The Count of Monte Fato

Near the beginning of 1838 (according to the calendrier du Shiré), two younger members of the highest Annuminasian society, Viscount Réginard de Pérégrin and Baron Arafrantz d’Imrahil, found themselves in Mina Tiretta.  They had agreed to spend Carnival in Lottaloria; for the exhibitions made by the Signora Galadriella were said to be unparalleled in the Lands of the Ouest.  Since, however, they had a few days free before Carnival, Arafrantz decided to test the rumor that Monte Fato was inhabited by real contrebandiers, some of whom were even, reportedly, Fantômes of the Ring.  He consequently hired a crew of homesick Orcs, and set sail for the fabled isle where Sauron had once kept his wine-cellars.  (Réginard, meanwhile, dallied in the casinos of Edoras.)  To stave off the ennui that is inevitable in long voyages, the captain told Arafrantz terrible stories about how the Fantômes of the Ring skinned the body, including floquerins, off their victims and left them all cold on the other side of the gondola.  Had Arafrantz heard these stories before leaving, he might have headed for a destination slightly less off the beaten track, like the Forest of Fangornes.  But to turn back now seemed cowardice.  For Arafrantz was a man of calm will, who regarded danger as an adversary in a duel, calculating its movements, studying its force, breaking only long enough to regain breath or speak a word of Command, not long enough to appear a coward who would fly like a fool; who, understanding at once all his advantages – not excluding the fire of anor that issued forth from his blondrebousse – slew with one blow.

The end of the voyage was approaching, and Arafrantz beheld white shores and beyond them a green country under a swift sunset.  He heard a sweet singing in his mind, but soon perceived that it was the captain practicing a ribald sea-shanty.  Arafrantz reflected that, though the island bore a very religious name, it was not one that promised a warmer welcome than that it had extended to Arafrantz’s remote ancestor Isildour in the depths of time.  

Arafrantz contemplated anew the appropinquating marge.  That mass of stones, like the giant Adoûnachor, loomed menacing before the boat, blocking the aforesaid swift sunset – which in any case was swift, and soon left the island enveloped in a darkness unescapable, as it were a broil of fume from the Mountain of Fire sent to darken hearts.  And à propos of fire … “Parbleu, there is too much black and red on this isle,” said Arafrantz.  “It is evidently not the Champs-Valinorées.”

“Non, monsieur,” replied the captain.  “But it is more important that the fire and shadow indicate the probable presence of the Fantômes whereof I spoke earlier.”

“Bha,” said Arafrantz, loading silver bullets into his pistols with perfect sang-froid.  “Let us ask hospitality of these Fantômes du Ring.  You are acquainted with them?”

“Yes, monsieur.  We sometimes handle rings for them, to keep ourselves in stash for the summer months.  After all, it’s not their fault they’re Fantômes, but that of the authorities, for levying such heavy taxes on magical items.”

Arafrantz nodded.  “Go now and speak to them.  Do not reveal my name; simply intimate that I am a Dunédain travelling there and back again for pleasure.”

“Yes, monsieur,” replied the captain, and headed for the fire.  After he transmitted the message, there appeared five dark figures, in whose white faces burned eyes that had plainly been savouring an exquisite Chianti; under their mantles were long grey sacks of contraband; upon their grey hairs were berets of silver; in their haggard hands were accordions of steel.  The Chevaliers de Monte Fato were evidently very exclusive indeed.  The captain returned anon with the sentinel, who was taller than the others and had gleaming long pomaded hair, and wore a crown over his beret.  The sentinel was content to utter the words, “Ach nazgue durbatulouc.”   The Langue-Noire “Ach nazgue durbatulouc” is untranslatable; it means at once “come,” “welcome,” “make yourself at home,” and “One Ring to rule them all.”

“He will require us to be blindfolded,” said the captain.

“As you wish,” said Arafrantz.  “The bordels of Annuminas do likewise at need.  My friend the Viscount took it ill, even when making an assignation with a kind mistress of willing slaves; but I endured, and even rather enjoyed it.”

