“And so,” she went on, striking an attitude, “you see a woman wrinkled

at nine-and-twenty, ten years before the time fixed by the rules of

Doctor Bianchon, a woman whose skin is ruined at an early age, who turns

as yellow as a quince when she is yellow at all--we have seen some turn

green. When we have reached that point, we try to justify our normal

condition; then we turn and rend the terrible passion of Paris with

teeth as sharp as rat’s teeth. We have Puritan women here, sour enough

to tear the laces of Parisian finery, and eat out all the poetry of your

Parisian beauties, who undermine the happiness of others while they cry

up their walnuts and rancid bacon, glorify this squalid mouse-hole,

and the dingy color and conventual smell of our delightful life at

Sancerre.”

“I admire such courage, madame,” said Bianchon. “When we have to

endure such misfortunes, it is well to have the wit to make a virtue of

necessity.”

Amazed at the brilliant move by which Dinah thus placed provincial life

at the mercy of her guests, in anticipation of their sarcasms, Gatien

Boirouge nudged Lousteau’s elbow, with a glance and a smile, which said:

“Well! did I say too much?”

“But, madame,” said Lousteau, “you are proving that we are still in

Paris. I shall steal this gem of description; it will be worth ten

thousand francs to me in an article.”

“Oh, monsieur,” she retorted, “never trust provincial women.”

“And why not?” said Lousteau.

Madame de la Baudraye was wily enough--an innocent form of cunning, to

be sure--to show the two Parisians, one of whom she would choose to be

her conquerer, the snare into which he would fall, reflecting that she

would have the upper hand at the moment when he should cease to see it.

“When you first come,” said she, “you laugh at us. Then when you have

forgotten the impression of Paris brilliancy, and see us in our own

sphere, you pay court to us, if only as a pastime. And you, who are

famous for your past passions, will be the object of attentions which

will flatter you. Then take care!” cried Dinah, with a coquettish

gesture, raising herself above provincial absurdities and Lousteau’s

irony by her own sarcastic speech. “When a poor little country-bred

woman has an eccentric passion for some superior man, some Parisian

who has wandered into the provinces, it is to her something more than a

sentiment; she makes it her occupation and part of all her life. There

is nothing more dangerous than the attachment of such a woman; she

compares, she studies, she reflects, she dreams; and she will not give

up her dream, she thinks still of the man she loves when he has ceased

to think of her.

“Now one of the catastrophes that weigh most heavily on a woman in the

provinces is that abrupt termination of her passion which is so often

seen in England. In the country, a life under minute observation as keen

as an Indian’s compels a woman either to keep on the rails or to start

aside like a steam engine wrecked by an obstacle. The strategies of

love, the coquetting which form half the composition of a Parisian

woman, are utterly unknown here.”

“That is true,” said Lousteau. “There is in a country-bred woman’s heart

a store of surprises, as in some toys.”

“Dear me!” Dinah went on, “a woman will have spoken to you three times

in the course of a winter, and without your knowing it, you will be

lodged in her heart. Then comes a picnic, an excursion, what not, and

all is said--or, if you prefer it, all is done! This conduct, which

seems odd to unobserving persons, is really very natural. A poet, such

as you are, or a philosopher, an observer, like Doctor Bianchon, instead

of vilifying the provincial woman and believing her depraved, would be

able to guess the wonderful unrevealed poetry, every chapter, in short,

of the sweet romance of which the last phrase falls to the benefit of

some happy sub-lieutenant or some provincial bigwig.”

“The provincial women I have met in Paris,” said Lousteau, “were, in

fact, rapid in their proceedings--”

“My word, they are strange,” said the lady, giving a significant shrug

of her shoulders.

“They are like the playgoers who book for the second performance,

feeling sure that the piece will not fail,” replied the journalist.

“And what is the cause of all these woes?” asked Bianchon.

“Paris is the monster that brings us grief,” replied the Superior

Woman. “The evil is seven leagues round, and devastates the whole

land. Provincial life is not self-existent. It is only when a nation is

divided into fifty minor states that each can have a physiognomy of its

own, and then a woman reflects the glory of the sphere where she reigns.

This social phenomenon, I am told, may be seen in Italy, Switzerland,

and Germany; but in France, as in every country where there is but

one capital, a dead level of manners must necessarily result from

centralization.”

“Then you would say that manners could only recover their individuality

and native distinction by the formation of a federation of French states

into one empire?” said Lousteau.

“That is hardly to be wished, for France would have to conquer too many

countries,” said Bianchon.

“This misfortune is unknown in England,” exclaimed Dinah. “London does

not exert such tyranny as that by which Paris oppresses France--for

which, indeed, French ingenuity will at last find a remedy; however, it

has a worse disease in its vile hypocrisy, which is a far greater evil!”

“The English aristocracy,” said Lousteau, hastening to put a word in,

for he foresaw a Byronic paragraph, “has the advantage over ours

of assimilating every form of superiority; it lives in the midst of

magnificent parks; it is in London for no more than two months. It lives

in the country, flourishing there, and making it flourish.”

“Yes,” said Madame de la Baudraye, “London is the capital of trade and

speculation and the centre of government. The aristocracy hold a ‘mote’

there for sixty days only; it gives and takes the passwords of the day,

looks in on the legislative cookery, reviews the girls to marry, the

carriages to be sold, exchanges greetings, and is away again; and is so

far from amusing, that it cannot bear itself for more than the few days

known as ‘the season.’”

“Hence,” said Lousteau, hoping to stop this nimble tongue by an epigram,

“in Perfidious Albion, as the _Constitutionnel_ has it, you may happen

to meet a charming woman in any part of the kingdom.”

“But charming _English_ women!” replied Madame de la Baudraye with

a smile. “Here is my mother, I will introduce you,” said she, seeing

Madame Piedefer coming towards them.

Having introduced the two Paris lions to the ambitious skeleton that

called itself woman under the name of Madame Piedefer--a tall, lean

personage, with a red face, teeth that were doubtfully genuine, and hair

that was undoubtedly dyed, Dinah left her visitors to themselves for a

few minutes.

“Well,” said Gatien to Lousteau, “what do you think of her?”

“I think that the clever woman of Sancerre is simply the greatest

chatterbox,” replied the journalist.

“A woman who wants to see you deputy!” cried Gatien. “An angel!”

“Forgive me, I forgot you were in love with her,” said Lousteau.

“Forgive the cynicism of an old scamp.--Ask Bianchon; I have no

illusions left. I see things as they are. The woman has evidently dried

up her mother like a partridge left to roast at too fierce a fire.”

Gatien de Boirouge contrived to let Madame de la Baudraye know what

the journalist had said of her in the course of the dinner, which was

copious, not to say splendid, and the lady took care not to talk

too much while it was proceeding. This lack of conversation betrayed

Gatien’s indiscretion. Etienne tried to regain his footing, but all

Dinah’s advances were directed to Bianchon.

However, half-way through the evening, the Baroness was gracious to

Lousteau again. Have you never observed what great meanness may

be committed for small ends? Thus the haughty Dinah, who would not

sacrifice herself for a fool, who in the depths of the country led such

a wretched life of struggles, of suppressed rebellion, of unuttered

poetry, who to get away from Lousteau had climbed the highest and

steepest peak of her scorn, and who would not have come down if she

had seen the sham Byron at her feet, suddenly stepped off it as she

recollected her album.

Madame de la Baudraye had caught the mania for autographs; she possessed

an oblong volume which deserved the name of album better than most, as

two-thirds of the pages were still blank. The Baronne de Fontaine, who

had kept it for three months, had with great difficulty obtained a line

from Rossini, six bars written by Meyerbeer, the four lines that Victor

Hugo writes in every album, a verse from Lamartine, a few words from

Beranger, _Calypso ne pouvait se consoler du depart d’Ulysse_ (the first

words of _Telemaque_) written by George Sand, Scribe’s famous lines on

the Umbrella, a sentence from Charles Nodier, an outline of distance by

Jules Dupre, the signature of David d’Angers, and three notes written

by Hector Berlioz. Monsieur de Clagny, during a visit to Paris, added a

song by Lacenaire--a much coveted autograph, two lines from Fieschi, and

an extremely short note from Napoleon, which were pasted on to pages of

the album. Then Monsieur Gravier, in the course of a tour, had persuaded

Mademoiselle Mars to write her name on this album, with Mademoiselles

Georges, Taglioni, and Grisi, and some distinguished actors, such as

Frederick Lemaitre, Monrose, Bouffe, Rubini, Lablache, Nourrit, and

Arnal; for he knew a set of old fellows brought up in the seraglio, as

they phrased it, who did him this favor.

This beginning of a collection was all the more precious to Dinah

because she was the only person for ten leagues round who owned an

album. Within the last two years, however, several young ladies had

acquired such books, in which they made their friends and acquaintances

write more or less absurd quotations or sentiments. You who spend your

lives in collecting autographs, simple and happy souls, like Dutch tulip

fanciers, you will excuse Dinah when, in her fear of not keeping her

guests more than two days, she begged Bianchon to enrich the volume she

handed to him with a few lines of his writing.

The doctor made Lousteau smile by showing him this sentence on the first

page:

“What makes the populace dangerous is that it has in its pocket an

absolution for every crime.

“J. B. DE CLAGNY.”

