"
"At any rate, she is Vicomtesse de Beauseant; and she did not--"
"Did not hesitate, you would say, to bury herself here with Monsieur
Gaston de Nueil, you would say," replied the daughter of the Colonnas.
"She is only a Frenchwoman; I am an Italian, my dear sir!"
Francesca turned away from the parapet, leaving Rodolphe, and went to
the further end of the terrace, whence there is a wide prospect of the
lake. Watching her as she slowly walked away, Rodolphe suspected that
he had wounded her soul, at once so simple and so wise, so proud and
so humble. It turned him cold; he followed Francesca, who signed to
him to leave her to herself. But he did not heed the warning, and
detected her wiping away her tears. Tears! in so strong a nature.
"Francesca," said he, taking her hand, "is there a single regret in
your heart?"
She was silent, disengaged her hand which held her embroidered
handkerchief, and again dried her eyes.
"Forgive me!" he said. And with a rush, he kissed her eyes to wipe
away the tears.
Francesca did not seem aware of his passionate impulse, she was so
violently agitated. Rodolphe, thinking she consented, grew bolder; he
put his arm round her, clasped her to his heart, and snatched a kiss.
But she freed herself by a dignified movement of offended modesty,
and, standing a yard off, she looked at him without anger, but with
firm determination.
"Go this evening," she said.
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