and on a truckle bed, feebly lighted by a small garret window, lay the wearer of it wrapped in profound repose. She instantly guessed the whole; he was one of the exiles. Her only terror now was lest any of her companions, coming to examine her painting, should hear the breathing of the unfortunate man, whose concealment in this retreat she had thus been led to discover. She determined, nevertheless, to remain by the door, and to trust to her own presence of mind to avert any catastrophe. "It is better that I should remain here," thought she, "to prevent, if possible, any discovery, than that I should leave the poor prisoner to the mercy of any accident that carelessness or curiosity might occasion." Such was the secret of the apparent indifference of Ginevra to the altered position of her easel. She was, in truth, enchanted at it-for it had afforded her the means of satisfying her curiosity; and at this moment her mind was engrossed by far other considerations than the probable reason of the change in her position. There is nothing more mortifying to young girls, or indeed to any body, than to see a piece of ill nature, an insult, or a joke, fall harmless before the contempt of their intended victim. It seems as if hatred was stimulated by the greatness that is indifferent to it. The conduct of Ginevra di Piombo became a perfect enigma to all her companions. Her friends were as much astonished as her enemies, for they allowed her every imaginable good quality but a readiness to forget injuries. Although occasions in which Ginevra had exhibited the particular defect of her character must necessarily have been infrequent in the uneventful hours of the studio, the indications of vindictiveness and obstinacy which she had betrayed had nevertheless made a deep impression on the minds of her companions. After a variety of conjectures, Mademoiselle Planta concluded that the Italian girl's silence displayed a magnanimity beyond all praise, and her circle, inspired by her, determined upon mortifying the aristocracy of the drawing gallery. In this they succeeded to admiration, and the sarcasms of the opposition had fairly brought the pride of the conservatives to the ground, when the entrance of Madame Servin put an end to the wordy warfare. Mademoiselle de Montsaurin, however, with that tact

which seems unfortunately almost always to accompany civilized malignity, had remarked, analysed, and commented in her own mind upon the extraordinary mental absorption which seemed to prevent Ginevra even from hearing the sharply civil discussion of which she was the subject. The revenge which Mademoiselle Planta and her companions were taking upon Mademoiselle de Montsaurin, had the unfortunate effect of inducing the young nobles to seek out the cause of the singular silence of Ginevra di Piombo. The beautiful Italian became from all these causes the mark of all eyes, and was watched incessantly both by her friends and enemies. Now it is a very difficult thing to conceal the slightest emotion from a dozen idle inquisitive young girls, whose restless spirits and insatiable curiosity find secrets to fathom and mysteries to penetrate everywhere, and who can assign quite too many interpretations to every gesture, glance, and word not at last to discover the right one. At the end of a quarter of an hour, therefore, Ginevra di Piombo's secret was in great danger of being discovered. At this moment the presence of Madame Servin produced a suspension of the game that was being played, and put a stop for the time being to the ambiguous phrases, malicious glances, eloquent gestures, and still more eloquent silence, in which this curious little drama was finding expression. As soon as Madame Servin entered the studio her eyes were directed towards the closed door by which Ginevra was sitting. Under existing circumstances that glance was sure to be noticed by every body, though nobody appeared to remark it; not long after Mademoiselle de Montsaurin remembered it, and was thus able to interpret the mingled distrust, fear, and secrecy which gave such a peculiar expression at that moment to the eyes of their master's pretty wife.

"Young ladies," said the latter, "M. Servin will not be able to come to-day."

Thus paving her compliments to each of the pupils, talking with them and receiving from them all those peculiarly feminine caresses which are as much expressed by the eyes and the voice as the gestures, she rapidly approached Ginevra, a prey to the most intense curiosity, which she in vain endeavored to conceal. The Italian girl and the

painter's wife exchanged a friendly nod; they both remained silent, the one painting and the other looking on. The strong and measured breathing of the officer was most distinctly audible, but Madame Servin did not appear to perceive it, and her dissimulation was so complete that Ginevra half accused her of intentional deafness. The stranger turned upon his bed; she then looked steadily at Madame Servin, who merely said to her, without the slightest change of countenance, "I really hardly know which to prefer; your copy is quite as fine as the original."