“We will second the man who is brave enough to plead in favor of the

Monarchy,” Desplein’s great pupil whispered to Lousteau, and he wrote

below:

“The distinction between Napoleon and a water-carrier is evident

only to Society; Nature takes no account of it. Thus Democracy,

which resists inequality, constantly appeals to Nature.

“H. BIANCHON.”

“Ah!” cried Dinah, amazed, “you rich men take a gold piece out of your

purse as poor men bring out a farthing.... I do not know,” she went

on, turning to Lousteau, “whether it is taking an unfair advantage of a

guest to hope for a few lines--”

“Nay, madame, you flatter me. Bianchon is a great man, but I am too

insignificant!--Twenty years hence my name will be more difficult to

identify than that of the Public Prosecutor whose axiom, written in your

album, will designate him as an obscurer Montesquieu. And I should

want at least twenty-four hours to improvise some sufficiently bitter

reflections, for I could only describe what I feel.”

“I wish you needed a fortnight,” said Madame de la Baudraye graciously,

as she handed him the book. “I should keep you here all the longer.”

At five next morning all the party in the Chateau d’Anzy were astir,

little La Baudraye having arranged a day’s sport for the Parisians--less

for their pleasure than to gratify his own conceit. He was delighted to

make them walk over the twelve hundred acres of waste land that he

was intending to reclaim, an undertaking that would cost some hundred

thousand francs, but which might yield an increase of thirty to sixty

thousand francs a year in the returns of the estate of Anzy.

“Do you know why the Public Prosecutor has not come out with us?” asked

Gatien Boirouge of Monsieur Gravier.

“Why he told us that he was obliged to sit to-day; the minor cases are

before the Court,” replied the other.

“And did you believe that?” cried Gatien. “Well, my papa said to me,

‘Monsieur Lebas will not join you early, for Monsieur de Clagny has

begged him as his deputy to sit for him!’

“Indeed!” said Gravier, changing countenance. “And Monsieur de la

Baudraye is gone to La Charite!”

“But why do you meddle in such matters?” said Bianchon to Gatien.

“Horace is right,” said Lousteau. “I cannot imagine why you trouble your

heads so much about each other; you waste your time in frivolities.”

Horace Bianchon looked at Etienne Lousteau, as much as to say

that newspaper epigrams and the satire of the “funny column” were

incomprehensible at Sancerre.

On reaching a copse, Monsieur Gravier left the two great men and Gatien,

under the guidance of a keeper, to make their way through a little

ravine.

“Well, we must wait for Monsieur Gravier,” said Bianchon, when they had

reached a clearing.

“You may be a great physician,” said Gatien, “but you are ignorant of

provincial life. You mean to wait for Monsieur Gravier?--By this time

he is running like a hare, in spite of his little round stomach; he is

within twenty minutes of Anzy by now----” Gatien looked at his watch.

“Good! he will be just in time.”

“Where?”

“At the chateau for breakfast,” replied Gatien. “Do you suppose I could

rest easy if Madame de la Baudraye were alone with Monsieur de Clagny?

There are two of them now; they will keep an eye on each other. Dinah

will be well guarded.”

“Ah, ha! Then Madame de la Baudraye has not yet made up her mind?” said

Lousteau.

“So mamma thinks. For my part, I am afraid that Monsieur de Clagny has

at last succeeded in bewitching Madame de la Baudraye. If he has been

able to show her that he had any chance of putting on the robes of the

Keeper of the Seals, he may have hidden his moleskin complexion, his

terrible eyes, his touzled mane, his voice like a hoarse crier’s, his

bony figure, like that of a starveling poet, and have assumed all the

charms of Adonis. If Dinah sees Monsieur de Clagny as Attorney-General,

she may see him as a handsome youth. Eloquence has great

privileges.--Besides, Madame de la Baudraye is full of ambition. She

does not like Sancerre, and dreams of the glories of Paris.”

“But what interest have you in all this?” said Lousteau. “If she is in

love with the Public Prosecutor!--Ah! you think she will not love him

for long, and you hope to succeed him.”

“You who live in Paris,” said Gatien, “meet as many different women as

there are days in the year. But at Sancerre, where there are not half

a dozen, and where, of those six, five set up for the most extravagant

virtue, when the handsomest of them all keeps you at an infinite

distance by looks as scornful as though she were of the blood royal, a

young man of two-and-twenty may surely be allowed to make a guess at her

secrets, since she must then treat him with some consideration.”

“Consideration! So that is what you call it in these parts?” said the

journalist with a smile.

“I should suppose Madame de la Baudraye to have too much good taste to

trouble her head about that ugly ape,” said Bianchon.

“Horace,” said Lousteau, “look here, O learned interpreter of human

nature, let us lay a trap for the Public Prosecutor; we shall be doing

our friend Gatien a service, and get a laugh out of it. I do not love

Public Prosecutors.”

“You have a keen intuition of destiny,” said Horace. “But what can we

do?”

“Well, after dinner we will tell sundry little anecdotes of wives

caught out by their husbands, killed, murdered under the most terrible

circumstances.--Then we shall see the faces that Madame de la Baudraye

and de Clagny will make.”

“Not amiss!” said Bianchon; “one or the other must surely, by look or

gesture--”

“I know a newspaper editor,” Lousteau went on, addressing Gatien, “who,

anxious to forefend a grievous fate, will take no stories but such as

tell the tale of lovers burned, hewn, pounded, or cut to pieces; of

wives boiled, fried, or baked; he takes them to his wife to read, hoping

that sheer fear will keep her faithful--satisfied with that humble

alternative, poor man! ‘You see, my dear, to what the smallest error may

lead you!’ says he, epitomizing Arnolfe’s address to Agnes.”

“Madame de la Baudraye is quite guiltless; this youth sees double,”

said Bianchon. “Madame Piedefer seems to me far too pious to invite her

daughter’s lover to the Chateau d’Anzy. Madame de la Baudraye would have

to hoodwink her mother, her husband, her maid, and her mother’s maid;

that is too much to do. I acquit her.”

“Well with more reason because her husband never ‘quits her,’ said

Gatien, laughing at his own wit.

“We can easily remember two or three stories that will make Dinah

quake,” said Lousteau. “Young man--and you too, Bianchon--let me beg you

to maintain a stern demeanor; be thorough diplomatists, an easy manner

without exaggeration, and watch the faces of the two criminals, you

know, without seeming to do so--out of the corner of your eye, or in a

glass, on the sly. This morning we will hunt the hare, this evening we

will hunt the Public Prosecutor.”

The evening began with a triumph for Lousteau, who returned the album to

the lady with this elegy written in it:

SPLEEN

You ask for verse from me, the feeble prey

Of this self-seeking world, a waif and stray

With none to whom to cling;

From me--unhappy, purblind, hopeless devil!

Who e’en in what is good see only evil

In any earthly thing!

This page, the pastime of a dame so fair,

May not reflect the shadow of my care,

For all things have their place.

Of love, to ladies bright, the poet sings,

Of joy, and balls, and dress, and dainty things--

Nay, or of God and Grace.

It were a bitter jest to bid the pen

Of one so worn with life, so hating men,

Depict a scene of joy.

Would you exult in sight to one born blind,

Or--cruel! of a mother’s love remind

Some hapless orphan boy?

When cold despair has gripped a heart still fond,

When there is no young heart that will respond

To it in love, the future is a lie.

If there is none to weep when he is sad,

And share his woe, a man were better dead!--

And so I soon must die.

Give me your pity! often I blaspheme

The sacred name of God. Does it not seem

That I was born in vain?

Why should I bless him? Or why thank Him, since

He might have made me handsome, rich, a prince--

And I am poor and plain?

ETIENNE LOUSTEAU.

September 1836, Chateau d’Anzy.

“And you have written those verses since yesterday?” cried Clagny in a

suspicious tone.

“Dear me, yes, as I was following the game; it is only too evident! I

would gladly have done something better for madame.”

“The verses are exquisite!” cried Dinah, casting up her eyes to heaven.

“They are, alas! the expression of a too genuine feeling,” replied

Lousteau, in a tone of deep dejection.

The reader will, of course, have guessed that the journalist had stored

these lines in his memory for ten years at least, for he had written

them at the time of the Restoration in disgust at being unable to get

on. Madame de la Baudraye gazed at him with such pity as the woes of

genius inspire; and Monsieur de Clagny, who caught her expression,

turned in hatred against this sham _Jeune Malade_ (the name of an

Elegy written by Millevoye). He sat down to backgammon with the cure

of Sancerre. The Presiding Judge’s son was so extremely obliging as to

place a lamp near the two players in such a way as that the light

fell full on Madame de la Baudraye, who took up her work; she was

embroidering in coarse wool a wicker-plait paper-basket. The three

conspirators sat close at hand.

“For whom are you decorating that pretty basket, madame?” said Lousteau.

“For some charity lottery, perhaps?”

“No,” she said, “I think there is too much display in charity done to

the sound of a trumpet.”

“You are very indiscreet,” said Monsieur Gravier.

“Can there be any indiscretion,” said Lousteau, “in inquiring who the

happy mortal may be in whose room that basket is to stand?”

“There is no happy mortal in the case,” said Dinah; “it is for Monsieur

de la Baudraye.”

The Public Prosecutor looked slily at Madame de la Baudraye and her

work, as if he had said to himself, “I have lost my paper-basket!”

“Why, madame, may we not think him happy in having a lovely wife, happy

in her decorating his paper-baskets so charmingly? The colors are red

and black, like Robin Goodfellow. If ever I marry, I only hope that

twelve years after, my wife’s embroidered baskets may still be for me.”

