“Why do you stay there, in spite of my opinion, mademoiselle?” the professor gravely asked Ginevra.
The girl hastily turned her easel so that no one could see her sketch, and said, in an agitated voice, as she showed it to her master:
“Don’t you think with me that this is a better light? May I not stay where I am?”
Servin turned pale. As nothing can escape the keen eyes of hatred. Mademoiselle Thirion threw herself, so to speak, into the excited feelings that agitated the professor and his pupil.
“You are right,” said Servin. “But you will soon know more than I do,” he added, with a forced laugh. There was a silence, during which the master looked at the head of the officer. “This is a masterpiece, worthy of Salvator Rosa!” he exclaimed, with an artist’s vehemence.
At this exclamation all the young people rose, and Mademoiselle Thirion came forward with the swiftness of a tiger springing on its prey. At this instant the prisoner, roused by the turmoil, woke up. Ginevra overset her stool, spoke a few incoherent sentences, and began to laugh; but she had folded the portrait in half and thrown it into a portfolio before her terrible enemy could see it. The girls crowded round the easel; Servin enlarged in a loud voice on the beauties of the copy on which his favorite pupil was just now engaged; and all the party were cheated by this stratagem, excepting Amélie, who placed herself behind her companions and tried to open the portfolio into which she had seen the sketch put. Ginevra seized it and set it in front of her without a word, and the two girls gazed at each other in silence.
“Come, young ladies, to your places!” said Servin. “If you want to know as much as Mademoiselle di Piombo, you must not be always talking of fashions and balls, and trifling so much.”
When the girls had all returned to their easels, the master sat down by Ginevra.
“Was it not better that this mystery should be discovered by me than by anyone else?” said the Italian girl in a low tone.
“Yes,” answered the painter. “You are patriotic; but even if you had not been, you are still the person to whom I should entrust it.”
The master and pupil understood each other, and Ginevra was not now afraid to ask, “Who is he?”
“An intimate friend of Labédoyère’s; the man who, next to the unfortunate Colonel, did most to effect a junction between the 7th and the Grenadiers of Elba. He was a Major in the Guards, and has just come back from Waterloo.”
“Why have you not burned his uniform and shako, and put him into civilian dress?” asked Ginevra vehemently.
“Some clothes are to be brought for him this evening.”
“You should have shut up the studio for a few days.”
“He is going away.”
“Does he wish to die?” said the girl. “Let him stay with you during these first days of the storm. Paris is the only place in France where a man may be safely hidden. Is he a friend of yours?” she added.
“No. He has no claim to my regard but his misfortunes. This is how he fell into my hands: my father-in-law, who had rejoined his regiment during this campaign, met the poor young man, and saved him very cleverly from those who have arrested Labédoyère. He wanted to defend him. Like a madman!
“And do you call him so!” cried Ginevra, with a glance of surprise at the painter, who did not speak for a moment.
“My father-in-law is too closely watched to be able to keep anyone in his house,” he went on. “He brought him here by night last week. I hoped to hide him from every eye by keeping him in this corner, the only place in the house where he can be safe.”
“If I can be of any use, command me,” said Ginevra. “I know Marshal Feltre.”
“Well, we shall see,” replied the painter.
This conversation had lasted too long not to be remarked by all the other pupils. Servin left Ginevra, came back to each easel, and gave such long lessons that he was still upstairs when the clock struck the hour at which his pupils usually left.
“You have forgotten your bag, mademoiselle,” cried the professor, running after the young lady who condescended to act the spy to gratify her hatred.
The inquisitive pupil came back for the bag, expressing some surprise at her own carelessness; but Servin’s attention was to her additional proof of the existence of a mystery which was undoubtedly a serious one. She had already planned what should follow, and could say, like the Abbé Vertot, “I have laid my siege.” She ran downstairs noisily, and violently slammed the door leading to Servin’s rooms, that it might be supposed she had gone out; but she softly went upstairs again, and hid behind the door of the studio.
When the painter and Ginevra supposed themselves alone, he tapped in a particular manner at the door of the attic, which at once opened on its rusty, creaking hinges. The Italian girl saw a tall and well-built youth, whose Imperial uniform
