its
groaning descent.

"Above all," said Zita, "you must meet the gardener. I will take you to
his rustic home one day."

Theophile, who had slumbered during all this talk, begged his friend to
come home with him and smoke a cigarette. He lived quite near in the
small street opposite, leading off the Boulevard. Arcade would see
Bouchotte, she would please him.

They climbed up five flights of stairs. Bouchotte had not yet returned.
A tin of sardines lay open on the piano. Red stockings coiled about the
arm-chairs.

"It's a little place, but it's comfortable," said Theophile.

And gazing out of the window which looked out on the russet-coloured
night, with its myriad lights, he added, "One can see the _Sacre
Coeur_." His hand on Arcade's shoulder, he repeated several times, "I am
glad to see you."

Then, dragging his former companion in glory into the kitchen passage,
he put down his candlestick, drew a key from his pocket, opened a
cupboard, and, raising a linen covering, disclosed two large white
wings.

"You see," he said, "I have preserved them. From time to time, when I am
alone, I go and look at them; it does me good."

And he dabbed his reddened eyes. He stood awhile, overcome by silent
emotion. Then, holding the candle near the long pinions which were
moulting their down in places, he murmured, "They are eaten away."

"You must put some pepper on them," said Arcade.

"I have done so," replied the angelic musician, sighing. "I have put
pepper, camphor, and powder on them. But nothing does any good."

CHAPTER XIV

WHICH REVEALS THE CHERUB TOILING FOR THE WELFARE OF HUMANITY
AND CONCLUDES IN AN ENTIRELY NOVEL MANNER WITH THE MIRACLE
OF THE FLUTE

The first night of his incarnation Arcade slept at the angel Istar's, in
a garret in that narrow, gloomy Rue Mazarine which wallows along beneath
the shadow of the old Institute of France. Istar, who had been expecting
him, had pushed against the wall the shattered retorts, cracked pots,
broken bottles, and odds and ends of iron stoves, which made up the
furniture of his room, and spread his clothes on the floor to lie on,
leaving his guest his folding-bed with its straw mattress.

The celestial spirits differ from one another in appearance according to
the hierarchy and the choir to which they belong, and according to their
own particular nature. They are all beautiful; but in different fashion,
and they do not all offer to the eye