“Whatever you may do or say, my darling,” he answered, with a sweet, tender smile, “you will never be able to tire out my constancy. If need be, I will wait for you until all your scruples shall have vanished of themselves—though it be not till these beautiful, soft brown tresses, with their exquisite tinge of gold where the sun shines on them, shall have turned to silver.”
“Oh!” cried Isabelle, “I shall be so old and so ugly then that even your sublime courage will be daunted, and I fear that in rewarding your perseverance and fidelity by the gift of myself I should only be punishing my devoted knight and brave champion.”
“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. Suddenly she drew her arm out of his, and with an exclamation of delight, sprang to a little bank by the road-side, where she had spied a tiny violet, peeping out from amid the dead leaves that had lain there all the winter through—the first harbinger of spring, smiling up at her a friendly greeting, despite the wintry cold of February. She knelt down and gently cleared away the dry leaves and grass about it, carefully broke the frail little stem, and returned to de Sigognac’s side with her treasure—more delighted than if she had found a precious jewel lying hidden among the mosses.