As soon as Rodolphe could go out he went to the Bergmanns’ house, to thank Miss Fanny Lovelace and her father for the interest they had taken in his sorrow and his illness. For the first time since he had lodged with the Bergmanns the old Italian admitted a stranger to his room, where Rodolphe was received with the cordiality due to his misfortunes and to his being a Frenchman, which excluded all distrust of him. Francesca looked so lovely by candle-light that first evening that she shed a ray of brightness on his grieving heart. Her smiles flung the roses of hope on his woe. She sang, not indeed gay songs, but grave and solemn melodies suited to the state of Rodolphe’s heart, and he observed this touching care. At about eight o’clock the old man left the young people without any sign of uneasiness, and went to his room. When Francesca was tired of singing, she led Rodolphe on to the balcony, whence they perceived the sublime scenery of the lake, and signed to him to be seated by her on a rustic wooden bench. “Am I very indiscreet in asking how old you are, cara Francesca?” said Rodolphe. “Nineteen,” said she, “well past.” “If anything in the world could soothe my sorrow,” he went on, “it would be the hope of winning you from your father, whatever your fortune may be. So beautiful as you are, you seem to be richer than a prince’s daughter. 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.