It is a new role for you, and you are deucedly charming
in it. You have got such a splendid colour, and your eyes are so
bright--you are superb, I declare. I am greatly flattered at your
blazing out into such dazzling beauty on my account--upon my word I am.
You have done well to speak out openly--I hate deceit. So you love de
Sigognac, do you? So much the better, say I--it will be all the sweeter
to call you mine. It will be a pleasing variety to press ardent
kisses upon sweet lips that say 'I hate you,' instead of the insipid,
everlasting 'I love you,' that one gets a surfeit of from all the pretty
women of one's acquaintance."
Alarmed at this coarse language, and the threatening gestures that
accompanied it, Isabelle started back and drew out Chiquita's knife.
"Bravo!" cried the duke--"here comes the traditional poniard. We are
being treated to a bit of high tragedy. But, my fierce little beauty, if
you are well up in your Roman history, you will remember that the chaste
Mme. Lucretia did not make use of her dagger until AFTER the assault of
Sextus, the bold son of Tarquin the Proud. That ancient and much-cited
example is a good one to follow."
And without paying any more attention to the knife than to a bee-sting,
he had violently seized Isabelle in his arms before she could raise it
to strike.
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