"Poor little Sicilian kid!" said Francesca, stroking Gina's head with an expression and an affection which made Rodolphe long to be so caressed, even if it were without love. The boat grounded; Rodolphe sprang on to the sand, offered his hand to the Italian lady, escorted her to the door of the Bergmanns' house, and went to dress and return as soon as possible. When he joined the librarian and his wife, who were sitting on the balcony, Rodolphe could scarcely repress an exclamation of surprise at seeing the prodigious change which the good news had produced in the old man. He now saw a man of about sixty, extremely well preserved, a lean Italian, as straight as an I, with hair still black, though thin and showing a white skull, with bright eyes, a full set of white teeth, a face like Caesar, and on his diplomatic lips a sardonic smile, the almost false smile under which a man of good breeding hides his real feelings. "Here is my husband under his natural form," said Francesca gravely. "He is quite a new acquaintance," replied Rodolphe, bewildered. "Quite," said the librarian; "I have played many a part, and know well how to make up. Ah! I played one in Paris under the Empire, with Bourrienne, Madame Murat, Madame d'Abrantis _e tutte quanti_. Everything we take the trouble to learn in our youth, even the most futile, is of use. If my wife had not received a man's education--an unheard-of thing in Italy--I should have been obliged to chop wood to get my living here. _Povera_ Francesca! who would have told me that she would some day maintain me!" As he listened to this worthy bookseller, so easy, so affable, so hale, Rodolphe scented some mystification, and preserved the watchful silence of a man who has been duped. "_Che avete, signor_?" Francesca asked with simplicity. "Does our happiness sadden you?" "Your husband is a young man," he whispered in her ear. She broke into such a frank, infectious laugh that Rodolphe was still more puzzled. "He is but sixty-five, at your service," said she; "but I can assure you that even that is something--to be thankful for!" "I do not like to hear you jest about an affection so sacred as this, of which you yourself prescribed the conditions." "_Zitto_!" said she, stamping her foot, and looking whether her