"Monsieur Servin has evidently not acquainted his wife with his secret," thought Ginevra, who, after acknowledging the compliment by a gentle smile of incredulity, began humming a canzonette in order to drown the noise made by the movements of the prisoner. It was so unusual a thing for the sedate and laborious Italian to sing, that all the young girls looked at her in amazement; and, some time after, this circumstance furnished proof for the charitable suggestions of malice. Madame Servin soon withdrew, and the drawing lesson concluded without any other event. Ginevra allowed all her companions to depart without manifesting any intention of following them. It appeared to be her purpose to work for some time longer; but her desire to be alone betrayed itself unconsciously by the impatient glances which she threw towards her companions, as they leisurely departed. Mademoiselle de Montsaurin, become in a few moments the mortal enemy of one who surpassed her in every thing, guessed, by the mere instinct of hatred, that some mystery lay under her rival's feigned assiduity. She had been more than once

struck with the attention with which Ginevra appeared to be listening to some voice, inaudible to every one else; but the last expression which she detected in the eyes of the Italian girl was a flash of light by which her most advisable course of manoeuvring was discovered to her. Purposely forgetging her reticule therefore, she left the room after all the other scholars, and went down to Madame Servin's apartment, where she staid for a little while. Pretending to miss her bag, she returned gently to the painting gallery. She there saw Ginevra mounted upon a hastily constructed scaffolding, and so absorbed in the contemplation of the picture revealed to her through the chink in the partition, as not to hear the light steps of her companion, who, indeed, was walking with as much precaution as if she trod upon eggs. When Mademoiselle de Montsaurin had reached the door of the room, she coughed. Ginevra started, turned, saw her enemy, became more scarlet than the most brilliant poppy, and hastened to unfasten the green shade, in order to account for her position; but the young lady had disappeared. Ginevra came down, put away her color box, and left the painting room, carrying away, engraved upon her memory, the image of a man's head as graceful as that of Girodet's chef-d'œuvre, the Endymion, which she had been employed in copying a few days before. The countenance of the stranger was as fair, as delicate, and the outline of his features as pure as those of the youthful favorite of Diana.

"So young a man proscribed! Who can he be?-for he certainly is not Marshal Ney!"

ONE morning in the summer of 1812, the busy manager of an Italian theatrical company returned to his lodgings in a hotel, in one of the principal streets of Naples. His brow was contracted, and an air of disquietude spread over his whole countenance. He announced to the landlord that he was in an hour to leave the city with his company. Mine host divined that he would not depart in the sunniest of humors.

"So, you have not been successful in your search, Master Benevolo?" asked he.

"Mille diavoli !-there never was such luck!" was the petulant reply. "Here, I have stayed three days beyond my time, in the hope of finding what Naples, it seems, does not afford; and now I must be gone to play at Salerno, without an actor of tragedy in my company!"

"And such a company!" echoed Boniface.

"Such a one, indeed!-though I say it, it is the pride of Italy. A magnifi cent princess! Did not the Duke of Anhalt swear she was as ravishing in beauty, as exquisite in performance; with eyes like diamonds, and a figure superb as that of Juno herself?"

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He is an angel!" cried the landlord with enthusiasm.

"An unrivalled troop-a perfect coronet of gems-with but one wantingthe tragic. Ah me!-what shall I do without a Geronimo or a Falerio?" and the Impressario wrung his hands.

"Do not despair, Maestro," said the good-natured host; "you may find one yet to your mind.”

"And whence is he to come?-from the clouds? He must fall directly, for in two hours I must be on my way to Salerno. Some of my friends are there already; and the performance has been twice postponed, waiting for me. I might have made such sums of money! Saint Antonio, how provoking to think of it!"

"You are disturbed, Signor Impressario," said the fat hostess, who had stood in the door during the preceding conversation, and now waddled for