Chapitre 16. Le Miasme de Barroue-Don

The two attendees waiting in the Count’s antechamber were somewhat oddly matched.  One resembled the infamous actor Grouchauld, except that he was a balrogue; he was blond and very elegantly clad, and was stretched out carelessly on a sofa.  The other was rather wooden, with eyes that might have been deep and wise but for an over-consumption of eau d’ente; he wore a chapeau de shirrife and one white glove, and a green collar with red interlace that, had its owner not borne it of free will, had passed for a tasteless prank de Noel. Both carried letters of introduction from the abbé Glorfindoni, and were present at the Count’s invitation.  As neither knew the other, they conversed on inanities like the execrable quality of vin hobbitois.

“My profuse apologies for keeping you waiting, messieurs,” said the Count, entering modestly accompanied by four of his nine chevaliers and a low-key thunderbolt.  “I was unavoidably detained by a pack of rebel Uruc-haïs. Do me the kindness of handing me your letters from the abbé Glorfindoni.”

The visitors complied, and the Count perused the imaginary cleric’s missives with attention.

“Excellent!” he said. “Everything is in order.  It is indeed a joyful day; not only are you, Marquis Entelletto Pseudonimo, castellan of Castel Gandolfo, finally united with your son Viscount Andurillo, but you also have an opportunity to gain enormous sums of money, for the abbé has instructed me to place at your disposition a credit of 945, 893 mushroom-lions of mithrile.”

“You my son! O jour frabjeux!” cried Entelletto, bravely attempting a sigh and discreetly fireproofing himself with liquid asbestos.

"Monsieur et cher père!" cried Andurillo. Then, as they threw themselves on each other’s necks in the manner of a second-rate performance at the Théâtre-Hobbites, he added sotto voce, “What is this Count’s game?  Who is being duped?”

“I have no idea,” whispered Entelletto.  “But so long as we make mountains of money, what does it matter?”  

“Nothing at all,” whispered Andurillo.  “How remarkable it is,” he said aloud, "that I recognise you whom I have never seen since I played with the skulls of the dwargues, I mean, euh, the rowan trees in Fangornes!”

“Not remarkable at all,” interposed the Count.  “It is the voice of blood, or in this case, of sap.”

“Oh, the voice of sap!” said Andurillo.  “I had not thought of that.  But the credit that the abbé wished placed at our disposal …?”

The Count carelessly handed each guest a bag containing the wealth of the Indies.  “Indeed, not only will you gain money, but the hand of a very attractive young lady, Éowénie de Sacqueville-Danglars.”

Andurillo laughed.  “Sacqueville-Danglars the banker?  I am infatuated with her already.”

“Excellent,” said the Count.  “There is but one obstacle to this marriage. It is usual in Arnor to meet one’s intended before affiancing oneself to her.  Our young ladies are perhaps a little over-sensitive on that point.  I therefore request the presence of both of you at a dinner to be given at Rue Vieilhomme-Willeau, No. 28, in Barroue-Don, on Saturday, the 22 Yavannidor, at six o’clock in the evening.  Monsieur and Madame de Sacqueville-Danglars will be present, as will M. and Mme. de Vilefaramir and various other friends of mine.  Only it is useless that one know in Arnor of your long separation; stories of children kidnapped by dragons and parents enslaved by Morgot are not in vogue among us; and although one enjoys to read about Turin between the two covers of a book, the world is strangely diffident towards actually encountering him in real life: the times of Turin are a little passé.  I would therefore give it out that you sent your son to receive his education in Rivendeau, and you wish for him to complete that education in the Annuminasian monde.”

“We gladly accept this gracious invitation,” said Entelletto.  “To what do we owe this overwhelming generosity?”

“To my inexorable caprice,” said the Count.  

