He went on first, and I saw him go into a large hotel while I remained
on the other side of the street dragging along my fair Italian, who did
not say a word, and followed by the porters with the luggage.
Paul came back at last, looking as dissatisfied as my companion.
"That is settled," he said, "and they will take us in; but there are
only two bedrooms. You must settle it as you can."
I followed him, rather ashamed of going in with such a strange
companion.
There were two bedrooms separated by a small sitting-room. I ordered a
cold supper, and then I turned to the Italian with a perplexed look.
"We have only been able to get two rooms, so you must choose which you
like."
She replied with her eternal _Che mi fa_? I thereupon took her little
black wooden box, just like servants use, and took it into the room on
the right, which I had chosen for her, ... for us. A bit of paper was
fastened on to the box, on which was written, _Mademoiselle Francesca
Rondoli, Genoa_.
"Your name is Francesca?" I asked, and she nodded her head, without
replying.
"We shall have supper directly," I continued. "Meanwhile, I daresay you
would like to arrange your dress a little?"
She answered with a _mica_, a word which she employed just as frequently
as _Che mi fa_, but I went on: "It is always pleasant after a journey."
Then I suddenly remembered that she had not, perhaps, the necessary
objects, for she appeared to me in a very singular position, as if she
had just escaped from some disagreeable adventure, and I brought her my
dressing-case.
I put out all the little instruments for cleanliness and comfort which
it contained: a nailbrush, a new toothbrush--for I always carry a
selection of them about with me--my nail-scissors, a nail-file, and
sponges. I uncorked a bottle of eau de cologne, one of lavender-water,
and a little bottle of new-mown hay, so that she might have a choice.
Then I opened my powder-box, and put out the powder-puff, put my fine
towels over the water-jug, and placed a piece of new soap near the
basin.
She watched my movements with a vexed look in her wide open eyes,
without appearing either astonished or satisfied at my forethought.
"Here is all that you require," I then said; "I will tell you when
supper is ready."
When I returned to the sitting-room I found that Paul had taken
possession of the other room, and had shut himself in, so I sat down to
wait.
A waiter went backwards and forwards, bringing plates and glasses. He
laid the table slowly, then put a cold fowl on it, and told me that all
was ready.
I knocked gently at Mademoiselle Rondoli's door. "Come in," she said,
and when I did so I was struck by a strong, heavy smell of perfumes, as
if I were in a hairdresser's and perfumer's shop.
The Italian was sitting on her box in an attitude either of thoughtful
discontent or absent-mindedness. The towel was still folded over the
water-jug that was quite full, and the soap, untouched and dry, was
laying beside the empty basin; but one would have thought that the young
woman had drunk half of the bottles of scent. The eau de cologne,
however, had been spared, as only about a third of it had gone; but to
make up for that she had used a surprising amount of lavender-water and
new-mown hay. A cloud of violet-powder, a vague white mist, seemed still
to be floating in the air, from the effects of her over-powdering her
face and neck. It seemed to cover her eyelashes, eyebrows, and the hair
on her temples like snow, while her cheeks were plastered with it, and
layers of it covered her nostrils, the corners of her eyes, and her
chin.
When she got up she exhaled such a strong odor of scent that it almost
made me feel faint.
When she sat down to supper, I found that Paul was in a most execrable
temper, and I could get nothing out of him but blame, irritable words,
and disagreeable compliments.
Mademoiselle Francesca ate like an ogre, and as soon as she had finished
her meal she threw herself upon the sofa. As for me, I saw the decisive
moment approaching for settling how we were to apportion the rooms. I
determined to take the bull by the horns, and sitting down by the
Italian I said gallantly, kissing her hand:
"As we have only two bedrooms, will you allow me to share yours with
you?"
"Do just as you like," she said. "It is all the same to me. _Che mi
fa_?"
Her indifference vexed me.
"But you are sure you do not mind my being in your room with you?" I
said.
"It is all the same to me; do just as you like."
"Should you like to go to bed at once?"
"Yes; I am very sleepy."
She got up, yawned, gave Paul her hand, who took it with a furious look,
and I lighted her into our room. A disquieting feeling haunted me. "Here
is all you want," I said again.
This time I took care to pour half the water into the basin, and to put
a towel near the soap.
Then I went back to Paul. As soon as I got into the room, he said, "You
have got a nice sort of camel there!" and I answered, laughing. "My
dear friend, don't speak ill of sour grapes," and he replied,
ill-temperedly:
"Just take care how this ends, my good fellow."
I almost trembled with that feeling of fear which assails us after some
suspicious love escapade--that fear which spoils our pleasant meetings,
our unexpected caresses, our chance kisses. However, I put a bold face
on the matter. "At any rate, the girl is no adventuress."
But the fellow had me in his power; he had seen the shadow of my anxiety
on my face.
