"You will be my wife, Isabelle?" cried de Sigognac in agitated tones,
thrilling in every nerve from the sweet contact of her pure, lovely
mouth--fresh as a flower, ardent as a flame.
"Never, never," answered Isabelle, with a clear ring of rapture in her
voice. "I will show myself worthy of such an honour by refusing it.
I did mistake you for a moment, my dearest friend; I did mistake you;
forgive me. Oh! how happy you have made me; what celestial joy fills
my soul! You do respect and esteem me, then, to the utmost? Ah! de
Sigognac, you would really lead me, as your wife, into the hall where
all the portraits of your honoured ancestors would look down upon us?
and into the chapel, where your dead mother lies at rest? I could
meet fearlessly, my beloved, the searching gaze of the dead, from whom
nothing is hidden; the crown of purity would not be wanting on my brow."
"But what!" exclaimed the young baron, "you say that you love me,
Isabelle, with all that true, faithful heart of yours, yet you will not
accept me! either as lover or husband?"
"You have offered me your name, de Sigognac, your noble, honoured name,
and that is enough for me. I give it back to you now, after having
cherished it for one moment in my inmost heart.
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