The chant went up from the black masses of men and women kneeling in the cathedral, like a sudden breaking out of light in darkness, and the silence was shattered as by a peal of thunder. The voices floated up with the clouds of incense that had begun to cast thin bluish veils over the fanciful marvels of the architecture, and the aisles were filled with splendor and perfume and light and melody. Even at the moment when that music of love and thanksgiving soared up to the altar, Don Juan, too well bred not to express his acknowledgments, too witty not to understand how to take a jest, bridled up in his reliquary, and responded with an appalling burst of laughter. Then the Devil having put him in mind of the risk he was running of being taken for an ordinary man, a saint, a Boniface, a Pantaleone, he interrupted the melody of love by a yell, the thousand voices of hell joined in it. Earth blessed, Heaven banned. The church was shaken to its ancient foundations. _Te Deum laudamus_! cried the many voices. "Go to the devil, brute beasts that you are! _Dios! Dios! Garajos demonios!_ Idiots! What fools you are with your dotard God!" and a torrent of imprecations poured forth like a stream of red-hot lava from the mouth of Vesuvius. "_Deus Sabaoth!... Sabaoth_!" cried the believers. "You are insulting the majesty of Hell," shouted Don Juan, gnashing his teeth. In another moment the living arm struggled out of the reliquary, and was brandished over the assembly in mockery and despair. "The saint is blessing us," cried the old women, children, lovers, and the credulous among the crowd. And note how often we are deceived in the homage we pay; the great man scoffs at those who praise him, and pays compliments now and again to those whom he laughs at in the depths of his heart. Just as the Abbot, prostrate before the altar, was chanting "_Sancte Johannes, ora pro noblis_!" he heard a voice exclaim sufficiently distinctly: "_O coglione_!" "What can be going on up there?" cried the Sub-prior, as he saw the reliquary move. "The saint is playing the devil," replied the Abbot. Even as he spoke the living head tore itself away from the lifeless body, and dropped upon the sallow cranium of the officiating priest. "Remember Dona Elvira!" cried the thing, with its teeth set fast in the Abbot's head. The Abbot's horror-stricken shriek disturbed the ceremony; all the ecclesiastics hurried up and crowded about their chief. "Idiot, tell us now if there is a God!" the voice cried, as the Abbot, bitten through the brain, drew his last breath. PARIS, October 1830. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Elixir of Life, by Honore de Balzac