Then turning towards the Spirit he said:
“What say you, Arcade? The Abbé Patouille, who is a great theologian and a good priest, does not believe that you are an angel; and Uncle Gaétan, who doesn’t know his catechism and hasn’t a scrap of religion in him, doesn’t think so either. They deny you, the pair of them; the one because he has faith, the other because he hasn’t. After that you may be sure that your history, if ever it comes to be narrated, will scarcely appear credible. Moreover, the man that took it into his head to tell your story would not be a man of taste, and would not come in for much approval. For yeur story is not a pretty one. I love you, but I sit in judgment upon you, too. Since you fell into atheism, you have become an abominable scoundrel. A bad angel, a bad friend, a traitor, and a homicide, for I suppose it was to bring about my death that you sent that black spaniel between my legs on the duelling-ground.”
The angel shrugged his shoulders and, addressing Gaétan, said:
“Alas! Monsieur, I am not surprised at finding little credit in your eyes. I have been told that you have fallen out with the Judæo-Christian heaven, which is where I came from.”
“Monsieur,” answered Gaétan, “my faith in Jehovah is not sufficiently strong to enable me to believe in his angels.”
