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----"

At this word Francesca could not repress a faint smile, which gave her
face the most bewildering expression, something subtle, like what the
great Leonardo has so well depicted in the _Gioconda_. This smile made
Rodolphe pause. "Ah yes!" he went on, "you must suffer much from the
destitution to which exile has brought you. Oh, if you would make me
happy above all men, and consecrate my love, you would treat me as a
friend. Ought I not to be your friend?--My poor mother has left sixty
thousand francs of savings; take half."

Francesca looked steadily