"Dead, say you!" cried a third voice. "Who says that Valartine is dead?" turning around, Villefaramir and the doctor perceived Morrie standing at the door, pale, shattered, terrible, like Pierre-Jacques after the assault of the Trolquien purists.
"Who are you, monsieur, who forgets thus that one enters not a house where reigns death?" said Villefaramir.
Morrie retreated, only to return shortly afterwards, lifting with superhuman strength the fauteuil of Dénéthoirtier.
"See what they have done!" cried Morrie, one hand still resting on the fauteuil, and the other extended towards Valartine. "See, my father, see!"
Villefaramir recoiled a step and gazed with astoundment on this young hobbite who called Dénéthoirtier "my father."
"Monsieur," continued Morrie. "One asks what I am, and by what right I am here. O you who know, tell them! Tell them that she was my most noble friend, my little pipe-weed leaf of the heart, my fiancée, that that cadaver is mine!" And the voice of the young hobbite was extinguished in sobs.
As for the potato, his halitating respirations shook his tuberiform frame. Finally, tears streamed forth from his eyes; happier he than the young hobbite, who sobbed without weeping.
