"Monsieur Gatien Boirouge declares that Monsieur Lousteau makes twenty thousand francs a year by his writings," observed the Mayor's wife to Madame de Clagny. "Can you believe it?""Is it possible? Why, a Public Prosecutor gets but a thousand crowns!""Monsieur Gatien," said Madame Chandier, "get Monsieur Lousteau to talk a little louder. I have not heard him yet.""What pretty boots he wears," said Mademoiselle Chandier to her brother, "and how they shine!""Yes--patent leather."
"Why haven't you the same?"
Lousteau began to feel that he was too much on show, and saw in the manners of the good townsfolk indications of the desires that had brought them there.
"What trick can I play them?" thought he.
At this moment the footman, so called--a farm-servant put into livery --brought in the letters and papers, and among them a packet of proof, which the journalist left for Bianchon; for Madame de la Baudraye, on seeing the parcel, of which the form and string were obviously from the printers, exclaimed:
"What, does literature pursue you even here?""Not literature," replied he, "but a review in which I am now finishing a story to come out ten days hence. I have reached the stage of '/To be concluded in our next/,' so I was obliged to give my address to the printer. Oh, we eat very hard-earned bread at the hands of these speculators in black and white! I will give you a deion of these editors of magazines.""When will the conversation begin?" Madame de Clagny asked of Dinah, as one might ask, "When do the fireworks go off?""I fancied we should hear some amusing stories," said Madame Popinot to her cousin, the Presidente Boirouge.
At this moment, when the good folks of Sancerre were beginning to murmur like an impatient pit, Lousteau observed that Bianchon was lost in meditation inspired by the wrapper round the proofs.
"What is it?" asked Etienne.
"Why, here is the most fascinating romance possible on some spoiled proof used to wrap yours in. Here, read it. /Olympia, or Roman Revenge/.""Let us see," said Lousteau, taking the sheet the doctor held out to him, and he read aloud as follows:--240 OLYMPIA
cavern. Rinaldo, indignant at his companions' cowardice, for they had no courage but in the open field, and dared not venture into Rome, looked at them with scorn.
"Then I go alone?" said he. He seemed to reflect, and then he went on: "You are poor wretches. I shall proceed alone, and have the rich booty to myself.--You hear me!
Farewell."
"My Captain," said Lamberti, "if you should be captured without having succeeded?""God protects me!" said Rinaldo, pointing to the sky.
With these words he went out, and on his way he met the steward "That is the end of the page," said Lousteau, to whom every one had listened devoutly.
"He is reading his work to us," said Gatien to Madame Popinot-Chandier's son.
"From the first word, ladies," said the journalist, jumping at an opportunity of mystifying the natives, "it is evident that the brigands are in a cave. But how careless romancers of that date were as to details which are nowadays so closely, so elaborately studied under the name of 'local color.' If the robbers were in a cavern, instead of pointing to the sky he ought to have pointed to the vault above him.--In spite of this inaccuracy, Rinaldo strikes me as a man of spirit, and his appeal to God is quite Italian. There must have been a touch of local color in this romance. Why, what with brigands, and a cavern, and one Lamberti who could foresee future possibilities --there is a whole melodrama in that page. Add to these elements a little intrigue, a peasant maiden with her hair dressed high, short skirts, and a hundred or so of bad couplets.--Oh! the public will crowd to see it! And then Rinaldo--how well the name suits Lafont! By giving him black whiskers, tightly-fitting trousers, a cloak, a moustache, a pistol, and a peaked hat--if the manager of the Vaudeville Theatre were but bold enough to pay for a few newspaper articles, that would secure fifty performances, and six thousand francs for the author's rights, if only I were to cry it up in my columns.
"To proceed:--
OR ROMAN REVENGE219
The Duchess of Bracciano found her glove. Adolphe, who had brought her back to the orange grove, might certainly have supposed that there was some purpose in her forgetful-ness, for at this moment the arbor was deserted. The sound of the fes-tivities was audible in the distance.
The puppet show that had been promised had attracted all the guests to the ballroom. Never had Olympia looked more beautiful.
Her lover's eyes met hers with an answering glow, and they under-stood each other. There was a mo-
ment of silence, delicious to their souls, and impossible to describe.
They sat down on the same bench where they had sat in the presence of the Cavaliere Paluzzi and the"Devil take it! Our Rinaldo has vanished!" cried Lousteau. "But a literary man once started by this page would make rapid progress in the comprehension of the plot. The Duchesse Olympia is a lady who could intentionally forget her gloves in a deserted arbor.""Unless she may be classed between the oyster and head-clerk of an office, the two creatures nearest to marble in the zoological kingdom, it is impossible to discern in Olympia--" Bianchon began.
"A woman of thirty," Madame de la Baudraye hastily interposed, fearing some all too medical term.
