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 _bergère_
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