XIV

There was a depth of tone in her reply which gave it the appearance of

scathing irony, and which set Rodolphe's pulses throbbing. The month

of May spread before them the treasures of her fresh verdure; the sun

was sometimes as powerful as at midsummer. The two lovers happened to

be at a part of the terrace where the rock arises abruptly from the

lake, and were leaning over the stone parapet that crowns the wall

above a flight of steps leading down to a landing-stage. From the

neighboring villa, where there is a similar stairway, a boat presently

shot out like a swan, its flag flaming, its crimson awning spread over

a lovely woman comfortably reclining on red cushions, her hair

wreathed with real flowers; the boatman was a young man dressed like a

sailor, and rowing with all the more grace because he was under the

lady's eye.

"They are happy!" exclaimed Rodolphe, with bitter emphasis. "Claire de

Bourgogne, the last survivor of the only house which can ever vie with

the royal family of France--"

"Oh! of a bastard branch, and that a female line."

"At any rate, she is Vicomtesse de Beauseant; and she did not--"

"Did not hesitate, you would say, to bury herself here with Monsieur

Gaston de Nueil, you would say," replied the daughter of the Colonnas.

"She is only a Frenchwoman; I am an Italian, my dear sir!"

Francesca turned away from the parapet, leaving Rodolphe, and went to

the further end of the terrace, whence there is a wide prospect of the

lake. Watching her as she slowly walked away, Rodolphe suspected that

he had wounded her soul, at once so simple and so wise, so proud and

so humble. It turned him cold; he followed Francesca, who signed to

him to leave her to herself. But he did not heed the warning, and

detected her wiping away her tears. Tears! in so strong a nature.

"Francesca," said he, taking her hand, "is there a single regret in

your heart?"

She was silent, disengaged her hand which held her embroidered

handkerchief, and again dried her eyes.

"Forgive me!" he said. And with a rush, he kissed her eyes to wipe

away the tears.

Francesca did not seem aware of his passionate impulse, she was so

violently agitated. Rodolphe, thinking she consented, grew bolder; he

put his arm round her, clasped her to his heart, and snatched a kiss.

But she freed herself by a dignified movement of offended modesty,

and, standing a yard off, she looked at him without anger, but with

firm determination.

"Go this evening," she said. "We meet no more till we meet at Naples."

This order was stern, but it was obeyed, for it was Francesca's will.

On his return to Paris Rodolphe found in his rooms a portrait of

Princess Gandolphini painted by Schinner, as Schinner can paint. The

artist had passed through Geneva on his way to Italy. As he had

positively refused to paint the portraits of several women, Rodolphe

did not believe that the Prince, anxious as he was for a portrait of

his wife, would be able to conquer the great painter's objections; but

Francesca, no doubt, had bewitched him, and obtained from him--which

was almost a miracle--an original portrait for Rodolphe, and a

duplicate for Emilio. She told him this in a charming and delightful

letter, in which the mind indemnified itself for the reserve required

by the worship of the proprieties. The lover replied. Thus began,

never to cease, a regular correspondence between Rodolphe and

Francesca, the only indulgence they allowed themselves.

Rodolphe, possessed by an ambition sanctified by his love, set to

work. First he longed to make his fortune, and risked his all in an

undertaking to which he devoted all his faculties as well as his

capital; but he, an inexperienced youth, had to contend against

duplicity, which won the day. Thus three years were lost in a vast

enterprise, three years of struggling and courage.

The Villele ministry fell just when Rodolphe was ruined. The valiant

lover thought he would seek in politics what commercial industry had

refused him; but before braving the storms of this career, he went,

all wounded and sick at heart, to have his bruises healed and his

courage revived at Naples, where the Prince and Princess had been

reinstated in their place and rights on the King's accession. This, in

the midst of his warfare, was a respite full of delights; he spent

three months at the Villa Gandolphini, rocked in hope.

Rodolphe then began again to construct his fortune. His talents were

already known; he was about to attain the desires of his ambition; a

high position was promised him as the reward of his zeal, his

devotion, and his past services, when the storm of July 1830 broke,

and again his bark was swamped.

She, and God! These are the only witnesses of the brave efforts, the

daring attempts of a young man gifted with fine qualities, but to

whom, so far, the protection of luck--the god of fools--has been

denied. And this indefatigable wrestler, upheld by love, comes back to

fresh struggles, lighted on his way by an always friendly eye, an ever

faithful heart.

Lovers! Pray for him!

*****

As she finished this narrative, Mademoiselle de Watteville's cheeks

were on fire; there was a fever in her blood. She was crying--but with

rage. This little novel, inspired by the literary style then in

fashion, was the first reading of the kind that Rosalie had ever had

the chance of devouring. Love was depicted in it, if not by a master-

hand, at any rate by a man who seemed to give his own impressions; and

truth, even if unskilled, could not fail to touch a virgin soul. Here

lay the secret of Rosalie's terrible agitation, of her fever and her

tears; she was jealous of Francesca Colonna.

She never for an instant doubted the sincerity of this poetical

flight; Albert had taken pleasure in telling the story of his passion,

while changing the names of persons and perhaps of places. Rosalie was

possessed by infernal curiosity. What woman but would, like her, have

wanted to know her rival's name--for she too loved! As she read these

pages, to her really contagious, she had said solemnly to herself, "I

love him!"--She loved Albert, and felt in her heart a gnawing desire

to fight for him, to snatch him from this unknown rival. She reflected

that she knew nothing of music, and that she was not beautiful.

"He will never love me!" thought she.

This conclusion aggravated her anxiety to know whether she might not

be mistaken, whether Albert really loved an Italian Princess, and was

loved by her. In the course of this fateful night, the power of swift

decision, which had characterized the famous Watteville, was fully

developed in his descendant. She devised those whimsical schemes,

round which hovers the imagination of most young girls when, in the

solitude to which some injudicious mothers confine them, they are

roused by some tremendous event which the system of repression to

which they are subjected could neither foresee nor prevent. She

dreamed of descending by a ladder from the kiosk into the garden of

the house occupied by Albert; of taking advantage of the lawyer's

being asleep to look through the window into his private room. She

thought of writing to him, or of bursting the fetters of Besancon

society by introducing Albert to the drawing-room of the Hotel de

Rupt. This enterprise, which to the Abbe de Grancey even would have

seemed the climax of the impossible, was a mere passing thought.

"Ah!" said she to herself, "my father has a dispute pending as to his

land at les Rouxey. I will go there! If there is no lawsuit, I will

manage to make one, and /he/ shall come into our drawing-room!" she

cried, as she sprang out of bed and to the window to look at the

fascinating gleam which shone through Albert's nights. The clock

struck one; he was still asleep.

"I shall see him when he gets up; perhaps he will come to his window."

At this instant Mademoiselle de Watteville was witness to an incident

which promised to place in her power the means of knowing Albert's

secrets. By the light of the moon she saw a pair of arms stretched out

from the kiosk to help Jerome, Albert's servant, to get across the

coping of the wall and step into the little building. In Jerome's

accomplice Rosalie at once recognized Mariette the lady's-maid.

"Mariette and Jerome!" said she to herself. "Mariette, such an ugly

girl! Certainly they must be ashamed of themselves."

Though Mariette was horribly ugly and six-and-thirty, she had

inherited several plots of land. She had been seventeen years with

Madame de Watteville, who valued her highly for her bigotry, her

honesty, and long service, and she had no doubt saved money and

invested her wages and perquisites. Hence, earning about ten louis a

year, she probably had by this time, including compound interest and

her little inheritance, not less than ten thousand francs.