The Viscount's pride and joy was his smoking room, which he had prepared with particular care, relying on the counsel of none other than Pierre-Jacques-Philippe-Michel Boyen-Xènes-Baguines, author of a monograph on 274 varieties of tobacco. On a table surrounded at a distance by a pliant divan, every known strain of tobacco, from the yellow tobacco of Escargot to the black tobacco of Umbari, passing through le long-botton, the marco-blanco 1601, and the bourzoum-ichy, shone resplendently in the pots of faïence that the wooden-shoed estfarthingois adore. Beside them, in fragrant wooden cases, were arranged in order of size and quality, puros, earendillos, yavannas, and omentielvos – all the finest cigars of Terre-moyenne; finally, in an open cupboard, a collection of dwarven pipes, amber brand-chibouques adorned with coral of the Haradrins, or nazghoulehs encrusted in gold, awaited the caprice or the sympathy of the smokers in that symmetric disorder that after coffee the guests of a modern nuncheon love to contemplate through the vapor that mounts to the ceiling in long and capricious spirals, emulating the classic art of Gandault and of Bilbon.
The first guest to arrive was the cabinet minister, cheese connoisseur, and professional adulterer Lothien de Brie. As he unceremoniously planted himself on a divan, Réginard exclaimed: "Bonjour, mon cher Lothien! C'est miraculeux! You whom I expected to come last, arrive thirty-five minutes in advance! Has the ministry fallen?"
