Chapitre 18. The Siege of the Arnorian Monde

Andurillo Pseudonimo was making a splendid progress in Annuminasian society, so ready to receive strangers and treat them, not according to what they are, but according to how they wish to appear.  All it demands of a stranger is that he more or less speak the Parler Commun, dress properly, smoke pipe-weed, ingest mushrooms, be a fine riddler, and pay in mithrile. Andurillo fulfilled all these requirements admirably, so that he was addressed as “monsieur le comte” and reputed to be the heir of Bilbon (“first and second cousin, owing to some extremely unsavoury affair,” said Mme. de Villefaramir).  So matters stood when the Count of Monte Fato undertook to introduce the young Pseudonimo to the baroness of Sacqueville-Danglars.

To the baroness, the name of Monte Fato inspired dread; but when the Count himself appeared, his brilliant Eye, his open countenance, his gallantry, and the splendour of his Ring removed the least impression of fear; it seemed to the baroness impossible that so charming a man could nourish secret designs against her.

When the Count entered Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars’s boudoir with Andurillo, his presence produced its usual effect (a couple of thunderbolts, followed by sunshine), and the baroness received Monte Fato with a smile.  Pseudonimo was dressed in black like a hero out of the novel of Gloeinthe.  

Next to the baroness sat Mlle. Éowénie, beautiful, cold, and mocking as always.  Not one of the looks and sighs of Andurillo escaped her; one would say that they slid off the cuirass of Arwenne, a cuirass that some philosophers claim covers the breast of Femmeslache.  Éowénie saluted the Count coldly, and profited from the first opportunity to return to her salon, whence soon two voices exhalating with loud laughter indicated to Monte Fato that Mlle. de Sacqueville-Danglars had preferred the company of her voice teacher, Célesbienne d’Affadondilly, to his own and that of the young Pseudonimo.  The Count also noticed the latter’s eagerness to go listen to the music at the door whose threshold he durst not cross, lest the wrath and spear of Éorache be his reward, and to manifest his admiration.

When Sacqueville-Danglars arrived, he greeted his wife in the manner in which some husbands greet their wives, and whereof bachelors can form no idea until a very extended code on conjugality, or at the very least a Faque, be published.

“Have those demoiselles not invited you to make music with them?” he asked Andurillo.

“Hélas! Non, monsieur,” replied Andurillo, with a sigh yet more remarkable than the others.

The banker opened the door to the piano room.  The two young ladies formed a charming tableau; Célesbienne, whom the Count had never before seen, was a slender blonde woman, like a fay, with long curly hair like one of the Entouives of Barbalbero, and two eyes veiled with fatigue.  One would have said she had a weak heart and, like Finduilette in The Violin of Nargot-Rond, might die one day while singing.  

“Eh bien,” said Sacqueville-Danglars to his daughter.  “Are we excluded then, we others?”  And he guided the young man into the salon, shutting the door behind them, whether by chance or by design.  Soon after, the Count heard Andurillo’s voice accompanying a Balrogician song, which made him smile by causing him to forget Andurillo and remember Trascoletto.

Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars engaged the Count in small talk about her husband’s financial losses.

“M. de Brie once told me … where has he been lately, by the way?” said Monte Fato.

“I have no idea,” replied the baroness, with miraculous aplomb.  “You were saying …”

“Yes; M. de Brie told me that you sacrifice a bit to the demon of gambling.”

“I had that taste for a time, monsieur; but no more.”

“You err, madame.  Eh! Mon Érou!  The chances of fortune are hazardous, and if I were a woman, especially the wife of a banker, whatever confidence I had in my husband’s good fortune, I would begin to assure myself an independent fortune, by putting my interests in hands unknown to him.”

M. de Sacqueville-Danglars returned from the salon, and made some sarcastic comments about the fact that the viscount de Pérégrin was so little enamoured of his daughter, that he had only danced with her once, and had not even noticed that Andurillo danced with her three times.  “Behold a destiny that was fixed beyond the walls of Arde,” he snickered.

“M. le vicomte Réginard de Pérégrin!” announced the valet, coincidentally.  Réginard entered, very handsome and merry.  He saluted the baroness with ease, Sacqueville-Danglars with familiarity, and Monte Fato with affection.  Then he returned to the baroness, and said: “Madame, will you permit that I inquire after Mlle. de Sacqueville-Danglars?”