“And why should they not be for you?” said the lady, fixing her fine

gray eyes, full of invitation, on Etienne’s face.

“Parisians believe in nothing,” said the lawyer bitterly. “The virtue of

women is doubted above all things with terrible insolence. Yes, for some

time past the books you have written, you Paris authors, your farces,

your dramas, all your atrocious literature, turn on adultery--”

“Come, come, Monsieur the Public Prosecutor,” retorted Etienne,

laughing, “I left you to play your game in peace, I did not attack you,

and here you are bringing an indictment against me. On my honor as a

journalist, I have launched above a hundred articles against the writers

you speak of; but I confess that in attacking them it was to attempt

something like criticism. Be just; if you condemn them, you must condemn

Homer, whose _Iliad_ turns on Helen of Troy; you must condemn Milton’s

_Paradise Lost_. Eve and her serpent seem to me a pretty little case of

symbolical adultery; you must suppress the Psalms of David, inspired by

the highly adulterous love affairs of that Louis XIV. of Judah; you must

make a bonfire of _Mithridate, le Tartuffe, l’Ecole des Femmes, Phedre,

Andromaque, le Mariage de Figaro_, Dante’s _Inferno_, Petrarch’s

Sonnets, all the works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the romances of the

Middle Ages, the History of France, and of Rome, etc., etc. Excepting

Bossuet’s _Histoire des Variations_ and Pascal’s _Provinciales_, I do

not think there are many books left to read if you insist on eliminating

all those in which illicit love is mentioned.”

“Much loss that would be!” said Monsieur de Clagny.

Etienne, nettled by the superior air assumed by Monsieur de Clagny,

wanted to infuriate him by one of those cold-drawn jests which consist

in defending an opinion in which we have no belief, simply to rouse the

wrath of a poor man who argues in good faith; a regular journalist’s

pleasantry.

“If we take up the political attitude into which you would force

yourself,” he went on, without heeding the lawyer’s remark, “and assume

the part of Public Prosecutor of all the ages--for every Government

has its public ministry--well, the Catholic religion is infected at its

fountain-head by a startling instance of illegal union. In the opinion

of King Herod, and of Pilate as representing the Roman Empire, Joseph’s

wife figured as an adulteress, since, by her avowal, Joseph was not

the father of Jesus. The heathen judge could no more recognize the

Immaculate Conception than you yourself would admit the possibility of

such a miracle if a new religion should nowadays be preached as based

on a similar mystery. Do you suppose that a judge and jury in a police

court would give credence to the operation of the Holy Ghost! And yet

who can venture to assert that God will never again redeem mankind? Is

it any better now than it was under Tiberius?”

“Your argument is blasphemy,” said Monsieur de Clagny.

“I grant it,” said the journalist, “but not with malicious intent.

You cannot suppress historical fact. In my opinion, Pilate, when he

sentenced Jesus, and Anytus--who spoke for the aristocratic party at

Athens--when he insisted on the death of Socrates, both represented

established social interests which held themselves legitimate, invested

with co-operative powers, and obliged to defend themselves. Pilate and

Anytus in their time were not less logical than the public prosecutors

who demanded the heads of the sergeants of La Rochelle; who, at this

day, are guillotining the republicans who take up arms against the

throne as established by the revolution of July, and the innovators

who aim at upsetting society for their own advantage under pretence of

organizing it on a better footing. In the eyes of the great families

of Greece and Rome, Socrates and Jesus were criminals; to those ancient

aristocracies their opinions were akin to those of the Mountain; and if

their followers had been victorious, they would have produced a little

‘ninety-three’ in the Roman Empire or in Attica.”

“What are you trying to come to, monsieur?” asked the lawyer.

“To adultery!--For thus, monsieur, a Buddhist as he smokes his pipe may

very well assert that the Christian religion is founded in adultery; as

we believe that Mahomet is an impostor; that his Koran is an epitome

of the Old Testament and the Gospels; and that God never had the least

intention of constituting that camel-driver His Prophet.”

“If there were many men like you in France--and there are more than

enough, unfortunately--all government would be impossible.”

“And there would be no religion at all,” said Madame Piedefer, who had

been making strangely wry faces all through this discussion.

“You are paining them very much,” said Bianchon to Lousteau in an

undertone. “Do not talk of religion; you are saying things that are

enough to upset them.”

“If I were a writer or a romancer,” said Monsieur Gravier, “I should

take the side of the luckless husbands. I, who have seen many things,

and strange things too, know that among the ranks of deceived husbands

there are some whose attitude is not devoid of energy, men who, at a

crisis, can be very dramatic, to use one of your words, monsieur,” he

said, addressing Etienne.

“You are very right, my dear Monsieur Gravier,” said Lousteau. “I never

thought that deceived husbands were ridiculous; on the contrary, I think

highly of them--”

“Do you not think a husband’s confidence a sublime thing?” said

Bianchon. “He believes in his wife, he does not suspect her, he trusts

her implicitly. But if he is so weak as to trust her, you make game of

him; if he is jealous and suspicious, you hate him; what, then, I ask

you, is the happy medium for a man of spirit?”

“If Monsieur de Clagny had not just expressed such vehement disapproval

of the immorality of stories in which the matrimonial compact is

violated, I could tell you of a husband’s revenge,” said Lousteau.

Monsieur de Clagny threw the dice with a convulsive jerk, and dared not

look up at the journalist.

“A story, from you!” cried Madame de la Baudraye. “I should hardly have

dared to hope for such a treat--”

“It is not my story, madame; I am not clever enough to invent such a

tragedy. It was told me--and how delightfully!--by one of our greatest

writers, the finest literary musician of our day, Charles Nodier.”

“Well, tell it,” said Dinah. “I never met Monsieur Nodier, so you have

no comparison to fear.”

“Not long after the 18th Brumaire,” Etienne began, “there was, as

you know, a call to arms in Brittany and la Vendee. The First Consul,

anxious before all things for peace in France, opened negotiations

with the rebel chiefs, and took energetic military measures; but, while

combining his plans of campaign with the insinuating charm of Italian

diplomacy, he also set the Machiavelian springs of the police in

movement, Fouche then being at its head. And none of these means were

superfluous to stifle the fire of war then blaring in the West.

“At this time a young man of the Maille family was despatched by the

Chouans from Brittany to Saumur, to open communications between certain

magnates of that town and its environs and the leaders of the Royalist

party. The envoy was, in fact, arrested on the very day he landed--for

he traveled by boat, disguised as a master mariner. However, as a man

of practical intelligence, he had calculated all the risks of the

undertaking; his passport and papers were all in order, and the men told

off to take him were afraid of blundering.

“The Chevalier de Beauvoir--I now remember his name--had studied

his part well; he appealed to the family whose name he had borrowed,

persisted in his false address, and stood his examination so boldly that

he would have been set at large but for the blind belief that the spies

had in their instructions, which were unfortunately only too minute. In

this dilemma the authorities were more ready to risk an arbitrary act

than to let a man escape to whose capture the Minister attached great

importance. In those days of liberty the agents of the powers in

authority cared little enough for what we now regard as _legal_. The

Chevalier was therefore imprisoned provisionally, until the superior

officials should come to some decision as to his identity. He had not

long to wait for it; orders were given to guard the prisoner closely in

spite of his denials.

“The Chevalier de Beauvoir was next transferred, in obedience to further

orders, to the Castle of l’Escarpe, a name which sufficiently indicates

its situation. This fortress, perched on very high rocks, has precipices

for its trenches; it is reached on all sides by steep and dangerous

paths; and, like every ancient castle, its principal gate has a

drawbridge over a wide moat. The commandant of this prison, delighted

to have charge of a man of family whose manners were most agreeable,

who expressed himself well, and seemed highly educated, received the

Chevalier as a godsend; he offered him the freedom of the place on

parole, that they might together the better defy its dulness. The

prisoner was more than content.

“Beauvoir was a loyal gentleman, but, unfortunately, he was also a very

handsome youth. He had attractive features, a dashing air, a pleasing

address, and extraordinary strength. Well made, active, full of

enterprise, and loving danger, he would have made an admirable leader

of guerillas, and was the very man for the part. The commandant gave his

prisoner the most comfortable room, entertained him at his table, and

at first had nothing but praise for the Vendean. This officer was a

Corsican and married; his wife was pretty and charming, and he thought

her, perhaps, not to be trusted--at any rate, he was as jealous as a

Corsican and a rather ill-looking soldier may be. The lady took a fancy

to Beauvoir, and he found her very much to his taste; perhaps they

loved! Love in a prison is quick work. Did they commit some imprudence?

Was the sentiment they entertained something warmer than the superficial

gallantry which is almost a duty of men towards women?

“Beauvoir never fully explained this rather obscure episode of the

story; it is at least certain that the commandant thought himself

justified in treating his prisoner with excessive severity. Beauvoir was

placed in the dungeon, fed on black bread and cold water, and fettered

in accordance with the time-honored traditions of the treatment lavished

on captives. His cell, under the fortress-yard, was vaulted with hard

stone, the walls were of desperate thickness; the tower overlooked the

precipice.

