"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 Gévingey 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.