The Count of Monte Fato

On arriving at his new home at Champs-Valinorées, Nº 30, the Count of 
Monte Fato was met by his intendant, Roguccio, who accompanied him to 
the door after the Count's valet (a Fantôme du Ring) had assisted him in 
alighting from his eagle. 
 
As they entered the antechamber, the Count contemplated with a critical
eye the mosaic on the floor, which depicted a young man upon a white horse,
blowing a horn; the horse's head was lifted, and its nostrils were wide and
red as it neighed, smelling cabernet-sauvignon afar.
 
"These are poor mosaics in this antechamber," he said.  "I hope well that all that will be removed."
 
Roguccio bowed, and led the Count into the petit salon.
 
"Do you know the environs of Annuminas?" said the Count.
 
"No, your Excellency."
 
"That is fâcheux," said Monte Fato.  "For I wish to go to Barroue-Don this evening to see my property, and in coming with me you would without doubt have given me useful information."
 
"To Barroue-Don!" cried Roguccio.  "Me, go to Barroue-Don!"  He bore the expression of a hobbite in a boat, or a petit-dwarf in an equestrian contest.
 
"Eh, bien, what is so astonishing about going to Barroue-Don?"
 
Roguccio lowered his head before the imperious regard of his master,
and remained immobile and without response.
 
"Will I have to send for my carriage a second time?" said Monte Fato,
knowing full well that Roguccio had not forgotten the fate of the
previous intendant, who had made the Count wait one minute for his
nazghouleh, and had been sentenced to the Black Pits, shrivelling before
the Count's Lidless Eye.
 
Roguccio bounded from the petit salon to the antechamber, and called
out in a hoarse voice, "His Excellency's Eagles!"
 
 
Monte Fato wrote some letters while waiting for the intendant to reappear.
 
"Your carriage is ready," said the latter.
 
"Eh, bien, get your gloves, your wings, and your hat," said the Count.
 
Roguccio obeyed; but made the sign of the Eye before ascending the carriage,
and spent the journey murmuring prayers to Melcoeur, Elberette, and the Everlasting Smiley.
 
"You will order the carriage to be stopped at rue Vieilhomme-Willeau, 28,"
said the Count, fixing the intendant with a pitiless gaze.  Roguccio backed away, breathing
hard, his hand clutching at his wing; but he obeyed.
 
Nº 28 was at the extremity of the village, whose hills were covered with
mounds and standing stones in the style of Coton-Watteau, and in the midst
a single stone, standing tall under the sun above, and at this hour casting no shadow.  It was ancien-régime and yet somehow significant.  Around it were located various hobbital cottages. 
Nº 28 was built to resemble those old-fashioned rustic abodes that, in turn, imitate the
holes of our remote ancestors; and that meant comfort.  It had a roof of turf, round
windows, and a round door. However, it was rather larger than the average cottage, as
was not marvellous, given that it belonged to the Count of Monte Fato.
 
When they had arrived, the Count's valet descended and opened the gate.
 
"Eh bien, you do not descend, monsieur Roguccio?" said the Count.
"You remain suspended in the air in my eagle-carriage?  What the
morgot are you thinking this evening?"
 
Roguccio hastened to the gate and assisted the Count in descending.  He
then knocked on the door.  The concierge, a tall dark figure like a shadow against the stars, opened.
 
"It is a relief effectively to see the owner of these premises," he said. 
"Our last proprietor, the Marquis d'Imrahil, was as invisible these last
few years as if he had been possessed of a Ring of Power."
 
The Count laughed ironically.  "The Marquis d'Imrahil ... I believe I know
that name," he said.
 
"An elderly nobleman, faithful adherent of the Aragons; he had a single
daughter who married M. de Villefaramir, steuard du roi, and subsequently
died of …” (he lowered his voice) “of the hypochondria of Guimly."
 
The Count glanced at Roguccio, who was paler than the white chocolate
of Minas-Morgoule.
 
