"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