“And there are many other cases,” said Carhaix.  “Of their own accord the bells chimed when Saint Sigisbert chanted the De Profundis over the corpse of the martyr Placidus, and when the body of Saint Ennemond, Bishop of Lyons, was thrown by his murderers into a boat without oars or sails, the bells rang out, though nobody set them in motion, as the boat passed down the Saone.”

“Do you know what I think?” asked Des Hermies, looking at Carhaix.  “I think you ought to prepare a compendium of hagiography or a really informative work on heraldry.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, you are, thank God, remote from this epoch and fond of things which it knows nothing about or execrates, and a work of that kind would take you still further away.  My good friend, you are the man forever unintelligible to the coming generations.  To ring bells because you love them, to give yourself over to the abandoned study of feudal art or monasticism would make you complete—­take you clear out of Paris, out of the world, back into the Middle Ages.”

“Alas,” said Carhaix, “I am only a poor ignorant man.  But the type you speak of does exist.  In Switzerland, I believe, a bell-ringer has for years been collecting material for a heraldic memorial.  I should think,” he continued, laughing, “that his avocation would interfere with his vocation.”

“And do you think,” said Gevingey bitterly, “that the profession of astrologer is less decried, less neglected?”

“How do you like our cider?” asked the bell-ringer’s wife.  “Do you find it a bit raw?”

“No, it’s tart if you sip it, but sweet if you take a good mouthful,” answered Durtal.

“Wife, serve the potatoes.  Don’t wait for me.  I delayed so long getting my business done that it’s time for the angelus.  Don’t bother about me.  Go on eating.  I shall catch up with you when I get back.”

And as her husband lighted his lantern and left the room the woman brought in on a plate what looked to be a cake covered with golden brown caramel icing.

“Mashed potatoes, I thought you said!”

“Au gratin.  Browned in the oven.  Taste it.  I put in everything that ought to make it very good.”

All exclaimed over it.

Then it became impossible to hear oneself.  Tonight the bell boomed out with unusual clarity and power.  Durtal tried to analyze the sound which seemed to rock the room.  There was a sort of flux and reflux of sound.  First, the formidable shock of the clapper against the vase, then a sort of crushing and scattering of the sounds as if ground fine with the pestle, then a rounding of the reverberation; then the recoil of the clapper, adding, in the bronze mortar, other sonorous vibrations which it ground up and cast out and dispersed through the sounding shutters.

Then the bell strokes came further apart.  Now there was only the whirring as of a spinning wheel; a few crumbs were slow about falling.  And now Carhaix returned.