XII

When two lovers thus understand each other, the heart feels delicious

peace, supreme tranquillity. Certainty is the basis for which human

feelings crave, for it is never lacking to religious sentiment; man is

always certain of being fully repaid by God. Love never believes

itself secure but by this resemblance to divine love. And the raptures

of that moment must have been fully felt to be understood; it is

unique in life; it can never return no more, alas! than the emotions

of youth. To believe in a woman, to make her your human religion, the

fount of life, the secret luminary of all your least thoughts!--is not

this a second birth? And a young man mingles with this love a little

of the feeling he had for his mother.

Rodolphe and Francesca for some time remained in perfect silence,

answering each other by sympathetic glances full of thoughts. They

understood each other in the midst of one of the most beautiful scenes

of Nature, whose glories, interpreted by the glory in their hearts,

helped to stamp on their minds the most fugitive details of that

unique hour. There had not been the slightest shade of frivolity in

Francesca's conduct. It was noble, large, and without any second

thought. This magnanimity struck Rodolphe greatly, for in it he

recognized the difference between the Italian and the Frenchwoman. The

waters, the land, the sky, the woman, all were grandiose and suave,

even their love in the midst of this picture, so vast in its expanse,

so rich in detail, where the sternness of the snowy peaks and their

hard folds standing clearly out against the blue sky, reminded

Rodolphe of the circumstances which limited his happiness; a lovely

country shut in by snows.

This delightful intoxication of soul was destined to be disturbed. A

boat was approaching from Lucerne; Gina, who had been watching it

attentively, gave a joyful start, though faithful to her part as a

mute. The bark came nearer; when at length Francesca could distinguish

the faces on board, she exclaimed, "Tito!" as she perceived a young

man. She stood up, and remained standing at the risk of being drowned.

"Tito! Tito!" cried she, waving her handkerchief.

Tito desired the boatmen to slacken, and the two boats pulled side by

side. The Italian and Tito talked with such extreme rapidity, and in a

dialect unfamiliar to a man who hardly knew even the Italian of books,

that Rodolphe could neither hear nor guess the drift of this

conversation. But Tito's handsome face, Francesca's familiarity, and

Gina's expression of delight, all aggrieved him. And indeed no lover

can help being ill pleased at finding himself neglected for another,

whoever he may be. Tito tossed a little leather bag to Gina, full of

gold no doubt, and a packet of letters to Francesca, who began to read

them, with a farewell wave of the hand to Tito.

"Get quickly back to Gersau," she said to the boatmen, "I will not let

my poor Emilio pine ten minutes longer than he need."

"What has happened?" asked Rodolphe, as he saw Francesca finish

reading the last letter.

"/La liberta/!" she exclaimed, with an artist's enthusiasm.

"/E denaro/!" added Gina, like an echo, for she had found her tongue.

"Yes," said Francesca, "no more poverty! For more than eleven months

have I been working, and I was beginning to be tired of it. I am

certainly not a literary woman."

"Who is this Tito?" asked Rodolphe.

"The Secretary of State to the financial department of the humble shop

of the Colonnas, in other words, the son of our /ragionato/. Poor boy!

he could not come by the Saint-Gothard, nor by the Mont-Cenis, nor by

the Simplon; he came by sea, by Marseilles, and had to cross France.

Well, in three weeks we shall be at Geneva, and living at our ease.

Come, Rodolphe," she added, seeing sadness overspread the Parisian's

face, "is not the Lake of Geneva quite as good as the Lake of

Lucerne?"

"But allow me to bestow a regret on the Bergmanns' delightful house,"

said Rodolphe, pointing to the little promontory.

"Come and dine with us to add to your associations, /povero mio/,"

said she. "This is a great day; we are out of danger. My mother writes

that within a year there will be an amnesty. Oh! /la cara patria/!"

These three words made Gina weep. "Another winter here," said she,

"and I should have been dead!"

"Poor little Sicilian kid!" said Francesca, stroking Gina's head with

an expression and an affection which made Rodolphe long to be so

caressed, even if it were without love.

The boat grounded; Rodolphe sprang on to the sand, offered his hand to

the Italian lady, escorted her to the door of the Bergmanns' house,

and went to dress and return as soon as possible.

When he joined the librarian and his wife, who were sitting on the

balcony, Rodolphe could scarcely repress an exclamation of surprise at

seeing the prodigious change which the good news had produced in the

old man. He now saw a man of about sixty, extremely well preserved, a

lean Italian, as straight as an I, with hair still black, though thin

and showing a white skull, with bright eyes, a full set of white

teeth, a face like Caesar, and on his diplomatic lips a sardonic

smile, the almost false smile under which a man of good breeding hides

his real feelings.

"Here is my husband under his natural form," said Francesca gravely.

"He is quite a new acquaintance," replied Rodolphe, bewildered.

"Quite," said the librarian; "I have played many a part, and know well

how to make up. Ah! I played one in Paris under the Empire, with

Bourrienne, Madame Murat, Madame d'Abrantis /e tutte quanti/.

Everything we take the trouble to learn in our youth, even the most

futile, is of use. If my wife had not received a man's education--an

unheard-of thing in Italy--I should have been obliged to chop wood to

get my living here. /Povera/ Francesca! who would have told me that

she would some day maintain me!"

As he listened to this worthy bookseller, so easy, so affable, so

hale, Rodolphe scented some mystification, and preserved the watchful

silence of a man who has been duped.

"/Che avete, signor/?" Francesca asked with simplicity. "Does our

happiness sadden you?"

"Your husband is a young man," he whispered in her ear.

She broke into such a frank, infectious laugh that Rodolphe was still

more puzzled.

"He is but sixty-five, at your service," said she; "but I can assure

you that even that is something--to be thankful for!"

"I do not like to hear you jest about an affection so sacred as this,

of which you yourself prescribed the conditions."