PRINCESS LIONETTE AND PRINCE COQUERICO.

In the Circassian mountains lived an old man and his wife who had

retired from the world, weary of the caprices of fortune. They had

found for themselves a convenient retreat in a cavern, which extended

far beneath one of the mountains, and the dread of seeing each other

expire was the only anxiety that troubled them in their solitude.

They had lived at Courts, and knew all the insincerity that prevailed

in them; and far from regretting the brilliant positions they had

occupied, they pitied those who, from ambition or want of experience,

were desirous of them. They lived a happy and quiet life. Their food

consisted of fruit and fish, the latter abounding in a large pond,

wherein the old man amused himself by taking them; while a flock of

sheep which the old woman had the care of, produced the finest wool

in the world to make their clothes with. The old man called himself

Mulidor, and his wife was named Phila. They incessantly implored the

gods to send somebody to console whichever might be left the last upon

earth, or to close their eyes, but their prayers had not yet been

granted. It must not, however, be supposed that the gods rejected such

pure and reasonable desires, but they wished to prove the constancy of

these good people, to recompense them afterwards with interest.

[Illustration: Princess Lionette and Prince Coquerico.--P. 416.]

The old man had just caught some fish, and after fastening his boat to

the bank, he spread his net upon a rock to dry it in the sun, when a

lion rushed out from one of the cavities of the rock, and went to drink

in the pond. Mulidor was afraid at first, but afterwards finding that

the proud beast was roaring because he could not reach the water, which

was too far off from the edge at this spot, he re-entered his boat, and

filling a bowl offered it to the lion, who came and emptied it several

times. After he had quenched his thirst, he raised his head and looked

at his benefactor so mildly, that the good man ventured to caress him.

The lion appeared pleased at his doing so, and ate some bread and

cheese which the old man took from a basket he had slung on his arm.

As, however, this was not a very safe companion, Mulidor thought he

had better return to his cavern, fearing that his wife, uneasy at his

absence, might come in search of him, and that the lion, having less

respect for her than for him, would devour her.

This idea was beginning to agitate him, when the lion, after licking

his hand, returned to his own home, leaving the old man at liberty

to do so likewise. Upon reaching the cavern he found his wife, as he

expected, alarmed at his delay; he related his adventure to her, which

made her shudder. They continued to talk upon the subject, and drew

this inference, that men might learn lessons of kindness and gratitude

from animals. "Do not, however, place yourself again at the mercy of

this fierce beast," said she, affectionately, "or let me go with you,

for I could not live under the fear I shall henceforth be in concerning

you. You have been restored to me this time, but can I flatter myself

that the Gods will be always equally gracious to me." The old man,

touched by her affection, promised to avoid the lion in future. This

conversation kept them up late, and consequently they did not awake

till the golden rays of morning shone full upon them. On opening the

door to go out and feed her sheep, Phila was greatly surprised to find

at it a lion of prodigious size and strength, and a lioness of equal

power and beauty, the latter carrying on her back a little girl of five

or six years old, who, as soon as she saw the old woman, alighted, ran

to her, and embraced her.

The good woman stood motionless with fear and wonder, and the lions,

after kissing the little girl, who returned their caresses, ran off,

and disappeared in an instant, leaving her in the good wife's hands.

Recovering from her fright she looked at the child, who never ceased

kissing her, took her in her arms, and went into the cavern to show her

to her husband. They both of them admired her beauty and gentleness;

she was quite naked, her fair hair only falling over her shoulders, and

upon her right breast she had a singular mark in the shape of a crown.

The good people thanked the Gods for this gift; they dressed the

beautiful little child in a light snow-white robe, with a rose-coloured

girdle, and tied up her hair with ribbon of the same colour. She

allowed them to do so quietly, and without saying a word. They fondled

her, and gave her some ewe's milk quite fresh. She smiled at the sight

of it, and looking at them, uttered a little cry resembling the roar

of a lion. She soon became accustomed to them, however; she had no

resemblance to a lion but in her voice, and from that circumstance

they called her Lionette. She answered to this name, and her natural

intelligence soon enabled her to understand what they said to her,

and at length to speak and explain herself. She had been a year with

these good people, who loved her dearly, and were equally loved by her,

when Mulidor, to make her familiar with their way of life, in case she

should lose them, took her out to fish with him. He had been there

several times alone without meeting the lions, but little Lionette was

no sooner at the foot of the rock where the good man dried his fish

than she uttered a little roar, which awoke the lion and lioness, who

ran out to her immediately, each vying with the other in fondling and

caressing her. She embraced the lioness affectionately, who allowed her

freely to do so; at length she jumped upon her back, and the lions ran

off with her in a moment. The poor old man was in consternation; he

threw himself upon the ground and prayed to die, now that he had lost

Lionette. After lying there a long time, finding his despair could be

of no avail, he dragged himself to his cavern, and created fresh misery

there in relating to Phila the accident that had happened to Lionette.

"Lionette! my dear Lionette!" cried the good woman, "is it possible we

can have lost you? Alas! why did the Gods present you to us, so cruelly

to take you from us? Of all the goods we have lost we but regret you!"

Their affliction was inconsolable, and poor Mulidor had scarcely

spirit enough to bear up against this misfortune. The night was passed

in lamentations and tears. At break of day they went in search of

her, fearing neither the lions nor their fury; their great love for

Lionette made them wish to be devoured also, if she had undergone that

frightful fate. They ran to the rock where the lions had chosen to

establish themselves, when suddenly they saw little Lionette riding

on the lioness towards them. As soon as the lovely child saw them she

jumped down, and ran and threw her arms round their necks; then taking

from the back of the lioness a kid that she had killed in the chase,

"There," said she, "see what mother lioness gives you; she took me

hunting to get game for you." These good people were half crazy with

delight at seeing her again; they could not help crying, and bathing

her pretty face with their tears. "My dear daughter! my dear child!"

they exclaimed, "you are restored to us again." Lionette was affected

at this sight. "Do you then," said she, "forbid me from seeing the

lioness, that you can say nothing to her, and that you shed tears in

embracing me?" "No, no, my dear child," they both cried at once, "but

we feared that you had abandoned us." "Mother lioness does not wish

it," said the child, "she wishes me to be your daughter." She turned

round for her to agree to what she said, but she was no longer there,

and Lionette returned cheerfully with them to the cavern.

Mulidor and Phila thought this was a very wonderful adventure; they

had many private conversations about it, and determined they would

not refuse the child to the Lioness, when she chose to come for her;

at the same time, Mulidor obtained his wife's consent to consult

Tigreline upon Lionette's destiny. She was a very learned Fairy. "I

had already thought of doing so," replied Phila, "and it had better be

done directly." It was settled he should start the first thing in the

morning.

