“My submission,” she said, “only respected those lands and estates which your Grace's ancestors gave to mine, and which I resign to the House of Burgundy, if my Sovereign thinks my disobedience in this matter renders me unworthy to hold them.”
“Ha! Saint George!” said the Duke, stamping furiously on the ground, “does the fool know in what presence she is?—And to whom she speaks?”
“My lord,” she replied, still undismayed, “I am before my Suzerain, and, I trust, a just one. If you deprive me of my lands, you take away all that your ancestors' generosity gave, and you break the only bonds which attach us together. You gave not this poor and persecuted form, still less the spirit which animates me.—And these it is my purpose to dedicate to Heaven in the convent of the Ursulines, under the guidance of this Holy Mother Abbess.”
The rage and astonishment of the Duke can hardly be conceived, unless we could estimate the surprise of a falcon against whom a dove should ruffle its pinions in defiance.
“Will the Holy Mother receive you without an appanage?” he said in a voice of scorn.
“If she doth her convent, in the first instance, so much wrong,” said the Lady Isabelle, “I trust there is charity enough among the noble friends of my house to make up some support for the orphan of Croye.”
“It is false!” said the Duke, “it is a base pretext to cover some secret and unworthy passion.—My Lord of Orleans, she shall be yours, if I drag her to the altar with my own hands!”
The Countess of Crevecoeur, a high spirited woman and confident in her husband's merits and his favour with the Duke, could keep silent no longer.
“My lord,” she said, “your passions transport you into language utterly unworthy.—The hand of no gentlewoman can be disposed of by force.”
“And it is no part of the duty of a Christian Prince,” added the Abbess, “to thwart the wishes of a pious soul, who, broken with the cares and persecutions of the world, is desirous to become the bride of Heaven.”