He went on first, and I saw him go into a large hotel while I remained
on the other side of the street, with my fair Italian, who did not say a
word, and followed 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 here 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 up her little
black wooden trunk, such as servants use, and took it into the room on
the right, which I had chosen for her. A bit of paper was fastened 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 dare say you
would like to arrange your toilette a little?”
She answered with a 'mica', a word which she employed just as frequently
as 'Che me fa', but I went on: “It is always pleasant after a journey.”
Then I suddenly remembered that she had not, perhaps, the necessary
requisites, 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 nail-brush, a new toothbrush--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, placed my fine towels over
the water-jug, and a piece of new soap near the basin.
She watched my movements with a look of annoyance in her wide-open eyes,
without appearing either astonished or pleased 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 shut himself
in the other room, so I sat down to wait.
A waiter went to and fro, bringing plates and glasses. He laid the table
slowly, then put a cold chicken 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 shop.
The Italian was sitting on her trunk in an attitude either of thoughtful
discontent or absent-mindedness. The towel was still folded over the
waterjug that was full of water, and the soap, untouched and dry, was
lying beside the empty basin; but one would have thought that the young
woman had used half the contents of the bottles of perfume. 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 perfume that it almost
made me feel faint.
When we 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 remarks.
Mademoiselle Francesca ate like an ogre, and as soon as she had finished
her meal she threw herself upon the sofa in the sitting-room. Sitting
down beside her, I said gallantly, kissing her hand:
“Shall I have the bed prepared, or will you sleep on the couch?”
“It is all the same to me. 'Che mi fa'!”
Her indifference vexed me.
“Should you like to retire at once?”
“Yes; I am very sleepy.”
She got up, yawned, gave her hand to Paul, who took it with a furious
look, and I lighted her into the bedroom. A disquieting feeling haunted
me. “Here is all you want,” I said again.
The next morning she got up early, like a woman who is accustomed to
work. She woke me 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 dressing-table, and in
a moment emptied all my bottles of perfume. She certainly also used some
water, but very little.
When she was quite dressed, she sat down on her trunk again, and
clasping one knee between her hands, she seemed to be thinking.
At that moment I pretended to first 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 had slept well, she nodded her head, and
jumping out of bed, I went and kissed her.
She turned her face toward me like a child who is being kissed against
its will; but I took her tenderly in my arms, and gently pressed my lips
on her eyelids, which she closed with evident distaste under my kisses
on her fresh cheek 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
please you. Let me 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 usually 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 get a carriage and take a drive in the neighborhood.”
We breakfasted almost in silence, and then set out. I dragged Francesca
from palace to palace, and she either looked at nothing or merely
glanced carelessly at the various masterpieces. Paul followed us,
growling all sorts of disagreeable things. Then we all three took a
drive in silence into the country and returned to dinner.
The next day it was the same thing and the next day again; and 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 let me
kiss her, the very indifference of her caresses. A secret bond, that
mysterious bond of physical love, which does not satisfy, bound me to
her. I told Paul so, quite frankly. He treated me as if I were 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 requirements
and all my propositions with her perpetual Che mi fa, or with her no
less perpetual Mica.
My friend became 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 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, most likely. You
are not going to bring a man all the way from Paris in order to shut him
up at a hotel in Genoa with an Italian adventuress.”
When I told him, very calmly, to return to Paris, he exclaimed that
he intended 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, 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 do so little to amuse
her? 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 seemed to be a girl of
poor family who had been taken away, and then cast aside and lost. What
did she think would 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
make 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 carried
away, overcome by a youthful, healthy, powerful charm, which emanated
from her fragrant person and from the well-molded 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 the eleventh of July. 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
Francesca and my friend; and in order to do this I gave myself a great
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 three
walked along 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 relatives.”
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. When she spoke to me it was in a
constrained and hesitating voice:
“If I do not come back again, shall you come and fetch me?”
“Most certainly I shall,” was my reply. “Where shall I go to find you?”
Then she explained: “You must go into the Street Victor-Emmanuel, down
the Falcone road and the side street San-Rafael and into the furniture
shop in the building at the right at the end of a court, and there you
must ask for Madame Rondoli. That is the place.”
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 opportunity, and bolt; as it is,
our time is up. Two days, more or less, make no difference. Let us go 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 that manner
after such companionship for nearly three weeks. At any rate, I ought
to say good-by 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 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.