in his arms, strained her trembling form convulsively to his heaving breast, and covered her face and neck with burning kisses.  She did not even try to struggle against this fierce embrace, but, throwing her head back, looked fixedly at him, with eyes full of sorrow and reproach.  From those lovely eyes, clear and pure as an angel’s, great tears welled forth and rolled down over her blanched cheeks, and a suppressed sob shook her quivering frame as a sudden faintness seemed to come over her.  The young baron, distracted at the sight of her grief, and full of keen self-reproach, put her gently down into a low, easy-chair standing near, and kneeling before her, took in both his own the hands that she abandoned to him, and passionately implored her pardon; pleading that a momentary madness had taken possession of him, that he repented of it bitterly, and was ready to atone for his offence by the most perfect submission to her wishes.

“You have hurt me sadly, my friend!” said Isabelle at last, with a deep-drawn sigh.  “I had such perfect confidence in your delicacy and respect.  The frank, unreserved avowal of my love for you ought to have been enough, and have shown you clearly, by its very openness, that I trusted you entirely.  I believed that you would understand me and let me love you in my own way, without troubling my tenderness for you by vulgar transports.  Now, you have robbed me of my feeling of security.  I do not doubt your words, but I shall no longer dare to yield to the impulses of my own heart.  And yet it was so sweet to me to be with you, to watch you, to listen to your dear voice, and to follow the course of your thoughts as I saw them written in your eyes.  I wished to share your troubles and anxieties, de Sigognac, leaving your pleasures to others.  I said to myself, among all these coarse, dissolute, presuming men that hover about us, there is one who is different—­one who believes in purity, and knows how to respect it in the woman he honours with his love.  I dared to indulge in a sweet dream—­even I, Isabelle the actress, pursued as I am constantly by a gallantry that is odious to me—­I dared to indulge in the too sweet dream of enjoying with you a pure mutual love.  I only asked to be your faithful companion, to cheer and comfort you in your struggles with an adverse fate until you had reached the beginning of happiness and prosperity, and then to retire into obscurity again, when you had plenty of new friends and followers, and no longer needed me.  You see that I was not very exacting.”

“Isabelle, my adored Isabelle,” cried de Sigognac, “every word that you speak makes me reproach myself more and more keenly for my fault, and the pain I have given you.  Rest assured, my own darling, that you have nothing further to fear from me.  I am not worthy to kiss the traces of your footprints in the dust; but yet, I pray you, listen to me!  Perhaps you do not fully understand all my thoughts and intentions, and will forgive me when you do.  I have nothing but my name, which is as pure and spotless as your sweet self, and I offer it to you, my own beloved Isabelle, if you will deign to accept it.”