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