“When the luckless man had convinced himself of the impossibility of

escape, he fell into those day-dreams which are at once the comfort and

the crowning despair of prisoners. He gave himself up to the trifles

which in such cases seem so important; he counted the hours and the

days; he studied the melancholy trade of being prisoner; he became

absorbed in himself, and learned the value of air and sunshine; then,

at the end of a fortnight, he was attacked by that terrible malady, that

fever for liberty, which drives prisoners to those heroic efforts of

which the prodigious achievements seem to us impossible, though true,

and which my friend the doctor” (and he turned to Bianchon) “would

perhaps ascribe to some unknown forces too recondite for his

physiological analysis to detect, some mysteries of the human will of

which the obscurity baffles science.”

Bianchon shook his head in negation.

“Beauvoir was eating his heart out, for death alone could set him

free. One morning the turnkey, whose duty it was to bring him his food,

instead of leaving him when he had given him his meagre pittance, stood

with his arms folded, looking at him with strange meaning. Conversation

between them was brief, and the warder never began it. The Chevalier

was therefore greatly surprised when the man said to him: ‘Of course,

monsieur, you know your own business when you insist on being always

called Monsieur Lebrun, or citizen Lebrun. It is no concern of mine;

ascertaining your name is no part of my duty. It is all the same to

me whether you call yourself Peter or Paul. If every man minds his own

business, the cows will not stray. At the same time, _I_ know,’ said he,

with a wink, ‘that you are Monsieur Charles-Felix-Theodore, Chevalier

de Beauvoir, and cousin to Madame la Duchesse de Maille.--Heh?’ he added

after a short silence, during which he looked at his prisoner.

“Beauvoir, seeing that he was safe under lock and key, did not imagine

that his position could be any the worse if his real name were known.

“‘Well, and supposing I were the Chevalier de Beauvoir, what should I

gain by that?’ said he.

“‘Oh, there is everything to be gained by it,’ replied the jailer in an

undertone. ‘I have been paid to help you to get away; but wait a minute!

If I were suspected in the smallest degree, I should be shot out of

hand. So I have said that I will do no more in the matter than will just

earn the money.--Look here,’ said he, taking a small file out of his

pocket, ‘this is your key; with this you can cut through one of your

bars. By the Mass, but it will not be any easy job,’ he went on,

glancing at the narrow loophole that let daylight into the dungeon.

“It was in a splayed recess under the deep cornice that ran round the

top of the tower, between the brackets that supported the embrasures.

“‘Monsieur,’ said the man, ‘you must take care to saw through the iron

low enough to get your body through.’

“‘I will get through, never fear,’ said the prisoner.

“‘But high enough to leave a stanchion to fasten a cord to,’ the warder

went on.

“‘And where is the cord?’ asked Beauvoir.

“‘Here,’ said the man, throwing down a knotted rope. ‘It is made of

raveled linen, that you may be supposed to have contrived it yourself,

and it is long enough. When you have got to the bottom knot, let

yourself drop gently, and the rest you must manage for yourself. You

will probably find a carriage somewhere in the neighborhood, and friends

looking out for you. But I know nothing about that.--I need not remind

you that there is a man-at-arms to the right of the tower. You will take

care, of course, to choose a dark night, and wait till the sentinel is

asleep. You must take your chance of being shot; but--’

“‘All right! All right! At least I shall not rot here,’ cried the young

man.

“‘Well, that may happen nevertheless,’ replied the jailer, with a stupid

expression.

“Beauvoir thought this was merely one of the aimless remarks that such

folks indulge in. The hope of freedom filled him with such joy that he

could not be troubled to consider the words of a man who was no more

than a better sort of peasant. He set to work at once, and had filed

the bars through in the course of the day. Fearing a visit from the

Governor, he stopped up the breaches with bread crumb rubbed in rust

to make it look like iron; he hid his rope, and waited for a favorable

night with the intensity of anticipation, the deep anguish of soul that

makes a prisoner’s life dramatic.

“At last, one murky night, an autumn night, he finished cutting through

the bars, tied the cord firmly to the stump, and perched himself on the

sill outside, holding on by one hand to the piece of iron remaining.

Then he waited for the darkest hour of the night, when the sentinels

would probably be asleep; this would be not long before dawn. He knew

the hours of their rounds, the length of each watch, every detail with

which prisoners, almost involuntarily, become familiar. He waited till

the moment when one of the men-at-arms had spent two-thirds of his watch

and gone into his box for shelter from the fog. Then, feeling sure that

the chances were at the best for his escape, he let himself down knot by

knot, hanging between earth and sky, and clinging to his rope with the

strength of a giant. All was well. At the last knot but one, just as he

was about to let himself drop, a prudent impulse led him to feel for

the ground with his feet, and he found no footing. The predicament

was awkward for a man bathed in sweat, tired, and perplexed, and in a

position where his life was at stake on even chances. He was about to

risk it, when a trivial incident stopped him; his hat fell off; happily,

he listened for the noise it must make in striking the ground, and he

heard not a sound.

“The prisoner felt vaguely suspicious as to this state of affairs. He

began to wonder whether the Commandant had not laid a trap for him--but

if so, why? Torn by doubts, he almost resolved to postpone the attempt

till another night. At any rate, he would wait for the first gleam of

day, when it would still not be impossible to escape. His great strength

enabled him to climb up again to his window; still, he was almost

exhausted by the time he gained the sill, where he crouched on the

lookout, exactly like a cat on the parapet of a gutter. Before long, by

the pale light of dawn, he perceived as he waved the rope that there

was a little interval of a hundred feet between the lowest knot and the

pointed rocks below.

“‘Thank you, my friend, the Governor!’ said he, with characteristic

coolness. Then, after a brief meditation on this skilfully-planned

revenge, he thought it wise to return to his cell.

“He laid his outer clothes conspicuously on the bed, left the rope

outside to make it seem that he had fallen, and hid himself behind the

door to await the arrival of the treacherous turnkey, arming himself

with one of the iron bars he had filed out. The jailer, who returned

rather earlier than usual to secure the dead man’s leavings, opened the

door, whistling as he came in; but when he was at arm’s length, Beauvoir

hit him such a tremendous blow on the head that the wretch fell in a

heap without a cry; the bar had cracked his skull.

“The Chevalier hastily stripped him and put on his clothes, mimicked his

walk, and, thanks to the early hour and the undoubting confidence of the

warders of the great gate, he walked out and away.”

It did not seem to strike either the lawyer or Madame de la Baudraye

that there was in this narrative the least allusion that should apply

to them. Those in the little plot looked inquiringly at each other,

evidently surprised at the perfect coolness of the two supposed lovers.

“Oh! I can tell you a better story than that,” said Bianchon.

“Let us hear,” said the audience, at a sign from Lousteau, conveying

that Bianchon had a reputation as a story-teller.

Among the stock of narratives he had in store, for every clever man

has a fund of anecdotes as Madame de la Baudraye had a collection of

phrases, the doctor chose that which is known as _La Grande Breteche_,

and is so famous indeed, that it was put on the stage at the

_Gymnase-Dramatique_ under the title of _Valentine_. So it is not

necessary to repeat it here, though it was then new to the inhabitants

of the Chateau d’Anzy. And it was told with the same finish of gesture

and tone which had won such praise for Bianchon when at Mademoiselle

des Touches’ supper-party he had told it for the first time. The final

picture of the Spanish grandee, starved to death where he stood in the

cupboard walled up by Madame de Merret’s husband, and that husband’s

last word as he replied to his wife’s entreaty, “You swore on that

crucifix that there was no one in that closet!” produced their full

effect. There was a silent minute, highly flattering to Bianchon.

“Do you know, gentlemen,” said Madame de la Baudraye, “love must be

a mighty thing that it can tempt a woman to put herself in such a

position?”

“I, who have certainly seen some strange things in the course of my

life,” said Gravier, “was cognizant in Spain of an adventure of the same

kind.”

“You come forward after two great performers,” said Madame de la

Baudraye, with coquettish flattery, as she glanced at the two Parisians.

“But never mind--proceed.”

“Some little time after his entry into Madrid,” said the

Receiver-General, “the Grand Duke of Berg invited the magnates of the

capital to an entertainment given to the newly conquered city by the

French army. In spite of the splendor of the affair, the Spaniards were

not very cheerful; their ladies hardly danced at all, and most of the

company sat down to cards. The gardens of the Duke’s palace were so

brilliantly illuminated, that the ladies could walk about in as perfect

safety as in broad daylight. The fete was of imperial magnificence.

Nothing was grudged to give the Spaniards a high idea of the Emperor, if

they were to measure him by the standard of his officers.

“In an arbor near the house, between one and two in the morning, a party

of French officers were discussing the chances of war, and the not too

hopeful outlook prognosticated by the conduct of the Spaniards present

at that grand ball.

“‘I can only tell you,’ said the surgeon-major of the company of which I

was paymaster, ‘I applied formally to Prince Murat only yesterday to

be recalled. Without being afraid exactly of leaving my bones in the

Peninsula, I would rather dress the wounds made by our worthy neighbors

the Germans. Their weapons do not run quite so deep into the body as

these Castilian daggers. Besides, a certain dread of Spain is, with

me, a sort of superstition. From my earliest youth I have read Spanish

books, and a heap of gloomy romances and tales of adventures in this

country have given me a serious prejudice against its manners and

customs.

“‘Well, now, since my arrival in Madrid, I have already been, not

indeed the hero, but the accomplice of a dangerous intrigue, as dark and

mysterious as any romance by Lady (Mrs.) Radcliffe. I am apt to attend

to my presentiments, and I am off to-morrow. Murat will not refuse me

leave, for, thanks to our varied services, we always have influential

friends.’