After some light if awkward conversation, the newly united father and son left for their respective hotels.  “What a pity those wretches are not truly father and son!” said Monte Fato after they had left.  “In verity, they disgust me more than the sartorial practices of Orcs or even the poorly prepared tobacco of Brie.”


~~~

Under the linden-tree, an attractive pair were conversing. The chipmunks watched idly.  Valartine had been slightly delayed by the attentions of Éowénie.

“Pardon my delay, belovedeth!” she said.  

“I had not known you so closely tied to Mlle. Sacqueville-Danglars,” said Meurtrier.  “From the manner in which you spoke, in which you gave one another the arm, in which Éowénie kissed you, one would have said that two roommates were exchanging confidences.”

“Indeed we were exchanging confidences,” said Valartine. “For she avowed her repugnance for the marriage with the Viscount de Pérégrin, and I-eth my fear and loathing and trembling unto death for the doom of wedding M. d’Imrahil.”

“I loveth thou!” quoth Meurtrier.  “But regarding d’Imrahil, I hear a news from his friend de Pérégrin that maketh me to quayle: he returns!”

“Alack!” quoth Valartine.  “I fear our loveth is doomed, as was that of Turin, who fell upon his épée, and the maiden leapt to her death from the Tour-Eithil!”

“Nay! Run thou away with me!”

“Horrors!” spake Valartine.  “Romantic heroine mayeth I be; but I still may not ignore the convenances!  I have no clothes fit for running away in. And what of my poor grandfather?  Leaveth I him, small care will he obtain from my father, crueller he than the critics of the blogues!  Nay, when Mme. de Villefaramir, whose catteth pursue me day and night with evil leers, purposed that I become one of the virgins of Varde, for she willeth that all my earthly goods belong to said cattest, what of reproach there was in that look and of despair in those tears that rolled without sighs or sobs! Pardon,pardon, mon père! criedeth I.  And then he raisedeth the eyes to heaven!”

“O Valartine!” quath Meurtrier.  “Permit that I inform but one friend of our love, which I will die in the halls of Mandaux without having revealed to another souleth …”

“What friend can this beeth?”

“The Count of Monte Fato, for whom I have felt an irresistible sympathy that maketh me feel as if I had ever known him from before the rising of the Sun in the reign of Fingolfin le Roi Soleil, when the first great change in fashions took place.”

“Nay, he cannot be my friend,” said Valartine.  “He is too much that of my stepmother.  He is not generous as you suppose; for if he were generous, he, seeing me alone and sad in the midst of this house, would protect me from that influence he exercises, like an exhalation from the Dead Marshes; and since he plays, you say, the role of the Two Chheses, he would have warmed me with some of their rays.  You say he likes you; he fears you rather, and the strength thou givethest his foes; for thy uniform inspireth respect.  But no such respect hath he for a girl who weepeth.  He has not once honoured with one of those smiles of which you boast so much.  Frankly, I am not a woman to be despised thus without cause.  Ah, forgive me!” said the girl, seeing the effect her words produced in Meurtrier.  “Listen, I do not deny the influence of which you speak, for I too feel it: the wise he can persuade, and lesser folk he can daunt; his voice is low and melodious, its very sound an enchantment, and all that he saith seems wise and comme il faut.  But he exercises this influence in a harmful and corrupting manner. But alas! One calls me!”

Meurtier and Valartine then sang “Verranno a te” from Lutienna di Lammermoor.  Some of the chipmunks burst into thunderous applause; but they were widely suspected of belonging to the claque, and not a few of the attending rodents looked at their watches and wondered when their favourite ballerinas would turn up.  Valartine ran back into the house.

~~~

Dénéthoirtier, who resembled an enormous potato with a face, hands, feet, and a hat, such that his enemies mockingly called him M. Tête de Pomme de Terre, was sitting on a fauteuil after breakfast, smoking an enormous long wooden pipe. Three persons alone knew the strange language of that poor victim of the wrath of the Valards: Villefaramir, Valartine, and an old domestic named Barahier.  But, as Villefaramir, who had attained his position of steuard through a fanatical loyalty to the Telbourbons, only communicated with the old Sharcoléonist when he could not avoid it, all the old man’s happiness reposed in Valartine, who had come, through devotion, love, and patience, to understand at a glance all the thoughts of Dénéthoirtier, so that animated dialogues took place between Valartine and that pretended clay, who had nearly become dust, and was yet possessed of an immense knowledge, an unheard of penetration in judging pipe-weed, and an indomitable will.  

As Valartine arrove, summoned by Barahier, Dénéthoirtier had been enraged to learn from Villefaramir that his granddaughter was destined to wed the son of his greatest enemy, albeit one who had died in 1815, after the fall of Sharcoléon.  Villefaramir might have had his suspicions as to the identity of d’Imrahil’s killer, but had limited himself to observing that the family that was united with d’Imrahil through marriage would extinguish the mere appearance of foul play.  It was at this moment that Barahier returned with Valartine, whom he knew to be Dénéthoirtier’s only comfort in this death in life (or was it life in death?). So he who lived under the Shadow of royal displeasure might listen to the echoes of a heart untroubled by any political ideas at all.

“Needest thou something, my grandfather?” said Valartine.

“How many times have I recommended that you avoid to speak like a character in a poor opera?” said Villefaramir.  “It will sound distinctly odd in polite society.”

“Forgive me, father,” said Valartine.  

“I have just informed him, mademoiselle, of your upcoming wedding with the Baron Arafrantz.”

Valartine trembled and went red, which might have been maidenly modesty or profound horror.  Dénéthoirtier’s eyes dilated with rage, as if his son were an orc pawing at his treasure, a foul little creature with greedy eyes and slobbering mouth – which in fact was not far from how M. de Villefaramir usually appeared to lesser lights.  Dénéthoirtier blew out two beautiful grey rings of smoke that sailed up into the air without breaking and floated above the chandelier.

“Two smoke rings?  But that meaneth … means no!” said Valartine, scarcely concealing her delight under her enormous veil.

“He will see matters differently soon,” said Villefaramir, and made a mental note to have Dénéthoirtier’s pipe-weed changed.

M. and Mme. de Villefaramir left Valartine alone with her grandfather.

“Alack, that you could have been so mighty a protector for me in the days of thy strength, and today can do no more than understand and share my joy or sorrow.  It is one last comfort whereof the Valards have forgotten to deprive me as they did all others.”

Dénéthoirtier blew a smoke ring of such depth and cunning, that Valartine believed to read in it the words, “You err; I can do much for you.”  He then blew the smoke ring that signified that he desired something, after which he produced alphabetic smoke rings that meant, N-O-T-A-I-R-E.  Loath was Villefaramir to allow this, when Dénéthoirtier’s desire was made known; but Barahier, who answered to Dénéthoirtier alone, would not be gainsaid.  The notary having arriven, Valartine persuaded him that she was capable of comprehending and interpreting her grandfather’s wishes, and Dénéthoirtier managed to express his will that, were Valartine to wed d’Imrahil, she were disinherited, and his wealth would go to the chipmonks, from whom Villefaramir, as steuard du roi, could never lawfully take it.  Villefaramir looked wrathful, but durst not interfere, while Valartine knelt with her hands joined and a smile of gratitude, and Mme. de Villefaramir could not conceal her joy.

At this moment, a messenger arrived to tell Villefaramir that the Count of Monte Fato awaited them in the salon.  Alas, when they entered the salon, they spent much of their time discussing the obstinacy of Dénéthoirtier; Villefaramir was determined that the wedding must continue, will or no will.  The Count pretended not to hear, and seemed fascinated with Thibaut’s project to improve the salon’s floor by pouring ink all over it; though in truth he listened with complaisance to the discordant voices of wounded amour-propre and murdered self-interest.  Finally, he permitted himself to remark innocently that Arafrantz was a delightful man and that M. de Villefaramir’s desire to end the hostility between the two families was sublime.

“However,” he continued, “even if M. de Dénéthoirtier disinherit Valartine for the fault of marrying a man whose father he detests, Thibaut is surely innocent of any such wrong.”

“Is that not true, monsieur?” cried Mme. de Villefaramir indignantly.  “Is it not odiously unjust?  Even disinherited, Valartine has three times as much wealth as he, who must subsist on altogether inferior cat-food.”  Thibaut emphasised her point by destroying the curtains; the Count, having struck a blow, said nothing.

“Monsieur le comte, let us cease to discuss these misères de famille,” said the steuard.  “Yes, my wealth will go to the poor chipmonks, who are today the true rich; yes, my legitimate hope has been frustrated by my father without reason; yes, always after a defeat and a respite the Jacobin shadow grows again; but I will have acted as a sensible man.”

“M. d’Imrahil will be charmed to enter a family where one can rise to such sacrifices to keep one’s word and carry out one’s duty,” said Monte Fato, to the joy of M. de Villefaramir.  On saying these words, the Count rose and prepared to leave.  

“Are you leaving us, monsieur le comte?” said Mme. de Villefaramir.

“I must, madame; I am come only to remind you of your promise to dine with me on Saturday.”

“Is it at your house at Champs-Valinorées that the meeting takes place?” said Villefaramir.

“No,” said Monte Fato.  “Which renders your willingness to come all the more meritorious.  It is in the countryside, about a half-hour from the barrier, in Barroue-Don.”

“In Barroue-Don?” cried Villefaramir.  “Ah, oui, now I remember; madame told me that it was in Barroue-Don that she was transported to your abode.  And what address?”


“Rue Vieilhomme-Willeau, No. 28.”

“Is it then to you that the house of M. d’Imrahil was sold?” cried Villefaramir in a strangled voice.

“Did the house belong to M. d’Imrahil?”

“Yes,” said Mme. de Villefaramir.  “And do you know something, monsieur le comte? You find that house pretty, do you not?”

“Charming.”

“Eh bien, my husband has never wished to dwell there.”

“I hope I will not be so unfortunate,” said the Count, concerned, “that this prejudice will hinder your favoring me with your presence this Saturday.”

“Non, monsieur le comte … I hope … I will do what I can …” stammered de Villefaramir.

“Oh!” replied Monte Fato.  “I will accept no excuse, and should you not come, I will believe – what do I know? – that there is some lugubrious tradition or sanguinary legend associated with that house, which was uninhabited for twenty years.  Perhaps Morgot used to torment Hurin there?”

“I will come,” said Villefaramir with heroic determination.

“Excellent,” said the Count. “Now if you will excuse me, I must depart; my caprice, which knows no gainsaying, drives me to the nearest palantir, for I have just read a fascinating essay on the subject by Jean-Roland Turgide.”