"What do you know about her? You really astonish me. You pick up an
Italian woman traveling alone by railway, and she volunteers, with most
singular cynicism, to go and to be your mistress in the first hotel you
come to. You take her with you, and then you declare that she is not
a----! And you persuade yourself that you are not running more risk than
if you were to go and spend the night with a woman who had the
small-pox."
He laughed with an unpleasant and angry laugh. I sat down, a prey to
uneasiness. What was I to do, for he was right after all? And a struggle
began within me, between desire and fear.
He went on: "Do as you like, I have warned you, so, do not complain of
the consequences."
But I saw an ironical gayety in his eyes, such a delight in his revenge,
and he made fun of me so jovially that I did not hesitate any longer. I
gave him my hand, and said, "Good night. You know the old saying: _A
victory without peril is a triumph without glory_, and upon my word, the
victory is worth the danger."
And with a firm step I went into Francesca's room.
I stopped short at the door in surprise and astonishment. She was
already asleep. Sleep had overcome her when she had finished undressing,
and she was reposing in the charming attitude of one of Titian's women.
It seemed as if she had lain down from sheer fatigue in order to take
off her stockings, for they were lying on the bed. Then she had thought
of something pleasant, no doubt, for she had waited to finish her
reverie before moving, and then, closing her eyes, she had lost
consciousness. A nightgown, embroidered about the neck such as one buys
in cheap ready-made shops, was lying on the chair.
She was charming, young, firm and fresh.
There is nothing prettier than a pretty woman asleep, and in a moment,
seeing her thus in all her naïve charms, I was going to forget my
friend's prudent counsels, but, suddenly turning to the toilet-table, I
saw everything in the same state as I left it, and I sat down, anxious,
and a prey to irresolution.
I remained thus for a long time, not able to make up my mind either what
to do. Retreat was impossible, and I must either pass the night on a
chair, or go to bed myself at my own risk and peril.
I had no thoughts of sleeping either here or there, for my head was too
excited and my eyes too occupied.
I moved about without stopping, feverish uncomfortable, enervated. Then
I began to reason with myself, certainly with a view to capitulation.
"If I lie down that does not bind me to anything, and I shall certainly
be more comfortable on a mattress than on a chair."
I undressed slowly, and then, stepping over the sleeping girl, I
stretched myself out against the wall, turning my back on temptation.
In this position I remained for a long time without going to sleep, when
suddenly my neighbor woke up. She opened her eyes with astonishment, and
still with that discontented look in them; then, perceiving that she was
undressed, she got up, and calmly put on her nightgown with as much
indifference as if I had not been present.
Returning, she did not trouble herself at all about me, and immediately
went quietly to sleep again with her head resting on her right arm.
As for me, I began to meditate on human weakness and fatuity, and then I
went to sleep also.
She got up early, like a woman who is used to work in the morning. She
woke me up by doing so, and I watched her through my half-closed
eyelids.
She came and went without hurrying herself, as if she were astonished at
having nothing to do. At length she went to the toilet-table, and in a
moment she emptied all the scent that remained in my bottles. She
certainly also used some water, but very little.
When she was quite dressed, she sat down on her box again, and holding
one knee between her hands, she seemed to be thinking.
At that moment I first pretended to notice her, and said:
"Good morning, Francesca."
Without seeming in at all a better temper than the previous night, she
murmured, "Good morning."
When I asked her whether she slept well, she nodded _Yes_, and jumping
out of bed, I went and kissed her.
She turned her face towards me like a child who is being kissed against
its will; but I took her tenderly in my arms, and gently put my lips on
her large eyes, which she closed with evident distaste under my kisses
on her fresh cheeks and full lips which she turned away.
"You don't seem to like being kissed," I said to her.
"_Mica_" was her only answer.
I sat down on the trunk by her side, and, passing my arm through hers, I
said: "_Mica! mica! mica_! in reply to everything. I shall call you
Mademoiselle _Mica_, I think."
For the first time I fancied that I saw the shadow of a smile on her
lips, but it passed by so quickly that I may have been mistaken.
"But if you never say anything but _Mica_ I shall not know what to do to
try to please you. Let us see; what shall we do to-day?"
She hesitated a moment as if some fancy had flitted through her head,
and then she said carelessly: "It is all the same to me; whatever you
like."
"Very well, Mademoiselle _Mica_, we will have a carriage and go for a
drive."
"As you please," she said.
Paul was waiting for us in the dining-room, looking as bored as third
parties generally do in love affairs. I assumed a delighted air, and
shook hands with him with triumphant energy.
"What are you thinking of doing?" he asked.
"First of all we will go and see a little of the town, and then we might
take a carriage, for a drive in the neighborhood."
We breakfasted nearly in silence and then started. I dragged Francesca
from palace to palace, and she either looked at nothing or merely just
glanced carelessly at all the various masterpieces. Paul followed us,
growling all sorts of disagreeable things. Then we all three took a
silent drive into the country and returned to dinner.
The next day it was the same thing and the next day again; so on the
third Paul said to me: "Look here, I am going to leave you; I am not
going to stop here for three weeks watching you make love to this
creature."
