You have got such a splendid colour, and your eyes are so bright--you are superb, I declare.

I am greatly flattered at your blazing out into such dazzling beauty on my account--upon my word I am.
You have done well to speak out openly--I hate deceit.

So you love de Sigognac, do you?
So much the better, say I--it will be all the sweeter to call you mine.

It will be a pleasing variety to press ardent kisses upon sweet lips that say 'I hate you,' instead of the insipid, everlasting 'I love you,' that one gets a surfeit of from all the pretty women of one's acquaintance." Alarmed at this coarse language, and the threatening gestures that accompanied it, Isabelle started back and drew out Chiquita's knife.
"Bravo!" cried the duke--"here comes the traditional poniard.

We are being treated to a bit of high tragedy.