~~

The Count left Annuminas by the Barrière d’Utumne, and flew to the Tower of Minas-à-Nord, which afforded a charming view of Terre-moyenne. Northward tourists might look, and see the Carrot (or the Snowman Channel, as the Forodois in their arrogance call it); westward they looked and saw the beaches of the Numatic; to the east, the cheese-farms of Brie, the delightful if sinister chalets of Rivendeau and the cross-beamed hotels of the dwargues; to the south, the azure coasts and tobacco-plantations of the Farthing-Midi. However, the Count had not come for sightseeing.  He entered a small wooden door, and found himself in a miniature garden, whose flowers glowed red and golden: snap-dragons and sunflowers, and nasturtiums trailing all over the turf walls.  Never had Yavanne, the laughing and fresh goddess of our good elvish gardeners, and the greatest connoisseur of cigars in the Elder Days, known so minutious and pure a cult as in that little enclosure.  Its only flaw was that it was infested with dormice, March hares, and mad hatters.

Suddenly Monte Fato came across a bonhobbite of some fifty years, who was gathering mushrooms.

“You are gathering your harvest, monsieur?” said the Count with a smile.

“Pardon, monsieur,” said the bonhobbite.  “Gardening is my passion.”

The Count conquered the bonhobbite’s soul by helping to pick mushrooms.

“Were you here to see the palantir?” asked the bonhobbite.

“If that’s allowed,” said Monte Fato.

“Certainly it’s allowed; there’s no danger that anyone can understand what we say in code de Moriadoc.  Indeed, I myself have no idea what I’m talking about, and I prefer it that way; it leaves me without responsibility for whatever devilry these dread engines of sorcery may carry out. The times are evil enough.”

“Does this position pay much?”

“Only about a thousand grams of pipe-weed per year,” said the employee.  "But I am housed.”  He pointed to a burrow of the most primitive kind, a mere hole indeed, with only one window.  The hatters seemed far more at home there than the employee.

“Pauvre hobbitité!” murmured Monte Fato.

"Pardon?"

"I said it’s highly interesting."

They arrived at the chamber of the palantir.  The palantir was of deep crystal black in hue, and stood upon a low round table in Aragon XV style, in a central cup or depression; its diameter pointed towards the centre of the earth.    

“Would you be happy,” said the Count, “to have the seventh ring of the dwargues, and the power to make your garden into a vast domain? To stride with flaming hoe across the darkened land? The clouds shall roll away, and the white sun shine, and at your command the Tour-Eithil shall become a garden of flowers and trees and bring forth fruit.  You have only to favour me in one small matter, and all this can be. Do you refuse?"

“Monsieur, you terrify me!”

The Count forced a Ring of Power into the hand of the employee.

“What must I do?” said the employee, feeling a rush of power and killing with a wave of the hand all the dormice, hares, and hatters that infested the garden.

“Nothing difficult; merely a trifle that I fancy.  Simply send the signals that voici.”

Monte Fato handed the bonhobbite a piece of paper, on which were traced three signs.  Red with fever and sweating profusely, the bonhobbite executed the signs or sérati given by the Count.  The correspondent to the left transmitted the messages, which duly arrived at the Ministry of the Interior.  De Brie hastened to inform the baroness de Sacqueville-Danglars that Giles-Fermier had ceased his business partnership with Chrysophylace le Dragon.  The baroness informed her husband, who ordered that all his stock in Chrysophylace be sold forthwith.

Two days later, the Nouvelles de Brie reported that the Giles-Chrysophylace partnership was intact and that a palantiric signal, ill interpreted on account of a vaguely preternatural fog, had led to this error.  Sacqueville-Danglars had lost a million mushroom-lions.



~~

All Arnor was in feverish anticipation of the Count’s soirée.  Days passed and The Day drew nearer; and tongues began to wag in the Annuminasian monde.  Bizarre wagons with bizarre packages rolled into Annuminas and toiled up the Montagne to Barroue-Don.  They were driven by outlandish folk: orcs with long burnouses and fezzes, singing strange songs in minor keys.  The inhabitants of Barroue-Don were intensely interested and generally envied.  Pierre-Jacques-Philippe-Michel Boyen-Xènes-Baguines stopped even pretending to write an article on barroue-wight smoking customs.   Anxiety was intense.  Then, Saturday, 22 Yavannidor, the day of the Count’s dinner, actually dawned.

Meurtrier Morrie was the first to arrive, on a winged horse named Pegandour that Monte Fato had given him as a birthday present.

Next to come, in a coupé drawn by two oliphants, were Lothien De Brie and the Baroness de Sacqueville-Danglars, who handed the minister’s secretary a billet-doux, unobserved by all save the Count, whose Eye, if he bent it thither, could perceive much that passed in the minds of roués, even of those whose aristocratic lineage was not fabricated.  She then turned to Morrie and said, “Monsieur, if you were my friend, I would ask whether that horse was for sale.”