"Merci, merci!"  said the Count.  "Give me a light, brave homme. Roguccio
will accompany me."  And he covered the concierge in mithril, giving rise
to an explosion of blessings.
 
Monte Fato and his intendant traversed a rather vast rez-de-chaussée,
and a second storey composed of a salon, a bathroom, and two bedrooms.
Through one of these bedrooms, they arrived at a winding staircase,
whose extremity abutted the garden.  Roguccio halted at the door.
"This is an evil door," he murmured.  "And my death lies beyond it."
 
"Let us go, then, monsieur Roguccio!" said the Count.
 
But the one whom he addressed was stunned, stupefied, annihilated.  He
lay on the ground unmanned, and for some time he could not lift his
face, but knelt forward, covering the back of his head with his large
flat wings.  His eyes stared before them as if in search of the traces
of an abominable past, more dreadful than the secret of Elrond's
recipe for crêpes.
 
"No! no!" he cried.  "It is impossible!"
 
"Eh bien?" said the Count, in that irresistible voice before which
all other powers in Terre-moyenne were silent.
 
"But you see, monseigneur, it is not natural!" cried the intendant.
"That you, having to buy a house in Annuminas, should buy precisely
at Barroue-Don, and then precisely at rue Vieilhomme-Willeau, 28!  Ah,
why did I not tell you everything back there, monseigneur!  You
certainly would not have required that I come.  I had hoped it was
another house, even were it the habitation of scorpions or Bombadil.
As if there were another house in Barroue-Don than that of the murder!"
 
"Stubborn Balrogue!" said Monte Fato.  "Always superstitions and mysteries, unsubstantial as the shadows wherein you cloak yourselves! Here, take this lantern, which contains the light of the Two Cheeses, and let us visit the garden; with me you will not be afraid, I hope!"
 
Roguccio took the lantern and opened the door.  The Count went forward,
oblivious of a large X carved in the ground, to which the intendant
gave a wide berth.
 
Finally, Roguccio could endure no more.  "Stop, monsieur!" he cried. 
"You are almost at the place where he fell!"
 
"Mon cher monsieur Roguccio," said Monte Fato with a laugh.  "I adjure
you, return to yourself.  We are not here in Gondolino, surrounded by Elves,
nor yet in Morie, in the presence of a wizard.  We are simply in a jardin hobbitique, admittedly a little ill-maintained, but which must not be calumniated on that regard."
 
"Monsieur, do not remain there!  Do not remain there!"
 
"Monsieur Roguccio," said the Count.  "You are twisting your arms and
rolling your eyes like a hypochondriac smurve who has been infected
by the Black Breath through drinking cheap warm beer mixed with miruvor
on the Day of Durin without a licence from the shirrife.  Now I have
noticed that the Black Breath that eats most the soul is a secret.  I
knew you were a balrogue, and in the South I let pass all your talk of
vendettas and burning and flaming, because in your land that is the
custom; but we are now in Arnor, where murder is considered to be in
very bad taste: there are shirrifes who occupy themselves thereof,
éthains who condemn it, and the throwing into the river with cement
blocks attached to your feet that punishes it.  Did the abbé
Glrfindoni then lie in his letter of recommendation, in which he
enumerated all of your precious qualities in rather poor alliterative verse?"
 
"But monsieur le comte, did you not yourself tell me that the abbé,
who heard my confession in the prisons of Rohirrîmes, informed you
that there was a shadow on my past as dark as the leather lingerie of Galadriella?"
 
"Yes, but since he also said that you would make an excellent
intendant, I believed that you had only stolen mitrhil from the
Dwarves, voilà tout!"  
 
"Oh! Monsieur le comte!" said Roguccio with contempt.
 
"Or that, being a Balrogue, you had simply cooked a goose, as you say
in your country as a jocular metaphor for burning someone to death for
some affront."
 
