“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 description 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.