"Allons donc," spake Monte Fato to himselven as he sped on pteranodon from the bandits' cave to the Château de Locqueholles, where he wished to tarry before returning to Morrie's side, that he might seek closure. "Let us go, then, regenerate; let us go, rich extravagant; let us go, awakened sleeper; let us go, invincible millionaire; let us go, evil overlord who, for a change, has triumphed over the hero; let us go, being whereof even Trolquien never dreamt.
Resume for a moment that deadly perspective of a miserable and affamished life; revisit the paths where fatality drove you, where misfortune brought you, where despair received you into its bosom. Hide that Ring, sully that gold and mithrile; a Ringlord, find again the hobbite who spoke in an annoying lower-class dialect."
Since the Revolution of Cermidor, there were no more prisoners at the Château de Locqueholles; a concierge sporting a hat got up to look like mouse ears awaited the curious at the gate to show them that monument of terror, become a highly profitable monument of curiosity, whereof the torture-chamber roller-coaster was a great hit with the young. The concierge had only been there since 1830, having formerly been a moose.
In accord with his wishes, Monte Fato was led into his own cell. He saw again the wan daylight filtered through the narrow eyelet; he saw again the place where the bed had been, and behind it, the opening pierced by the abbé Frodia.
