Bacq

Chapitre 10. The Introduction

"Monsieur le comte," said Réginard, after the other guests had

departed, " I begin here my métier of cicerone, and during the course

of this tour you will discover in how little space a hobbite can live,

and that not one of the more ill-housed."

The Count was a worthy connoisseur of everything that Réginard had

accumulated in his atelier: silver spoons of the Bilbonesque school,

faïence of the Dwarves, woodcuts of Numéneur - everything was familiar

to him, and at first glance he knew the century, the country, and the

origin.  Réginard had thought to be the explicator, but on the

contrary, it was he who underwent an education in everything from the

politics of the Numénoréan xylographic industry to the correct manner

of ménaging a spoon of the Haradrins.  Réginard hoped at least to

show the Count something new in the Folques-Bouffon nudes, noted for

the elegance of their freckles; but Monte Fato not only knew the

history and the dominant critical views regarding each masterpiece, but

introduced an amazed Réginard to the unusual painting techniques of

Folques-Bouffon, and clearly proved two paintings in the collection not

to be the work of the master at all.  He made a sudden halt,

however, in the smial de café - a model of elegance and severe taste,

adorned by a single painting, signed by Léopold Proudefont.  It was of

a woman of about twenty-five years, with hair the color of the smoke of

a Gauloise and the eyes of a gazelle of Cande; she wore the

picturesque costume of the Farthing-Midi and held a beautiful

Portobello mushroom as she gazed at the sea.

The Count remained silent for several minutes, his eyes obstinately

fixed on the portrait.  "You have there a beautiful mistress,

Viscount," he said at length, in a voice as calm as the aftermath of a

hobbite souper.  "And her costume - a costume for la brequedanse, sans

doute - suits her ravishingly."

"Ah! Monsieur," said Réginard.  "Voilà an error I would not forgive,

if beside this portrait you had seen a few others, such as the Lobélie

de Lothotrec - not though the marring of Arda were amended by a

conversion of the Valards to le bon goût.  You do not know my mother,

monsieur; it is she whom you see in that painting.  The Countess had

herself painted in a fancy dress some years ago, during an absence of

the Count de Pérégrin.  Doubtless she thought he would be content;

but, chose bizarre, it greatly displeased my father, and the quality of

the painting (one of Léopold Proudefont's most beautiful paintings,

worthy of the lost gallery of Luthiennes painted in Ménégrot by the

sieur de Daerond, that were taken beyond the sea to Valinor, that

Tolcas might gaze upon her loveliness) did nothing to assuage the

antipathy in which he held it.  'Gamgès, nous le détestons, nous le

détestons pour toujours!' he would growl whenever he saw it.  Between

ourselves, my dear Count, it is true that M. de Pérégrin is one of

the most assiduous peers at the Dragon jaune, a general renowned for

his knowledge of strategy, particularly regarding the manoeuvre golf-ball,

but one of the most mediocre connoisseurs of art in all

Arnor; it is not the same for my mother, who paints à merveilles - her

ships, in particular, are considered the best in any gallery in

Annuminas.  And the gulls! Esteeming the picture too much to rid

herself of it altogether, she destined it to my quarters, in order less

to displease M. de Pérégrin.  For the rest, the painting has a

funeste influence; it is rare that my mother sees it without weeping,

perhaps because it is the only shadow, though as small as the wings of

the Eldards, that ever came between the Count and the Countess, who are

otherwise as united now as they were when they leapt over the broom of

Varda."

The Count gave his interlocutor a penetrating glance, but saw nothing

but the innocence of a young hobbite.

"And now, monsieur," concluded Réginard, "do me the honor of

accompanying me in the presence of M. de Pérégrin, to whom I wrote

from Lottaloria of the services you rendered me there, and of the

visit you had promised me, and above all of your remarkable

connoisseurship in the matter of mushrooms, for which he has a passion

surpassing even the greediest likings of porcines - a fact which partly

explains his long military expeditions in his youth, for which he

received the Mushroom of Gold.  And I may say that the Count and

Countess awaited with impatience that it be permitted them to thank

you. You are a bit blasé about everything, mon cher comte, as befits

one who lives among the best company in both worlds, and scenes of family

life have over the Lord of the Rings but little effect; nevertheless accept

that I introduce you, as initiation into the vie annumasienne, the life of

visits, civilities, and hobbiteries."

