“There is yet one means of winning my friendship and gratitude—­be noble and generous, and give me back the liberty of which you have deprived me.  Let me return to my companions, who must be anxiously seeking for me, and suffering keenly because of their fears for my safety.  Let me go and resume my lowly life as an actress, before this outrageous affair—­which may irreparably injure my reputation—­has become generally known, or my absence from the theatre been remarked by the public.”

“How unfortunate it is,” cried the duke, angrily, “that you should ask of me the only thing I cannot do for you.  If you had expressed your desire for an empire, a throne, I would have given it to you—­or if you had wished for a star, I would have climbed up into the heavens to get it for you.  But here you calmly ask me to open the door of this cage, little bird, to which you would never come back of your own accord, if I were stupid enough to let you go.  It is impossible!  I know well that you love me so little, or rather hate me so much, that you would never see me again of your own free will—­that my only chance of enjoying your charming society is to lock you up—­keep you my prisoner.  However much it may cost my pride, I must do it—­for I can no more live without you than a plant without the light.  My thoughts turn to you as the heliotrope to the sun.  Where you are not, all is darkness for me.  If what I have dared to do is a crime, I must make the best of it, and profit by it as much as I can—­for you would never forgive nor overlook it, whatever you may say now.  Here at least I have you—­I hold you.  I can surround you with my love and care, and strive to melt the ice of your coldness by the heat of my passion.  Your eyes must behold me—­your ears must listen to my voice.  I shall exert an influence over you, if only by the alarm and detestation I am so unfortunate as to inspire in your gentle breast; the sound of my footsteps in your antechamber will make you start and tremble.  And then, besides all that, this captivity separates you effectually from the miserable fellow you fancy that you love—­and whom I abhor; because he has dared to turn your heart away from me.  I can at least enjoy this small satisfaction, of keeping you from him; and I will not let you go free to return to him—­you may be perfectly sure of that, my fair lady!”

“And how long do you intend to keep me captive?—­not like a Christian gentleman, but like a lawless corsair.”

“Until you have learned to love me—­or at least to say that you have, which amounts to the same thing.”

Then he made her a low bow, and departed, with as self-satisfied and jaunty an air as if he had been in truth a favoured suitor.  Half an hour later a lackey brought in a beautiful bouquet, of the rarest and choicest flowers, while the stems were clasped by a magnificent bracelet, fit for a queen’s wearing.  A little piece of folded paper nestled among the flowers—­a note from the duke—­and the fair prisoner recognised the handwriting as the same in which “For Isabelle” was written, on the slip of paper that accompanied the casket of jewels at Poitiers.  The note read as follows: