Part 5 (1/2)
”I want to know,” said she, with the Italian artlessness which has always a touch of artfulness.
”Well, this hour will s.h.i.+ne on all my life like a diamond on a queen's brow.”
Francesca's only reply was to lay her hand on Rodolphe's.
”Oh dearest! for ever dearest!--Tell me, have you never loved?”
”Never.”
”And you allow me to love you n.o.bly, looking to heaven for the utmost fulfilment?” he asked.
She gently bent her head. Two large tears rolled down Rodolphe's cheeks.
”Why! what is the matter?” she cried, abandoning her imperial manner.
”I have now no mother whom I can tell of my happiness; she left this earth without seeing what would have mitigated her agony--”
”What?” said she.
”Her tenderness replaced by an equal tenderness----”
”_Povero mio_!” exclaimed the Italian, much touched. ”Believe me,” she went on after a pause, ”it is a very sweet thing, and to a woman, a strong element of fidelity to know that she is all in all on earth to the man she loves; to find him lonely, with no family, with nothing in his heart but his love--in short, to have him wholly to herself.”
When two lovers thus understand each other, the heart feels delicious peace, supreme tranquillity. Certainty is the basis for which human feelings crave, for it is never lacking to religious sentiment; man is always certain of being fully repaid by G.o.d. Love never believes itself secure but by this resemblance to divine love. And the raptures of that moment must have been fully felt to be understood; it is unique in life; it can never return no more, alas! than the emotions of youth. To believe in a woman, to make her your human religion, the fount of life, the secret luminary of all your least thoughts!--is not this a second birth? And a young man mingles with this love a little of the feeling he had for his mother.
Rodolphe and Francesca for some time remained in perfect silence, answering each other by sympathetic glances full of thoughts. They understood each other in the midst of one of the most beautiful scenes of Nature, whose glories, interpreted by the glory in their hearts, helped to stamp on their minds the most fugitive details of that unique hour. There had not been the slightest shade of frivolity in Francesca's conduct. It was n.o.ble, large, and without any second thought. This magnanimity struck Rodolphe greatly, for in it he recognized the difference between the Italian and the Frenchwoman. The waters, the land, the sky, the woman, all were grandiose and suave, even their love 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 circ.u.mstances 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, ”t.i.to!” as she perceived a young man.
She stood up, and remained standing at the risk of being drowned. ”t.i.to!
t.i.to!” cried she, waving her handkerchief.
t.i.to desired the boatmen to slacken, and the two boats pulled side by side. The Italian and t.i.to 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 t.i.to'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. t.i.to 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 t.i.to.
”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 t.i.to?” 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 Ma.r.s.eilles, and had to cross France.