There was evidently, to use an elegant
phrase, a hitch somewhere.
[Enter a fat priest who bustles up to the drum-major.]
Fat priest--"Taisez-vous."
Little drummer--Rub-dub-dub--rub-dub-dub--rub-dub-dub, &c.
Drum-major--"Qu'est-ce donc?"
Fat priest--"Taisez-vous, dis-je; ce n'est pas le corps. Il n'arrivera
pas--pour une heure."
The little drums were instantly hushed, the procession turned to the
right-about, and walked back to the altar again, the blown-out candle
that had been on the near side of us before was now on the off side,
the National Guards set down their muskets and began at their sandwiches
again. We had to wait an hour and a half at least before the great
procession arrived. The guns without went on booming all the while at
intervals, and as we heard each, the audience gave a kind of "ahahah!"
such as you hear when the rockets go up at Vauxhall.
At last the real Procession came.
Then the drums began to beat as formerly, the Nationals to get under
arms, the clergymen were sent for and went, and presently--yes, there
was the tall cross-bearer at the head of the procession, and they came
BACK!
They chanted something in a weak, snuffling, lugubrious manner, to the
melancholy bray of a serpent.
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