One night, when young d’Esparvieu took his angel home in his car from Bouchotte’s house to the lodgings in the Rue St. Jacques, it was very dark; before the door the diamond in the spy’s necktie glittered like a beacon; three cyclists standing in a group under its rays made off in divers directions at the car’s approach. The angel took no notice, but Maurice concluded that Arcade’s movements interested various important people in the State. He judged the danger to be pressing, and at once made up his mind.
The next morning he came to seek the suspect, to take him to the Rue de Rome. The angel was in bed. Maurice urged him to dress and to follow him.
“Come,” said he. “This house is no longer safe for you. You are watched. One of these days you will be arrested. Do you wish to sleep in gaol? No? Well, then, come. I will put you in a safe place.”
The spirit smiled with some little compassion on his naïve preserver.
“Do you not know,” he said, “that an angel broke open the doors of the prison where Peter was confined, and delivered the apostle? Do you believe me, Maurice, to be inferior in power to that heavenly brother of mine, and do you suppose that I am unable to do for myself what he did for the fisherman of the lake of Tiberias?”
“Do not count on it, Arcade. He did it miraculously.”
