made no changes. Lodged, usually, at the cost of the government, he
did not occupy this house until after the catastrophe of
Fontainebleau. Following the habits of simple persons of strict
virtue, the baron and his wife gave no heed to external splendor;
their furniture was that which they bought with the mansion. The grand
apartments, lofty, sombre, and bare, the wide mirrors in gilded frames
that were almost black, the furniture of the period of Louis XIV. were
in keeping with Bartolomeo and his wife, personages worthy of
antiquity.

Under the Empire, and during the Hundred Days, while exercising
functions that were liberally rewarded, the old Corsican had
maintained a great establishment, more for the purpose of doing honor
to his office than from any desire to shine himself. His life and that
of his wife were so frugal, so tranquil, that their modest fortune
sufficed for all their wants. To them, their daughter Ginevra was more
precious than the wealth of the whole world. When, therefore, in May,
1814, the Baron di Piombo resigned his office, dismissed his crowd of
servants, and closed his stable door, Ginevra, quiet, simple and
unpretending like her parents, saw nothing to regret in the change.
Like all great souls, she found her luxury in strength of feeling, and
derived her happiness from quietness and work. These three beings
loved each other too well for the externals of existence to be of
value in their eyes.

Often, and especially after the second dreadful fall of Napoleon,
Bartolomeo and his wife passed delightful evenings alone with their
daughter, listening while she sang and played. To them there was a
vast secret pleasure in the presence, in the slightest word of that
child; their eyes followed her with tender anxiety; they heard her