For a few minutes utter silence reigned. When the Italian girl, alarmed at Rodolphe’s stillness, went close to him, she found that he had fainted.
“Povero!” she said to herself. “And I thought him cold.”
She fetched him some salts, and revived Rodolphe by making him smell at them.
“Married!” said Rodolphe, looking at Francesca. And then his tears flowed freely.
“Child!” said she. “But there is still hope. My husband is—”
“Eighty?” Rodolphe put in.
“No,” said she with a smile, “but sixty-five. He has disguised himself as much older to mislead the police.”
“Dearest,” said Rodolphe, “a few more shocks of this kind and I shall die. Only when you have known me twenty years will you understand the strength and power of my heart, and the nature of its aspirations for happiness. This plant,” he went on, pointing to the yellow jasmine which covered the balustrade, “does not climb more eagerly to spread itself in the sunbeams than I have clung to you for this month past. I love you with unique passion. That love will be the secret fount of my life—I may possibly die of it.”
“Oh! Frenchman, Frenchman!” said she, emphasizing her exclamation with a little incredulous grimace.
“Shall I not be forced to wait, to accept you at the hands of time?” said he gravely. “But know this: if you are in earnest in what you have allowed to escape you, I will wait for you faithfully, without suffering any other attachment to grow up in my heart.”