Monte Fato bowed, and Réginard instructed his valet to notify M. and

Mme. de Pérégrin of the imminent arrival of the Count of Monte Fato.

Arriving in the Count de Pérégrin's antechamber, Monte Fato saw an

escutcheon over the doorway, which, by its harmony with the rest of the

room and its enormous size, indicated the importance the proprietor of

the hotel attributed to this blazon.

"A red eye and a white tree on a black background - is this the

escutcheon of your family, monsieur?" inquired the Count.  "I ask as I

am highly ignorant in matters of heraldry, being Count by hazard, and

who might have done without the title were it not an absolutely

necessary thing when travelling, if only because the bondiers, wizard's

pupils, and riders of Rohan leave you in peace if you have a coat-of-arms                                                     affixed to your eagle-carriage."

"The question is not in the least indiscreet, my dear Count," said the

Viscount.  "It is indeed our escutcheon, and it combines the white

cedar of my mother's family with the red eye of my father's, which is

one of the oldest houses in the Farthing-Midi."

"Yes ... that is indicated by the ring contained within the eye,"

murmured the Count.  "One of your paternal ancestors will have obtained

that device in the wars before the black gate of Mordor, ere the

Valards drowned it in cheap champagne.  That takes you back to the end

of the Second Age, which is quite delightful."

Réginard was in train of saying something modest, when the Count de

Pérégrin appeared.  He was about 60, and thus middle-aged, and wore a

uniform as impressive as it was ugly, exemplary as it was of the

ineradicable bad taste of the Toucs.

"Father," said Réginard.  "I have the honour of introducing the Count

of Monte Fato, my liege-lord and saviour."

"Monsieur is welcome among us," said M. de Pérégrin.  "He has

rendered to our house, in preserving its only heir, a service worthy

to stand beside that which Félagond did for Béren in poisoning the

cognac of the wargs with the warm beer of the Snowmen."

In saying these words, M. de Pérégrin indicated a seat; Monte Fato,

although taking advantage of this offer, covered his features in a

light balrogue shadow while descrying within Pérégrin's soul a history

of secret cares and of past evils.  "He has done murder before now," he

thought. "I read it in him."

"Madame de Pérégrin," continued the Count de Pérégrin, "was at her

toilette when the Viscount informed us of your arrival; she will be

here in ten minutes, as the crow flies while doing the can-can. "

"It is an honour for me, monsieur," said Monte Fato, "on the first day

of my arrival in Annuminas, to meet a man whose merit equals his

reputation, and upon whom fortune, for once, has not smiled in vain as

did Morgot upon the dancing figure of Luthienne.  But has she not, in

the fields of Rohan or the mountains of Morie-Quiche, the baton of a

marshal to offer you, in addition to the glories won in Byouatier and

the Valley of the Spiders?"

"Oh, monsieur," said M. de Pérégrin, blushing a little, "I have left

the service.  Named peer under the Restauration, aide-de-camp of

Bouffinger, I could rightly aspire to a superior command.  But the

Revolution of Cermidor was so glorious as to be ungrateful, so I handed

in my resignation.  Once one has ventured one's life on the field of

battle, one barely knows how to conduct oneself in the glittering

tunnels of the fashionable world; so I devote myself to politics and to

business (chiefly in the mushroom and spoon industries)."

"It is similar things that sustain the superiority of your nation over

all others, monsieur," said the Count.  "A nobleman issued from a great

house, and possessed of a respectable fortune, you have first earned

glory as an obscure soldier on the battlefield, wagering your life

against willow-trees who posed an intolerable threat to your

civilization, that's very rare; then, become general and peer of Arnor,

you undertake another apprenticeship, thinking only of making yourself

useful to your compatriots through providing them with spoons that they

need not steal from 'farmers' who keep ferocious dogs and still more

ferocious mushroom-tasters, but which they can legitimately buy at an

exclusive price ... Ah! Monsieur, that is truly beautiful; I will say

even more: it is sublime."

