"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.
"Your rank, your millions, your guardian! The Count Villa Rocca, my enemy!" he hoarsely whispers.
The clinging beauty hands him the ribbon from her throat.