for a moment.

"My father-in-law is too closely watched to be able to keep him in his
own house," he resumed. "So he brought him to me, by night, about a week
ago. I hoped to keep him out of sight in this corner, the only spot in
the house where he could be safe."

"If I can be useful to you, employ me," said Ginevra. "I know the
Marechal de Feltre."

"Well, we'll see," replied the painter.

This conversation lasted too long not to be noticed by all the other
girls. Servin left Ginevra, went round once more to each easel, and gave
such long lessons that he was still there at the hour when the pupils
were in the habit of leaving.

"You are forgetting your bag, Mademoiselle Thirion," said the professor,
running after the girl, who was now condescending to the work of a spy
to satisfy her jealousy.

The baffled pupil returned for the bag, expressing surprise at her
carelessness; but this act of Servin's was to her fresh proof of the
existence of a mystery, the importance of which was evident. She now ran
noisily down the staircase, and slammed the door which opened into the
Servins' apartment, to give an impression that she had gone; then she
softly returned and stationed herself outside the door of the studio.

CHAPTER III. LABEDOYERE'S FRIEND

When the painter and Ginevra thought themselves alone, Servin rapped in
a peculiar manner on the door of the dark garret, which turned at once
on its rusty and creaking hinges. Ginevra then saw a tall and well-made
young man, whose Imperial uniform set her heart to beating. The officer
had one arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face revealed sharp
suffering. Seeing an unknown woman, he recoiled.

Amelie, who was unable to look into the room, the door being closed, was
afraid to stay longer; she was satisfied with having heard the opening
of the garret door, and departed noiselessly.

"Fear nothing," said the painter to the officer. "Mademoiselle is the
daughter of a most faithful friend of the Emperor, the Baron di Piombo."

The young soldier retained no doubts as to Ginevra's patriotism as soon
as he saw her.

"You are wounded," she said.

"Oh! it is nothing, mademoiselle," he replied; "the wound is healing."

Just at this moment the loud cries of the vendors of newspapers came
up from the street: "Condemned to death!" They all trembled, and the
soldier was the first to hear a name that turned him pale.

"Labedoyere!" he cried, falling on a stool.

T