ff his head. Theodore has a little book, that he lends people, which
tells you the whole story.

"But what is unquestionably the most remarkable thing about our church
is the view from the belfry, which is full of grandeur. Certainly in
your case, since you are not very strong, I should never recommend you:
to climb our seven and ninety steps, just half the number they have in
the famous cathedral at Milan. It is quite tiring enough for the most
active person, especially as you have to go on your hands and knees, if
you don't wish to crack your skull, and you collect all the cobwebs off
the staircase upon your clothes. In any case you should be well wrapped
up," he went on, without noticing my aunt's fury at the mere suggestion
that she could ever, possibly, be capable of climbing into his belfry,
"for there's a strong breeze there, once you get to the top. Some people
even assure me that they have felt the chill of death up there. No
matter, on Sundays there are always clubs and societies, who come,
some of them, long distances to admire our beautiful panorama, and they
always go home charmed. Wait now, next Sunday, if the weather holds, you
will be sure to find a lot of people there, for Rogation-tide. You must
admit, certainly, that the view from up there is like a fairy-tale, with
what you might call vistas along the plain, which have quite a special
charm of their own. On a clear day you can see as far as Verneuil. And
then another thing; you can see at the same time places which you are in
the habit of seeing one without the other, as, for instance, the course
of the Vivonne and the ditches at Saint-Assise-les-Combray, which
are separated, really, by a screen of tall trees; or, to take another
example, there are all the canals at Jouy-le-Vicomte, which is
_Gaudiacus vicecomitis_, as of course you know. Each time that I have
been to Jouy I have seen a bit of a canal in one place, and then I have
turned a corner and seen another, but when I saw the second I could no
longer see the first. I tried in vain to imagine how they lay by one
another; it was no good. But, from the top of Saint-Hilaire, it's quite
another matter; the whole countryside is spread out before you like a
map. Only, you cannot make out the water; you would say that there were
great rifts in the town, slicing it up so neatly that it looks like a
loaf of bread which still holds together after it has been cut up. To
get it all quite perfect you would h