“Do not talk so, de Sigognac! you vex me by such extravagances,” said Isabelle, with a little pout that was as charming as her sweetest smile; for in spite of herself her heart beat high with joy at these fervent protestations of a love that no coldness could repel, no remonstrance diminish.

They walked on a little way in silence—­de Sigognac not daring to say more then, lest he should seriously displease the sweet creature he loved better than his own life.  Suddenly she drew her arm out of his, and with an exclamation of delight, sprang to a little bank by the road-side, where she had spied a tiny violet, peeping out from amid the dead leaves that had lain there all the winter through—­the first harbinger of spring, smiling up at her a friendly greeting, despite the wintry cold of February.  She knelt down and gently cleared away the dry leaves and grass about it, carefully broke the frail little stem, and returned to de Sigognac’s side with her treasure—­more delighted than if she had found a precious jewel lying hidden among the mosses.

“Only see, how exquisitely beautiful and delicate it is”—­said she, showing it to him—­“with its dear little petals scarcely unrolled yet to return the greeting of this bright, warm sunshine, that has roused it from its long winter sleep.”

“It was not the sunshine, however bright and warm,” answered de Sigognac, “but the light of your eyes, sweet Isabelle, that made it open out to greet you—­and it is exactly the colour too of those dear eyes of yours.”

“It has scarcely any fragrance, but that is because it’s so cold,” said Isabelle, loosening her scarf, and putting it carefully inside the ruff that encircled her slender, white neck.  In a few minutes she took it out again, inhaled its rich perfume, pressed it furtively to her lips, and offered it to de Sigognac.

“See how sweet it is now!  The warmth I imparted to it has reassured the little modest, timid blossom, and it breathes out its incomparable fragrance in gratitude to me.”

“Say rather that it has received it from you,” he replied, raising the violet tenderly to his lips, and taking from it the kiss Isabelle had bestowed—­“for this delicate, delicious odour has nothing gross or earthly about it—­it is angelically pure and sweet, like yourself, my own Isabelle.”

“Ah! the naughty flatterer,” said she, smiling upon him with all her heart in her eyes.  “I give him a little flower that he may enjoy its perfume, and straightway he draws from it inspiration for all sorts of high-flown conceits, and fine compliments.  There’s no doing anything with him—­to the simplest, most commonplace remark he replies with a poetical flight of fancy.”

However, she could not have been very seriously displeased, for she took his arm again, and even leaned upon it rather more heavily than the exigencies of the way actually required; which goes to prove that the purest virtue is not insensible to pretty compliments, and that modesty itself knows how to recompense delicate flattery.