“You cannot tell me whether within a week or so a bookseller from Milan has come with his wife—­named Lamporani, one of the leaders of the last revolution?”

“I could easily find out by going to the Foreigners’ Club,” said the jeweler.

Rodolphe’s first walk was very naturally to the Villa Diodati, the residence of Lord Byron, whose recent death added to its attractiveness:  for is not death the consecration of genius?

The road to Eaux-Vives follows the shore of the lake, and, like all the roads in Switzerland, is very narrow; in some spots, in consequence of the configuration of the hilly ground, there is scarcely space for two carriages to pass each other.

At a few yards from the Jeanrenauds’ house, which he was approaching without knowing it, Rodolphe heard the sound of a carriage behind him, and, finding himself in a sunk road, he climbed to the top of a rock to leave the road free.  Of course he looked at the approaching carriage—­an elegant English phaeton, with a splendid pair of English horses.  He felt quite dizzy as he beheld in this carriage Francesca, beautifully dressed, by the side of an old lady as hard as a cameo.  A servant blazing with gold lace stood behind.  Francesca recognized Rodolphe, and smiled at seeing him like a statue on a pedestal.  The carriage, which the lover followed with his eyes as he climbed the hill, turned in at the gate of a country house, towards which he ran.

“Who lives here?” he asked the gardener.

“Prince and Princess Colonna, and Prince and Princess Gandolphini.”

“Have they not just driven in?”

“Yes, sir.”

In that instant a veil fell from Rodolphe’s eyes; he saw clearly the meaning of the past.

“If only this is her last piece of trickery!” thought the thunder-struck lover to himself.

He trembled lest he should have been the plaything of a whim, for he had heard what a capriccio might mean in an Italian.  But what a crime had he committed in the eyes of a woman—­in accepting a born princess as a citizen’s wife! in believing that a daughter of one of the most illustrious houses of the Middle Ages was the wife of a bookseller!  The consciousness of his blunders increased Rodolphe’s desire to know whether he would be ignored and repelled.  He asked for Prince Gandolphini, sending in his card, and was immediately received by the false Lamporani, who came forward to meet him, welcomed him with the best possible grace, and took him to walk on a terrace whence there was a view of Geneva, the Jura, the hills covered with villas, and below them a wide expanse of the lake.

“My wife is faithful to the lakes, you see,” he remarked, after pointing out the details to his visitor.  “We have a sort of concert this evening,” he added, as they returned to the splendid Villa Jeanrenaud.  “I hope you will do me and the Princess the pleasure of seeing you.  Two months of poverty endured in intimacy are equal to years of friendship.”