“Give my hair to my father, in memory of his Ginevra,” she said.  “Tell him I have never blamed him.”

Her head fell upon her husband’s arm.

“No, you cannot die!” cried Luigi.  “The doctor is coming.  We have food.  Your father will take you home.  Prosperity is here.  Stay with us, angel!”

But the faithful heart, so full of love, was growing cold.  Ginevra turned her eyes instinctively to him she loved, though she was conscious of nought else.  Confused images passed before her mind, now losing memory of earth.  She knew that Luigi was there, for she clasped his icy hand tightly, and more tightly still, as though she strove to save herself from some precipice down which she feared to fall.

“Dear,” she said, at last, “you are cold; I will warm you.”

She tried to put his hand upon her heart, but died.

Two doctors, a priest, and several neighbors came into the room, bringing all that was necessary to save the poor couple and calm their despair.  These strangers made some noise in entering; but after they had entered, an awful silence filled the room.

While that scene was taking place, Bartolomeo and his wife were sitting in their antique chairs, each at a corner of the vast fireplace, where a glowing fire scarcely warmed the great spaces of their salon.  The clock told midnight.

For some time past the old couple had lost the ability to sleep.  At the present moment they sat there silent, like two persons in their dotage, gazing about them at things they did not see.  Their deserted salon, so filled with memories to them, was feebly lighted by a single lamp which seemed expiring.  Without the sparkling of the flame upon the hearth, they might soon have been in total darkness.

A friend had just left them; and the chair on which he had been sitting, remained where he left it, between the two Corsicans.  Piombo was casting glances at that chair,—­glances full of thoughts, crowding one upon another like remorse,—­for the empty chair was Ginevra’s.  Elisa Piombo watched the expressions that now began to cross her husband’s pallid face.  Though long accustomed to divine his feelings from the changeful agitations of his face, they seemed to-night so threatening, and anon so melancholy that she felt she could no longer read a soul that was now incomprehensible, even to her.

Would Bartolomeo yield, at last, to the memories awakened by that chair?  Had he been shocked to see a stranger in that chair, used for the first time since his daughter left him?  Had the hour of his mercy struck,—­that hour she had vainly prayed and waited for till now?

These reflections shook the mother’s heart successively.  For an instant her husband’s countenance became so terrible that she trembled at having used this simple means to bring about a mention of Ginevra’s name.  The night was wintry; the north wind drove the snowflakes so sharply against the blinds that the old couple fancied that they heard a gentle rustling.  Ginevra’s mother dropped her head to hide her tears.  Suddenly a sigh burst from the old man’s breast; his wife looked at him; he seemed to her crushed.  Then she risked speaking—­for the second time in three long years—­of his daughter.