Durtal took his leave, and as he went downstairs he thought, “That jubilant priest sickens me.  Indeed, a gay priest, physician, or man of letters must have an infamous soul, because they are the ones who see clearly into human misery and console it, or heal it, or depict it.  If after that they can act the clown—­they are unspeakable!  Though I’ll admit that thoughtless persons deplore the sadness of the novel of observation and its resemblance to the life it represents.  These people would have it jovial, smart, highly coloured, aiding them, in their base selfishness, to forget the hag-ridden existences of their brothers.

“Truly, Carhaix and his wife are peculiar.  They bow under the paternal despotism of the priests—­and there are moments when that same despotism must be no joke—­and revere them and adore them.  But then these two are simple believers, with humble, unsmirched souls.  I don’t know the priest who was there, but he is rotund and rubicund, he shakes in his fat and seems bursting with joy.  Despite the example of Saint Francis of Assisi, who was gay—­spoiling him for me—­I have difficulty in persuading myself that this abbe is an elevated being.  It’s all right to say that the best thing for him is to be mediocre; to ask how, if he were otherwise, he would make his flock understand him; and add that if he really had superior gifts he would be hated by his colleagues and persecuted by his bishop.”

While conversing thus disjointedly with himself Durtal had reached the base of the tower.  He stopped under the porch.  “I intended to stay longer up there,” thought he.  “It’s only half-past five.  I must kill at least half an hour before dinner.”

The weather was almost mild.  The clouds had been swept away.  He lighted a cigarette and strolled about the square, musing.  Looking up he hunted for the bell-ringer’s window and recognized it.  Of the windows which opened over the portico it alone had a curtain.

“What an abominable construction,” he thought, contemplating the church.  “Think.  That cube flanked by two towers presumes to invite comparison with the facade of Notre Dame.  What a jumble,” he continued, examining the details.  “From the foundation to the first story are Ionic columns with volutes, then from the base of the tower to the summit are Corinthian columns with acanthus leaves.  What significance can this salmagundi of pagan orders have on a Christian church?  And as a rebuke to the over-ornamented bell tower there stands the other tower unfinished, looking like an abandoned grain elevator, but the less hideous of the two, at that.

“And it took five or six architects to erect this indigent heap of stones.  Yet Servandoni and Oppenord and their ilk were the real major prophets, the ... zekiels of building.  Their work is the work of seers looking beyond the eighteenth century to the day of transportation by steam.  For Saint Sulpice is not a church, it’s a railway station!