The Atheist's Mass

work to the lancet,
and cannot suffer from fistula or gastritis--in short, this audacious
scoffer kneeling humbly, and where? In the Lady Chapel, where he
remained through the mass, giving alms for the expenses of the service,
alms for the poor, and looking as serious as though he were
superintending an operation.

"He has certainly not come here to clear up the question of the Virgin's
delivery," said Bianchon to himself, astonished beyond measure. "If I
had caught him holding one of the ropes of the canopy on Corpus Christi
day, it would be a thing to laugh at; but at this hour, alone, with no
one to see--it is surely a thing to marvel at!"

Bianchon did not wish to seem as though he were spying the head surgeon
of the Hotel-Dieu; he went away. As it happened, Desplein asked him to
dine with him that day, not at his own house, but at a restaurant. At
dessert Bianchon skilfully contrived to talk of the mass, speaking of it
as mummery and a farce.

"A farce," said Desplein, "which has cost Christendom more blood than
all Napoleon's battles and all Broussais' leeches. The mass is a papal
invention, not older than the sixth century, and based on the _Hoc est
corpus_. What floods of blood were shed to establish the Fete-Dieu, the
Festival of Corpus Christi--the institution by which Rome established
her triumph in the question of the Real Presence, a schism which rent
the Church during three centuries! The wars of the Count of Toulouse
against the Albigenses were the tail end of that dispute. The Vaudois
and the Albigenses refused to recognize this innovation."

In short, Desplein was delighted to disport himself in his most
atheistical vein; a flow of Voltairean satire, or, to be accurate, a
vile imitation of the _Citateur_.

"Hallo! where is my worshiper of this morning?" said Bianchon to
himself.

He said nothing; he began to doubt whether he had really seen his chief
at Saint-Sulpice. Desplein would not have troubled himself to tell
Bianchon a lie, they knew each other too we

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Thomas Hardy, OM (June 2, 1840 January 11, 1928) was an English novelist, short story writer, and poet of the naturalist movement, though he saw himself as a poet and wrote novels mainly for financial gain only. The bulk of his work, set mainly in the semi-imaginary county of Wessex, delineates characters struggling against their passions and circumstances. Hardys poetry, first published in his fifties, has come to be as well regarded as his novels, especially after The Movement of the 1950s and 1960s.