The guards gently but firmly blindfolded Arafrantz and his crew and led them until they heard the sound of running water, and felt a fine rain.  Here their blindfolds were removed.  In front a thin veil of water was suspended, through which shone the westering sun, which was still swiftly setting in this part of the island.  Arafrantz found himself in front of a man of perhaps thirty-eight years, clad in a burnoûs after the manner of the Haradrins, and a simple yet elegant ring that, in some mysterious way, contributed remarkably to his charisma.  He was quite good-looking, despite a certain pallour and a reddish tint to the eyes.  But what astonished Arafrantz was the sumptuousness of the décor, which resembled nothing so much as a baroque painting of the Palais de Ménégrot, combined with the magnificence of the Haradric court of Minas-Morgoule.

“Monsieur,” said the stranger in a somewhat exotic accent, “I ask a thousand and one pardons for the precautions required in leading you here; but if the secret of this dwelling became widely known, I would no doubt, on returning from abroad, find my pied-à-terre in fort mauvais état, as Bilbon did when he took a business voyage to the east.  That would be highly disagreeable to me, not so much for the loss, as because the necessity of putting the perpetrators to a slow death would expend energies better engaged in more artistic pursuits, such as obtaining the shoes of Vanimelda Mandos for a certain lady of my acquaintance.  Now I hope to make you forget this little displeasure in offering you a meal good enough for a feast of the birthday.”

“Ma foi, kind host,” replied Arafrantz, “you need not excuse yourself for that.  I have always found that one bound the eyes of people who penetrated enchanted palaces, like Tueur in Les Gondorins; only this abode is veritably more like those of The Thousand and One Pipe-weeds.”

“Indeed, I possess precisely one thousand and one varieties of pipe-weed,” said the host affably.  “You shall partake of them after our meal.”

“With the greatest of pleasure,” replied Arafrantz.

The stranger bowed, and then called out, “Gali, are we served?”

A peculiar gangrel creature of a somewhat fishy odor entered the doorway and made a sign to the effect that the banquet was prepared.

“Now, I don’t know whether you will share my opinion or not,” said the host.  “But I for one find it terribly bothersome to spend two or three hours in the company of another, without knowing by what name to address him.  Note that I do not request you to give me your actual name, for I have no desire to be hasty. I beg you only to indicate any designation whatsoever, were it only Labouche de Sauron” (here he laughed ironically) “by the aid of which I may direct my speech to you.  To put you at ease, I will inform you that I am in the habit of being called Éarendeau le marin.”

“And as for me,” said Arafrantz, “since nothing is lacking me of the situation of Tueur, save the lamp of Ulmon, I see nothing for the moment to hinder your calling me Tueur.”

“Then let us pass into the dining room,” replied the strange aramphitryondo.  “Forgive me if I go first in order to show the way.”

The dining room was less splendid than the atrium they had just left, being only slightly more elaborate than the Hall of Jarjaromiros in Mina Tiretta.  It was all of marble, with two magnificently sculpted trees, none other than Beautil the Golden and Glingaud the Silvern, at the extremities of the hall.  There hung from these trees magnificent fruits: pineapples from Mirquewoude or Sombre-forêt, dates from Cande, passion fruits from the Calaquirie, and apples from Brie.  Withal, birds from Arvernienne held aloft plates with every one of the 50, 000 cheeses of Eldamar.  Supper itself consisted of a wild boar in mint sauce, a quarter of a moumaque or oliphant, an omelette of brontosaurus eggs, and of course an enormous mushroom seasoned with caterpillar and poppy seeds.  Gali served each course with devotion, and his mute gaze seemed ever to say, with greater eloquence than any words: “good Gali, always helps!”  Arafrantz remarked on this.

“Yes, he’s a poor devil whose life I once saved, and who seems to feel some gratitude for that,” said Éarendeau.

“Would it be indiscreet to ask for details?”

“Not the least in the world.  It appears that the rogue had approached the fishpond of the Grand Gobelin rather nearer than was fitting for a fellow of his ilk, and had been condemned to have his tongue, hand, and head cut off – the tongue the first day, the hand the next, and the head on the third day.  I find mutes very amusing and moreover this specimen’s sibilant voice was rather irritating, so I waited until his tongue had been removed before intervening.”  Éarendeau laughed quietly.

Arafrantz remained momentarily silent, uncertain how to respond to his host’s cruel bonhomie.  “Have you suffered much, monsieur?” he inquired at length.  “You have the air – and possibly also the ring – of one who has been persecuted by society.”

“And what tells you that?”

“The way you slice your cheese.  You seem almost to have an account to settle with it.”

The host laughed again, saying, “On the contrary, I lead the life of a pasha or an elvenking.  I have a million amusing pastimes and … projects.  But enough of that, for I perceive that you are curious about the great horn of the wild buffalo of the East, bound with silver and carved with strange characters, that my Gali so reverently brings to the table?”

“Yes, mine host – or more exactly, what is in it.”

“Bien, that green concoction is no less than the limpé served by Mélianne at the court of Manvre, on the high holy day that celebrates the first adultery!  Ah!  How often we pass by happiness without recognizing it!  Be you a man who hungers after riches, this herb opens up for you the treasures of Ckasade-doûm; be you a poet, and the limits of the possible vanish.  The fields of the infinite are at your feet, you are the King of Creation, the Lord of the Rings, bearer of the Star of the North, possessor of the Staves of the Five Wizards, more fortunate in love than Béren, a hero, a Néron, the sorcerer of Oz!”

“But this ineffable limpé has doubtless received a name in some human tongue?” inquired Arafrantz.

“You have heard, no doubt, of the Pearl of the Orient, and her mysterious herbs that caused all to love her and despair?”

“Oh, of course, it’s hashberry, or to those who know somewhat of the Valinorean …”

“I do,” replied the host.  “And it matters little whether one calls it aschischia aranion or – my personal favorite – jerîza, after the fashion of the Haradrins.  What matters is that, on imbibing it, it seems that your desires take shape, and the humblest hall becomes a golden mist above seas of foam that sigh upon the margins of the world.”

“Do you know,” said Arafrantz, “that I have a great desire to judge for myself the truth or falsity of these encomia?”

“Judge, my guest, but be not overhasty in your judgements, for there is a battle between nature and this divine substance, and hashberry can afford to lose a host better than you to lose a company, as it were.  Now taste hashberry!  Taste!”  He gave order for Gali to fill a nazghouleh of the mysterious substance, and handed it to his guest.

“But wait,” he added.  “We must go to the Hall of Fire, in order that the experience may be complete.”  He led Arafrantz to a smaller room, containing two divans and several sculptures of spider-women in suggestive postures.  Gali lit Arafrantz’s nazghouleh, and then Éarendeau’s, as reverently as if he were serving them Mordeaux or fish.  After some charming observations about Haradric customs like smurf-hunting (djihad-es-smuruf), Éarendeau withdrew.

As for Arafrantz, a mysterious transformation took place within him.  At first he seemed to be flying with shadow wings that stretched from wall to wall, and to alight on the flaming island of Monte Fato. Then the enchantment became more and more dreamlike, until he felt that an endless river of swelling gold and silver was flowing over him, while an enormous quiche lorraine sang “O how I dig thee, hashberry, from nose to sleazy love-beads.”  Fleeing this song, he found himself again in the chamber of the eight-legged statues, rich in form, luxury, poetry, and breasts, with magnetic eyes, lascivious eyelashes, opulent tresses.  They were Luthienne, Mélianne, Yavanne … then it seemed as if these three goddesses had united their three loves for one man, and that was he alone, and the heat of their desires burned hotter than Monte Fato itself, and yet more refreshing than the waters of Khéled-zarâme when Galadriella bathed there with the dwarves, and they advanced towards him with one of those inflexible and ardent regards like those of the Great Eye upon the Ring, or of Pippand upon a grove of mushrooms.  