"Eh oui, monseigneur, oui, mon bon seigneur, it was only revenge,
that is all!"
 
"I understand that, but what I do not understand is how this charming
rustic abode is associated with your blood-vengeance. Did the Marquis
d'Imrahil run away with your innocent roguette daughter?"
 
"Non, monsieur, and it was not he upon whom I took revenge.  But such
a story I would not tell but under the seal of confession."
 
"Then, monsieur Roguccio, you will return to your abbé Glorfindoni,
and he will make you a Luthiniscan or an Arwenican or whatever
religious order you fancy, and you will converse about your secrets.
Mais, moi, I fear a guest terrified by such phantoms, which do not at
all exhibit the perfect decorum of my Fantômes of the Ring; I do not at
all like for my servants to fear to tread my gardens in the evening.
Besides, I admit that I would have little interest in receiving a visit
from the shirrifes, for my Chevaliers have better things to do than kill
such canaille.  For learn this, Roguccio: in the dark realm whence
you came, one only pays justice to be silent regarding flight; but in
Arnor, on the contrary, one only pays it when it speaks.  I believed
you to be combustible and a little contrebandier, but I see you have
other wings in your shadow.  You are no longer mine, monsieur Roguccio."
 
"Non, monsieur, I swear it by the lava of Monte Fato, I will tell
all!  But first, I beg of you, remove yourself from that X!  Placed as
you are, in that shadow that conceals your shape and seems to have a
substance and almost an evil will of its own, you appear to me as the
wraith of M. de Villefaramir!"
 
"What! M. de Villefaramir!" cried the Count.  "The steuard du roi, known
for inflexible rigor and irrefragable virtue, who would not accept a bribe
if he saw it lying in the highway?"
 
"Eh bien, monsieur, that man of the irreproachable reputation, as pure as
the snows of Charadras ..."
 
"Yes?"
 
"... was infamous!"
 
"Bha, impossible!"
 
"I swear it by the style of the Précieux!"
 
"In truth!" said Monte Fato.  "You will recount me all that, monsieur Roguccio, for it begins
veritably to interest me."
 
