Now John Appleby had never enjoyed the advantages of French II., which shed such effulgence upon his classmate, but he knew the answer to this question, none the less. It had been taught him in the boxing-room of his athletic club, and it was surprisingly conclusive when applied to the under jaw of an infuriated angel. The ruby and white arc-lights before the cabarets suddenly joined in a mad waltz, the cabarets themselves turned upside down, the cochers and loungers swooped into the air like pigeons, a passing tram leaped into the trees on the further side of the driveway and disappeared, and, from somewhere, a factory whistle came close up to Maxime's side and said, "_Oo-oo-ooo-oooo!_" in his ear. He came to himself slowly. There was an acrid taste in his mouth, and this, upon investigation, proved to be boulevard mud. There was something fuzzy gripped tightly in his right hand, and this presently resolved itself into his wings. Then he saw his feet, which were elevated above the level of his head, by reason of being on the curb, while the rest of his person was in the gutter. Then the mammoth red face of a cocher bulged out of the night, close to his own, and a voice said,-- "Have you harm, angel?" Then he remembered, sat up, and looked around. On the boulevard de Clichy, spectators grow out of the ground, spontaneously, when there is an excuse for their presence. A hundred or more now surrounded Maxime, with open mouths, and staring eyes that slid to and fro from his prostrate form to the faces of an agent and a vehement gentleman in a frock coat and a flat-brimmed huit reflets, who were disputing violently. In the crowd were all the other angels, and the better part of those who had been seated at the table of Heaven. The sexton, brush in hand, was gaping over the agent's shoulder, the high-priest was explaining the affair, with much elaboration, to all who would listen to him, and above the rest towered the face of Gustave Robine, still smiling blandly. The only unconcerned figure in sight was that of a courteous demon in scarlet tights, who was staring up at the sky from the doorway of L'Enfer. For Beck had slipped a gold piece into his hand,--as the Major and his party hurried inside, dragging the protesting Appleby by the arm,--and he knew how to keep his counsel. After all, the sanctity of hospitality must be respected, even in Hell. "But no, I tell you, but no!" exclaimed the gentleman of the huit reflets, who was none other than the manager of Heaven. "It is equal to me! It is equal to me!" stormed the agent. "I saw it, do you hear? He was struck, and the law does not allow--They went in there"--