"Monsieur," he said, "I yield the field to you. Your vocabulary is unrivaled—unless by General Cambronne!"
"Monsieur, you flatter me," replied the other, with a bow.
Some one had helped l'L Majuscule to his feet, and he stood there, a preposterous figure, in soiled pink tights, holding out his wings, with his huge feet turned in like a pigeon's.
"Monsieur le directeur"—he began.
"He speaks!" cried Huit Reflets, whirling around and addressing the throng. "He dares to speak, this bad sou, this oyster! He does not comprehend that he is discharged. He counts that I am about to resign in his favor! Ah, non, it is too much!"
He flung himself about again, facing Maxime.
"Well, then," he added with forced calm, "thou art put at the door, is it clear? Take thy rags from yonder, and begone!"
"Mais, monsieur"—
"Oh!" cried the director, flinging his arms upward; and immediately vanished within the silver gates of Heaven, followed by his personnel, with the fallen angel bringing up the rear.
Half an hour later, having exchanged his celestial raiment for his former earthly garb, Monsieur Perrot sat in solitary state at a table in the café Cyrano, and pondered the details of a project of revenge. The idea had come to him suddenly, like an inspiration, on seeing the nonchalant demon at the portals of L'Enfer, but it required arranging, elaboration. A man who made one blunder was but human, but a man who made two in succession—that was a mere root of celery! So l'L Majuscule thought hard. And when the will is so earnest, it is strange if the way be not forthcoming. At midnight he arose with a sigh of satisfaction, and took his way homeward, smiling.