Then when the bell-ringer's wife had bidden them good night and retired to her room, Des Hermies got the kettle and the coffee pot.
"Want any help?" Durtal proposed.
"You can get the little glasses and uncork the liqueur bottles, if you will."
As he opened the cupboard, Durtal swayed, dizzy from the strokes of the bells which shook the walls and filled the room with clamour.
"If there are spirits in this room, they must be getting knocked to pieces," he said, setting the liqueur glasses on the table.
"Bells drive phantoms and spectres away," Gévingey answered, doctorally, filling his pipe.
"Here," said Des Hermies, "will you pour hot water slowly into the filter? I've got to feed the stove. It's getting chilly here. My feet are freezing."
Carhaix returned, blowing out his lantern.
"The bell was in good voice, this clear, dry night," and he took off his mountaineer cap and his overcoat.
"What do you think of him?" Des Hermies asked Durtal in a very low voice, and pointed at the astrologer, now lost in a cloud of pipe smoke.