He rushed toward the door of the studio; but, quicker than he, Ginevra reached it, and barred his way.

“Can you restore the Emperor?” she said.  “Do you expect to raise that giant who could not maintain himself?”

“But what can I do?” said the young man, addressing the two friends whom chance had sent to him.  “I have not a relation in the world.  Labedoyere was my protector and my friend; without him, I am alone.  To-morrow I myself may be condemned; my only fortune was my pay.  I spent my last penny to come here and try to snatch Labedoyere from his fate; death is, therefore, a necessity for me.  When a man decides to die he ought to know how to sell his life to the executioner.  I was thinking just now that the life of an honest man is worth that of two traitors, and the blow of a dagger well placed may give immortality.”

This spasm of despair alarmed the painter, and even Ginevra, whose own nature comprehended that of the young man.  She admired his handsome face and his delightful voice, the sweetness of which was scarcely lessened by its tones of fury.  Then, all of a sudden, she poured a balm upon the wounds of the unfortunate man:—­

“Monsieur,” she said, “as for your pecuniary distress, permit me to offer you my savings.  My father is rich; I am his only child; he loves me, and I am sure he will never blame me.  Have no scruple in accepting my offer; our property is derived from the Emperor; we do not own a penny that is not the result of his munificence.  Is it not gratitude to him to assist his faithful soldiers?  Take the sums you need as indifferently as I offer them.  It is only money!” she added, in a tone of contempt.  “Now, as for friends,—­those you shall have.”

She raised her head proudly, and her eyes shone with dazzling brilliancy.

“The head which falls to-morrow before a dozen muskets will save yours,” she went on.  “Wait till the storm is over; you can then escape and take service in foreign countries if you are not forgotten here; or in the French army, if you are.”

In the comfort that women give there is always a delicacy which has something maternal, foreseeing, and complete about it.  But when the words of hope and peace are said with grace of gesture and that eloquence of tone which comes from the heart, and when, above all, the benefactress is beautiful, a young man does not resist.  The prisoner breathed in love through all his senses.  A rosy tinge colored his white cheeks; his eyes lost something of the sadness that dulled them, and he said, in a peculiar tone of voice:—­

“You are an angle of goodness—­ But Labedoyere!” he added.  “Oh, Labedoyere!”

At this cry they all three looked at one another in silence, each comprehending the others’ thoughts.  No longer friends of twenty minutes only, they were friends of twenty years.

“Dear friend,” said Servin, “can you save him?”

“I can avenge him.”