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down. He gave a long sigh, and the shadows of eternity darkened his eyes.
Meanwhile, windows opened one by one, and heads looked out on the street. A sound of heavy steps approached. Two policemen on bicycles debouched upon the street. Thereupon Prince Istar flung a bomb which shook the ground, put out the gas, shattered some of the houses, and enveloped the flight of young Maurice and the angels in a dense smoke.
Arcade and Maurice came to the conclusion that the safest thing to do after this adventure was to return to the little flat in the Rue de Rome. They would certainly not be sought for immediately and probably not at all, the bomb thrown by the Kerûb having fortunately wiped out all witnesses of the affair. They fell asleep towards dawn, and they had not yet awoke at ten o’clock in the morning when the concierge brought their tea. While eating his toast and butter and slice of ham, young d’Esparvieu remarked to the angel:
“I used to think that a murder was something very extraordinary. Well, I was mistaken. It is the simplest, the most natural action in the world.”
“And of most ancient tradition,” replied the angel. “For long centuries it was both usual and necessary for man to kill and despoil his fellows. It is still recommended in warfare. It is also honourable to attempt human life in certain