Morrie made a smile that was remarkably like a grimace.  The Count, perceiving his embarrassment, immediately came to his rescue.  “Madame, M. de Morrie cannot part with Pegandour, for he and I have a bet that he cannot train it to play quiddiche.”  He then showed the baroness two immense porcelain pots from Rhoûne, on which serpented marine vegetations from Numéneur of such a greatness and work, that d’Ossé alone could have imaged such riches and spirit.  The baroness was astounded, and listened in amaze as the Count told her how these pots had led to the divorce of Aldarion.

Sacqueville-Danglars, meanwhile, not much of an aficionado for curiosities, was staring at an exotic flower, when the plant suddenly devoured him.  

The Count pointed his Ring towards the offending vegetable, and recited the following couplet:

These messieurs and dames grouveux in my abode are;
leave them in peace, you not comme il faut deodar!


The flower immediately disgorged M. de Sacqueville-Danglars, who frowned at Monte Fato and said, with great dignity, “We are not bourgeois to be épatés!”

“Épater les bourgeois? Mais non, monsieur, I would rather enslave them,” replied the Count blandly.  

There was an awkward silence, which the Count, consummately gracious host that he was, alleviated forthwith by showing the company his paintings.

“I recognise this!” said De Brie, indicating a painting by Hobbita of Luthienne performing an exotic dance for Béren’s delight.  “This painting was proposed for the Musée de la Maison-Mathon, which, however, refused to buy it.”

“Why that?” said Château-Renard, who was admiring Richard Van Dycke’s painting of a chicken coop.

“You are charming, you,” said De Brie.  “Because the government is not rich enough.”

At this moment, the Roi des Sorciers announced the Marquis Entelletto Pseudonimo, Castellan of Castel Gandolfo, and the Viscount Andurillo Pseudonimo.  The Marquis Pseudonimo was still a bit leafy, but had dispensed with the wreath and sported a satin collar. Andurillo looked slightly greener than before, as he had taken pains to look as ent-like as possible; he smiled charmingly at Éowénie and inquired, “How much money per annum does your father make?”  Éowénie said nothing, but looked even more bored than before.

“Pseudonimo!” said Morrie. “A fine name!”

“Yes, these Ents name themselves well, but dress poorly,” said Château-Renard.

“Indeed, foxes are celebrated for their haute couture,” sallied De Brie.

“Who are these Pseudonimos?” inquired Sacqueville-Danglars.  “Are they rich?”

“They come from a race of princes,” said Monte Fato.  “To them you are but a passing canard; all the wealth of the Bank of Arnor is of little account to them; and all the deeds of your house but a small matter. The son, however, wants absolutely to marry an Arnorian.”

“Fine idea, that!” said Sacqueville-Danglars, shrugging.

“The baron appears quite sombre today,” said Monte Fato to Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars.  “Do they want to make him a chef-shirrife, by any chance?”

“Not that I know of,” replied the baroness.  “He will have lost while playing the Bourse, and will not know whom to blame.”

The Roi des Sorciers announced M. and Mme. de Villefaramir.  The latter was very upset that Thibaut had decided that none of the cat-food in their mansion was worthy of him.  Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars was full of sympathy and advice.

“You were less tender to me!” grumbled her husband.  

“Please, monsieur,” interposed Monte Fato.  “If all the grievances that stand between husbands and wives are to be brought up here, we may as well abandon this soirée.”  M. de Villefaramir looked hopeful, but was soon disappointed; Sacqueville-Danglars bowed sullenly, and the company resumed the usual banalities.

The Count excused himself and went to discuss seating arrangements with his intendant Roguccio.  Roguccio glanced around at the assembled company through the half-open door.  “Ah, mon Érou, it is she! The blonde!”

“Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars?”

“Yes; the woman of the garden! She who was pregnant, and paced the garden, waiting, waiting …”

“Waiting for whom?”

Roguccio, without responding, pointed at Villefaramir, with about the same gesture that the Balrogue of Morie used in indicating Gandault.

“But did I not kill him?” he murmured.  “Is he not dead?”

“No, he is not dead, as you can see.  He was healed by Aragon XVIII in the salon of healing.  Regain your calm and count the guests: M. and Mme. de Villefaramir, two; M., Mme., and Mlle. de Sacqueville-Danglars, five; M. de Château-Renard, M. De Brie, M. Morrie, eight; Marquis Entelletto and Andurillo Pseudonimo, ten.”

“Which one is Andurillo?”

“The young ent with the charcoal complexion, who is looking at the Elberette of Maedrosillo.”

“Trascoletto!” murmured Roguccio in a low voice, after stifling a cry.  “Ah, fatality!”

“It is now half past six, monsieur Roguccio,” said the Count severely.  “You know what happened to the last servant to keep me waiting.”

