“Pietro,” said he to the servant at last, “light the fire, I am cold.”
Ginevra was shocked, and looked anxiously at her father. The struggle he was going through must be frightful; his face looked quite changed. Ginevra knew the extent of the danger that threatened her, but she did not tremble; while the glances that Bartolomeo cast at his daughter seemed to proclaim that he was at this moment in fear of the character whose violence was his own work. Between these two everything must be in excess. And the certainty of the possible change of feeling between the father and daughter filled the Baroness’ face with an expression of terror.
“Ginevra, you love the enemy of your family,” said Piombo at last, not daring to look at his daughter.
“That is true,” she replied.
“You must choose between him and us. Our Vendetta is part of ourselves. If you do not espouse my cause, you are not of my family.”
“My choice is made,” said Ginevra, in a steady voice.
His daughter’s calmness misled Bartolomeo.
“Oh, my dear daughter!” cried the old man, whose eyelids were moist with tears, the first, the only tears he ever shed in his life.
“I shall be his wife,” she said abruptly.
Bartolomeo could not see for a moment; but he recovered himself and replied, “This marriage shall never be so long as I live. I will never consent.” Ginevra kept silence. “But, do you understand,” the Baron went on, “that Luigi is the son of the man who killed your brothers?”
“He was six years old when the crime was committed; he must be innocent of it,” she answered.
“A Porta!” cried Bartolomeo.
“But how could I share this hatred?” said the girl eagerly. “Did you bring me up in the belief that a Porta was a monster? Could I imagine that even one was left of those you had killed? Is it not in nature that you should make your Vendetta give way to my feelings?”
“A Porta!” repeated Piombo. “If his father had found you then in your bed, you would not be alive now. He would have dealt you a hundred deaths.”
“Possibly,” she said. “But his son has given me more than life. To see Luigi is a happiness without which I cannot live. Luigi has revealed to me the world of feeling. I have, perhaps, seen even handsomer faces than his, but none ever charmed me so much. I have, perhaps, heard voices—no, no, never one so musical! Luigi loves me. He shall be my husband.”
“Never!” said Piombo. “Ginevra, I would sooner see you in your coffin!”
The old man rose, and paced the room with hurried strides, uttering fierce words, with pauses between that betrayed all his indignation.
“You think, perhaps, that you can bend my will? Undeceive yourself. I will not have a Porta for my son-in-law. That is my decision. Never speak of the matter again. I am Bartolomeo di Piombo, do you hear, Ginevra?”
“Do you attach any mysterious meaning to the words?” she coldly asked.
“They mean that I have a dagger, and that I do not fear the justice of men. We Corsicans settle such matters with God.”
“Well,” said the girl, “I am Ginevra di Piombo, and I declare that in six months I will be Luigi Porta’s wife. — You are a tyrant, father,” she added, after an ominous pause.
Bartolomeo clenched his fists, and struck the marble chimney shelf.
“Ah! we are in Paris!” he muttered.
He said no more, but folded his arms and bowed his head on his breast; nor did he say another word the whole evening. Having asserted her will, the girl affected the most complete indifference; she sat down to the piano, sang, played the most charming music, with a grace and feeling that proclaimed her perfect freedom of mind, triumphing over her father, whose brow showed no relenting. The old man deeply felt this tacit insult, and at that moment gathered the bitter fruits of the education he had given his daughter. Respect is a barrier which protects the parents and the children alike, sparing those much sorrow, and these remorse.
The next day, as Ginevra was going out at the hour when she usually went to the studio, she found the door of the house closed upon her; but she soon devised means for informing Luigi Porta of her father’s severity. A waiting woman, who could not read, carried to the young officer a letter written by Ginevra. For five days the lovers contrived to correspond, thanks to the plots that young people of twenty can always contrive.
The father and daughter rarely spoke to each other. Both had in the bottom of their hearts an element of hatred; they suffered, but in pride and silence. Knowing well how strong were the bonds of love that tied them to each other, they tried to wrench them asunder, but without success. No sweet emotion ever came, as it had been wont, to give light to Bartolomeo’s severe features when he gazed at his Ginevra, and there was something savage in her expression when she looked at her father. Reproach sat on her innocent brow; she gave herself up, indeed, to thoughts of happiness, but remorse sometimes dimmed her eyes. It was not, indeed, difficult to divine that she would never enjoy in peace a felicity which made her parents unhappy. In Bartolomeo, as in his daughter, all the irresolution arising from their
