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: