[*] The rendering given above is only intended to link the
various speeches into coherence; it has no resemblance with
the French. In the original, “Font chatoyer les mots.”
“Et quelquefois les morts,” dit Monsieur de Clagny.
“Ah! Lousteau! vous vous donnez de ces R-la (airs-la).”
Literally: “And sometimes the dead.”—“Ah, are those the airs you
assume?”—the play on the insertion of the letter R (mots,
morts) has no meaning in English.
“What can he mean?” asked Madame de Clagny, puzzled by this vile pun.
“I seem to be walking in the dark,” replied the Mayoress.
“The jest would be lost in an explanation,” remarked Gatien.
“Nowadays,” Lousteau went on, “a novelist draws characters, and instead of a ‘simple outline,’ he unveils the human heart and gives you some interest either in Lubin or in Toinette.”
“For my part, I am alarmed at the progress of public knowledge in the matter of literature,” said Bianchon. “Like the Russians, beaten by Charles XII., who at least learned the art of war, the reader has learned the art of writing. Formerly all that was expected of a romance was that it should be interesting. As to style, no one cared for that, not even the author; as to ideas—zero; as to local color—non est. By degrees the reader has demanded style, interest, pathos, and complete information; he insists on the five literary senses—Invention, Style, Thought, Learning, and Feeling. Then some criticism commenting on everything. The critic, incapable of inventing anything but calumny, pronounces every work that proceeds from a not perfect brain to be deformed. Some magicians, as Walter Scott, for instance, having appeared in the world, who combined all the five literary senses, such writers as had but one—wit or learning, style or feeling—these cripples, these acephalous, maimed or purblind creatures—in a literary sense—have taken to shrieking that all is lost, and have preached a crusade against men who were spoiling the business, or have denounced their works.”
“The history of your last literary quarrel!” Dinah observed.
“For pity’s sake, come back to the Duke of Bracciano,” cried Monsieur de Clagny.
To the despair of all the company, Lousteau went on with the made-up sheet.
224 OLYMPIA
I then wished to make sure of my
misfortune that I might be avenged
under the protection of Providence
and the Law. The Duchess guessed
my intentions. We were at war in
our purposes before we fought with
poison in our hands. We tried to
tempt each other to such confidence
as we could not feel, I to induce her
to drink a potion, she to get posses-
sion of me. She was a woman, and
she won the day; for women have a
snare more than we men. I fell into
it—I was happy; but I awoke next
day in this iron cage. All through
the day I bellowed with rage in the
OR ROMAN REVENGE 225
darkness of this cellar, over which
is the Duchess’ bedroom. At night
an ingenious counterpoise acting as
a lift raised me through the floor,
and I saw the Duchess in her lover’s
arms. She threw me a piece of
bread, my daily pittance.
“Thus have I lived for thirty
months! From this marble prison
my cries can reach no ear. There is
no chance for me. I will hope no
more. Indeed, the Duchess’ room is
at the furthest end of the palace,
and when I am carried up there
none can hear my voice. Each time
I see my wife she shows me the
226 OLYMPIA
poison I had prepared for her and
her lover. I crave it for myself, but
she will not let me die; she gives
me bread, and I eat it.
“I have done well to eat and live;
I had not reckoned on robbers!”
“Yes, Eccellenza, when those fools
the honest men are asleep, we are
wide awake.”
“Oh, Rinaldo, all I possess shall
be yours; we will share my treasure
like brothers; I would give you
everything—even to my Duchy——”
“Eccellenza, procure from the
Pope an absolution in articulo mor-
tis. It would be of more use to me
in my walk of life.”
OR ROMAN REVENGE 227
“What you will. Only file
through the bars of my cage and
lend me your dagger. We have but
little time, quick, quick! Oh, if my
teeth were but files!—I have tried
to eat through this iron.”
“Eccellenza,” said Rinaldo, “I
have already filed through one bar.”
“You are a god!”
“Your wife was at the fete given
by the Princess Villaviciosa. She
brought home her little Frenchman;
she is drunk with love.—You have
plenty of time.”
“Have you done?”
“Yes.”
228 OLYMPIA
“Your dagger?” said the Duke
eagerly to the brigand.
“Here it is.”
“Good. I hear the clatter of the
spring.”
“Do not forget me!” cried the
robber, who knew what gratitude
was.
“No more than my father,” cried
the Duke.
“Good-bye!” said Rinaldo. “Lord!
How he flies up!” he added to him-
self as the Duke disappeared.—“No
more than his father! If that is
all he means to do for me.—And I
OR ROMAN REVENGE 229
had sworn a vow never to injure a
woman!”
But let us leave the robber for a
moment to his meditations and go
up, like the Duke, to the rooms in
the palace.