“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:—