He was silent after this, and refrained from remark even when, during their visit to Notre Dame, the treasury was unlocked for the Cardinal’s inspection, and the relics formerly contained in the now disused “Sainte Chapelle,” were shown,—­including the fragments of the “crown of thorns,” and a nail from the “true cross.”  The Cardinal was silent too.  He had no remark to offer on these obvious “imaginations” of the priesthood.  Then they went up together to the platform on the summit of the Cathedral, and looked at the great bell known as the “Bourdon de Notre Dame";—­and here they found a little wizened old man sitting carelessly on the edge of a balustrade, in a seemingly very dangerous position, who nodded and smiled familiarly as they appeared.  He acted as cicerone of the summit of the North Tower, and was soon at their side explaining volubly all that was of interest.

“Tired,—­oh yes, one gets tired!” he admitted, in response to a query from the Cardinal as to whether he did not find his duties fatiguing at his age, “But after all, I like the griffins and dragons and devils’ faces up here, better than the griffins and dragons and devils down there,—­below on the Boulevards!  I call this Heaven, and down there in the streets, Hell.  Yes, truly!  It is wholesome up here,—­the sky seems very near, and the sculptured beasts do no harm.  But down in the streets one feels and smells the dirt and danger directly.  I sit here all by myself for hours thinking, when no one comes to visit the tower,—­for sometimes a whole day passes and no one wishes to ascend.  And there is a moral in that, Monseigneur, if one has eyes to see it;—­days pass, years, in the world,—­and no one wishes to ascend!—­to Heaven, I mean!—­to go down to Hell is delightful, and everyone is ready for it!  It is at night that the platform here is most beautiful,—­oh yes, at night it is very fine, Monseigneur!—­but it is only madmen and dreamers who call me up in the night hours, yet when they do I never refuse to go with them, for look you, I am a light sleeper and have no wife to bid me keep my bed.  Yes,—­if the authorities knew that I took anybody up to the tower at night they would probably dismiss me,” and he chuckled like an old schoolboy with a sense of his own innate mischief and disobedience, “But you see they do not know!  And I learn a great deal from the strange persons who come at night,—­much more than from the strange persons who come by day.  Now, the last so strange person that came here by night—­you would not perhaps believe it, Monseigneur, but it was a priest!  Yes,” and the old fellow laughed, “a priest who had suddenly found out that the Church was not following its Master!  Yes, yes! . . . just fancy killing himself for that!”

“Killing himself!” cried the Cardinal, “What do you mean?”

“You would like to hear the story?—­ah, take care, mon ange!” he cried, as he perceived Manuel standing lightly near the brink of the platform, and stretching out his arms towards the city, “Thou art not a bird to fly from that edge in the air!  What dost thou see?”