When he joined the librarian and his wife, who were sitting on the
balcony, Rodolphe could scarcely repress an exclamation of surprise at
seeing the prodigious change which the good news had produced in the
old man. He now saw a man of about sixty, extremely well preserved, a
lean Italian, as straight as an I, with hair still black, though thin
and showing a white skull, with bright eyes, a full set of white
teeth, a face like Caesar, and on his diplomatic lips a sardonic
smile, the almost false smile under which a man of good breeding hides
his real feelings.
"Here is my husband under his natural form," said Francesca gravely.
"He is quite a new acquaintance," replied Rodolphe, bewildered.
"Quite," said the librarian; "I have played many a part, and know well
how to make up. Ah! I played one in Paris under the Empire, with
Bourrienne, Madame Murat, Madame d'Abrantis _e tutte quanti_.
Everything we take the trouble to learn in our youth, even the most
futile, is of use. If my wife had not received a man's education--an
unheard-of thing in Italy--I should have been obliged to chop wood to
get my living here. _Povera_ Francesca! who would have told me that
she would some day maintain me!"
As he listened to this worthy bookseller, so easy, so affable, so
hale, Rodolphe scented some mystification, and preserved the watchful
silence of a man who has been duped.
"_Che avete, signor_?" Francesca asked with simplicity.
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