rength of desire, the special expression of his
soul, was thrown over the beautiful Roman, who became unchangeably the
beginning and the end of all his thoughts and actions. Rodolphe loved
as every woman may dream of being loved, with a force, a constancy, a
tenacity, which made Francesca the very substance of his heart; he felt
her mingling with his blood as purer blood, with his soul as a more
perfect soul; she would henceforth underlie the least efforts of his
life as the golden sand of the Mediterranean lies beneath the waves. In
short, Rodolphe's lightest aspiration was now a living hope.

At the end of a few days, Francesca understood this boundless love;
but it was so natural, and so perfectly shared by her, that it did not
surprise her. She was worthy of it.

"What is there that is strange?" said she to Rodolphe, as they walked
on the garden terrace, when he had been betrayed into one of those
outbursts of conceit which come so naturally to Frenchmen in the
expression of their feelings--"what is extraordinary in the fact of your
loving a young and beautiful woman, artist enough to be able to earn her
living like Tinti, and of giving you some of the pleasures of vanity?
What lout but would then become an Amadis? This is not in question
between you and me. What is needed is that we both love faithfully,
persistently; at a distance from each other for years, with no
satisfaction but that of knowing that we are loved."

"Alas!" said Rodolphe, "will you not consider my fidelity as devoid of
all merit when you see me absorbed in the efforts of devouring ambition?
Do you imagine that I can wish to see you one day exchange the fine name
of Gandolphini for that of a man who is a nobody? I want to become one
of the most remarkable men of my country, to be rich, great--that you
may be as proud of my name as of your own name of Colonna."

"I should be grieved to see you without such sentiments in your heart,"
she replied, with a bewitching smile. "But do not wear yourself out too
soon in your ambitious labors. Remain young. They say that politics soon
make a man old."

One of the rarest gifts in women is a certain gaiety which does not
detract from tenderness. This combination of deep feeling with
the lightness of youth added an enchanting grace at this moment to
Francesca's charms. This is the key to her character; she laughs and she
is touched; she becomes enthusiastic, and returns to arch raillery with
a readiness,