sung by her with Tinti, with
the famous tenor Genovese, and with a well-known Italian Prince then in
exile, whose voice, if he had not been a Prince, would have made him one
of the Princes of Art.

"Take that seat," said Francesca to Rodolphe, pointing to her own chair.
"_Oime_! I think there is some mistake in my name; I have for the last
minute been Princess Rodolphini."

It was said with the artless grace which revived, in this avowal hidden
beneath a jest, the happy days at Gersau. Rodolphe reveled in the
exquisite sensation of listening to the voice of the woman he adored,
while sitting so close to her that one cheek was almost touched by
the stuff of her dress and the gauze of her scarf. But when, at such a
moment, _Mi manca la voce_ is being sung, and by the finest voices in
Italy, it is easy to understand what it was that brought the tears to
Rodolphe's eyes.

In love, as perhaps in all else, there are certain circumstances,
trivial in themselves, but the outcome of a thousand little previous
incidents, of which the importance is immense, as an epitome of the past
and as a link with the future. A hundred times already we have felt the
preciousness of the one we love; but a trifle--the perfect touch of
two souls united during a walk perhaps by a single word, by some
unlooked-for proof of affection, will carry the feeling to its supremest
pitch. In short, to express this truth by an image which has been
pre-eminently successful from the earliest ages of the world, there
are in a long chain points of attachment needed where the cohesion
is stronger than in the intermediate loops of rings. This recognition
between Rodolphe and Francesca, at this party, in the face of the world,
was one of those intense moments which join the future to the past,
and rivet a real attachment more deeply in the heart. It was perhaps of
these incidental rivets that Bossuet spoke when he compared to them
the rarity of happy moments in our lives--he who had such a living and
secret experience of love.

Next to the pleasure of admiring the woman we love, comes that of seeing
her admired by every one else. Rodolphe was enjoying both at once. Love
is a treasury of memories, and though Rodolphe's was already full, he
added to it pearls of great price; smiles shed aside for him alone,
stolen glances, tones in her singing which Francesca addressed to
him alone, but which made Tinti pale with jealousy, they were so much
applauded. All his st