Vendetta

Already a septuagenarian, tall, withered, pale, and wrinkled, the baroness exactly resembled those old women whom Schnetz puts into the Italian scenes of his “genre” pictures. She was so habitually silent that she might have been taken for another Mrs. Shandy; but, occasionally, a word, look, or gesture betrayed that her feelings still retained all the vigor and the freshness of their youth. Her dress, devoid of coquetry, was often in bad taste. She usually sat passive, buried in a low sofa, like a Sultana Valide, awaiting or admiring her Ginevra, her pride, her life. The beauty, toilet, and grace of her daughter seemed to have become her own. All was well with her if Ginevra was happy. Her hair was white, and a few strands only were seen above her white and wrinkled forehead, or beside her hollow cheeks.

“It is now fifteen days,” she said, “since Ginevra made a practice of being late.”

“Jean is so slow!” cried the impatient old man, buttoning up his blue coat and seizing his hat, which he dashed upon his head as he took his cane and departed.

“You will not get far,” said his wife, calling after him.

As she spoke, the porte-cochere was opened and shut, and the old mother heard the steps of her Ginevra in the court-yard. Bartolomeo almost instantly reappeared, carrying his daughter, who struggled in his arms.

CHAPTER IV. LOVE

“Here she is, my Ginevra, Ginevrettina, Ginevrola, mia Ginevra bella!” cried the old man.

“Oh, father, you hurt me!”

Instantly Ginevra was put down with an air of respect. She nodded her head with a graceful movement at her mother, who was frightened by her cry, as if to say, “Don’t be alarmed, it was only a trick to get away.”

The pale, wan face of the baroness recovered its usual tones, and even assumed a look of gayety. Piombo rubbed his hands violently, – with him the surest symptom of joy; he had taken to this habit at court when he saw Napoleon becoming angry with those of his generals and ministers who served him ill or committed blunders. When, as now, the muscles of his face relaxed, every wrinkle on his forehead expressed benevolence. These two old people presented at this moment precisely the aspect of a drooping plant to which a little water has given fresh life after long dryness.

“Now, to dinner! to dinner!” cried the baron, offering his large hand to his daughter, whom he called “Signora Piombellina,” – another symptom of gayety, to which Ginevra replied by a smile.

“Ah ca!” said Piombo, as they left the table, “your mother has called my attention to the fact that for some weeks you have stayed much longer than usual at the studio. It seems that painting is more to you than your parents – ”

“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.”

The old man sat down, after raising his hands to heaven with a gesture of invoking the Divine power; then he bowed himself over as if weighed down with sorrow.

Ginevra saw his agitation, and the restraint which he put upon his anger touched her to the heart; she expected some violent crisis, some ungovernable fury; she had not armed her soul against paternal gentleness.

“Father,” she said, in a tender voice, “no, you shall never be abandoned by your Ginevra. But love her a little for her own sake. If you know how he loves me! Ah! He would never make me unhappy!”

“Comparisons already!” cried Piombo, in a terrible voice. “No, I can never endure the idea of your marriage. If he loved you as you deserve to be loved he would kill me; if he did not love you, I should put a dagger through him.”

The hands of the old man trembled, his lips trembled, his body trembled, but his eyes flashed lightnings. Ginevra alone was able to endure his glance, for her eyes flamed also, and the daughter was worthy of the sire.

“Oh! to love you! What man is worthy of such a life?” continued Piombo. “To love you as a father is paradise on earth; who is there worthy to be your husband?”

“He,” said Ginevra; “he of whom I am not worthy.”

“He?” repeated Piombo, mechanically; “who is he?”