After a month, that accursed house presented the lugubrious aspect of a leper colony, or rather a morgue: a great part of it was closed; the shutters were only open a few minutes each day, to bring some air into the house; then the shutter closed like a tombstone covering a sepulchre, and the neighbours said, "How many biers will we see issue from the mansion of Villefaramir tonight?" And some said, "They are Elvish wights. Let them go where they belong, far from our salons. The times are tasteless enough, without melodramatic deaths to make things worse."
Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars had rather more difficulty than usual entering the mansion, and only after Dr. Tolliers had performed the mind-meld of Vulcain on her to prove her innocent intentions was she granted ingress. She found Villefaramir busy writing in very shaky tengouards; he looked haggard, as is understandable given that he now barely slept.
"I wish to know from you, my friend, what is the status of the affair of that impostor?" she asked.
"Impostor, M. Andurillo Pseudonimi, or rather M. Trascoletto!" cried Villefaramir. "Decidedly, madame, it is a parti pris with you to attenuate certain things and exaggerate others. You err, madame; M. Trascoletto is quite simply an assassin."
"Monsieur, I do not deny the justice of your correction; but the more severely you arm yourself against this wretch, the more you strike our family. Let him flee, or, at worst, let him stay in prison."
