Never had Abbe Mouret desired such magnificence for his poor church.  He smiled, and dreamt of how he might retain all that splendour there, and then arrange it most effectively.  He would have preferred to see the curtains of cloth-of-gold hung rather higher; the vases, too, needed more careful arrangement; and he thought that the bouquets of flowers might be tied up more neatly, and the garlands be more regularly shaped.  Yet how wondrously magnificent it all was!  He was the pontiff of a church of gold.  Bishops, princes, princesses, arrayed in royal mantles, multitudes of believers, bending to the ground, were coming to visit it, encamping in the valley, waiting for weeks at the door until they should be able to enter.  They kissed his feet, for even his feet had turned to gold, and worked miracles.  The bath of gold mounted to his knees.  A golden heart was beating within his golden breast, with so clear a musical pulsation that the waiting crowds could hear it from outside.  Then a feeling of overweening pride seized upon him.  He was an idol.  The golden beam mounted still higher, the high altar was all ablaze with glory, and the priest grew certain that the Divine grace must be returning to him, such was his inward satisfaction.  The fierce snarl behind him had now grown gentle and coaxing, and he only felt on his shoulder a soft velvety pressure, as though some giant cat were lightly caressing him.

He still pursued his reverie.  Never before had he seen things under such a favourable light.  Everything seemed quite easy to him now that he once more felt full of strength.  Since Albine was waiting for him, he would go and join her.  It was only natural.  On the previous morning he had married Fortune and Rosalie.  The Church did not forbid marriages.  He saw that young couple again as they knelt before him, smiling and nudging each other while his hands were held over them in benediction.  Then, in the evening, they had shown him their room.  Each word that he had spoken to them echoed loudly in his ear.  He had told Fortune that God had sent him a companion, because He did not wish man to live alone; and he had told Rosalie that she must cleave to her husband, never leaving him, but always acting as his obedient helpmate.  But he had said these things also for Albine and himself.  Was she not his companion, his obedient helpmate, whom God had sent to him that his manhood might not wither up in solitude?  Besides, they had been joined the one to the other.  He felt surprised that he had not understood and recognised it at once; that he had not gone away with her, as his duty plainly required that he should have done.  But he had quite made up his mind now; he would certainly join her in the morning.  He could be with her in half an hour.  He would go through the village, and take the road up the hill; it was much the shortest way.  He could do what he pleased; he was the master, and no one would presume to say anything to him.  If any one looked at him, a wave of his hand would force them to bend their heads.  He would live with Albine.  He would call her his wife.  They would be very happy together.