The good woman prepared a present for the Fairy, to induce her to be

more gracious--nothing very precious, the Fairies do not desire it--it

was a piece of sky-blue ribbon, and a little basket of nuts, which

Tigreline was passionately fond of. Mulidor set out on his journey to

her dwelling; she had fixed her habitation in the heart of an immense

forest which was filled with tigers--it was from that circumstance she

took her name. When any one sought her for a good object, the tigers

did them no harm, but if they went thither with any evil design,

they tore them to pieces, and none such were ever known to reach the

Fairy's castle. The old man having nothing to fear upon that subject,

did not arm himself with any weapon of defence, and arrived without

difficulty at the castle at the moment the Fairy was getting up. He

found her occupied in stringing large pearls on a golden thread. She

received him very graciously, and taking her spectacles from off her

nose, "Approach, wise old man," said she. "I know what has brought

you here, and I am very glad to see you." Mulidor bowed profoundly,

and kissed Tigreline's robe. He offered his little present, which she

received very kindly, then making him sit down, she told him she would

consult Destiny in her large book, that she might answer correctly the

questions he came to ask her. After reading for some time, she raised

her eyes to Heaven, then fixing them upon Mulidor, "Listen," said she,

"to what I think of Lionette. She must be warned from loving one who

is her direct opposite, otherwise great misfortune may happen to her,

even to the loss of life. Should she arrive at twenty without this

fate befalling her, I answer for her happiness." She then informed the

old man that Lionette was a great Princess, exposed to be eaten by

lions almost immediately after she was born, through the wickedness

of a certain Queen; but she would not tell him anything more, and

exhorted the old man to continue to cultivate in the child all those

good feelings which he himself possessed, and left it to him to decide

on telling her who she was, trusting to his prudence for securing her

happiness.

She then gave him for Lionette the string of pearls she had just

finished. "If she do not lose it, or give it away," said the Fairy,

"it will preserve her from many dangers. It may, indeed, insure her

happiness if she take special care of it." The old man thanked the

Fairy and returned home, where he arrived before nightfall.

He found his wife and Lionette; the latter embraced him a thousand

times, and he tied the Fairy's pearls round her neck, earnestly

entreating her to take great care of them. She was enchanted with this

new ornament, and the old man related to Phila, as soon as they were

alone, all that the Fairy had told him. They consulted together upon

the course they should take, and resolved they would say nothing to

Lionette of her birth, to prevent her feeling useless regrets. "We

can tell her at any time, should it be necessary to do so," added the

prudent wife; "and we should be sorry for it (not having it in our

power to give her more than the education of a simple shepherdess) if

her disposition, sweet as it is now, should be changed by the knowledge

of her rank. Let us attend to her heart and mind: princesses have not

the time to do so. She will learn from her own experience that they are

as subject as other mortals are to the caprices of Fortune, and perhaps

she may be the happier for it."

Mulidor quite agreed with the truth of this, and they applied

themselves more than ever to the education of this amiable child, whose

natural excellence left them nothing to wish for. She was twelve years

old, and continued to go hunting with the Lioness, very often carrying

on her shoulder a little quiver, and skilfully shooting the wild

beasts. One night, returning later than usual, the cavern resounded

with the roars of the Lioness. Mulidor and Phila both went out, and

found the Lioness at the door, having brought Lionette with her, who

was seated on the ground, endeavouring to console the poor animal,

that appeared in deep despair. "The Lion is dead," cried the young

child, "and my mother cannot be comforted--a hunter has killed him."

The Lioness rolled upon the ground, and shed torrents of tears. The old

man, his wife, and Lionette did their best to soothe her grief; but

after passing the whole night in the vain attempt, the Lioness expired

herself in the morning. The sobs and grief of Lionette were excessive,

she could not leave the body of the poor beast, she embraced it, and

shed tears over it. At length they dragged her from this sad scene,

and while the old man buried the Lioness, the kind Phila attended to

Lionette, who was in the deepest affliction. When Mulidor came in, he

was much moved by the child's grief, and was anxious to comfort her,

but finding he only increased her sorrow, he said, "What would you have

done, then, my child, if this accident had happened to either of us? It

is not possible you could have felt it more keenly." "Ah! my father,"

cried she, holding her arms out to embrace him, fearing that he was

offended at the little attention she paid to his consolations, "if the

Gods have reserved so much misfortune for me, I implore them to let me

die instantly, for I shall not be able to support it." "The Gods, my

child," replied the old man, "do not always grant such rash petitions.

It is offending Providence not to submit humbly to its decrees. Do you

suppose you are the only one who suffers from affliction in this life?

Is this the courage I thought you capable of?"

Lionette cast down her eyes: the severity of this remonstrance had

brought a slight colour into her cheeks, which made her more lovely.

Mulidor felt he had said enough; he went out and left his wife to

soften anything he might have said too harshly; and Phila, embracing

Lionette, said, "Really, my child, you would make us believe you could

have no greater grief. No doubt the friendship you show for these poor

animals is highly laudable, but you must take comfort, and thank the

Gods that they have not inflicted on you greater misfortunes." "Ah!

my mother," cried Lionette, embracing her, "how much obliged I am to

you for speaking to me thus; do not let my father be angry with me any

more--I feel I could not bear it." Mulidor re-entered; Lionette ran to

embrace him; he returned her caresses with a fondness that consoled the

charming child. They could not sufficiently admire the goodness of her

heart, her sensibility, her gentleness, and frankness; and she also

loved them dearly.

Lionette, however, continued to deplore the loss of the Lions: a deep

melancholy appeared to have taken possession of her; she dared not give

way to it before Mulidor, but she felt less restraint with Phila. The

worthy couple often conversed together upon this subject; they became

alarmed at Lionette's condition; they tried to amuse her; they went out

more frequently, took walks with her, allowed her to go hunting and

fishing, gave her birds, flowers, shells; but she preferred hunting to

all other amusements. The part of the country in which they lived was

so wild a desert that persons must either have come there on purpose,

or have lost their way, to be seen in it, so there was little danger of

Lionette meeting with anybody. Still, the fact of the Lion having been

killed by a hunter was remembered by Mulidor. He never could understand

how a man could get so far without having found out their retreat, or

being more astonished at seeing a young girl mounted on a Lioness, and

hunting in company with a Lion. They did not dare ask Lionette any

questions about it, fearing they should renew her grief; and yet they

feared to prohibit her from hunting, feeling, good souls, how cruel it

would be to deprive her of her favourite amusement. They only entreated

her, therefore, to take care she did not lose herself.

At the end of some months, Lionette regained her spirits a little.

