“Deign to look upon me with favour and indulgence, my sweet Isabelle,” continued Vallombreuse, without heeding her words, “and I will make you an object of envy to the greatest and noblest ladies in all France.  To any other woman I should say—­take what you please of my treasures—­my chateaux, my estates, my gold, my jewels—­dress your lackeys in liveries richer than the court costumes of princes—­have your horses shod with silver—­live as luxuriously as a queen—­make even Paris wonder at your lavish splendour if you will—­though Paris is not easily roused to wonder—­but I well know that you have a soul far above all such sordid temptations as these.  They would have no weight with you, my noble Isabelle!  But there is a glory that may touch you—­that of having conquered Vallombreuse—­of leading him captive behind your chariot wheels—­of commanding him as your servant, and your slave.  Vallombreuse, who has never yielded before—­who has been the commander, not the commanded—­and whose proud neck has never yet bowed to wear the fetters that so many fair bands have essayed to fasten round it.”

“Such a captive would be too illustrious for my chains,” said Isabelle, firmly, “and as I could never consent to accept so much honour at your hands, my lord, I pray you to desist, and relieve me of your presence.”

Hitherto the Duke of Vallombreuse had managed to keep his temper under control; he had artfully concealed his naturally violent and domineering spirit under a feigned mildness and humility, but, at Isabelle’s determined and continued—­though modest and respectful—­resistance to his pleading, his anger was rapidly rising to boiling point.  He felt that there was love—­devoted love—­for another behind her persistent rejection of his suit, and his wrath and jealousy augmented each other.  Throwing aside all restraint, he advanced towards her impetuously—­whereat she made another desperate effort to tear open the casement.  A fierce frown contracted his brow, he gnawed his under lip savagely, and his whole face was transformed—­if it had been beautiful enough for an angel’s before, it was like a demon’s now.

“Why don’t you tell the truth,” he cried, in a loud, angry voice, “and say that you are madly in love with that precious rascal, de Sigognac?  That is the real reason for all this pretended virtue that you shamelessly flaunt in men’s faces.  What is there about that cursed scoundrel, I should like to know, that charms you so?  Am I not handsomer, of higher rank, younger, richer, as clever, and as much in love with you as he can possibly be? aye, and more—­ten thousand times more.”

“He has at least one quality that you are lacking in, my lord,” said Isabelle, with dignity; “he knows how to respect the woman he loves.”

“That’s only because he cares so little about you, my charmer!” cried Vallombreuse, suddenly seizing Isabelle, who vainly strove to escape from him, in his arms, and straining her violently to his breast—­despite her frantic struggles, and agonized cry for help.  As if in response to it, the door was suddenly opened, and the tyrant, making the most deprecating gestures and profound bows, entered the room and advanced towards Isabelle, who was at once released by Vallombreuse, with muttered curses at this most inopportune intrusion.