Réginard looked upon the Count with astonishment, as he had never

before known him to reach such heights of enthusiasm.

"Hélas!" added the stranger, sans doute in order to dissipate the almost

imperceptible shadow, no larger than a hobbite's brain, that had passed

over Pérégrin's brow.  "In Mordor, or what is left of it, we do not

thus, but grow according to our race and species, the Orcs in their

pods and the balrogues in their warrens, and we keep the same foliage

(though we be not Ents), the same height, and the same uselessness

throughout our lives."

"Ah, but monsieur," said the Count de Pérégrin, "for a man of your

merit, Mordor is not a fatherland, and Arnor, which was ungrateful to

its own, will perhaps show more favor to a foreigner of talent, as she

did in the times of Lothon and Sharcoléon, when ruffians of infinitely

less value than yourself came over the Mountains of Cologne and

allotted themselves all the most signal honours in the realm 'for fair

distribution.'"

"Oh, monsieur, I have no interest in worldly rank," said Monte Fato.

"Indeed, Saroumand once offered me the staffs of the Five Wizards, but

I could not be bothered with such an appalling white elephant.

Although, as it would have been rude to say so, I merely informed him

that the honour was far too great, etc., etc."  The Count accompanied

this remark with a mysterious smile, as enigmatic as the thoughts of

Billot the palfrey on the wings of balrogues.

"Were I not afraid of wearying monsieur le comte," said Pérégrin,

evidently charmed by the Count's manners, "I would invite him to the

Chambre; there is today a fascinating discussion of a trifle that a

certain senator fancies.  The subject shows clearly how the culinary,

the erotic, and the political can never truly be severed from each

other."

"I will be highly recognisant of monsieur's offer at another time,"

replied the Count.  "For now, however, I have been flattered that I am

to meet the Countess whose face launched a thousand and one pipe-weeds, and I

will await her."

There was no time to descry whether Pérégrin caught the elegance of the                  Count’s allusion.  For just then, Monte Fato saw Mme. de Pérégrin at the                entrance of the salon, on the threshold of the doorway opposite that

whereby her husband had entered. And so Rosédès the Countess de Pérégrin

met the Count of Monte Fato, and he marvelled.  Very fair was her face,

and her long hair would have been like river of gold, save that it was

black and was coiffed in the latest Annumasian style.  Slender and tall

had she been once, perhaps, but an unseen sorrow had stunted her and

had caused her to gain weight, taking consolation in the gâteaux of

Alfred the cook.  She held herself high, but her face was suddenly as

pale as the lanterns of Minas-Morgoule.

"Are you ill, mother?" asked Réginard anxiously.

"No; but I fear our beds too often and too long are cold in this land

of late; the climate here is affreux.  Too much wood is given over to

ships.  Have we not enough?"  She spoke lightly, and smiled as she

spoke.  "You come later, monsieur, than we had hoped," she added.  "I

fear we have no fit welcome for you, our benefactor, who in restoring

to us our son have restored the light of our life, even as did Gandault

for Théodien in giving his recipe for cognac, and that the food and

drink here will not be to your liking."

The Count bowed low, but was even paler than Mme. de Pérégrin, and he

did not smile. "Mariners are not hard to please," he said.  "For

despite my rank, so I consider myself.  I have enjoyed far worse

hospitality than yours: there are houses whose cuisine is of the most

mediocre."  He frowned imperceptibly; fifteen years ago on that day he

had passed through the gate of the Castle of Loqueholles, and although

he had issued therefrom alive again, the memory was very evil, like the

nightmare that results from an excess of pipe-weed.

"Bien sûr," she replied.  "Although the cuisine, and life in general,

in these parts lacks spice.  Many years now have M. de Pérégrin and

myself fought the long ennui.  For though the Count de Pérégrin be

accounted the wisest of the nouveaux riches of Terre-moyene, they say,

yet has not the stock market been so kind to us as aforetime.  Howbeit,

I am grateful, from the innermost depths of the heart, that our son has

had such a friend as you."  And Rosédès gazed westward, towards the

land of the Valards, with an expression of such infinite gratitude that

the Count believed he saw trembling two tears within her eyes that were

as clear as the mineral water of Quélède-Zarâme.