“‘Since you mean to cut your stick, tell us what’s up,’ said an old

Republican colonel, who cared not a rap for Imperial gentility and

choice language.

“The surgeon-major looked about him cautiously, as if to make sure

who were his audience, and being satisfied that no Spaniard was within

hearing, he said:

“‘We are none but Frenchmen--then, with pleasure, Colonel Hulot. About

six days since, I was quietly going home, at about eleven at night,

after leaving General Montcornet, whose hotel is but a few yards from

mine. We had come away together from the Quartermaster-General’s, where

we had played rather high at _bouillotte_. Suddenly, at the corner of a

narrow high-street, two strangers, or rather, two demons, rushed upon me

and flung a large cloak round my head and arms. I yelled out, as you may

suppose, like a dog that is thrashed, but the cloth smothered my voice,

and I was lifted into a chaise with dexterous rapidity. When my two

companions released me from the cloak, I heard these dreadful words

spoken by a woman, in bad French:

“‘“If you cry out, or if you attempt to escape, if you make the very

least suspicious demonstration, the gentleman opposite to you will stab

you without hesitation. So you had better keep quiet.--Now, I will tell

you why you have been carried off. If you will take the trouble to put

your hand out in this direction, you will find your case of instruments

lying between us; we sent a messenger for them to your rooms, in your

name. You will need them. We are taking you to a house that you may

save the honor of a lady who is about to give birth to a child that

she wishes to place in this gentleman’s keeping without her husband’s

knowledge. Though monsieur rarely leaves his wife, with whom he is

still passionately in love, watching over her with all the vigilance

of Spanish jealousy, she had succeeded in concealing her condition; he

believes her to be ill. You must bring the child into the world. The

dangers of this enterprise do not concern us: only, you must obey us,

otherwise the lover, who is sitting opposite to you in this carriage,

and who does not understand a word of French, will kill you on the least

rash movement.”

“‘“And who are you?” I asked, feeling for the speaker’s hand, for her

arm was inside the sleeve of a soldier’s uniform.

“‘“I am my lady’s waiting-woman,” said she, “and ready to reward you

with my own person if you show yourself gallant and helpful in our

necessities.”

“‘“Gladly,” said I, seeing that I was inevitably started on a perilous

adventure.

“‘Under favor of the darkness, I felt whether the person and figure of

the girl were in keeping with the idea I had formed of her from her tone

of voice. The good soul had, no doubt, made up her mind from the first

to accept all the chances of this strange act of kidnapping, for she

kept silence very obligingly, and the coach had not been more than ten

minutes on the way when she accepted and returned a very satisfactory

kiss. The lover, who sat opposite to me, took no offence at an

occasional quite involuntary kick; as he did not understand French, I

conclude he paid no heed to them.

“‘“I can be your mistress on one condition only,” said the woman, in

reply to the nonsense I poured into her ear, carried away by the fervor

of an improvised passion, to which everything was unpropitious.

“‘“And what is it?”

“‘“That you will never attempt to find out whose servant I am. If I am

to go to you, it must be at night, and you must receive me in the dark.”

“‘“Very good,” said I.

“‘We had got as far as this, when the carriage drew up under a garden

wall.

“‘“You must allow me to bandage your eyes,” said the maid. “You can lean

on my arm, and I will lead you.”

“‘She tied a handkerchief over my eyes, fastening it in a tight knot at

the back of my head. I heard the sound of a key being cautiously fitted

to the lock of a little side door by the speechless lover who had sat

opposite to me. In a moment the waiting-woman, whose shape was slender,

and who walked with an elegant jauntiness’--_meneho_, as they call it,”

Monsieur Gravier explained in a superior tone, “a word which describes

the swing which women contrive to give a certain part of their dress

that shall be nameless.--‘The waiting-woman’--it is the surgeon-major

who is speaking,” the narrator went on--“‘led me along the gravel walks

of a large garden, till at a certain spot she stopped. From the louder

sound of our footsteps, I concluded that we were close to the house.

“Now silence!” said she in a whisper, “and mind what you are about. Do

not overlook any of my signals; I cannot speak without terrible

danger for both of us, and at this moment your life is of the first

importance.” Then she added: “My mistress is in a room on the ground

floor. To get into it we must pass through her husband’s room and close

to his bed. Do not cough, walk softly, and follow me closely, so as not

to knock against the furniture or tread anywhere but on the carpets I

laid down.”

“‘Here the lover gave an impatient growl, as a man annoyed by so much

delay.

“‘The woman said no more, I heard a door open, I felt the warm air of

the house, and we stole in like thieves. Presently the girl’s light hand

removed the bandage. I found myself in a lofty and spacious room, badly

lighted by a smoky lamp. The window was open, but the jealous husband

had fitted it with iron bars. I was in the bottom of a sack, as it were.

“‘On the ground a woman was lying on a mat; her head was covered with

a muslin veil, but I could see her eyes through it full of tears and

flashing with the brightness of stars; she held a handkerchief in her

mouth, biting it so hard that her teeth were set in it: I never saw

finer limbs, but her body was writhing with pain like a harp-string

thrown on the fire. The poor creature had made a sort of struts of her

legs by setting her feet against a chest of drawers, and with both hands

she held on to the bar of a chair, her arms outstretched, with every

vein painfully swelled. She might have been a criminal undergoing

torture. But she did not utter a cry; there was not a sound, all

three speechless and motionless. The husband snored with reassuring

regularity. I wanted to study the waiting-woman’s face, but she had

put on a mask, which she had removed, no doubt, during our drive, and

I could see nothing but a pair of black eyes and a pleasingly rounded

figure.

“‘The lover threw some towels over his mistress’ legs and folded the

muslin veil double over her face. As soon as I had examined the lady

with care, I perceived from certain symptoms which I had noted once

before on a very sad occasion in my life, that the infant was dead. I

turned to the maid in order to tell her this. Instantly the suspicious

stranger drew his dagger; but I had time to explain the matter to the

woman, who explained in a word or two to him in a low voice. On hearing

my opinion, a quick, slight shudder ran through him from head to foot

like a lightning flash; I fancied I could see him turn pale under his

black velvet mask.

“‘The waiting-woman took advantage of a moment when he was bending in

despair over the dying woman, who had turned blue, to point to some

glasses of lemonade standing on a table, at the same time shaking her

head negatively. I understood that I was not to drink anything in spite

of the dreadful thirst that parched my throat. The lover was thirsty

too; he took an empty glass, poured out some fresh lemonade, and drank

it off.

“‘At this moment the lady had a violent attack of pain, which showed

me that now was the time to operate. I summoned all my courage, and in

about an hour had succeeded in delivering her of the child, cutting

it up to extract it. The Spaniard no longer thought of poisoning me,

understanding that I had saved the mother’s life. Large tears fell on

his cloak. The woman uttered no sound, but she trembled like a hunted

animal, and was bathed in sweat.

“‘At one horribly critical moment she pointed in the direction of her

husband’s room; he had turned in his sleep, and she alone had heard the

rustle of the sheets, the creaking of the bed or of the curtain. We all

paused, and the lover and the waiting-woman, through the eyeholes of

their masks, gave each other a look that said, “If he wakes, shall we

kill him?”

“‘At that instant I put out my hand to take the glass of lemonade the

Spaniard had drunk of. He, thinking that I was about to take one of the

full glasses, sprang forward like a cat, and laid his long dagger over

the two poisoned goblets, leaving me his own, and signing to me to drink

what was left. So much was conveyed by this quick action, and it was

so full of good feeling, that I forgave him his atrocious schemes for

killing me, and thus burying every trace of this event.

“‘After two hours of care and alarms, the maid and I put her mistress

to bed. The lover, forced into so perilous an adventure, had, to provide

means in case of having to fly, a packet of diamonds stuck to paper;

these he put into my pocket without my knowing it; and I may add

parenthetically, that as I was ignorant of the Spaniard’s magnificent

gift, my servant stole the jewels the day after, and went off with a

perfect fortune.

“‘I whispered my instructions to the waiting-woman as to the further

care of her patient, and wanted to be gone. The maid remained with her

mistress, which was not very reassuring, but I was on my guard. The

lover made a bundle of the dead infant and the blood-stained clothes,

tying it up tightly, and hiding it under his cloak; he passed his hand

over my eyes as if to bid me to see nothing, and signed to me to take

hold of the skirt of his coat. He went first out of the room, and I

followed, not without a parting glance at my lady of an hour. She,

seeing the Spaniard had gone out, snatched off her mask and showed me an

exquisite face.

“‘When I found myself in the garden, in the open air, I confess that I

breathed as if a heavy load had been lifted from my breast. I followed

my guide at a respectful distance, watching his least movement with keen

attention. Having reached the little door, he took my hand and pressed a

seal to my lips, set in a ring which I had seen him wearing on a finger

of his left hand, and I gave him to understand that this significant

sign would be obeyed. In the street two horses were waiting; we each

mounted one. My Spaniard took my bridle, held his own between his teeth,

for his right hand held the bloodstained bundle, and we went off at

lightning speed.

“‘I could not see the smallest object by which to retrace the road we

came by. At dawn I found myself close by my own door, and the Spaniard

fled towards the Atocha gate.’

