Now Florian came forward, as statelily as anybody can walk in bedroom slippers, just as his wives were settling back upon their various tombs. “Dear ladies,” said he, “I perceive with real regret that not even death is potent enough to allay your propensities for mischief making.” “Oh, oh!” they cried, each sitting very erect, “here is the foul murderer!” “Parbleu, my pets, what grievance, after all, have you against me? Are you not happier in your present existence than when you lived with me?” “I should think so, indeed!” replied Carola, indignantly. “Why, wherever do you suppose we went to?” “I do not inquire. It is a question raised by no widower of real discretion: he merely inclines in this, as in most matters, to be optimistic. Yet come now, let us be logical! Is it quite right for you four to complain against me, and to harbor actual animosity, on account of what was in the beginning just the natural result of my rather hasty disposition, and in the end my quadruple misfortune? Do you, Carola, for example, honestly believe that, after having been blessed with your affection, I could ever be actually satisfied with Melior?” “For one, I certainly see nothing in her. And I really do think, Florian—” “Nor I, either,” said Aurélie, “nor could any rational person. And for your own good, I must tell you quite frankly, Florian—” “Though, heaven knows,” said Marianne, “it is not as if any of us could envy the poor idiot for being your wife—” “It is merely that one cannot help wondering,” said Hortense, “that even you should have had no more sense or good taste—” So for an instant the sweet voices were like a choir of birds in fourfold descant: and they thrilled him with remembered melodies, vituperative and plaintive and now strangely dear. Then came the changing. All, Florian saw in that queer bluish light, were pitiably eager to talk about Melior, and to explain to him exhaustively just what a fool he had been, and how exactly like him was such behavior. But the magic of Hoprig’s revivifying ring was spent: and color and flexibility were going away from the pretty bodies, so that their lips could but move stiffly and feebly now, without making the least noise. It was really heart-breaking, Florian thought, to see these lovely women congeal into stone, and be thus petrified upon the verge of candors which would have completely freed their minds. Then that strange throbbing bluish light was gone: and Florian was alone in the dark Chapel where only three dim lamps were glowing like red stars. An ordinary person would have estimated that this gloom did but very inadequately prefigure Florian’s future. But a Puysange knew perfectly where next to apply for help against any and all saints. _23._ _The Collyn in the Pot_