And the Count, humming a little tune from Lutienna, sat on a bench; the intendant
remained standing.
 
~~~
 
"I had an elder brother," began Roguccio, "thirteen years older than I,
who raised me as if I were his son, in the village of Rogliano.
This brother was in the service of the Emperor Sharcoléon; slightly
wounded in the battle of Byouatier, he retreated with the army across
the Vin-Cognac.  One day, he sent a letter begging that I should send
him some money; and I resolved to bring it with me in person to Rohirrîmes.
 
"Alas, it was in vain, for royalist brigands in the pay of Guillaume,
Albert le Moupet, and Thomas, who terrorized the countryside around
Rohirrîmes, murdered him.  No one dared name them, for they all knew what flaming trolls
those brigands were.  I thought to have recourse to the Arnorian justice, that fears nothing,
and I presented myself to the steuard du roi."
 
"M. de Villefaramir, sans doute," said the Count casually.
 
"Yes, your Excellency.  'Monsieur,' I said.  'My brother was murdered yesterday in the streets of Rohirrîmes.  It is your duty to discover by whom, and to avenge those whom the justice of Mandaux,
the most tasteless of the Valards, could not defend.'
 
"'Who was your brother?' asked the steuard.
 
"'Boundier of the battalion of Morie.' I replied.
 
"'A soldier of the usurper, then?'
 
"'Of the army of Arnor.'
 
"'Eh bien, he lived by the sword, and died by it.  If you go to war - needlessly, for the Aragons did
not desire it, only the ambitions of your usurper - then people will be slain.  What is the House of Sharcoléon but a thatched barn in appalling First Empire taste, where brigands drink in the reek of
cheap cigars, and their brats roll on the floor among the dogs?  Too long have they escaped the
guillotine themselves.'
 
"'What!  Monseigneur, is it possible that you speak to me thus, you, who are a magistrate!' I cried.
 
"'All these Balrogues are insane, my word of honor!' replied Villefaramir. 'And they think their
compatriot is still emperor. You have made a slight error of the date, mon cher; and your
precious master is a beggar in the wilderness.  Go then, and if you do not go I will have
you escorted.'
 
"I looked and saw at once that the heart of that man was as cold and as impregnable as the
fortress of Ortanco.  I approached him.
 
"'Eh bien,' I cried.  ‘If you know so much about Balrogues, you lying
puppet of the sock, you should know how they keep their word. You find
it good that one has killed my brother, who was Sharcoléonist, because
you, you are royalist; eh bien, I, who am Sharcoléonist, declare that I
will burn you and leave your corpse on a mountaintop for the eagles to
devour.  From this moment I declare vendetta unto you; guard yourself
well, and if you ever see me again, fly, you fool!  For that moment will
be your last.'"
 
"Ha ha!" said the Count.  "With your honest figure, you do things like
that, monsieur Roguccio, and to a steuard du roi encore!  Did he at least
know enough Balrogois to understand what the meaning of vendetta?"
 
"He knew it so well that he ever after wore chain mail and a sword under
his gilet; and indeed would not depart from his château until that he had
sent out scouts, both of the elves and the Dunédains, to search for me
north, south, east , and west.
 
"I left before he could respond.  He placed a bounty on my head, but through lurking in the
shadows and now and then disguising myself as a jellyfish, I succeeded in escaping detection.
Wherever he went, I followed; not a move did he make, not a breath did he take, without
that I knew it; and in the end, I tracked him here, where he always entered by the small
door you see there, that on the outside reads, No Admittance Except on Affairs of Fête."
 
The Count nodded.
 
"I installed myself in Barroue-Don, in the shadows, and watched and waited, disguised as
one of the lesser wights who serve as janitors in those environs.  The house being useless to its
owner, the Marquis d'Imrahil - since he inhabited the Farthing-Midi - he rented it out
to a young widow who was known only as the Baroness.  One evening, I saw her walk alone
in the garden, whose fatal loveliness reminded me of Ithiliande in the happy days before the
immigrants from Mina Tiretta spoiled it with their gaudy hotels, and I understood that she
awaited M. de Villefaramir.  The latter, indeed, appeared shortly afterwards. I could
perhaps have killed him then and there, but to kill someone during wogah seemed dishonorable
to me, so I resolved to await a more decent occasion.
 
