picture to himself the whole thing: they would doubtless be in a
darkened room; an apparition clothed in red, and adorned with the
traditional horns, would make its appearance, and there would very
likely be no apparent evidence of fraud. Even supposing some portion of
the absurd theory enunciated by the Duke de Frontignan were true, and
some strange thing begotten of electric fluid and overwrought
imagination were to make its appearance, that could hardly be considered
by a sane man as being equivalent to an interview with the devil. The
Abbe told himself that it would be most likely impossible to _detect_
any fraud, but he felt convinced that should the Prince find this
phenomenon pooh-poohed, after a full investigation, by a man of sense
and culture, his faith in it would be shaken, and ere long he would come
to despise it.

All the remarkable stories he had heard about spiritualism from Mme. de
Gerardin and others, and which he hitherto paid no heed to, came back
to-night to the Abbe as he sat ruminating over the extraordinary offer
just made him. He had heard of dead people appearing, and _that_ was
sufficiently absurd, for he did not believe in a future life; but the
devil----The idea was preposterous! Poor Luther, indeed, might throw his
ink-pot at him, but no enlightened Roman Catholic priest could be
expected to believe in his existence, no matter how much he might be
forced--for obvious reasons--to preach about it, and represent it as a
fact in sermons. Yes; he would unhesitatingly consent to investigate the
matter, and discover the fraud he felt certain was lurking somewhere,
but that the Prince seemed to feel so certain of his consent; and he
feared by thus fulfilling an idly expressed prophecy to plunge the
unhappy man still deeper in his slough of superstition. One thing was
certain, the Abbe told himself with a smile--nothing on earth or from
heaven or hell--if the two latter absurdities existed--could make _him_
believe in the devil. No, not even if the devil should come and take him
by the hand, and all the hosts of heaven flock to testify to his
identity. By this time, having smoked and thought himself into a state
of blasphemous idiocy, our worthy divine threw away his cigarette, went
to bed, and read himself into a nightmare with a volume of Von Helmont.
The following morning still found him perplexed as to what course to
adopt in this matter. As luck (or shall we say--the devil?) would have
it, wh