Ginevra kept silence.
“Ginevra,” continued the baron, “have you reflected that Luigi is the son of the man who killed your brother?”
“He was six years old when that crime was committed; he was, therefore, not guilty of it,” she replied.
“He is a Porta!” cried Bartolomeo.
“I have never shared that hatred,” said Ginevra, eagerly. “You did not bring me up to think a Porta must be a monster. How could I know that one of those whom you thought you had killed survived? Is it not natural that you should now yield your vendetta to my feelings?”
“A Porta!” repeated Piombo. “If his father had found you in your bed you would not be living now; he would have taken your life a hundred times.”
“It may be so,” she answered; “but his son has given me life, and more than life. To see Luigi is a happiness without which I cannot live. Luigi has revealed to me the world of sentiments. I may, perhaps, have seen faces more beautiful than his, but none has ever charmed me thus; I may have heard voices—no, no, never any so melodious! Luigi loves me; he will be my husband.”
“Never,” said Piombo. “I would rather see you in your coffin, Ginevra.”
The old Corsican rose and began to stride up and down the salon, dropping the following sentences, one by one, after pauses which betrayed his agitation.
“You think you can bend my will. Undeceive yourself. A Porta shall never be my son; that is my decree. Let there be no further question of this between us. I am Bartolomeo di Piombo; do you hear me, Ginevra?”