“What do I care for other women, be they what they may?” cried Vallombreuse impetuously, as he rose in obedience to her request; “it is your pride and purity that I adore, your beauty and goodness that I worship; your very cruelty is more charming to me than the utmost favour of any other woman in the world.  Your sweet modesty and angelic loveliness have inspired in me a passion that is almost delirium, and unless you can learn to love me I shall die—­I cannot live without you.  You need not be afraid of me,” he added, as Isabelle recoiled when he made one step forward, and tried to open the window with her trembling bands, as if she meant to throw herself out in case of his coming any nearer; “see, I will stay where I am.  I will not touch you, not even the hem of your garment, so great is my respect for you, charming Isabelle!  I do not ask anything more than that you will deign to suffer my presence here a little longer now, and permit me to pay my court to you, lay siege to your heart, and wait patiently until it surrenders itself to me freely and of its own accord, as it surely will.  The most respectful lover could not do more.”

“Spare me this useless pursuit, my lord,” pleaded Isabelle, “and I will reward you with the warmest gratitude; but love you I cannot, now or ever.”

“You have neither father, brother, husband, or affianced lover,” persisted Vallombreuse, “to forbid the advances of a gallant gentleman, who seeks only to please and serve you.  My sincere homage is surely not insulting to you; why do you repulse me so?  Oh! you do not dream what a splendid prospect would open out before you if you would but yield to my entreaties.  I would surround you with everything that is beautiful and dainty, luxurious and rare.  I would anticipate your every wish; I would devote my whole life to your service.  The story of our love should be more enchanting, more blissful than that of Love himself with his delicious Psyche—­not even the gods could rival us.  Come, Isabelle, do not turn so coldly away from me, do not persevere in this maddening silence, nor drive to desperation and desperate deeds a passion that is capable of anything, of everything, save renouncing its adored object, your own sweet, charming self!”

“But this love, of which any other woman would be justly proud,” said Isabelle modestly, “I cannot return or accept; you must believe me, my lord, for I mean every word I say, and I shall never swerve from this decision.  Even if the virtue and purity that I value more highly than life itself were not against it, I should still feel myself obliged to decline this dangerous honour.”