philosophy."

"I don't care a straw for your natural philosophy. Answer me according
to the religion I believe in, and which I profess, and in which I wish
to live and die."

"Very well, my dear Maurice. The loss of your guardian angel will
probably deprive you of certain spiritual succour, of certain celestial
grace. I am expressing to you the unvarying opinion of the Church on the
matter. You will lack an assistance, a support, a consolation which
would have guided and confirmed you in the way of salvation. You will
have less strength to avoid sin, and as it was you hadn't much. In fact,
in spiritual matters, you will be without strength and without joy.
Adieu, Maurice; when you see Madame des Aubels, please remember me to
her."

"You are going?"

"Farewell."

Arcade disappeared, and Maurice in the depths of an arm-chair sat for a
long time with his head in his hands.

CHAPTER XII

WHEREIN IT IS SET FORTH HOW THE ANGEL MIRAR, WHEN BEARING
GRACE AND CONSOLATION TO THOSE DWELLING IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD
OF THE CHAMPS ELYSEES IN PARIS, BEHELD A MUSIC-HALL SINGER
NAMED BOUCHOTTE AND FELL IN LOVE WITH HER

Through streets filled with brown fog, pierced with white and yellow
lights, where horses exhaled their smoking breath and motors radiated
their rapid search-lights, the angel made his way, and, mingling with
the black flood of foot-passengers which rolled unceasingly along,
proceeded across the town from north to south till he came to the lonely
boulevards on the left bank of the river. Not far from the old walls of
Port Royal, a small restaurant flings night by night athwart the
pavement the clouded rays of its streaming windows. Coming to a halt
there, Arcade entered a room full of warm, savoury odours, pleasing to
the unfortunate beings faint with cold and hunger. Glancing round him he
beheld Russian Nihilists, Italian Anarchists, refugees, conspirators,
revolutionaries from every quarter of the globe, picturesque old faces
with tumbled masses of hair and beard that swept downwards even as the
torrent and the waterfall sweep over their rocky bed. There were young
faces of virginal coldness, expressions sombre and wild, pale eyes of
infinite sweetness, drawn faces, and, in a corner, there were two
Russian women, one extremely lovely, the other hideous, but both
resembling each other in their indifference to ugliness and to beauty.
But failing to find the face he sought, for there we