victim of hallucinations, that he had not been dreaming, that he had seen his guardian angel with his eyes and heard him with his ears.
“Monsieur Abbé,” he insisted, “a lady who happened to be with me at the time,—I need not mention her name,—also saw and heard him. And, moreover, she felt the angel’s fingers straying . . . well, anyhow, she felt them. . . . Believe me, Monsieur l’Abbé, nothing could be more real, more positively certain than this apparition. The angel was fair, young, very handsome. His clear skin seemed, in the shadow, as if bathed in milky light. He spoke in a pure, sweet voice.”
“That, alone, my child,” the Abbé interrupted quickly, “proves you were dreaming. According to all the demonologies, bad angels have a hoarse voice, which grates like a rusty lock, and even if they did contrive to give a certain look of beauty to their faces, they cannot succeed in imitating the pure voice of the good spirits. This fact, attested by numerous witnesses, is established beyond ail doubt.”
“But, Monsieur l’Abbé, I saw him. I saw him sit down, stark naked, in an arm-chair on a pair of black stockings. What else do you want me to tell you?”
The Abbé Patouille appeared in no way disturbed by this announcement.
“I say once more, my son,” he replied, “that