The old man and his wife were enchanted at this happy change. They

congratulated themselves upon having promoted it by their indulgence,

and trusted that she would in time forget the Lions. She grew fast, and

began to evince character; she was wonderfully beautiful, even in the

most simple of her dresses. Phila had made her garment of the finest

tigers' skins, and a little cap of the same material; and thus attired,

one might have taken her for Diana herself, she was so graceful and

majestic. Her beautiful black eyes heightened the brilliancy and

vivacity of her complexion, which neither the hottest sun nor the

most scorching wind had any effect upon, nor could they injure the

whiteness of her arms or neck. She was not at all aware of her beauty;

her strength of mind and her education made her above priding herself

on her personal advantages. She spoke well, and her ideas were even

superior to her language. The good people were astonished to see her at

so early an age evincing so much talent and judgment. She was then just

approaching her fifteenth birthday.

For some days past, Phila perceived that she had taken the trouble

to put her hair in curls on going to bed, and that on going out she

glanced at herself with a kind of satisfaction in a fountain adjoining

the cavern. She mentioned this to Mulidor, who was as much surprised

at it as herself; they, however, did not choose to speak to her about

it, but determined to watch her closely, that they might discover

the motive of this unusual attention to her personal appearance, and

they recollected that for some time past she had appeared thoughtful,

uneasy, and indifferent to matters which had previously amused her.

Lionette returned to the cavern rather earlier on that day; she brought

with her a brace of partridges that she had killed. The good woman

asked her if she felt too tired to help her with some spinning she

wished to finish. "If you could dispense with my assistance," said

Lionette, "I should be very much obliged to you; I feel so inclined to

sleep."

Phila consented, and let her go into a little nook of the cavern which

made a kind of room for her. She had decorated it with all the rarest

things that she had found. The hangings were composed of the feathers

of singular birds, and an abundance of flowers in shells, which she

kept filled with fresh water, ornamented this pretty chamber. Mulidor

had taught her to paint; she had finished some charming pictures,

and with the wool she had found in the cavern she had embroidered

some cushions, which she had arranged as a couch. Upon this she threw

herself, looking more like a goddess than a mortal.

The good woman becoming uneasy at the length of time she slept, went

to seek her; she found her, as I have just described, reclining on the

cushions; her eyes were shut, but a few tears that were struggling

to escape through their long lashes, convinced her that the lovely

Lionette was in some distress. She stood looking at her for some time,

she had never seen her look so beautiful; but at length, alarmed at

her condition, she drew nearer, and taking her hands, pressed them

affectionately between her own.

This action aroused Lionette, and turning her eyes towards Phila, "Ah,

mother!" said she, throwing herself upon her neck, "how ashamed I am to

appear thus before you." "Why, my dear girl," said Phila, "why do you

conceal your troubles from me? Do you not know how interested we both

feel for you? What is the matter with you, my child? Do not hide your

distress from me; perhaps I could assuage it."

Lionette was some time before she ventured to answer. She kept her

head bent down in the old woman's hands; she kissed them passionately.

At length she regained her courage, and raising herself, her cheeks

suffused with blushes, "I am about to tell you something," said she,

"which has tormented me for some time past. Let me hope this avowal at

least will serve to obtain your forgiveness." "Speak, my dear girl,"

said Phila, "and fear nothing. I am more uneasy at your grief than

angry at your having concealed it from me."

Lionette encouraged by this, told her that, on her way to the forest,

about three months ago, she had seen a young shepherd fast asleep, and

that an arrow which she had shot at a bird having missed it, fell and

pierced the young man's hand; that attracted by the cry he uttered,

she approached him, and assisted in stanching the blood. "This wound,"

she added, "awoke in my heart a strange emotion. I trembled in applying

to it the herbs I had gathered, the properties of which you had taught

me. He, far from being angry with me, told me he should never complain

of that wound, but eternally of the one my eyes had inflicted on him.

"This language, quite new to me, was so fascinating that I wished never

to quit him. He wept as he gazed on me; he kissed my hands to detain

me. I proposed that he should follow me, that my father might assist in

curing him. 'I cannot do so, beautiful Lionette,' said he (I had told

him my name), 'a most cruel fate has forced me to fly from the world;

but promise me to come sometimes and cheer my solitude, and I shall ask

nothing more from the Gods. I shall believe their anger is appeased.'

I did promise him--he asked me too tenderly to be refused. At length I

felt you would be uneasy at my stay, and I left him with so much regret

that I burst into tears, and hurried away that he might not perceive

it, for I was ashamed, I think, of my compassion for him.

"I returned, restless and miserable. Next morning I went in search of

him. I cannot tell what prevented me from making you acquainted with

it, but I was on the point of telling you a hundred times, and as often

I felt it would be impossible to do so--perhaps it was because he

had begged me to keep it a secret. I ran to look for him, to ask his

permission to tell you. Approaching the spot where we had seen each

other the evening before, I stopped suddenly. A feeling of reproach

came over me for having hidden this proceeding from you; and besides, I

was so agitated, I feared I should be ill. 'What shall I do by myself

here?' thought I; 'I am without help, and that which I might find is

perhaps dangerous to wait for. Unfortunate Lionette, what hast thou

promised to do? Fly, return to thy duty, for it is clear that thou

hast wandered from it, since thou art so much disturbed at taking this

secret step. The Gods warn thee. This state of mind is not natural.'

I had sat down to reflect. I got up. I retraced my steps, when a

grievous thought arrested me. 'Alas!' said I, 'perhaps he is unable to

come to meet me, from the wound I inflicted on him; and if so, what

will be his despair at not seeing me? There is no one to help him in

this desolate place but myself. To refuse him my assistance would be

inhuman. Let me find out whether he wants me, and see him but for that.'

"I proceeded, therefore, to the fatal place where I had wounded him the

evening before. He was not there. I became alarmed; my limbs failed

me; I fell upon the moss which covered the ground. I saw some traces

of his blood still remaining on it. I was nearly suffocated by my

grief. Happily my tears flowed, and that relieved me; but I felt the

keenest affliction when I thought that perhaps I had been the cause

of his death. I drew out my arrows, and broke them deliberately as a

punishment for my cruelty. I caught sight by chance of the one with

which I had wounded him. It was still upon the ground, and stained

with his blood. My tears flowed faster at this frightful sight. I gave

utterance to my agony in piercing shrieks. They were interrupted by

the sight of the young shepherd himself, running quickly towards me.

I could not rise. He threw himself on his knees near me, in so much

terror that I was alarmed myself at his excessive paleness. He asked

me what had happened. At the same time I put the same question to him.

We re-assured each other. I told him the reason of my tears. Never was

any one thanked so tenderly. His words had a charm in them that went to

my heart. I listened with a pleasure I had never felt before; I nearly

forgot his wound, so much I feared to interrupt him. I was astonished,

however, to hear him say how much he loved me--he, whom I had scarcely

ever seen; and I was still more surprised to find how dear he had

become to me, for he told me more than I could dare tell him; and I

believe he could read my heart, for I thought exactly as he did, only

it appeared to me I could not so well have expressed myself.

