"I had the pleasure of meeting her last year, and I should like to see
her again."

The old woman looked at me suspiciously.

"Where did you meet her?" she asked.

"Why, here in Genoa itself."

"What is your name?"

I hesitated a moment, and then I told her. I had hardly done so when the
Italian put out her arms as if to embrace me. "Oh! you are the Frenchman
how glad I am to see you! But what grief you caused the poor child! She
waited for you a month; yes, a whole month. At first she thought you
would come to fetch her. She wanted to see whether you loved her. If you
only knew how she cried when she saw that you were not coming! She cried
till she seemed to have no tears left. Then she went to the hotel, but
you had gone. She thought that most likely you were travelling in Italy,
and that you would return by Genoa to fetch her, as she would not go with
you. And she waited more than a month, monsieur; and she was so unhappy;
so unhappy. I am her mother."

I really felt a little disconcerted, but I regained my self-possession,
and asked:

"Where is she now?"

"She has gone to Paris with a painter, a delightful man, who loves her
very much, and who gives her everything that she wants. Just look at what
she sent me; they are very pretty, are they not?"

And she showed me, with quite southern animation, her heavy bracelets and
necklace. "I have also," she continued, "earrings with stones in them, a
silk dress, and some rings; but I only wear them on grand occasions. Oh!
she is very happy, monsieur, very happy. She will be so pleased when I
tell her you have been here. But pray come in and sit down. You will take
something or other, surely?"

But I refused, as I now wished to get away by the first train; but she
took me by the arm and pulled me in, saying:

"Please, come in; I must tell her that you have been in here."

I found myself in a small, rather dark room, furnished with only a table
and a few chairs.

She continued: "Oh, she is very happy now, very happy. When you met her
in the train she was very miserable; she had had an unfortunate love
affair in Marseilles, and she was coming home, poor child. But she liked
you at once, though she was still rather sad, you understand. Now she has
all she wants, and she writes and tells me everything that she does. His
name is Bellemin, and they say he is a great painter in your country. He
fell in love with her at first sight. But you will take a glass of
siru