“And our A. Polo, our eternal point of exclamation, what has become of him?”
“He has become a political man,” replied Gracia.
“I know it,” replied Raphael; “I know also that he has written an ode against the throne, under the pseudo name of Tyranny.”
“Poor tyranny,” said the general, “all the world make fagots of the fallen tree.”
“I know, besides,” pursued Raphael, “that he wrote another poem against Prejudice, in which he comprehended the fatal presage of the number thirteen, the infallibility of the Pope, the upsetting of a salt-cellar, and conjugal fidelity. If I do not cite the text, I cite at least the spirit of this chef-d’œuvre which public opinion will class among—”
“Among?”
“We will see, when they have destroyed this society, with what they will replace it.”
“I know indeed that our A. Polo has composed a satire (he felt himself carried towards this point, and for a long time he has felt growing on his forehead the horns of Marsias), a satire, I say, he declares it to be an act of hypocrisy, all claims of tithes, or the rights of convents.”
“Eh! Well, my dear nephew,” said the general, “these lucubrations will give him sufficient merit to be received in an opposition journal.”
“I understand that much, general, and I can imagine what will happen; it is a comedy played every day: he made of his pen the jaw-bone of an ass, and, armed with this jaw-bone, he will bravely attack the Philistines of power.”