Vendetta...............................................................................................................................................................1

In the year 1800, toward the close of October, a foreigner, accompanied by a woman and a little girl, was

standing for a long time in front of the palace of the Tuileries, near the ruins of a house recently pulled down,

at the point where in our day the wing begins which was intended to unite the chateau of Catherine de Medici

The man stood there with folded arms and a bowed head, which he sometimes raised to look alternately at the

consular palace and at his wife, who was sitting near him on a stone. Though the woman seemed wholly

occupied with the little girl of nine or ten years of age, whose long black hair she amused herself by handling,

she lost not a single glance of those her companion cast on her. Some sentiment other than love united these

two beings, and inspired with mutual anxiety their movements and their thoughts. Misery is, perhaps, the

The stranger had one of those broad, serious heads, covered with thick hair, which we see so frequently in the

pictures of the Caracci. The jet black of the hair was streaked with white. Though noble and proud, his

features had a hardness which spoiled them. In spite of his evident strength, and his straight, erect figure, he

looked to be over sixty years of age. His dilapidated clothes were those of a foreign country. Though the

faded and once beautiful face of the wife betrayed the deepest sadness, she forced herself to smile, assuming

The little girl was standing, though signs of weariness were on the youthful face, which was tanned by the

sun. She had an Italian cast of countenance and bearing, large black eyes beneath their well arched brows, a

native nobleness, and candid grace. More than one of those who passed them felt strongly moved by the mere

aspect of this group, who made no effort to conceal a despair which seemed as deep as the expression of it

was simple. But the flow of this fugitive sympathy, characteristic of Parisians, was dried immediately; for as

soon as the stranger saw himself the object of attention, he looked at his observer with so savage an air that

After standing for some time undecided, the tall stranger suddenly passed his hand across his face to brush

away, as it were, the thoughts that were ploughing furrows in it. He must have taken some desperate

resolution. Casting a glance upon his wife and daughter, he drew a dagger from his breast and gave it to his

Then he walked with a slow, determined step toward the entrance of the palace, where he was, naturally,

stopped by a soldier of the consular guard, with whom he was not permitted a long discussion. Seeing this

man's obstinate determination, the sentinel presented his bayonet in the form of an ultimatum. Chance willed

that the guard was changed at that moment, and the corporal very obligingly pointed out to the stranger the

"Let Bonaparte know that Bartolomeo di Piombo wishes to speak with him," said the Italian to the captain on

In vain the officer represented to Bartolomeo that he could not see the First Consul without having previously

requested an audience in writing; the Italian insisted that the soldier should go to Bonaparte. The officer

stated the rules of the post, and refused to comply with the order of this singular visitor. Bartolomeo frowned

heavily, casting a terrible look at the captain, as if he made him responsible for the misfortunes that this

refusal might occasion. Then he kept silence, folded his arms tightly across his breast, and took up his station

under the portico which serves as an avenue of communication between the garden and the courtyard of the

Tuileries. Persons who will things intensely are very apt to be helped by chance. At the moment when

Bartolomeo di Piombo seated himself on one of the stone posts which was near the entrance, a carriage drew

These words, said in the Corsican patois, stopped Lucien at the moment when he was springing under the

portico. He looked at his compatriot, and recognized him. At the first word that Bartolomeo said in his ear, he

Murat, Lannes, and Rapp were at that moment in the cabinet of the First Consul. As Lucien entered, followed

by a man so singular in appearance as Piombo, the conversation ceased. Lucien took Napoleon by the arm

and led him into the recess of a window. After exchanging a few words with his brother, the First Consul

made a sign with his hand, which Murat and Lannes obeyed by retiring. Rapp pretended not to have seen it,

in order to remain where he was. Bonaparte then spoke to him sharply, and the aidedecamp, with evident

unwillingness, left the room. The First Consul, who listened for Rapp's step in the adjoining salon, opened the

"Do you choose not to understand me?" said the First Consul. "I wish to be alone with my compatriot."

The First Consul could not restrain a smile as he pushed his faithful officer by the shoulders.

"To ask asylum and protection from you, if you are a true Corsican," replied Bartolomeo, roughly.

"I have killed all the Portas," replied the Corsican, in a deep voice, frowning heavily.

"Do you mean to betray me?" cried Bartolomeo, with a darkling look at Bonaparte. "Do you know that there

Bonaparte made a sign to Lucien, who kept silence. Then he looked at Piombo and said:

"We had made friends," replied the man; "the Barbantis reconciled us. The day after we had drunk together to

drown our quarrels, I left home because I had business at Bastia. The Portas remained in my house, and set

fire to my vineyard at Longone. They killed my son Gregorio. My daughter Ginevra and my wife, having

taken the sacrament that morning, escaped; the Virgin protected them. When I returned I found no house; my

feet were in its ashes as I searched for it. Suddenly they struck against the body of Gregorio; I recognized him

in the moonlight. 'The Portas have dealt me this blow,' I said; and, forthwith, I went to the woods, and there I

called together all the men whom I had ever served, do you hear me, Bonaparte?and we marched to the

vineyard of the Portas. We got there at five in the morning; at seven they were all before God. Giacomo

declares that Eliza Vanni saved a child, Luigi. But I myself bound him to his bed before setting fire to the

house. I have left the island with my wife and child without being able to discover whether, indeed, Luigi

"Seven," replied Piombo. "All of them were your persecutors in the olden times."

"Ha! you are no longer Corsicans!" cried Piombo, with a sort of despair. "Farewell. In other days I protected

you," he added, in a reproachful tone. "Without me, your mother would never have reached Marseille," he

said, addressing himself to Bonaparte, who was silent and thoughtful, his elbow resting on a mantelshelf.

"As a matter of duty, Piombo," said Napoleon at last, "I cannot take you under my wing. I have become the

leader of a great nation; I command the Republic; I am bound to execute the laws."

"But I can shut my eyes," continued Bonaparte. "The tradition of the Vendetta will long prevent the reign of

law in Corsica," he added, as if speaking to himself. "But it MUST be destroyed, at any cost."

Bonaparte was silent for a few moments, and Lucien made a sign to Piombo not to speak. The Corsican was

"Live here, in Paris," resumed the First Consul, addressing Bartolomeo; "we will know nothing of this affair.

I will cause your property in Corsica to be bought, to give you enough to live on for the present. Later, before

long, we will think of you. But, remember, no more vendetta! There are no woods here to fly to. If you play

with daggers, you must expect no mercy. Here, the law protects all citizens; and no one is allowed to do

"He has made himself the head of a singular nation," said Bartolomeo, taking Lucien's hand and pressing it.

"But you have both recognized me in misfortune, and I am yours, henceforth, for life or death. You may

With these words his Corsican brow unbent, and he looked about him in satisfaction.

"You are not badly off here," he said, smiling, as if he meant to lodge there himself. "You are all in red, like a

"Your success depends upon yourself; you can have a palace, also," said Bonaparte, watching his compatriot

with a keen eye. "It will often happen that I shall need some faithful friend in whom I can confide."

A sigh of joy heaved the vast chest of the Corsican, who held out his hand to the First Consul, saying:

Bonaparte smiled. He looked in silence at the man who brought, as it were, a waft of air from his own

land,from that isle where he had been so miraculously saved from the hatred of the "English party"; the

land he was never to see again. He made a sign to his brother, who then took Piombo away. Lucien inquired

with interest as to the financial condition of the former protector of their family. Piombo took him to a

Lucien gave his purse to his compatriot, telling him to come to him the next day, that arrangements might be

made to secure the comfort of the family. The value of Piombo's property in Corsica, if sold, would scarcely

Fifteen years elapsed between the time of Piombo's arrival with his family in Paris and the following event,

which would be scarcely intelligible to the reader without this narrative of the foregoing circumstances.

Servin, one of our most distinguished artists, was the first to conceive of the idea of opening a studio for

About forty years of age, a man of the purest morals, entirely given up to his art, he had married from

inclination the dowerless daughter of a general. At first the mothers of his pupils bought their daughters

themselves to the studio; then they were satisfied to send them alone, after knowing the master's principles

It was the artist's intention to take no pupils but young ladies belonging to rich families of good position, in

order to meet with no complaints as to the composition of his classes. He even refused to take girls who

wished to become artists; for to them he would have been obliged to give certain instructions without which

no talent could advance in the profession. Little by little his prudence and the ability with which he initiated

his pupils into his art, the certainty each mother felt that her daughter was in company with none but well

bred young girls, and the fact of the artist's marriage, gave him an excellent reputation as a teacher in society.

When a young girl wished to learn to draw, and her mother asked advice of her friends, the answer was,

Servin became, therefore, for feminine art, a specialty; like Herbault for bonnets, Leroy for gowns, and

Chevet for eatables. It was recognized that a young woman who had taken lessons from Servin was capable

of judging the paintings of the Musee conclusively, of making a striking portrait, copying an ancient master,

or painting a genre picture. The artist thus sufficed for the educational needs of the aristocracy. But in spite of

these relations with the best families in Paris, he was independent and patriotic, and he maintained among

them that easy, brilliant, halfironical tone, and that freedom of judgment which characterize painters.

He had carried his scrupulous precaution into the arrangements of the locality where his pupils studied. The

entrance to the attic above his apartments was walled up. To reach this retreat, as sacred as a harem, it was

necessary to go up a small spiral staircase made within his own rooms. The studio, occupying nearly the

whole attic floor under the roof, presented to the eye those vast proportions which surprise inquirers when,

after attaining sixty feet above the groundfloor, they expect to find an artist squeezed into a gutter.

This gallery, so to speak, was profusely lighted from above, through enormous panes of glass furnished with

those green linen shades by means of which all artists arrange the light. A quantity of caricatures, heads

drawn at a stroke, either in color or with the point of a knife, on walls painted in a dark gray, proved that,

barring a difference in expression, the most distinguished young girls have as much fun and folly in their

minds as men. A small stove with a large pipe, which described a fearful zigzag before it reached the upper

regions of the roof, was the necessary and infallible ornament of the room. A shelf ran round the walls, on

which were models in plaster, heterogeneously placed, most of them covered with gray dust. Here and there,

above this shelf, a head of Niobe, hanging to a nail, presented her pose of woe; a Venus smiled; a hand thrust

itself forward like that of a pauper asking alms; a few "ecorches," yellowed by smoke, looked like limbs

snatched overnight from a graveyard; besides these objects, pictures, drawings, lay figures, frames without

paintings, and paintings without frames gave to this irregular apartment that studio physiognomy which is

distinguished for its singular jumble of ornament and bareness, poverty and riches, care and neglect. The vast

receptacle of an "atelier," where all seems small, even man, has something of the air of an Opera "coulisse";

here lie ancient garments, gilded armor, fragments of stuffs, machinery. And yet there is something

mysteriously grand, like thought, in it; genius and death are there; Diana and Apollo beside a skull or

skeleton, beauty and destruction, poesy and reality, colors glowing in the shadows, often a whole drama,

At the moment when this history begins, a brilliant July sun was illuminating the studio, and two rays striking

athwart it lengthwise, traced diaphanous gold lines in which the dust was shimmering. A dozen easels raised

their sharp points like masts in a port. Several young girls were animating the scene by the variety of their

expressions, their attitudes, and the differences in their toilets. The strong shadows cast by the green serge

curtains, arranged according to the needs of each easel, produced a multitude of contrasts, and the piquant

effects of light and shade. This group was the prettiest of all the pictures in the studio.

