Vincent, robed in a surplice much too large for him, which had formerly belonged to Abbe Caffin, carried an old silver censer, and was vastly amused by the tinkling of its chains; he swung it to a great height, so as to produce copious clouds of smoke, and glanced behind him every now and then to see if he had succeeded in making any one cough.  The church was almost full, for everybody wanted to see his reverence’s painting.  Peasant women laughed with pleasure because the place smelt so nice, while the men, standing under the gallery, jerked their heads approvingly at each deeper and deeper note that came from the rural guard.  Filtering through the paper window panes the full morning sun lighted up the brightly painted walls, on which the women’s caps cast shadows resembling huge butterflies.  The artificial flowers, with which the altar was decorated, almost seemed to possess the moist freshness of natural ones newly gathered; and when the priest turned round to bless the congregation, he felt even stronger emotion than before, as he saw his church so clean, so full, and so steeped in music and incense and light.

After the offertory, however, a buzzing murmur sped through the peasant women.  Vincent inquisitively turned his head, and in doing so, almost let the charcoal in his censer fall upon the priest’s chasuble.  And, wishing to excuse himself, as he saw the Abbe looking at him with an expression of reproof, he murmured:  ’It is your reverence’s uncle, who has just come in.’

At the end of the church, standing beside one of the slender wooden pillars that supported the gallery, Abbe Mouret then perceived Doctor Pascal.  The doctor was not wearing his usual cheerful and slightly scoffing expression.  Hat in hand, he stood there looking very grave, and followed the service with evident impatience.  The sight of the priest at the altar, his solemn demeanour, his slow gestures, and the perfect serenity of his countenance, appeared to gradually increase his irritation.  He could not stay there till the end of the mass, but left the church, and walked up and down beside his horse and gig, which he had secured to one of the parsonage shutters.

‘Will that nephew of mine never have finished censing himself?’ he asked of La Teuse, who was just coming out of the vestry.

‘It is all over,’ she replied.  ’Won’t you come into the drawing-room?  His reverence is unrobing.  He knows you are here.’

‘Well, unless he were blind, he couldn’t very well help it,’ growled the doctor, as he followed La Teuse into the cold-looking, stiffly furnished chamber, which she pompously called the drawing-room.  Here for a few minutes he paced up and down.  The gloomy coldness of his surroundings seemed to increase his irritation.  As he strode about, flourishing a stick he carried, he kept on striking the well-worn chair-seats of horsehair which sounded hard and dead as stone.  Then, tired of walking, he took his stand in front of the mantelpiece, in the centre of which a gaudily painted image of Saint Joseph occupied the place of a clock.