"At the next rendezvous, Villefaramir came early.  This time, I did not hesitate, but drew my
firewhip from my pocket, ensured that it was at the correct temperature, found a suitable
shadow in the garden with which to blend, and prepared myself for the kill.  Villefaramir
disappeared into the house.
 
"After midnight, he reappeared.  But as he advanced in the open space,
I thought he carried a weapon, possibly a wizard's staff, in hand; and
I waited.  As he came nearer, I perceived that what I had taken for a
weapon was nothing but a spade, and that he held a coffer under his grey
mantle, marked with the letter G, from which I concluded that he, like most
others, had once enjoyed the favors of Galadriella.
 
“After burying it, he sought to conceal all traces of his nocturnal labours,
that there be an end in Terre-moyenne to this menace.
 
"From out of my shadow a red sword leapt flaming.  I threw myself upon
him and twirled my firewhip around his waist, ignited it, and burned him
then and there, crying:
 
"'I am Giovanni Roguccio, the keeper of the flame of Utunno.  Your
steuardship is over, and your death is upon you!'  He fled screaming,
and was kicked into the cottage by his horse.
 
"In a second, I had unearthed the coffer; then, I filled the hole,
melted the spade, ran out the door, and locked it at double bolt,
laughing softly to myself."
 
"Good!" said the Count.  "A little murder accompanied by theft."
 
"Not theft, your Excellency; restitution," said the balrogue.
 
"At least the sum was round."
 
"It was not money; it was a newborn infant, partly asphyxiated, but not yet dead.  I healed
him after the manner of my people, with balrogue-slime, and took him to a hospice for lost
children under the direction of the long-haired nuns of Luthienne.
 
"Fifteen days later, I returned to Rogliano, and told the whole story to my wife Rogunta.
 
"'Giovanni,' she said, 'you should have brought the child home with you;
we would have replaced the parents he had lost, and would have talked to
him about smurf-slaughter in the long winter evening beside the fire, and Melcore
would have blessed us, and we would have named him Trascoletto, the blessed, and he
would have brightened our day like a spark from Mount Fato.'
 
"All I did was show her the embroidered linen, emblazoned with two letters,
that we could use to claim the child if we were richer."
 
"What two letters were those?" asked the Count.
 
"An L and a B surmounted with the pipe-weed of a baron."
 
"I believe, may Luthienne forgive me, that you are using terms of heraldry!" said the Count.  "Where
the morgot did you learn that?"
 
"In your Excellency's service, one learns many things, often to the grave
peril of one's soul," replied the balrogue solemnly.
 
"Continue; I am curious to learn two things: what became of the child, and
for what crime you were imprisoned in Rohirrîmes."
 
"The story will be rather long, monsieur."
 
"No matter; you know that those of us who hold the Ring of Power do not
weary, though it were of the weight of ten thousand centuries."
 
"As your Excellency wishes.  I resumed the trade of contrebandier, and did
quite well at it.  Given that any arrest would have led to inquiries, and that such inquiries
would uncover far more serious affairs in my past than dwarvish cigars imported by contraband
or elvish eau-de-vie brought in by barrel without laisser-passer, I feared the shirrifes more than
the webs of Ungolianne.  Preferring a thousand times death to capture, I did astonishing
things, which proved to me that often the only thing coming in between us and fortune, is the care
we take of our bodies, in projects that require determination and rapid resolve.  For once you
have sacrificed your life, braving the dreaded element of water (and not mineral water, at
that), you are no longer the same balrogue, and the common herd of urucs are no longer
your equals."
 
"You've studied philosophy, monsieur Roguccio!" said the Count. "First you were
 a murderer, and now you are a sage.  I do not doubt that soon you will be a wizard - or a
 warrior.  Though philosophy at 10 PM, c'est un peu tard.  But I must admit that your
philosophy differs from that of most others in being true."
 
Roguccio bowed in the fashion of the balrogues, by pouring cognac on the ground and
igniting it.  "Our wealth and power grew, and for a time also our wisdom.  But then one
day, as I returned from smuggling some tabac d'éthélien into Brie (curse the tariffs of Brie!),
the first thing I saw was a child of seven or eight months.  I uttered a cry of joy.  The only
