In rather a hostile manner she asked me what I wanted, and I replied by requesting her to tell me whether Francesca Rondoli lived there.

“What do you want with her?” she asked.

“I had the pleasure of meeting her last year, and I should like to see her again.”

The old woman looked at me suspiciously.

“Where did you meet her?” she asked.

“Why, here in Genoa itself.”

“What is your name?”

I hesitated a moment, and then I told her.  I had hardly done so when the Italian put out her arms as if to embrace me.  “Oh! you are the Frenchman how glad I am to see you!  But what grief you caused the poor child!  She waited for you a month; yes, a whole month.  At first she thought you would come to fetch her.  She wanted to see whether you loved her.  If you only knew how she cried when she saw that you were not coming!  She cried till she seemed to have no tears left.  Then she went to the hotel, but you had gone.  She thought that most likely you were travelling in Italy, and that you would return by Genoa to fetch her, as she would not go with you.  And she waited more than a month, monsieur; and she was so unhappy; so unhappy.  I am her mother.”

I really felt a little disconcerted, but I regained my self-possession, and asked: 

“Where is she now?”

“She has gone to Paris with a painter, a delightful man, who loves her very much, and who gives her everything that she wants.  Just look at what she sent me; they are very pretty, are they not?”

And she showed me, with quite southern animation, her heavy bracelets and necklace.  “I have also,” she continued, “earrings with stones in them, a silk dress, and some rings; but I only wear them on grand occasions.  Oh! she is very happy, monsieur, very happy.  She will be so pleased when I tell her you have been here.  But pray come in and sit down.  You will take something or other, surely?”

But I refused, as I now wished to get away by the first train; but she took me by the arm and pulled me in, saying: 

“Please, come in; I must tell her that you have been in here.”

I found myself in a small, rather dark room, furnished with only a table and a few chairs.

She continued:  “Oh, she is very happy now, very happy.  When you met her in the train she was very miserable; she had had an unfortunate love affair in Marseilles, and she was coming home, poor child.  But she liked you at once, though she was still rather sad, you understand.  Now she has all she wants, and she writes and tells me everything that she does.  His name is Bellemin, and they say he is a great painter in your country.  He fell in love with her at first sight.  But you will take a glass of sirup?-it is very good.  Are you quite alone, this year?”

“Yes,” I said, “quite alone.”

I felt an increasing inclination to laugh, as my first disappointment was dispelled by what Mother Rondoli said.  I was obliged; however, to drink a glass of her sirup.