that is enough; my
conscience will be quite clear."

I spent an uneasy and unpleasant evening, for I really had at heart a
very tender feeling for her. I went to bed at twelve o'clock, and hardly
slept at all. I got up at six, called Paul, packed up my things, and two
hours later we set out for France together.

III

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.