The girls of the aristocratic group of pupils belonged to the most devoted royalist families in Paris.  It would be difficult to give an idea of the exaggerations prevalent at this epoch, and of the horror inspired by the Bonapartists.  However insignificant and petty Amelie’s action may now seem to be, it was at that time a very natural expression of the prevailing hatred.  Ginevra Piombo, one of Servin’s first pupils, had occupied the place that was now taken from her since the first day of her coming to the studio.  The aristocratic circle had gradually surrounded her.  To drive her from a place that in some sense belonged to her was not only to insult her, but to cause her a species of artistic pain; for all artists have a spot of predilection where they work.

Nevertheless, political prejudice was not the chief influence on the conduct of the Right clique of the studio.  Ginevra, much the ablest of Servin’s pupils, was an object of intense jealousy.  The master testified as much admiration for the talents as for the character of his favorite pupil, who served as a conclusion to all his comparisons.  In fact, without any one being able to explain the ascendancy which this young girl obtained over all who came in contact with her, she exercised over the little world around her a prestige not unlike that of Bonaparte upon his soldiers.

The aristocracy of the studio had for some days past resolved upon the fall of this queen, but no one had, as yet, ventured to openly avoid the Bonapartist.  Mademoiselle Thirion’s act was, therefore, a decisive stroke, intended by her to force the others into becoming, openly, the accomplices of her hatred.  Though Ginevra was sincerely loved by several of these royalists, nearly all of whom were indoctrinated at home with their political ideas, they decided, with the tactics peculiar to women, that they should do best to keep themselves aloof from the quarrel.

On Ginevra’s arrival she was received, as we have said, in profound silence.  Of all the young women who had, so far, come to Servin’s studio, she was the handsomest, the tallest, and the best made.  Her carriage and demeanor had a character of nobility and grace which commanded respect.  Her face, instinct with intelligence, seemed to radiate light, so inspired was it with the enthusiasm peculiar to Corsicans,—­which does not, however, preclude calmness.  Her long hair and her black eyes and lashes expressed passion; the corners of her mouth, too softly defined, and the lips, a trifle too marked, gave signs of that kindliness which strong beings derive from the consciousness of their strength.