But for one circumstance, the Americans had never gone unmolested past Maxime's fellow-angels, and, in particular, the towering form of Gustave Robine. Maxime himself was astounded that no celestial hand was stretched out to bar their progress. What he did not understand was that, while one may enter Le Ciel on the strength of an accomplishment not possessed by the other immortals, the achievement does not necessarily imply that one is _persona grata_ in their eyes, or, in the least degree, sure of their support. The management was responsible for Maxime, and the edict had gone forth that the Angliches were to be turned over to him. But obedience to this command did not go hand in hand with approval thereof. The high-priest and the sexton and all the angels had looked on sourly, as he appropriated the Major's party, for it is the Americans who give the largest pourboires; and, although they did not wholly comprehend the dispute which had arisen, it was evident that the linguistic angel had met with disaster at the very outset, and they were proportionately gratified. So, when Maxime glanced about in search of succor, he found himself abandoned in his discomfiture. The other angels were smiling broadly, and nudging each other with their pink elbows; the high-priest, with his fat hands on the pulpit's edge, was looking down at him with a grin; the sexton above his head waved his brush to and fro and chanted, "_Ora pro nobis!_" in a high, whining voice. A French student at the further end of the table said "Roulé!" and his companion laughed shrilly. Even Gustave, at the door, was leaning on his halberd and chuckling, for he had not forgotten that Maxime, once sure of his position, had demanded repayment of the fifty francs. All this was sufficiently intolerable, but a real disaster, more terrible than mere ridicule, confronted Maxime. The crême de menthe was, as a matter of fact, one franc a glass, and it was out of his pocket that the deficit would have to be made good. As this tragic thought smote him full and fair, he bounded forward past the other angels, dodged nimbly under Gustave's outstretched arm, charged through the swinging doors, and emerged with a shout upon the boulevard de Clichy. The Major's party had paused before the entrance of L'Enfer, while Beck parleyed with the courteous demon in scarlet tights who kept the door, and the others stood by, sublimely unconscious of the none too complimentary comments of a half score of cochers and boulevard loungers who surrounded them. Into the midst of this assemblage swooped l'L Majuscule, his flaxen wig awry, his wings bobbing wildly on his shoulders, and his white tunic fluttering in the wind. Blind to consequences, he darted upon the unsuspecting Major, and seized him furiously by the coat. "Eh! vieille saucisse!" he exclaimed. "Tu te fiches de moi--quoi?"