Like Magloire’s valet, who perished in the grinding ice rather than serve second-rate fare at the banquet of Méret-Aderthauld –  that was held in a delightful bower nigh the fair pools of Ivrenne (whence the swift Narogue arose), and everyone who was anyone in Bélériande was present, save Thingolaud who was an appalling bear and never attended soirées, and many counsels were taken in good will, and many oaths sworn of league and friendship, and there was much ballroom dancing and good champagne, and there followed thereafter the most exquisite saison of the Elder Days – Roguccio made a final and heroic effort, and within less time than it takes to sing “Morgot s’en va-t-en guerre” was able to say, “The Count is served.”

Monte Fato offered his arm to Mme. de Villefaramir, and requested that M. de Villefaramir escort Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars to the table.  The baroness looked beatifically innocent; but the steuard trembled and had the aspect of one who was wearing no clothes and did not like it one bit.  “Decidedly, only women know how to dissimulate,” said Monte Fato to himself; but he said it in Quenyois, so that Mme. de Villefaramir thought he was lamenting the golf-courses of Valinor, and was enchanted.

M. de Villefaramir had Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars at his left and Morrie at his right.  The face of Villefaramir was gormless; in it was written the memory of many things both louche and criminal. The lady at his side was young and yet not so; her hair was touched by no frost, or at least none that some expert dyeing could not conceal; her white arms and clear face were smooth, as if through the generous application of make-up; yet blasé she looked, and boredom was ever in her glance.  The Count was seated between Sacqueville-Danglars and Mme. de Villefaramir; his impeccable cravat, his resplendent Ring, and his dreaded savoir-faire made him look like some incredibly sophisticated host out of ancient gossip.  Venerable he seemed as an émigré from the Arnorian Revolution, and yet hale as a gallant in the fullness of his éclat.  As for Sacqueville-Danglars, he was d’un certain âge, at best; and his face greedy and beady-eyed and surly; his voice was like an organ-grinder that was badly out of tune; on his brow sat financial savvy, and in his hand was beaucoup d’argent, which was his only attractive feature.

Fair was Mme. de Villefaramir, fair and perilous as an overdose of hashberry; and the light of chandeliers was in her bright eyes.  De Brie, fat, red-faced, and hopelessly witty, sat between the two Pseudonimos, and Château-Renard, as vulpinely aristocratic as ever, between Mme. de Villefaramir and Morrie.  Mlle. de Sacqueville-Danglars sat across from Andurillo, to her considerable annoyance, as the latter kept trying to engage her in small-talk about her father’s wealth.  

The repast was magnificent.  It was an Haradric banquet that was offered them, but such as one reads of in the fairy tales of the First Age.  The fare consisted of custom-made herbs and stewed rabbit from Monte Fato; boar; ent-leaf salad; guerre-de-flamme, an ancient secret of the Balrogues; jellyfish sautéed in a blend of Rh positive orc blood and cthoulhoux tentacle grease; pâté de magnesium; and crème de dwargue brûlé.  All the fruits that the four quarters of the world can pour into the horn of plenty of Ériador were stacked like pyramids in vases from Rhoûne and cups from Tol-Éressée.  Rare birds of Eldamar with the brilliant part of their plumage, monstrous fish extended on the blades Glammedringue and l’Orcrît, all the wines of the Archipelago, Roké, and Numéneur, enclosed in phials as translucent as the living bosoms of Galadriella, defiled like one of those revues that Elrond passed before those Elves who understood well that one could spend a thousand teleporni on a dinner for ten persons, but on condition that, like Luthienne, one ate silmarils, or that, like Sauron, one drank molten rings of gold.

The only objection raised to the banquet was that of the Marquis Entelletto, who cried out “Assassin des arbres!” on seeing the ent-leaf salad, but was pacified on the Count’s assurance that it was imitation ent leaf salad only.  Galadriella had made it when of salad she sang, of salad of gold, and salad of gold was tossed.

Monte Fato saw the general astonishment at the provender, and began to laugh and jest out loud.

“Messieurs,” he said, “will you concede that, arrived at a certain degree of wealth, there is no longer anything either necessary or superfluous?  What, indeed, is the marvellous? That which we do not understand.  And what is truly desirable?  That which we cannot have.  Now, to see things I cannot understand, and to possess what I cannot have, is the entire study of my life.  I apply the same perseverance in following a whim that you, M. de Sacqueville-Danglars, do in creating a smiau-de-fer; or you, M. de Villefaramir, in writing a FAQue; or you, M. De Brie, in seducing a wealthy married lady; or you, M. de Château-Renard, in robbing a chicken-coop; or you, Morrie, in hitting the high C in your duet with the love interest. For example, see these two fish, whereof one was born in the Hellecaraix, and the other in Valinor; is it not amusing to bring them together on the same table?"

“What are these two fish?” said Sacqueville-Danglars.

