she does not perceive how much more worthy I am of her admiration than that shabby de Sigognac.  Oh, yes! she’ll be sure to come round, in spite of her obstinate affectation of such ferocious virtue, and her tiresome, Platonic love for her impecunious suitor.  Yes, my little beauty, your portrait shall figure in one of those oval frames ere long.  I think I’ll have you painted as chaste Diana, descended from the sky, despite her coldness, to lavish sweet kisses on Endymion.  You shall take your place among those other goddesses, who were as coy and hard to please at first as yourself, and who are far greater ladies, my dear, than you ever will be.  Your fall is at hand, and you must learn, as your betters have done before you, that there’s no withstanding the will of a Vallombreuse.  ‘Frango nec frangor,’ is my motto.”

A servant entered to announce that the carriage awaited his lordship’s pleasure, and during the short drive from his own house to the Rue Dauphine, the young duke, despite his arrogant assurance, felt his heart beating faster than usual as he wondered how Isabelle would receive him.  When the splendid carriage, with its four prancing horses and servants in gorgeous liveries, drove into the courtyard of the hotel where the comedians were stopping, the landlord himself, cap in hand, rushed out to ask the pleasure of the lordly visitor; but, rapid as were his movements, the duke had already alighted before he could reach him.  He cut short the obsequious host’s obeisances and breathless offers of service by an impatient gesture, and said peremptorily: 

“Mlle. Isabelle is stopping here.  I wish to see her.  Is she at home?  Do not send to announce my visit; only let me have a servant to show me the way to her room.”

“My lord, let me have the glory of conducting your lordship myself—­such an honour is too great for a rascally servant—­I myself am not worthy of so distinguished a privilege.”

“As you please,” said Vallombreuse, with haughty negligence, “only be quick about it.  There are people at every window already, staring down at me as if I were the Grand Turk in person.”

He followed his guide, who, with many bows and apologies, preceded him upstairs, and down a long, narrow corridor with doors on either side, like a convent, until they reached Isabelle’s room, where the landlord paused, and, bowing lower than ever, asked what name he should have the honour of announcing.

“You can go, now,” the duke replied, laying his hand on the door; “I will announce myself.”

Isabelle was sitting by the window, diligently studying her part in a new play to be shortly put in rehearsal, and, at the moment the Duke of Vallombreuse softly entered her chamber, was repeating, in a low voice and with closed eyes, the verses she was learning by heart—­just as a child does its lessons.  The light from the window shone full upon her beautiful head and face—­seen in profile—­and her lovely figure, thrown back in a negligent attitude full of grace and abandon.  She made a most bewitching picture thus, and with a delicious effect of chiaroscuro that would have enchanted an artist—­it enthralled the young duke.