A fair young girl, very simply dressed, sat at some distance from her companions, working bravely and

seeming to be in dread of some mishap. No one looked at her, or spoke to her; she was much the prettiest, the

most modest, and, apparently, the least rich among them. Two principal groups, distinctly separated from

each other, showed the presence of two sets or cliques, two minds even here, in this studio, where one might

But, however that might be, these young girls, sitting or standing, in the midst of their colorboxes, playing

with their brushes or preparing them, handling their dazzling palettes, painting, laughing, talking, singing,

absolutely natural, and exhibiting their real selves, composed a spectacle unknown to man. One of them,

proud, haughty, capricious, with black hair and beautiful hands, was casting the flame of her glance here and

there at random; another, light hearted and gay, a smile upon her lips, with chestnut hair and delicate white

hands, was a typical French virgin, thoughtless, and without hidden thoughts, living her natural real life; a

third was dreamy, melancholy, pale, bending her head like a drooping flower; her neighbor, on the contrary,

tall, indolent, with Asiatic habits, long eyes, moist and black, said but little, and reflected, glancing covertly

Among them, like the "jocoso" of a Spanish play, full of wit and epigrammatic sallies, another girl was

watching the rest with a comprehensive glance, making them laugh, and tossing up her head, too lively and

arch not to be pretty. She appeared to rule the first group of girls, who were the daughters of bankers,

notaries, and merchants, all rich, but aware of the imperceptible though cutting slights which another

group belonging to the aristocracy put upon them. The latter were led by the daughter of one of the King's

ushers, a little creature, as silly as she was vain, proud of being the daughter of a man with "an office at

court." She was a girl who always pretended to understand the remarks of the master at the first word, and

seemed to do her work as a favor to him. She used an eyeglass, came very much dressed, and always late, and

In this second group were several girls with exquisite figures and distinguished features, but there was little in

their glance or expression that was simple and candid. Though their attitudes were elegant and their

movements graceful, their faces lacked frankness; it was easy to see that they belonged to a world where

polite manners form the character from early youth, and the abuse of social pleasures destroys sentiment and

But when the whole class was here assembled, childlike heads were seen among this bevy of young girls,

ravishingly pure and virgin, faces with lips halfopened, through which shone spotless teeth, and on which a

virgin smile was flickering. The studio then resembled not a studio, but a group of angels seated on a cloud in

By midday, on this occasion, Servin had not appeared. For some days past he had spent most of his time in a

studio which he kept elsewhere, where he was giving the last touches to a picture for the Exposition. All of a

sudden Mademoiselle Amelie Thirion, the leader of the aristocrats, began to speak in a low voice, and very

earnestly, to her neighbor. A great silence fell on the group of patricians, and the commercial party, surprised,

were equally silent, trying to discover the subject of this earnest conference. The secret of the young

Amelie rose, took an easel which stood near hers, carried it to a distance from the noble group, and placed it

close to a board partition which separated the studio from the extreme end of the attic, where all broken casts,

defaced canvases and the winter supply of wood were kept. Amelie's action caused a murmur of surprise,

which did not prevent her from accomplishing the change by rolling hastily to the side of the easel the stool,

the box of colors, and even the picture by Prudhon, which the absent pupil was copying. After this coup d'etat

"What will Mademoiselle Piombo say to that?" asked a young girl of Mademoiselle Matilde Roguin, the

"She's not a girl to say anything," was the reply; "but fifty years hence she'll remember the insult as if it were

done to her the night before, and revenge it cruelly. She is a person that I, for one, don't want to be at war

"The slight these young ladies mean to put upon her is all the more unkind," said another young girl,

"because yesterday, Mademoiselle Ginevra was very sad. Her father, they say, has just resigned. They ought

not to add to her trouble, for she was very considerate of them during the Hundred Days. Never did she say a

word to wound them. On the contrary, she avoided politics. But I think our ULTRAS are acting more from

"I have a great mind to go and get Mademoiselle Piombo's easel and place it next to mine," said Matilde

"With a character like hers," she said, "one can't tell how she would take a civility; better wait events."

The steps of a person coming up the narrow stairway sounded through the studio. The words: "Here she

To understand the importance of the ostracism imposed by the act of Amelie Thirion, it is necessary to add

that this scene took place toward the end of the month of July, 1815. The second return of the Bourbons had

shaken many friendships which had held firm under the first Restoration. At this moment families, almost all

divided in opinion, were renewing many of the deplorable scenes which stain the history of all countries in

times of civil or religious wars. Children, young girls, old men shared the monarchial fever to which the

country was then a victim. Discord glided beneath all roofs; distrust dyed with its gloomy colors the words

Ginevra Piombo loved Napoleon to idolatry; how, then, could she hate him? The emperor was her compatriot

and the benefactor of her father. The Baron di Piombo was among those of Napoleon's devoted servants who

had cooperated most effectually in the return from Elba. Incapable of denying his political faith, anxious

even to confess it, the old baron remained in Paris in the midst of his enemies. Ginevra Piombo was all the

more open to condemnation because she made no secret of the grief which the second Restoration caused to

her family. The only tears she had so far shed in life were drawn from her by the twofold news of Napoleon's

The girls of the aristocratic group of pupils belonged to the most devoted royalist families in Paris. It would

be difficult to give an idea of the exaggerations prevalent at this epoch, and of the horror inspired by the

Bonapartists. However insignificant and petty Amelie's action may now seem to be, it was at that time a very

natural expression of the prevailing hatred. Ginevra Piombo, one of Servin's first pupils, had occupied the

place that was now taken from her since the first day of her coming to the studio. The aristocratic circle had

gradually surrounded her. To drive her from a place that in some sense belonged to her was not only to insult

her, but to cause her a species of artistic pain; for all artists have a spot of predilection where they work.

Nevertheless, political prejudice was not the chief influence on the conduct of the Right clique of the studio.

Ginevra, much the ablest of Servin's pupils, was an object of intense jealousy. The master testified as much

admiration for the talents as for the character of his favorite pupil, who served as a conclusion to all his

comparisons. In fact, without any one being able to explain the ascendancy which this young girl obtained

over all who came in contact with her, she exercised over the little world around her a prestige not unlike that

The aristocracy of the studio had for some days past resolved upon the fall of this queen, but no one had, as

yet, ventured to openly avoid the Bonapartist. Mademoiselle Thirion's act was, therefore, a decisive stroke,

intended by her to force the others into becoming, openly, the accomplices of her hatred. Though Ginevra

was sincerely loved by several of these royalists, nearly all of whom were indoctrinated at home with their

political ideas, they decided, with the tactics peculiar to women, that they should do best to keep themselves

On Ginevra's arrival she was received, as we have said, in profound silence. Of all the young women who

had, so far, come to Servin's studio, she was the handsomest, the tallest, and the best made. Her carriage and

demeanor had a character of nobility and grace which commanded respect. Her face, instinct with

intelligence, seemed to radiate light, so inspired was it with the enthusiasm peculiar to Corsicans,which

does not, however, preclude calmness. Her long hair and her black eyes and lashes expressed passion; the

corners of her mouth, too softly defined, and the lips, a trifle too marked, gave signs of that kindliness which

By a singular caprice of nature, the charm of her face was, in some degree, contradicted by a marble

forehead, on which lay an almost savage pride, and from which seemed to emanate the moral instincts of a

Corsican. In that was the only link between herself and her native land. All the rest of her person, her

simplicity, the easy grace of her Lombard beauty, was so seductive that it was difficult for those who looked

at her to give her pain. She inspired such keen attraction that her old father caused her, as matter of

precaution, to be accompanied to and from the studio. The only defect of this truly poetic creature came from

the very power of a beauty so fully developed; she looked a woman. Marriage she had refused out of love to

her father and mother, feeling herself necessary to the comfort of their old age. Her taste for painting took the

"You are very silent today, mesdemoiselles," she said, after advancing a little way among her companions.

"Goodmorning, my little Laure," she added, in a soft, caressing voice, approaching the young girl who was

painting apart from the rest. "That head is strong,the flesh tints a little too rosy, but the drawing is

Laure raised her head and looked tenderly at Ginevra; their faces beamed with the expression of a mutual

affection. A faint smile brightened the lips of the young Italian, who seemed thoughtful, and walked slowly to

her easel, glancing carelessly at the drawings and paintings on her way, and bidding goodmorning to each of

the young girls of the first group, not observing the unusual curiosity excited by her presence. She was like a

queen in the midst of her court; she paid no attention to the profound silence that reigned among the

patricians, and passed before their camp without pronouncing a single word. Her absorption seemed so great

that she sat down before her easel, opened her colorbox, took up her brushes, drew on her brown sleeves,

arranged her apron, looked at her picture, examined her palette, without, apparently, thinking of what she was

doing. All heads in the group of the bourgeoises were turned toward her. If the young ladies in the Thirion

camp did not show their impatience with the same frankness, their sidelong glances were none the less

At this instant Ginevra abandoned the meditative attitude in which she had been contemplating her canvas,

and turned her head toward the group of aristocrats. She measured, at a glance, the distance that now

"It hasn't occurred to her that they meant to insult her," said Matilde; "she neither colored nor turned pale.

How vexed these girls will be if she likes her new place as well as the old! You are out of bounds,

The Italian pretended not to hear; perhaps she really did not hear. She rose abruptly; walked with a certain

deliberation along the side of the partition which separated the adjoining closet from the studio, and seemed

to be examining the sash through which her light came, giving so much importance to it that she mounted

a chair to raise the green serge, which intercepted the light, much higher. Reaching that height, her eye was

on a level with a slight opening in the partition, the real object of her efforts, for the glance that she cast

through it can be compared only to that of a miser discovering Aladdin's treasure. Then she sprang down

hastily and returned to her place, changed the position of her picture, pretended to be still dissatisfied with the

light, pushed a table close to the partition, on which she placed a chair, climbed lightly to the summit of this

erection, and again looked through the crevice. She cast but one glance into the space beyond, which was

lighted through a skylight; but what she saw produced so strong an effect upon her that she tottered.

All the young girls gazed at the imprudent climber, and the fear of their coming to her gave her courage; she

recovered her equilibrium, and replied, as she balanced herself on the shaking chair:

She then secured the curtain and came down, pushed the chair and table as far as possible from the partition,

returned to her easel, and seemed to be arranging it to suit the volume of light she had now thrown upon it.

Her picture, however, was not in her mind, which was wholly bent on getting as near as possible to the closet,

against the door of which she finally settled herself. Then she began to prepare her palette in the deepest

silence. Sitting there, she could hear, distinctly, a sound which had strongly excited her curiosity the evening

before, and had whirled her young imagination across vast fields of conjecture. She recognized the firm and

regular breathing of a man whom she had just seen asleep. Her curiosity was satisfied beyond her

expectations, but at the same time she felt saddled by an immense responsibility. Through the opening in the

wall she had seen the Imperial eagle; and upon the flock bed, faintly lighted from above, lay the form of an

She now trembled lest any of her companions should come near here to examine her picture, when the regular

breathing or some deeper breath might reveal to them, as it had to her, the presence of this political victim.

She resolved to keep her place beside that door, trusting to her wits to baffle all dangerous chances that might

"Better that I should be here," thought she, "to prevent some luckless accident, than leave that poor man at the

This was the secret of the indifference which Ginevra had apparently shown to the removal of her easel. She

was inwardly enchanted, because the change had enabled her to gratify her curiosity in a natural manner;

besides, at this moment, she was too keenly preoccupied to perceive the reason of her removal.

Nothing is more mortifying to young girls, or, indeed, to all the world, than to see a piece of mischief, an

insult, or a biting speech, miss its effect through the contempt or the indifference of the intended victim. It

seems as if hatred to an enemy grows in proportion to the height that enemy is raised above us. Ginevra's

behavior was an enigma to all her companions; her friends and enemies were equally surprised; for the

former claimed for her all good qualities, except that of forgiveness of injuries. Though, of course, the

occasions for displaying that vice of nature were seldom afforded to Ginevra in the life of a studio, still, the

specimens she had now and then given of her vindictive disposition had left a strong impression on the minds

After many conjectures, Mademoiselle Roguin came to the conclusion that the Italian's silence showed a

grandeur of soul beyond all praise; and the banking circle, inspired by her, formed a project to humiliate the

aristocracy. They succeeded in that aim by a fire of sarcasms which presently brought down the pride of the

Madame Servin's arrival put a stop to the struggle. With the shrewdness that usually accompanies malice,

Amelie Thirion had noticed, analyzed, and mentally commented on the extreme preoccupation of Ginevra's

mind, which prevented her from even hearing the bitterly polite war of words of which she was the object.

The vengeance Mademoiselle Roguin and her companions were inflicting on Mademoiselle Thirion and her

group had, therefore, the fatal effect of driving the young ULTRAS to search for the cause of the silence so

obstinately maintained by Ginevra di Piombo. The beautiful Italian became the centre of all glances, and she

It is very difficult to hide even a slight emotion or sentiment from fifteen inquisitive and unoccupied young

girls, whose wits and mischief ask for nothing better than secrets to guess, schemes to create or baffle, and

who know how to find too many interpretations for each gesture, glance, and word, to fail in discovering the

At this moment, however, the presence of Madame Servin produced an interlude in the drama thus played

below the surface in these various young hearts, the sentiments, ideas, and progress of which were expressed

by phrases that were almost allegorical, by mischievous glances, by gestures, by silence even, more

intelligible than words. As soon as Madame Servin entered the studio, her eyes turned to the door near which

Ginevra was seated. Under present circumstances the fact of this glance was not lost. Though at first none of

the pupils took notice of it, Mademoiselle Thirion recollected it later, and it explained to her the doubt, fear,

and mystery which now gave something wild and frightened to Madame Servin's eyes.

Then she went round complimenting each young girl, receiving in return a volume of those feminine caresses

which are given as much by the tones of the voice and by looks as by gestures. She presently reached

Ginevra, under the influence of an uneasiness she tried in vain to disguise. They nodded to each other in a

friendly way, but said nothing; one painted, the other stood looking at the painting. The breathing of the

soldier in the closet could be distinctly heard, but Madame Servin appeared not to notice it; her feigned

ignorance was so obvious that Ginevra recognized it at once for wilful deafness. Presently the unknown man

The Italian then looked fixedly at Madame Servin, who said, without the slightest change of face:

"Your copy is as fine as the original; if I had to choose between the two I should be puzzled."

