ave them tea. Though she did not know that they were
rebellious angels, she hated them instinctively, and feared them, for
she had had a Christian education, albeit she had sadly failed to keep
it up.

Prince Istar alone pleased her; she thought there was something
kind-hearted and an air of natural distinction about him. He stove in
the sofa, broke down the arm-chairs, and tore corners off sheets of
music to make notes, which he thrust into pockets invariably crammed
with pamphlets and bottles. The musician used to gaze sorrowfully at the
manuscript of his operetta, _Aline, Queen of Golconda_, with its corners
all torn off. The prince also had a habit of giving Theophile Belais all
sorts of things to take care of--mechanical contrivances, chemicals,
bits of old iron, powders, and liquids which gave off noisome smells.
Theophile Belais put them cautiously away in the cupboard where he kept
his wings, and the responsibility weighed heavily upon him.

Arcade was much pained at the disdain of those of his fellows who had
remained faithful. When they met him as they went on their sacred
errands they regarded him as they passed by with looks of cruel hatred
or of pity that was crueller still.

He used to visit the rebel angels whom Prince Istar pointed out to him,
and usually met with a good reception, but as soon as he began to speak
of conquering Heaven, they did not conceal the embarrassment and
displeasure he caused them. Arcade perceived that they had no desire to
be disturbed in their tastes, their affairs, and their habits. The
falsity of their judgment, the narrowness of their minds, shocked him;
and the rivalry, the jealousy they displayed towards one another
deprived him of all hope of uniting them in a common cause. Perceiving
how exile debases the character and warps the intellect, he felt his
courage fail him.

One evening, when he had confessed his weariness of spirit to Zita, the
beautiful archangel said:

"Let us go and see Nectaire; Nectaire has remedies of his own for
sadness and fatigue."

She led him into the woods of Montmorency and stopped at the threshold
of a small white house, adjoining a kitchen garden, laid waste by
winter, where far back in the shadows the light shone on forcing-frames
and cracked glass melon shades.

Nectaire opened the door to his visitors, and, after quieting the growls
of a big mastiff which protected the garden, led them into a low room
warmed by an earthenware stove