A deathly pallor took possession of Buttrebeurrousse's visage, and the priest saw him wipe away a tear. "Ah, pauvre petit!" he murmured. "Voilà encore a proof of what I told Your Reverence just now, that the good Érou is only good to the wicked. Ah!" he continued in the colorful language of the Briois, "the world goes from bad to worse, and may the Dagueur Dagourat blow it up in fire and gunpowder, and the story come to its end, sans appendices!"
There was a moment of silence, during which the priest did not cease for an instant to interrogate the mobile if rotund physiognomy of the innkeeper.
"I was called to his deathbed to offer him the last solaces of religion," continued the abbé, devouring Buttrebeurrouse with the fixity of his gaze. "His last charge was that I remove any blemish his name might have received by proving his innocence of everything but underage smoking.
"A rich Forodois (or bonhomme de neige) who shared part of Gamgès's imprisonment, possessed a silmaril of great worth, which he left to Gamgès, who in turn kept it secret. For, should he ever be freed from prison, his fortune was made."
"It was of great value, then, this silmaril?"
