Now and again it annoyed him to
admire her calmness. Like an Englishwoman, she seemed to pride herself
on expressing nothing in her face; its serenity defied love; he longed
to see her agitated; he accused her of having no feeling, for he
believed in the tradition which ascribes to Italian women a feverish
excitability.
"I am a Roman!" Francesca gravely replied one day when she took quite
seriously some banter on this subject from Rodolphe.
There was a depth of tone in her reply which gave it the appearance of
scathing irony, and which set Rodolphe's pulses throbbing. The month
of May spread before them the treasures of her fresh verdure; the sun
was sometimes as powerful as at midsummer. The two lovers happened to
be at a part of the terrace where the rock arises abruptly from the
lake, and were leaning over the stone parapet that crowns the wall
above a flight of steps leading down to a landing-stage. From the
neighboring villa, where there is a similar stairway, a boat presently
shot out like a swan, its flag flaming, its crimson awning spread over
a lovely woman comfortably reclining on red cushions, her hair
wreathed with real flowers; the boatman was a young man dressed like a
sailor, and rowing with all the more grace because he was under the
lady's eye.
"They are happy!" exclaimed Rodolphe, with bitter emphasis. "Claire de
Bourgogne, the last survivor of the only house which can ever vie with
the royal family of France--"
"Oh! of a bastard branch, and that a female line.
Pages:
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89