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 parents.

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 themselves
that the one would yield to the other.

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 by the
timid hesitation on her face, and she smiled sadly.

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" target="_blank" title="ad.多情地；热烈地">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 deceitfulindifference as he gazed
at the notaries with an assumed air of calm curiosity. The strangers

sat down, after being invited to do so by a gesture of the old man.
"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 snuff-box,
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 represented

by the printer's dash--).
"Monsieur," he said, "I am Monsieur Roguin, your daughter's notary,

and we have come--my colleague and I--to fulfil the intentions of the
law and--put an end to the divisions which--appear--to exist--between

yourself and Mademoiselle, your daughter,--on the subject--of--her--
marriage with Monsieur Luigi Porta."

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,
which caused the notary to think to himself: "I've produced an

effect."
"But," he continued, in a honeyed tone, "Monsieur le baron, on such

occasions our duties are preceded by--efforts at--conciliation--Deign,
therefore, to have the goodness to listen to me--It is in evidence

that Mademoiselle Ginevra di Piombo--attains this very day--the age at
which the law allows a respectful summons before proceeding to the

celebration of a marriage--in spite of the non-consent of the parents.
Now--it is usual in families--who enjoy a certain consideration--who

belong to society--who preserve some dignity--to 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 (for--that is injuring

themselves), it is usual, I say--among these honorable families--not
to allow these summonses--to take place--or remain--a monument to--

divisions which should end--by ceasing--Whenever, monsieur, a young
lady has recourse to respectful summons, she exhibits a determination

too marked to allow of a father--of a mother," here he turned to the
baroness, "hoping or expecting that she will follow their wishes--

Paternal resistance being null--by reason of this fact--in the first
place--and also from its being nullified by law, it is customary--for

every sensible man--after making a final remonstrance to his child--
and before she proceeds to the respectful summons--to leave her at

liberty to--"
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 window.

"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
arguing with him."

Monsieur Roguin then read a stamped paper, containing the "respectful
summons," prepared for the occasion; after which he proceeded to ask

Bartolomeo what answer he made to it.
"Are there laws in France which destroy paternal authority?--"

demanded the Corsican.
"Monsieur--" said Roguin, in his honeyed tones.

"Which tear a daughter from her father?--"
"Monsieur--"

"Which deprive an old man of his last consolation?--"
"Monsieur, your daughter only belongs to you if--"

"And kill him?--"
"Monsieur, permit me--"

There is nothing more horrible than the coolness and precise reasoning
of notaries amid the many passionate scenes in which they are

accustomed to take part.
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" target="_blank" title="ad.强暴地；猛烈地">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 buried itself in

the wainscot.
"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 violentexcitement 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 from
him.

"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" target="_blank" title="ad.强暴地；猛烈地">violently on his heart. "Go, leave my house,

unhappy girl," he added, after a moment's silence. "Go, and never come
into my sight again."