Those simple words, bathed with silent tears, fell on the night air with such an expression of superhuman suffering, that even Brother Archangias, in spite of all his harshness, felt touched.  He made no reply, but shook his dusty cassock, and wiped his bleeding cheek.  When they reached the Bambousses’ house, he refused to go inside.  He seated himself, a few yards away, on the body of an overturned cart, 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 priest, when he reached his bedroom, he threw himself in his clothes upon his bed, clasping his hands to his ears, and pressing his face to the pillow, in order that he might shut out all sound and sight.  And thus stilling his senses he fell into death-like slumber.