"you here."

He descended, and when he learned Durtal's name his face brightened and
the two shook hands cordially.

"We have been expecting you a long time, monsieur. Our friend here
speaks of you at great length, and we have been asking him why he didn't
bring you around to see us. But come," he said eagerly, "I must conduct
you on a tour of inspection about my little domain. I have read your
books and I know a man like you can't help falling in love with my
bells. But we must go higher if we are really to see them."

And he bounded up a staircase, while Des Hermies pushed Durtal along in
front of him in a way that made retreat impossible.

As he was once more groping along the winding stairs, Durtal asked, "Why
didn't you tell me your friend Carhaix--for of course that's who he
is--was a bell-ringer?"

Des Hermies did not have time to answer, for at that moment, having
reached the door of the room beneath the tower roof, Carhaix was
standing aside to let them pass. They were in a rotunda pierced in the
centre by a great circular hole which had around it a corroded iron
balustrade orange with rust. By standing close to the railing, which was
like the well curb of the Pit, one could see down, down, to the
foundation. The "well" seemed to be undergoing repairs, and from the top
to the bottom of the tube the beams supporting the bells were
crisscrossed with timbers bracing the walls.

"Don't be afraid to lean over," said Carhaix. "Now tell me, monsieur,
how do you like my foster children?"

But Durtal was hardly heeding. He felt uneasy, here in space, and as if
drawn toward the gaping chasm, whence ascended, from time to time, the
desultory clanging of the bell, which was still swaying and would be
some time in returning to immobility.

He recoiled.

"Wouldn't you like to pay a visit to the top of the tower?" asked
Carhaix, pointing to an iron stair sealed into the wall.

"No, another day."

They descended and Carhaix, in silence, opened a door. They advanced
into an immense storeroom, containing colossal broken statues of saints,
scaly and dilapidated apostles, Saint Matthew legless and armless, Saint
Luke escorted by a fragmentary ox, Saint Mark lacking a shoulder and
part of his beard, Saint Peter holding up an arm from which the hand
holding the keys was broken off.

"There used to be a swing in here," said Carhaix, "for the little girls
of the neighbourhood. But the privilege was abused, as privilege