Toward the end of the winter of that year Luigi worked without intermission.  He, too, was struggling against competitors.  The payment for writing had so decreased that he found it impossible to employ assistance; he was forced, therefore, to work a much longer time himself to obtain the same emolument.  His wife had finished several pictures which were not without merit; but the dealers were scarcely buying those of artists with reputations; consequently, her paintings had little chance.  Ginevra offered them for almost nothing, but without success.

The situation of the household now began to be alarming.  The souls of the husband and wife floated on the ocean of their happiness, love overwhelmed them with its treasures, while poverty rose, like a skeleton, amid their harvest of joy.  Yet, all the while, they hid from each other their secret anxiety.  When Ginevra felt like weeping as she watched Luigi’s worn and suffering face, she redoubled her caresses; and Luigi, keeping his dark forebodings in the depths of his soul, expressed to his Ginevra the tenderest love.  They sought a compensation for their troubles in exalting their feelings; and their words, their joys, their caresses became suffused, as it were, with a species of frenzy.  They feared the future.  What feeling can be compared in strength with that of a passion which may cease on the morrow, killed by death or want?  When they talked together of their poverty each felt the necessity of deceiving the other, and they fastened with mutual ardor on the slightest hope.

One night Ginevra woke and missed Luigi from her side.  She rose in terror.  A faint light shining on the opposite wall of the little court-yard revealed to her that her husband was working in his study at night.  Luigi was now in the habit of waiting till his wife was asleep, and then going up to his garret to write.  Four o’clock struck.  Ginevra lay down again, and pretended to sleep.  Presently Luigi returned, overcome with fatigue and drowsiness.  Ginevra looked sadly on the beautiful, worn face, where toil and care were already drawing lines of wrinkles.

“It is for me he spends his nights in writing,” she said to herself, weeping.

A thought dried her tears.  She would imitate Luigi.  That same day she went to a print-shop, and, by help of a letter of recommendation she had obtained from Elie Magus, one of her picture-dealers, she obtained an order for the coloring of lithographs.  During the day she painted her pictures and attended to the cares of the household; then, when night came, she colored the engravings.  This loving couple entered their nuptial bed only to deceive each other; both feigned sleep, and left it,—­Luigi, as soon as he thought his wife was sleeping, Ginevra as soon as he had gone.

One night Luigi, burning with a sort of fever, induced by a toil under which his strength was beginning to give way, opened the casement of his garret to breathe the morning air, and shake off, for a moment, the burden of his care.  Happening to glance downward, he saw the reflection of Ginevra’s lamp on the opposite wall, and the poor fellow guessed the truth.  He went down, stepping softly, and surprised his wife in her studio, coloring engravings.