“M. de Château-Renard, who has been to the northern parts of Forodeterre, will give you the name of the one, and M. Pseudonimo, who is an ent and has spoken to the elvish exiles from the counterrevolution in Valinor, will tell you the other.”

“This,” said Château-Renard, “is, I believe, Fastitocalon, the sea monster on whom sailors land thinking him an island, and who then turns over and casts them into the deep.  But he is the only one of his kind in Terre-moyenne.”

“À merveilles.”

“And this,” said Pseudonimo, “is, if I am not mistaken, Neptune, the irritant of Ulmon, who is likewise unique.”

“The very same.”

“Impossible!” cried all the guests.

“Voilà precisely what amuses me,” said Monte Fato.  “I am like Auromé, farondo úpossibilion.  And voilà what makes this meat, which perhaps in reality is not equal to a good homely meal, hot out of the pot, seem exquisite to you; the fact that it seems impossible to acquire, and yet here it is.”

“But how has one transported these two fish to Annuminas?”

“Oh, mon Érou! Nothing is more simple: I sent two of my Chevaliers out on pterodactyls, the one to Hellecaraix, the other to Valinor, and had them stun the fish with their Rings; then they used their powers first to transport them to the Isle of Monte Fato, where they sautéed them on the volcano, and then here.”

“You are a prodigious man,” said Sacqueville-Danglars.  “And whatever the philosophers may say, it is a fine thing to be rich.”

“And especially to have ideas,” said the baroness.

“Oh, I do not merit that honor, madame,” said the Count.  “I but follow in the footsteps of Morgot and Sauron.”

“All this is highly delightful,” said Château-Renard, swishing his tail languidly.  “But what I admire most, I confess, is the admirable promptitude with which you are served.  In the week since you bought this house, it has undergone a remarkable transformation.  For if I am not mistaken, there were piles of refuse everywhere, the door was scarred, the place stank and was full of filth and disorder, and had an extremely tasteless faux-dwarvish décor; whereas today, it bears an extraordinary resemblance to the château of Manvre, but with far better taste.”  

“Not a week, monsieur; one day,” interposed the Count gently.  “I was in haste.”

“For at least ten years it was uninhabited,” continued Château-Renard after everyone had gasped in amaze.  “Had it not belonged to the steuard du roi, one would have thought it some accursed house, wherein a terrible crime had been committed.”

Villefaramir gulped down his wine with the air of a hobbite caught stealing a palantir in order to spy out the cheapest mushroom-shops.

“There was especially a chamber, very simple in appearance,” said Monte Fato, “that seemed to me, I know not why, as dramatic as possible.”

“In what way?” said De Brie.

“Does one notice the promptings of instinct?” returned Monte Fato.  “Are there not places where one breathes an air of sadness? Why? One knows nothing of why.  Through a chain of memories, a caprice of thought … in any case, this room reminded me admirably of the chamber of the marquise Tar-mirielle or that of the wife of Elrond, slain by the jealous Jadis-Joppelin.  And now that we have finished dinner, I must show it to you; after dinner, the spectacle.  Then we will redescend to take coffee in the garden.”

The guests rose to follow the Count upstairs.  Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars and M. De Villefaramir remained behind for a few seconds; they interrogated each other with their eyes, cold, mute, frozen.

“Did you hear?” said Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars.

“We must go,” said Villefaramir, rising and offering her an arm.

When they rejoined the others, the Count smiled a smile that, had they been able to understand it, would have terrified the guests yet more than the room they were about to enter.

The chamber had nothing in particular, save that, although night had fallen, it was unlit, and that the guests saw towering ominous before them and leaning slightly towards one another like the pillars of a headless door, two huge standing stones.  These causes sufficed, indeed, to give it a lugubrious miasma.  Glittered indeed in the room many beads and chains and jewelled ornaments; yet even Sacqueville-Danglars, greed-besotten though he were, durst not lay hand on any of the treasure.

“Hou!” cried M. de Villefaramir.  « It is terrifying indeed. »

The baroness de Sacqueville-Danglars tried to stammer some words that no one understood.

“Isn’t it?” said Monte Fato.  “See how this bed is bizarrely placed, what a bloody and sombre curtain!  See how these stones point upwards like jagged teeth out of crimson gums!  And these two portraits, do they not seem to say, with their glaring eyes that shine with the green-white light of absinthe de Morgoule, I have seen!”

Villefaramir became livid, and the baroness fell onto a chaise longue placed near the fireplace.

“Oh!” said Mme. de Villefaramir smiling.  "You have great courage to seat yourself on a chair where perhaps crime has been committed!”  Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars rose abruptly.

“Nor is this all,” said Monte Fato, opening a door to reveal a distinctly ancien régime winding stairway which, with its steps uneven, narrow, and treacherous, looked as if it might crack if any durst tread thereon.  “You imagine an Elrond descending step by step, of a dark and stormy night, that stair with some lugubrious burden that he has haste to remove from the eyes of man, if not those of Érou!”

Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars collapsed in the arms of M. de Villefaramir, who himself had to lean against the wall for support.

“Ah, mon Érou, madame, what ails you?” cried De Brie.  “You become pale!”

“Nothing,” she said, with an effort.  “The Count has a manner of narrating these horrors, that gives them an air of reality – like Trolquien’s spurious treatise on volcanoes.”

“Oh, mon Érou, oui,” said Monte Fato with a smile.  “It is entirely a matter of the imagination.  Could one not equally easily picture this chamber as the good and honest chamber of a mother with a family of innocent smurves?  This bed with its purple curtains and standing stones as the bed visited by Nienne, goddess of accouchements?  This stairway as that by which the father brought the infant to its mother in the evening?”

At this, the baroness fainted altogether.

“How could I have forgotten my flacon!” said the Count.

“I have mine,” said Mme. de Villefaramir, and she handed Monte Fato a phial of a red liquid like that whereof the Count had proven on Thibaut the beneficent influence.

“Ah!” said the Count as he took the phial.

“Yes, on your indications, I have attempted to concoct la belladonna-touc,” she murmured to the Count.

As Monte Fato healed the baroness in orc-fashion, one searched for her husband; but he, uninterested in poetic impressions, was in the garden, discussing plans for a smiau-de-fer in Fangornes with the Marquis Pseudonimo.  The rest of the company joined them.

“Do not fear, madame,” said De Brie to the baroness.  “We have here a steuard du roi, who will protect you.”

“How convenient,” said the Count. “For I remain convinced that a crime has been committed in this house, and will make a declaration before witnesses.  Come, M. de Villefaramir; in order that the declaration be valid, it must be made before the proper authorities.”  

He took the arm of de Villefaramir, while he supported the baroness with his other arm, and drew him over to the large X under the Arbre du Party, where the shadow was thickest.

“Here, on this very spot,” said the Count, tapping the ground with his foot, “Roguccio, while supervising my gardeners, unearthed a coffer, or the hinges of a coffer, containing the skeleton of a new-born infant.  I hope well that it received a decent reburial, although Roguccio has some exotic dining habits.  Is that a phantasmagoria?”

Monte Fato felt the arm of Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars stiffen, and the wrist of Villefaramir shudder.

“A new-born infant?” said De Brie.  “Morgot!  This is becoming serious, it seems.”

“It is true then that each house has a soul,” said Château-Renard.  “This house was sad because it felt remorse, and it felt remorse because it concealed a crime.”

“Ah, who says it was a crime?” said Villefaramir, making one last effort.

“An infant buried alive in a garden is not a crime?” retorted the Count.  “For so it surely was; were it already dead, it must have been buried in a cemetery, not here.”

“What do they do to infanticides in this country?” asked Entelletto, naively.

“By the fashion sense of Luthienne, they quite simply cut off their heads!” said Sacqueville-Danglars.

“I believe so … is that not true, monsieur le steuard du roi?” asked Monte Fato.

“Oui, monsieur le comte,” said Villefaramir in voice that had lost all humanity.

Monte Fato saw that this was all the two people, for whom he had prepared this scene, could support; and, not wanting to carry it too far, said: “But the coffee, messieurs; it seems we have forgotten it.”

Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars tried valiantly to smile and pass off her terror as a momentary indisposition brought about by overexposure to ancien régime décor; but her eagerness to leave the fatefully ill-decorated room was evident. Villefaramir hastened after her and whispered in her ear, so that none but the Count, whom nothing escaped, could hear, “I must speak with you at my office tomorrow.”

“I will come,” replied the baroness.  At this point, the other guests began to catch up.

Only the Count had much desire for coffee; he seemed to take an extraordinary delight in savouring it.  His guests had rather lost their appetite, and, as soon as they decently could, began to make their adieux, beginning with Mme. de Villefaramir.  

M. de Sacqueville-Danglars was more and more enchanted with the Marquis Pseudonimo, or rather with the large imitation silmaril that shone from the major’s ring (style faux-elvois); Entelletto had prudently turned his bank notes into an object of value, for fear that some accident befall them.  The marquis and his putative son, for their part, had, in view of the banker’s credit, been charming and full of affability towards him.  

Sacqueville-Danglars had also been impressed by Entelletto’s calculated (according to the model of Horus’s úhaxor lítime) indifference to the sumptuosity of the Count’s table; he seemed barely to stifle a yawn even when Monte Fato’s pet rat Escabiers juggled silmarils while pirouetting on its tail.  The baron had concluded that such marvels were familiar to the illustrious descendant of the Pseudonimos. Before long, the two were discussing marriage plans, undeterred by the fact that Mlle. de Sacqueville-Danglars had finally lost patience with Andurillo’s importunities and slapped him with the flat of her sword.  

The Count, after bidding his guests good night, stood a while enveloped in shadow, smiling a sinister smile.