in the midst of this picture, so vast in its expanse, so rich in detail,
where the sternness of the snowy peaks and their hard folds standing
clearly out against the blue sky, reminded Rodolphe of the circumstances
which limited his happiness; a lovely country shut in by snows.

This delightful intoxication of soul was destined to be disturbed.
A boat was approaching from Lucerne; Gina, who had been watching it
attentively, gave a joyful start, though faithful to her part as a mute.
The bark came nearer; when at length Francesca could distinguish the
faces on board, she exclaimed, "Tito!" as she perceived a young man.
She stood up, and remained standing at the risk of being drowned. "Tito!
Tito!" cried she, waving her handkerchief.

Tito desired the boatmen to slacken, and the two boats pulled side by
side. The Italian and Tito talked with such extreme rapidity, and in a
dialect unfamiliar to a man who hardly knew even the Italian of
books, that Rodolphe could neither hear nor guess the drift of this
conversation. But Tito's handsome face, Francesca's familiarity, and
Gina's expression of delight, all aggrieved him. And indeed no lover can
help being ill pleased at finding himself neglected for another, whoever
he may be. Tito tossed a little leather bag to Gina, full of gold no
doubt, and a packet of letters to Francesca, who began to read them,
with a farewell wave of the hand to Tito.

"Get quickly back to Gersau," she said to the boatmen, "I will not let
my poor Emilio pine ten minutes longer than he need."

"What has happened?" asked Rodolphe, as he saw Francesca finish reading
the last letter.

"_La liberta_!" she exclaimed, with an artist's enthusiasm.

"_E denaro_!" added Gina, like an echo, for she had found her tongue.

"Yes," said Francesca, "no more poverty! For more than eleven months
have I been working, and I was beginning to be tired of it. I am
certainly not a literary woman."

"Who is this Tito?" asked Rodolphe.

"The Secretary of State to the financial department of the humble shop
of the Colonnas, in other words, the son of our _ragionato_. Poor boy!
he could not come by the Saint-Gothard, nor by the Mont-Cenis, nor by
the Simplon; he came by sea, by Marseilles, and had to cross France.
Well, in three weeks we shall be at Geneva, and living at our ease.
Come, Rodolphe," she added, seeing sadness overspread the Parisian's
face, "is not the Lake of Geneva quite as good as the Lake of Lucerne