Then came the end, the act of thanksgiving to God.  For the last time the server removed the Missal, and brought it back to the right-hand side.  The priest replaced the purificator, paten, and pall upon the chalice; once more pinched the two large folds of the veil together, and laid upon it the burse containing the corporal.  His whole being was now one act of ardent thanksgiving.  He besought from Heaven the forgiveness of his sins, the grace of a holy life, and the reward of everlasting life.  He remained as if overwhelmed by this miracle of love, the ever-recurring immolation, which sustained him day by day with the blood and flesh of his Savior.

Having read the final prayers, he turned and said:  ‘Ite, missa est.’

‘Deo gratias,’ answered Vincent.

And having turned back to kiss the altar, the priest faced round anew, his left hand just below his breast, his right outstretched whilst blessing the church, which the gladsome sunbeams and noisy sparrows filled.

‘Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus.’

‘Amen,’ said the server, as he crossed himself.

The sun had risen higher, and the sparrows were growing bolder.  While the priest read from the left-hand altar-card the passage of the Gospel of St. John, announcing the eternity of the Word, the sunrays set the altar ablaze, whitened the panels of imitation marble, and dimmed the flame of the two candles, whose short wicks were now merely two dull spots.  The victorious orb enveloped with his glory the crucifix, the candlesticks, the chasuble, the veil of the chalice—­all the gold work that paled beneath his beams.  And when at last the priest, after taking the chalice in his hands and making a genuflexion, covered his head and turned from the altar to follow the server, laden with the cruets and finger-cloth, to the sacristy, the planet remained sole master of the church.  Its rays in turn now rested on the altar-cloth, irradiating the tabernacle-door with splendour, and celebrating the fertile powers of May.  Warmth rose from the stone flags.  The daubed walls, the tall Virgin, the huge Christ, too, all seemed to quiver as with shooting sap, as if death had been conquered by the earth’s eternal youth.

III

Le Teuse hastily put out the candles, but lingered to make one last attempt to drive away the sparrows, and so when she returned to the sacristy with the Missal she no longer found Abbe Mouret there.  Having washed his hands and put away the sacred vessels and vestments, he was now standing in the dining room, breakfasting off a cup of milk.

’You really ought to prevent your sister from scattering bread in the church,’ said La Teuse on coming in.  ’It was last winter she hit upon that pretty prank.  She said the sparrows were cold, and that God might well give them some food.  You see, she’ll end by making us sleep with all her fowls and rabbits.’