“He had his faults of course,” assented Hortense, “but really, to a person of any sensibility—Do peep, my love, and tell me if my skirts are down properly—”
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—”