“Very well, monsieur; at this moment, she is making music with M. Pseudonimo.”

And indeed, the voices of the two young people mingled beautifully in the delightful song of the South:

Where is the rider?
Where is the horse?
O Eorlo mio!
He’s dead, of course!
O Eorlo, O Eorlo mio,
He’s dead of course,
He’s de-e-e-e-e-ead of course!

Réginard maintained an air of calm indifference, and said, “M. Pseudonimo has an excellent tenor, and Mlle. Éowénie a magnificent soprano, not to mention that she plays the piano like Yavanne at the Aïnoulindalée, where her arpeggi brought into being all manner of intoxicants.”

“Yes; they agree marvellously,” said Sacqueville-Danglars.  Réginard appeared not to notice this crude double entendre, although Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars blushed. “Last night,” continued the banker, “the prince and my daughter inspired admiration in all who heard them.”

“Which prince?”

“The Prince Pseudonimo.”

“Oh, pardon, I didn’t know he was a prince.  That must have been ravishing.  Will I be permitted to extend my compliments to Mlle. de Sacqueville-Danglars?”

“Wait, monsieur; do you hear the delightful cavatina, that will end soon, ring-dong-a-dillo! Perfect! Brava! Bravo! Bravi!”  And the banker applauded frantically.

“That is exquisite, and none understands the music of the Ent-lavatoire better than M. Pseudonimo,” said the viscount.  “You did say prince, no?  Eh bien, if he is not a prince, they will make him one; it is easy in the Fourth Age.  You should have them sing another number; it is a delightful thing to listen to music at a slight distance, without being seen, and thus without disturbing the musician, who can then surrender to the instinct of his genius or the élan of his heart.”

The baron took Monte Fato aside.  “Look at this fellow,” he said.  “As cold as a dwarf-maiden or a charadras on rocks, as proud as his father.  If he possessed the riches of the Pseudonimi, I could pass over that; but since he does not …”

“I find M. de Pérégrin a charming young man.  A month ago, you found this marriage to be excellent.  I am in despair; it is chez moi that you met the young Pseudonimo, whom, I repeat, I do not know.”

“I know him; that suffices.  He is rich, to begin with.”

“I’m not so sure of that. And the Pérégrins are counting on this marriage.”

“Then let them declare themselves.  You, Count, who are so well-received in their house, speak to them.”

“Moi! Where the Morgot have you seen that?”

“But at their ball, it seems to me.  What!  The Countess, the proud Rosédès, the disdainful modern Tar-Ancalimette, who barely deigns to open her mouth to say two words to old acquaintances who helped her pay her debts to the démenteurs, takes you by the arm, leads you into the garden, and does not reappear for half an hour.”

“I will do what I can,” said the Count somewhat diffidently, as if he were not the Master of Terre-moyenne.

Éowénie and Andurillo finished their song.  “Perfect! Brava! Bravo! Bravi!” cried Réginard, parodying the banker and applauding wildly.

Sacqueville-Danglars looked askance at the viscount; then, when someone came and whispered something to him, he left the room.

Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars opened the door to the salon.  Réginard greeted Éowénie with a smile, which she returned with her habitual coldness; Andurillo looked vaguely embarrassed as he greeted Réginard, who returned his greeting with the most impertinent air in the world.

The company were just sitting down to tea when the banker came bounding in, visibly agitated.

“I have just received news from Gondor,” he said.

“How is King Otto de S… I mean, Frédéric de Flintepierre?” asked Réginard in the tone the most jocular.

Sacqueville-Danglars looked askance at Réginard again.  The Count turned away to hide the expression of pity that had had appeared on his face and vanished immediately.

“We will leave together, n’est-ce pas?” said Réginard to the Count.

“Certainly, if you wish,” replied the Count.

“What does he mean with his news from Gondor?”

“How do you expect me to know?”

“Before we leave,” added Réginard, “I should compliment Éowénie on her helmet.”

“If you will compliment her, at least compliment her on her voice.”

“No, that’s what everyone does.”

“Mon cher vicomte, vous avez l’impertinence des plus ninnihammières.”

