Part 46 (1/2)

And there were other evenings ... the Octave of the Feast of All Souls at St. Sulpice and at St. Thomas Aquinas, where, after the Vespers of the Dead, they brought out again the old Sequence which has disappeared from the Roman Breviary, the ”Lanquentilus in Purgatorio.”

This church was the only one in Paris which had retained these pages of the Gallican hymnal, and had them sung by two ba.s.ses without a choir; but these singers, so poor as a rule, no doubt were fond of this air, for if they did not sing it with art, at least they put a little soul into its delivery.

And this invocation to the Madonna, in which she was adjured to save the souls in Purgatory, was as sorrowful as the souls themselves, and so melancholy, so languid, that the surroundings were forgotten, the ugliness of that sanctuary of which the choir was a theatre scene, surrounded by closed dressing-rooms and garnished with l.u.s.tres, one might think oneself for a few moments far from Paris, far from that population of devout women and servant girls, which attend that place in the evening.

”Ah! the Church,” he said to himself, as he descended the path which led to the great pond, ”what a mother of art is she!” and suddenly the noise of a body falling into the water interrupted his reflections.

He looked behind the hedge of reeds and saw nothing but great circles running on the water, and all at once in one of these rings a small dog-like head appeared holding a fish in its mouth; the beast raised itself a little out of the water, showed a thin body covered with fur, and gazed on Durtal quietly with its little black eyes.

Then in a flash it pa.s.sed the distance which separated it from the bank, and disappeared under the gra.s.ses.

”It is the otter,” he said to himself, remembering the discussion at table between the stranger priest and the oblate.

And he went to gain the other pond, when he encountered Father Etienne.

He told him his adventure.

”Impossible!” cried the monk, ”no one has ever seen the otter; you must have mistaken it for a water rat, or some other animal, for that beast, for which we have watched for years, is invisible.”

Durtal gave him a description of it.

”It is certainly the otter,” admitted the guest-master, surprised.

It was evident that this otter lived in the pond in a legendary state.

In monotonous lives, in days like those in a cloister, it took the proportions of a fabulous subject, of an event whereof the mystery would occupy intervals seized between prayers and offices.

”We must point out to M. Bruno the exact spot where you remarked it, for he will begin to hunt it again,” said Father Etienne after a silence.

”But how can it trouble you in eating your fish, since you do not angle for them?”

”I beg your pardon; we fish for them to send them to the Archbishop,”

answered the monk, who went on: ”Still, it is very strange that you saw the beast!”

”When I leave this,” thought Durtal, ”they will certainly speak of me as the gentleman who saw the otter.”

While talking, they had arrived at the cross pond.

”Look,” said the father, pointing out the swan, who rose in a fury, beat his wings, and hissed.

”What is the matter with him?”

”The matter is that the white hue of my habit infuriates him.”

”Ah! and why?”

”I do not know; perhaps he wants to be the only one who is white here; he spares the lay brothers, while as for a father ... wait, you will see.”