"Monsieur Servin has not taken his wife into his confidence as to this mystery," thought Ginevra, who, after

replying to the young wife's speech with a gentle smile of incredulity, began to hum a Corsican "canzonetta"

It was so unusual a thing to hear the studious Italian sing, that all the other young girls looked up at her in

surprise. Later, this circumstance served as proof to the charitable suppositions of jealousy.

Madame Servin soon went away, and the session ended without further events; Ginevra allowed her

companions to depart, and seemed to intend to work later. But, unconsciously to herself, she betrayed her

desire to be left alone by impatient glances, illdisguised, at the pupils who were slow in leaving.

Mademoiselle Thirion, a cruel enemy to the girl who excelled her in everything, guessed by the instinct of

jealousy that her rival's industry hid some purpose. By dint of watching her she was struck by the attentive air

with which Ginevra seemed to be listening to sounds that no one else had heard. The expression of

impatience she now detected in her companion's eyes was like a flash of light to her.

Amelie was the last of the pupils to leave the studio; from there she went down to Madame Servin's

apartment and talked with her for a moment; then she pretended to have left her bag, ran softly back to the

studio, and found Ginevra once more mounted on her frail scaffolding, and so absorbed in the contemplation

of an unknown object that she did not hear the slight noise of her companion's footsteps. It is true that, to use

an expression of Walter Scott, Amelie stepped as if on eggs. She hastily withdrew outside the door and

coughed. Ginevra quivered, turned her head, saw her enemy, blushed, hastened to alter the shade to give

meaning to her position, and came down from her perch leisurely. She soon after left the studio, bearing with

her, in her memory, the image of a man's head, as beauteous as that of the Endymion, a masterpiece of

These two sentences are the simplest expression of the many ideas that Ginevra turned over in her mind for

two days. On the third day, in spite of her haste to be first at the studio, she found Mademoiselle Thirion

Ginevra and her enemy observed each other for a long time, but they made their faces impenetrable. Amelie

had seen the handsome head of the mysterious man, but, fortunately, and unfortunately also, the Imperial

eagles and uniform were so placed that she did not see them through the crevice in the partition. She was lost

"Mademoiselle Ginevra," he said, after glancing round the studio, "why have you placed yourself there? The

light is bad. Come nearer to the rest of the young ladies and pull down that curtain a little."

"Well, well!" he cried; "here, indeed, is a head extremely well done. You'll be another Ginevra."

The master then went from easel to easel, scolding, flattering, jesting, and making, as usual, his jests more

dreaded than his reprimands. Ginevra had not obeyed the professor's order, but remained at her post, firmly

resolved not to quit it. She took a sheet of paper and began to sketch in sepia the head of the hidden man. A

work done under the impulse of an emotion has always a stamp of its own. The faculty of giving to

representations of nature or of thought their true coloring constitutes genius, and often, in this respect, passion

takes the place of it. So, under the circumstances in which Ginevra now found herself, the intuition which she

owed to a powerful effect upon her memory, or, possibly, to necessity, that mother of great things, lent her,

for the moment, a supernatural talent. The head of the young officer was dashed upon the paper in the midst

of an awkward trembling which she mistook for fear, and in which a physiologist would have recognized the

fire of inspiration. From time to time she glanced furtively at her companions, in order to hide the sketch if

any of them came near her. But in spite of her watchfulness, there was a moment when she did not see the

eyeglass of the pitiless Amelie turned full upon the drawing from the shelter of a great portfolio.

Mademoiselle Thirion, recognizing the portrait of the mysterious man, showed herself abruptly, and Ginevra

"Why do you stay there in spite of my advice, mademoiselle?" asked the professor, gravely.

The pupil turned her easel so that no one but the master could see the sketch, which she placed upon it, and

"Do you not think, as I do, that the light is very good? Had I not better remain here?"

Servin turned pale. As nothing escapes the piercing eyes of malice, Mademoiselle Thirion became, as it were,

"You are right," said Servin; "but really," he added, with a forced laugh, "you will soon come to know more

A pause followed, during which the professor studied the drawing of the officer's head.

"It is a masterpiece! worthy of Salvator Rosa!" he exclaimed, with the energy of an artist.

All the pupils rose on hearing this, and Mademoiselle Thirion darted forward with the velocity of a tiger on

its prey. At this instant, the prisoner, awakened, perhaps, by the noise, began to move. Ginevra knocked over

her stool, said a few incoherent sentences, and began to laugh; but she had thrown the portrait into her

portfolio before Amelie could get to her. The easel was now surrounded; Servin descanted on the beauty of

the copy which his favorite pupil was then making, and the whole class was duped by this stratagem, except

Amelie, who, slipping behind her companions, attempted to open the portfolio where she had seen Ginevra

throw the sketch. But the latter took it up without a word, and placed it in front of her. The two young girls

"Come, mesdemoiselles, take your places," said Servin. "If you wish to do as well as Mademoiselle di

Piombo, you mustn't be always talking fashions and balls, and trifling away your time as you do."

When they were all reseated before their easels, Servin sat down beside Ginevra.

"Was it not better that I should be the one to discover the mystery rather than the others?" asked the girl, in a

"Yes," replied the painter, "you are one of us, a patriot; but even if you were not, I should still have confided

"An intimate friend of Labedoyere, who contributed more than any other man, except the unfortunate colonel,

to the union of the 7th regiment with the grenadiers of Elba. He was a major in the Imperial guard and was at

"Why not have burned his uniform and shako, and supplied him with citizen's clothes?" said Ginevra,

"Then they'll kill him," said the girl. "Let him stay here with you till the present storm is over. Paris is still the

only place in France where a man can be hidden safely. Is he a friend of yours?" she asked.

"No; he has no claim upon me but that of his illluck. He came into my hands in this way. My fatherinlaw,

who returned to the army during the campaign, met this young fellow, and very cleverly rescued him from

the claws of those who captured Labedoyere. He came here to defend the general, foolish fellow!"

"Do you call him that!" cried Ginevra, casting a glance of astonishment at the painter, who was silent for a

"My fatherinlaw is too closely watched to be able to keep him in his own house," he resumed. "So he

brought him to me, by night, about a week ago. I hoped to keep him out of sight in this corner, the only spot

"If I can be useful to you, employ me," said Ginevra. "I know the Marechal de Feltre."

This conversation lasted too long not to be noticed by all the other girls. Servin left Ginevra, went round once

more to each easel, and gave such long lessons that he was still there at the hour when the pupils were in the

"You are forgetting your bag, Mademoiselle Thirion," said the professor, running after the girl, who was now

The baffled pupil returned for the bag, expressing surprise at her carelessness; but this act of Servin's was to

her fresh proof of the existence of a mystery, the importance of which was evident. She now ran noisily down

the staircase, and slammed the door which opened into the Servins' apartment, to give an impression that she

had gone; then she softly returned and stationed herself outside the door of the studio.

When the painter and Ginevra thought themselves alone, Servin rapped in a peculiar manner on the door of

the dark garret, which turned at once on its rusty and creaking hinges. Ginevra then saw a tall and wellmade

young man, whose Imperial uniform set her heart to beating. The officer had one arm in a sling, and the

pallor of his face revealed sharp suffering. Seeing an unknown woman, he recoiled.

Amelie, who was unable to look into the room, the door being closed, was afraid to stay longer; she was

satisfied with having heard the opening of the garret door, and departed noiselessly.

"Fear nothing," said the painter to the officer. "Mademoiselle is the daughter of a most faithful friend of the

The young soldier retained no doubts as to Ginevra's patriotism as soon as he saw her.

Just at this moment the loud cries of the vendors of newspapers came up from the street: "Condemned to

death!" They all trembled, and the soldier was the first to hear a name that turned him pale.

They looked at each other in silence. Drops gathered on the livid forehead of the young man; he seized the

black tufts of his hair in one hand with a gesture of despair, and rested his elbow on Ginevra's easel.

"After all," he said, rising abruptly, "Labedoyere and I knew what we were doing. We were certain of the fate

that awaited us, whether from triumph or defeat. He dies for the Cause, and here am I, hiding myself!"

He rushed toward the door of the studio; but, quicker than he, Ginevra reached it, and barred his way.

"Can you restore the Emperor?" she said. "Do you expect to raise that giant who could not maintain himself?"

"But what can I do?" said the young man, addressing the two friends whom chance had sent to him. "I have

not a relation in the world. Labedoyere was my protector and my friend; without him, I am alone.

Tomorrow I myself may be condemned; my only fortune was my pay. I spent my last penny to come here

and try to snatch Labedoyere from his fate; death is, therefore, a necessity for me. When a man decides to die

he ought to know how to sell his life to the executioner. I was thinking just now that the life of an honest man

is worth that of two traitors, and the blow of a dagger well placed may give immortality."

This spasm of despair alarmed the painter, and even Ginevra, whose own nature comprehended that of the

young man. She admired his handsome face and his delightful voice, the sweetness of which was scarcely

lessened by its tones of fury. Then, all of a sudden, she poured a balm upon the wounds of the unfortunate

"Monsieur," she said, "as for your pecuniary distress, permit me to offer you my savings. My father is rich; I

am his only child; he loves me, and I am sure he will never blame me. Have no scruple in accepting my offer;

our property is derived from the Emperor; we do not own a penny that is not the result of his munificence. Is

it not gratitude to him to assist his faithful soldiers? Take the sums you need as indifferently as I offer them.

It is only money!" she added, in a tone of contempt. "Now, as for friends,those you shall have."

"The head which falls tomorrow before a dozen muskets will save yours," she went on. "Wait till the storm

is over; you can then escape and take service in foreign countries if you are not forgotten here; or in the

In the comfort that women give there is always a delicacy which has something maternal, foreseeing, and

complete about it. But when the words of hope and peace are said with grace of gesture and that eloquence of

tone which comes from the heart, and when, above all, the benefactress is beautiful, a young man does not

resist. The prisoner breathed in love through all his senses. A rosy tinge colored his white cheeks; his eyes

lost something of the sadness that dulled them, and he said, in a peculiar tone of voice:

At this cry they all three looked at one another in silence, each comprehending the others' thoughts. No longer

Ginevra quivered. Though the stranger was handsome, his appearance had not influenced her; the soft pity in

a woman's heart for miseries that are not ignoble had stifled in Ginevra all other emotions; but to hear a cry of

vengeance, to find in that proscribed being an Italian soul, devotion to Napoleon, Corsican generosity!ah!

that was, indeed, too much for her. She looked at the officer with a respectful emotion which shook his heart.

For the first time in her life a man had caused her a keen emotion. She now, like other women, put the soul of

the stranger on a par with the noble beauty of his features and the happy proportions of his figure, which she

admired as an artist. Led by accidental curiosity to pity, from pity to a powerful interest, she came, through

that interest, to such profound sensations that she felt she was in danger if she stayed there longer.

"Until tomorrow, then," she said, giving the officer a gentle smile by way of a parting consolation.

Seeing that smile, which threw a new light on Ginevra's features, the stranger forgot all else for an instant.

Ginevra turned, put a finger on her lips, and looked at him, as if to say: "Be calm, be prudent."

"Ah! Dio! che non vorrei vivere dopo averla veduta?who would not wish to live after seeing her?"

"I was born in Corsica," he replied; "but I was brought, while very young, to Genoa, and as soon as I was old

The beauty of the young man, the mighty charm lent to him by his attachment to the Emperor, his wound, his

misfortunes, his danger, all disappeared to Ginevra's mind, or, rather, all were blended in one sentiment,a

new and delightful sentiment. This persecuted man was a child of Corsica; he spoke its cherished language!

She stood, for a moment, motionless; held by a magical sensation; before her eyes was a living picture, to

which all human sentiments, united by chance, gave vivid colors. By Servin's invitation, the officer had

seated himself on a divan, and the painter, after removing the sling which supported the arm of his guest, was

undoing the bandages in order to dress the wound. Ginevra shuddered when she saw the long, broad gash

made by the blade of a sabre on the young man's forearm, and a moan escaped her. The stranger raised his

head and smiled to her. There was something touching which went to the soul, in the care with which Servin

lifted the lint and touched the lacerated flesh, while the face of the wounded man, though pale and sickly,

expressed, as he looked at the girl, more pleasure than suffering. An artist would have admired, involuntarily,

this opposition of sentiments, together with the contrasts produced by the whiteness of the linen and the bared

At this moment a soft halflight pervaded the studio; but a parting ray of the evening sunlight suddenly

illuminated the spot where the soldier sat, so that his noble, blanched face, his black hair, and his clothes were

bathed in its glow. The effect was simple enough, but to the girl's Italian imagination it was a happy omen.

