X

"Fear nothing," said he in French to the Italian girl, "I am not a

spy. You are refugees, I have guessed that. I am a Frenchman whom one

look from you has fixed at Gersau."

Rodolphe, startled by the acute pain caused by some steel instrument

piercing his side, fell like a log.

"/Nel lago con pietra/!" said the terrible dumb girl.

"Oh, Gina!" exclaimed the Italian.

"She has missed me," said Rodolphe, pulling from his wound a stiletto,

which had been turned by one of the false ribs. "But a little higher

up it would have been deep in my heart.--I was wrong, Francesca," he

went on, remembering the name he had heard little Gina repeat several

times; "I owe her no grudge, do not scold her. The happiness of

speaking to you is well worth the prick of a stiletto. Only show me

the way out; I must get back to the Stopfer's house. Be easy; I shall

tell nothing."

Francesca, recovering from her astonishment, helped Rodolphe to rise,

and said a few words to Gina, whose eyes filled with tears. The two

girls made him sit down on a bench and take off his coat, his

waistcoat and cravat. Then Gina opened his shirt and sucked the wound

strongly. Francesca, who had left them, returned with a large piece of

sticking-plaster, which she applied to the wound.

"You can now walk as far as your house," she said.

Each took an arm, and Rodolphe was conducted to a side gate, of which

the key was in Francesca's apron pocket.

"Does Gina speak French?" said Rodolphe to Francesca.

"No. But do not excite yourself," replied Francesca with some

impatience.

"Let me look at you," said Rodolphe pathetically, "for it may be long

before I am able to come again---"

He leaned against one of the gate-posts contemplating the beautiful

Italian, who allowed him to gaze at her for a moment under the

sweetest silence and the sweetest night which ever, perhaps, shone on

this lake, the king of Swiss lakes.

Francesca was quite of the Italian type, and such as imagination

supposes or pictures, or, if you will, dreams, that Italian women are.

What first struck Rodolphe was the grace and elegance of a figure

evidently powerful, though so slender as to appear fragile. An amber

paleness overspread her face, betraying sudden interest, but it did

not dim the voluptuous glance of her liquid eyes of velvety blackness.

A pair of hands as beautiful as ever a Greek sculptor added to the

polished arms of a statue grasped Rodolphe's arm, and their whiteness

gleamed against his black coat. The rash Frenchman could but just

discern the long, oval shape of her face, and a melancholy mouth

showing brilliant teeth between the parted lips, full, fresh, and

brightly red. The exquisite lines of this face guaranteed to Francesca

permanent beauty; but what most struck Rodolphe was the adorable

freedom, the Italian frankness of this woman, wholly absorbed as she

was in her pity for him.

Francesca said a word to Gina, who gave Rodolphe her arm as far as the

Stopfers' door, and fled like a swallow as soon as she had rung.

"These patriots do not play at killing!" said Rodolphe to himself as

he felt his sufferings when he found himself in his bed. " '/Nel

lago!' Gina would have pitched me into the lake with a stone tied to

my neck."

Next day he sent to Lucerne for the best surgeon there, and when he

came, enjoined on him absolute secrecy, giving him to understand that

his honor depended on it.

Leopold returned from his excursion on the day when his friend first

got out of bed. Rodolphe made up a story, and begged him to go to

Lucerne to fetch their luggage and letters. Leopold brought back the

most fatal, the most dreadful news: Rodolphe's mother was dead. While

the two friends were on their way from Bale to Lucerne, the fatal

letter, written by Leopold's father, had reached Lucerne the day they

left for Fluelen.

In spite of Leopold's utmost precautions, Rodolphe fell ill of a

nervous fever. As soon as Leopold saw his friend out of danger, he set

out for France with a power of attorney, and Rodolphe could thus

remain at Gersau, the only place in the world where his grief could

grow calmer. The young Frenchman's position, his despair, the

circumstances which made such a loss worse for him than for any other

man, were known, and secured him the pity and interest of every one in

Gersau. Every morning the pretended dumb girl came to see him and

bring him news of her mistress.

As soon as Rodolphe could go out he went to the Bergmanns' house, to

thank Miss Fanny Lovelace and her father for the interest they had

taken in his sorrow and his illness. For the first time since he had

lodged with the Bergmanns the old Italian admitted a stranger to his

room, where Rodolphe was received with the cordiality due to his

misfortunes and to his being a Frenchman, which excluded all distrust

of him. Francesca looked so lovely by candle-light that first evening

that she shed a ray of brightness on his grieving heart. Her smiles

flung the roses of hope on his woe. She sang, not indeed gay songs,

but grave and solemn melodies suited to the state of Rodolphe's heart,

and he observed this touching care.

At about eight o'clock the old man left the young people without any

sign of uneasiness, and went to his room. When Francesca was tired of

singing, she led Rodolphe on to the balcony, whence they perceived the

sublime scenery of the lake, and signed to him to be seated by her on

a rustic wooden bench.

"Am I very indiscreet in asking how old you are, cara Francesca?" said

Rodolphe.

"Nineteen," said she, "well past."

"If anything in the world could soothe my sorrow," he went on, "it

would be the hope of winning you from your father, whatever your

fortune may be. So beautiful as you are, you seem to be richer than a

prince's daughter. And I tremble as I confess to you the feelings with

which you have inspired me; but they are deep--they are eternal."

"/Zitto/!" said Francesca, laying a finger of her right hand on her

lips. "Say no more; I am not free. I have been married these three

years."

For a few minutes utter silence reigned. When the Italian girl,

alarmed at Rodolphe's stillness, went close to him, she found that he

had fainted.

"/Povero/!" she said to herself. "And I thought him cold."

She fetched him some salts, and revived Rodolphe by making him smell

at them.

"Married!" said Rodolphe, looking at Francesca. And then his tears

flowed freely.

"Child!" said she. "But there is still hope. My husband is--"

"Eighty?" Rodolphe put in.

"No," said she with a smile, "but sixty-five. He has disguised himself

as much older to mislead the police."

"Dearest," said Rodolphe, "a few more shocks of this kind and I shall

die. Only when you have known me twenty years will you understand the

strength and power of my heart, and the nature of its aspirations for

happiness. This plant," he went on, pointing to the yellow jasmine

which covered the balustrade, "does not climb more eagerly to spread

itself in the sunbeams than I have clung to you for this month past. I

love you with unique passion. That love will be the secret fount of my

life--I may possibly die of it."

"Oh! Frenchman, Frenchman!" said she, emphasizing her exclamation with

a little incredulous grimace.

"Shall I not be forced to wait, to accept you at the hands of time?"

said he gravely. "But know this: if you are in earnest in what you

have allowed to escape you, I will wait for you faithfully, without

suffering any other attachment to grow up in my heart."

She looked at him doubtfully.

"None," said he, "not even a passing fancy. I have my fortune to make;

you must have a splendid one, nature created you a princess----"