step in the court-yard, lightly as she trod. Like lovers, the three
would often sit silently together, understanding thus, better than by
speech, the eloquence of their souls. This profound sentiment, the
life itself of the two old people, animated their every thought. Here
were not three existences, but one,--one only, which, like the flame
on the hearth, divided itself into three tongues of fire. If,
occasionally, some memory of Napoleon's benefits and misfortunes, if
the public events of the moment distracted the minds of the old people
from this source of their constant solicitude, they could always talk
of those interests without affecting their community of thought, for
Ginevra shared their political passions. What more natural, therefore,
than the ardor with which they found a refuge in the heart of their
only child?

Until now the occupations of public life had absorbed the energy of
the Baron di Piombo; but after leaving those employments he felt the
need of casting that energy into the last sentiment that remained to
him. Apart from the ties of parentage, there may have been, unknown to
these three despotic souls, another powerful reason for the intensity
of their reciprocal love: it was love undivided. Ginevra's whole heart
belonged to her father, as Piombo's whole heart belonged to his child;
and if it be true that we are bound to one another more by our defects
than by our virtues, Ginevra echoed in a marvellous manner the
passions of her father. There lay the sole imperfection of this triple
life. Ginevra was born unyielding of will, vindictive, and passionate,
like her father in his youth.

The Corsican had taken pleasure in developing these savage sentiments
in the heart of his daughter, precisely as a lion teaches the lion-cubs
to spring upon their prey. But this apprenticeship to vengeance having