Luigi looked at her with such enthusiasm that she lowered her eyes.

“Now let us see the rest,” she cried.

Above these three rooms, under the roof, was a study for Luigi, a kitchen, and a servant’s-room.  Ginevra was much pleased with her little domain, although the view from the windows was limited by the high wall of a neighboring house, and the court-yard, from which their light was derived, was gloomy.  But the two lovers were so happy in heart, hope so adorned their future, that they chose to see nothing but what was charming in their hidden nest.  They were there in that vast house, lost in the immensity of Paris, like two pearls in their shell in the depths of ocean; to all others it might have seemed a prison; to them it was paradise.

The first few days of their union were given to love.  The effort to turn at once to work was too difficult; they could not resist the charm of their own passion.  Luigi lay for hours at the feet of his wife, admiring the color of her hair, the moulding of her forehead, the enchanting socket of her eyes, the purity and whiteness of the two arches beneath which the eyes themselves turned slowly, expressing the happiness of a satisfied love.  Ginevra caressed the hair of her Luigi, never weary of gazing at what she called his “belta folgorante,” and the delicacy of his features.  She was constantly charmed by the nobility of his manners, as she herself attracted him by the grace of hers.

They played together, like children, with nothings,—­nothings that brought them ever back to their love,—­ceasing their play only to fall into a revery of the “far niente.”  An air sung by Ginevra reproduced to their souls the enchanting lights and shadows of their passion.  Together, uniting their steps as they did their souls, they roamed about the country, finding everywhere their love,—­in the flowers, in the sky, in the glowing tints of the setting sun; they read it in even the capricious vapors which met and struggled in the ether.  Each day resembled in nothing its predecessors; their love increased, and still increased, because it was a true love.  They had tested each other in what seemed only a short time; and, instinctively, they recognized that their souls were of a kind whose inexhaustible riches promised for the future unceasing joys.

Theirs was love in all its artlessness, with its interminable conversations, unfinished speeches, long silences, oriental reposes, and oriental ardor.  Luigi and Ginevra comprehended love.  Love is like the ocean:  seen superficially, or in haste, it is called monotonous by common souls, whereas some privileged beings can pass their lives in admiring it, and in finding, ceaselessly, the varying phenomena that enchant them.

Soon, however, prudence and foresight drew the young couple from their Eden; it was necessary to work to live.  Ginevra, who possessed a special talent for imitating old paintings, took up the business of copying, and soon found many customers among the picture-dealers.  Luigi, on his side, sought long and actively for occupation, but it was hard for a young officer whose talents had been restricted to the study of strategy to find anything to do in Paris.