Before long Jean's whole mind was given over to the catechizingsand sermons and hymns preparatory to the First Communion.
Intoxication with the music of chants and organ, drowned in thescent of incense and flowers, hung about with scapularies, rosaries,consecrated medals, and holy images, he, like his companions, assumeda certain air of self-importance and wore a smug, sanctified look.
He was cold and unbending towards his aunt, who spoke with fartoo much unconcern about the "great day." Though she had longbeen in the habit of taking her nephew to Mass every Sunday,she was not "pious." Most likely she confounded in one commondetestation the luxury of the rich and the pomps of the Churchservice. She had more than once been overheard informing oneof the cronies she used to meet on the boulevards that she wasa religious woman, _but_ she could not abide priests, that shesaid her prayers at home, and these were every bit as good asthe fine ladies' who flaunted their crinolines in church. Hisfather was more in sympathy with the lad's new-found zeal; hewas interested and even a little impressed. He undertook to binda missal with his own hands against the ceremony.
When the days arrived for retreats and general confessions, Jeanswelled with pride and vague aspirations. He looked for somethingout of the ordinary to happen. Coming out at evening fromSaint-Sulpice with two or three of his schoolfellows, he wouldfeel an atmosphere of miracle about him; some divine interposition_must_ be forthcoming. The lads used to tell each other strangestories, pious legends they had read in one of their little booksof devotion. Now it was a phantom monk who had stepped out of thegrave, showing the stigmata on hands and feet and the piercedside; now a nun, beautiful as the veiled figures in the Churchpictures, expiating in the fires of hell mysterious sins. Jeanhad _his_ favourite tale. Shuddering, he would relate how St.
Francis Borgia, after the death of Queen Isabella, who was lovelybeyond compare, must have the coffin opened wherein she lay at restin her robe embroidered with pearls; in imagination he picturedthe dead Queen, invested her form with all the magic hues of theunknown, traced in her lineaments the enchantments of a woman'sbeauty in the dark gulf of death. And as he told the tale, he couldhear, in the twilight gloom, a murmur of soft voices sighing inthe plane trees of the Luxembourg.
The great day arrived. The bookbinder, who attended the ceremonywith his sister, thought of his wife and wept.
He was most favourably impressed by the _curé's_ homily, in whicha young man without faith was compared to an unbridled chargerthat plunges over precipices. The simile struck his fancy, andhe would quote it years after with approbation. He made up hismind to read the Bible, as he had read Voltaire, "to get thehang of things."Jean withdrew from the houselling cloth, wondering to be justthe same as ever and already disillusioned. He was never againto recover the first fervent rapture.