"Everything is relative," replied the abbé. "It is worth less than the entire Shiré and everything in it; but more than Brie. However, you yourself will judge of its value, for even now I am holding a silmaril in my hand." He slowly opened his left hand, and exposed to Buttrebeurrousse's marvelling eye a thrice-enchanted globe of crystal by immortal gleam illumined, lit by living splendor and all hues' essence, their eager flame.
"I am Samouard Gamgès's sole executor," continued the priest. 'I had three good friends and a fiancée,' he said. One of these friends was Buttrebeurrousse." (Buttrebeurrousse trembled.) "The others were Sacqueville-Danglars and Pippand de Touc. I have forgotten the name of the fiancée..."
"Rosédès," interposed the innkeeper, still staring at the silmaril.
"Oui, c'est ça," murmured the abbé, somewhat distractedly. After a brief pause, he continued, "The poor unfortunate ordered that the silmaril be divided in five parts..."
"For four people?" interrupted Buttrebeurrousse.
"The fifth was to go to his old gaffier."
"Dead!" cried Buttrebeurrousse. "Dead of hunger!"
