myself. The flesh

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almost cracked as they roasted.

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Speaker 2: It was so tight, So Holy Virgin, and I who

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loved truffles, Hurry, give me my surplus, garrigoul And what

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else besides the turkeys? What else did you see in

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the kitchen?

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Speaker 1: Oh? All sorts of good things? Since noon we've done

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nothing but pluck pheasants, peewits, wood ends and heathcocks. Feathers

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are scattered thick. Then from the pond they brought eels

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and a golden carp and trout. And what size are

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the trout?

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Speaker 2: To garygoul?

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Speaker 1: Oh as, because that, Reverend Father, enormous heavens, I seem

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to see them. Have you put the wine in the flasks? Yes,

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Reverend Father, I've put the wine in the flasks. But

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what's a mouthful or two? As you go to midnight Mass,

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you should see the dining hall in the chadow full

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of decanters that sparkle with wine of every color. And

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the silver dishes. Above all the ornamented ones, the flowers

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and the candlesticks. I never saw anything to equal it.

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Monsieur le Marquis has invited all the nobility of the neighborhood.

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You will be at least forty at table, without counting

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either the bailiff or the notary. Ah. It will make

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you very happy to be there, Reverend father, why only

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to smell the delicious turkeys. The odor of truffles pursues

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me even yet, Come, come, Garrigoul. You must guard against

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the sin of greediness, and especially on the night of

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the Nativity, quickly enough, light the candles and sound the

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first bell for Mass. Midnight is very near, and we

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must not be late. This conversation has held on Christmas

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night in the year of Grace, sixteen hundred and sixteen,

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between the Reverend dom Balaque, formerly prior of Barnabetes, now

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chaplain in the service of the Sies de Trinquilis, and

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his clerk Garrigoul, or at least what he supposed was

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his clerk garygu Because you will learn that the devil

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had that night taken on the round face and wavering

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traits of the young sacristan, the better to tempt the

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reverend Father to commit the dreadful sin of gluttony. Now,

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while the supposed garigou um Hm rung with all his

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might the bells of the seignorial chapel, the Reverend Father

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put on his chasuble in the little sacristy of the chateau,

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and his mind, already becoming troubled by the gastronomic descriptions

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he had heard, he repeated to himself, roasted turkeys, golden

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carp trout as large as that outside. The night wind blew,

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scattering the music of the bells, and one by one

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lights began to appear in the shadows about the flanks

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of Mont von tou, upon the summit of which rose

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the ancient towers of trinkle Lage. These lights were carried

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by the farmers on their way to attend midnight mass

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at the chateau. They climbed the paths in groups of

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five or six, the father leading lantern in hand, the

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women enveloped in their big brown mantles, where their infants

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nestled for shelter. In spite of the hour and the cold,

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all these honest people marched cheerfully on sustained by the

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thought that when they came out from the mass they

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would find, as they did each year, tables spread for

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them below in the kitchens now and again on the

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rough ascent, the coach of some seigneur, preceded by torch

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bearing porters, reflected in its glasses. The cold moonlight, or

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maybe a mule, trotted along, shaking his bells, and in

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the light of the lanterns covered with frost, the farmers

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recognized their bailiff and saluted him as he passed. Good evening,

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Good evening, Master Rana Don, good evening, Good evening, my children.

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The night was clear, the stars were polished with cold,

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the wind stung, and a fine sleet which glistened on

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the clothes without wetting them, kept faithfully the tradition of

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Christmases white with snow raised there aloft, the chateau appeared

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like the goal of all things, with its enormous mass

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of towers and gables, the belfry of its chapel mounting

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into the blue black sky, and a crowd of small

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lights that winked, went and came, twinkled at all the

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windows and seamed on the somber background of the building.

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Like sparks running through the cinders of burnt paper. Once

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past the drawbridge and the postern, it was necessary in

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order to gain the chapel to traverse the first courtyard,

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full of coaches, of valleys, of sedan chairs, and bright

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with the flare of torches and the fires of the kitchens.

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There was the click of the turnspits, the crash of stewpans,

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the noises of glass and silver preparing for the dinner.

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From below, a warm vapor which melt of roasting meat,

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and the strong herbs of curious sources. Whispered to the farmers,

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to the chaplain, to the bailiff, to all the world,

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What a revel we are going to have after Mass?

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Two drillindin, drillindin. Midnight Mass is about to begin in

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the chapel of the chateau, a miniature cathedral with arches

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into crost and a wainscirt of oak mounting as high

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as the walls. All the hangings have been arranged, all

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the candles lit, and what a host of people and

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what toilettes. First seated in the sculptured stall which surrounds

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the choir, behold the seered tranquilage in a suit of

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salmon colored taffeta, and next to him all the invited nobles.

