n a sweet voice praise to the Lord, he passed through the streets leading to the church in the market-place with a slow and solemn gait, without vouchsafing a look, a word, or a gesture to anyone. The entire crowd, falling into step, marched behind him as he advanced, singing like him, the singers being the prettiest girls in Loudun, for we have forgotten to say that the crowd consisted almost entirely of women.
Meanwhile the object of all this commotion arrived at length at the porch of the church of Saint-Pierre. Ascending the steps, he knelt at the top and prayed in a low voice, then rising he touched the church doors with his laurel branch, and they opened wide as if by magic, revealing the choir decorated and illuminated as if for one of the four great feasts of the year, and with all its scholars, choir boys, singers, beadles, and vergers in their places. Glancing around, he for whom they were waiting came up the nave, passed through the choir, knelt for a second time at the foot of the altar, upo
Ahh...A timely reminder of a colourful, yet brutal episode in history, told with consumate flair by one of the masters of prose and panache... A worthy portrail of Grandier`s life, I feel, has yet to reveal itself, however, Dumas, in the spirit of that other great frenchman Cyrano De Bergerac, brings it all together with a lovely tapestry of colour and by the numbers storytelling, but with that extra bit of flourish thrown in for good measure, as always...A brief journey into the past for all to enjoy...Please do so..DM.