"At last he told me that he wished to be mine. 'And are you not so

already?' said I. 'Can you be more so than you are? That would enchant

me.' He smiled at my words. I thought I had said something wrong, and

I blushed at my awkward manner of expressing myself. I know not what

he thought, but he said a thousand more affectionate things to me. He

informed me he was the son of a great king, and would be my husband.

'I cannot be your wife,' said I: 'they will not let me.' 'Ah! who will

oppose it,' exclaimed he, 'if you consent?' I then told him that my

father and mother had always said a crown would be an obstacle to the

happiness of my life, and that they certainly would never consent to

such a union. 'Wait for a few days,' said he, 'and I will tell you

how to soften their severity. If you love me you will assist me in

conquering it; but never refrain from coming to this place. My life

depends upon your acquiescence. Fear nothing from me, lovely Lionette;

nothing can be purer than my affection, and I call all the divinities

of the forest to witness that I shall ever respect as much as I love

you.' He gave me his hand; I gave him mine, and I vowed, as he had

done, to love for ever, if you consented to it.

"I examined his hand, and found the wound had healed; I was delighted

at this, and left him, promising to return, and not to say anything to

you until he desired me. I returned so absorbed by his image that I

felt as though I only lived when he was present. I had no pleasure in

anything but him: the more I saw him the more I wished to see him. It

was the same with him. He is charming, mother! and were you to see him

you could not do otherwise than love him.

"Three months have passed in this sweet union, and now comes my misery.

This morning he told me that it was necessary that he should be

absent for some days upon important business which tended much to our

happiness. I had never known what it was to lose sight of him for more

than a few hours. I was as wretched as he was. He told me, however,

that he should soon return, and that he was even more anxious than

myself to complete our happiness. I wept bitterly. At length the hour

arrived for us to part, I unfastened my necklace, and tied it round his

arm----"

"Oh, heavens! what have you done, my child?" exclaimed Phila. "We are

lost beyond help."

She threw herself upon the ground, and filled the cavern with her

cries, Lionette, alarmed at this sight, arose to assist the good woman.

"What is the matter, then, mother?" she cried. "Why should a necklace

of such trifling consequence rouse you to so much grief?" "It is for

you I weep, my daughter," said Phila. "Your happiness was linked with

the preservation of that unfortunate necklace."

She then repeated what the Fairy Tigreline had said to Mulidor, and did

not conceal from her that she was a princess, but that she knew nothing

more. Lionette, who possessed naturally an elevated mind, was not

astonished at this news. "Very well, mother," said she; "the more you

convince me of the probability of my high birth, the more courageously

I ought to bear up against the sad events which are predicted of me,

though, to speak the truth, I do not believe in them; and I see nothing

unfortunate here but the absence of the shepherd whom I love, and his

unhappy name, which made me fly from him without being able to control

myself. These are the only misfortunes I know of." "What say you, my

daughter?" exclaimed the old woman; "his name caused you to fly from

him? Explain this riddle--I do not understand it." "Alas! this is

the cause of my despair," replied Lionette. "I had scarcely tied the

necklace round his arm, when he kissed my hand with such transport that

I forgot my grief for the moment. 'Yes, beautiful Lionette,' he said,

'it is for life that you have enchained the happy Prince Coquerico.'

"Hardly had he pronounced his name, which he had never told me (he

preferred that I should always call him my shepherd), than I felt

so horrified, without knowing wherefore, that I fled as swiftly as

possible. He followed me; he called me. I had not the power to return.

An invisible hand seemed to impel me forward. 'My dear Lionette,' he

cried, 'where are you going? It is your shepherd--it is Coquerico

who calls you.' I ran still faster. At last I lost sight of him,

either that I had taken paths he knew not of, or that he was afraid

of displeasing me by following me any longer. I arrived here in such

confusion I had some trouble in hiding it from you. You know the rest,

my mother--all that has happened to me, and I beg you a thousand

pardons for profiting so little from your good lessons; and although I

owe my birth to apparently powerful princes, I shall always submit to

your authority."

Mulidor came in as Lionette finished speaking; they made him acquainted

with this adventure; he was in great alarm at what might happen from

the loss of the necklace, and did not dare go and consult Tigreline,

whom they had so decidedly disobeyed. There was nothing to be done

but to wait and see what would befal the Princess. They entreated her

to forget this young man; they succeeded by degrees in consoling her

for his absence, and notwithstanding her melancholy, she took part

occasionally in their cheerful conversation.

Two months passed in this manner. One night they were suddenly awakened

out of a deep sleep by a clap of thunder which made them think the

cavern was crumbling to pieces. They started to their feet, and had not

time to recover themselves before a hideous and very richly dressed

Fairy touched them with her wand, and they were transformed into two

Lionesses and a Lion, she then transported them in an instant to the

Forest of Tigers, where she vanished and left them.

Who could express the consternation of the wise old man, or his wife's

distress? That of the Princess was still greater, she reproached

herself as being the cause of these good peoples' misfortune; and what

distressed her still more was, not being able to speak, she had not

the power of comforting them. This calamity for the moment made her

forget Prince Coquerico; but when she thought she should never see him

more, or that if she did, he would fly in terror from her, or at least

not recognise her, she uttered such frightful roars that the forest

resounded with them, and her poor companions came near her to try to

console her. Their grief was redoubled to find they could neither

understand nor speak to her. They groaned despairingly. At length it

occurred to all three of them to go to the Fairy, but they had no power

of communicating the idea to each other. The Lion was the first to

start, the two Lionesses followed him, but the Tigers stopped the way,

without, however, doing them any harm. Finding their intentions were

frustrated, they concluded it was by the Fairy's orders. They buried

themselves in the thickest part of the forest, and laid down very

sorrowfully upon some beautiful green grass, which served as a bed for

them. They passed some considerable time in this place without seeing

the Fairy, she took care, however, to send them food by one of the

Tigers regularly every day.

It is now time to acquaint the reader who Prince Coquerico was:--That

young Prince was the son of a King who had been very powerful, and who

had reigned in the Fortunate Islands. This King was dead, and having

left his son at a tender age, the Queen became regent. The ambition of

reigning, the pride of being Sovereign Mistress, had closed her heart

against the feelings of nature. She had her son brought up in a castle

upon the edge of the sea, in luxury and idleness unequalled; and her

excuse for this sort of education was a prediction of the Fairies at

his birth, to the effect that his life would be endangered if he took

up arms before he was twenty years old.

Everything was interdicted that could give him any desire for military

exercises, and the art of war was depicted in such frightful colours

that, however valiant the Prince might have been born, he shuddered

at even the picture of a sword. The King, his father, who had died in

battle, was represented to him as so sanguinary a sovereign that he

vowed he would never imitate him.