At this, Sacqueville-Danglars approached Monte Fato, and Réginard went to present his respects to Éowénie with a smile.

“You gave me an excellent counsel,” whispered Sacqueville-Danglars in the Count’s ear.  “There is an entire story behind those two words: Pippand and Quirithe-Oungallant.”  

“Ah bha!” said Monte Fato.

“I will tell you all later; for now, take this young man, for his presence is as embarrassing as the prophecies of an inebriated clairvoyant regarding the triumph of the mice over the ducks.”

“I am doing so now,” said the Count.

“Eh bien,” said Réginard as he and the Count made their way to the Count’s palace on a highly chic pomaded pterodactyl, “how to you think I played my role of jealous lover?”

“Admirably, sans doute; of whom should you be jealous?”

“Why, of my rival, M. Andurillo Pseudonimo, who aspires to the hand of the proud Éowénie.  May he have better fortune in love than I, whom she mocks with the laughter of Éorache at the accent and trumped up lineage of Arroroute.”

“What does that matter, if they think only of you?”

“Of me?  Have you not seen how they insult me from both sides?”

“The father adores you.”

“Ah, where are you from, then, mon cher comte?”

“From the Undying Lands, if you wish.”

“It’s not distant enough.”

Laughing, they arrived at the Count’s palace.


~~~


“Will you have anything with your tea?” inquired Monte Fato, as they entered one of his salons.

“I should like to smoke,” replied the viscount.

The Count pointed his Ring towards the door to the servants’ quarters.  In one second, Gali appeared with two chibouques and some excellent bourzoum-ichy.  As the two lit up, the sounds of the guzla wafted into the room; Réginard listened enchanted.

“You are devoted to music tonight; you have not escaped the piano of Mlle. de Sacqueville-Danglars but to be caught by the guzla of Shélobe.”

“What a lovely name! Are there truly Shélobes in the world outside of the sonnets of Sauron?”

“Certainly.  It is a common name, and means chastity, modesty, innocence in the speech of her kind.”

“Oh, that is charming!” cried Réginard.  “If Mlle. de Sacqueville-Danglars, instead of being named Claire-Arwenne-Éowénie, were named Mlle. Chastity-Modesty-Innocence, what an effect that would make in the publication of banns!”

“Madman!” said the Count.  “Have a care lest Shélobe hear you.”

“Is it true that she was once a princess?”

“She was, and one of the greatest of her land.”

“How then did she become a slave?”

“As Morgot the Tyrant became dishwasher of the gods: the luck of war, and the caprice of fortune.”

“My good Count, it is highly indiscreet to ask this … but could you present me to the princess?”

“Gladly; but on two conditions: that you never reveal to anyone this presentation, and that you not tell her that your father was in her father’s service.”

“I swear it.”

The Count once again summoned Gali with the Ring.  “Warn Shélobe, and ask her if I have her permission to introduce one of my friends.”  Gali disappeared, and then returned and made a sign that Shélobe was ready to receive them.

Shélobe waited in her salon, her large and many-crystalled eyes dilated with surprise; never had any man save her master penetrated her domain.  From sun and moon and male gaze had she been safe underground, but now that gaze had entered her very boudoir.  But she recouped rapidly.  After greeting the Count, she turned to Réginard and said, in excellent Sindarin, and with a sweet Haradric accent that made the speech of Daeron as sonorous as that of Grichenacq, “Be welcome, friend, who arrivest with my lord and master.  Gali! Two pipes!”  (In what follows, we have modified Shélobe’s accent somewhat, lest dear reader sue us for ocular malaise.)

Réginard refused the pipe proffered by the exotically fishy slave; but Monte Fato said: “Take, take; Shélobe is almost as civilised as an Annuminasienne: the yavanna is disagreeable to her, for she does not like bad odors; but the tobacco of Gondor, or sweet galenas as it is called by the inhabitants of that clime, is a perfume, you know it well.” Réginard accepted; and Gali served coffee to Shélobe and her guests.

“Count,” whispered Réginard, “you should allow the signora to tell us something of her travails.  I will not ask that she name my father, but perhaps she will do so of her own accord.”

Monte Fato turned to Shélobe, and said to her in her own tongue, "Ουγλούκ ου βαγρογκ σα πυσδουγ Σαρουμαν-γλοβ βούβο&#x03C2-γαλι σκα&#x03CA."† Shélobe uttered a long sigh, and a sombre cloud passed over her forehead so pure.

“When I was very young, only about half a century old, my mother came to wake me.  Opening my eyes, I saw that hers were filled with tears.  She led me away without saying a word.

“Seeing her weep, I began to weep myself.  But she bade me be silent.  Often, in despite of maternal consolations or threats, I had continued to weep; but this time, there was in her voice such terror, that I was silent forthwith.

