There was to be a grand fête in the church, and great preparation was made. As the organ needed repairs, it was decided to repair it thoroughly; and one of the builders from Bordeaux was sent for.
He was to come on Thursday; but he chanced to arrive the day before, and was to begin work early the following morning. That night a light glimmered out of the darkness of the gallery of the church.
Two days passed. The repairing of the organ went on; but there was much to be done, and it might take a week. One afternoon, as François passed through the centre of the village, two men came hurriedly out of the town-house, and hastened away towards the church. It was the organ-builder, very much excited, and one of the officials of the town. The young man, venturing on his well-known skill as an organist, followed them; and the three entered the building. A few worshippers were at the great altar, and the sacred edifice seemed unusually quiet and peaceful.
The organ-builder seemed too agitated to answer the questions that the town official asked him, but led the way quickly to the organ-loft. “Put your foot on that pedal!” he said excitedly, pointing to a particular one of the scale.
The official was too bewildered to comply, and François did it for him.
“Now try the next one!” said he.
François did so, but no sound came; only a queer, intermittent rumbling, like a bounding and rebounding.
“It does not sound,” said the organ-builder. “Follow me and I will show you why.”
“It never has sounded since the great trial-day, years ago,” muttered the young man. But he followed on.
They clambered up a rickety staircase, a still more rickety ladder, and came to a platform at a level with the top of the organ; and all around them, reaching up out of the dim light below, were the open pipes. Passing hurriedly around, on a narrow plank, to the back of the organ, their agitated guide paused before a row of immense pedal pipes, and, without allowing his own eyes to look, he held the light that he carried for the others.