"Monsieur Servin has not taken his wife into his confidence as to this
mystery," thought Ginevra, who, after replying to the young wife's
speech with a gentle smile of incredulity, began to hum a Corsican
"canzonetta" to cover the noise that was made by the prisoner.

It was so unusual a thing to hear the studious Italian sing, that all
the other young girls looked up at her in surprise. Later, this
circumstance served as proof to the charitable suppositions of
jealousy.

Madame Servin soon went away, and the session ended without further
events; Ginevra allowed her companions to depart, and seemed to intend
to work later. But, unconsciously to herself, she betrayed her desire
to be left alone by impatient glances, ill-disguised, at the pupils
who were slow in leaving. Mademoiselle Thirion, a cruel enemy to the
girl who excelled her in everything, guessed by the instinct of
jealousy that her rival's industry hid some purpose. By dint of
watching her she was struck by the attentive air with which Ginevra
seemed to be listening to sounds that no one else had heard. The
expression of impatience she now detected in her companion's eyes was
like a flash of light to her.

Amelie was the last of the pupils to leave the studio; from there she
went down to Madame Servin's apartment and talked with her for a
moment; then she pretended to have left her bag, ran softly back to
the studio, and found Ginevra once more mounted on her frail
scaffolding, and so absorbed in the contemplation of an unknown object
that she did not hear the slight noise of her companion's footsteps.
It is true that, to use an expression of Walter Scott, Amelie stepped