the delicacy of his features. She was constantly charmed by the

nobility of his manners, as she herself attracted him by the grace of
hers.

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 picture-dealers.

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 find anything to do in Paris.
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 writing" target="_blank" title="n.笔迹；书法">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" target="_blank" title="n.抱怨；叫屈">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 overcome的过去式">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 WERE HAPPY. No event happened to
them of sufficient importance to be recorded.

CHAPTER VI
RETRIBUTION

At the beginning of the year 1819 the picture-dealers 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 portrait-painting. 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 laid by a few savings,

they were not, as yet, uneasy about the future.
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
without success.

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 the slightest hope.
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
court-yard 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 of wrinkles.

"It is for me he spends his nights in writing," she said to herself,
weeping.

A thought dried her tears. She would imitate Luigi. That same day she
went to a print-shop, and, by help of a letter of recommendation she

had obtained from Elie Magus, one of her picture-dealers, 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 sleeping, Ginevra

as soon as he had gone.
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 studio, coloring engravings.

"Oh, Ginevra!" he cried.
She gave a convulsive bound in her chair, and blushed.

"Could I sleep while you were wearing yourself out with toil?" she