e main door of the building and they came out into
the great covered gallery on which the towers rest. Carhaix smiled and
pointed out a complete peal of miniature bells, installed between two
pillars on a plank. He pulled the cords, and, in ecstasies, his eyes
protruding, his moustache bristling, he listened to the frail tinkling
of his toy.

And suddenly he relinquished the cords.

"I once had a crazy idea," he said, "of forming a class here and
teaching all the intricacies of the craft, but no one cared to learn a
trade which was steadily going out of existence. Why, you know we don't
even sound for weddings any more, and nobody comes to look at the tower.

"But I really can't complain. I hate the streets. When I try to cross
one I lose my head. So I stay in the tower all day, except once in the
early morning when I go to the other side of the square for a bucket of
water. Now my wife doesn't like it up here. You see, the snow does come
in through all the loopholes and it heaps up, and sometimes we are
snowbound with the wind blowing a gale."

They had come to Carhaix's lodge. His wife was waiting for them on the
threshold.

"Come in, gentlemen," she said. "You have certainly earned some
refreshment," and she pointed to four glasses which she had set out on
the table.

The bell-ringer lighted a little briar pipe, while Des Hermies and
Durtal each rolled a cigarette.

"Pretty comfortable place," remarked Durtal, just to be saying
something. It was a vast room, vaulted, with walls of rough stone, and
lighted by a semi-circular window just under the ceiling. The tiled
floor was badly covered by an infamous carpet, and the furniture, very
simple, consisted of a round dining-room table, some old _bergere_
armchairs covered with slate-blue Utrecht velours, a little stained
walnut sideboard on which were several plates and pitchers of Breton
faience, and opposite the sideboard a little black bookcase, which might
contain fifty books.

"Of course a literary man would be interested in the books," said
Carhaix, who had been watching Durtal. "You mustn't be too critical,
monsieur. I have only the tools of my trade."

Durtal went over and took a look. The collection consisted largely of
works on bells. He read some of the titles:

On the cover of a slim parchment volume he deciphered the faded legend,
hand-written, in rust-coloured ink, "_De tintinnabulis_ by Jerome
Magius, 1664"; then, pell-mell, there were: _A curi