esteemed each other.  The girl, who was older than Luigi, found a charm in being courted by a youth already so grand, so tried by fate,—­a youth who joined to the experience of a man the graces of adolescence.  Luigi, on his side, felt an unspeakable pleasure in allowing himself to be apparently protected by a woman, now twenty-five years of age.  Was it not a proof of love?  The union of gentleness and pride, strength and weakness in Ginevra were, to him, irresistible attractions, and he was utterly subjugated by her.  In short, before long, they loved each other so profoundly that they felt no need of denying to each other their love, nor yet of telling it.

One day, towards evening, Ginevra heard the accustomed signal.  Luigi scratched with a pin on the woodwork in a manner that produced no more noise than a spider might make as he fastened his thread.  The signal meant that he wished to come out of his retreat.

Ginevra glanced around the studio, and not seeing Laure, opened the door; but as she did so Luigi caught sight of the little pupil and abruptly retired.  Surprised at his action, Ginevra looked round, saw Laure, and said, as she went up to the girl’s easel:—­

“You are staying late, my dear.  That head seems to me finished; you only want a high-light,—­see! on that knot of hair.”

“You would do me a great kindness,” said Laure, in a trembling voice, “if you would give this copy a few touches; for then I could carry away with me something to remind me of you.”

“Willingly,” said Ginevra, painting a few strokes on the picture.  “But I thought it was a long way from your home to the studio, and it is late.”

“Oh!  Ginevra, I am going away, never to return,” cried the poor girl, sadly.

“You mean to leave Monsieur Servin!” exclaimed Ginevra, less affected, however, by this news than she would have been a month earlier.

“Haven’t you noticed, Ginevra, that for some days past you and I have been alone in the studio?”

“True,” said Ginevra, as if struck by a sudden recollection.  “Are all those young ladies ill, or going to be married, or are their fathers on duty at court?”

“They have left Monsieur Servin,” replied Laure.

“Why?”

“On your account, Ginevra.”

“My account!” repeated the Corsican, springing up, with a threatening brow and her eyes flashing.

“Oh! don’t be angry, my kind Ginevra,” cried Laure, in deep distress.  “My mother insists on my leaving the studio.  The young ladies say that you have some intrigue, and that Monsieur Servin allows the young man whom you love to stay in the dark attic.  I have never believed these calumnies nor said a word to my mother about them.  But last night Madame Roguin met her at a ball and asked her if she still sent me here.  When my mother answered yes, Madame Roguin told her the falsehoods of those young ladies.  Mamma scolded me severely; she said I must have known it all, and that I had failed in proper confidence between mother and daughter by not telling her.  Oh! my dear Ginevra!  I, who took you for my model, oh! how grieved I am that I can’t be your companion any longer.”