"Par le violon de Melcoeur!" cried Buttrebeurrousse, drawing a knife from his gilet, and striking the Count in the heart. "You will tell nothing, abbé!"
The knife melted, and vanished like the absinthe that evaporates when lit and that, when smoked with tobacco and a soupçon (no more) of hachich, causes one to write Gothic novels about damsels who have strange affairs with haut-bourgeois dragons, leaving only the hilt.
"Ach nazgue gilbertoule!" cried the Count, holding aloft his Ring.
"Mercy!" cried Buttrebeurrousse. "Let me live just a little longer. All my investments have crumbled into dust! Dust!"
The Count removed his Ring. "Rise!" he said. "I do not trust you as far as the ballerinas of the Théâtre-Hobbites could kick you; but rise."
"Tudieu, what jewellery you have, monsieur l’abbé!" said Buttrebeurrousse, trembling. "Not even Pierre Noir, the cutthroat dread, durst steal it!"
"Silence. Érou has given me the strength to tame a wretched gangrel creature like you; it is in the name of Érou and the Valards that I act. Remember that, miserable, and know that sparing you yet serves the designs of Érou. For I was meant to have the Ring, and not by its maker. Now by the style of the Précieux I command you, take this pen and paper and write."
