from my invisible hand. Then more recently, raising, with a vigorous arm composed of a column of condensed air, a precious manuscript of Flavius Josephus, I gave the imbecile such a fright, that he rushed out screaming on to the landing and (to borrow a striking expression from Dante Alighieri) fell even as a dead body falls. He was well rewarded, for you gave him, Madame, to staunch the blood from his wound, your little scented handkerchief. It was the day, you may remember, when behind a celestial globe you exchanged a kiss on the mouth with Maurice.”
“Monsieur,” said Madame des Aubels, with a frown, “I cannot allow you . . .”
But she stopped short, deeming it was an inopportune moment to appear over-exacting on a matter of decorum.
“I had made up my mind,” continued the Angel impassively, “to examine the foundations of belief. I first attacked the monuments of Judaism, and I read all the Hebrew texts.”
“You know Hebrew, then?” exclaimed Maurice.
“Hebrew is my native tongue: in Paradise for a long time we have spoken nothing else.”
“Ah, you are a Jew. I might have deduced it from your want of tact.”
The Angel, not deigning to hear, continued in his melodious voice: “I have delved deep into Oriental antiquities and also into those of Greece
