“Dear Isabelle—­I send you these flowers, though I know they will be ungraciously received.  As they come from me, their beauty and fragrance will not find favour in your eyes.  But whatever may be their fate, even though you only touch them to fling them disdainfully out of the window, they will force you to think for a moment—­if it be but in anger—­of him who declares himself, in spite of everything, your devoted adorer,

“Vallombreuse.”

This note, breathing of the most specious gallantry, and tenacity of purpose, did produce very much the effect it predicted; for it made Isabelle exceedingly angry; and, without even once inhaling the delicious perfume of the flowers, or pausing for an instant to admire their beauty, she flung the bouquet, diamond bracelet and all, out into the antechamber.  Never surely were lovely blossoms so badly treated; and yet Isabelle was excessively fond of them; but she feared that if she even allowed them to remain a little while in her room, their donor would presume upon the slight concession.  She had scarcely resumed her seat by the fire, after disposing of the obnoxious bouquet, when a maid appeared, who had been sent to wait upon her.  She was a pretty, refined looking girl, but very pale, and with an air of deep melancholy—­as if she were brooding over a secret sorrow.  She offered her services to Isabelle without looking up, and in a low, subdued voice, as if she feared that the very walls had ears.  Isabelle allowed her to take down and comb out her long, silky hair, which was very much dishevelled, and to arrange it again as she habitually wore it; which was quickly and skilfully done.  Then the maid opened a wardrobe and took out several beautiful gowns, exquisitely made and trimmed, and just Isabelle’s size; but she would not even look at them, and sharply ordered that they should instantly be put back where they belonged, though her own dress was very much the worse for the rough treatment it had been subjected to on the preceding day, and it was a trial to the sweet, dainty creature to be so untidy.  But she was determined to accept nothing from the duke, no matter how long her captivity might last.  The maid did not insist, but acceded to her wishes with a mild, pitying air—­just as indulgence is shown, as far as possible, to all the little whims and caprices of prisoners condemned to death.  Isabelle would have liked to question her attendant, and endeavour to elicit some information from her, but the girl was more like an automaton than anything else, and it was impossible to gain more than a monosyllable from her lips.  So Isabelle resigned herself with a sigh to her mute ministerings, not without a sort of vague terror.