“I saw then that we were descending a long staircase, preceded by all the women of my mother’s household, who bore coffers, sachets, gems, gilt purses, palantiri.  Behind the women marched twenty guards called Snagachoi, armed with long rifles and pistols, and clad in the garb that you know in Arnor since le Morgaï is become a nation.

“’Make haste!’ said a voice that caused all to bow, as the wind causeth pipe-weed to bend.  Me, it caused to tremble.  It was the voice of my father.

“He marched last, clad in splendid garments, holding in hand his blondrebousse which your emperor gave him; he pushed us before him as a shepherd does a lost herd of smurves.

“My father,” said Shélobe, raising her head, “was an illustrious man that Ériador knew under the name of Ala-Pallando, pasha of Quirithe-Oungallant, and before whose cobwebs Minas-Morgoule trembled.”

Réginard, without knowing why, shuddered on hearing these words pronounced with an indefinable accent of dignity and hauteur; it seemed to him that something sombre and frightening glowed in the eyes of the girl, when, like a pythoness that evokes a Balrogue or a troll d’usenet who summons a flame warrior of eld, she awakened the memory of that sanguinary figure whose terrible death had made him appear gigantesque to the eyes of contemporary Ériador.

“Soon,” continued Shélobe, “our march ended.  Before us extended four steps of marble, at the bottom of which undulated a bark, given us by Teleporno in exchange for the hashish he distributed to his picked company of dwarf-killers.  We descended into the bark; I remember that the oars made no sound in touching the water, as they were enveloped in the belts of the Snagachoi.  There was no one in the boat, apart from the rowers, but some women, my father, my father’s wazir Ibn-Babar, my mother, and I.

“’Why does the boat go so fast?’ I asked my mother.

“’Chut! my child,’ said she.  ‘It is because we flee.’

“I did not understand.  How could my father be fleeing, he who was all-powerful, before whom others were wont to flee, he who had for device: You’d better be good to eat; I don’t worry about orders from higher up?”

Shélobe continued slowly, as does one who invents or conceals: “The sirascal (which signifieth “hench-orc”) Ulfang-Badgaï had been sent by the sultan to seize my father; it was then that my father made the resolution to flee, after sending the sultan an Arnorian hobbite-officer in whom he had complete confidence, and into the exile he had prepared for himself, and which he called katasilmarillion, or refuge.”

“And this officer – do you remember his name, signora?” asked Réginard.

Monte Fato exchanged with the girl a glance as rapid as an éclair, which Pérégrin did not perceive.

“No, I do not remember,” said Shélobe.  “But perhaps later I will remember it.  All that the palace offered to our eyes,” she continued, “was a rez-de-chaussée adorned with arabesque cobwebs, and a second story giving onto the lake.  But under the rez-de-chaussée, and extending under the island, was a souterrain, a vast cavern where we were led, and where there lay sixty thousand purses full of mithrile, and 200 barrels of spider-venom.  My father remained seated at the opening of the cavern, casting a sombre regard on the depths of the horizon, while my mother rested her head on his shoulder and I played at her feet, marvelling, with the astonishment of childhood that enlarges things, the escarpments of Morgaï, the castles of Quirithe-Oungallant, rising white and angular from the blue waters of the lake, the great black shapeless masses and deep grey shadows that loomed above us, where now and again a dull red light flickered up under the lowering clouds when the gods lit up their opium-pipes.  

“’Patience, Atterlobilki,’ said my father.  ‘If the sultan grants pardon, we shall return in triumph to Quirithe-Oungallant; if not, we shall flee.’

“’And what if they do not allow us to flee?’ said my mother.

“’Then they shall have to tusks of Ibn-Babar to reckon with,’ said my father with a grim smile.  

“My mother brought him a glass of cold water and a chibouque.  Suddenly, he made a movement so brusque, that I was seized with fear.  “A bark … two … three … four!” he murmured.

“And, cursing Teleporno, he rose, seizing his arms, and pouring, I remember, powder into the bassinet of his pistols.  ‘Atterlobilki,’ spake he with trembling voice, ‘the moment of decision is here; in half an hour we shall know the response of the sublime emperor.  Retire to the souterrain with Shélobe.’

“’Never!’ she cried.  ‘I will leap down the dragon’s throat by thy side!’

“’Go near Ibn-Babar!’ cried my father.  Pale and riven in twain by the approach of death, she obeyed.  Perceiving me, the pasha kissed my forehead for the last time; that kiss has never left my cephalothorax!  

“The Snagachoi led us into the souterrain.  Ibn-Babar, who was gloomily sifting through some peanuts with his trunk, smiled sadly as we found cushions and went to sit beside him.  In times of peril, devoted hearts seek each other’s company, and, young as I was, I knew that a great misfortune hung over our heads, for the enemies of my father did not love us any more than they did him, so if they got topsides on him, upon us too would doom fall.”