They had named this prince, Coquerico, in derision from his having

amused himself one day--contrary to the desire of his tutors--with

looking at a fight between two game cocks. He spent his life in

walking; in hearing sentimental romances read to him, the heroes of

which they represented in such a manner that he might not have a desire

to become like them; he learned to play upon several instruments, to

paint, and to work at tapestry. The Queen went to see him very often,

and pictured to him the fate of kings in such distressing colours, that

he dreaded the moment when he should ascend the throne.

He was just ten years old, the time appointed for the Queen to

resign the throne to him, when, walking on the coast, apart from his

followers, he was caught up by a whirlwind, and disappeared in an

instant. His tutors, surprised that he was so long a time in returning,

went to seek him, but could find him nowhere. The most diligent search

proved in vain, and they were compelled to apprise the Queen of this

mysterious circumstance. She would easily have been consoled for this

accident if the people of the Island, tired of her government, and

indignant at the education that had been given to their King, had not

risen in rebellion. After having torn her ministers in pieces, they

compelled her to fly to a neighbouring Monarch, who granted her an

asylum. This King had been a widower for two years, having but one

daughter, in giving birth to whom the Queen died.

He married the fugitive Queen; and the people of the Fortunate Islands

elected a council to rule the kingdom until they could obtain news of

their Prince Coquerico, whom they did not believe to be dead. They were

right, the whirlwind had been caused by a Fairy, who, delighted at the

sight of so beautiful a Prince, and angry to find him brought up so

badly, had resolved to purloin him from a mother who had proved herself

unworthy of being blessed with such a son.

To cultivate a fine disposition spoiled by so wicked an education, the

Fairy was impelled by another feeling less generous and more natural.

The beauty of this Prince had touched her heart, she imagined that

gratitude would make some impression upon that of the young Coquerico.

The few charms she possessed, however, were not likely to do so. She

was old, and had a horn in the middle of her forehead; but she was very

susceptible, and was always complaining that she had met with none

but ungrateful beings. "By bringing up this young man," she thought,

"he will become accustomed to my appearance, and perhaps my care and

affection for him will inspire him with sentiments that may lead in

time to that happy union of souls, that perfect mutual love, which I

have heard so much of and never experienced."

Cornue (that was her name) reasoned thus in transporting the handsome

Prince to her dwelling, which was in the Desert where the old man and

his wife had brought up the young Lionette for the last four years.

Cornue had built herself a charming palace upon the summit of one

of the mountains, but it was inaccessible to all human beings, in

consequence of the clouds with which it was continually surrounded. The

charms of life, its amusements, both rational and frivolous, were all

united there. This palace was of immense extent, although formed of one

single opal, so transparent and so beautiful that through the walls one

might see a grain of millet at the end of the garden, which was worthy

of so magnificent a palace, from its groves, terraces, parterres, and

fountains.

The tasteful Cornue had not spared anything, even in her dress, for

when, placing the Prince in the vestibule of her palace, she made

herself visible to him, she had enveloped her horn in a green velvet

case, covered with diamonds; her hair, which was rather grey, was

powdered white,[41] and tied with green _moulinet_ bows, in the

centre of each of which sparkled a large diamond; and her dress, of

flesh-colour and silver, showed her form so truly, that one could

perceive the Graces had striven among themselves which should give the

finishing touch to it.

The Prince was surprised at this apparition. She kissed his hand, and

asked his forgiveness for taking him away from his retirement without

his permission. "If I can avoid being your king," said he, with an air

which showed that he was not alarmed at the manner in which he had been

conducted thither, "I should be very well contented, for the fear of

ascending the throne made me desirous of leaving my kingdom, and you

have done me a favour in taking me away from it;--but I should like to

know," added he, quickly, "why you wear so pointed a head-dress, and

why your dress is of so peculiar a colour?" "We excuse such childish

questions at your age," said the Fairy, slightly blushing; "you will be

ashamed of them some day;--but let us enter the palace, and you will

find something to occupy your attention more agreeably."

She then gave him her hand, and they passed into a saloon in keeping

with the beauty of the rest of the palace. A hundred black slaves

were arranged in two files, through which the Prince and the Fairy

proceeded to the centre. It was sufficiently light to see the rarities

which ornamented this beautiful place; statues, sculptured marbles,

porcelain, furniture, were all admired with the taste of a connoisseur

by the young Prince. The slave opened the door of a magnificent

gallery, filled with charts, maps of the world, instruments of

geometry, models of the most beautiful cities in Asia, Europe, and

Africa; of palaces where the men and women of each nation were dressed

in their national costumes, and by the Fairy's skill they moved hither

and thither, spoke in their own language, and held conversations

according to their position. This amused the Prince for a considerable

time. He requested the Fairy to allow him to remain in that gallery a

little longer than she seemed inclined to do.

He made the slaves who accompanied him explain what this all meant;

he bade them repeat it, and was quite enchanted. He recognised the

Fortunate Islands; he saw his tutors seeking for him, and who appeared

in despair at not finding him--that touched his heart with pity. The

Fairy at length withdrew him from this scene, that he might not witness

the catastrophe. She amused him with other objects.

Some islands surrounded by the sea, upon another model, afforded him

great entertainment. Vessels filled with passengers executed some

wonderful evolutions; then there was a sea-fight, followed by a storm,

which dispersed the ships and sank several of them. This terminated the

diversions of this day. The Fairy then proposed supper, after which an

opera was represented; this was succeeded by a ball, and the Prince

danced with the Fairy, and with the nymphs in the Fairy's train, and

at last six slaves conducted him to a handsome apartment, in which he

retired to rest.

The next and following days were passed in conversations, sometimes

serious, sometimes mirthful; the slaves had orders to cultivate his

taste for the arts while amusing him, to which purpose he lent himself

readily. He was already accustomed to walk in a second gallery, which

formed a superb arsenal; he heard them talk of arms and of war with

pleasure; he almost wished to witness a battle, and felt ashamed he had

ever thought otherwise. The slaves formed themselves into battalions,

he placed himself at their head, he enjoyed his triumph in a sham

fight, he invented stratagems, he sought for glory everywhere; he no

longer feared to be a king. The gallery of models had displayed to him

the pleasures of royalty; he passed three hours each day in it, and

took lessons from the ablest politicians. The cabinet secrets of all

the Courts in the universe were no secrets to him.

There was a model of the whole globe in that gallery, and what

art pervaded that grand work! Not only all the kingdoms and their

various provinces, to the smallest habitation, were represented;

but every mortal upon the face of the earth was seen in pursuit of

his vocation. All spoke their own language, you heard them, you saw

them,--the most secret actions were displayed therein: the ocean and

its vessels, rivers, lakes, streamlets, deserts, even yet undiscovered

countries,--nothing was hidden from the learned Cornue. All was to

be found in her model. There was wherewithal to amuse one during the

longest life that ever was known.

