"
"You will never be ugly, my beloved Isabelle, if you live to be a
hundred," he replied, with an adoring glance, "for yours is not the mere
physical beauty, that fades away and vanishes--it is the beauty of the
soul, which is immortal."
"All the same you would be badly off," rejoined Isabelle, "if I were to
take you at your word, and promise to be yours when I was old and gray.
But enough of this jesting," she continued gravely, "let us be serious!
You know my resolution, de Sigognac, so try to content yourself with
being the object of the deepest, truest, most devoted love that was ever
yet bestowed on mortal man since hearts began to beat in this strange
world of ours."
"Such a charming avowal ought to satisfy me, I admit, but it does
not! My love for you is infinite--it can brook no bounds--it is ever
increasing--rising higher and higher, despite your heavenly voice, that
bids it keep within the limits you have fixed for it."
"Do not talk so, de Sigognac! you vex me by such extravagances," said
Isabelle, with a little pout that was as charming as her sweetest smile;
for in spite of herself her heart beat high with joy at these fervent
protestations of a love that no coldness could repel, no remonstrance
diminish.
They walked on a little way in silence--de Sigognac not daring to say
more then, lest he should seriously displease the sweet creature he
loved better than his own life.
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