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impending change in the feelings of father and daughter gave to the

worn and weary face of the baroness 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 us. Our vendetta is a part of our being.



Whoso does not share my vengeance is not a member of my family."

"My choice is made," replied Ginevra, calmly.



His daughter's tranquillity misled Bartolomeo.

"Oh! my dear child!" he cried, letting her see his eyes moistened with



tears, the first and only tears he ever shed in life.

"I shall be his wife," said Ginevra, abruptly.



Bartolomeo seemed dazed for a moment, but he recovered his coolness

instantly, and replied:--



"The marriage will not take place in my lifetime; I will never consent

to it."



Ginevra kept silence.

"Ginevra," continued the baron, "have you reflected that Luigi is the



son of the man who killed your brother?"

"He was six years old when that crime was committed; he was,



therefore, not guilty of it," she replied.

"He is a Porta!" cried Bartolomeo.



"I have never shared that hatred," said Ginevra, eagerly. "You did not

bring me up to think a Porta must be a monster. How could I know that



one of those whom you thought you had killed survived? Is it not

natural that you should now yield your vendetta to my feelings?"



"A Porta!" repeated Piombo. "If his father had found you in your bed

you would not be living now; he would have taken your life a hundred



times."

"It may be so," she answered; "but his son has given me life, and more



than life. To see Luigi is a happiness without which I cannot live.

Luigi has revealed to me the world of sentiments. I may, perhaps, have



seen faces more beautiful than his, but none has ever charmed me thus;

I may have heard voices--no, no, never any so melodious! Luigi loves



me; he will be my husband."

"Never," said Piombo. "I would rather see you in your coffin,



Ginevra."

The old Corsican rose and began to stride up and down the salon,



dropping the following sentences, one by one, after pauses which

betrayed his agitation.



"You think you can bend my will. Undeceive yourself. A Porta shall

never be my son; that is my decree. Let there be no further question



of this between us. I am Bartolomeo di Piombo; do you hear me,

Ginevra?"



"Do you attach some mysterious meaning to those words?" she asked,

coldly.



"They mean that I have a dagger, and that I do not fear man's justice.

Corsicans explain themselves to God."



"And I," said the daughter, rising, "am Ginevra Piombo, and I declare

that within six months I shall be the wife of Luigi Porta. You are a



tyrant, my father," she added, after a terrifying pause.

Bartolomeo clenched his fists and struck them on the marble of the



chimneypiece.

"Ah! we are in Paris!" he muttered.



Then he was silent, crossed his arms, bowed his head on his breast,

and said not another word during the whole evening.



After once giving utterance to her will, Ginevra affected

inconceivable coolness. She opened the piano and sang, played charming



nocturnes and scherzos with a grace and sentiment which displayed a

perfect freedom of mind, thus triumphing over her father, whose



darkling face showed no softening. The old man was cruelly hurt by

this tacit insult; he gathered in this one moment the bitter fruits of



the training he had given to his daughter. Respect is a barrier which

protects parents as it does children, sparing grief to the former,



remorse to the latter.

The next day, when Ginevra sought to leave the house at the hour when



she usually went to the studio, she found the gates of the mansion

closed to her. She said nothing, but soon found means to inform Luigi



Porta of her father's severity. A chambermaid, who could neither read

nor write, was able to carry letters between the lovers. For five days



they corresponded thus, thanks to the inventive shrewdness of the

youth.



The father and daughter seldom spoke to each other. Both were nursing

in the depths of their heart a sentiment of hatred; they suffered, but



they suffered proudly, and in silence. Recognizing how strong were the




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