"I was born in Corsica," he replied; "but I was brought, while very
young, to Genoa, and as soon as I was old enough for military service
I enlisted."

The beauty of the young man, the mighty charm lent to him by his
attachment to the Emperor, his wound, his misfortunes, his danger, all
disappeared to Ginevra's mind, or, rather, all were blended in one
sentiment,--a new and delightful sentiment. This persecuted man was a
child of Corsica; he spoke its cherished language! She stood, for a
moment, motionless; held by a magical sensation; before her eyes was a
living picture, to which all human sentiments, united by chance, gave
vivid colors. By Servin's invitation, the officer had seated himself
on a divan, and the painter, after removing the sling which supported
the arm of his guest, was undoing the bandages in order to dress the
wound. Ginevra shuddered when she saw the long, broad gash made by the
blade of a sabre on the young man's forearm, and a moan escaped her.
The stranger raised his head and smiled to her. There was something
touching which went to the soul, in the care with which Servin lifted
the lint and touched the lacerated flesh, while the face of the
wounded man, though pale and sickly, expressed, as he looked at the
girl, more pleasure than suffering. An artist would have admired,
involuntarily, this opposition of sentiments, together with the
contrasts produced by the whiteness of the linen and the bared arm to
the red and blue uniform of the officer.

At this moment a soft half-light pervaded the studio; but a parting
ray of the evening sunlight suddenly illuminated the spot where the
soldier sat, so that his noble, blanched face, his black hair, and his
clothes were bathed in its glow. The effect was simple enough, but to