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Updated: June 10, 2025
He refuses me the dearest of woman's rights. I can't make him jealous." "You may have the opportunity of knowing this ci-devant Lovelace very soon," said Rameau, "for he has begged me to present him to Mademoiselle Cicogna, and I will ask her permission to do so, on Thursday evening when she receives." Isaura, who had hitherto attended very listlessly to the conversation, bowed assent.
The house in which he lodged was in a different quarter from that in which Isaura had visited him. Then, the street selected was still in the centre of the beau monde now, it was within the precincts of that section of the many-faced capital in which the beau monde was held in detestation or scorn; still the house had certain pretensions, boasting a courtyard and a porter's lodge.
Some weeks have passed since Graham's talk with Isaura in the garden; he has not visited the villa since. His cousins the D'Altons have passed through Paris on their way to Italy, meaning to stay a few days; they stayed nearly a month, and monopolized much of Graham's companionship.
Since the evening spent at the Savarins', Graham had seen no more of Isaura.
"And you, who are yourself so clever, so well read you who would be so lonely with a wife who was not your companion, with whom you could not converse on equal terms of intellect, my dear friend, where could you find a companion in whom you would not miss the poet-soul of Isaura?
But it so impressed Isaura, that the same night she concluded her letter to Madame de Grantmesnil, by giving a sketch of its substance, prefaced by an ingenuous confession that she felt less sanguine confidence in the importance of the applauses which had greeted the Emperor at the Saturday's ceremonial, and ending thus: "I can but confusedly transcribe the words of this singular man, and can give you no notion of the manner and the voice which made them eloquent.
On this Isaura sprang up, wound her arms round the Signora's neck, soothed her with coaxing, kissed and petted her, and ended by saying, "Of course we will go;" and, "but let me choose you another dress, a dark-green velvet trimmed with blonde: blonde becomes you so well." "No, no: I hate green velvet; anybody can wear that.
"Nay," said Isaura, rising to take up the mantle and hat she had laid aside on entering, "they say that the colour of a flower is in our vision, not in the leaves."
I go in for 'Les Mysteres de Paris' or 'Monte Cristo; but I even find Georges Sand a bore," then as a critic Graham Vane fired up, extolled the roman he would have given his ears for Isaura never to have written; but retired from the contest muttering inly, "How can I I, Graham Vane how can I be such an idiot; how can I in every hour of the twenty-four sigh to myself, 'What are other women to me?
Isaura's face brightened to another kind of brightness, a pleased and tender light. "Poor dear Madre," she murmured to herself in Italian. "Madre!" echoed Graham, also in Italian. "I have been misinformed, then; that lady is your mother." Isaura laughed a pretty, low, silvery laugh, and replied in English, "She is not my mother; but I call her Madre, for I know no name more loving."
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