The Baron Holbein loved his daughter; she was the bright spot in life.  To make her happy, he would sacrifice almost anything.  A residence of many years in the world had shown him its pretensions, its heartlessness, the worth of all its titles and distinctions.  He did not value them too highly.  But, when a peasant approached and asked the hand of his daughter, the old man’s pride, that was smouldering in the ashes, burned up with a sudden blaze.  He could hardly find words to express his indignation.  It took but a few days for this indignation to burn low.  Not that he felt more favorable to the peasant—­but, less angry with his daughter.  It is not certain that time would not have done something favorable for the lovers in the baron’s mind.  But they could not wait for time.  Nina, from the violence and decision displayed by her father, felt hopeless of any change, and sought an early opportunity to steal away from the castle and meet Pierre, notwithstanding the positive commands that had been issued on the subject.  The young man, in the thoughtless enthusiasm of youth, urged their flight.

“I am master of my art,” he said, with a proud air.  “We can live in Florence, where I have many friends.”

The youth did not find it hard to bring the confiding, artless girl into his wishes.  In less than a month the baron missed his child.  A letter explained all.  She had been wedded to the young peasant, and they had left for Florence.  The letter contained this clause, signed by both Pierre and Nina:—­

“When our father will forgive us, and permit our return, we shall be truly happy—­but not till then.”

The indignant old man saw nothing but impertinent assurance in this.  He tore up the letter, and trampled it under his feet, in a rage.  He swore to renounce his child forever!

For the Baron Holbein, the next twelve months were the saddest of his life.  Too deeply was the image of his child impressed upon his heart, for passion to efface it.  As the first ebullitions subsided, and the atmosphere of his mind grew clear again, the sweet face of his child was before him, and her tender eyes looking into his own.  As the months passed away, he grew more and more restless and unhappy.  There was an aching void in bosom.  Night after night he would dream of his child, and awake in the morning and sigh that the dream was not reality.  But pride was strong—­he would not countenance her disobedience.

More than a year had passed away, and not one word had come from his absent one, who grew dearer to his heart every day.  Once or twice he had seen the name of Pierre Delebarre in the journals, as a young artist residing Florence, who was destined, to become eminent.  The pleasure these announcements gave him was greater than he would confess, even to himself.