“To banish so young a man!  Who can he be? for he is not Marshal Ney—­”

These two sentences are the simplest expression of the many ideas that Ginevra turned over in her mind for two days.  On the third day, in spite of her haste to be first at the studio, she found Mademoiselle Thirion already there, having come in a carriage.

Ginevra and her enemy observed each other for a long time, but they made their faces impenetrable.  Amelie had seen the handsome head of the mysterious man, but, fortunately, and unfortunately also, the Imperial eagles and uniform were so placed that she did not see them through the crevice in the partition.  She was lost in conjectures.  Suddenly Servin came in, much earlier than usual.

“Mademoiselle Ginevra,” he said, after glancing round the studio, “why have you placed yourself there?  The light is bad.  Come nearer to the rest of the young ladies and pull down that curtain a little.”

Then he sat down near Laure, whose work deserved his most cordial attention.

“Well, well!” he cried; “here, indeed, is a head extremely well done.  You’ll be another Ginevra.”

The master then went from easel to easel, scolding, flattering, jesting, and making, as usual, his jests more dreaded than his reprimands.  Ginevra had not obeyed the professor’s order, but remained at her post, firmly resolved not to quit it.  She took a sheet of paper and began to sketch in sepia the head of the hidden man.  A work done under the impulse of an emotion has always a stamp of its own.  The faculty of giving to representations of nature or of thought their true coloring constitutes genius, and often, in this respect, passion takes the place of it.  So, under the circumstances in which Ginevra now found herself, the intuition which she owed to a powerful effect upon her memory, or, possibly, to necessity, that mother of great things, lent her, for the moment, a supernatural talent.  The head of the young officer was dashed upon the paper in the midst of an awkward trembling which she mistook for fear, and in which a physiologist would have recognized the fire of inspiration.  From time to time she glanced furtively at her companions, in order to hide the sketch if any of them came near her.  But in spite of her watchfulness, there was a moment when she did not see the eyeglass of the pitiless Amelie turned full upon the drawing from the shelter of a great portfolio.  Mademoiselle Thirion, recognizing the portrait of the mysterious man, showed herself abruptly, and Ginevra hastily covered the sheet of paper.

“Why do you stay there in spite of my advice, mademoiselle?” asked the professor, gravely.

The pupil turned her easel so that no one but the master could see the sketch, which she placed upon it, and said, in an agitated voice:—­

“Do you not think, as I do, that the light is very good?  Had I not better remain here?”

Servin turned pale.  As nothing escapes the piercing eyes of malice, Mademoiselle Thirion became, as it were, a sharer in the sudden emotion of master and pupil.