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Facing these on a prejur trimmed with velvet, is the

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old Dowager Marqueses in her robe of fire colored brocade,

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and the young Damda Trincolaga, surmounted by a huge head

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dress of lace made in the latest fashion of the

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French court. Further down, dressed in black with vast pointed

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perukes and shaven faces, are the Bailiff Thomas Arnoton and

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the notary Master Ambroy, two grave objects among the flowing

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silks and figured damasks. Then come the fat major domos,

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the pages, the grooms, the attendants, Dame Barber all her

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keys suspended at her side on a ring of thin silver.

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At the bottom of the hall, on the benches are

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the servants, the yeomen with their families. And lastly, beyond,

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all about the doors, as they open and shut discreetly,

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are the scullions, who steal in between two sources to

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get a little of the mass, carrying an odor of

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the revelry into the church, all in its gay attire

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and warm with so many burning candles. Is it a

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glimpse of their little white caps that distracts the celebrant.

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Speaker 2: Of the mass.

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Speaker 1: Or it may be the clangor made by Garrigou's bells,

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that pulsating sound which shakes the altar with an infernal vibration,

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and seems to say all the time, hurry up, hurry up,

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will soon be done, will soon be a table. The

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fact is that each time it sounds that peal of

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the devil, the chaplain forgets his mass and thinks of

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nothing but the coming revel. He pictures to himself the

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uproar of the kitchens, the furnace heated like a blacksmith's forge,

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the vapor of opening trenches, and in that vapor two

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magnificent turkeys, buttered tender, bursting with truffles. Or perhaps he

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saw pass the files of little pages bearing dishes, enveloped

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in tempting steam, and with them entered the grand saloon,

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already prepared for the feast. Oh deliciousness. Behold the immense table,

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all set and sparkling, the peacocks in their plumes, the

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pheasants with their open wings of reddish brown, the ruby

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colored flagons, the pyramids of fruit peeping from green branches,

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and those marvelous fish of which Garrigu told Ah, well, yes,

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Carrigu held aloft on a bed of fennel, the mother

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of pearls, scales bright as when they came from the

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water with a bouquet of odorous herbs in their monster

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like nostrils. So distinct is the vision of these marvels

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that it seems to Don Beauguire as if all the

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wonderful dishes are served before him on the embroideries of

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the altar cloth, and two or three times in place

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of dominos vobiscum, he is surprised to find himself repeating

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at the Benedicte, saving these slight mistakes. The holy man

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does his office very conscientiously, without skipping a line, without

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omitting a genuflection, And all goes well enough as far

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as the end of the first Mass, because you know,

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on Christmas night the same celebrant must repeat three consecutive masses.

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One said the chaplain with a sigh of relief. Then,

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without losing a minute, he made a sign to his clerk, oh,

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the person he believed to be his clerk, and trallindin

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drilyndin the second Mass begins, and with it begins also

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the sin of dom Balaguere, Hurry, Harry, let's get done,

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cries the thin bell of Garagou's bell, and this time

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the unlucky priest, abandoning himself to the demon of gluttony,

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rushes through the missile, devouring its pages with all the

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avidity of an overcharged appetite. Frantically he bows, horises, makes

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the signs of the cross, goes through the genuflections, abbreviates

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all his gestures. The sooner to be finished. Scarcely does

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he extend his arms to the gospel or strike his

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breast where it is required. Between the clerk and him,

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it is a race who shall jabber the faster. Verse

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and response hurry each other, tumble over each other, the

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words hardly pronounced because it takes too much time to

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open the mouth, becoming comp frehensible, murmurs houraimustru bakopp, Like

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hard working vintagers pressing grapes in a vat, both weighed

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through the Latin of the mass, splashing it on all sides.

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Dons come, says Baloghaire, Statuo responds garrigu, and all the

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while the damnable chime sounds in their ears, like those

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little bells put on the post horses to make them

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gallop more swiftly. Believe me, under such conditions, a low

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mass is vastly expedited. Two said the chaplain, all out

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of breath. Then, without taking time to breathe red perspiring,

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he tumbled down the stairs of the altar drelindin, relyndin.

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The third mass begins only a step or so, and

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then the dining hall. But alas the nearer the revel approaches,

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the more the unfortunate Bloguaire is seized with the very

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folly of impatience and greeding. His vision accentuates it the

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golden carp. The roast turkeys are there. He may touch them,

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he may oh, Holy Virgin. The dishes steam, the wines

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send forth sweet odors, and shaking out its reckless song.

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The bell cries to him, hurry up, hurry up. Still faster,

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still faster. But how can he go any faster? He

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scarcely moves his lips, He pronounces fully, not a single word.

