As all refused to have any more dessert, Mme.

Carhaix took up the tablecloth and spread an oilcloth in its place.
The astrologer played with his rings, turning them about; Durtal was rolling a pellet of crumbled bread between his fingers; Des Hermies, leaning over to one side, pulled from his patch pocket his embossed Japanese pouch and made a cigarette.
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," Gevingey 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.
"In repose he looks like an old owl, and when he speaks he makes me think of a melancholy and discursive schoolmaster." "Only one," said Des Hermies to Carhaix, who was holding a lump of sugar over Des Hermies's coffee cup.
"I hear, monsieur, that you are occupied with a history of Gilles de Rais," said Gevingey to Durtal.
"Yes, for the time being I am up to my eyes in Satanism with that man." "And," said Des Hermies, "we were just going to appeal to your extensive knowledge.