in spite of Madame Roustan's foolish conceits — her
sins and her son and her Comtesse de Berac; in spite
of those large-limbed men from the sea, whose faith
was submerged by their superstition; in spite of the
folly, the meanness, and the sin that will enter even
the holiest place where two or three are gathered
together — yes, in spite of it all, there was something
abroad that was infinitely above and beyond those
people, and yet, as it were, in the midst of them .
perhaps God's incurable optimism flaming up at the
sight of the kneeling children.
The Mass had begun. At the foot of the altar the
Cure was making his public confession and the
children were dutifully striking their breasts: 'Mea
culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.' But Chris-
tophe was clutching the back of the chair upon which
he knelt, and his staring eyes were not on the priest
but were turned to the wall against which stood a
life-like Crucifixion — a large agony fashioned from
wood and paint with much skill by the hands of some
bygone craftsman. And although he had seen the
thing many times and had thought of it only as a
symbol of salvation, he now saw it as the crucified
body of a man, of a man who was very terribly human
— the outraged and bleeding body of a man dying
slowly as he hung there in torment; while in some
incomprehensible and terrifying way this fearful
perception seemed to link itself up with him and with
his approaching Communion. Cowering down he
covered his face with his hands: 'I cannot ... I
cannot... I cannot. . .' he thought wildly, scarcely
knowing if he were praying or blaspheming.
Time passed, but he was unconscious of time.
The triple bell rang out sharp and clear as the Cure
offered the Host to God, then the Chalice, for the
sins of his congregation. But Christophe heard only the
groans of a man, and the man was very terribly human.
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