“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?” “But allow me to bestow a regret on the Bergmanns’ delightful house,” said Rodolphe, pointing to the little promontory. “Come and dine with us to add to your associations, _povero mio_,” said she. “This is a great day; we are out of danger. My mother writes that within a year there will be an amnesty. Oh! _la cara patria_!” These three words made Gina weep. “Another winter here,” said she, “and I should have been dead!” “Poor little Sicilian kid!” said Francesca, stroking Gina’s head with an expression and an affection which made Rodolphe long to be so caressed, even if it were without love. The boat grounded; Rodolphe sprang on to the sand, offered his hand to the Italian lady, escorted her to the door of the Bergmanns’ house, and went to dress and return as soon as possible. When he joined the librarian and his wife, who were sitting on the balcony, Rodolphe could scarcely repress an exclamation of surprise at seeing the prodigious change which the good news had produced in the old man. He now saw a man of about sixty, extremely well preserved, a lean Italian, as straight as an I, with hair still black, though thin and showing a white skull, with bright eyes, a full set of white teeth, a face like Caesar, and on his diplomatic lips a sardonic smile, the almost false smile under which a man of good breeding hides his real feelings. “Here is my husband under his natural form,” said Francesca gravely. “He is quite a new acquaintance,” replied Rodolphe, bewildered. “Quite,” said the librarian; “I have played many a part, and know well how to make up. Ah! I played one in Paris under the Empire, with Bourrienne, Madame Murat, Madame d’Abrantis _e tutte quanti_. Everything we take the trouble to learn in our youth, even the most futile, is of use. If my wife had not received a man’s education--an unheard-of thing in Italy--I should have been obliged to chop wood to get my living here. _Povera_ Francesca! who would have told me that she would some day maintain me!” As he listened to this worthy bookseller, so easy, so affable, so hale, Rodolphe scented some mystification, and preserved the watchful silence of a man who has been duped. “_Che avete, signor_?” Francesca asked with simplicity. “Does our happiness sadden you?” “Your husband is a young man,” he whispered in her ear. She broke into such a frank, infectious laugh that Rodolphe was still more puzzled.