“I have scoured Paris,” he said in a hollow voice. “I know no one, and how can I dare beg of strangers? Vergniaud, the horse-breeder, my old comrade in Egypt, is implicated in some conspiracy, and has been sent to prison; besides, he had lent me all he had to lend. As to the landlord, he has not asked me for any rent for more than a year.”
“But we do not want for anything,” Ginevra gently answered, with an affectation of calmness.
“Each day brings some fresh difficulty,” replied Luigi, with horror.
Luigi took all Ginevra’s paintings, the portrait, some furniture which they yet could dispense with, and sold them all for a mere trifle; the money thus obtained prolonged their sufferings for a little while. During these dreadful days Ginevra showed the sublime heights of her character, and the extent of her resignation. She bore the inroads of suffering with stoical firmness. Her vigorous soul upheld her under all ills; with a weak hand she worked on by her dying child, fulfilled her household duties with miraculous activity, and was equal to everything. She was even happy when she saw on Luigi’s lips a smile of surprise at the look of neatness she contrived to give to the one room to which they had been reduced.
“I have kept you a piece of bread, dear,” she said one evening when he came in tired.
“And you?”
“I have dined, dear Luigi; I want nothing.” And the sweet expression of her face, even more than her words, urged him to accept the food of which she had deprived herself. Luigi embraced her with one of the despairing kisses which friends gave each other in 1793 as they mounted the scaffold together. In such moments as these two human creatures see each other heart to heart. Thus the unhappy Luigi, understanding at once that his wife was fasting, felt the fever that was undermining her; he shivered, and went out on the pretext of pressing business, for he would rather have taken the most insidious poison than escape death by eating the last morsel of bread in the house.
He wandered about Paris among the smart carriages, in the midst of the insulting luxury that is everywhere flaunted; he hurried past the shops of the money-changers where gold glitters in the window; finally, he determined to sell himself, to offer himself as a substitute for the conscription, hoping by this sacrifice to save Ginevra, and that during his absence she might be taken into favor again by Bartolomeo. So he went in search of one of the men who deal in these white slaves, and felt a gleam of happiness at recognizing in him an old officer of the Imperial Guard.
“For two days I have eaten nothing,” he said, in a slow, weak voice. “My wife is dying of hunger, and never utters a complaint; she will die, I believe, with a smile on her lips. For pity’s sake, old comrade,” he added, with a forlorn smile, “pay for me in advance; I am strong, I have left the service, and I—”
The officer gave Luigi something on account of the sum he promised to get for him. The unhappy man laughed convulsively when he grasped a handful of gold pieces, and ran home as fast as he could go, panting, and exclaiming as he went, “Oh, my Ginevra—Ginevra!”
It was growing dark by the time he reached home. He went in softly, fearing to over-excite his wife, whom he had left so weak; the last pale rays of sunshine, coming in at the dormer-window, fell on Ginevra’s face. She was asleep in her chair with her baby at her breast.
“Wake up, my darling,” said he, without noticing the attitude of the child, which seemed at this moment to have a supernatural glory.
On hearing his voice, the poor mother opened her eyes, met Luigi’s look, and smiled; but Luigi gave a cry of terror. He hardly recognized his half-crazed wife, to whom he showed the gold, with a gesture of savage vehemence. Ginevra began to laugh mechanically, but suddenly she cried in a terrible voice, “Louis, the child is cold!”
She looked at the infant and fainted. Little Bartolomeo was dead.
Luigi took his wife in his arms, without depriving her of the child, which she clutched to her with incomprehensible strength, and after laying her on the bed he went out to call for help.
“Great Heaven!” he exclaimed to his landlord, whom he met on the stairs, “I have money, and my child is dead of hunger, and my wife is dying. Help us.”
In despair he went back to his wife, leaving the worthy builder and various neighbors to procure whatever might relieve the misery of which till now they had known nothing, so carefully had the Corsicans concealed it out of a feeling of pride. Luigi had tossed the gold pieces on the floor, and was kneeling by the bed where his wife lay.
“Father, take charge of my son, who bears your name!” cried Ginevra in her delirium.
“Oh, my angel, be calm,” said Luigi, kissing her, “better days await us!” His voice and embrace restored her to some composure.
“Oh, my Louis,” she went on, looking at him with extraordinary fixity, “listen to me. I feel that I am dying. My death is quite natural.
