Great was the consternation which ensued, I speak not simply of the shrieks of outrage, the cries of embarrassment, nor even the peals of glee and laughter which, sad to relate, were heard to issue from the lips of the younger nobility gazing upon the scene. Nay, I speak of positive tragedy! For the Duchess de Trops died on the spot from terminal shame, only to be followed a moment later by her husband, his weak heart overcome by the sight of his naked-but-dead shrew of a wife and his naked-but-alive sister, the Madame Copieux, for whose voluptuous body he had long harbored incestuous passion, only to be followed into death by his sister herself, who promptly committed suicide with a carving knife due to her own distress at being denied the now-at-last-available body of that very same brother for whose stallion-like attentions she had long kept as her secret the identical unnatural lust.
Nor was this the end of the familial catastrophe! For Madame Copieux’s own husband, owner of Ozar’s most profitable ironworks, no sooner beheld the corpse of his beautiful wife than he howled his glee at being rid of the adulterous slattern and proceeded to celebrate by guzzling such quantities of potent Pryggian whiskey as to cause him, within the hour, to expire from alcohol poisoning, thus leaving to his son the entire family fortune, the which largess the lad was unable to long enjoy for he himself expired within the next hour, overcome by the same excessive consumption of alcohol due to great joy at great fortune, thus further illustrating the old adage: “Like father, like son.”
Nor was this yet the finale of the saga! For the Mademoiselle Copieux, who, in her capacity as daughter and sister was now the sole surviving member of the family, was so overcome by the contradictory emotions of joy at her newfound fortune and grief at the death of all three of her lovers—mother, father and brother, at one stroke!—that she soon went mad and spent the rest of her short unhappy life in such a feverish frenzy of sexual excess as to illustrate anew the old saying: “Keep it in the family.”
Stage Two of the plan a roaring triumph, Magrit and Les Six did not rest on their laurels but proceeded at once to Stage Three. Garbed in the stolen clothing of now-naked notables, the witch and her cohorts infiltrated the mob of hysterical ex-revelers and proceeded to spike the huge bowls of refreshment which stood about in profusion with an alcoholic substance whose potency derived, in equal portion, from the theoretical alchemy of the witch and the practical bathtub distilling of Les Six.
The groundwork laid, the scoundrelous septet proceeded to encourage the distraught multitude to drown their sorrows and restore their gaiety with drink, Magrit utilizing for this purpose the soothing tones of the matriarch long experienced in handling misfortune, Les Six the more vigorous methods of vainglorious and successful bigwigs challenging the manhood of similar egoists. And cunning was the ploy! For Les Six, exhibiting a subtlety not looked for in such lowlifes, had divided themselves in the style of their garments, three posing as Pryggian aristocrats, three as Ozarine nabobs. Thus did the first through the third utter coarse comments on the effete incapacity of Ozarine financiers to handle manly drink as compared to the stalwart sons of Pryggian soil. Thus, for their part, did the fourth through the sixth burn into the brains of the selfsame Pryggian noblemen the nasal sneers of Ozarine captains of industry regarding the inability of rustic yokels to handle more than eight stiff drinks without rolling in the mud like the pigs who were not only the sole source of Pryggian wealth—such as it was!—but, judging from appearances, the models from which God in His Heaven had, for reasons of His own, formed the physiognomy of the Pryggian subspecies.
Thus, onto chaos and confusion, was drunkenness laid. And more! For Les Six not only inveigled the assembled gentlemen of Pryggia and Ozar into a turbulent drinking contest, but then, drunkenness rampant, proceeded to embellish their respective insults with such rococo flourishes, such baroque ornamentation, as to produce in but two minutes such a brawl as would shame the lowest alehouses of the scurviest ports in the world. Swords were drawn—and used! Knives, daggers, poignards—not to mention cudgels and clubs of every shape and description!