f waste ground; he loved them. He loved like a soldier under
arms. It tired him, but courage conquered fatigue. Though he had not yet
reached the middle of Life's way, he longed for sweet repose and
peaceful country pursuits. At the corner of the Rue Muller, on this mild
night, he stood lost in thought. He was dreaming of the house where he
was born, of the little olive wood, of his father's bit of ground, of
his old mother, bent with long and heavy labour, whom he would never see
again. Roused from his reverie by the nocturnal tumult, Inspector Grolle
turned the corner of the street, and looked rather unfavourably at the
band of loiterers, wherein his social instinct suspected enemies of law
and order. He was patient and resolute. After a lengthy silence, he
said, with awe-inspiring calm:

"Move on, there!"

But Maurice and the Japanese angel were fencing and heard nothing. The
musician heard nothing but his own melodies. Prince Istar was absorbed
in the explanation of explosive formulae. Zita was discussing with Arcade
the greatest enterprise that had ever been conceived since the solar
system issued from its original nebula,--and thus they all remained
unconscious of their surroundings.

"Move on, I tell you!" repeated Inspector Grolle.

This time the angels heard the solemn word of warning, but either
through indifference or contempt, they neglected to obey, and continued
their talk, their songs, and their cries.

"So you want to be taken up, do you?" shouted Inspector Grolle, clapping
his great hand on Prince Istar's shoulder.

The Kerub was indignant at this vile contact, and with one blow from his
formidable fist sent the Inspector flying into the gutter. But Constable
Fesandet was already running to his comrade's aid, and they both fell
upon the Prince, whom they belaboured with mechanic fury, and whom,
notwithstanding his strength and weight, they would perchance have
dragged all bleeding to the police station, had not the Japanese angel
overset them one after the other without effort, and reduced them to
writhing and shrieking in the mud, before Maurice, Arcade, and Zita had
time to intervene. As to the angelic musician, he stood apart trembling,
and invoked the heavens.

At this moment two bakers who were kneading their dough in a
neighbouring cellar ran out at the noise, in their white aprons,
stripped to the waist. With an instinctive feeling for social solidarity
they took the side of the downfalle