The young duke was superbly dressed.  He had spared no pains, for he wanted to dazzle Isabelle, and he certainly did look splendidly handsome.  He wore a magnificent costume of rich white satin, slashed and trimmed with crimson, with many knots of ribbon about it fastened with diamond clasps, with broad ruffles of exquisitely fine lace at throat and wrists, with a wide belt of cloth of silver supporting his sword, and with perfumed gloves on the hands that held his white felt hat, with its long crimson feather.  His wavy black hair fell around the perfect oval of his face, enhancing its smooth whiteness; a delicate mustache shaded, not concealed, his full red lips; his splendid, great black eyes flashed through their thick, silky fringes, and his neck, white and round as a marble column, rose from amid its surrounding of soft, priceless lace, proudly supporting his haughty, handsome head.  Yet with all this perfection of outline and colouring, his appearance was not entirely pleasing; a repelling haughtiness shone out through the perfectly modelled features, and it was but too evident that the joys and sorrows of his fellow mortals would awaken no sympathy in the owner of that surpassingly handsome face and form.  He believed that he was not made of common clay like other men, but was a being of a higher order, who condescended to mingle with his inferiors—­a piece of fine porcelain amid homely vessels of coarser earthenware.

Vallombreuse stationed himself silently close beside the mirror on Isabelle’s dressing-table, leaning one elbow on its frame all the other gallants respectfully making way for him—­just where she could not possibly help seeing him whenever she looked in the glass; a skilful manoeuvre, which would surely have succeeded with any other than this modest young girl.  He wished to produce an impression, before addressing a word to her, by his personal beauty, his lordly mien, and his magnificence of apparel.  Isabelle, who had instantly recognised the audacious gallant of the garden, and who was displeased by the imperious ardour of his gaze, redoubled her reserve of manner, and did not lift her eyes to the mirror in front of her at all; she did not even seem to be aware that one of the handsomest young noblemen in all France was standing there before her, trying to win a glance from her lovely eyes—­but then, she was a singular girl, this sweet Isabelle!  At length, exasperated by her utter indifference, Vallombreuse suddenly took the initiative, and said to her, “Mademoiselle, you take the part of Sylvia in this new play, do you not?”

“Yes, sir,” Isabelle answered curtly, without looking at him—­not able to evade this direct question.

“Then never will a part have been so admirably played,” continued the duke.  “If it is poor your acting will make it excellent, if it is fine you will make it peerless.  Ah! happy indeed the poet whose verses are intrusted to those lovely lips of yours.”