The stranger seemed to her a celestial messenger, speaking the language of her own country. He thus

unconsciously put her under the spell of childhood's memories, while in her heart there dawned another

feeling as fresh, as pure as her own innocence. For a short, very short moment, she was motionless and

dreamy, as though she were plunged in boundless thought. Then she blushed at having allowed her

absorption to be noticed, exchanged one soft and rapid glance with the wounded man, and fled with the

The next day was not a classday, but Ginevra came to the studio, and the prisoner was free to sit beside her

easel. Servin, who had a sketch to finish, played the part of mentor to the two young people, who talked to

each other chiefly in Corsican. The soldier related the sufferings of the retreat from Moscow; for, at nineteen

years of age, he had made the passage of the Beresins, and was almost the last man left of his regiment. He

described, in words of fire, the great disaster of Waterloo. His voice was music itself to the Italian girl.

Brought up as a Corsican, Ginevra was, in some sense, a child of Nature; falseness was a thing unknown to

her; she gave herself up without reserve to her impressions; she acknowledged them, or, rather, allowed them

to be seen without the affectations of petty and calculating coquetry, characteristic of Parisian girlhood.

During this day she sat more than once with her palette in one hand, her brushes in another, without touching

a color. With her eyes fastened on the officer, and her lips slightly apart, she listened, in the attitude of

painting a stroke which was never painted. She was not surprised to see such softness in the eyes of the young

man, for she felt that her own were soft in spite of her will to keep them stern and calm. After periods like

this she painted diligently, without raising her head, for he was there, near her, watching her work. The first

time he sat down beside her to contemplate her silently, she said, in a voice of some emotion, after a long

That day she learned that his name was Luigi. Before separating, it was agreed between them that if, on

classdays when they could not see each other, any important political event occurred, Ginevra was to inform

The following day Mademoiselle Thirion informed all the members of the class, under pledge of secrecy that

Ginevra di Piombo had a lover, a young man who came during the hours for the lesson, and concealed

"You, who take her part," she said to Mademoiselle Roguin, "watch her carefully, and you will see how she

Ginevra was, therefore, observed with diabolical attention. They listened to her songs, they watched her

glances. At times, when she supposed that no one saw her, a dozen pairs of eyes were furtively upon her.

Thus enlightened, the girls were able to interpret truly the emotions that crossed the features of the beautiful

Italian,her gestures, the peculiar tones in which she hummed a tune, and the attention with which they saw

By the end of a week, Laure was the only one of Servin's fifteen pupils who had resisted the temptation of

looking at Luigi through the crevice of the partition; and she, through an instinct of weakness, still defended

her beautiful friend. Mademoiselle Roguin endeavored to make her wait on the staircase after the class

dispersed, that she might prove to her the intimacy of Ginevra and the young man by entering the studio and

surprising them together. But Laure refused to condescend to an act of espial which no curiosity could justify,

Before long Mademoiselle Thirion made known that she thought it improper to attend the classes of a painter

whose opinions were tainted with patriotism and Bonapartism (in those days the terms were synonymous),

and she ceased her attendance at the studio. But, although she herself forgot Ginevra, the harm she had

planted bore fruit. Little by little, the other young girls revealed to their mothers the strange events which

were happening at the studio. One day Matilde Roguin did not come; the next day another girl was missing,

and so on, till the last three or four who were left came no more. Ginevra and Laure, her little friend, were the

Ginevra did not observe this falling off, nor ask the cause of her companions' absence. As soon as she had

invented means of communication with Luigi she lived in the studio in a delightful solitude, alone amid her

own world, thinking only of the officer and the dangers that threatened him. Though a sincere admirer of

noble characters that never betray their political faiths, she nevertheless urged Luigi to submit himself to the

royal authority, that he might be released from his present life and remain in France. But to this he would not

consent. If passions are born and nourished, as they say, under the influence of romantic causes, never did so

many circumstances of that kind concur in uniting two young souls by one and the same sentiment. The

friendship of Ginevra for Luigi and that of Luigi for Ginevra made more progress in a month than a

friendship in society would make in ten years. Adversity is the touchstone of character. Ginevra was able,

therefore, to study Luigi, to know him; and before long they mutually esteemed each other. The girl, who was

older than Luigi, found a charm in being courted by a youth already so grand, so tried by fate,a youth who

joined to the experience of a man the graces of adolescence. Luigi, on his side, felt an unspeakable pleasure

in allowing himself to be apparently protected by a woman, now twentyfive years of age. Was it not a proof

of love? The union of gentleness and pride, strength and weakness in Ginevra were, to him, irresistible

attractions, and he was utterly subjugated by her. In short, before long, they loved each other so profoundly

that they felt no need of denying to each other their love, nor yet of telling it.

One day, towards evening, Ginevra heard the accustomed signal. Luigi scratched with a pin on the woodwork

in a manner that produced no more noise than a spider might make as he fastened his thread. The signal

Ginevra glanced around the studio, and not seeing Laure, opened the door; but as she did so Luigi caught

sight of the little pupil and abruptly retired. Surprised at his action, Ginevra looked round, saw Laure, and

"You are staying late, my dear. That head seems to me finished; you only want a highlight,see! on that

"You would do me a great kindness," said Laure, in a trembling voice, "if you would give this copy a few

"Willingly," said Ginevra, painting a few strokes on the picture. "But I thought it was a long way from your

"You mean to leave Monsieur Servin!" exclaimed Ginevra, less affected, however, by this news than she

"Haven't you noticed, Ginevra, that for some days past you and I have been alone in the studio?"

"True," said Ginevra, as if struck by a sudden recollection. "Are all those young ladies ill, or going to be

"My account!" repeated the Corsican, springing up, with a threatening brow and her eyes flashing.

"Oh! don't be angry, my kind Ginevra," cried Laure, in deep distress. "My mother insists on my leaving the

studio. The young ladies say that you have some intrigue, and that Monsieur Servin allows the young man

whom you love to stay in the dark attic. I have never believed these calumnies nor said a word to my mother

about them. But last night Madame Roguin met her at a ball and asked her if she still sent me here. When my

mother answered yes, Madame Roguin told her the falsehoods of those young ladies. Mamma scolded me

severely; she said I must have known it all, and that I had failed in proper confidence between mother and

daughter by not telling her. Oh! my dear Ginevra! I, who took you for my model, oh! how grieved I am that I

"Ginevra," continued Laure, tenderly. "Madame Roguin and my mother are coming to see Monsieur Servin

A thunderbolt falling at Ginevra's feet could not have astonished her more than this revelation.

The young girl looked up at Ginevra, and their thoughts united. Laure could no longer keep back her tears;

she flung herself on her friend's breast and sobbed. At this moment Servin came into the studio.

"Mademoiselle Ginevra," he cried, with enthusiasm, "I have finished my picture! it is now being varnished.

What have you been doing, meanwhile? Where are the young ladies; are they taking a holiday, or are they in

"The studio has been deserted for some days," replied Ginevra, "and the young ladies are not coming back."

"Oh! don't laugh," said Ginevra. "Listen: I am the involuntary cause of the loss of your reputation"

"That relates to your talent," replied the girl. "I am speaking of your morality. Those young ladies have told

their mothers that Luigi was shut up here, and that you lent yourselftoour love."

"There is some truth in that, mademoiselle," replied the professor. "The mothers of those young ladies are

foolish women; if they had come straight to me I should have explained the matter. But I don't care a straw

And the painter snapped his fingers above his head. Luigi, who had heard part of the conversation, came in.

They both dropped their eyes, and their silence was the first avowal they had made to each other of their love.

"You will surely be happy," said Servin. "There is nothing in life to equal the happiness of two beings like

Luigi pressed the hand of his protector without at first being able to utter a word; but presently he said, in a

"Be happy! I bless and wed you," said the painter, with comic unction, laying his hands upon the heads of the

This little jest put an end to their strained emotion. All three looked at one another and laughed merrily.

Ginevra pressed Luigi's hand in a strong clasp, with a simplicity of action worthy of the customs of her native

"Ah ca, my dear children," resumed Servin, "you think that all will go right now, but you are much

"Don't be anxious. I'm the only one that your romance will harm. But the fact is, Madame Servin is a little

"Heavens! and I forgot to tell you," exclaimed Ginevra, "that Madame Roguin and Laure's mother are coming

"But you can easily justify yourself," continued the girl, with a proud movement of her head. "Monsieur

Luigi," she added, turning to him with an arch look, "will no longer object to entering the royal service. Well,

then," after receiving a smile from the young man, "to morrow morning I will send a petition to one of the

most influential persons at the ministry of War,a man who will refuse nothing to the daughter of the Baron

di Piombo. We shall obtain a 'tacit' pardon for Captain Luigi, for, of course, they will not allow him the rank

of major. And then," she added, addressing Servin, "you can confound the mothers of my charitable

While this scene was passing at the studio the father and mother of Ginevra were becoming impatient at her

The two old people looked at each other with an anxiety that was not usual with them. Too anxious to remain

in one place, Bartolomeo rose and walked about the salon with an active step for a man who was over

seventyseven years of age. Thanks to his robust constitution, he had changed but little since the day of his

arrival in Paris, and, despite his tall figure, he walked erect. His hair, now white and sparse, left uncovered a

broad and protuberant skull, which gave a strong idea of his character and firmness. His face, seamed with

deep wrinkles, had taken, with age, a nobler expression, preserving the pallid tones which inspire veneration.

The ardor of passions still lived in the fire of his eyes, while the eyebrows, which were not wholly whitened,

retained their terrible mobility. The aspect of the head was stern, but it conveyed the impression that Piombo

had a right to be so. His kindness, his gentleness were known only to his wife and daughter. In his functions,

or in presence of strangers, he never laid aside the majesty that time had impressed upon his person; and the

habit of frowning with his heavy eyebrows, contracting the wrinkles of his face, and giving to his eyes a

During the course of his political life he had been so generally feared that he was thought unsocial, and it is

not difficult to explain the causes of that opinion. The life, morals, and fidelity of Piombo made him

obnoxious to most courtiers. In spite of the fact that delicate missions were constantly intrusted to his

discretion which to any other man about the court would have proved lucrative, he possessed an income of

not more than thirty thousand francs from an investment in the Grand Livre. If we recall the cheapness of

government securities under the Empire, and the liberality of Napoleon towards those of his faithful servants

who knew how to ask for it, we can readily see that the Baron di Piombo must have been a man of stern

integrity. He owed his plumage as baron to the necessity Napoleon felt of giving him a title before sending

Bartolomeo had always professed a hatred to the traitors with whom Napoleon surrounded himself, expecting

to bind them to his cause by dint of victories. It was he of whom it is told that he made three steps to the door

of the Emperor's cabinet after advising him to get rid of three men in France on the eve of Napoleon's

departure for his celebrated and admirable campaign of 1814. After the second return of the Bourbons

Bartolomeo ceased to wear the decoration of the Legion of honor. No man offered a finer image of those old

Republicans, incorruptible friends to the Empire, who remained the living relics of the two most energetic

governments the world has ever seen. Though the Baron di Piombo displeased mere courtiers, he had the

Darus, Drouots, and Carnots with him as friends. As for the rest of the politicians, he cared not a whiff of his

Bartolomeo di Piombo had bought, for the very moderate sum which Madame Mere, the Emperor's mother,

had paid him for his estates in Corsica, the old mansion of the Portenduere family, in which he had made no

changes. Lodged, usually, at the cost of the government, he did not occupy this house until after the

catastrophe of Fontainebleau. Following the habits of simple persons of strict virtue, the baron and his wife

gave no heed to external splendor; their furniture was that which they bought with the mansion. The grand

apartments, lofty, sombre, and bare, the wide mirrors in gilded frames that were almost black, the furniture of

the period of Louis XIV. were in keeping with Bartolomeo and his wife, personages worthy of antiquity.

