But he would not listen; he pressed and worried me, but I would not give way.

I remained indoors for several hours, expecting Francesca’s return, but she did not come, and at last, at dinner, Paul said with a triumphant air: 

“She has flown, my dear fellow; it is certainly very strange.”

I must acknowledge that I was surprised and rather vexed.  He laughed in my face, and made fun of me.

“It is not exactly a bad way of getting rid of you, though rather primitive.  ‘Just wait for me, I shall be back in a moment,’ they often say.  How long are you going to wait?  I should not wonder if you were foolish enough to go and look for her at the address she gave you.  ’Does Madame Rondoli live here, please?’ ‘No, monsieur.’  I’ll bet that you are longing to go there.”

“Not in the least,” I protested, “and I assure you that if she does not come back to-morrow morning I shall leave by the express at eight o’clock.  I shall have waited twenty-four hours, and that is enough; my conscience will be quite clear.”

I spent an uneasy and unpleasant evening, for I really had at heart a very tender feeling for her.  I went to bed at twelve o’clock, and hardly slept at all.  I got up at six, called Paul, packed up my things, and two hours later we set out for France together.

III

The next year, at just about the same period, I was seized as one is with a periodical fever, with a new desire to go to Italy, and I immediately made up my mind to carry it into effect.  There is no doubt that every really well-educated man ought to see Florence, Venice and Rome.  This travel has, also, the additional advantage of providing many subjects of conversation in society, and of giving one an opportunity for bringing forward artistic generalities which appear profound.

This time I went alone, and I arrived at Genoa at the same time as the year before, but without any adventure on the road.  I went to the same hotel, and actually happened to have the same room.

I was hardly in bed when the recollection of Francesca which, since the evening before, had been floating vaguely through my mind, haunted me with strange persistency.  I thought of her nearly the whole night, and by degrees the wish to see her again seized me, a confused desire at first, which gradually grew stronger and more intense.  At last I made up my mind to spend the next day in Genoa to try to find her, and if I should not succeed, to take the evening train.

Early in the morning I set out on my search.  I remembered the directions she had given me when she left me, perfectly—­Victor-Emmanuel Street, house of the furniture-dealer, at the bottom of the yard on the right.

I found it without the least difficulty, and I knocked at the door of a somewhat dilapidated-looking dwelling.  It was opened by a stout woman, who must have been very handsome, but who actually was only very dirty.  Although she had too much embonpoint, she still bore the lines of majestic beauty; her untidy hair fell over her forehead and shoulders, and one fancied one could see her floating about in an enormous dressing-gown covered with spots of dirt and grease.  Round her neck she wore a great gilt necklace, and on her wrists were splendid bracelets of Genoa filigree work.