regret I had ever had since the murder was the abandonment of the child (it goes without
saying that I was rather proud of the murder itself).  Rogunta had guessed everything, and had
prepared this surprise for me.  'In truth, Rogunta,' I said, weeping tears that pierced like the
rapiers of Féanoir, 'you are a good woman, and Providence will bless you with the
suitors of Luthienne.'"
 
"This, I fear, is less exact than your philosophy," said Monte Fato.
 
"Alas, monseigneur, you are right, and it was the child himself that the Valards charged with my
punition.  Never did evil nature manifest itself more rapidly; and yet it cannot be said that
Trascoletto was ill-raised, for Rogunta treated him like Melcore.  Already he showed a
propensity for discovering terrible secrets and using them for iniquitous ends before he could
even talk; for he was sharp-eyed and keen-eared for all that would cause scandal.
 
"One day, he might have been five or six years old, we heard about the murder of a local
prince of Cardolant, who had a palantir, which was stolen.  That evening, Trascoletto came
home with a palantir that he claimed a friend named Déagas had given him as a birthday
present.  

'Only seven of these stones ever existed in Terre-moyenne,' I said. 'Not even the Glamhothschilds
could afford them.  Your friend Déagas is  the son of a vendor of sauerkraut, and given the
lack of demand for that eatable in Arnor, is hardly far from destitution.  Tell me then how you
procured it.'
 
"Trascoletto maintained his lie, accompanying it with details so incredible and inconsistent, that
 they put the placards of the usenettistes to shame.  I was irritated and sought to put the fear of fire
into him; but he laughed and said, 'You cannot flame me; you are not my father, and do not have
the right.'  This reply almost frightened me, and indeed my firewhip dropped to my side without
touching the guilty one.  From then on, Trascoletto did as he would, and Rogunta's money was
wasted on such appalling caprices as playing golfimboules with the heads of smurreaux while
becoming intoxicated  n mushrooms from the Land of the Caterpillars.  I attempted to train him
in the severe discipline of contraband; but as he could have anything he wanted from Rogunta, he laughed sarcastically and mocked me in front of his friends."
 
"Charming young fellow," murmured the Count.
 
"Alas, the idea of burning a child whose father I had murdered rendered all correction impossible. 
The best I could do was to advise Rogunta to bury all her wealth beneath the geysers of Ckazade-
doûm, and let it lie there till the End - if even that were enough to restrain the shadow.
 
"Meanwhile, I was involved in a perilous ring-smuggling operation. One day, I noticed several
dwarven shirrifes among the douaniers of Arnor - the first sign that all was not as it should be,
and always had been since the days of Carmen.  I was as timid before the shirrifes
as I was brave before any other military corps; and covering myself in shadow, I hastened
to the Auberge abandonnée, where I expected shelter from one of my colleagues, a halflingue
named Buttrebeurrousse."
 
"When was this?" asked Monte Fato.
 
"The 3 Naréal, 1829, in the calendrier des hobbites," replied Roguccio.  "However, by custom we
never entered his inn through the front door, but always by burying under the hedge like the ancient beasts of Morie; and so I did in this case, and gained a sort of closet in which I was accustomed to
sleep in case Buttrebeurrousse had guests.  Just as I entered the closet, Buttrebeurrousse returned
to the inn with a stranger, evidently a dwarf named Ouanqueur.  The inn-keeper called for his wife.
 
"'Carcharotte!' said he.  'The good priest did not deceive us: the silmaril is genuine.  Only, Monsieur Ouanqueur requests that you tell the story of how it entered our possession, that he may be sure that
is truly ours.  As it is: our Precious!'
 
"Buttrebeurrousse told the whole story, which you know already, so I need not repeat it now. 
'This story may well be true,' said Ouanqueur.  'Dreams and legends spring to life out of the
pawnshops. The one thing, then, on which we are not agreed is the price.'
 
"'Did we not settle upon 50, 000 floquerins?"
 
'I will give you 987 mushroom-lions of mithril, and not a penny more,' said Ouanqueur.
 
"'But the priest said it was worth 50, 000 floquerins!  If you do not agree to 50, 000 floquerins, I will
sell to someone else.'
 
"'Ah, but another might not believe your story.  It is indeed almost as far-fetched as Gandault's theory about balrogue wings speaking about pointed ears on the Isle of Monte Fato. They might ask
