“Is it time?”

The child looked reassured.

“Yes, Father.”

He came into the sacristy and went towards the cupboard where the vestments were kept, passing the silver crucifix.  As he did so he glanced at it.  He opened the cupboard, then stood for a moment and again turned his eyes to the Christ.  The Father watched him.

“What are you looking at, Paul?” he asked.

“Nothing, Father,” the boy replied, with a sudden expression of reluctance that was almost obstinate.

And he began to take the priest’s robes out of the cupboard.

Just then the wind wailed again furiously about the church, and the crucifix fell down upon the floor of the sacristy.

The priest started forward, picked it up, and stood with it in his hand.  He glanced at the wall, and saw at once that the nail to which the crucifix had been fastened had come out of its hole.  A flake of plaster had been detached, perhaps some days ago, and the hole had become too large to retain the nail.  The explanation of the matter was perfect, simple and comprehensible.  Yet the priest felt as if a catastrophe had just taken place.  As he stared at the cross he heard a little noise near him.  The acolyte was crying.

“Why, Paul, what’s the matter?” he said.

“Why did it do that?” exclaimed the boy, as if alarmed.  “Why did it do that?”

“Perhaps it was the wind.  Everything is shaking.  Come, come, my child, there is nothing to be afraid of.”

He laid the crucifix on the table.  Paul dried his eyes with his fists.

“I don’t like to-day,” he said.  “I don’t like to-day.”

The priest patted him on the shoulder.

“The weather has upset you,” he said, smiling.

But the nervous behaviour of the child deepened strangely his own sense of apprehension.  When he had robed he waited for the arrival of the bride and bridegroom.  There was to be no mass, and no music except the Wedding March, which the harmonium player, a Marseillais employed in the date-packing trade, insisted on performing to do honour to Mademoiselle Enfilden, who had taken such an interest in the music of the church.  Androvsky, as the priest had ascertained, had been brought up in the Catholic religion, but, when questioned, he had said quietly that he was no longer a practising Catholic and that he never went to confession.  Under these circumstances it was not possible to have a nuptial mass.  The service would be short and plain, and the priest was glad that this was so.  Presently the harmonium player came in.

“I may play my loudest to-day, Father,” he said, “but no one will hear me.”

He laughed, settled the pin—­Joan of Arc’s face in metal—­in his azure blue necktie, and added: 

“Nom d’un chien, the wind’s a cruel wedding guest!”

The priest nodded without speaking.

“Would you believe, Father,” the man continued, “that Mademoiselle and her husband are going to start for Arba from the church door in all this storm!  Batouch is getting the palanquin on to the camel.  How they will ever—­”