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
coolnessinstantly, 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