“You are right,” said Servin; “but really,” he added, with a forced laugh, “you will soon come to know more than I do.”

A pause followed, during which the professor studied the drawing of the officer’s head.

“It is a masterpiece! worthy of Salvator Rosa!” he exclaimed, with the energy of an artist.

All the pupils rose on hearing this, and Mademoiselle Thirion darted forward with the velocity of a tiger on its prey.  At this instant, the prisoner, awakened, perhaps, by the noise, began to move.  Ginevra knocked over her stool, said a few incoherent sentences, and began to laugh; but she had thrown the portrait into her portfolio before Amelie could get to her.  The easel was now surrounded; Servin descanted on the beauty of the copy which his favorite pupil was then making, and the whole class was duped by this stratagem, except Amelie, who, slipping behind her companions, attempted to open the portfolio where she had seen Ginevra throw the sketch.  But the latter took it up without a word, and placed it in front of her.  The two young girls then looked at each other fixedly, in silence.

“Come, mesdemoiselles, take your places,” said Servin.  “If you wish to do as well as Mademoiselle di Piombo, you mustn’t be always talking fashions and balls, and trifling away your time as you do.”

When they were all reseated before their easels, Servin sat down beside Ginevra.

“Was it not better that I should be the one to discover the mystery rather than the others?” asked the girl, in a low voice.

“Yes,” replied the painter, “you are one of us, a patriot; but even if you were not, I should still have confided the matter to you.”

Master and pupil understood each other, and Ginevra no longer feared to ask:—­

“Who is he?”

“An intimate friend of Labedoyere, who contributed more than any other man, except the unfortunate colonel, to the union of the 7th regiment with the grenadiers of Elba.  He was a major in the Imperial guard and was at Waterloo.”

“Why not have burned his uniform and shako, and supplied him with citizen’s clothes?” said Ginevra, impatiently.

“He will have them to-night.”

“You ought to have closed the studio for some days.”

“He is going away.”

“Then they’ll kill him,” said the girl.  “Let him stay here with you till the present storm is over.  Paris is still the only place in France where a man can be hidden safely.  Is he a friend of yours?” she asked.

“No; he has no claim upon me but that of his ill-luck.  He came into my hands in this way.  My father-in-law, who returned to the army during the campaign, met this young fellow, and very cleverly rescued him from the claws of those who captured Labedoyere.  He came here to defend the general, foolish fellow!”

“Do you call him that!” cried Ginevra, casting a glance of astonishment at the painter, who was silent for a moment.