When Arafrantz awoke, his host had departed, and he too made haste to depart, for it was time he rejoined Réginard in Lottaloria.  One of the Fantômes guided him, once more blindfolded, back to the shore.  Arafrantz betook him to his ship, and ordered the captain to set sail for Galadrona, the heart of Elvendom in Terre-moyenne.

 
~~~

Having arrived in Galadrona, Arafrantz attained the hotel he and Réginard had reserved.  With that impertinence peculiar to the personnel of elvish hotels, a surly sylvan demanded that Arafrantz wait for his mortal permission papers to be examined, while also informing him that the tree-balconies were never let to people of *his* sort.  Arafrantz simply handed the porter his visiting card, complete with title; and the help immediately became more deferential. The hotelier, signor Orlando, ran to meet him, apologizing for the porter’s strict enforcement of the law, for how was one so ignorant to know when the host had paid enough to be granted an exception?  

The suite was comprised of two chambers and a balcony-cabinet, all perched on one of the smaller branches of a commodious and well-appointed cypress tree.  The rest of the tree was rented by a singularly wealthy personage, believed to be a Black Numénorean or possibly even a Balrogue.  

“Two things we require,” Arafrantz told signor Orlando. “Supper, and an eagle for tomorrow and the rest of Carnival.”

“I greatly fear there will be none available, and that, even were there one to be found, all the eagles are already engaged for the season,” said Orlando.

“No eagles – diable, c’est incroyable!” cried Réginard, lighting a cigar.  “Not even postal eagles?”  Orlando shook his head.

“Well, what about supper; is it ready?” asked Réginard, losing interest in the eagles for the moment.

It was, and that satisfied Réginard; but Arafrantz was not so easily put off.

“Can we at least get a balcony on via Amrotto?” he insisted, for so was named the central thoroughfare on which the Carnival reached its height.

“Impossible!” cried Orlando.  “There was a single balcony left on that street this morning, and it got rented to a Wainrider.  I can, however, offer their Excellencies a wheelbarrow drawn by an Orc, at twelve teleporni.”

“Do so,” said Arafrantz.  As they waited, Orlando told the visitors a rather boring tale of Luigi Vanya, a renegade Elda (vanditto) who went around killing and kidnapping people and stealing their mallorno fruits.  An hour later, a cicerone, seeing Arafrantz’s face glued to the window, cried: “Your Excellency!  Must I approach the chariot to the vault of heaven?”

As accustomed as Arafrantz was to Lottolorian emphasis, it was a few minutes before he had excogitated an interpretation of this inquiry: Arafrantz was the Excellency; the wheelbarrow was the chariot; and the hotel was the vault of heaven.  All the panegyric genius of the nation was summed up in one sentence.

Arafrantz was determined to show Réginard the Teleporneum, where the ancient kings of Lottaloria had gazed upon the sublime strip-tease of Galadriella in the Elder Days.  For when one guides a friend through a city one has seen, one displays the same coquetterie as in introducing a woman of whom one has been the lover.  He and Réginard promptly boarded the wheelbarrow, and joined the cicerone in a ride that afforded far less comfort to the passengers than it did amusement to the onlookers.

Arriving at the glorious monument to elvish mores that is the Teleporneum, the visitors found themselves yet another cicerone.  For, in addition to the general cicerone that commandeers you on entering Galadrona, each monument has its own special ciceroni (or gorgoûn, as they are called in Sindarien) – and so much the more at the Teleporneum, the monument par excellence, whereof the poet Martiandil wrote:  “Let Valinor cease to boast of the gardens of Lorient; let us cease to sing the margaritas of Rivendeau; all must yield before the amphitheatre of the Inglorions, and all voices must unite to boast the glories of Galadriella’s twin monuments.”

To Réginard’s credit, he was highly impressed by this marvel of elvoiserie, despite the ignorant chatter of the guide, who babbled on and on about how Sauron could never penetrate Galadriella’s secret; and the Viscount examined her birdbath with great interest.  Arafrantz, meanwhile, rested in the shade of a column, where he overheard a secret conversation whose interlocutors doubtless believed that a popular tourist site was the ideal locale for such a tête-à-tête.  The interlocutors’ silhouettes indicated clearly that one belonged to high society, while the other was a native of the lower-class Trasnimrodello district.

“What have you heard?” said the former, in a voice that in some mysterious way reminded Arafrantz of hashberry.

“That there will be two executions tomorrow, as is the custom at the beginning of great festivals,” replied the other.  “One will be goblinato; a wretch who murdered his mentor Deagollo.  The other is my friend Pippino.”

“What do you expect?” said the aristocrat in an amused tone that reminded Ararantz even more sharply of hashberry than before.  “If you will inspire such terror that every single tourist who comes here hears about it at boring length …”

“But he’s not even a member of my band.  He’s only a poor hobbite who brings us Portobello mushrooms.”

 “What do you intend to do?” asked the aristocrat.

“When dawn comes, I will sound Haldiro’s horn, and I will ride forth with my band.  Maybe we will cleave a road, or make such an end as will be worth a song – if any be left to sing of us hereafter.”

“That seems highly chancy to me, and I believe decidedly that my plan is better than yours.”

“What is your plan, Excellency?” inquired the vanditto.

“There is nothing that 4354556677758589960605093298281839994900998188899009877888899897777888886888888373455 floquerins and the Ring of Power can’t amend,” laughed the aristocrat.

“Morgot!” thought Arafrantz.  “There can be no further doubt; it is he.”

“How will we know that your Excellency has succeeded?”

“If I succeed, the curtains in the windows of the Palazzo Tralalalalli facing the execution square will be adorned by a large red eye bearing a curious resemblance to a certain organ of the female anatomy,” replied Éarendeau.

“If you obtain this grace for me, I will no longer be your devoted ally, but your slave, as surely as if I bore one of the nine rings,” said the vanditto.

“There is no if where I am concerned, mortal,” replied the aristocrat coldly.

With that the two parted.  Shortly thereafter, Arafrantz heard his name being called by Réginard.  He spent the trip home listening to Réginard’s learned disquisition on Galadriella’s corsets – an account taken at second hand from Calaquendius and Plinion – with a highly impertinent indifference.

Arafrantz found sleep difficult, so curious was he to learn about the mysterious aristocrat who had first served him hashberry and then vanished, only to return in the company of a notorious vanditto.  He finally fell asleep at dawn.  

Réginard, meanwhile, was not idle, but took pains to reserve a loggia at the Teatro Alqualonde for a performance of Durinizetti’s Eovina di Rohan, with soprano Celebriana, tenor Celebore, and baritone Ulmomelco.

Although he had the fortune of seeing one of the greatest operas of the author of Lutienna di Lammermoor, performed by three of the most renowned artists of Lottaloria, Réginard was dissatisfied.  For, despite an attention to his toilette that would have done credit to a Noldo, he had yet to have a single adventure; the charming Lottalorian, Rivendelian, and Minatirettian countesses had clung, not (needless to say) to their husbands, but to their lovers, who were immortal and had irresistible elvish coiffures.  For elvish women have the advantage over hobbitesses of being faithful in their infidelity.  And yet, Réginard was not only a perfectly elegant cavalier, but a wit; and he was viscount – of newer nobility, admittedly, but today no one cares whether a title goes back to the Second Age or the Fourth.  Réginard, therefore, had chosen this expensive loggia in the hopes of conquering at last the heart of a Lottalorian noblewoman.  This would ensure not only a love life, but quite possibly a seat on the love life’s eagle when Carnival began in earnest.

The audience apparently regarded listening to the opera as a part-time activity.  In fact, everyone spoke of, or carried on, his own affairs, without paying the least regard to the stage or the singers, except when the singers did something especially remarkable.  The audience applauded wildly, for example, when the prima donna sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew; or when the baritone sang of wrath, of ruin, and of a red nightfall; or when the tenor sang in tune. Then the conversations and love-making resumed their normal course.

Suddenly, Arafrantz saw a female of his acquaintance, and gave a start.  Nothing escaped Réginard‘s attention (except perhaps the astonishing revelation that Legoletto was a woman in disguise), and so he immediately asked his friend, “Do you know that woman?”

