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entrance—and again decrepit Father Paulin, causing the steep pulpit steps to creak, labored up to meet the arches, took out his missal, fumbled in the pockets of his soutane for his spectacles, and joined their names: Pierre-Françoise.
    The third publication was set for Saturday. But that day coincided with the Feast of the Ass. On her way to church, Françoise heard countless shouts in the distance and a wild wailing rushing toward her. She stopped at the porch steps, wavering like a flame in the wind. In the open doorway, the Feast of the Ass was raging and braying in animal and human voices. Françoise was on the point of turning back when Pierre arrived: the good fellow didn’t want to wait any longer: his arms, used to hoe and mattock, wanted Françoise. He found Father Paulin, who had shut himself away from the riotous church, and asked, abashed but insistent, that he not delay by even one hour the last publication. The old priest listened in silence then looked at Françoise standing in the corner; he smiled with just his eyes and, again without a word, hurried to the open church doors—followed by groom and bride. On the threshold Françoise tried to wrest her hand from Pierre’s, but he wouldn’t let go: the roar of the milling mob, the howls of hundreds of throats and the donkey’s half-human cry of suffering stunned Françoise. Through the censers’ fetid fumes her wide pupils saw first only arms thrown up, mouths agape, and bulging bloodshot eyes. Then, ascending the pulpit steps, the priest appeared, his face calm and wise. At the sight of him everyone fell silent: Father Paulin, standing above the sea of heads, opened his missal and slowly put on his spectacles. The silence continued.
    â€œThe third publication. In the name of the Father and …”—a dull droning, as from a covered cauldron coming to a boil, wrestled with the priest’s weak but clear voice—“we shall join in holy matrimony God’s servant Françoise …”
    â€œAnd me.”
    â€œAnd me. And me.”
    â€œAnd me. And me. And me,” the raucous crowd began to bellow. The cauldron boiled over. Its contents, gurgling and burbling up with bubbles of eyes, brayed, yelped, and moaned, “And me. And me.”
    Even the ass, turning its foam-covered muzzle to the bride, opened its jaws and joined in: “Mee-hee-haw!”
    Françoise was carried out onto the porch in a dead faint. Frightened and dispirited, Pierre set about trying to revive her.
    Then life resumed its normal course: the lovers were married. This would seem to be the end of the story. In fact, it was only the beginning.
    For several months Françoise and Pierre lived in perfect harmony, body and soul. Work separated them by day, but the nights returned them to each other. Even their dreams, which they told each other in the morning, were alike.
    But then late one night, before the second cockcrow, Françoise—the lighter sleeper—was awakened by a strange noise. Resting her palms on her pillow, she listened: the noise, at first dull and distant, gradually grew louder and nearer; through the night, as if on the wind, came an unintelligible jumble of voices punctuated by a beast’s shrill shriek; a minute later, she could distinguish separate clamoring voices, another minute, and she could make out the words: “And me—and me …” Suddenly cold, she slipped quietly out of bed and—barefoot, in just her nightshirt—went to the door and pressed her ear to it: yes, it was the Feast of the Ass, Françoise knew it. Hundreds and thousands of bridegrooms, come like thieves in the night, were begging and demanding: “And me—and me.” Myriads of wild weddings whirled around the house; hundreds of hands banged on the walls; stupefying incense streamed through cracks in the door along with someone’s soft, suffering plea: “Françoise and