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-préfet.
“He wants to please Madame de la Baudraye,” replied the new Sous-préfet.
“Well, then I will read straight on,” said Lousteau solemnly.
Everybody listened in dead silence.
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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 Rinaldo, 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 Rinaldo, 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
Sit down on a broken shaft of porphyry that is there.”
“How can the Duke of Bracciano be in a cage?” asked the brigand.
“My friend, I have been here for thirty months, standing up, unable to sit down—But you, who are you?”
“I am Rinaldo, prince of the Campagna, the chief of four-and-twenty brave men whom the law describes as miscreants, whom all the ladies admire, and whom judges hang in obedience to an old habit.”
“God be praised! I am saved. An honest man would have been afraid, whereas I am sure of coming to an understanding with you,” cried the Duke. “Oh, my worthy
222 Olympia
deliverer, you must be armed to the teeth.”
“E verissimo” (most true).
“Do you happen to have—”
“Yes, files, pincers—Corpo di Bacco! I came to borrow the treasures of the Bracciani on a long loan.”
“You will earn a handsome share of them very legitimately, my good Rinaldo, and we may possibly go man hunting together—”
“You surprise me, Eccellenza!”
“Listen to me, Rinaldo. I will say nothing of the craving for vengeance that gnaws at my heart. I have been here for thirty months—you too are Italian—you will un-
Or Roman Revenge 223
derstand me! Alas, my friend, my fatigue and my horrible incarceration are nothing in comparison with the rage that devours my soul. The Duchess of Bracciano is still one of the most beautiful women in Rome. I loved her well enough to be jealous—”
“You, her husband!”
“Yes, I was wrong, no doubt.”
“It is not the correct thing, to be sure,” said Rinaldo.
“My jealousy was roused by the Duchess’ conduct,” the Duke went on. “The event proved me right. A young Frenchman fell in love with Olympia, and she loved him. I had proofs of their reciprocal affection
“Pray excuse me, ladies,” said Lousteau, “but I find it impossible to go on without remarking to you how direct this Empire literature is, going to the point without any details, a characteristic, as it seems to me, of a primitive time. The literature of that period holds a place between the summaries of chapters in Télémaque and the categorical reports of a public office. It had ideas, but refrained from expressing them, it was so scornful! It was observant, but would not communicate its observations to anyone, it was so miserly! Nobody but Fouché ever mentioned what he had observed. ‘At that time,’ to quote the words of one of the most imbecile critics in the Revue des Deux Mondes, ‘literature was content with a clear sketch and the simple outline of all antique statues. It did not dance over its periods.’—I should think not! It had no periods to dance over. It had no words to play with. You were plainly told that Lubin loved Toinette; that Toinette did not love Lubin; that Lubin killed Toinette and the police caught Lubin, who was put in prison, tried at the assizes, and guillotined.—A strong sketch, a clear outline! What a noble drama! Well, in these days the barbarians make words sparkle.”
“Like a hair in a frost,” said Monsieur de Clagny.
“So those are the airs you affect?”2 retorted Lousteau.
“What can he mean?” asked Madame de Clagny, puzzled by this vile pun.
“I seem to be walking in the dark,” replied the Mayoress.
“The jest would be lost in an explanation,” remarked Gatien.
“Nowadays,” Lousteau went on, “a novelist draws characters, and instead of a ‘simple outline,’ he unveils the human heart and gives you some interest either in Lubin or in Toinette.”
“For my part, I am alarmed at the progress of public knowledge in the matter of literature,” said Bianchon. “Like