Under the Empire, and during the Hundred Days, while exercising functions that were liberally rewarded, the

old Corsican had maintained a great establishment, more for the purpose of doing honor to his office than

from any desire to shine himself. His life and that of his wife were so frugal, so tranquil, that their modest

fortune sufficed for all their wants. To them, their daughter Ginevra was more precious than the wealth of the

whole world. When, therefore, in May, 1814, the Baron di Piombo resigned his office, dismissed his crowd of

servants, and closed his stable door, Ginevra, quiet, simple and unpretending like her parents, saw nothing to

regret in the change. Like all great souls, she found her luxury in strength of feeling, and derived her

happiness from quietness and work. These three beings loved each other too well for the externals of

Often, and especially after the second dreadful fall of Napoleon, Bartolomeo and his wife passed delightful

evenings alone with their daughter, listening while she sang and played. To them there was a vast secret

pleasure in the presence, in the slightest word of that child; their eyes followed her with tender anxiety; they

heard her step in the courtyard, lightly as she trod. Like lovers, the three would often sit silently together,

understanding thus, better than by speech, the eloquence of their souls. This profound sentiment, the life itself

of the two old people, animated their every thought. Here were not three existences, but one,one only,

which, like the flame on the hearth, divided itself into three tongues of fire. If, occasionally, some memory of

Napoleon's benefits and misfortunes, if the public events of the moment distracted the minds of the old

people from this source of their constant solicitude, they could always talk of those interests without affecting

their community of thought, for Ginevra shared their political passions. What more natural, therefore, than

Until now the occupations of public life had absorbed the energy of the Baron di Piombo; but after leaving

those employments he felt the need of casting that energy into the last sentiment that remained to him. Apart

from the ties of parentage, there may have been, unknown to these three despotic souls, another powerful

reason for the intensity of their reciprocal love: it was love undivided. Ginevra's whole heart belonged to her

father, as Piombo's whole heart belonged to his child; and if it be true that we are bound to one another more

by our defects than by our virtues, Ginevra echoed in a marvellous manner the passions of her father. There

lay the sole imperfection of this triple life. Ginevra was born unyielding of will, vindictive, and passionate,

The Corsican had taken pleasure in developing these savage sentiments in the heart of his daughter, precisely

as a lion teaches the lion cubs to spring upon their prey. But this apprenticeship to vengeance having no

means of action in their family life, it came to pass that Ginevra turned the principle against her father; as a

child she forgave him nothing, and he was forced to yield to her. Piombo saw nothing more than childish

nonsense in these fictitious quarrels, but the child was all the while acquiring a habit of ruling her parents. In

the midst, however, of the tempests which the father was fond of exciting, a look, a word of tenderness,

sufficed to pacify their angry souls, and often they were never so near to a kiss as when they were threatening

Nevertheless, for the last five years, Ginevra, grown wiser than her father, avoided such scenes. Her

faithfulness, her devotion, the love which filled her every thought, and her admirable good sense had got the

better of her temper. And yet, for all that, a very great evil had resulted from her training; Ginevra lived with

Piombo and his wife, persons without education, had allowed Ginevra to study as she pleased. Following her

caprices as a young girl, she had studied all things for a time, and then abandoned them,taking up and

leaving each train of thought at will, until, at last, painting had proved to be her dominant passion. Ginevra

would have made a noble woman had her mother been capable of guiding her studies, of enlightening her

mind, and bringing into harmony her gifts of nature; her defects came from the fatal education which the old

After marching up and down the room for some time, Piombo rang the bell; a servant entered.

"She said she did not want one," replied Piombo, looking at his wife, who, accustomed for forty years to

Already a septuagenarian, tall, withered, pale, and wrinkled, the baroness exactly resembled those old women

whom Schnetz puts into the Italian scenes of his "genre" pictures. She was so habitually silent that she might

have been taken for another Mrs. Shandy; but, occasionally, a word, look, or gesture betrayed that her

feelings still retained all the vigor and the freshness of their youth. Her dress, devoid of coquetry, was often

in bad taste. She usually sat passive, buried in a low sofa, like a Sultana Valide, awaiting or admiring her

Ginevra, her pride, her life. The beauty, toilet, and grace of her daughter seemed to have become her own. All

was well with her if Ginevra was happy. Her hair was white, and a few strands only were seen above her

"It is now fifteen days," she said, "since Ginevra made a practice of being late."

"Jean is so slow!" cried the impatient old man, buttoning up his blue coat and seizing his hat, which he

As she spoke, the portecochere was opened and shut, and the old mother heard the steps of her Ginevra in

the courtyard. Bartolomeo almost instantly reappeared, carrying his daughter, who struggled in his arms.

"Here she is, my Ginevra, Ginevrettina, Ginevrola, mia Ginevra bella!" cried the old man.

Instantly Ginevra was put down with an air of respect. She nodded her head with a graceful movement at her

mother, who was frightened by her cry, as if to say, "Don't be alarmed, it was only a trick to get away."

The pale, wan face of the baroness recovered its usual tones, and even assumed a look of gayety. Piombo

rubbed his hands violently,with him the surest symptom of joy; he had taken to this habit at court when he

saw Napoleon becoming angry with those of his generals and ministers who served him ill or committed

blunders. When, as now, the muscles of his face relaxed, every wrinkle on his forehead expressed

benevolence. These two old people presented at this moment precisely the aspect of a drooping plant to

"Now, to dinner! to dinner!" cried the baron, offering his large hand to his daughter, whom he called "Signora

"Ah ca!" said Piombo, as they left the table, "your mother has called my attention to the fact that for some

weeks you have stayed much longer than usual at the studio. It seems that painting is more to you than your

"A picture of your own! will you bring us that?" cried the Corsican, clapping his hands.

"No!" exclaimed the young girl in a tone of resolution,"no! it shall never be said that Ginevra Piombo

Hearing this singular exclamation, Piombo and his wife looked at their daughter in astonishment.

Then, not venturing to look at her parents, she lowered her large eyelids as if to veil the fire of her eyes.

"Is he a prince?" asked her father, ironically, in a tone of voice which made the mother quail.

"Labedoyere's comrade; he was proscribed, without a refuge; Servin concealed him, and"

"Servin is a good fellow, who has done well," cried Piombo; "but you, my daughter, you do wrong to love

"It does not depend on me to love, or not to love," replied Ginevra, still gently.

"I flattered myself," continued her father, "that my Ginevra would be faithful to me until I died; and that my

love and that of her mother would suffice her till then; I did not expect that our tenderness would find a rival

"Did I ever reproach you for your fanaticism for Napoleon?" said Ginevra. "Have you never loved any one

but me? Did you not leave me for months together when you went on missions. I bore your absence

"No, you don't love me for myself; your reproaches betray your intolerable egotism."

"Father, I don't blame you," replied Ginevra, with more gentleness than her trembling mother expected. "You

have grounds for your egotism, as I have for my love. Heaven is my witness that no girl has ever fulfilled her

duty to her parents better than I have done to you. I have never felt anything but love and happiness where

others often see obligation. It is now fifteen years that I have never left your protecting wing, and it has been

a most dear pleasure to me to charm your life. But am I ungrateful for all this in giving myself up to the joy

of loving; is it ingratitude to desire a husband who will protect me hereafter?"

"What! do you reckon benefits with your father, Ginevra?" said Piombo, in a dangerous tone.

A dreadful pause then followed, during which no one dared to speak. Bartolomeo at last broke the silence by

"Oh! stay with us! stay with your father, your old father! I cannot have you love another man. Ginevra, you

"But, father, remember that I need not leave you; we shall be two to love you; you will learn to know the man

to whose care you bequeath me. You will be doubly cherished by me and by him,by him who is my other

"Oh! Ginevra, Ginevra!" cried the Corsican, clenching his fists; "why did you not marry when Napoleon

brought me to accept the idea? Why did you not take the counts and dukes he presented to you?"

"They loved me to order," said the girl. "Besides, they would have made me live with them, and I did not

"You don't wish to leave me alone," said Piombo, "and yet you marry! that is leaving me alone. I know

you, my daughter; in that case, you would cease to love us. Elisa," he added, looking at his wife, who

remained motionless, and as if stupefied, "we have no longer a daughter; she wishes to marry."

The old man sat down, after raising his hands to heaven with a gesture of invoking the Divine power; then he

Ginevra saw his agitation, and the restraint which he put upon his anger touched her to the heart; she

expected some violent crisis, some ungovernable fury; she had not armed her soul against paternal gentleness.

"Father," she said, in a tender voice, "no, you shall never be abandoned by your Ginevra. But love her a little

for her own sake. If you know how he loves me! Ah! HE would never make me unhappy!"

"Comparisons already!" cried Piombo, in a terrible voice. "No, I can never endure the idea of your marriage.

If he loved you as you deserve to be loved he would kill me; if he did not love you, I should put a dagger

The hands of the old man trembled, his lips trembled, his body trembled, but his eyes flashed lightnings.

Ginevra alone was able to endure his glance, for her eyes flamed also, and the daughter was worthy of the

"Oh! to love you! What man is worthy of such a life?" continued Piombo. "To love you as a father is paradise

"Father," said Ginevra, with a gesture of impatience, "whether he loves me or not, if I love him"

"You shall not marry him," cried the Corsican, his voice shaking the windowpanes.

"Oh, God!" cried the mother, "how will this quarrel end? Santa Virgina! place thyself between them!"

The baron, who had been striding up and down the room, now seated himself; an icy sternness darkened his

face; he looked fixedly at his daughter, and said to her, in a gentle, weakened voice,

"Ginevra, no! you will not marry him. Oh! say nothing more tonight let me think the contrary. Do you

wish to see your father on his knees, his white hairs prostrate before you? I supplicate you"

"Ginevra Piombo does not pass her word and break it," she replied. "I am your daughter."

"Do you encourage her in disobedience?" said the baron to his wife, who, terrified by the word, now changed

"No order can be unjust from the lips of your father, my daughter. Why do you judge my action? The

repugnance that I feel is counsel from on high, sent, it may be, to protect you from some great evil."

"Yes, always," she answered. "He is my life, my good, my thought. Even if I obeyed you he would be ever in

"I shall outlive you. Children who do not honor their parents die early," said the father, driven to

This coolness and power of argument increased Piombo's trouble; the blood rushed violently to his head, and

his face turned purple. Ginevra shuddered; she sprang like a bird on her father's knee, threw her arms around

"Oh, yes, yes, let me die first! I could never survive you, my father, my kind father!"

"Oh! my Ginevra, my own Ginevra!" replied Piombo, whose anger melted under this caress like snow

And the father played with his daughter as though she were a child of six. He amused himself by releasing the

waving volume of her hair, by dandling her on his knee; there was something of madness in these expressions

of his love. Presently his daughter scolded while kissing him, and tried, by jesting, to obtain admission for

Luigi; but her father, also jesting, refused. She sulked, then returned to coax once more, and sulked again,

until, by the end of the evening, she was forced to be content with having impressed upon her father's mind

The next day she said no more about her love; she was more caressing to her father than she had ever been,

and testified the utmost gratitude, as if to thank him for the consent he seemed to have given by his silence.

That evening she sang and played to him for a long time, exclaiming now and then: "We want a man's voice

At the end of a week her mother signed to her. She went; and Elisa Piombo whispered in her ear:

That day Ginevra had the joy of coming home on the arm of her Luigi. The officer came out of his

hidingplace for the second time only. The earnest appeals which Ginevra made to the Duc de Feltre, then

minister of war, had been crowned with complete success. Luigi's name was replaced upon the roll of officers

awaiting orders. This was the first great step toward better things. Warned by Ginevra of the difficulties he

would encounter with her father, the young man dared not express his fear of finding it impossible to please

the old man. Courageous under adversity, brave on a battlefield, he trembled at the thought of entering

Piombo's salon. Ginevra felt him tremble, and this emotion, the source of which lay in her, was, to her eyes,

Though Bartolomeo had been notified by his wife of the formal presentation Ginevra was to make of her

lover, he would not advance to meet him, but remained seated in his usual armchair, and the sternness of his

"Father," said Ginevra, "I bring you a person you will no doubt be pleased to see,a soldier who fought

Ginevra, mortified by her father's incivility, dragged forward a chair. The officer's answer seemed to satisfy

the old servant of Napoleon. Madame Piombo, observing that her husband's eyebrows were resuming their

"Monsieur's resemblance to a person we knew in Corsica, Nina Porta, is really surprising."

"Nothing could be more natural," replied the young man, on whose face Piombo's flaming eyes now rested.

Bartolomeo rose, tottered, was forced to lean against a chair and beckon to his wife. Elisa Piombo came to

him. Then the two old people, silently, each supporting the other, left the room, abandoning their daughter

Luigi Porta, bewildered, looked at Ginevra, who had turned as white as a marble statue, and stood gazing at

the door through which her father and mother had disappeared. This departure and this silence seemed to her

so solemn that, for the first time, in her whole life, a feeling of fear entered her soul. She struck her hands

together with great force, and said, in a voice so shaken that none but a lover could have heard the words:

"My father," she replied, "never spoke to me of our deplorable history, and I was too young when we left

"Yes. I have heard my mother say that the Portas killed my brother and burned our house. My father then

massacred the whole family. How is it that you survived?for you were tied to the posts of the bed before

"I do not know," replied Luigi. "I was taken to Genoa when six years old, and given in charge of an old man

named Colonna. No detail about my family was told to me. I knew only that I was an orphan, and without

property. Old Colonna was a father to me; and I bore his name until I entered the army. In order to do that, I

had to show my certificate of birth in order to prove my identity. Colonna then told me, still a mere child, that

I had enemies. And he advised me to take Luigi as my surname, and so evade them."

