Today bells spoke an obsolete language, incomprehensible to man. Carhaix
was under no misapprehension. Living in an aërial tomb outside the human
scramble, he was faithful to his art, and in consequence no longer had
any reason for existing. He vegetated, superfluous and demoded, in a
society which insisted that for its amusement the holy place be turned
into a concert hall. He was like a creature reverted, a relic of a
bygone age, and he was supremely contemptuous of the miserable _fin de
siècle_ church showmen who to draw fashionable audiences did not fear to
offer the attraction of cavatinas and waltzes rendered on the cathedral
organ by manufacturers of profane music, by ballet mongers and comic
opera-wrights.

"Poor Carhaix!" said Durtal, as he blew out the candle. "Another who
loves this epoch about as well as Des Hermies and I do. But he has the
tutelage of his bells, and certainly among his wards he has his
favourite. He is not to be pitied. He has his hobby, which renders life
possible for him, as hobbies do."




CHAPTER IV


"How is Gilles de Rais progressing?"

"I have finished the first part of his life, making just the briefest
possible mention of his virtues and achievements."