Réginard had often heard the story of the last moments of Ala-Pallando of Quirithe-Oungallant; but this story, coming to life in the person and the voice of the girl, that living accent and that deep melancholy, penetrated him at once with a charm and an inexpressible horror.  As for Shélobe, she had momentarily ceased to speak; her forehead was bent into her hand, and her eyes seemed to see yet the verdant horizon of Morgaï and the enormous webs of her youth and the blue waters of the lake of Quirithe-Oungallant, a magical mirror that reflected the sombre tableau she painted.  Monte Fato looked at her with interest and pity.  “Continue, child,” he said.

The sonorous words of the Count seemed to draw Shélobe out of her rêverie, and she resumed: “Only one light shone in the cavern; it was the torch of Ibn-Babar.  My mother prayed to the Valards and Lutienna the Queen of Harem-girls.  She still had hope in the Arnorian officer, in whom my father had complete confidence, for the soldiers of the sultan Élessar are usually noble and generous as those knights-errant of the Dunédains, the Rangeurs, the last remnants in the North of the chivalry of the West, before meaner but richer folk came to rule in Ériador.

“’Ibn-Babar, what are the master’s commands?’ said my mother.

“’If the sultan refuses mercy, Ala-Pallando will send his dagger Stingh, and we will fight; if he makes peace, he will send his ring, and we will lay down our weapons,’ replied the moumaque-warrior.

“’If he sends the dagger, you are to slay us with it,’ said she.  Ibn-Babar bowed silently, betraying no emotion save the slight swishing of his trunk.

“Suddenly we heard shouts of joy.  The name of the Arnorian resounded repeated by our Snagachoi; it was evident that he brought a favourable response from the emperor.

“Soon a shadow appeared in the bluing twilight formed by the rays of day penetrating the entrance of the souterrain.

“’Who are you?’ cried Ibn-Babar.

“’Glory to the sultan!’ said the shadow.  ‘Mercy is accorded to Ala-Pallando, and not only is his life saved, but his fortune and property is returned to him, yea, and even his orc-odalisques.’

“’I must have a token,’ said Ibn-Babar.

“’Yes,’ said the envoy.  ‘I bear the ring.’  At the same time, he raised a hand above his head.

“Ibn-Babar took the ring with his trunk and inspected it until he read the verse that guaranteed its authenticity.  Satisfied, he laid down his weapons.

“The messenger uttered a cry of joy and blew his horn.  At this signal, four soldiers of the sirascal Ulfang-Badgaï ran towards Ibn-Babar and slew him with four dagger-blows.  My mother at once seized me and led me through sinuous passageways known only to us, secret ways that even Saroumand had not spied out.  Drunk with their crime, the enemies rolled on bags of gold and arquenpierres and exclusive brands of pipe-weed from the horde of Sqathah le Ver, and heeded us little.  We looked out through an opening in the rock.

“’What do you want?’ said my father to some people who held in hand a document written in gold runes.

“’Read this firman,’ replied one of them.  ‘His Highness demands your head.’

“’My father burst into laughter more terrifying than any threat; he had not yet ceased when two shots issued forth from his pistol, slaying two.  “AWAKE! FEAR! FIRE! FOES!” he cried.  Battle raged. How handsome and great was Ala-Pallando, my father, in the midst of the gunfire, scimitar in hand, visage black with powder!  How his enemies fled as spider-webs issued forth from his scimitar!

“Suddenly, flame arose around him like the crater of a volcano.  In the middle of that tumult, two cries rang forth that froze me with terror; at the same time, two shots struck my father mortally.

“I felt myself rolling on the ground; my mother had fainted into an abysm.”

“This is terrible story, story, Count,” said Réginard, frightened by Shélobe’s pallor.  “And I reproach myself for having been so cruelly indiscreet.”

“It is nothing,” said Shélobe.  “My misfortunes remind me of my master’s benefactions.”

“How did the Count become your master?”

“When my mother awoke from her faint, she knelt before Ulfang-Badgaï and said, ‘Slay me, but spare the honour of the widow of Ala-Pallando.’

“’Is it not to me that you must address yourself, but to your new master.’  And he indicated one of those most responsible for my father’s death.

“Our new owner durst not look upon us, and straightaway sold us to slave merchants from the Lone Islands.  They brought us to the imperial gate in Minas-Morgoule, where my mother cried and pointed at a head that had been placed on a pike next to the gate.  Under it were written the words: This is the head of Ala-Pallando, renegade wizard and shirrife of Quirithe-Oungallant.  I turned to look at my mother; she had fallen dead.  Pougue, the leader of the slave-traders, drew me away from that place.  Happily, my master bought me soon thereafter.  A chance-meeting, as we say in Terre-moyenne, but one from whom flowed more blessings than from the coffee-shop of Gandault and the Balrogue.”


