s always
are. In the dusk all kinds of things were done for a few sous. The
curate finally had the swing taken down and the room closed up."

"And what is that over there?" inquired Durtal, perceiving, in a corner,
an enormous fragment of rounded metal, like half a gigantic skull-cap.
On it the dust lay thick, and and in the hollow the meshes on meshes of
fine silken web, dotted with the black bodies of lurking spiders, were
like a fisherman's hand net weighted with little slugs of lead.

"That? Ah, monsieur!" and there was fire in Carhaix's mild eyes, "that
is the skull of an old, old bell whose like is not cast these days. The
ring of that bell, monsieur, was like a voice from heaven." And suddenly
he exploded, "Bells have had their day!--As I suppose Des Hermies has
told you.--Bell ringing is a lost art. And why wouldn't it be? Look at
the men who are doing it nowadays. Charcoal burners, roofers, masons out
of a job, discharged firemen, ready to try their hand at anything for a
franc. There are curates who think nothing of saying, 'Need a man? Go
out in the street and pick up a soldier for ten sous. He'll do.' That's
why you read about accidents like the one that happened lately at Notre
Dame, I think. The fellow didn't withdraw in time and the bell came down
like the blade of a guillotine and whacked his leg right off.

"People will spend thirty thousand francs on an altar baldachin, and
ruin themselves for music, and they have to have gas in their churches,
and Lord knows what all besides, but when you mention bells they shrug
their shoulders. Do you know, M. Durtal, there are only two men in Paris
who can ring chords? Myself and Pere Michel, and he is not married and
his morals are so bad that he can't be regularly attached to a church.
He can ring music the like of which you never heard, but he, too, is
losing interest. He drinks, and, drunk or sober, goes to work, then he
bowls up again and goes to sleep.

"Yes, the bell has had its day. Why, this very morning, Monsignor made
his pastoral visit to this church. At eight o'clock we sounded his
arrival. The six bells you see down here boomed out melodiously. But
there were sixteen up above, and it was a shame. Those extras jangled
away haphazard. It was a riot of discord."

Carhaix ruminated in silence as they descended. Then, "Ah, monsieur," he
said, his watery eyes fairly bubbling, "the ring of bells, there's your
real sacred music."

They were now above th