“‘And you saw nothing which could lead you to suspect who the woman was

whom you had attended?’ the Colonel asked of the surgeon.

“‘One thing only,’ he replied. ‘When I turned the unknown lady over, I

happened to remark a mole on her arm, about half-way down, as big as

a lentil, and surrounded with brown hairs.’--At this instant the rash

speaker turned pale. All our eyes, that had been fixed on his, followed

his glance, and we saw a Spaniard, whose glittering eyes shone through

a clump of orange-trees. On finding himself the object of our attention,

the man vanished with the swiftness of a sylph. A young captain rushed

in pursuit.

“‘By Heaven!’ cried the surgeon, ‘that basilisk stare has chilled me

through, my friends. I can hear bells ringing in my ears! I may take

leave of you; you will bury me here!’

“‘What a fool you are!’ exclaimed Colonel Hulot. ‘Falcon is on the track

of the Spaniard who was listening, and he will call him to account.’

“‘Well,’ cried one and another, seeing the captain return quite out of

breath.

“‘The devil’s in it,’ said Falcon; ‘the man went through a wall, I

believe! As I do not suppose that he is a wizard, I fancy he must belong

to the house! He knows every corner and turning, and easily escaped.’

“‘I am done for,’ said the surgeon, in a gloomy voice.

“‘Come, come, keep calm, Bega,’ said I (his name was Bega), ‘we will sit

on watch with you till you leave. We will not leave you this evening.’

“In point of fact, three young officers who had been losing at play went

home with the surgeon to his lodgings, and one of us offered to stay

with him.

“Within two days Bega had obtained his recall to France; he made

arrangements to travel with a lady to whom Murat had given a strong

escort, and had just finished dinner with a party of friends, when

his servant came to say that a young lady wished to speak to him.

The surgeon and the three officers went down suspecting mischief. The

stranger could only say, ‘Be on your guard--’ when she dropped down

dead. It was the waiting-woman, who, finding she had been poisoned, had

hoped to arrive in time to warn her lover.

“‘Devil take it!’ cried Captain Falcon, ‘that is what I call love! No

woman on earth but a Spaniard can run about with a dose of poison in her

inside!’

“Bega remained strangely pensive. To drown the dark presentiments that

haunted him, he sat down to table again, and with his companions drank

immoderately. The whole party went early to bed, half drunk.

“In the middle of the night the hapless Bega was aroused by the sharp

rattle of the curtain rings pulled violently along the rods. He sat up

in bed, in the mechanical trepidation which we all feel on waking with

such a start. He saw standing before him a Spaniard wrapped in a cloak,

who fixed on him the same burning gaze that he had seen through the

bushes.

“Bega shouted out, ‘Help, help, come at once, friends!’ But the Spaniard

answered his cry of distress with a bitter laugh.--‘Opium grows for

all!’ said he.

“Having thus pronounced sentence as it were, the stranger pointed to the

three other men sleeping soundly, took from under his cloak the arm of

a woman, freshly amputated, and held it out to Bega, pointing to a mole

like that he had so rashly described. ‘Is it the same?’ he asked. By

the light of the lantern the man had set on the bed, Bega recognized the

arm, and his speechless amazement was answer enough.

“Without waiting for further information, the lady’s husband stabbed him

to the heart.”

“You must tell that to the marines!” said Lousteau. “It needs their

robust faith to swallow it! Can you tell me which told the tale, the

dead man or the Spaniard?”

“Monsieur,” replied the Receiver-General, “I nursed poor Bega, who died

five days after in dreadful suffering.--That is not the end.

“At the time of the expedition sent out to restore Ferdinand VII. I was

appointed to a place in Spain; but, happily for me, I got no further

than Tours when I was promised the post of Receiver here at Sancerre. On

the eve of setting out I was at a ball at Madame de Listomere’s, where

we were to meet several Spaniards of high rank. On rising from the

card-table, I saw a Spanish grandee, an _afrancesado_ in exile, who had

been about a fortnight in Touraine. He had arrived very late at this

ball--his first appearance in society--accompanied by his wife, whose

right arm was perfectly motionless. Everybody made way in silence for

this couple, whom we all watched with some excitement. Imagine a picture

by Murillo come to life. Under black and hollow brows the man’s eyes

were like a fixed blaze; his face looked dried up, his bald skull was

red, and his frame was a terror to behold, he was so emaciated. His

wife--no, you cannot imagine her. Her figure had the supple swing for

which the Spaniards created the word _meneho_; though pale, she was

still beautiful; her complexion was dazzlingly fair--a rare thing in

a Spaniard; and her gaze, full of the Spanish sun, fell on you like a

stream of melted lead.

“‘Madame,’ said I to her, towards the end of the evening, ‘what

occurrence led to the loss of your arm?’

“‘I lost it in the war of independence,’ said she.”

“Spain is a strange country,” said Madame de la Baudraye. “It still

shows traces of Arab manners.”

“Oh!” said the journalist, laughing, “the mania for cutting off arms

is an old one there. It turns up every now and then like some of our

newspaper hoaxes, for the subject has given plots for plays on the

Spanish stage so early as 1570--”

“Then do you think me capable of inventing such a story?” said Monsieur

Gravier, nettled by Lousteau’s impertinent tone.

“Quite incapable of such a thing,” said the journalist with grave irony.

“Pooh!” said Bianchon, “the inventions of romances and play-writers are

quite as often transferred from their books and pieces into real life,

as the events of real life are made use of on the stage or adapted to a

tale. I have seen the comedy of _Tartufe_ played out--with the exception

of the close; Orgon’s eyes could not be opened to the truth.”

“And the tragi-comedy of _Adolphe_ by Benjamin Constant is constantly

enacted,” cried Lousteau.

“And do you suppose,” asked Madame de la Baudraye, “that such adventures

as Monsieur Gravier has related could ever occur now, and in France?”

“Dear me!” cried Clagny, “of the ten or twelve startling crimes that are

annually committed in France, quite half are mixed up with circumstances

at least as extraordinary as these, and often outdoing them in romantic

details. Indeed, is not this proved by the reports in the _Gazette des

Tribunaux_--the Police news--in my opinion, one of the worst abuses of

the Press? This newspaper, which was started only in 1826 or ‘27, was

not in existence when I began my professional career, and the facts of

the crime I am about to speak of were not known beyond the limits of the

department where it was committed.

“In the quarter of Saint-Pierre-des-Corps at Tours a woman whose husband

had disappeared at the time when the army of the Loire was disbanded,

and who had mourned him deeply, was conspicuous for her excess of

devotion. When the mission priests went through all the provinces to

restore the crosses that had been destroyed and to efface the traces

of revolutionary impiety, this widow was one of their most zealous

proselytes, she carried a cross and nailed to it a silver heart pierced

by an arrow; and, for a long time after, she went every evening to pray

at the foot of the cross which was erected behind the Cathedral apse.

“At last, overwhelmed by remorse, she confessed to a horrible crime. She

had killed her husband, as Fualdes was murdered, by bleeding him; she

had salted the body and packed it in pieces into old casks, exactly as

if it have been pork; and for a long time she had taken a piece every

morning and thrown it into the Loire. Her confessor consulted his

superiors, and told her that it would be his duty to inform the

public prosecutor. The woman awaited the action of the Law. The public

prosecutor and the examining judge, on examining the cellar, found the

husband’s head still in pickle in one of the casks.--‘Wretched woman,’

said the judge to the accused, ‘since you were so barbarous as to throw

your husband’s body into the river, why did you not get rid of the head?

Then there would have been no proof.’

“‘I often tried, monsieur,’ said she, ‘but it was too heavy.’”

“Well, and what became of the woman?” asked the two Parisians.

“She was sentenced and executed at Tours,” replied the lawyer; “but her

repentance and piety had attracted interest in spite of her monstrous

crime.”

“And do you suppose,” said Bianchon, “that we know all the tragedies

that are played out behind the curtain of private life that the public

never lifts?--It seems to me that human justice is ill adapted to judge

of crimes as between husband and wife. It has every right to intervene

as the police; but in equity it knows nothing of the heart of the

matter.”

“The victim has in many cases been for so long the tormentor,” said

Madame de la Baudraye guilelessly, “that the crime would sometimes seem

almost excusable if the accused could tell all.”

This reply, led up to by Bianchon and by the story which Clagny had

told, left the two Parisians excessively puzzled as to Dinah’s position.

At bedtime council was held, one of those discussions which take place

in the passages of old country-houses where the bachelors linger, candle

in hand, for mysterious conversations.

Monsieur Gravier was now informed of the object in view during this

entertaining evening which had brought Madame de la Baudraye’s innocence

to light.

“But, after all,” said Lousteau, “our hostess’ serenity may indicate

deep depravity instead of the most child-like innocence. The Public

Prosecutor looks to me quite capable of suggesting that little La

Baudraye should be put in pickle----”

“He is not to return till to-morrow; who knows what may happen in the

course of the night?” said Gatien.

“We will know!” cried Monsieur Gravier.

In the life of a country house a number of practical jokes are

considered admissible, some of them odiously treacherous. Monsieur

Gravier, who had seen so much of the world, proposed setting seals on

the door of Madame de la Baudraye and of the Public Prosecutor. The

ducks that denounced the poet Ibycus are as nothing in comparison with

the single hair that these country spies fasten across the opening of a

door by means of two little flattened pills of wax, fixed so high up, or

so low down, that the trick is never suspected. If the gallant comes out

of his own door and opens the other, the broken hair tells the tale.

