The day passed sadly and rapidly away. I was occupied so busily that I scarcely had time for reflection. But at last all I could do was done, and Lorenzo, who had gone out in the afternoon, found, on returning at nightfall, that everything was ready for his departure, which was to take place that very night.
We sat down side by side on a little bench against the garden-wall. Spring-time at Paris is lovely also, and everything was in bloom that year on Easter Sunday. The air even in Italy could not have been sweeter nor the sky clearer. He took my hand, and I leaned my head against his shoulder. For some minutes my heart swelled with a thousand emotions I was unable to express. I allowed my tears to flow in silence. Lorenzo likewise struggled to repress the agitation he did not wish to betray, as I saw by his trembling lips and the paleness of his face.
I wiped my eyes and raised my head.
“Lorenzo,” said I all at once, “why not take me with you, instead of leaving me here?”
“To the war?” said he, smiling.
“No, but to Italy. You could leave me, no matter where. On the other side of the Alps I should be near you, and … should you have need of me, I could go to you.”
He remained thoughtful for a moment, and then said, as if speaking to himself:
“Yes, should I be wounded, and have time to see you again, it would be a consolation, it is true.”
We became silent again, and I awaited his decision with a beating heart. Finally he said in a decided tone:
“No, Ginevra, it cannot be. Remain here. It is my wish. You must.”