I was perplexed and annoyed, for to my great surprise I had become
singularly attached to Francesca. A man is but weak and foolish, carried
away by the merest trifle, and a coward every time that his senses are
excited or mastered. I clung to this unknown girl, silent and
dissatisfied as she always was. I liked her somewhat ill-tempered face,
the dissatisfied droop of her mouth, the weariness of her look; I liked
her fatigued movements, the contemptuous way in which she yielded to my
desires, the very indifference of her caresses. A secret bond, that
mysterious bond of animal love, the secret attachment of that possession
which does not satiate, bound me to her. I told Paul so, quite frankly.
He treated me as if I had been a fool, and then said:
"Very well, take her with you."
But she obstinately refused to leave Genoa, without giving any reason. I
besought, I reasoned, I promised, but all was of no avail, and so I
stayed on.
Paul declared that he would go by himself, and went so far as to pack up
his portmanteau; but he remained all the same.
Thus a fortnight passed. Francesca was always silent and irritable,
lived beside me rather than with me, responded to all my desires, all my
demands, and all my propositions with her perpetual _Che mi fa_, or
with her no less perpetual _Mica_.
My friend got more and more furious, but my only answer was, "You can go
if you are tired of staying. I am not detaining you."
Then he called me names, overwhelmed me with reproaches, and exclaimed:
"Where do you think I can go to now? We had three weeks at our disposal,
and here is a fortnight gone! I cannot continue my journey now; and, in
any case, I am not going to Venice, Florence, and Rome all by myself.
But you will pay for it, and more dearly than you think for, most
likely. You are not going to bring a man all the way from Paris in order
to shut him up at an hotel in Genoa with an Italian adventuress."
When I told him, very calmly, to return to Paris, he exclaimed that he
was going to do so the very next day; but the next day he was still
there, still in a rage and swearing.
By this time we began to be known in the streets through which we
wandered from morning till night. Sometimes French people would turn
round astonished at meeting their fellow-countrymen in the company of
this girl with her striking costume, and who looked singularly out of
place, not to say compromising, beside us.
She used to walk along, leaning on my arm, without looking at anything.
Why did she remain with me, with us, who seemed to procure her so little
pleasure? Who was she? Where did she come from? What was she doing? Had
she any plan or idea? Where did she live? As an adventuress, or by
chance meetings? I tried in vain to find out and to explain it. The
better I knew her the more enigmatical she became. She was not one of
those who make a living by any profession of venal love. She rather
seemed to me to be a girl of poor family who had been seduced and taken
away, and then cast aside and lost. What did she think was going to
become of her, or whom was she waiting for? She certainly did not appear
to be trying to make a conquest of me, or to get any real profit out of
me.
I tried to question her, to speak to her of her childhood and family;
but she never gave me an answer. I stayed with her, my heart unfettered
and my senses enchained, never wearied of holding her in my arms, that
proud and quarrelsome woman, captivated by my senses, or rather seduced,
overcome by a youthful, healthy, powerful charm, which emanated from her
sweet-smelling person and from the robust lines of her body.
Another week passed, and the term of my journey was drawing on, for I
had to be back in Paris by July 11. By this time Paul had come to take
his part in the adventure, though still grumbling at me, while I
invented pleasures, distractions, and excursions to amuse my mistress
and my friend; and in order to do this I gave myself a large amount of
trouble.
One day I proposed an excursion to Sta Margarita, that charming little
town in the midst of gardens, hidden at the foot of a slope which
stretches far into the sea up to the village of Portofino. We all three
were following the excellent road which goes along the foot of the
mountain. Suddenly Francesca said to me: "I shall not be able to go with
you to-morrow; I must go and see some of my relations."
That was all; I did not ask her any questions, as I was quite sure she
would not answer me.
The next morning she got up very early; then, as I remained in bed, she
sat down at the foot of it, and said in a constrained and hesitating
voice:
"If I do not come back to-night, shall you come and fetch me?"
"Most certainly I shall," was my reply. "Where must I come to?"
Then she explained: "You must go into the Street Victor-Emmanuel, down
the Passage Falene, and go into the furniture shop at the bottom, in a
court, and there you must ask for Mme. Rondoli--That is where it is."
And so she went away, leaving me rather astonished.
When Paul saw that I was alone he stammered out: "Where is Francesca?"
And when I told him what had happened he exclaimed:
"My dear fellow, let us make use of our chance, and bolt; as it is, our
time is up. Two days, more or less, make no difference. Let us start at
once; go and pack up your things. Off we go!"
But I refused. I could not, as I told him, leave the girl in such a
manner, after having lived with her for nearly three weeks. At any rate,
I ought to say good-bye to her, and make her accept a present; I
certainly had no intention of behaving badly to her.
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 thrown you over, 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
Mme. Rondoli live here, please?' 'No, Sir.' 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 start 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 started for France together.