During three days the enormous festival took its tumultuous course, amid the muffled crunching of jaws, the gurgling of jugs and bottles, mingled with laughter and shouts and songs. Women, children, old people--everyone gorged himself immoderately. When evening came, young and old danced to the music of fiddles. The church, alas, was empty on Sunday, and when the _curé_ came to fetch his flock--God forgive me!--they made him drink, and he, enkindled and set up, pressed Jean Piot's two hands warmly to his heart. All the mean emotions of daily life were forgotten, wiped away from the soul by this great human communion. Tramps who were passing found themselves welcomed, stuffed to capacity, beloved----And when the evening of the third day fell, not a soul was there to mourn the too early close of an epic so glorious. The entire village, exhausted, was asleep and snoring, fortifying itself by dreams to meet the gloomy return to life's realities. When his heavy drunkenness was dispelled, Jean Piot realized, for the first thing, that the Piotte's sleep would have no awakening. Congestion had done for her. He had on the subject philosophical thoughts to which he did not give utterance for fear of being misunderstood. In the depth of his heart he felt that neither of them had any further reason for living, since they had fully lived. And so, when, left alone, he saw gradual oblivion close over the imposing revel of which he had been the hero, when the current of life swept ever farther and farther from him that tiny fraction of humanity which made up his universe, when countenances darkened at sight of him, when doors closed and when he was reproached with having "wasted his substance"--he was not surprised, and without a murmur accepted the inevitable. For days and days he remained stretched on his straw, quiet, even happy, it seemed, but without anything to eat. He starved, it is said. Two days before his death, the _curé_ had come to see him. "Well, Jean Piot, my friend, do you repent of your sins?" "Oh, yes, _Monsieur le curé_!" "You remember when I proposed to say masses for you? If you had listened to me, you would not to-day be suffering remorse." "And why should I suffer remorse, _Monsieur le curé_? I have done no harm to anybody. You see, I quite believe that the next world is beautiful, as you say it is, but I wanted my share of this world. And I had it. Rich people have theirs. It would not have been fair otherwise. Ah, I can say that I was as happy as any rich man, not for so long, that is all. And what does that matter, since it must end sometime anyhow? Do you remember? You drank a glass, and you took both my hands, just as if I had been a rich man, _Monsieur le curé_. We were like two brothers. If you cannot say a mass for me without money, surely you will remember me in your prayers, will you not?" "I promise to, Jean Piot," said the _curé_, who had grown thoughtful. XX THE TREASURE OF ST. BARTHOLEMEW