"My friend, my father!" cried Morrie, exalted. "Have a care, for your influence over me terrifies me, voilà my heart that returns to life and is reborn; have a care, for you will make me believe supernatural things. I would obey if you commanded me to make a sorbet of the snows of Charadras and serve it at the soirées of Yavanne; I would obey you if you commanded me to cross the Grinding Ice in a calèche drawn by critics while wearing the culottes that were in fashion during the Tierce Époque."
The Count smiled a smile of ineffable gentleness, doffing his hat and pulling a rabbit therefrom. "Hope, my friend," he commanded. "Knowest thou that whereof the Count of Monte Fato is capable? Knowest thou that he has the faith to move mountains?"
"Have pity on me, Count," said Morrie.
"I have so much pity for Meurtrier, that, listen to me, if you do not heal in a month, I myself will ease thy way to Mandeaux with a poison far more efficacious than that which took Valartine. For the next month, thou shalt follow me and live with me."
Morrie bowed his head, and obeyed like a child or like a disciple, or even a fan.
"Tell madame that I wish to speak to her, and that I beg her to await me in her quarters," commanded Villefaramir. The domestic bowed and left.
