And with a firmness of visage that was remarkable in her at times, she directed herself towards the circle of which her husband and the Count of Monte Fato formed the centre. "Do not enchain these messieurs," she told her husband. "They would surely rather breathe in the garden than suffocate here." Then she turned to Monte Fato and said, "Monsieur le comte, do me the honor of offering me your arm."
The Count almost tottered at these simple words; then he looked at Rosédès for a moment. This moment had the rapidity of an éclair, and yet seemed to the Countess to last a century, so many thoughts had Monte Fato placed in that one look. Then the moment was over, and he offered her his arm.
Mme. de Pérégrin entered under a vault of foliage with her companion; this vault was an alley of rowans that led to a greenhouse. They arrived in the building, all garnished with magnificent fruits that, since the beginning of Cermidor, were attaining their maturity. The Countess released the arm of Monte Fato, though not before the latter had perceived how her hand trembled. She plucked a bunch of Brandiboucque mushrooms and offered them to the Count.
"Take them, monsieur le comte," she said with a smile so sad that one could have seen tears blossom in her eyes. "Take them; our mushrooms of Arnor are, I know, in no way comparable to those of Gondor and Harade, but you will be indulgent for our poor Northern sun."
