“You must, as I have half-a-dozen souls to carry there, that I once saved from the clutches of Belzébuth.” “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 Belzébuth; “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 a poor’s box they were in purgatory. “Toc--toc!” “Who is there?” “The wheelwright of Coq,” said the great golfer. “But he is in a state of mortal sin,” cried the angel on duty. “Take him away from here--he can’t come in.” “I cannot, all the same, let him linger between heaven and earth,” said Death; “I shall shunt him back to Coq.” “Where they will take me for a ghost. Thank you! is there not still paradise?” XIV They were there at the end of a short hour. “Toc, toc!” “Who is there?” “The wheelwright of Coq,” said the great golfer. “Ah! my lad,” said St. Peter, half opening the door, “I am really grieved. St. Antony told you long ago you had better ask for the salvation of your soul.” “That is true, St. Peter,” replied Roger with a sheepish air. “And how is he, that blessed St. Antony? Could I not come in for one moment to return the visit he once paid me?” “Why, here he comes,” said St. Peter, throwing the door wide open. In the twinkling of an eye the sly golfer had flung himself into paradise, unhooked his apron, let it fall to the ground, and seated himself down on it. “Good morning, St. Antony,” said he with a fine salute. “You see I had plenty of time to think of paradise, for here we are!” “What! _You_ here!” cried St. Antony. “Yes, I and my company,” replied Roger, opening his sack and scattering on the carpet the souls of the six golfers. “Will you have the goodness to pack right off, all of you?” “Impossible,” said the great golfer, showing his apron. “The rogue has made game of us,” said St. Antony. “Come, St. Peter, in memory of our game of golf, let him in with his souls. Besides, he has had his purgatory on earth.” “It is not a very good precedent,” murmured St. Peter. “Bah!” replied Roger, “if we have a few good golfers in paradise, where is the harm?” XV Thus, after having lived long, golfed much and drunk many cans of beer, the wheelwright of Coq called the Great Golfer was admitted to paradise; but I advise no one to copy him, for it is not quite the right way to go, and St. Peter might not always be so compliant, though great allowances must be made for golfers. THE LEGEND OF MONT ST.-MICHEL BY GUY DE MAUPASSANT