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“Oh, father!”

“Ginevra is preparing some surprise for us, I think,” said the mother.

“A picture of your own! will you bring us that?” cried the Corsican, clapping his hands.

“Yes, I am very much occupied at the studio,” replied Ginevra, rather slowly.

“What is the matter, Ginevra? You are turning pale!” cried her mother.

“No!” exclaimed the young girl in a tone of resolution,–“no! it shall never be said that Ginevra Piombo acted a lie.”

Hearing this singular exclamation, Piombo and his wife looked at their daughter in astonishment.

“I love a young man,” she added, in a voice of emotion.

Then, not venturing to look at her parents, she lowered her large eyelids as if to veil the fire of her eyes.

“Is he a prince?” asked her father, ironically, in a tone of voice which made the mother quail.

“No, father,” she said, gently, “he is a young man without fortune.”

“Is he very handsome?”

“He is very unfortunate.”

“What is he?”

“Labedoyere’s comrade; he was proscribed, without a refuge; Servin concealed him, and–“

“Servin is a good fellow, who has done well,” cried Piombo; “but you, my daughter, you do wrong to love any man, except your father.”

“It does not depend on me to love, or not to love,” replied Ginevra, still gently.

“I flattered myself,” continued her father, “that my Ginevra would be faithful to me until I died; and that my love and that of her mother would suffice her till then; I did not expect that our tenderness would find a rival in her soul, and–“

“Did I ever reproach you for your fanaticism for Napoleon?” said Ginevra. “Have you never loved any one but me? Did you not leave me for months together when you went on missions. I bore your absence courageously. Life has necessities to which we must all submit.”

“Ginevra!”

“No, you don’t love me for myself; your reproaches betray your intolerable egotism.”

“You dare to blame your father’s love!” exclaimed Piombo, his eyes flashing.

“Father, I don’t blame you,” replied Ginevra, with more gentleness than her trembling mother expected. “You have grounds for your egotism, as I have for my love. Heaven is my witness that no girl has ever fulfilled her duty to her parents better than I have done to you. I have never felt anything but love and happiness where others often see obligation. It is now fifteen years that I have never left your protecting wing, and it has been a most dear pleasure to me to charm your life. But am I ungrateful for all this in giving myself up to the joy of loving; is it ingratitude to desire a husband who will protect me hereafter?”

“What! do you reckon benefits with your father, Ginevra?” said Piombo, in a dangerous tone.

A dreadful pause then followed, during which no one dared to speak. Bartolomeo at last broke the silence by crying out in a heart-rending tone:–

“Oh! stay with us! stay with your father, your old father! I cannot have you love another man. Ginevra, you will not have long to await your liberty.”

“But, father, remember that I need not leave you; we shall be two to love you; you will learn to know the man to whose care you bequeath me. You will be doubly cherished by me and by him,–by him who is my other self, by me who am all his.”

“Oh! Ginevra, Ginevra!” cried the Corsican, clenching his fists; “why did you not marry when Napoleon brought me to accept the idea? Why did you not take the counts and dukes he presented to you?”

“They loved me to order,” said the girl. “Besides, they would have made me live with them, and I did not wish to leave you alone.”

“You don’t wish to leave me alone,” said Piombo, “and yet you marry! –that is leaving me alone. I know you, my daughter; in that case, you would cease to love us. Elisa,” he added, looking at his wife, who remained motionless, and as if stupefied, “we have no longer a daughter; she wishes to marry.”