“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.