I
As La Teuse entered the church she rested her broom
and feather-brush against the altar. She was
late, as she had that day began her half-yearly wash.
Limping more than ever in her haste and hustling the
benches, she went down the church to ring the Angelus.
The bare, worn bell-rope dangled from the ceiling
near the confessional, and ended in a big knot greasy
from handling. Again and again, with regular jumps,
she hung herself upon it; and then let her whole bulky
figure go with it, whirling in her petticoats, her
cap awry, and her blood rushing to her broad face.
Having set her cap straight with a little pat, she
came back breathless to give a hasty sweep before
the altar. Every day the dust persistently settled
between the disjoined boards of the platform.
Her broom rummaged among the corners with an angry
rumble. Then she lifted the altar cover and was
sorely vexed to find that the large upper cloth, already
darned in a score of places, was again worn through
in the very middle, so as to show the under cloth,
which in its turn was so worn and so transparent that
one could see the consecrated stone, embedded in the
painted wood of the altar. La Teuse dusted the
linen, yellow from long usage, and plied her feather-brush
along the shelf against which she set the liturgical
altar-cards. Then, climbing upon a chair, she
removed the yellow cotton covers from the crucifix
and two of the candlesticks. The brass of the
latter was tarnished.
‘Dear me!’ she muttered, ’they really
want a clean! I must give them a polish up!’
Then hopping on one leg, swaying and stumping heavily
enough to drive in the flagstones, she hastened to
the sacristy for the Missal, which she placed unopened
on the lectern on the Epistle side, with its edges
turned towards the middle of the altar. And afterwards
she lighted the two candles. As she went off
with her broom, she gave a glance round her to make
sure that the abode of the Divinity had been put in
proper order. All was still, save that the bell-rope
near the confessional still swung between roof and
floor with a sinuous sweep.
Abbe Mouret had just come down to the sacristy, a
small and chilly apartment, which a passage separated
from his dining-room.
‘Good morning, Monsieur le Cure,’ said
La Teuse, laying her broom aside. ’Oh!
you have been lazy this morning! Do you know it’s
a quarter past six?’ And without allowing the
smiling young priest sufficient time to reply, she
added ’I’ve a scolding to give you.
There’s another hole in the cloth again.
There’s no sense in it. We have only one
other, and I’ve been ruining my eyes over it
these three days in trying to mend it. You will
leave our poor Lord quite bare, if you go on like this.’
Abbe Mouret was still smiling. ’Jesus does
not need so much linen, my good Teuse,’ he cheerfully
replied. ’He is always warm, always royally
received by those who love Him well.’
