cal fever, with a new desire to go to Italy, and I
immediately made up my mind to carry it into effect. There is no doubt
that every well-educated man ought to see Florence, Venice, and Rome. It
has, also, the additional advantage of providing many subjects of
conversation in society, and of giving one an opportunity for bringing
forward artistic generalities which appear profound.

This time I went alone, and I arrived at Genoa at the same time as the
year before, but without any adventure on the road. I went to the same
hotel, and actually happened to have the same room.

I was scarcely in bed when the recollection of Francesca which, since
the evening before, had been floating vaguely through my mind, haunted
me with strange persistency. I thought of her nearly the whole night,
and by degrees the wish to see her again seized me, a confused desire at
first, which gradually grew stronger and more intense. At last I made up
my mind to spend the next day in Genoa to try and find her, and if I
should not succeed, I would take the evening train.

Early in the morning I set out on my search. I remembered the directions
she had given me when she left me, perfectly--Victor-Emmanuel Street,
etc., etc., house of the furniture-dealer, at the bottom of the yard on
the right.

I found it without the least difficulty, and I knocked at the door of a
somewhat dilapidated-looking dwelling. A fat woman opened it, who must
have been very handsome, but who actually was only very dirty. Although
she was too fat, she still bore the lines of majestic beauty; her untidy
hair fell over her forehead and shoulders, and one fancied one could see
her fat body floating about in an enormous dressing-gown covered with
spots of dirt and grease. Round her neck she wore a great gilt necklace,
and on her wrists were splendid bracelets of Genoa filigree work.

In rather a hostile manner she asked me what I wanted, and I replied by
requesting her to tell me whether Francesca Rondoli lived there.

"What do you want with her?" she asked.

"I had the pleasure of meeting her last year, and I should like to see
her again."

The old woman looked at me suspiciously.

"Where did you meet her?" she asked.

"Why here, in Genoa itself."

"What is your name?"

I hesitated a moment, and then I told her. I had scarcely done so when
the Italian put out her arms as if to embrace me. "Oh! you are the
Frenchman; how glad I am to see you! But what grief you ca