~~~

The baron waited impatiently in the piano salon for his daughter to appear.  Finally, he sent his valet to ask her why she wanted to see him and, above all, why she kept him waiting for so long, as he wished to be on his way to the Bourse to buy stock in modish long-haired elf-figurines.

In fact, Mlle. de Sacqueville-Danglars had requested an audience with her father, and had selected this salon as the meeting-place.  This démarche had surprised the baron not a little.  However, he had complied, in order to keep up his reputation as a mild and even weak father and husband; in private, however, the bonhomme yielded to the brutal husband and the absolute father who brooked no contradiction even on the question of pointed ears or the wisdom of Teleporno.

Finally Éowénie appeared, wearing a highly flattering coat of armour that followed the new “mode des orcs,” and smoking a clove yavannette that went admirably with her helmet.  

“Eh, bien, Éowénie, what is it, and why are we meeting here rather than in my study?”

“You are perfectly right, monsieur,” said Mlle. de Sacqueville-Danglars, “and your two questions resume perfectly the conversation we are about to have.  I will begin with the second.  I have chosen this place in order to avoid the disagreeable sensations and associations that exhale from the study of a banker like the appallingly tasteless perfumes of the Unfashionable Marshes.  The coffers, papers, letters, cabinets in tasteless ent-woood, all make a father forget that there are interests more sacred than social status and the opinions of investors, obsessions whereby this house is sunk in honour less than any shepherd’s cot.  I have preferred this salon graced by smiling portraits of you, my mother, and myself, to say nothing of my delightful statuette of Célesbienne.  These, and the charming and moving landscapes of Sarehole, will serve far better in aiding my design.”

“Très bien,” said Sacqueville-Danglars, who had not understood a word of this tirade.

“That answers your second question,” said Éowénie with that masculine aplomb that characterised her voice and gesture, “and you appear satisfied.  I will now answer your first question: I do not wish to marry Andurillo Pseudonimo.”

Sacqueville-Danglars bounded from his fauteuil, and in the aftershock raised his eyes and arms to heaven.

“Mon Érou, oui, monsieur,” continued Éowénie as calm as ever.  “You are astounded, I see it well, because ever since that little affair is in progress I have not manifested the slightest opposition.  As a submissive and devoted daughter” (a light smile passed over the girl’s crimson lips) “I tried to obey.  I tried my utmost; but I failed, despite all my efforts.  Too often had I heard of duty not to make the attempt; but after all, am I not a scion of the House of Lobélie, an artist and not a trophy wife?”

