As he paused, Isabelle raised her lovely eyes, in which shone the purest innocence and the most perfect loyalty, to his, and met his questioning gaze unflinchingly.  The rosy flush which the first mention of de Sigognac’s name had called up was gone, and her countenance showed no faintest sign of embarrassment or shame.  In her pure heart the most searching looks of a father, of God himself, could have found nothing to condemn.  Just at this point the doctor’s assistant was announced, who brought a most favourable report from the sick-room.  He was charged to tell the prince that his son’s condition was eminently satisfactory—­a marked change for the better having taken place; and that Maitre Laurent considered the danger past—­believing that his recovery was now only a question of time.

A few days later, Vallombreuse, propped up on his pillows, received a visit from his faithful and devoted friend, the Chevalier de Vidalinc, whom he had not been permitted to see earlier.  The prince was sitting by the bedside, affectionately watching every flitting expression on his son’s face, which was pathetically thin and pale, but handsomer than ever; because the old haughty, fierce look had vanished, and a soft light, that had never been in them before, shone in his beautiful eyes, whereat his father’s heart rejoiced exceedingly.  Isabelle stood at the other side of the bed, and the young duke had clasped his thin, startlingly white fingers round her hand.  As he was forbidden to speak, save in monosyllables—­because of his injured lung—­he took this means of testifying his sympathy with her, who had been the involuntary cause of his being wounded and in danger of losing his life, and thus made her understand that he cherished no resentments.  The affectionate brother had replaced the fiery lover, and his illness, in calming his ardent passion, had contributed not a little to make the transition a less difficult one than it could possibly have been otherwise.  Isabelle was now for him really and only the Comtesse de Lineuil, his dear sister.  He nodded in a friendly way to Vidalinc, and disengaged his hand for a moment from Isabelle’s to give it to him—­it was all that the doctor would allow—­but his eyes were eloquent enough to make up for his enforced silence.

In the course of a few weeks, Vallombreuse, who had gained strength rapidly, was able to leave his bed and recline upon a lounge near the open window; so as to enjoy the mild, delightful air of spring, that brought colour to his cheeks and light to his eyes.  Isabelle was often with him, and read aloud for hours together to entertain him; as Maitre Laurent’s orders were strict that he should not talk, even yet, any more than was actually necessary.  One day, when Isabelle had finished a chapter in the volume from which she was reading to him, and was about to begin another, he interrupted her, and said, “My dear sister, that book is certainly very amusing, and the author a man of remarkable wit and talent;