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.
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.
“So you are quite alone?” she continued. “How sorry I am that Francesca
is not here now; she would have been company for you all the time you
stayed. It is not very amusing to go about all by oneself, and she will
be very sorry also.”
Then, as I was getting up to go, she exclaimed:
“But would you not like Carlotta to go with you? She knows all the walks
very well. She is my second daughter, monsieur.”
No doubt she took my look of surprise for consent, for she opened the
inner door and called out up the dark stairs which I could not see:
“Carlotta! Carlotta! make haste down, my dear child.”