"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."
