“Oh, will a whole life of love and devotion suffice to repay my Ginevra for her courage and tenderness?” said Luigi.
At these words, spoken with tears of joy, the bride forgot all her suffering, for she had suffered in showing herself to the world claiming a happiness which her parents refused to sanction.
“Why do men try to come between us?” she said, with a simplicity of feeling that enchanted Luigi.
Gladness made them more lighthearted. They saw neither the sky, nor the earth, nor the houses, and flew on wings to the church. At last they found themselves in a small, dark chapel, and in front of a humble altar where an old priest married them. There, as at the mairie, they were pursued by the two weddings that persecuted them with their splendor. The church, filled with friends and relations, rang with the noise made by carriages, beadles, porters, and priests. Altars glittered with ecclesiastical magnificence; the crowns of orange-blossom that decked the statues of the Virgin seemed quite new. Nothing was to be seen but flowers, with perfumes, gleaming tapers, and velvet cushions embroidered with gold. God seemed to have a share in this rapture of a day. When the symbol of eternal union was to be held above the heads of Luigi and Ginevra—the yoke of white satin which for some is so soft, so bright, so light, and for the greater number is made of lead—the priest looked round in vain for two young boys to fill the happy office; two of the witnesses took their place. The priest gave the couple a hasty discourse on the dangers of life, and on the duties they must one day inculcate in their children, and he here took occasion to insinuate a reflection on the absence of Ginevra’s parents; then having united them in the presence of God, as the Maire had united them in the presence of the Law, he ended the mass, and left them.
“God bless them,” said Vergniaud to the mason at the church door. “Never were two creatures better made for each other. That girl’s parents are wretches. I know no braver soldier than Colonel Luigi! If all the world had behaved as he did, L’autre2 would still be with us.”
The soldier’s blessing, the only one breathed for them this day, fell like balm on Ginevra’s heart.
They all parted with shaking of hands, and Luigi cordially thanked his landlord.
“Goodbye, old fellow,” said Luigi to the quartermaster. “And thank you.”
“At your service, Colonel, soul and body, horses and chaises—all that is mine is yours.”
“How well he loves you!” said Ginevra.
Luigi eagerly led his wife home to the house they were to live in; they soon reached the modest apartment, and there, when the door was closed, Luigi took her in his arms, exclaiming, “Oh, my Ginevra—for you are mine now—here is our real festival! Here,” he went on, “all will smile on us.”
Together they went through the three rooms which composed their dwelling. The entrance hall served as drawing-room and dining-room. To the right was a bedroom, to the left a sort of large closet which Luigi had arranged for his beloved wife, where she found easels, her paintbox, some casts, models, lay figures, pictures, portfolios, in short, all the apparatus of an artist.
“Here I shall work,” said she, with childlike glee.
She looked for a long time at the paper and the furniture, constantly turning to Luigi to thank him, for there was a kind of magnificence in this humble retreat; a bookcase contained Ginevra’s favorite books, and there was a piano. She sat down on an ottoman, drew Luigi to her side, and clasping his hand, “You have such good taste,” said she, in a caressing tone.
“Your words make me very happy,” he replied.
“But, come, let us see everything,” said Ginevra, from whom Luigi had kept the secret of this little home.
They went into a bridal chamber that was as fresh and white as a maiden.
“Oh! come away,” said Luigi, laughing.
“But I must see everything,” and Ginevra imperiously went on, examining all the furniture with the curiosity of an antiquary studying a medal. She touched the silk stuff and scrutinized everything with the childlike delight of a bride turning over the treasures of the corbeille brought her by her husband.
“We have begun by ruining ourselves,” she said in a half-glad, half-regretful tone.
“It is true; all my arrears of pay are there,” replied Luigi. “I sold it to a good fellow named Gigonnet.
“Why?” she asked, in a reproachful voice, which betrayed, however, a secret satisfaction. “Do you think I should be less happy under a bare roof? Still,” she went on, “it is all very pretty, and it is ours!”
Luigi looked at her with such enthusiasm that she cast down her eyes, and said, “Let us see the rest.”
Above these three rooms, in the attics, were a workroom for Luigi, a kitchen, and a servant’s room. Ginevra was content with her little domain, though the view was limited by the high wall of a neighboring house, and the courtyard on which the rooms looked was gloomy. But the lovers were so glad of heart, hope so beautified the future, that they would see nothing but enchantment in their mysterious dwelling. They were buried in this huge house, lost in the immensity of Paris, like two pearls in their shell, in the bosom of the deep sea. For anyone else it would have been a prison; to them it was Paradise.
The first days of their married life were given to love; it was too difficult