"Go, go, Luigi!" cried Ginevra. "No, stay; I must go with you. So long as you are in my father's house you

have nothing to fear; but the moment you leave it, take care! you will go from danger to danger. My father

has two Corsicans in his service, and if he does not lie in wait to kill you, they will."

The girl smiled sadly and bowed her head. Presently she raised it, and said, with a sort of pride:

"Oh, Luigi, our love must be pure and sincere, indeed, to give me strength to tread the path I am about to

enter. But it involves a happiness that will last throughout our lives, will it not?"

Ginevra comprehended that true love could despise all vulgar protestations at such a moment. This calm and

restrained expression of his feelings foreshadowed, in some sense, their strength and their duration.

The destiny of the pair was then and there decided. Ginevra foresaw a cruel struggle, but the idea of

abandoning Luigian idea which may have floated in her soulvanished completely. His forever, she

dragged him suddenly, with a desperate sort of energy, from her father's house, and did not leave him till she

By the time she reached home, Ginevra had attained to that serenity which is caused by a firm resolution; no

sitting down to dinner, a glance of exceeding gentleness devoid of hardihood. She saw that her mother had

been weeping; the redness of those withered eyelids shook her heart, but she hid her emotion. No one touched

the dinner which was served to them. A horror of food is one of the chief symptoms which reveal a great

crisis in life. All three rose from table without having addressed a single word to one another.

When Ginevra had placed herself between her father and mother in the great and gloomy salon, Piombo tried

to speak, but his voice failed him; he tried to walk, but he had no strength in his legs. He returned to his seat

Ginevra trembled, and looked at her father anxiously. The struggle within him must have been horrible, for

his face was distorted. Ginevra knew the extent of the peril before her, but she did not flinch. Bartolomeo,

meanwhile, cast furtive glances at his daughter, as if he feared a character whose violence was the work of his

Between such natures all things must be extreme. The certainty of some impending change in the feelings of

father and daughter gave to the worn and weary face of the baroness an expression of terror.

"Ginevra, you love the enemy of your family," said Piombo, at last, not daring to look at his daughter.

"You must choose between us. Our vendetta is a part of our being. Whoso does not share my vengeance is

"Oh! my dear child!" he cried, letting her see his eyes moistened with tears, the first and only tears he ever

Bartolomeo seemed dazed for a moment, but he recovered his coolness instantly, and replied:

"Ginevra," continued the baron, "have you reflected that Luigi is the son of the man who killed your

"He was six years old when that crime was committed; he was, therefore, not guilty of it," she replied.

"I have never shared that hatred," said Ginevra, eagerly. "You did not bring me up to think a Porta must be a

monster. How could I know that one of those whom you thought you had killed survived? Is it not natural

"A Porta!" repeated Piombo. "If his father had found you in your bed you would not be living now; he would

"It may be so," she answered; "but his son has given me life, and more than life. To see Luigi is a happiness

without which I cannot live. Luigi has revealed to me the world of sentiments. I may, perhaps, have seen

faces more beautiful than his, but none has ever charmed me thus; I may have heard voicesno, no, never

The old Corsican rose and began to stride up and down the salon, dropping the following sentences, one by

"You think you can bend my will. Undeceive yourself. A Porta shall never be my son; that is my decree. Let

there be no further question of this between us. I am Bartolomeo di Piombo; do you hear me, Ginevra?"

"They mean that I have a dagger, and that I do not fear man's justice. Corsicans explain themselves to God."

"And I," said the daughter, rising, "am Ginevra Piombo, and I declare that within six months I shall be the

wife of Luigi Porta. You are a tyrant, my father," she added, after a terrifying pause.

Bartolomeo clenched his fists and struck them on the marble of the chimneypiece.

Then he was silent, crossed his arms, bowed his head on his breast, and said not another word during the

After once giving utterance to her will, Ginevra affected inconceivable coolness. She opened the piano and

sang, played charming nocturnes and scherzos with a grace and sentiment which displayed a perfect freedom

of mind, thus triumphing over her father, whose darkling face showed no softening. The old man was cruelly

hurt by this tacit insult; he gathered in this one moment the bitter fruits of the training he had given to his

daughter. Respect is a barrier which protects parents as it does children, sparing grief to the former, remorse

The next day, when Ginevra sought to leave the house at the hour when she usually went to the studio, she

found the gates of the mansion closed to her. She said nothing, but soon found means to inform Luigi Porta of

her father's severity. A chambermaid, who could neither read nor write, was able to carry letters between the

lovers. For five days they corresponded thus, thanks to the inventive shrewdness of the youth.

The father and daughter seldom spoke to each other. Both were nursing in the depths of their heart a

sentiment of hatred; they suffered, but they suffered proudly, and in silence. Recognizing how strong were

the ties of love which bound them to each other, they each tried to break them, but without success. No gentle

thought came, as formerly, to brighten the stern features of Piombo when he contemplated his Ginevra. The

girl had something savage in her eye when she looked at her father; reproach sat enthroned on that innocent

brow; she gave herself up, it is true, to happy thoughts, and yet, at times, remorse seemed to dull her eyes. It

was not difficult to believe that she could never enjoy, peacefully, any happiness which caused sorrow to her

With Bartolomeo, as with his daughter, the hesitations of this period caused by the native goodness of their

souls were, nevertheless, compelled to give way before their pride and the rancor of their Corsican nature.

They encouraged each other in their anger, and closed their eyes to the future. Perhaps they mutually flattered

At last, on Ginevra's birthday, her mother, in despair at the estrangement which, day by day, assumed a more

serious character, meditated an attempt to reconcile the father and daughter, by help of the memories of this

family anniversary. They were all three sitting in Bartolomeo's study. Ginevra guessed her mother's intention

At this moment a servant announced two notaries, accompanied by witnesses. Bartolomeo looked fixedly at

these persons, whose cold and formal faces were grating to souls so passionately strained as those of the three

chief actors in this scene. The old man turned to his daughter and looked at her uneasily. He saw upon her

face a smile of triumph which made him expect some shock; but, after the manner of savages, he affected to

maintain a deceitful indifference as he gazed at the notaries with an assumed air of calm curiosity. The

"Monsieur is, no doubt, M. le Baron di Piombo?" began the oldest of the notaries.

Bartolomeo bowed. The notary made a slight inclination of the head, looked at Ginevra with a sly expression,

took out his snuffbox, opened it, and slowly inhaled a pinch, as if seeking for the words with which to open

his errand; then, while uttering them, he made continual pauses (an oratorical manoeuvre very imperfectly

"Monsieur," he said, "I am Monsieur Roguin, your daughter's notary, and we have comemy colleague and

Ito fulfil the intentions of the law andput an end to the divisions whichappearto existbetween

yourself and Mademoiselle, your daughter,on the subjectofher marriage with Monsieur Luigi

This speech, pedantically delivered, probably seemed to Monsieur Roguin so fine that his hearer could not at

once understand it. He paused, and looked at Bartolomeo with that peculiar expression of the mere business

lawyer, a mixture of servility with familiarity. Accustomed to feign much interest in the persons with whom

they deal, notaries have at last produced upon their features a grimace of their own, which they take on and

off as an official "pallium." This mask of benevolence, the mechanism of which is so easy to perceive,

irritated Bartolomeo to such an extent that he was forced to collect all the powers of his reason to prevent him

from throwing Monsieur Roguin through the window. An expression of anger ran through his wrinkles,

"But," he continued, in a honeyed tone, "Monsieur le baron, on such occasions our duties are preceded

byefforts atconciliationDeign, therefore, to have the goodness to listen to meIt is in evidence that

Mademoiselle Ginevra di Piomboattains this very daythe age at which the law allows a respectful

summons before proceeding to the celebration of a marriagein spite of the nonconsent of the parents.

Nowit is usual in familieswho enjoy a certain considerationwho belong to societywho preserve

some dignityto whom, in short, it is desirable not to let the public into the secret of their differences and

who, moreover, do not wish to injure themselves by blasting with reprobation the future of a young couple

(forthat is injuring themselves), it is usual, I sayamong these honorable familiesnot to allow these

ceasingWhenever, monsieur, a young lady has recourse to respectful summons, she exhibits a

determination too marked to allow of a fatherof a mother," here he turned to the baroness, "hoping or

expecting that she will follow their wishes Paternal resistance being nullby reason of this factin the

first placeand also from its being nullified by law, it is customaryfor every sensible manafter making

a final remonstrance to his child and before she proceeds to the respectful summonsto leave her at

Monsieur Roguin stopped, perceiving that he might talk on for two hours without obtaining any answer; he

felt, moreover, a singular emotion at the aspect of the man he was attempting to convert. An extraordinary

revolution had taken place on Piombo's face; his wrinkles, contracting into narrow lines, gave him a look of

indescribable cruelty, and he cast upon the notary the glance of a tiger. The baroness was mute and passive.

Ginevra, calm and resolute, waited silently; she knew that the notary's voice was more potent than hers, and

she seemed to have decided to say nothing. At the moment when Roguin ceased speaking, the scene had

become so terrifying that the men who were there as witnesses trembled; never, perhaps, had they known so

awful a silence. The notaries looked at each other, as if in consultation, and finally rose and walked to the

"Did you ever meet people born into the world like that?" asked Roguin of his brother notary.

"You can't get anything out of him," replied the younger man. "In your place, I should simply read the

summons. That old fellow isn't a comfortable person; he is furious, and you'll gain nothing whatever by

Monsieur Roguin then read a stamped paper, containing the "respectful summons," prepared for the occasion;

"Are there laws in France which destroy paternal authority?" demanded the Corsican.

There is nothing more horrible than the coolness and precise reasoning of notaries amid the many passionate

The forms that Piombo saw about him seemed, to his eyes, escaped from hell; his repressed and concentrated

rage knew no longer any bounds as the calm and fluted voice of the little notary uttered the words: "permit

me." By a sudden movement he sprang to a dagger that was hanging to a nail above the fireplace, and rushed

toward his daughter. The younger of the two notaries and one of the witnesses threw themselves before

Ginevra; but Piombo knocked them violently down, his face on fire, and his eyes casting flames more

terrifying than the glitter of the dagger. When Ginevra saw him approach her she looked at him with an air of

triumph, and advancing slowly, knelt down. "No, no! I cannot!" he cried, flinging away the weapon, which

"Well, then! have mercy! have pity!" she said. "You hesitate to be my death, and you refuse me life! Oh!

father, never have I loved you as I do at this moment; give me Luigi! I ask for your consent upon my knees: a

daughter can humiliate herself before her father. My Luigi, give me my Luigi, or I die!"

The violent excitement which suffocated her stopped her words, for she had no voice; her convulsive

movements showed plainly that she lay, as it were, between life and death. Bartolomeo roughly pushed her

"Go," he said. "The wife of Luigi Porta cannot be a Piombo. I have no daughter. I have not the strength to

curse you, but I cast you off; you have no father. My Ginevra Piombo is buried here," he said, in a deep

voice, pressing violently on his heart. "Go, leave my house, unhappy girl," he added, after a moment's

So saying, he took Ginevra by the arm to the gate of the house and silently put her out.

"Luigi!" cried Ginevra, entering the humble lodging of her lover,"my Luigi, we have no other fortune than

"Then let us be happy,we WILL be happy!" she cried, with a gayety in which there was something

The day after Ginevra was driven from her father's house she went to ask Madame Servin for asylum and

Here began for her that apprenticeship to trouble which the world strews about the path of those who do not

follow its conventions. Madame Servin received her very coldly, being much annoyed by the harm which

Ginevra's affair had inflicted on her husband, and told her, in politely cautious words, that she must not count

on her help in future. Too proud to persist, but amazed at a selfishness hitherto unknown to her, the girl took

a room in the lodginghouse that was nearest to that of Luigi. The son of the Portas passed all his days at the

feet of his future wife; and his youthful love, the purity of his words, dispersed the clouds from the mind of

the banished daughter; the future was so beautiful as he painted it that she ended by smiling joyfully, though

One morning the servant of the lodging house brought to Ginevra's room a number of trunks and packages

containing stuffs, linen, clothes, and a great quantity of other articles necessary for a young wife in setting up

a home of her own. In this welcome provision she recognized her mother's foresight, and, on examining the

gifts, she found a purse, in which the baroness had put the money belonging to her daughter, adding to it the

amount of her own savings. The purse was accompanied by a letter, in which the mother implored the

daughter to forego the fatal marriage if it were still possible to do so. It had cost her, she said, untold

difficulty to send these few things to her daughter; she entreated her not to think her hard if, henceforth, she

were forced to abandon her to want; she feared she could never again assist her; but she blessed her and

prayed for her happiness in this fatal marriage, if, indeed, she persisted in making it, assuring her that she

should never cease to think of her darling child. Here the falling tears had effaced some words of the letter.

