Rodolphe was enjoying both at
once. Love is a treasury of memories, and though Rodolphe's was
already full, he added to it pearls of great price; smiles shed aside
for him alone, stolen glances, tones in her singing which Francesca
addressed to him alone, but which made Tinti pale with jealousy, they
were so much applauded. All his strength of desire, the special
expression of his soul, was thrown over the beautiful Roman, who
became unchangeably the beginning and the end of all his thoughts and
actions. Rodolphe loved as every woman may dream of being loved, with
a force, a constancy, a tenacity, which made Francesca the very
substance of his heart; he felt her mingling with his blood as purer
blood, with his soul as a more perfect soul; she would henceforth
underlie the least efforts of his life as the golden sand of the
Mediterranean lies beneath the waves. In short, Rodolphe's lightest
aspiration was now a living hope.
At the end of a few days, Francesca understood this boundless love;
but it was so natural, and so perfectly shared by her, that it did not
surprise her. She was worthy of it.
"What is there that is strange?" said she to Rodolphe, as they walked
on the garden terrace, when he had been betrayed into one of those
outbursts of conceit which come so naturally to Frenchmen in the
expression of their feelings--"what is extraordinary in the fact of
your loving a young and beautiful woman, artist enough to be able to
earn her living like Tinti, and of giving you some of the pleasures of
vanity? What lout but would then become an Amadis? This is not in
question between you and me.
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