oined on him absolute secrecy, giving him to understand that
his honor depended on it.

Leopold returned from his excursion on the day when his friend first got
out of bed. Rodolphe made up a story, and begged him to go to Lucerne
to fetch their luggage and letters. Leopold brought back the most
fatal, the most dreadful news: Rodolphe's mother was dead. While the
two friends were on their way from Bale to Lucerne, the fatal letter,
written by Leopold's father, had reached Lucerne the day they left for
Fluelen.

In spite of Leopold's utmost precautions, Rodolphe fell ill of a nervous
fever. As soon as Leopold saw his friend out of danger, he set out
for France with a power of attorney, and Rodolphe could thus remain at
Gersau, the only place in the world where his grief could grow calmer.
The young Frenchman's position, his despair, the circumstances which
made such a loss worse for him than for any other man, were known, and
secured him the pity and interest of every one in Gersau. Every morning
the pretended dumb girl came to see him and bring him news of her
mistress.

As soon as Rodolphe could go out he went to the Bergmanns' house, to
thank Miss Fanny Lovelace and her father for the interest they had taken
in his sorrow and his illness. For the first time since he had lodged
with the Bergmanns the old Italian admitted a stranger to his room,
where Rodolphe was received with the cordiality due to his misfortunes
and to his being a Frenchman, which excluded all distrust of him.
Francesca looked so lovely by candle-light that first evening that she
shed a ray of brightness on his grieving heart. Her smiles flung the
roses of hope on his woe. She sang, not indeed gay songs, but grave and
solemn melodies suited to the state of Rodolphe's heart, and he observed
this touching care.

At about eight o'clock the old man left the young people without any
sign of uneasiness, and went to his room. When Francesca was tired of
singing, she led Rodolphe on to the balcony, whence they perceived the
sublime scenery of the lake, and signed to him to be seated by her on a
rustic wooden bench.

"Am I very indiscreet in asking how old you are, cara Francesca?" said
Rodolphe.

"Nineteen," said she, "well past."

"If anything in the world could soothe my sorrow," he went on, "it would
be the hope of winning you from your father, whatever your fortune
may be. So beautiful as you are, you seem to be richer than a prince's
daughter.