“Yes,” replied Arafrantz.  “Her name is the Countess G, which might stand for Galadriella or giardino, or even Gondorrea.  She is a Vanyetian, and very charming and witty.  How do you find her?”

“Ravishing!  When will you introduce me to her?”

“As soon as the curtain descends.”

“This balrogue of a first act is too long!”

“Listen to the finale; it is beautiful, and Celebore sings admirably …”

“… for a dog.”

“Celebriana is one cannot be more dramatic …”

“Only if one hasn’t heard Melianna.”

“Don’t you find Ulmomelco’s technique excellent?”

“I don’t like baritones who sing blond.”

“In verity, my friend, you are too difficult!”

Finally, the curtain fell, and Arafrantz led Réginard, still adjusting his cravat, to the Countess’s loggia.  The Countess greeted Arafrantz cordially, and acknowledged Réginard’s existence with all appropriate charm.

As Réginard attempted to allure the Countess, Arafrantz borrowed his gigantesque lorgnette, and espied a woman clad in Harondorin garb, exotic in her eight-legged beauty.  Behind her, in the shadow, was traced a great silent shape, cloaked in a grey shadow, looming against the wavering light behind; in one hand it held a lorgnette, while the other held some nameless menace of power and doom.

Arafrantz interrupted his friend’s conversation with the Countess to inquire about the beautiful arachnid.

“All I know,” replied the Countess, “is that she attends every performance, sometimes accompanied by the man who is with her now, sometimes by a simple, if fishy, domestic.”

“How do you find her, Countess?”

“Extremely beautiful.  Mordora, the heroine of Il corsaro di Umbar, must have resembled that woman.”

Arafrantz smiled, and resumed his examination of the lovely arachnid, whose attention was focused on the ballet  Lobeliska – one of those ballets where every performer takes such an active part that a hundred and fifty persons at once make the same gesture and raise together the same pointed ear or wing.  The lady took a visible delight in the spectacle, in contrast to the profound insouciance of her companion, who – despite the discord of Melcoeur that rose in uproar in a war of sound in which music was lost, loud, vain, and endlessly repeated, and in every respect forming a perfect accompaniment to the movement of the dancers – appeared to taste the celestial sweetness of a peaceful and radiant sleep, from which he only awakened during the prelude to the second act.  

The act opens, as is well known, with Aruenna’s cavatina lamenting Aragone’s preference for Eovina, and proceeds to a spirited duet in which she and Grimaldo swear vengeance.  This is one of the most beautiful, expressive, and terrible duets to spring from the fecund pen of Durinizetti like Gwendolina from the head of Olorino.  Arafrantz heard it now for the third time, and, though he did not pass for an inflamed melomane, it produced a profound effect on him.  He was about to join in the thunderous applause, when he suddenly recognized the eight-legged beauty’s companion: he was none other than the mysterious inhabitant of Monte Fato, whom he had seen the night before at the Teleporneum.

“Countess,” he said, “do you know the eight-legged lady’s husband?”

“No more than I do her,” replied the Countess.  “But he must be some deceased soul raised from the tomb, for he is extremely pale.  He reminds me of no one so much as that vampire, celebrated for his legendary wit, Jared Hasselhoff.”

Indeed, if a man could make one believe in vampires, this stranger was he.  Nevertheless, Arafrantz’s curiosity was aroused as never before.  “I must know who he is,” he said, rising.

“No, do not leave me alone in this abode of horror!” cried the Countess.

“You are veritably afraid?” said Arafrantz.

“Listen,” she replied.  “I am leaving.  I have people at my house; will you be so ungallant as not to accompany me?”

There was no possible response other than to retrieve his hat and offer the Countess his arm.  He felt her tremble as they mounted her eagle together.  When they arrove at her tree-balcony, no one was there at all, and Arafrantz remarked on this discrepancy.

“I need to be alone,” she replied.  “The sight of that man has filled me with a sudden unreasoning fear; he makes me helpless with terror.  Whatever you do, promise never to introduce me to him, and never to speak to me right after speaking to him, lest you form as it were a conduit of his evil.”

Having given his word to fulfil this rather odd request, Arafrantz took leave of the Countess and returned to his hotel.

