As soon as they saw him approaching they smiled upon him and threw him kisses; they stopped him on his way, calling him their darling, their love, their pet, and covered him with caresses which he was powerless to evade, for the moment he made a movement to escape, they dug into his flesh the sharp claws at the tips of their fingers.
“Isn’t he handsome? Isn’t he lovely?” they sighed.
For some time they raved on, begging him to love them. Then, seeing they could not rouse his senses, which were frozen with horror, they covered him with abuse, hammered him with their staves, threw him on the ground and trod him underfoot. Then, when he was crushed, broken, aching, and crippled in every limb, the youngest, who was at least eighty years of age, squatted upon him and treated him in a manner too infamous to describe. He was almost suffocated; immediately afterwards the other two, taking the place of the first, treated the unfortunate gentleman in the same way.
Finally all three made off, saluting him with: “Good night, Endymion!” “To our next meeting, Adonis!” “Good-bye, beautiful Narcissus!” and left him swooning.
When he came back to his senses, a toad near him was whistling deliciously like a flute, and a cloud of mosquitoes were dancing before the moon. He rose with great difficulty and limpingly pursued his journey.
Once again Monsieur de Boulingrin had failed to recognize the fairies, mistresses of the destinies of men.
The Duchess of Cicogne awaited him impatiently.
“You come very late, my friend,” she said.
He answered, as he kissed her fingers, that it was very kind of her to reproach him. His excuse was that he had been somewhat unwell.
“Boulingrin,” she said, “sit down there.”