“Love died of Isabel, and lay at rest, Slain by the cold sweet arrows from her breast. And, as he quiet slept, came Isabel To view the cruel work she’d done so well; When, as is wont to hap, the wound she’d given Broke forth anew, denouncing her to heaven. For whom Death answered, dropping from above: ‘Now is my reign established, quit of Love! For my sake did you do this thing?’ Then she: ‘Ah, no! But that I loved Philosophy.’ So, hardly had she spoke when, with a spring, Love rose, and, laughing joyously, took wing.” Madam, at the finish, broke into rapturous applause: “Il fait tourner la chance!” she cried, with a rocking laugh. “Il fait tourner la chance. O, that was very well indeed, monsieur! You have the true genius for improvisation.” But du Tillot, secretly watchful, shook his head just perceptibly. “I hope not too daring,” he thought, noticing the girl’s face. Isabella neither applauded nor dissented. A liberty, her aspect might have denoted, was best rebuked by contemptuous silence. Only when presently the marquise called the stranger to her side, she rose, as if in quick avoidance of his neighbourhood, and addressed herself exclusively for the rest of the evening to the Secretary of State. But when the gentlemen were gone--one of them in the stinging consciousness of an obeisance unacknowledged--she turned upon the _gouvernante_ with real anger in her eyes: “Did you not recognise him, madame?” The old lady actually quailed before the inquisition of that look. “What if I did?” she said sullenly: “What then?” “And draw the only conclusion that one can draw from his presence here?” “You are a fool and a prude,” cried the marquise, bursting out suddenly between fury and trepidation. “My God, I think I have never known such another. All this to-do about a piece of pleasantry that was nothing in itself, and should count for less than nothing in the context of that sincere and noble nature which condescends to honour you with its regard. The selection by such a prince of an instrument to sing his devotion in your ears should be enough to convince you of the high character of his deputy. But whether you like the chevalier or not, and whatever your sense of filial duty, you have got to endure him, that is all--aye, and to listen to him, too.” “It will not be your fault, at least, madame,” said Isabella, “if my ears by this time are not inured to offence,” and, very pale, with her head high, she walked out of the room. CHAPTER VI. NON DOLCE FAR NIENTE