~~~

Réginard, in the meantime, had conceived the brilliant notion of feeding crows ent-draught, and then dressing them up as eagles for Carnival.  After he had communicated this design to Arafrantz, the two impatiently awaited Orlando to find out whether their plan had made headway.  On hearing a knock at the door, Réginard immediately rose and opened it, not even stopping to relight his cigar.

“Bien?” he said.  “Have you made the necessary arrangements?”

“I’ve done better than that,” said Orlando with an air of satisfaction.  “You know that you share your tree with the Count of Monte Fato?”

“I believe it well,” retorted Réginard, “since it is thanks to him that we are crammed here like two hobbite-students on Rue Baguechotte.”

“Well, he knows your predicament, and wishes to offer you two seats on his eagle and two windows in the Palazzo Tralalalalli.”

“Just who is this Count of Monte Fato?” asked Arafrantz.

“A great signor, Haradois or Gondorien, I don’t know exactly which, but as noble as a Lord of the Rings and as rich as the mines of Morie.”

At that moment there was a knock at the door, and a hooded and cloaked servant dressed entirely in black entered and handed Arafrantz and Réginard two visiting cards.  “From the Count of Monte Fato, for Viscount Réginard de Pérégrin and Baron Arafrantz d’Imrahil,” he said.  “His Excellency the Count of Monte Fato requests the honour of presenting himself to these messieurs tomorrow morning.”

“Tell the Count that it is we who will have the honour of visiting him,” returned Arafrantz.  The domestic withdrew.

“That’s what one calls an assault of elegance, using the Grond of affability to besiege the Mina Tiretta of our acquaintance,” said Réginard.  “You were right, master Orlando; the Count of Monte Fato is a man altogether comme il faut.”

Arafrantz recalled that, in the conversation he had overheard at the Teleporneum, the mysterious aristocrat had promised to use the windows of the Palazzo Tralalalalli as a sign that the condemned man would live; if, then, as he suspected, the stranger and the Count of Monte Fato were the same person, he was sure to recognize him and thus satisfy his curiosity.  This time, unless his host of Monte Fato possessed the Ring of Sauron, and, thanks to this Ring, the faculty of rendering himself invisible, he would not escape.

Next morning, at nine o’clock, Orlando accompanied the two guests to the Count’s quarters, and rang the doorbell for them.  A domestic answered.

“I Signori arnoresi,” said Orlando.

The domestic bowed and indicated by a sign that they might enter.  They traversed two rooms furnished with a luxury that they hardly expected to find in master Orlando’s tree-hotel, and arrived at length in a salon of a perfect elegance.  An off-white carpet of Minas-Morgoule was stretched upon the floor.  Magnificent tableaux by the great masters, intermingled with trophies of splendid arms, whereof Anduril was one of the more modest, hung from the walls, and dazzling curtains of Noldorin work floated before the doors.

As the domestic disappeared through a door to inform the Count of his guests’ arrival, the sound of a guzla reached the enchanted ears of the two friends, and an exotic female voice was singing a plaintive melody to the words Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva; a silence followed.  Just then, the door reopened, and the curtain gave passage to the owner of all these riches.  Réginard rose, but Arafrantz remained pinned to his seat.  He who entered was indeed none other than the mysterious host of the isle of Monte Fato, the vampire of the opera, the cloaked aristocrat of the Teleporneum.