The Town Below. Roger Lemelin
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ironically, “for you’re all of sixty now.” Gus was jealous.
“I was born a Catholic, and I’m proud of it. And the Liberal party in its politics is proud to stand side by side with the Church and its principles. Laurier —”
“That’s worth a good cigar.” Once more Gus interrupted him, for he could scarcely conceal his annoyance at not being the only one to make pompous speeches.
Anselme Pritontin by this time had recovered from his breathless indignation. “Are you going to prevent me from entering my protest against the sacrilegious expression that was used here?” he demanded to know. “The Church is a trust! When it has given us everything, religious education, piety, faith, hope, charity, traditions —”
“And chandeliers,” added Tit-Blanc.
This was more than Pritontin’s heart could bear. “If you rail against the Church,” he burst out, “that’s because you are married to a whore. Everybody knows what your Barloute is.”
“Sue him; I’m a witness,” urged Chaton, for he went in for lawsuits.
“You damned hypocrite!” And with a bellow Tit-Blanc threw himself upon Pritontin.
“In the belly, Tit-Blanc, in the belly, the belly!” cried Denis, getting worked up.
Pritontin was on the verge of fainting. “Monsieur l’Abbé! Save me!”
The priest leaped forward and separated the pair with a grip of steel: “Look here, Monsieur Pritontin, calm yourself, calm yourself; you’re too good a citizen to be discussing politics.”
Pritontin was ready to weep from anger and impotence. “Ah, no,” he said, “this is not going to be the end of it.” And he made for the door.
Bédarovitch, whose interest it was to keep on good terms with the priest of the parish, hung on to Pritontin’s arm. “I hope you are not offended, Monsieur Anselme. He’s an impudent fellow, Tit-Blanc, and he’s drunk.”
“I trust you will not take what a drunkard says seriously, my dear Monsieur Pritontin,” said Gus Perrault, who wished to maintain friendly relations between the Church and the Lapointe Liberal Association. “The Church and the Association.” “Gus the President.” How well that all sounded! A feeling of grandeur came over him in little waves.
“I am not going to permit my religion to be attacked like that. I have told you so.” With this, Anselme Pritontin had made a hasty exit; for the Abbé Bongrain was preparing to leave and the aspiring churchwarden wished to arrive at the parish house before the priest did. He accordingly trotted off as fast as he could. He was a man who attributed his own sentiments to all the world, and his latest ambition had so distorted his point of view that he had come to believe anything furthering in his own cause belonged to him as of right. He revelled in advance in the grateful look on Monsieur le Curé’s face.
Back at the club, the Abbé Bongrain was bidding them good night. “I’m leaving you, my lads; I have three baptisms.” He gave Tit-Blanc a long look and went out.
There was silence for a moment, and then Méo Nolin’s mocking laugh was heard. “You have nothing to say when he looks at you, have you?”
Tit-Blanc swaggered out to the middle of the room. He tightened his belt. “Do you think it’s going to stop there? It’s time I was doing something about it.”
The others smiled at this. “Are you going to apologize to Pritontin?” Gus wanted to know.
“Me, Tit-Blanc? Apologize? Never! Him and his Church — I’ll blow them both up; I’ll kill him,” he roared, gesticulating wildly.
“What have you done, got yourself a bomb?” asked Méo Nolin sarcastically, taking his cue from Gus.
Tit-Blanc stopped short as if paralyzed and regarded them with a fixed stare; then he suddenly burst out enthusiastically: “That’s it! I have it! I’ll put a bomb under Pritontin’s seat at high mass.”
“You’re drunk, my boy. Why, you’d kill him.”
“A big firecracker, rather.”
“Don’t be a fool, Tit-Blanc. We all know that your mother was reading the History of the French Revolution when you were born.”
In the face of these objections Tit-Blanc did some thinking and assured himself that his indignation was real. He began gritting his teeth as he thought of Barloute. Him a cuckold? A solemn expression came over his drunkard’s face. “I’ll show you what nerve is, you Mulots.”
“Yeh, but a big cracker like that makes a lot of noise,” Méo Nolin reminded him.
“For ten cents I can get an extra big one.”
“He wants a silent revolution,” said Denis.
There were exclamations on all sides. The slumbering audacity of the Mulots appeared to awaken when confronted by the possibilities inherent in this exploit.
“They sell them for a penny, also. They’re not very big but they make a sharp noise, enough to scare you,” explained Chaton, who did not like people of quality to see him taking part in disturbances.
“That’s right,” agreed Tit-Blanc, “but it must go off.”
“How are you going to light it?” asked Bison Langevin.
“You’ll be up in the front of the church.”
“Yes, and there I’ll not be able to strike a match.” He was hoping now he could get out of the affair, for it occurred to him that he had spoken somewhat hastily.
“Have someone pass you a lighted butt,” suggested Denis.
“Now you’re talking!” said Méo Nolin. The idea of frightening Pritontin and creating a small scandal was not displeasing to him. “Bidonnet, our sacristan, will be glad to do it. He doesn’t care much for Father Folbèche, a question of wages, you know. What’s more, the sisters have taken over the laundering of the surplices, and that means the loss of five dollars a week to him.”
Tit-Blanc was beginning to fancy the idea again. Suddenly he raised his head in a manner that seemed to increase his stature. He had made his decision.
“Okay, lads, tomorrow, at ten o’clock mass.”
He went out with a firm stride. It was plain that no one took him seriously. Would he carry out this act of bravado? They doubted it very much, knowing him to be drunk. Denis watched him leave and he became angry. Tit-Blanc had aroused in him once more a thirst that would not be quenched. Yet another deception awaited his eager young heart. He ran home to supper now. That girl Lise must find him handsome, strong, not at all like the others. But untouchable so far as his heart was concerned.
His mother was looking for her milk jars.
Chapter Three
Anselme Pritontin was walking rapidly, without noticing that from time to time he stubbed his foot against the upraised planks of the sidewalk. He was talking to himself, as if muttering a prayer, evoking in his mind the various expressions of the curé’s face in an effort to find the one that seemed to give him the most satisfaction.
“He will be sorry, right enough! To have overlooked a man of my worth! No, it is not remorse that I expect of him. After all, he’s not a sinner! It was simply forgetfulness on his part, he was so taken up with his prayers. Holy men do not understand anything about earthly things. He must have been influenced by Zépherin Lévesque, Commander of the Knights of Columbus. Monsieur le Curé will regret it, I’m sure. Oh! I’ll forgive him. What will he say to me, anyhow? I’ll help him out so that he won’t feel embarrassed. He will be horrified when he hears about those communists. The only thing is, will he be so occupied with their seditious activities that he will forget the injustice done to me? I’ll remind him of it with my well-known tact. He’s a good-hearted man; he won’t know how to apologize to me, but