As she watched them, Ginevra’s heart swelled within her; she pressed Luigi’s arm, and gave him a look.  A tear rolled from the eyes of the young Corsican; never did he so well understand the joys that his Ginevra was sacrificing to him.  That precious tear caused her to forget all else but him,—­even the abandonment in which she sat there.  Love poured down its treasures of light upon their hearts; they saw nought else but themselves in the midst of the joyous tumult; they were there alone, in that crowd, as they were destined to be, henceforth, in life.  Their witnesses, indifferent to what was happening, conversed quietly on their own affairs.

“Oats are very dear,” said the sergeant to the mason.

“But they have not gone up like lime, relatively speaking,” replied the contractor.

Then they walked round the hall.

“How one loses time here,” said the mason, replacing a thick silver watch in his fob.

Luigi and Ginevra, sitting pressed to one another, seemed like one person.  A poet would have admired their two heads, inspired by the same sentiment, colored in the same tones, silent and saddened in presence of that humming happiness sparkling in diamonds, gay with flowers,—­a gayety in which there was something fleeting.  The joy of those noisy and splendid groups was visible; that of Ginevra and Luigi was buried in their bosom.  On one side the tumult of common pleasure, on the other, the delicate silence of happy souls,—­earth and heaven!

But Ginevra was not wholly free from the weaknesses of women.  Superstitious as an Italian, she saw an omen in this contrast, and in her heart there lay a sense of terror, as invincible as her love.

Suddenly the office servant, in the town livery, opened a folding-door.  Silence reigned, and his voice was heard, like the yapping of a dog, calling Monsieur Luigi da Porta and Mademoiselle Ginevra di Piombo.  This caused some embarrassment to the young pair.  The celebrity of the bride’s name attracted attention, and the spectators seemed to wonder that the wedding was not more sumptuous.  Ginevra rose, took Luigi’s arm, and advanced firmly, followed by the witnesses.  A murmur of surprise, which went on increasing, and a general whispering reminded Ginevra that all present were wondering at the absence of her parents; her father’s wrath seemed present to her.

“Call in the families,” said the mayor to the clerk whose business it was to read aloud the certificates.

“The father and mother protest,” replied the clerk, phlegmatically.

“On both sides?” inquired the mayor.

“The groom is an orphan.”

“Where are the witnesses?”

“Here,” said the clerk, pointing to the four men, who stood with arms folded, like so many statues.

“But if the parents protest—­” began the mayor.

“The respectful summons has been duly served,” replied the clerk, rising, to lay before the mayor the papers annexed to the marriage certificate.