"You? Impossible," said Réginard.
"Mon cher Réginard, voici my passport; you see the visas: Rivendeau, Isengard, Mina Tiretta, Pelargigolo, Morgoule, Quirithe-Oungallant. Will you believe the police of an elfic fortress, of the president of the Conseil blanc, and of an empire?"
Réginard looked at the passport, and then gazed with astonishment upon Pierre-Jacques-Philippe-Michel Boyen-Xènes-Baguines, who continued: "Réginard, if you were a stranger, an unknown, a non-smoker like that Snowman who came to argue with me about pipe-weed two or three months ago, and whom I killed in order to be quit of him, I would not have gone through all this bother; but I believed I owed you this mark of consideration. But alas..."
"Alas, what?"
"The note was true, mon ami."
Crying "Pierre-Jacques-Philippe-Michel Boyen-Xènes-Baguines, nous le détestons toujours!" Réginard made a furious movement to throttle Pierre-Jacques-Philippe-Michel Boyen-Xènes-Baguines, but the latter restrained him yet more with the smoke of a mild latakia than with a raised hand.
