But the dim brightness,
concentrated upon the holy things, looked like a ray from Heaven
shining down upon the unadorned shrine. The floor was reeking with
damp. An icy wind swept in through the chinks here and there, in a
roof that rose sharply on either side, after the fashion of attic
roofs. Nothing could be less imposing; yet perhaps, too, nothing could
be more solemn than this mournful ceremony. A silence so deep that
they could have heard the faintest sound of a voice on the Route
d'Allemagne, invested the night-piece with a kind of sombre majesty;
while the grandeur of the service--all the grander for the strong
contrast with the poor surroundings--produced a feeling of reverent
awe.
The Sisters kneeling on each side of the altar, regardless of the
deadly chill from the wet brick floor, were engaged in prayer, while
the priest, arrayed in pontifical vestments, brought out a golden
chalice set with gems; doubtless one of the sacred vessels saved from
the pillage of the Abbaye de Chelles. Beside a ciborium, the gift of
royal munificence, the wine and water for the holy sacrifice of the
mass stood ready in two glasses such as could scarcely be found in the
meanest tavern. For want of a missal, the priest had laid his breviary
on the altar, and a common earthenware plate was set for the washing
of hands that were pure and undefiled with blood. It was all so
infinitely great, yet so little, poverty-stricken yet noble, a
mingling of sacred and profane.
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