“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.”