dress rustled in the silence. Sud
denly Cardinal Borborigano stood
before the Duchess.
“His face was gloomy, his brow
was dark with clouds, and a bitter
smile lurked in his wrinkles.
“Madame,” said he, “you are under
suspicion. If you are guilty, fly. If
you are not, still fly; because,
whether criminal or innocent, you
will find it easier to defend yourself
from a distance.”
“I thank your Eminence for your
solicitude,” said she. “The Duke of
Bracciano will reappear when I find
it needful to prove that he is alive.”
“Cardinal Borborigano!” exclaimed Bianchon. “By the Pope’s keys! If you
do not agree with me that there is a magnificent creation in the very
name, if at those words _dress rustled in the silence_ you do not feel
all the poetry thrown into the part of Schedoni by Mrs. Radcliffe in
_The Black Penitent_, you do not deserve to read a romance.”
“For my part,” said Dinah, who had some pity on the eighteen faces
gazing up at Lousteau, “I see how the story is progressing. I know it
all. I am in Rome; I can see the body of a murdered husband whose wife,
as bold as she is wicked, has made her bed on the crater of a
volcano. Every night, at every kiss, she says to herself, ‘All will be
discovered!’”
“Can you see her,” said Lousteau, “clasping Monsieur Adolphe in her
arms, to her heart, throwing her whole life into a kiss?--Adolphe I see
as a well-made young man, but not clever--the sort of man an Italian
woman likes. Rinaldo hovers behind the scenes of a plot we do not know,
but which must be as full of incident as a melodrama by Pixerecourt.
Or we can imagine Rinaldo crossing the stage in the background like a
figure in one of Victor Hugo’s plays.”
“He, perhaps, is the husband,” exclaimed Madame de la Baudraye.
“Do you understand anything of it all?” Madame Piedefer asked of the
Presidente.
“Why, it is charming!” said Dinah to her mother.
All the good folks of Sancerre sat with eyes as large as five-franc
pieces.
“Go on, I beg,” said the hostess.