"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.
