the man to whose care you bequeath me.
You will be doubly cherished by me and by him,--by him who is my other
self, by me who am all his."

"Oh! Ginevra, Ginevra!" cried the Corsican, clenching his fists; "why
did you not marry when Napoleon brought me to accept the idea? Why did
you not take the counts and dukes he presented to you?"

"They loved me to order," said the girl. "Besides, they would have made
me live with them, and I did not wish to leave you alone."

"You don't wish to leave me alone," said Piombo, "and yet you
marry!--that is leaving me alone. I know you, my daughter; in that case,
you would cease to love us. Elisa," he added, looking at his wife, who
remained motionless, and as if stupefied, "we have no longer a daughter;
she wishes to marry."

The old man sat down, after raising his hands to heaven with a gesture
of invoking the Divine power; then he bowed himself over as if weighed
down with sorrow.

Ginevra saw his agitation, and the restraint which he put upon his
anger touched her to the heart; she expected some violent crisis,
some ungovernable fury; she had not armed her soul against paternal
gentleness.

"Father," she said, in a tender voice, "no, you shall never be abandoned
by your Ginevra. But love her a little for her own sake. If you know how
he loves me! Ah! _He_ would never make me unhappy!"

"Comparisons already!" cried Piombo, in a terrible voice. "No, I can
never endure the idea of your marriage. If he loved you as you deserve
to be loved he would kill me; if he did not love you, I should put a
dagger through him."

The hands of the old man trembled, his lips trembled, his body trembled,
but his eyes flashed lightnings. Ginevra alone was able to endure his
glance, for her eyes flamed also, and the daughter was worthy of the
sire.

"Oh! to love you! What man is worthy of such a life?" continued Piombo.
"To love you as a father is paradise on earth; who is there worthy to be
your husband?"

"_He_," said Ginevra; "he of whom I am not worthy."

"He?" repeated Piombo, mechanically; "who is _he_?"

"He whom I love."

"How can he know you enough to love you?"

"Father," said Ginevra, with a gesture of impatience, "whether he loves
me or not, if I love him--"

"You love him?" cried Piombo.

Ginevra bent her head softly.

"You love him more than you love us?"

"The two feelings cannot be compared," she replied.

"Is one stronger than the other?"

"I think it is," sa