untoward questions, possibly even impose the riddle test ... We would have to find the demmed
elusive abbé Glorfindoni, and what ship will bring him back across so wide a sea?'  He laughed.  'A
grey ship, full of ghosts and elven-speculators, sans doute.'
 
"'But we are too poor to lose the 50, 000 floquerins.'
 
"'But look at the pretty money! See the pretty money! See! Pretty pretty!'  
 
“I saw the struggle that took place within Buttrebeurrousse's soul. Before he could conceal it, I saw through the mask of a mind in doubt, loathing to give up the greater sum he had demanded, yet dreading to be left without any money at all.  When he spoke, his voice was shrill and whingy.  At last the need to have money, now, conquered him.
 
"'Very well, I will accept the 987 mushroom-lions of mithril, but my wife wants a necklace of the dwarves, and I a shapeshifting helmet.'
 
"Ouanqueur removed a chest with the name Mîme written on it in dwarvish runes, and counted
out 987 mushroom-lions of mithril, besides the helmet and necklace.  Buttrebeurrousse and la Carcharotte counted and recounted the money 314 times, before finally pronouncing themselves
more or less satisfied, though veritably, they should have received 50, 000 floquerins.
 
"'And now I must be on my way; I have 20 hobbite-paupers to evict for non-payment of rent,' said Ouanqueur.
 
"'And what about the ruffians?  The area around the Digue des morts is
perilous at this time of night,' said Buttrebeurrousse.
 
"'As for ruffians, voilà pour eux,' he said, drawing Estingue. 'I'll drive this bane of trolls into their interiors.'
 
"Buttrebeurrousse and la Carcharotte exchanged a sombre, vaguely wolf-like glance, as if struck at the same time by a terrible thought.
 
"'Stay,' said Buttrebeurrousse.
 
"'Yes, stay,' said la Carcharotte.  'We will take good care of you.'
 
"The jeweller threw a coup d'oeil outside and said, 'The mountain is crowned with a veritable storm of Mordor; lightning leaps back broken into tongues of fire. It seems that I must do so, and that I am fated
to accept your aid, and your fate to help me, whom you long haggled with evil purpose.'
 
"Buttrebeurousse wiped the sweat from his brow, but la Carcharotte smiled sweetly, and for the first
time since I had met her, almost looked attractive.
 
"'Where will you keep me?' asked Ouanqueur.
 
"'The best will be in one of the quarters for the hobbite,' said la Carcharotte. 'That's the most suited for dwarves that we possess, I fear.'
 
"La Carcharotte proceeded to serve M. Ouanqueur supper with such zeal that he might have been the Prince des Hobbites returned from a duel with the Seigneur of the Rings.  As for Buttrebeurrousse, he said nothing, and seemed hesitant even to look at his guest.  'I think it's clearing up,' he muttered; but
as if to give him the lie, a thunderbolt clove the heavens as if a very flame cleaving the newsgroupes. 
That decided Ouanqueur, and he let himself be guided by la Carcharotte to his room, which happened
to be right next to my closet.
 
"I heard Buttrebeurrousse and la Carcharotte arguing sotto voce about whether murdering their guest would offend the Valards, or, on the contrary, amuse them greatly.  I didn't quite see why that
mattered, so I fell asleep.
 
"I was awoken by a cry from the adjacent room, followed by a howling at the full moon; I vaguely
saw Buttrebeurrousse carrying a coffer out of the door.  I guessed that the dwarf was dead, and feeling hungry, decided to cook him ..."
 
"Delightful custom," interposed the Count.
 
"... but the first thing I saw on leaving the closet was the cadaver of la Carcharotte, looking even more wolvish than she had in life. Everything was in the most appalling disorder, especially the jeweller, who bore a quite inedible aspect.  The windows had been forced open and were swinging, and the curtains were flapping; the beds were tossed about, and the bolsters slashed and flung upon the floor.  This was evidently not the sort of inn where guests could sleep safe in their beds, and its touristic appeal had
been greatly reduced.  Just at that moment I heard a loud knock and a voice yelling, 'Open in the name of Arnor!'  Trembling, I opened the door, and my worst fears were realized: it was the shirrifes.
 
"'It isn't me!  I don't have it!  I didn't do it!' I cried.
 
"But they no more believed me than if I had told them that the highest form