M. de Pérégrin made his excuses, for he had to attend a discussion of

trifles in the Chambre des moutants.  The Countess requested that Monte

Fato stay and continue to enjoy the hospitality of the house of

Pérégrin.

"Madame," replied the Count, "I am one could not be more grateful of

your offer, but as I have just arrived in this land, I must make

arrangements for my room and board, lest I have less than I can

stomach."

"You will at least return?"

The Count bowed, which could be taken for assent.

"Monsieur le vicomte," said the Count to Réginard, "I will not propose

that you accompany me, for it will take me one day to make my abode

sufficiently remarkable that a song might be sung in its regard."

"If you demand a day, monsieur le comte, I do not doubt that your

palace will be worthy of the Valards.  Decidedly, you have one Ring to

rule them all at your disposal."

"Ma foi, let people believe that if you wish," said Monte Fato.  "It

will give me some credit among the ladies."  With that, he departed,

leaving Réginard and the Countess alone.

"Do you suffer, mother?" asked Réginard anxiously.

"It is but an attack of the usual vapors," replied Rosédès.  "They

lie heavily upon me like the beer of Brie."

"Would you wish for some café aux champignons to assuage them?"

"Thank you, I would."

Réginard rang a bell and ordered that the servants carry out Madame's

desire.  While she drank her café, the Countess redirected the

conversation to the Count of Monte Fato.

"Who is this Count of Monte Fato?" she inquired.

"I can do no better than to say that he is, as you have seen him,"

replied Réginard.  "Once you know his name, or rather title, that is

the only answer."

"Whence then this title, Monte Fato?"

"A caprice.  He bought the island in the Mordorian archipelago and,

according to what he told me this morning, has founded an exclusive

Company of Nine Chevaliers of Monte Fato, also called Fantômes du Ring.  

For the rest, he has no claim to ancient nobility and calls himself a

count of hazard."

"His manners are excellent."

"Oh, perfect, mother; they surpass those of the proudest nobilities I

have known in Terre-moyene: the Rivendellois, the Gentilhommes de

Neige or Snowblemen, and the Dwerreaux."

"Do you believe the Count to be what he appears?"  inquired the

Countess.  "What do you think is his true character?"

"Oh, I've seen so many strange things about him, that if you want me to

tell you what I think, I say that I regard him willingly as one of

those characters of Byrogond, that sorrow has marked with a fatal seal,

like some Turin, or some Féanoir, or some Sauron; in short, one of the

débris of some ancient family that, disinherited of their paternal

fortune, have found another by force of their adventurous genius or

their use of enchanted jewellery which has placed them outside the laws

of society."

"And how old might the Count be?"

"Thirty-five or thirty-six."

"So young! It is impossible." protested Rosédès.

"Nevertheless it is true," said Réginard.  "He has told me so himself,

in the most unpremeditated manner possible."

"And he has become your friend?"

"I like him, mother, whatever Arafrantz d'Imrahil may say, who wanted

to pass him off as some mysterious being risen from the abysm like

Gandault and the balrogue."

The Countess made a movement of terror.  "Be prudent, my son!  I fear

that he is more dangerous than anyone you will ever encounter in even

the most outré salon, even that of the Dark Seigneur himself."

"In order to be prudent, I would need to know of what I should be

suspicious; but no smoking arquebus has made its presence known to me."

"You are, sans doute, right," said Rosédès.  "Just tell me ... how

did your father receive him?  Did he exhibit any of those oddities he

has occasionally shown, such as playing unpleasantly with his dagger or

saying 'nous le détestons pour toujours'?"

"My father was perfect, and he was so pleased by various compliments

that the Count threw in his direction with better aim than Légolas,

that they parted in closer friendship than Huand and Carcharot."

The Countess did not reply; she was absorbed in thought, and not

wanting to disturb her Réginard took his leave.