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 Père 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 the 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