of government was that of a colony of cherrystone clams. Although I made no resistance, they bound me in cruel stinging rope - clearly of elvish provenance - and led me to the prison of Rohirrîmes, where I languished in the company of some horses that had been arrested for indecent exposure.  I begged the
judge to search for the abbé Glorfindoni, who could attest to the veracity of at least part of my story.
 
"The judge was kind enough to grant my request.  Three months later, theabbé Glorfindoni arrived at
my cell.  You can imagine with what delight I received him, although in other circumstances I might
have been nettled by  is remark: 'The last time I heard the confession of a balrogue was on pushing Gothemogue into the fountain in Gondolino, before I left the circles of the world.'
 
"To my amazement, he confirmed the entire story of the silmaril: how it had been left to
Buttrebeurrousse by Samouard Gamgès, and the rest. Equally to my amazement, he believed my
account of the murder of Ouanqueur.  Drawn by his gentle charity, I told him all that had happened
in Barroue-Don, under the seal of confession.  The admission of this first murder proved that I had not committed the second, and he promised to do all in his power to convince the judge of my innocence. Which he effectively did; first my prison began to ease - in particular they stopped feeding me cram
and gave me excellent soufflés, personally cooked by the judge's mistress; and then, when they laid
hands on Buttrebeurrousse, he admitted everything, and he was sentenced to the galleys, and I was freed.
 
"The abbé did me the kindness of writing the recommendation that you received, for he was concerned that the life of a contrebandier was about to become very dangerous: douaniers and Chevaliers noirs were everywhere on the hunt.  And me voilà.  Has your Excellency ever had a complaint to make of me?"
 
"None," said Monte Fato.  "Save one: that you have never mentioned Rogunta or your adoptive son!"
 
"Hélas, your Excellency!  Now we come to the saddest part of my story.  I hastened to return to
console the long-suffering Rogunta; but when I arrived, I found the cave in mourning.  The
neighbours had witnessed a horrible scene!  Rogunta, following my counsels, had sought to resist
the exigencies of Trascoletto, and had refused to fund his project to emulate Sharcoléon in conquering
the world and covering it with, if not a second darkness, than at least a tyranny of execrably bad
sartorial fashions.  He threatened her, and left for the day with some renegade dwarves.  Rogunta
wept, for she had for the wretch a mother's heart. When he returned at 11 o'clock in the company
of his friends Huigi, Luigi, and Duigi, they seized her, and one - I tremble to think it might have been
that child - cried, 'We will make you sing like the nightingale of Milanor, Varda Pasta, if you do not at once tell us where the money is!'
 
"The wife of Gamelino alone witnessed what followed.  It seems that Trascoletto's friends meant to threaten Rogunta with water, but accidentally poured it over her, melting her.  When the woman and her husband finally dared enter the house, they found Rogunta reduced to a puddle of slime, and the money gone.  As for Trascoletto, he had left Rogliano, never to return."
 
"And what do you think of all this?" said Monte Fato.
 
"That it is a punishment for my crime," said Roguccio.  "The Villefaramirs are an accursed race."
 
"That, at least, is true," murmured the Count in a lugubrious voice.
 
"Now, your Excellency will understand my reluctance to come here, where I
have killed a man, whose cadaver is perhaps buried right beneath my feet,
and whose unquiet spirit doubtless haunts this place like a wight or a lurking flame warrior."
 
"Everything is possible, even that the steuard is not yet dead," said Monte Fato, rising from the bench.  "You have done well to tell me this story, for I shall raise your salary above that of the kings of the
earth, and give you a Turkey de Frodoël."
 
And Roguccio, seeing the justice and mercy of the Count, cried, "Your Excellency has shown your quality; the very highest."
 
"A pert servant, Roguccio.  Mais non; the praise of the laudable is above all the rewards of the demi-monde of Luthienne.  As for Trascoletto, he will serve as the instrument of divine vengeance, and be punished in turn, like the talking sword of Turin.  Go and sleep in peace now, Roguccio, and heed no nightly noises.  And if your confessor, at the final moment, be less indulgent than was abbé Glorfindoni, send for me, and I will find words and pipe-weed to cradle your soul on the long journey that leads to eternity."
 
Roguccio bowed respectfully, and departed.