When everybody was supposed to be asleep, the doctor, the journalist,

the receiver of taxes, and Gatien came barefoot, like robbers, and

silently fastened up the two doors, agreeing to come again at five

in the morning to examine the state of the fastenings. Imagine their

astonishment and Gatien’s delight when all four, candle in hand, and

with hardly any clothes on, came to look at the hairs, and found them in

perfect preservation on both doors.

“Is it the same wax?” asked Monsieur Gravier.

“Are they the same hairs?” asked Lousteau.

“Yes,” replied Gatien.

“This quite alters the matter!” cried Lousteau. “You have been beating

the bush for a will-o’-the-wisp.”

Monsieur Gravier and Gatien exchanged questioning glances which were

meant to convey, “Is there not something offensive to us in that speech?

Ought we to laugh or to be angry?”

“If Dinah is virtuous,” said the journalist in a whisper to Bianchon,

“she is worth an effort on my part to pluck the fruit of her first

love.”

The idea of carrying by storm a fortress that had for nine years stood

out against the besiegers of Sancerre smiled on Lousteau.

With this notion in his head, he was the first to go down and into the

garden, hoping to meet his hostess. And this chance fell out all the

more easily because Madame de la Baudraye on her part wished to converse

with her critic. Half such chances are planned.

“You were out shooting yesterday, monsieur,” said Madame de la Baudraye.

“This morning I am rather puzzled as to how to find you any new

amusement; unless you would like to come to La Baudraye, where you may

study more of our provincial life than you can see here, for you have

made but one mouthful of my absurdities. However, the saying about the

handsomest girl in the world is not less true of the poor provincial

woman!”

“That little simpleton Gatien has, I suppose, related to you a speech I

made simply to make him confess that he adored you,” said Etienne.

“Your silence, during dinner the day before yesterday and throughout the

evening, was enough to betray one of those indiscretions which we never

commit in Paris.--What can I say? I do not flatter myself that you

will understand me. In fact, I laid a plot for the telling of all those

stories yesterday solely to see whether I could rouse you and Monsieur

de Clagny to a pang of remorse.--Oh! be quite easy; your innocence is

fully proved.

“If you had the slightest fancy for that estimable magistrate, you would

have lost all your value in my eyes.--I love perfection.

“You do not, you cannot love that cold, dried-up, taciturn little

usurer on wine casks and land, who would leave any man in the lurch for

twenty-five centimes on a renewal. Oh, I have fully recognized Monsieur

de la Baudraye’s similarity to a Parisian bill-discounter; their nature

is identical.--At eight-and-twenty, handsome, well conducted, and

childless--I assure you, madame, I never saw the problem of virtue more

admirably expressed.--The author of _Paquita la Sevillane_ must have

dreamed many dreams!

“I can speak of such things without the hypocritical gloss lent them by

young men, for I am old before my time. I have no illusions left. Can a

man have any illusions in the trade I follow?”

By opening the game in this tone, Lousteau cut out all excursions in the

_Pays de Tendre_, where genuine passion beats the bush so long; he went

straight to the point and placed himself in a position to force the

offer of what women often make a man pray for, for years; witness the

hapless Public Prosecutor, to whom the greatest favor had consisted

in clasping Dinah’s hand to his heart more tenderly than usual as they

walked, happy man!

And Madame de la Baudraye, to be true to her reputation as a Superior

Woman, tried to console the Manfred of the Press by prophesying such a

future of love as he had not had in his mind.

“You have sought pleasure,” said she, “but you have never loved. Believe

me, true love often comes late in life. Remember Monsieur de Gentz, who

fell in love in his old age with Fanny Ellsler, and left the Revolution

of July to take its course while he attended the dancer’s rehearsals.”

“It seems to me unlikely,” replied Lousteau. “I can still believe in

love, but I have ceased to believe in woman. There are in me, I suppose,

certain defects which hinder me from being loved, for I have often been

thrown over. Perhaps I have too strong a feeling for the ideal--like all

men who have looked too closely into reality----”

Madame de la Baudraye at last heard the mind of a man who, flung into

the wittiest Parisian circles, represented to her its most daring

axioms, its almost artless depravity, its advanced convictions; who, if

he were not really superior, acted superiority extremely well. Etienne,

performing before Dinah, had all the success of a first night. _Paquita_

of Sancerre scented the storms, the atmosphere of Paris. She spent one

of the most delightful days of her life with Lousteau and Bianchon, who

told her strange tales about the great men of the day, the anecdotes

which will some day form the _Ana_ of our century; sayings and doings

that were the common talk of Paris, but quite new to her.

Of course, Lousteau spoke very ill of the great female celebrity of Le

Berry, with the obvious intention of flattering Madame de la Baudraye

and leading her into literary confidences, by suggesting that she could

rival so great a writer. This praise intoxicated Madame de la Baudraye;

and Monsieur de Clagny, Monsieur Gravier, and Gatien, all thought her

warmer in her manner to Etienne than she had been on the previous day.

Dinah’s three _attaches_ greatly regretted having all gone to Sancerre

to blow the trumpet in honor of the evening at Anzy; nothing, to hear

them, had ever been so brilliant. The Hours had fled on feet so light

that none had marked their pace. The two Parisians they spoke of as

perfect prodigies.

These exaggerated reports loudly proclaimed on the Mall brought

sixteen persons to Anzy that evening, some in family coaches, some in

wagonettes, and a few bachelors on hired saddle horses. By about seven

o’clock this provincial company had made a more or less graceful entry

into the huge Anzy drawing-room, which Dinah, warned of the invasion,

had lighted up, giving it all the lustre it was capable of by taking

the holland covers off the handsome furniture, for she regarded this

assembly as one of her great triumphs. Lousteau, Bianchon, and Dinah

exchanged meaning looks as they studied the attitudes and listened to

the speeches of these visitors, attracted by curiosity.

What invalided ribbons, what ancestral laces, what ancient flowers,

more imaginative than imitative, were boldly displayed on some perennial

caps! The Presidente Boirouge, Bianchon’s cousin, exchanged a few

words with the doctor, from whom she extracted some “advice gratis”

by expatiating on certain pains in the chest, which she declared were

nervous, but which he ascribed to chronic indigestion.

“Simply drink a cup of tea every day an hour after dinner, as the

English do, and you will get over it, for what you suffer from is an

English malady,” Bianchon replied very gravely.

“He is certainly a great physician,” said the Presidente, coming back to

Madame de Clagny, Madame Popinot-Chandier, and Madame Gorju, the Mayor’s

wife.

“They say,” replied Madame de Clagny behind her fan, “that Dinah sent

for him, not so much with a view to the elections as to ascertain why

she has no children.”

In the first excitement of this success, Lousteau introduced the great

doctor as the only possible candidate at the ensuing elections. But

Bianchon, to the great satisfaction of the new Sous-prefet, remarked

that it seemed to him almost impossible to give up science in favor of

politics.

“Only a physician without a practice,” said he, “could care to be

returned as a deputy. Nominate statesmen, thinkers, men whose knowledge

is universal, and who are capable of placing themselves on the high

level which a legislator should occupy. That is what is lacking in our

Chambers, and what our country needs.”

Two or three young ladies, some of the younger men, and the elder women

stared at Lousteau as if he were a mountebank.

“Monsieur Gatien Boirouge declares that Monsieur Lousteau makes twenty

thousand francs a year by his writings,” observed the Mayor’s wife to

Madame de Clagny. “Can you believe it?”

“Is it possible? Why, a Public Prosecutor gets but a thousand crowns!”

“Monsieur Gatien,” said Madame Chandier, “get Monsieur Lousteau to talk

a little louder. I have not heard him yet.”

“What pretty boots he wears,” said Mademoiselle Chandier to her brother,

“and how they shine!”

“Yes--patent leather.”

“Why haven’t you the same?”

Lousteau began to feel that he was too much on show, and saw in the

manners of the good townsfolk indications of the desires that had

brought them there.

“What trick can I play them?” thought he.

At this moment the footman, so called--a farm-servant put into

livery--brought in the letters and papers, and among them a packet

of proof, which the journalist left for Bianchon; for Madame de la

Baudraye, on seeing the parcel, of which the form and string were

obviously from the printers, exclaimed:

“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.

“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:--

OR ROMAN REVENGE 219

The Duchess of Bracciano found

her glove. Adolphe, who had brought

her back to the orange grove, might

certainly have supposed that there

was some purpose in her forgetful-

ness, for at this moment the arbor

was deserted. The sound of the fes-

tivities was audible in the distance.

The puppet show that had been

promised had attracted all the

guests to the ballroom. Never had

Olympia looked more beautiful.

Her lover’s eyes met hers with an

answering glow, and they under-

stood each other. There was a mo-

ment of silence, delicious to their

souls, and impossible to describe.

They sat down on the same bench

where they had sat in the presence

of the Cavaliere Paluzzi and the

“Devil take it! Our Rinaldo has vanished!” cried Lousteau. “But a

literary man once started by this page would make rapid progress in

the comprehension of the plot. The Duchesse Olympia is a lady who could

intentionally forget her gloves in a deserted arbor.”

“Unless she may be classed between the oyster and head-clerk of an

office, the two creatures nearest to marble in the zoological kingdom,

it is impossible to discern in Olympia--” Bianchon began.

