It is finished. I
will release you now."
As Raoul throws the cloth over the clay model, Isabel passes him
with a gasp, and gazes with set face from the window.
His bursting heart holds him back. There is no longer an excuse.
"And I shall see you no more, Monsieur Raoul?" the heiress of
millions softly says.
"Not till this is in marble, mademoiselle. A poor artist does not
mingle in your own gay world."
"But a soldier of France is welcome everywhere," the girl falters.
A mist rises to Raoul's eyes. He bears the cross of the Legion of
Honor on his breast. The perfume from her hair is blown across his
face. "Les violettes de Parme." The artist sinks in the soldier.
Springing to the window, the girl's assenting hand, cold as ice,
is clasped in his palm.
"Isabel!" he cries. She trembles like a leaf. "May the soldier
ask what the artist would not dare?" He is blind with passion.
The lovely dark-eyed girl turns a splendid face upon him, her eyes
filled with happy tears, and cries:
"Captain, you saved my life!"
The noisy clock ticks away; the only sound beside its clang is
the beating hearts which close in love's first embrace, when the
soldier knows he has won the heart of the Pearl of Paris.
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