The Italian did not observe the isolation in which she was left, and did not even wonder at the cause of her companions’ absence. Having devised the means of communicating with Louis, she lived in the studio as in a delightful retreat, secluded in the midst of the world, thinking only of the officer, and of the dangers which threatened him. This young creature, though sincerely admiring those noble characters who would not be false to their political faith, urged Louis to submit at once to royal authority, in order to keep him in France, while Louis refused to submit, that he might not have to leave his hiding-place.
If, indeed, passions only have their birth and grow up under the influence of romantic causes, never had so many circumstances concurred to link two beings by one feeling. Ginevra’s regard for Louis, and his for her, thus made greater progress in a month than a fashionable friendship can make in ten years in a drawing-room. Is not adversity the touchstone of character? Hence Ginevra could really appreciate Louis, and know him, and they soon felt a reciprocal esteem. Ginevra, who was older than Louis, found it sweet to be courted by a young man already so great, so tried by fortune, who united the experience of a man with the graces of youth. Louis, on his part, felt unspeakable delight in allowing himself to be apparently protected by a girl of five-and-twenty. Was it not a proof of love? The union in Ginevra of pride and sweetness, of strength and weakness, had an irresistible charm; Louis was indeed completely her slave. In short, they were already so deeply in love that they felt no need either to deny it to themselves, or to tell it.
One day, towards evening, Ginevra heard the signal agreed on—Louis tapped on the woodwork with a pin, so gently as to make no more noise than a spider attaching its thread—thus asking if he might come out. She glanced round the studio, did not see little Laure, and answered the summons; but as the door was opened, Louis caught sight of the girl, and hastily retreated. Ginevra, much surprised, looked about her, saw Laure, and going up to her easel, said, “You are staying very late, dear. And that head seems to me finished; there is only a reflected light to put in on that lock of hair.”
“It would be very kind of you,” said Laure, in a tremulous voice, “if you would correct this copy for me; I should have something of your doing to keep.”
“Of course I will,” said Ginevra, sure of thus dismissing her. “I thought,” she added, as she put in a few light touches, “that you had a long way to go home from the studio.”
“Oh! Ginevra, I am going away for good,” cried the girl, sadly.
“You are leaving Monsieur Servin?” asked the Italian, not seeming affected by her words, as she would have been a month since.
“Have you not noticed, Ginevra, that for some time there has been nobody here but you and me?”
“It is true,” replied Ginevra, suddenly struck as by a reminiscence. “Are they ill, or going to be married, or are all their fathers employed now at the palace?”
“They have all left Monsieur Servin,” said Laure.
“And why?”
“On your account, Ginevra.”
“Mine!” repeated the Corsican, rising, with a threatening brow, and a proud sparkle in her eyes.
“Oh, do not be angry, dear Ginevra,” Laure piteously exclaimed. “But my mother wishes that I should leave too. All the young ladies said that you had an intrigue; that Monsieur Servin had lent himself to allowing a young man who loves you to stay in the dark closet; but I never believed these calumnies, and did not tell my mother. Last evening Madame Roguin met my mother at a ball, and asked her whether she still sent me here. When mamma said Yes, she repeated all those girls’ tales. Mamma scolded me well; she declared I must have known it all, and that I had failed in the confidence of a daughter in her mother by not telling her. Oh, my dear Ginevra, I, who always took you for my model, how grieved I am not to be allowed to stay on with you—”
“We shall meet again in the world; young women get married,” said Ginevra.
“When they are rich,” replied Laure.
“Come to see me, my father has wealth—”
“Ginevra,” Laure went on, much moved, “Madame Roguin and my mother are coming tomorrow to see Monsieur Servin, and complain of his conduct. At least let him be prepared.”
A thunderbolt falling at her feet would have astonished Ginevra less than this announcement. “What could it matter to them?” she innocently asked.
“Everyone thinks it very wrong. Mamma says it is quite improper.”
“And you, Laure, what do you think about it?”
The girl looked at Ginevra, and their hearts met. Laure could no longer restrain her tears; she threw herself on her friend’s neck and kissed her. At this moment Servin came in.
“Mademoiselle Ginevra,” he said, enthusiastically, “I have finished my picture, it is being varnished. — But what is the matter? All the young ladies are making holiday, it would seem, or are gone into the country.”
Laure wiped away her tears, took leave of Servin, and went away.
“The studio had been deserted for some days,” said Ginevra, “and those young ladies will return no more.”
“Pooh!”
“Nay, do not laugh,” said Ginevra, “listen to me. I am