She felt the impulse to rush home, to breathe the blessed air of her father's house, to fling herself at his feet,

to see her mother. She was springing forward to accomplish this wish, when Luigi entered. At the mere sight

of him her filial emotion vanished; her tears were stopped, and she no longer had the strength to abandon that

loving and unfortunate youth. To be the sole hope of a noble being, to love him and then abandon him!that

sacrifice is the treachery of which young hearts are incapable. Ginevra had the generosity to bury her own

The marriage day arrived. Ginevra had no friend with her. While she was dressing, Luigi fetched the

witnesses necessary to sign the certificate of marriage. These witnesses were worthy persons; one, a cavalry

sergeant, was under obligations to Luigi, contracted on the battlefield, obligations which are never obliterated

from the heart of an honest man; the other, a mastermason, was the proprietor of the house in which the

young couple had hired an apartment for their future home. Each witness brought a friend, and all four, with

Luigi, came to escort the bride. Little accustomed to social functions, and seeing nothing in the service they

were rendering to Luigi but a simple matter of business, they were dressed in their ordinary clothes, without

any luxury, and nothing about them denoted the usual joy of a marriage procession.

Ginevra herself was dressed simply, as befitted her present fortunes; and yet her beauty was so noble and so

imposing that the words of greeting died away on the lips of the witnesses, who supposed themselves obliged

to pay her some usual compliments. They bowed to her with respect, and she returned the bow; but they did

so in silence, looking at her with admiration. This reserve cast a chill over the whole party. Joy never bursts

forth freely except among those who are equals. Thus chance determined that all should be dull and grave

around the bridal pair; nothing reflected, outwardly, the happiness that reigned within their hearts.

The church and the mayor's office being near by, Luigi and Ginevra, followed by the four witnesses required

by law, walked the distance, with a simplicity that deprived of all pomp this greatest event in social life. They

saw a crowd of waiting carriages in the mayor's courtyard; and when they reached the great hall where the

civil marriages take place, they found two other weddingparties impatiently awaiting the mayor's arrival.

Ginevra sat down beside Luigi at the end of a long bench; their witnesses remained standing, for want of

seats. Two brides, elaborately dressed in white, with ribbons, laces, and pearls, and crowned with

orangeblossoms whose satiny petals nodded beneath their veils, were surrounded by joyous families, and

accompanied by their mothers, to whom they looked up, now and then, with eyes that were content and timid

both; the faces of all the rest reflected happiness, and seemed to be invoking blessings on the youthful pairs.

Fathers, witnesses, brothers, and sisters went and came, like a happy swarm of insects disporting in the sun.

Each seemed to be impressed with the value of this passing moment of life, when the heart finds itself within

As she watched them, Ginevra's heart swelled within her; she pressed Luigi's arm, and gave him a look. A

tear rolled from the eyes of the young Corsican; never did he so well understand the joys that his Ginevra was

sacrificing to him. That precious tear caused her to forget all else but him,even the abandonment in which

she sat there. Love poured down its treasures of light upon their hearts; they saw nought else but themselves

in the midst of the joyous tumult; they were there alone, in that crowd, as they were destined to be,

henceforth, in life. Their witnesses, indifferent to what was happening, conversed quietly on their own affairs.

"But they have not gone up like lime, relatively speaking," replied the contractor.

"How one loses time here," said the mason, replacing a thick silver watch in his fob.

Luigi and Ginevra, sitting pressed to one another, seemed like one person. A poet would have admired their

two heads, inspired by the same sentiment, colored in the same tones, silent and saddened in presence of that

humming happiness sparkling in diamonds, gay with flowers,a gayety in which there was something

fleeting. The joy of those noisy and splendid groups was visible; that of Ginevra and Luigi was buried in their

bosom. On one side the tumult of common pleasure, on the other, the delicate silence of happy souls,earth

But Ginevra was not wholly free from the weaknesses of women. Superstitious as an Italian, she saw an

omen in this contrast, and in her heart there lay a sense of terror, as invincible as her love.

Suddenly the office servant, in the town livery, opened a folding door. Silence reigned, and his voice was

heard, like the yapping of a dog, calling Monsieur Luigi da Porta and Mademoiselle Ginevra di Piombo. This

caused some embarrassment to the young pair. The celebrity of the bride's name attracted attention, and the

spectators seemed to wonder that the wedding was not more sumptuous. Ginevra rose, took Luigi's arm, and

advanced firmly, followed by the witnesses. A murmur of surprise, which went on increasing, and a general

whispering reminded Ginevra that all present were wondering at the absence of her parents; her father's wrath

"Call in the families," said the mayor to the clerk whose business it was to read aloud the certificates.

"Here," said the clerk, pointing to the four men, who stood with arms folded, like so many statues.

"The respectful summons has been duly served," replied the clerk, rising, to lay before the mayor the papers

This bureaucratic decision had something blighting about it; in a few words it contained the whole story. The

hatred of the Portas and the Piombos and their terrible passions were inscribed on this page of the civil law as

the annals of a people (contained, it may be, in one word only,Napoleon, Robespierre) are engraved on a

tombstone. Ginevra trembled. Like the dove on the face of the waters, having no place to rest its feet but the

ark, so Ginevra could take refuge only in the eyes of Luigi from the cold and dreary waste around her.

The mayor assumed a stern, disapproving air, and his clerk looked up at the couple with malicious curiosity.

No marriage was ever so little festal. Like other human beings when deprived of their accessories, it became

After a few questions, to which the bride and bridegroom responded, and a few words mumbled by the

mayor, and after signing the registers, with their witnesses, duly, Luigi and Ginevra were made one. Then the

wedded pair walked back through two lines of joyous relations who did not belong to them, and whose only

interest in their marriage was the delay caused to their own wedding by this gloomy bridal. When, at last,

Ginevra found herself in the mayor's courtyard, under the open sky, a sigh escaped her breast.

"Can a lifetime of devotion and love suffice to prove my gratitude for your courage and tenderness, my

At these words, said with tears of joy, the bride forgot her sufferings; for she had indeed suffered in

presenting herself before the public to obtain a happiness her parents refused to sanction.

"Why should others come between us?" she said with an artlessness of feeling that delighted Luigi.

A sense of accomplished happiness now made the step of the young pair lighter; they saw neither heaven, nor

earth, nor houses; they flew, as it were, on wings to the church. When they reached a dark little chapel in one

corner of the building, and stood before a plain undecorated altar, an old priest married them. There, as in the

mayor's office, two other marriages were taking place, still pursuing them with pomp. The church, filled with

friends and relations, echoed with the roll of carriages, and the hum of beadles, sextons, and priests. Altars

were resplendent with sacramental luxury; the wreaths of orangeflowers that crowned the figures of the

Virgin were fresh. Flowers, incense, gleaming tapers, velvet cushions embroidered with gold, were

everywhere. When the time came to hold above the heads of Luigi and Ginevra the symbol of eternal

union,that yoke of satin, white, soft, brilliant, light for some, lead for most,the priest looked about him

in vain for the acolytes whose place it was to perform that joyous function. Two of the witnesses fulfilled it

for them. The priest addressed a hasty homily to the pair on the perils of life, on the duties they must, some

day, inculcate upon their children,throwing in, at this point, an indirect reproach to Ginevra on the absence

of her parents; then, after uniting them before God, as the mayor had united them before the law, he left the

"God bless them!" said Vergniaud, the sergeant, to the mason, when they reached the church porch. "No two

creatures were ever more fitted for one another. The parents of the girl are foolish. I don't know a braver

soldier than Colonel Luigi. If the whole army had behaved like him, 'l'autre' would be here still."

This blessing of the old soldier, the only one bestowed upon their marriageday, shed a balm on Ginevra's

"I am now and ever at your service, colonel,soul, body, horses, and carriages; all that is mine is yours."

Luigi now hurried his bride to the house they were to occupy. Their modest apartment was soon reached; and

there, when the door closed upon them, Luigi took his wife in his arms, exclaiming,

"Oh, my Ginevra! for now you are mine, here is our true wedding. Here," he added, "all things will smile

Together they went through the three rooms contained in their lodging. The room first entered served as salon

and diningroom in one; on the right was a bedchamber, on the left a large study which Luigi had arranged

for his wife; in it she found easels, colorboxes, lay figures, casts, pictures, portfolios,in short, the

She looked long at the hangings and the furniture, turning again and again to thank Luigi, for there was

something that approached magnificence in the little retreat. A bookcase contained her favorite books; a

piano filled an angle of the room. She sat down upon a divan, drew Luigi to her side, and said, in a caressing

"But let me see all," said Ginevra, to whom Luigi had made a mystery of the adornment of the rooms.

And the imperious Ginevra looked at each piece of furniture with the minute care of an antiquary examining

a coin; she touched the silken hangings, and went over every article with the artless satisfaction of a bride in

"True! for all my back pay is there," replied Luigi. "I have mortgaged it to a worthy fellow named Gigonnet."

"Why did you do so?" she said, in a tone of reproach, through which could be heard her inward satisfaction.

"Do you believe I should be less happy in a garret? But," she added, "it is all charming, andit is ours!"

Above these three rooms, under the roof, was a study for Luigi, a kitchen, and a servant'sroom. Ginevra was

much pleased with her little domain, although the view from the windows was limited by the high wall of a

neighboring house, and the courtyard, from which their light was derived, was gloomy. But the two lovers

were so happy in heart, hope so adorned their future, that they chose to see nothing but what was charming in

their hidden nest. They were there in that vast house, lost in the immensity of Paris, like two pearls in their

shell in the depths of ocean; to all others it might have seemed a prison; to them it was paradise.

The first few days of their union were given to love. The effort to turn at once to work was too difficult; they

could not resist the charm of their own passion. Luigi lay for hours at the feet of his wife, admiring the color

of her hair, the moulding of her forehead, the enchanting socket of her eyes, the purity and whiteness of the

two arches beneath which the eyes themselves turned slowly, expressing the happiness of a satisfied love.

Ginevra caressed the hair of her Luigi, never weary of gazing at what she called his "belta folgorante," and

the delicacy of his features. She was constantly charmed by the nobility of his manners, as she herself

They played together, like children, with nothings,nothings that brought them ever back to their

love,ceasing their play only to fall into a revery of the "far niente." An air sung by Ginevra reproduced to

their souls the enchanting lights and shadows of their passion. Together, uniting their steps as they did their

souls, they roamed about the country, finding everywhere their love,in the flowers, in the sky, in the

glowing tints of the setting sun; they read it in even the capricious vapors which met and struggled in the

ether. Each day resembled in nothing its predecessors; their love increased, and still increased, because it was

a true love. They had tested each other in what seemed only a short time; and, instinctively, they recognized

that their souls were of a kind whose inexhaustible riches promised for the future unceasing joys.

Theirs was love in all its artlessness, with its interminable conversations, unfinished speeches, long silences,

oriental reposes, and oriental ardor. Luigi and Ginevra comprehended love. Love is like the ocean: seen

superficially, or in haste, it is called monotonous by common souls, whereas some privileged beings can pass

their lives in admiring it, and in finding, ceaselessly, the varying phenomena that enchant them.

Soon, however, prudence and foresight drew the young couple from their Eden; it was necessary to work to

live. Ginevra, who possessed a special talent for imitating old paintings, took up the business of copying, and

soon found many customers among the picturedealers. Luigi, on his side, sought long and actively for

occupation, but it was hard for a young officer whose talents had been restricted to the study of strategy to

At last, weary of vain efforts, his soul filled with despair at seeing the whole burden of their subsistence

falling on Ginevra, it occurred to him to make use of his handwriting, which was excellent. With a

persistency of which he saw an example in his wife, he went round among the layers and notaries of Paris,

asking for papers to copy. The frankness of his manners and his situation interested many in his favor; he

soon obtained enough work to be obliged to find young men to assist him; and this employment became, little

by little, a regular business. The profits of his office and the sale of Ginevra's pictures gave the young couple

a competence of which they were justly proud, for it was the fruit of their industry.

This, to the busy pair, was the happiest period of their lives. The days flowed rapidly by, filled with

occupation and the joys of their love. At night, after working all day, they met with delight in Ginevra's

studio. Music refreshed their weariness. No expression of regret or melancholy obscured the happy features

of the young wife, and never did she utter a complaint. She appeared to her Luigi with a smile upon her lips

and her eyes beaming. Each cherished a ruling thought which would have made them take pleasure in a labor

still more severe; Ginevra said in her heart that she worked for Luigi, and Luigi the same for Ginevra.

