shall never be able to fasten my dress; it hooks down the back.”
When Maurice entered the room he found the Angel on his knees tying the shoes of the woman taken in flagrante delicto.
Taking her muff and her bag off the table she said:
“I have not forgotten anything? No. Good-night, Monsieur Arcade. Good-night, Maurice. I shall not forget to-day.” And she vanished like a dream.
“Here,” said Maurice, throwing the Angel a bundle of clothes.
The young man, having seen some dismal rags lying among clarionettes and clyster-pipes in the window of a second-hand shop, had bought for nineteen francs the cast-off suit of some wretched sable-clad mortal who had committed suicide. The Angel, with native majesty, took the garments and put them on. Worn by him, they took on an unexpected elegance. He took a step to the door,
“So you are leaving me,” said Maurice. “It’s settled, then? I very much fear that, some day, you will bitterly regret this hasty action.”
“I must not look back. Adieu, Maurice.”
Maurice timidly slipped five louis into his hand.
“Adieu, Arcade.”
But when the Angel had passed through the door,