The Prince was fascinated by this wonderful work of art; he studied it

for a long time; he could with difficulty tear himself from it; nor

did he consent to do so till the Fairy assured him that this gallery

forming a portion of his suite of apartments, he might visit it

whenever he wished.

He left it at length to enjoy new pleasures--an opera, a supper,

followed by a magnificent ball, in which the fairies of Cornue's Court

distinguished themselves in dancing, notwithstanding they were ugly

and old, for their mistress took care not to incur the reproach of

being the least handsome person in the Palace; and the designs she had

upon the heart of the young Prince would not admit of her neglecting

anything that would bring them to bear.

His education was entrusted to six fairies, who led him each morning

into the gallery of the globe for three hours; they explained the

various interests of Princes, he learned their languages, he heard

and saw the effect of their politics, their battles by land and sea,

which displayed to him the ability of ministers and of generals.

Already he was able to form sound opinions, and to speak of things

with the knowledge acquired from experience. His noble mind developed

itself, he burned with a desire for glory, he blushed at having been

afraid of it. He also appreciated the pleasures of royalty, he began

to find a satisfaction in being master, but he did not at all covet

the soft and effeminate life which he perceived in the seraglios of

the sovereigns of Persia and Constantinople; he preferred those kings

who reigned absolutely over their subjects, with a certainty that they

would shed their blood to preserve theirs. Insensibly he became the

most accomplished Prince living. He was not ignorant upon any point;

his fine intellect assisting his slight experience, he evinced in

everything the greatest judgment and discernment. "But where can one

see this land, and the inhabitants, that I observe in my model?" said

he sometimes to Cornue. "I will show you some day," answered she; "it

is not time yet." That would vex him; he was desirous of appearing of

some consequence himself in this fine plan of the universe, he was

annoyed at not seeing himself in it. This caused him many reflections,

but as they only sprang from his brain, they did not distress him

much--those suggested by the heart, more interesting, he knew nothing

of yet.

The Fairy did not fear that the beauties whom he saw in the model

would awake in him any emotions contrary to her wishes; they were

so exceedingly small, that he could but take them for pretty little

puppets, the largest figure, of a man even, not being taller than

one's thumb. His great amusement was the opera and comedy; he went to

them very often: the little figures acted wonderfully well, and as he

had a great appreciation of genius, he attended all orations of the

Academy,[42] and commented upon them with great sagacity.

Until he was eighteen years old, this gallery continued to be his

greatest pleasure; in fact, he knew no other. At that age he began to

wish to know the people whose portraits he saw; the Fairy, desirous

to please him, dared not oppose him too much; she put him off with

promises, but feared he would escape her. "I hunt in your park," he

said; "I walk in it; I always see the same things, it tires me; I

should like sometimes to see something different." "Ah! truly," said

the Fairy, "you have well preserved the faults of human kind. Miserable

state of men! Can they be perfectly happy?--they cannot believe

themselves to be so, they sigh for what they do not possess, and when

they have obtained it they are disgusted with it. Ah! what have you to

wish for here? do you not reign here? are you not the master? Do you

fear treachery here, false friends, or bad advisers? We live but to

please you; you are all-powerful in this Palace--you command; we obey

you. What being could be grander and happier than you are?"

The Prince bent his head at the enumeration of all the happiness the

Fairy had surrounded him with, and found that he still desired more.

He said nothing, but his uneasiness, his agitation, his weariness,

appeared in spite of him in all his actions. Cornue increased the

magnificence of her dress; the Prince did not notice it; he scarcely

ever looked at her. She was disconsolate; for the idea, entertained

ever since she had carried him off, the hope of being ardently loved by

him, had strengthened with time, and the Prince's increasing beauty had

contributed much to her passion. He was just at that happy age in which

we please without much trouble, and love with that frankness which is

so soon discarded.

Cornue was enraged that he did not think of her. "You ought to love me,

were it only to amuse you," said she to him, one day, when she was very

melancholy. "Love you," replied he, looking very vacantly at her; "do

I not love you?" Then, without thinking of it, he added immediately,

"I feel certain I shall never love." "Ah! why?" said the Fairy; "who

prevents you?" "Nobody," he replied; then rose, and took a gun, and

went shooting for the rest of the day.

The Fairy, in despair at his indifference, and fearing she should lose

him if she still persisted in opposing him, perceiving also that he

was thinner, and that his colour had faded, determined to allow him to

change the scene, and for this reason one morning she sent for him.

"The time has arrived," said she, "that I can give you your liberty to

leave the Palace. You will find the vast universe, of which I am about

to open the roads to you, resemble a very stormy ocean, but since you

wish to expose yourself to it, I will not detain you; all I advise

you to do is to confide in me when in trouble (for you will have much

to endure before you become King), and to commence your excursions

by going to my sister Tigreline, and asking her, from me, for the

wonderful necklace which can alone preserve you from the misfortunes

attached to your fate. Take this bottle, pour a drop of the spirit

it contains upon the clouds which surround the park; they will open

for you to pass, and this dog will guide you on your way back to the

palace."

The Prince, who did not expect so great a favour, displayed such

transports of gratitude that the Fairy felt nearly recompensed for her

trouble by the caresses she received from him. He promised to follow

her advice upon every point, and set out immediately. The boundaries

of the park adjoined a forest so wild and frightful that Coquerico

found the world was not quite so beautiful as he imagined it to be;

notwithstanding, he entered this vast wilderness, accompanied solely

by his dog. Guided by his faithful companion, he was pursuing a

path which led to the Forest of Tigers, when suddenly he saw a lion

of extraordinary size coming straight towards him. At first he was

startled at such a meeting, never having seen a lion in Cornue's

park; but recovering himself a little, he shot an arrow with so true

an aim that it pierced the lion's heart, and he fell dead at his feet.

He proceeded as fast as possible, but his attention was arrested a

moment afterwards by frightful roarings. He looked in the direction

from whence they came, and he saw in the distance another lion, running

at full speed, with a young child on its back; he was about to pursue

it, but his dog pulled him by the coat so hard that he thought the

Fairy Cornue had appointed this dog to be his guardian, and so, giving

himself up to his guidance, he arrived at Tigreline's abode without

further accident.

As soon as he had told her the reason of his journey, she replied,

"Prince Coquerico, you will inform my sister that I have disposed of

the necklace that she asks me for; doubtless it was for you she wanted

it. I hope, however, that it will not fall into your hands so soon,

whatever advantage you might desire from it. But to make up for the

loss of this gift, which I am no longer able to bestow, I warn you that

if you ever pronounce your name rashly, or without its being absolutely

necessary, you will lose, perhaps for ever, that which is most dear to

you. I advise you, therefore, to conceal your name from every one, or

at least not to mention it lightly. Go, Prince, I can do nothing more

for you."

