With this, Anselme Pritontin had made a hasty exit; for the Abbé Bongrain was preparing to leave and the aspiring churchwarden wished to arrive at the parish house before the priest did. He accordingly trotted off as fast as he could. He was a man who attributed his own sentiments to all the world, and his latest ambition had so distorted his point of view that he had come to believe anything furthering in his own cause belonged to him as of right. He revelled in advance in the grateful look on Monsieur le Curé’s face.
Back at the club, the Abbé Bongrain was bidding them good night. “I’m leaving you, my lads; I have three baptisms.” He gave Tit-Blanc a long look and went out.
There was silence for a moment, and then Méo Nolin’s mocking laugh was heard. “You have nothing to say when he looks at you, have you?”
Tit-Blanc swaggered out to the middle of the room. He tightened his belt. “Do you think it’s going to stop there? It’s time I was doing something about it.”
The others smiled at this. “Are you going to apologize to Pritontin?” Gus wanted to know.
“Me, Tit-Blanc? Apologize? Never! Him and his Church — I’ll blow them both up; I’ll kill him,” he roared, gesticulating wildly.
“What have you done, got yourself a bomb?” asked Méo Nolin sarcastically, taking his cue from Gus.
Tit-Blanc stopped short as if paralyzed and regarded them with a fixed stare; then he suddenly burst out enthusiastically: “That’s it! I have it! I’ll put a bomb under Pritontin’s seat at high mass.”
“You’re drunk, my boy. Why, you’d kill him.”
“A big firecracker, rather.”
“Don’t be a fool, Tit-Blanc. We all know that your mother was reading the History of the French Revolution when you were born.”
In the face of these objections Tit-Blanc did some thinking and assured himself that his indignation was real. He began gritting his teeth as he thought of Barloute. Him a cuckold? A solemn expression came over his drunkard’s face. “I’ll show you what nerve is, you Mulots.”
“Yeh, but a big cracker like that makes a lot of noise,” Méo Nolin reminded him.
“For ten cents I can get an extra big one.”
“He wants a silent revolution,” said Denis.
There were exclamations on all sides. The slumbering audacity of the Mulots appeared to awaken when confronted by the possibilities inherent in this exploit.
“They sell them for a penny, also. They’re not very big but they make a sharp noise, enough to scare you,” explained Chaton, who did not like people of quality to see him taking part in disturbances.
“That’s right,” agreed Tit-Blanc, “but it must go off.”
“How are you going to light it?” asked Bison Langevin.
“You’ll be up in the front of the church.”
“Yes, and there I’ll not be able to strike a match.” He was hoping now he could get out of the affair, for it occurred to him that he had spoken somewhat hastily.
“Have someone pass you a lighted butt,” suggested Denis.
“Now you’re talking!” said Méo Nolin. The idea of frightening Pritontin and creating a small scandal was not displeasing to him. “Bidonnet, our sacristan, will be glad to do it. He doesn’t care much for Father Folbèche, a question of wages, you know. What’s more, the sisters have taken over the laundering of the surplices, and that means the loss of five dollars a week to him.”
Tit-Blanc was beginning to fancy the idea again. Suddenly he raised his head in a manner that seemed to increase his stature. He had made his decision.
“Okay, lads, tomorrow, at ten o’clock mass.”
He went out with a firm stride. It was plain that no one took him seriously. Would he carry out this act of bravado? They doubted it very much, knowing him to be drunk. Denis watched him leave and he became angry. Tit-Blanc had aroused in him once more a thirst that would not be quenched. Yet another deception awaited his eager young heart. He ran home to supper now. That girl Lise must find him handsome, strong, not at all like the others. But untouchable so far as his heart was concerned.
His mother was looking for her milk jars.
Chapter Three
Anselme Pritontin was walking rapidly, without noticing that from time to time he stubbed his foot against the upraised planks of the sidewalk. He was talking to himself, as if muttering a prayer, evoking in his mind the various expressions of the curé’s face in an effort to find the one that seemed to give him the most satisfaction.
“He will be sorry, right enough! To have overlooked a man of my worth! No, it is not remorse that I expect of him. After all, he’s not a sinner! It was simply forgetfulness on his part, he was so taken up with his prayers. Holy men do not understand anything about earthly things. He must have been influenced by Zépherin Lévesque, Commander of the Knights of Columbus. Monsieur le Curé will regret it, I’m sure. Oh! I’ll forgive him. What will he say to me, anyhow? I’ll help him out so that he won’t feel embarrassed. He will be horrified when he hears about those communists. The only thing is, will he be so occupied with their seditious activities that he will forget the injustice done to me? I’ll remind him of it with my well-known tact. He’s a good-hearted man; he won’t know how to apologize to me, but I’ll make it easy for him, make it seem natural; I’ll put him at his ease without his knowing it. After I’ve gone, he will think of how tactful I was and will be all the more grateful to me. The gratitude of a priest — what an honour for me!”
He fingered the big black beads of his weekday rosary in the depths of his pocket. “I’d like to see Zépherin Lévesque’s face when he hears how I’ve uncovered this nest of sedition. I can just picture it! Why, this is a terrible thing!” He shuddered.
As he reached the parish-house gate, Anselme Pritontin realized that the indignation he had felt at the club a short while ago had disappeared. Here he was, thinking of that communist affair as coolly as if it had been a routine matter! He was alarmed at this. He longed for the sacred fire of inspiration, like a young journalist who wishes his article to show the marks of genius. Anselme stood there, turning about on first one foot and then another as he eagerly sought for the word, the attitude of mind that would put him in a rage. He called up the memory of Tit-Blanc’s head, raised it to a level with his gaze (and he was quite tall), looked it in the eyes, dishevelled the hair, and added the drunkard’s puffy red face and the alcohol gurgling in his mouth. The hands of the ambitious Soyeux curled like claws about to descend upon Tit-Blanc’s cheeks. He thought of the man’s strumpet of a wife, that Barloute who in the days gone by had made a mockery of his youthful passion. But it was all in vain. The sacred fire would not come, and Anselme Pritontin was deeply grieved. He tried another method: thought of the obvious decline of the Faith; and this quickly brought him to the conclusion that he was more pious than these wicked ones. But where was his anger? Was he really angry?
There was a sudden gleam of light through the big window of the sacristy, and he caught sight of Bidonnet, who was lighting the tapers of the new candelabra. Pritontin gave a start.
“The jealous wretches! So, I defend religion because it provides
