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:—­