“But the reason, finally,” said Sacqueville-Danglars who, as a lesser intellectual light, seemed overwhelmed by this pitiless logic, whereof the phlegm betrayed so much will and foresight.  “The reason for this refusal?”

“Oh, it’s not that I find him uglier or less agreeable than another; that would be the reason of a convent school girl that I find altogether beneath me.  As you know, I love absolutely no one, monsieur, and therefore I do not see why, without absolute necessity, I should burden my life with an eternal companion.  I have waited on preening suitors long enough.  The part you would have me play is more ignoble than that of the lipstick of a merveilleuse.  Did not the sage say, 'Let him not vow to walk down the aisle, who has not seen his fiancée except at soirées' and again, 'Oft evil brie doth baguette mar'?  One has even taught me those aphorisms in Quenyois and Sindarin; the one, I believe, is from Gandault, the other from Vermelangue.  Well, then, my dear father, in the eternal atlantis of our hopes that is life, I throw into the sea my useless baggage, and remain alone, and therefore free.”

“Unhappy girl!” cried Sacqueville-Danglars, becoming pale; for he knew by long experience that he had encountered an object as immovable as a drunken hobbit or the opinion of a political troll.

“Unhappy?” repeated Éowénie.  “Unhappy?  Not in the least, and the expression strikes me as highly theatrical and affected.  Au contraire, happy; for what, I ask, is lacking me?  The world finds me beautiful, and therefore I am welcome wherever I go; I like being welcome.  I am rich, for you possess one of the finest fortunes in Arnor, and I am an only child, for they say you and Mme. de Sacqueville-Danglars only had conjugal relations once, and that by accident.”  (Sacqueville-Danglars blushed.)  “You are not as stubborn as the fathers of Nettopolis, who disinherit children for not wedding the leading usenettiers and conceiving yet more usenettiers, that the same flame war might endure in eternal; and the law does not give you the right to do so if you wished, or, indeed, to constrain me to wed monsieur so and so.  So: I, born in the body of a demoiselle, have beauty, spirit, talent, and riches at least the match of yours!  That is happiness, monsieur!”

The banker, seeing his daughter smiling and proud to the point of insolence, could not repress a movement of brutality; but only one.  Under the questioning smile of his daughter, he returned to prudence and smiled in turn.  “You are right except for one thing,” he said.  “I will leave you to guess what that is when I have had my turn to speak.”

Éowénie bowed, not as a submissive daughter who listens, but as an adversary who waits.

“My daughter,” continued Sacqueville-Danglars, “when a father asks a daughter to marry, there is always a reason.  Some are besotten with the mania you mentioned just now, for descendants who be flame warriors.  I do not have that weakness, I assure you; family joys are more or less indifferent to me, and flame wars exercise the brain far more than mine is capable of enduring.  I wanted a husband, not indeed for your sake, as I was not sparing the least thought on you at the moment, and was none too sure even of your name.”

Éowénie did not seem the least bit surprised or perturbed.

“No, the reason I wanted a husband,” resumed the banker, “was for certain commercial combinations I had in view.  In the banker’s cabinet, which you find so disagreeable and unpoetic, but which just yesterday you found pleasant enough when you entered there to ask me for more mushroom-lions to spend on marble for your nude sculptures of Luthienne, in that cabinet, I say, one learns many things useful even for young people who do not wish to marry.  One learns, as the Count of Monte Fato wisely observed, that the credit of a banker is his life and death, both physical and moral, and animates the banker like Saroumand animating the body of Théoden with invisible puppet-strings – which ought never to befall the father of a daughter who is as good a logician as you.”

Éowénie did not blench, demoiselle of the Braceguirdelles, child of fashionable adulterers, slender but as a Gauloise, fair yet mordant.  “You are ruined!” said she.

“You have found the right expression, my daughter,” said Sacqueville-Danglars, maintaining the fixed smile of a man without heart, but not without wit.  “Learn now from me how this misfortune can be made less severe by you, not for my sake, but for yours.  This deed will be no less valiant because I, I mean you … eh bien, we will make money from it.”

