“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.

“Shall I not be forced to wait, to accept you at the hands of time?” said he gravely.  “But know this:  if you are in earnest in what you have allowed to escape you, I will wait for you faithfully, without suffering any other attachment to grow up in my heart.”

She looked at him doubtfully.

“None,” said he, “not even a passing fancy.  I have my fortune to make; you must have a splendid one, nature created you a princess——­”

At this word Francesca could not repress a faint smile, which gave her face the most bewildering expression, something subtle, like what the great Leonardo has so well depicted in the Gioconda.  This smile made Rodolphe pause.  “Ah yes!” he went on, “you must suffer much from the destitution to which exile has brought you.  Oh, if you would make me happy above all men, and consecrate my love, you would treat me as a friend.  Ought I not to be your friend?—­My poor mother has left sixty thousand francs of savings; take half.”

Francesca looked steadily at him.  This piercing gaze went to the bottom of Rodolphe’s soul.

“We want nothing; my work amply supplies our luxuries,” she replied in a grave voice.

“And can I endure that a Francesca should work?” cried he.  “One day you will return to your country and find all you left there.”  Again the Italian girl looked at Rodolphe.  “And you will then repay me what you may have condescended to borrow,” he added, with an expression full of delicate feeling.