In the Hôtel Maison-mathme on the day wherein Éowénie was to be wed to Andurillo, it goes without saying that the salons were resplendent with candles, whose light rolled from the gilt bas-reliefs of Aragon hunting Orcs to the silk hangings resembling elven coifs; and all the bad taste of the furniture, which had nothing to say for itself but that it was rich and style faux-tard-Numéneur, resplended of all its éclat.
Mlle. Éowénie was dressed in the most elegant simplicity; only one could read in her eyes that perfect assurance destined to belie what her candid toilette had of vulgarly virginal in her eyes.
M. and Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars busied themselves with receiving wedding guests and uttering banalities about Queen Arwenne-Livie’s tastes in clothes in regard to the smiau-de-fer industry.
At the moment when the needle of the massive pendulum depicting Thingolaud sleeping off the effects of the nagging of Mélianne marked nine hours on a golden sundial, Arienne having received a not inconsiderable honorarium to aid in the wedding festivities in this way, so as to compensate for the supreme boredom they occasioned her, and when the bell, faithful reproducer of mechanical thought, rang one hour, as it had ever since the crash of the stock of Micreault-Windeaux, the name of the Count of Monte Fato resounded in its turn, and, as if pushed by the flame of the element of Morgot, the entire assembly turned towards the door, to