“And for that matter, upon how many nights since you began going about earth—But I shall say no more upon a topic so painful. It is sufficient to state that the entire affair is most unsettling, and has displeased those high in authority. The Church has canonized you, and we have of course to stand by the Church, with which our relations have for some while been, in the main, quite friendly. I do not deny that if anything could have been done about you, just quietly—But we find the Church has provided no method whatever for removing saints from the Calendar—” “You might remove him from earth, however,” Janicot suggested, helpfully. “A thunderbolt is not expensive.” “It has been considered. But the effect, we believe, would not upon the whole be salutary. It would discourage the pious in their efforts toward sanctity to observe that bolt coming from, of all quarters, heaven. Besides, as a saint, he must, directly after being killed, ascend to eternal glory. You ought to understand that we would be the last persons actually to hurry him.” “I think I see,” said Janicot. “You are bound to stand by the Church as faithfully as I do, if not through quite the same motives. Now, I hold no brief for this saint. He has swindled me,—cleverly enough, but with that lack of common honesty which as a rule lends ambiguity to pious actions,—out of Madame Melior’s child. I name only the mother, because, as I understand—?” He had turned to Florian, and Janicot’s raised eyebrows were sententious. Florian answered them, “Yes, Monsieur Janicot; it appears that I have acquired an increase of grace through works of supererogation.” “Ah! and I had thought you were ardent! The child, in any event, is a detail about which there is no hurry. I am not fond of children myself—” And Florian marvelled. “Then, why—?” “It is merely that my servants have a use for them. Yes, my servants make them quite useful, by adding the juice of water parsnip and soot and cinquefoil and some other ingredients. And I endeavor to supply my servants’ needs. However!”—and Janicot waved the matter aside,—“when I am beaten I acknowledge it. The disenchanted princess remains yours: and I shall have no claim upon you until”—here Janicot smiled again,—“until the great love between your wife and you has approached a somewhat more authentic fruition.”