Sometimes, in the absence of her husband, the thought of the perfect happiness she might have had if this life

of love could have been lived in the presence of her father and mother overcame the young wife; and then, as

she felt the full power of remorse, she dropped into melancholy; mournful pictures passed like shadows

across her imagination; she saw her old father alone, or her mother weeping in secret lest the inexorable

Piombo should perceive her tears. The two white, solemn heads rose suddenly before her, and the thought

came that never again should she see them except in memory. This thought pursued her like a presentiment.

She celebrated the anniversary of her marriage by giving her husband a portrait he had long desired,that of

his Ginevra, painted by herself. Never had the young artist done so remarkable a work. Aside from the

resemblance, the glow of her beauty, the purity of her feelings, the happiness of love were there depicted by a

sort of magic. This masterpiece of her art and her joy was a votive offering to their wedded felicity.

Another year of ease and comfort went by. The history of their life may be given in three words: THEY

At the beginning of the year 1819 the picturedealers requested Ginevra to give them something beside

copies; for competition had so increased that they could no longer sell her work to advantage. Madame Porta

then perceived the mistake she had made in not exercising her talent for "genre" painting, which might, by

this time, have brought her reputation. She now attempted portraitpainting. But here she was forced to

compete against a crowd of artists in greater need of money than herself. However, as Luigi and Ginevra had

Toward the end of the winter of that year Luigi worked without intermission. He, too, was struggling against

competitors. The payment for writing had so decreased that he found it impossible to employ assistance; he

was forced, therefore, to work a much longer time himself to obtain the same emolument. His wife had

finished several pictures which were not without merit; but the dealers were scarcely buying those of artists

with reputations; consequently, her paintings had little chance. Ginevra offered them for almost nothing, but

The situation of the household now began to be alarming. The souls of the husband and wife floated on the

ocean of their happiness, love overwhelmed them with its treasures, while poverty rose, like a skeleton, amid

their harvest of joy. Yet, all the while, they hid from each other their secret anxiety. When Ginevra felt like

weeping as she watched Luigi's worn and suffering face, she redoubled her caresses; and Luigi, keeping his

dark forebodings in the depths of his soul, expressed to his Ginevra the tenderest love. They sought a

compensation for their troubles in exalting their feelings; and their words, their joys, their caresses became

suffused, as it were, with a species of frenzy. They feared the future. What feeling can be compared in

strength with that of a passion which may cease on the morrow, killed by death or want? When they talked

together of their poverty each felt the necessity of deceiving the other, and they fastened with mutual ardor on

One night Ginevra woke and missed Luigi from her side. She rose in terror. A faint light shining on the

opposite wall of the little courtyard revealed to her that her husband was working in his study at night. Luigi

was now in the habit of waiting till his wife was asleep, and then going up to his garret to write. Four o'clock

struck. Ginevra lay down again, and pretended to sleep. Presently Luigi returned, overcome with fatigue and

drowsiness. Ginevra looked sadly on the beautiful, worn face, where toil and care were already drawing lines

A thought dried her tears. She would imitate Luigi. That same day she went to a printshop, and, by help of a

letter of recommendation she had obtained from Elie Magus, one of her picturedealers, she obtained an

order for the coloring of lithographs. During the day she painted her pictures and attended to the cares of the

household; then, when night came, she colored the engravings. This loving couple entered their nuptial bed

only to deceive each other; both feigned sleep, and left it,Luigi, as soon as he thought his wife was

One night Luigi, burning with a sort of fever, induced by a toil under which his strength was beginning to

give way, opened the casement of his garret to breathe the morning air, and shake off, for a moment, the

burden of his care. Happening to glance downward, he saw the reflection of Ginevra's lamp on the opposite

wall, and the poor fellow guessed the truth. He went down, stepping softly, and surprised his wife in her

"Could I be idle," she asked, her eyes filling with tears, "when I know that every mouthful we eat costs a drop

of your blood? I should die if I could not add my efforts to yours. All should be in common between us: pains

"She is cold!" cried Luigi, in despair. "Wrap your shawl closer round you, my own Ginevra; the night is

They went to the window, the young wife leaning on the breast of her beloved, who held her round the waist,

and, together, in deep silence, they gazed upward at the sky, which the dawn was slowly brightening. Clouds

"Yes, in heaven," replied Luigi, with a bitter smile. "Oh, Ginevra! you who deserved all the treasures upon

"Ah! I complain no more!" he answered, straining her tightly to him, and covering with kisses the delicate

face, which was losing the freshness of youth, though its expression was still so soft, so tender that he could

"What silence!" said Ginevra, presently. "Dear friend, I take great pleasure in sitting up. The majesty of Night

is so contagious, it awes, it inspires. There is I know not what great power in the thought: all sleep, I wake."

"Oh, my Ginevra," he cried, "it is not tonight alone I feel how delicately moulded is your soul. But see, the

"Yes," replied Ginevra, "if I do not sleep alone. I suffered too much that night I first discovered that you were

The courage with which these two young people fought with misery received for a while its due reward; but

an event which usually crowns the happiness of a household to them proved fatal. Ginevra had a son, who

was, to use the popular expression, "as beautiful as the day." The sense of motherhood doubled the strength

of the young wife. Luigi borrowed money to meet the expenses of Ginevra's confinement. At first she did not

feel the fresh burden of their situation; and the pair gave themselves wholly up to the joy of possessing a

Like two swimmers uniting their efforts to breast a current, these two Corsican souls struggled courageously;

but sometimes they gave way to an apathy which resembled the sleep that precedes death. Soon they were

obliged to sell their jewels. Poverty appeared to them suddenly, not hideous, but plainly clothed, almost

easy to endure; its voice had nothing terrifying; with it came neither spectres, nor despair, nor rags; but it

made them lose the memory and the habits of comfort; it dried the springs of pride. Then, before they knew

it, came want, want in all its horror, indifferent to its rags, treading underfoot all human sentiments.

Seven or eight months after the birth of the little Bartolomeo, it would have been hard to see in the mother

who suckled her sickly babe the original of the beautiful portrait, the sole remaining ornament of the squalid

home. Without fire through a hard winter, the graceful outlines of Ginevra's figure were slowly destroyed; her

cheeks grew white as porcelain, and her eyes dulled as though the springs of life were drying up within her.

Watching her shrunken, discolored child, she felt no suffering but for that young misery; and Luigi had no

"I have wandered over Paris," he said, one day. "I know no one; can I ask help of strangers? Vergniaud, my

old sergeant, is concerned in a conspiracy, and they have put him in prison; besides, he has already lent me all

he could spare. As for our landlord, it is over a year since he asked me for any rent."

Another day Luigi took Ginevra's pictures, her portrait, and the few articles of furniture which they could still

exist without, and sold them for a miserable sum, which prolonged the agony of the hapless household for a

time. During these days of wretchedness Ginevra showed the sublimity of her nature and the extent of her

Stoically she bore the strokes of misery; her strong soul held her up against all woes; she worked with

unfaltering hand beside her dying son, performed her household duties with marvellous activity, and sufficed

for all. She was even happy, still, when she saw on Luigi's lips a smile of surprise at the cleanliness she

"Dear, I kept this bit of bread for you," she said, one evening, when he returned, wornout.

And the tender look on her beseeching face urged him more than her words to take the food of which she had

Luigi kissed her, with one of those kisses of despair that were given in 1793 between friends as they mounted

the scaffold. In such supreme moments two beings see each other, heart to heart. The hapless Luigi,

comprehending suddenly that his wife was starving, was seized with the fever which consumed her. He

shuddered, and went out, pretending that some business called him; for he would rather have drunk the

deadliest poison than escape death by eating that last morsel of bread that was left in his home.

He wandered wildly about Paris; amid the gorgeous equipages, in the bosom of that flaunting luxury that

displays itself everywhere; he hurried past the windows of the moneychangers where gold was glittering;

and at last he resolved to sell himself to be a substitute for military service, hoping that this sacrifice would

He went to one of those agents who manage these transactions, and felt a sort of happiness in recognizing an

"It is two days since I have eaten anything," he said to him in a slow, weak voice. "My wife is dying of

hunger, and has never uttered one word of complaint; she will die smiling, I think. For God's sake, comrade,"

he added, bitterly, "buy me in advance; I am robust; I am no longer in the service, and I"

The officer gave Luigi a sum on account of that which he promised to procure for him. The wretched man

laughed convulsively as he grasped the gold, and ran with all his might, breathless, to his home, crying out at

It was almost night when he reached his wretched room. He entered very softly, fearing to cause too strong an

emotion to his wife, whom he had left so weak. The last rays of the sun, entering through the garret window,

were fading from Ginevra's face as she sat sleeping in her chair, and holding her child upon her breast.

"Wake, my dear one," he said, not observing the infant, which shone, at that moment, with supernatural light.

Hearing that voice, the poor mother opened her eyes, met Luigi's look, and smiled; but Luigi himself gave a

cry of horror; he scarcely recognized his wife, now half mad. With a gesture of savage energy he showed her

the gold. Ginevra began to laugh mechanically; but suddenly she cried, in a dreadful voice:

She looked at her son and swooned. The little Bartolomeo was dead. Luigi took his wife in his arms, without

removing the child, which she clasped with inconceivable force; and after laying her on the bed he went out

"Oh! my God!" he said, as he met his landlord on the stairs. "I have gold, gold, and my child has died of

He returned like one distraught to his wife, leaving the worthy mason, and also the neighbors who heard him

to gather a few things for the needs of so terrible a want, hitherto unknown, for the two Corsicans had

Luigi had cast his gold upon the floor and was kneeling by the bed on which lay his wife.

"Father! take care of my son, who bears your name," she was saying in her delirium.

"Oh, my angel! be calm," said Luigi, kissing her; "our good days are coming back to us."

"My Luigi," she said, looking at him with extraordinary attention, "listen to me. I feel that I am dying. My

death is natural; I suffered too much; besides, a happiness so great as mine has to be paid for. Yes, my Luigi,

be comforted. I have been so happy that if I were to live again I would again accept our fate. I am a bad

mother; I regret you more than I regret my child My child!" she added, in a hollow voice.

Two tears escaped her dying eyes, and suddenly she pressed the little body she had no power to warm.

"Give my hair to my father, in memory of his Ginevra," she said. "Tell him I have never blamed him."

"No, you cannot die!" cried Luigi. "The doctor is coming. We have food. Your father will take you home.

But the faithful heart, so full of love, was growing cold. Ginevra turned her eyes instinctively to him she

loved, though she was conscious of nought else. Confused images passed before her mind, now losing

memory of earth. She knew that Luigi was there, for she clasped his icy hand tightly, and more tightly still, as

though she strove to save herself from some precipice down which she feared to fall.

Two doctors, a priest, and several neighbors came into the room, bringing all that was necessary to save the

poor couple and calm their despair. These strangers made some noise in entering; but after they had entered,

While that scene was taking place, Bartolomeo and his wife were sitting in their antique chairs, each at a

corner of the vast fireplace, where a glowing fire scarcely warmed the great spaces of their salon. The clock

For some time past the old couple had lost the ability to sleep. At the present moment they sat there silent,

like two persons in their dotage, gazing about them at things they did not see. Their deserted salon, so filled

with memories to them, was feebly lighted by a single lamp which seemed expiring. Without the sparkling of

A friend had just left them; and the chair on which he had been sitting, remained where he left it, between the

two Corsicans. Piombo was casting glances at that chair,glances full of thoughts, crowding one upon

another like remorse,for the empty chair was Ginevra's. Elisa Piombo watched the expressions that now

began to cross her husband's pallid face. Though long accustomed to divine his feelings from the changeful

agitations of his face, they seemed tonight so threatening, and anon so melancholy that she felt she could no

Would Bartolomeo yield, at last, to the memories awakened by that chair? Had he been shocked to see a

stranger in that chair, used for the first time since his daughter left him? Had the hour of his mercy

These reflections shook the mother's heart successively. For an instant her husband's countenance became so

terrible that she trembled at having used this simple means to bring about a mention of Ginevra's name. The

night was wintry; the north wind drove the snowflakes so sharply against the blinds that the old couple

fancied that they heard a gentle rustling. Ginevra's mother dropped her head to hide her tears. Suddenly a sigh

burst from the old man's breast; his wife looked at him; he seemed to her crushed. Then she risked

"Perhaps she has a child and cannot suckle it; her milk is dried up!" said the mother, in accents of despair.

"Let her come! let her come to me!" cried Piombo. "Oh! my precious child, thou hast conquered me."

The mother rose as if to fetch her daughter. At that instant the door opened noisily, and a man, whose face no

"Dead! Our two families were doomed to exterminate each other. Here is all that remains of her," he said,

"He has spared me a shot, for he is dead," said Bartolomeo, slowly, gazing on the ground at his feet.