pron to pass the night at cards: "What is the
good of this excess?" whispered experience; "it is not sufficient to
be unable to shorten one's days, one must also avoid making oneself
ill."

He reached the point of refusing himself the pleasure of drinking his
pint and smoking his pipe. Why, indeed, plunge into dissipations which
enervate the body and dull the brain?

_The wretch went further and gave up golf!_ Experience convinced him
that the game is a dangerous one, which overheats one, and is
eminently adapted to produce colds, catarrhs, rheumatism, and
inflammation of the lungs.

Besides, what is the use, and what great glory is it to be reputed the
first golfer in the world?

Of what use is glory itself? A vain hope, vain as the smoke of a pipe.

When experience had thus bereft him one by one of his delusions, the
unhappy golfer became mortally weary. He saw that he had deceived
himself, that delusion has its price, and that the greatest charm of
youth is perhaps its inexperience.

He thus arrived at the term agreed on in the contract, and as he had
not had a paradise here below, he sought through his hardly-acquired
wisdom a clever way of conquering one above.

XIII

Death found him at Coq at work in his shop. Experience had at least
taught him that work is the most lasting of pleasures.

"Are you ready?" said Death.

"I am."

He took his club, put a score of balls in his pocket, threw his sack
over his shoulder, and buckled his gaiters without taking off his
apron.

"What do you want your club for?"

"Why, to golf in paradise with my patron St. Antony."

"Do you fancy, then, that I am going to conduct you to paradise?"

"You must, as I have half-a-dozen souls to carry there, that I once
saved from the clutches of Belzebuth."

"Better have saved your own. _En route, cher Dumollet!_"

The great golfer saw that the old reaper bore him a grudge, and that
he was going to conduct him to the paradise of the lost.[25]

[25] _Noires glaives._

Indeed a quarter of an hour later the two travellers knocked at the
gate of hell.

"Toc, toc!"

"Who is there?"

"The wheelwright of Coq," said the great golfer.

"Don't open the door," cried Belzebuth; "that rascal wins at every
turn; he is capable of depopulating my empire."

Roger laughed in his sleeve.

"Oh! you are not saved," said Death. "I am going to take you where you
won't be cold either."

Quicker than a beggar would have emptied