The Prince thanked the Fairy very much, kissed her hand, retired, and

returned to Cornue's palace, very well satisfied with the little he had

seen. He was received most graciously; they asked him many questions;

he related all his adventures; he fancied he should never have finished

talking about them, everything had seemed of such singular beauty to

him. He was in high spirits all the evening. They praised him, they

caressed him, but that did not content him. He was resolved to go out

again, and the Fairy, perceiving how good-tempered he was, permitted

him to do as he wished. For a whole year he roamed to the furthest

extent of the beautiful country in the neighbourhood; sometimes he went

on horseback, and often dismounted to sleep under the trees during the

heat of the day. This sort of exercise increased his stature and his

strength. He was now in the prime of his beauty.

He was very anxious to ask the Fairy to restore him to his subjects;

he was tired of this life of privation; his mind, as fine as his

person, made him anxious to revisit his kingdom; but he dared not as

yet request Cornue's permission, lest he should appear ungrateful.

This brought back his former melancholy. Cornue became alarmed; she

endeavoured to amuse him in every imaginable way. He scarcely ever went

out; he passed his days almost entirely in the gallery of models, and

when he saw a battle he could not be got away from it. What was still

worse, he one day witnessed the coronation of a young King. At this

sight they thought he would go mad. The shouts of joy, the warlike

instruments, the pomp of the ceremony, transported him with anger as

well as delight. "Why, then," said he, "am I to be imprisoned here

during my youth, when I could be at the head of these people, making

either war or peace, enjoying really my rights of birth? They would

detain me here, a captive, render me as effeminate as Achilles at

the Court of Licomedia. Can I not find a Ulysses who will come to my

rescue?" He would have given still greater vent to his vexation had

they not come to announce to him that the Fairy was waiting for him

to order them to begin an opera she had commanded the performance of.

"What, always some fête?" said he. "Well," he continued, "I must submit

to it."

The opera they were to perform was _Armide_.[43] The Fairy, who had

been told what an ill-humour the Prince was in, watched him during

the performance. She thought that he seemed amused by it, for he was

so attentive to the piece. The fourth and fifth acts he certainly did

think wonderful; he spoke of it the whole of the evening; he admired

above everything the idea of the shield which restored the hero to

glory. "What," said the Fairy; "does not Armida interest you at all?

Do you not pity her? So much affection deserves a better recompense."

"By my faith, Madam," replied the Prince, "your Armida has what she

deserves. I should like to know if the heart is to be commanded; I

believe it to be perfectly independent of the will, as far as I am

concerned." Cornue felt the cruelty of this answer, but she did not

appear to do so, and turned the conversation to another subject.

The Prince retired early, that he might go the next day shooting.

This was the day that his hand was wounded by the beautiful Lionette's

arrow. Upon returning to the Fairy's palace the Prince considered

whether he should speak of this adventure; he was astonished at himself

for wishing to keep it a secret. A sweet feeling (hitherto unknown to

him) stole over his mind, and took such possession of it that he was

unable to conceal it. He asked himself what it could mean, and he could

find no reason for it. The name of Lionette enchanted him. He repeated

it incessantly. The grace, the beauty of this young girl enchanted him,

and he found himself within the palace without being aware how he had

arrived there. It was then he began to recover himself a little.

Under the effect of this intoxicating feeling, he said a thousand

gallant things to the Fairy. She was surprised at it, but flattering

herself that her charms had produced this alteration, she did not

inquire the reason of such extraordinary joy. His wound made her

uneasy, but he took care to tell her that he had hurt himself with one

of his own arrows, and the enamoured Cornue, anxious about everything

that concerned him, cured it by breathing upon it, without further

inquiry. He was in charming spirits for the rest of the day; Cornue

thought he had lost his senses; she ordered some music that he thought

delightful, although he had heard the same every day without noticing

it--so much does love embellish the slightest objects. His passion led

him to indulge in delicious meditations, and to discover in his heart

the existence of emotions he had never dreamed of. He retired early,

and hastened to the gallery, seeking for a representation of her whom

he had seen during the day--he was successful in his search; he saw

the lovely Lionette seated between the old people in the cavern, and

when, on separating for the night, they extinguished the light, and

she was in darkness, he still remained gazing in the direction of the

cavern, and did not leave the gallery until the following morning

was sufficiently advanced for him to go and meet the lovely huntress

herself. In traversing the forest he lost himself, and that was the

cause of his being so long before he rejoined his beautiful Lionette.

Unfortunately for the Fairy, her skill was now useless to her--from

the moment Fairies fall in love, their art cannot protect them; when

they recover their reason they regain their power; but in the interim

they can neither punish their rivals nor discover them, unless chance

assist them, as it might common mortals. Three months elapsed without

her having an idea of the cause of the change in Prince Coquerico;

she heard no more of his ambitious aspirations; a country life and

retirement was all he now desired; he dressed himself as a shepherd; he

composed eclogues and madrigals; he engraved them upon the trees in the

park, accompanied by gallant and amorous devices that the Fairy could

not understand. When she asked him for an explanation, he smiled, and

told her it was not for him to instruct so learned a person as she was.

"Ask your own heart, Madam," added he, "that will teach you; it was

mine that dictated it all to me."

The Fairy was quite contented with this answer; she interpreted it

according to her own wishes, but she could not reconcile to herself the

Prince's frequent absence, after all he had said to her; for he went

out the first thing in the morning, and did not return till the last

thing at night. She passed whole days in thinking about new dresses

and different entertainments. As she had a lively imagination, she

succeeded with the latter, but the former were absolutely useless--her

age and her horn entirely defeated all attempts at decoration. It was

upon this occasion that she invented the _Bal-Masqués_, which have been

ever since so successful. The Prince often indulged in this agreeable

delusion, and with his heart full of the beautiful Lionette, he spoke

to the Fairy as though he were addressing his love, and the credulous

Cornue took it all to herself.

