_ The
two sparred gaily for some time, and, in spite of his poisoned tonsils,
Carlino was in such high spirits that Noemi congratulated him on the
subject of his novel. "It must be making rapid progress," she said.
"Nonsense," answered the author. "It is not progressing at all." He
was making no headway, but was, in fact, floundering hopelessly in the
shallows of a desperate situation. Two personages had stuck in the
author's throat, and could move neither up nor down; one fat and
good-natured, the other thin and sarcastic, like Mademoiselle d'Arxel.
He felt like a certain unfortunate Tuscan peasant, who had lately
swallowed a fig with a bee upon it, and had died in consequence. The
"bee" understood that he really wanted to talk of his book; she stung
him again and again to such a degree that he actually did talk about it.
His story was founded on a curious case of spiritual infection. The hero
was a French priest, an octogenarian, pious, pure, and learned. French?
Why French? Simply because the character must be possessed of a certain
tinge of poetic fancy, a certain elasticity of sentiment, and according
to Carlino, not one Italian priest in a thousand was likely to possess
these exalted attributes.
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