eceive 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 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