“A woman of thirty,” Madame de la Baudraye hastily interposed, fearing

some all too medical term.

“Then Adolphe must be two-and-twenty,” the doctor went on, “for an

Italian woman at thirty is equivalent to a Parisian of forty.”

“From these two facts, the romance may easily be reconstructed,” said

Lousteau. “And this Cavaliere Paluzzi--what a man!--The style is weak in

these two passages; the author was perhaps a clerk in the Excise Office,

and wrote the novel to pay his tailor!”

“In his time,” said Bianchon, “the censor flourished; you must show as

much indulgence to a man who underwent the ordeal by scissors in 1805 as

to those who went to the scaffold in 1793.”

“Do you understand in the least?” asked Madame Gorju timidly of Madame

de Clagny.

The Public Prosecutor’s wife, who, to use a phrase of Monsieur

Gravier’s, might have put a Cossack to flight in 1814, straightened

herself in her chair like a horseman in his stirrups, and made a face at

her neighbor, conveying, “They are looking at us; we must smile as if we

understood.”

“Charming!” said the Mayoress to Gatien. “Pray go on, Monsieur

Lousteau.”

Lousteau looked at the two women, two Indian idols, and contrived to

keep his countenance. He thought it desirable to say, “Attention!”

before going on as follows:--

OR ROMAN REVENGE 209

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.

Lousteau went on:--

210 OLYMPIA

“Your key----”

“Have you lost it?”

“It is in the arbor.”

“Let us hasten.”

“Can the Cardinal have taken it?”

“No, here it is.”

“What danger we have escaped!”

Olympia looked at the key, and

fancied she recognized it as her own.

But Rinaldo had changed it; his

cunning had triumphed; he had the

right key. Like a modern Cartouche,

he was no less skilful than bold,

and suspecting that nothing but a

vast treasure could require a duchess

to carry it constantly at her belt.

“Guess!” cried Lousteau. “The corresponding page is not here. We must

look to page 212 to relieve our anxiety.”

212 OLYMPIA

“If the key had been lost?”

“He would now be a dead man.”

“Dead? But ought you not to

grant the last request he made, and

to give him his liberty on the con-

ditions----”

“You do not know him.”

“But--”

“Silence! I took you for my

lover, not for my confessor.”

Adolphe was silent.

“And then comes an exquisite galloping goat, a tail-piece drawn by

Normand, and cut by Duplat.--the names are signed,” said Lousteau.

“Well, and then?” said such of the audience as understood.

“That is the end of the chapter,” said Lousteau. “The fact of this

tailpiece changes my views as to the authorship. To have his book got

up, under the Empire, with vignettes engraved on wood, the writer must

have been a Councillor of State, or Madame Barthelemy-Hadot, or the late

lamented Desforges, or Sewrin.”

“‘Adolphe was silent.’--Ah!” cried Bianchon, “the Duchess must have been

under thirty.”

“If there is no more, invent a conclusion,” said Madame de la Baudraye.

“You see,” said Lousteau, “the waste sheet has been printed fair on

one side only. In printer’s lingo, it is a back sheet, or, to make it

clearer, the other side which would have to be printed is covered all

over with pages printed one above another, all experiments in making

up. It would take too long to explain to you all the complications of a

making-up sheet; but you may understand that it will show no more trace

of the first twelve pages that were printed on it than you would in the

least remember the first stroke of the bastinado if a Pasha condemned

you to have fifty on the soles of your feet.”

“I am quite bewildered,” said Madame Popinot-Chandier to Monsieur

Gravier. “I am vainly trying to connect the Councillor of State, the

Cardinal, the key, and the making-up----”

“You have not the key to the jest,” said Monsieur Gravier. “Well! no

more have I, fair lady, if that can comfort you.”

“But here is another sheet,” said Bianchon, hunting on the table where

the proofs had been laid.

“Capital!” said Lousteau, “and it is complete and uninjured. It is

signed IV.; J, Second Edition. Ladies, the figure IV. means that this

is part of the fourth volume. The letter J, the tenth letter of the

alphabet, shows that this is the tenth sheet. And it is perfectly clear

to me, that in spite of any publisher’s tricks, this romance in four

duodecimo volumes, had a great success, since it came to a second

edition.--We will read on and find a clue to the mystery.

OR ROMAN REVENGE 21

corridor; but finding that he was

pursued by the Duchess’ people

“Oh, get along!”

“But,” said Madame de la Baudraye, “some important events have taken

place between your waste sheet and this page.”

“This complete sheet, madame, this precious made-up sheet. But does the

waste sheet in which the Duchess forgets her gloves in the arbor belong

to the fourth volume? Well, deuce take it--to proceed.

Rinaldo saw no safer refuge than to

make forthwith for the cellar where

the treasures of the Bracciano fam-

ily no doubt lay hid. As light of

foot as Camilla sung by the Latin

poet, he flew to the entrance to the

Baths of Vespasian. The torchlight

already flickered on the walls when

Rinaldo, with the readiness be-

stowed on him by nature, discovered

the door concealed in the stone-

work, and suddenly vanished. A

hideous thought then flashed on

Rinaldo’s brain like lightning rend-

ing a cloud: He was imprisoned!

He felt the wall with uneasy haste

“Yes, this made-up sheet follows the waste sheet. The last page of the

damaged sheet was 212, and this is 217. In fact, since Rinaldo, who

in the earlier fragment stole the key of the Duchess’ treasure by

exchanging it for another very much like it, is now--on the made-up

sheet--in the palace of the Dukes of Bracciano, the story seems to me to

be advancing to a conclusion of some kind. I hope it is as clear to you

as it is to me.--I understand that the festivities are over, the lovers

have returned to the Bracciano Palace; it is night--one o’clock in the

morning. Rinaldo will have a good time.”

“And Adolphe too!” said President Boirouge, who was considered rather

free in his speech.

“And the style!” said Bianchon.--“Rinaldo, who saw _no better refuge

than to make for the cellar_.”

“It is quite clear that neither Maradan, nor Treuttel and Wurtz,

nor Doguereau, were the printers,” said Lousteau, “for they employed

correctors who revised the proofs, a luxury in which our publishers

might very well indulge, and the writers of the present day, would

benefit greatly. Some scrubby pamphlet printer on the Quay--”

“What quay?” a lady asked of her neighbor. “They spoke of baths--”

“Pray go on,” said Madame de la Baudraye.

“At any rate, it is not by a councillor,” said Bianchon.

“It may be by Madame Hadot,” replied Lousteau.

“What has Madame Hadot of La Charite to do with it?” the Presidente

asked of her son.

“This Madame Hadot, my dear friend,” the hostess answered, “was an

authoress, who lived at the time of the Consulate.”

“What, did women write in the Emperor’s time?” asked Madame

Popinot-Chandier.

“What of Madame de Genlis and Madame de Stael?” cried the Public

Prosecutor, piqued on Dinah’s account by this remark.

“To be sure!”

“I beg you to go on,” said Madame de la Baudraye to Lousteau.

Lousteau went on saying: “Page 218.

218 OLYMPIA

and gave a shriek of despair when

he had vainly sought any trace of a

secret spring. It was impossible to

ignore the horrible truth. The door,

cleverly constructed to serve the

vengeful purposes of the Duchess,

could not be opened from within.

Rinaldo laid his cheek against the

wall in various spots; nowhere

could he feel the warmer air from

the passage. He had hoped he

might find a crack that would show

him where there was an opening in

the wall, but nothing, nothing! The

whole seemed to be of one block of

marble.

Then he gave a hollow roar like

that of a hyaena----

“Well, we fancied that the cry of the hyaena was a recent invention

of our own!” said Lousteau, “and here it was already known to the

literature of the Empire. It is even introduced with a certain skill in

natural history, as we see in the word _hollow_.”

“Make no more comments, monsieur,” said Madame de la Baudraye.

“There, you see!” cried Bianchon. “Interest, the romantic demon, has you

by the collar, as he had me a while ago.”

“Read on,” cried de Clagny, “I understand.”

“What a coxcomb!” said the Presiding Judge in a whisper to his neighbor

the Sous-prefet.

“He wants to please Madame de la Baudraye,” replied the new Sous-prefet.

“Well, then I will read straight on,” said Lousteau solemnly.

Everybody listened in dead silence.

OR ROMAN REVENGE 219

A deep groan answered Rinaldo’s

cry, but in his alarm he took it for

an echo, so weak and hollow was

the sound. It could not proceed

from any human breast.

“Santa Maria!” said the voice.

“If I stir from this spot I shall

never find it again,” thought Ri-

naldo, when he had recovered his

usual presence of mind. “If I knock,

I shall be discovered. What am I

to do?”

“Who is here?” asked the voice.

“Hallo!” cried the brigand; “do

the toads here talk?”

“I am the Duke of Bracciano.

Whoever you may be, if you are not

a follower of the Duchess’, in the

name of all the saints, come towards

me.”

220 OLYMPIA

“I should have to know where to

find you, Monsieur le Duc,” said Ri-

naldo, with the insolence of a man

who knows himself to be necessary.

“I can see you, my friend, for my

eyes are accustomed to the darkness.

Listen: walk straight forward--

good; now turn to the left--come

on--this way. There, we are close

to each other.”

Rinaldo putting out his hands as

a precaution, touched some iron

bars.

“I am being deceived,” cried the

bandit.

“No, you are touching my cage.

OR ROMAN REVENGE 221