used 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
traveling 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, Sir, 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: "O! She is very happy now, very happy. When you met her
in the train she was very miserable, for her lover had just left her at
Marseilles, and she was coming back, 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
met her in the street here, and fell in love with her out of hand. But
you will take a glass of syrup?--it is very good. Are you quite alone,
this year?"

"Yes," I said, "quite alone."

I felt an increasing inclination to laugh, as my first disappointment
was dispelled by what Mother Rondoli said. I was obliged, however, to
drink a glass of her syrup.

"So you are quite alone?" she continued. "How sorry I am that Francesca
is not here now; she would have been company for you all the time you