Towards the end of the third month of this intense and secret passion,

the Prince at length resolved to ask the Fairy to conduct him to his

own kingdom. It was not ambition that induced him to wish it, but a

higher and more delicate sentiment. Why conceal it? Love itself made

him anxious to ascend the throne, that he might place the beautiful

Lionette on it beside him. He had scarcely spoken to the Fairy about

it before she consented, flattering herself that he wished to share

his crown with her. With what pleasure did she order everything for

his departure. The Prince, as we know, took leave of his lovely

shepherdess, and set out, with the Fairy and a numerous suite, for the

kingdom of the Fortunate Isles. Cornue was seated with him in a car of

rock crystal, drawn by a dozen unicorns; their harness was of gold and

rubies, as brilliant as the sun. A dozen other chariots, as pompous,

followed; and the Prince, as beautiful as Cupid, and magnificently

dressed, attracted the attention of every one. He had most carefully

concealed the necklace that the lovely Lionette had given him; he wore

it on his left arm as a bracelet, and his dress covered it. He was

delighted at the thought of appearing before Lionette in such grand

apparel, and to read in her looks the joy such proof of his love would

give her; but he could not help feeling a secret anxiety, which at

times cast a cloud over his mind; he attributed it to the distance

between him and his love, and sometimes he thought he had done wrong in

going so far away from her. "The happiness I am seeking, is it worth

what I lose?" said he. "Lionette loves me as she has seen me; will she

love me more for possessing a crown? Ah! Lionette, I know you too well

to wrong you so much; your noble and simple heart only estimates that

true grandeur which places man above his fellows by the elevation of

his mind."

At length he arrived at the Fortunate Isles, and the people, delighted

to see their Prince again, received him with acclamations. He was

crowned, and by the attentions of the enamoured Cornue, the ceremony

was followed by magnificent fêtes, in which the Prince, from gratitude,

insisted on her sharing all the honours. The fêtes ended, and the

affairs of this fine kingdom put in order by the Fairy and the

ministers she had chosen, she determined to have a complete explanation

with the King, and began by adroitly proposing that he should marry.

She had gained the ministers over to her wishes, and induced them to

join in the proposition she had made to him; but who can tell Cornue's

astonishment when the young Prince replied by acknowledging his love

for the beautiful Lionette, and entreating her to assist in rendering

him happy, by enabling him to share his throne with the object of his

affections! "Ah! where have you seen this Lionette?" replied the Fairy,

with a look in which astonishment, rage, and vexation were equally

visible. "What, then," added she, "is this the return for my care of

you?" The Prince, astonished at this sharp reply, and not fearing

her reproaches, ended by relating his interview with Lionette, and

painted his affection in such glowing colours that she plainly saw

the opposition she might make against it would only tend to irritate

him and increase his passion; then cleverly making her decision, "I

would not speak thus to you," said she, "but to reproach you for

your want of confidence, that you did not open your heart to me. I

should have served you better, and Lionette would have been to-day

Queen of the Fortunate Isles; but you have acted like a young man

without experience, and I doubt if I can serve you at present as I

could otherwise have done." "Ah! Madam," replied the King, "you can if

you will. Give me your chariot, and let me go and seek my beautiful

Lionette." "I will do better for you," said she, with a forced smile;

"I will go with you as soon as it strikes midnight; hold yourself in

readiness; we shall be on our way back before the sun is up, and I know

no other means of satisfying your impatience."

The Prince embraced the Fairy's knees, transported with joy and

gratitude, which wounded her much more than his unfortunate confidence;

she took leave of him under a pretext of consulting her books, but

really because she could not contain herself, and her fury had

risen to a most horrible height. Who could describe it? All that an

amorous, jealous, and mistaken woman could feel, she, as a Fairy, felt

still more; nor could the most forcible language paint but feebly

the tortures which racked her heart. She had promised, however,

to accompany the Prince; but that would enable her to execute the

vengeance she meditated.

She felt the more assured of her revenge as the Prince had let the

necklace fall from his arm, and had left her without being aware of

his loss. She picked it up, and thanking the stars for so lucky an

accident, no longer delayed taking measures for her revenge, which

would have been useless without that precious necklace. She closed

the doors of her apartment, that her absence might not be perceived,

and desired the King might be told she must consult her books in

private, and at midnight she would be visible. She mounted a flying

dragon, and speedily arrived in the cavern, where everything was in

profound repose; the dragon sneezed, which was like a clap of thunder,

and enough to rend the cavern. She accomplished, as we have already

seen, her wicked intentions, and returned to the Fortunate Isles as

the clock struck eleven. She could hardly restrain her delight while

waiting for the King; but soon the idea of his being in love, and

without doubt loved in return, renewed her fury; she was in a transport

of rage when he entered her room with an eagerness which assisted not a

little to increase it.

She endeavoured to calm herself, or rather to dissemble her rage;

her fury was at such a height that her horn was in a flame, and the

enamoured and too credulous Coquerico, thinking it was an attention she

was paying him to guide him in the darkness of the night, thanked her

a thousand times for this precaution. They mounted a chariot drawn by

three owls, set off at full speed, and descended in the forest close to

the cavern wherein Lionette had been reared. The Prince only knew it

from Lionette's description of it. Love invests with interest the most

trifling circumstance connected with its object.

He had often asked her to describe the place she inhabited. He

remembered every little detail distinctly. He could not be deceived;

besides, he knew her bow and arrow that were in the cabinet in which

she slept. His grief was excessive at not finding her; he called her,

he went in and out of the cavern a thousand and a thousand times, he

entreated the Fairy to throw a light from her horn upon places that

were obscure, and seeing some little pictures she had painted--"Ah!

this is her work," cried he; "I will preserve them all my life." The

Fairy was so irritated at his transports, that she threw out a flame

from her horn, which in a moment destroyed everything that was in the

cavern.

The Prince had great difficulty to save himself from this

conflagration. The Fairy protected him, however, and triumphed within

herself at the absence of her rival. She advised the Prince to seek

for her elsewhere. "Perhaps," said she, "her parents have married her;

or perhaps," she continued, ironically, "grief at your loss has caused

her death." "I know not what has happened," said the Prince, in a tone

which marked the agitation of his mind, and distracted at not being

able to find his mistress; "but I would rather believe her to be dead

than unfaithful; and if it be true that she exists no longer, very soon

I shall follow her to the grave." "Here is a furious determination of a

lover!" cried the Fairy; but considering that under the circumstances

it would be better not to irritate the King, she changed her tone.

"What I have said," pursued she, "is to prove the interest I take in

you. I am sorry you should have conceived an affection for a person

of such low extraction, and I cannot sufficiently thank Fate that, in

accordance with my own opinion, has removed this shepherdess, and thus

assisted your heart to recover from its error." "I know not if Fate has

assisted you to drive me mad," replied the Prince, sharply; "but if so,

I feel she has been more successful in that attempt than the other.

As to Lionette, I will repair the defect, if it be one, to be born of

obscure parents,--not that I believe it possible for her to be what

she appears. In any case, however, happy are the princesses who are as

high-minded as she is."

The Prince now, seeing how uselessly he was seeking for her in this

place, entered the chariot again with the Fairy, and returned to the

Fortunate Isles, where they arrived at sunrise without having spoken a

single word, both of them occupied--the one by her fury, the other by

his grief.