"Pippand!" cried Monte Fato. "Of my hundred names, I only need tell thee one in order that thou be stricken with a thunderbolt! But my true name, thou guessest it, do you not? Or rather, thou rememberest it? For, despite all my chagrins and tortures, I show thee today a visage rejuvenated by the joy of vengeance, a face thou must often have seen in thy dreams after thy marriage... with Rosédès, my fiancée!"
Pérégrin, the head turned back, the hands extended, the regard fixed, devoured this horrible spectacle in silence; then, supporting himself against the wall, he slid slowly to the door whereby he went out backwards, letting escape only a single cry, lugubrious, lamentable, rending the air like the cry of some lonely and evil creature, rising and falling, and ending on a piercing shriek like a poor tenor whose career was drastically and mercifully cut short, chilling the blood to a temperature whereat no balrogue would drink it : "Samouard Gamgès!"
He traversed the court like a drunken man, and fell into the arms of his valet, murmuring, "To the hotel!"
A few paces from the hotel, the count called a halt and exited the carriage. Two persons were descending the stairway; he only just had time to throw himself into a cabinet to avoid them. They passed two spans from the unhappy hobbite, who, hidden behind a damask curtain, felt a breeze from the silken gown of Rosédès, and felt the rumour on the air of these words pronounced by his son: "Courage, my mother; we are no longer chez nous here."
