A story by Marcel Aymé, translated by Karen Reshkin
Copyright 2002, All rights reserved

In 1939, the best Christian in Rue Gabrielle, and indeed in all Montmartre, was a certain M. Duperrier. He was such a devout man, so just and so charitable, that God, without waiting for him to die, and while he was in the prime of life, graced his head with a halo that never left him day or night. It was made of an ethereal substance just like the halos in Paradise; it appeared as a whitish disc that looked like it had been cut from some rather stiff cardboard, and it emitted a soft glow. M. Duperrier wore it with gratitude and he continually thanked Heaven for having bestowed such a distinction upon him-- one which, in his modesty, he wouldn't have dreamed of construing as a binding promise for the hereafter. He would certainly have been the happiest of men except that his wife, instead of rejoicing in such an unusual blessing, was spiteful and irritated.
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