“Oh!” cried Éowénie.  “You are a poor physiognomist, monsieur, if you supposed that it is for me that I deplore this catastrophe.  I ruined! What does it matter?  Do I not still have my talent?  Can I not, like Glorfindella, like Yavanne, like Luthienne who caused the sun to stop and applaud her singing, make for myself what you have never given me, one hundred to one hundred and fifty thousand mushroom-lions of income that I will owe myself alone?   I am weary of skulking in counting-houses awaiting those poor 12, 000 mushroom-lions that you give me with grudging looks and reproaches for my prodigality, and wish to face acclamations, bravos, and flowers.  And even if I lack the talent your smile shows you doubt in me, does there not remain my furious love for independence?

“Oh non, monsieur, I have seen too many things happen around me, and have understood them too well, for misfortune to make more of an impression on me than it merits.  As long as I can remember, no one has loved me, so much the worse! So that I in turn love no one; so much the better!  Now you have my profession of faith.”

“Alors,” said Sacqueville-Danglars, pale with an anger that did not at all have its source in offended paternal love.  “You continue, mademoiselle, to will the consummation of my ruin?  Obstinate fool!  Running wilfully to the arts and ruining my credit!  You would take my investments to my competitors and sell them all.  Have you nothing to unsay?”

“Unsay?”

“Yes; I endeavoured to advise you for your own good, but you scarcely listened.  You are proud and do not love advice, being yourself a formidable wit, so that when you were young it was a favourite parlour-game for you to refute our guests’ theories about Terre-moyenne.  I fear that in my eagerness to persuade you, I lost patience.  I regret it, for I bear you no ill-will; are we not both members of one of the richest houses in Arnor?  Much we could accomplish together, to heal the disorders of our finances, could you but listen tranquilly.  In wedding you, M. Pseudonimo brings you a dowry of 3 million mushroom-lions.”

“Bien!” said Éowénie with a sovereign contempt.

“You think I will cheat you of these three millions?  Not at all; those three million are destined to create at least ten, as was foretold by Malbet the Wit; for mine is the Grey Company he prophesied.  I have obtained the concession of a smiau de fer, the only industry that today provides those fabulous chances for success that formerly Sauron prognosticated for the Numenoreans, those eternal badauds of speculation, in a fantastic Valinor.”

“But yesterday, monsieur, did I not see you cash – that is the correct word, no? – cash five million mushroom-lions?”

“Yes,” admitted the banker.  “But those five millions are not mine and are merely a sign of confidence in me; the five million in question belong to the hospitals, those crows of Saroumand that batten off the labours of the productive members of society.  Given the notorious losses I have sustained, I risk a shameful bankruptcy if I use those funds.  Now, if you wed M. Pseudonimo, my credit will be reaffirmed, and my fortune, which for the last month or two is a little engulfed in the abysm of Ckasade-doûm, acquires the wings wherewith to fly out of that chasm.  Do you understand me?”

“Perfectly.  You gamble me for three million mushroom-lions, n’est-ce pas?”

“The larger the sum, the more flattering.”

“Merci.  One last word, monsieur:  do you promise, in using the amount as you will for purposes of credit, not to touch the sum?  It is not a matter of egoism, but of délicatesse: I wish indeed to rebuild your fortune, but not at the expense of others.”

“I hope so, always provided the marriage consolidate my credit.”

“And in demanding my signature, you leave me free with respect to my person?”

“Absolutely.”

“Alors, bien; I am ready, monsieur, to marry M. Pseudonimo.”

“But what are your plans?”

The warrior-maiden shook her head.  “That is my secret.  Where would my advantage be, if, knowing your secret, I revealed mine?”

“That would not be the way of return that I would choose,” thought Sacqueville-Danglars.  “But I must endure her caprices, will she but share the wonders of the wealth of the Ents with me.”  His smile was hard and bitter.  “Then, for my part, I say bien!” he said aloud, and shook Éowénie by the hand.  But during that shaking of hands, the father durst not thank the daughter, and the daughter had no smile for her father.  The conference over, Éowénie made haste to rejoin Célesbienne at the piano, and sing of the lusts of Luthienne.


† “Of your father the fate, but not the treason, nor the name of the traitor, recount for us.”