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He tries to cheat the Good God altogether of his mass,

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and that is what brings his ruin. By temptation. Upon temptation,

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he begins to jump one verse, then two, Then the

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epistle is too long, he does not finish it, skims

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the gospel, passes by the creed without even entering skips

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the Pater salutes from afar the preface, and by bounds

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and jumps precipitates him into eternal damnation, always following the

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infamous scarigu vadi retro Satanas, who seconds him with marvelous skill,

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tucks up his chargible, turns the leaves two by two,

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disarranges the music desk, reverses the flagons, and unceasingly rings

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the bell more and more vigorously, more and more quickly.

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You should have seen what a figure all the assistants

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cut obliged to follow, like mimics, a mass of which

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they did not understand a word. Some rose when others kneeled,

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or seated themselves when others stood, And all the actors

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in this singular office mixed themselves on the benches in

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numberless contrary attitudes. The Star of Christmas, on its journey

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through the heavens yonder by the little manger, paled with

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astonishment at the confusion. The Abbe is in a dreadful hurry.

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I can't follow him at all, said the ancient dowager,

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shaking her head dress with bewilderment. Master Arnoton, his great

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steel spectacles on his nose, searched in his prayer book

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where the deuce the words could be. But after all,

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that gallant host, which itself was thinking only of the feast,

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was far from being vexed, because the mass rode post.

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And when balaguere with beaming countenance, turned towards the assembly,

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crying with all his might, ite Mitaieste with single voice,

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they returned Deogracius, so joyously, so fervently, that one might

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have thought them all ready at table, responding to the

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first toast of the night. Three five minutes later, the

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crowd of seigneurs was seated in the grand dining hall,

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the chaplain in the midst of them. The chateau illuminated

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from top to bottom, echoed with songs, cries, laughter, uproar,

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and the venerable Don balaguere planted his fork in the

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wing of a wood hen, drowning the remorse of his

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sin under flouds of wine of the Pope and the

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sweet juices of the meat. So much did he eat

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and drink that the poor holy man died in the

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night of a terrible attack of sickness, without having even

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time to repent. Then near morning he arrived in heaven,

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with all the savor of the feasts still about him.

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And I leave you to imagine how he was received.

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Retire from my sight, evil Christian, said the sovereign judge,

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Thy fault is dark enough to efface a whole life

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of virtue. Na Thou hast robbed me of a mass

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to night, thou shalt pay me back three hundred in

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its place, And thou shalt not enter into paradise unless

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thou shalt have celebrated in thy proper chapel these three

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hundred Christmas masses, in the presence of all those who

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have sinned by thy fault, and with thee This, then,

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is the true legend of Don Valaguire, as they tell

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it in the land of Olives. To day, the Chateau

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of Trincolaga is no more, but the chapel still stands

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erect on the summit of Mont Vanteut, in a grove

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of green oaks. The wind beats its disjointed portal, the

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grass creeps across its threshold. The birds have built in

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the angles of the altar, and in the embrasures of

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the high windows. Whence the colored panes have long ago vanished.

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But it appears that every year at Christmas a supernatural

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light runs about these ruins, and that in going to

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mass or feast, the peasants see the chapel illuminated by

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invisible candles which burn brightly even through the wind and snow.

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You may laugh if you will, But a vine dresser

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of the neighborhood named Gary Eager, without doubt, a descendant

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of Garigul, has assured me that one Christmas night, finding

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himself a little so soish, he became lost on the

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mountain beside Trincolaga. And behold what he saw at eleven nothing.

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All was silent, dark, lifeless. Suddenly, towards midnight a chime

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sounded up above from a clock, an old, old chime

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which seemed six leagues away. Pretty soon on the ascending road,

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garig saw lights trembling in the uncertain shadows under the

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porch of the chapel. Somebody walked, somebody whispered, good evening,

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Master on it, on good evening, good evening, my children.

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When the whole company was entered, my vine dresser, who

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was exceedingly brave, approached stealthily, and peeping through the broken door,

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saw a strange spectacle. All those who had passed him

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were ranged about the choir in the ruined nave, as

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if the ancient benches still existed, Beautiful dames in brocade

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with crofts of lace, seigneurs be dizzened from top to toe,

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peasants in flowered jacket like those of our grandfather's, everything

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with an ancient air, faded, dusty, worn out. Now and

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then the night birds, habitual dwellers in the chapel, awakened

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by all these lights, winged about the candles, whose flames

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mounted straight and vague, as if they burnt behind gauze.

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And what amused Garig most was a certain personage with

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great steel spectacles, who shook at each instant his high

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black peruke, on which one of the birds had alighted

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and entangled itself, silently beating its wings. At the farthest end.

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Speaker 2: A little old.

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Speaker 1: Man of boyish size on his knees in the midst

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of the choir, pulled desperately at the chimeless and silent bell,

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while the priest, attired in ancient gold, went and came

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before the altar, reciting orisons of which one heard not

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a single word. Surely that was dom Balaguire in the

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act of saying his third Low Mass, end of the

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three Christmas Masses by Alphons Daudet