Not far from the Chateau d'Urtis, the old manor-house of Langevy
raised its pointed turrets above the surrounding woods. There, in
complete isolation from the world, lived Monsieur de Langevy, his
old mother, and his young son. M. de Langevy had struggled against
the storms and misfortunes of human life; he now reposed in the
bosom of solitude, with many a regret over his wife and his
youth--his valiant sword and his adventures. His son, Hector Henri de
Langevy, had studied under the Jesuits at Lyons till he was eighteen.
Accustomed to the indulgent tenderness of his grandmother, he had
returned, about two years before, determined to live in his quiet
home without troubling himself about the military glories that had
inspired his father. M. de Langevy, though he disapproved of the
youth's choice, did not interfere with it, except that he insisted
on his sometimes following the chase, as the next best occupation to
actual war. The chase had few charms for Hector. It perhaps might
have had more, if he had not been forced to arm himself with an
enormous fowling-piece that had belonged to one of his ancestors,
the very sight of which alarmed him a mighty deal more than the game.
He was so prodigious a sportsman, that, after six months' practice,
he was startled as much as ever by the whirr of a partridge. But
don't imagine, on this account, that Hector's time was utterly wasted.
He mused and dreamed, and fancied it would be so pleasant to be in
love; for he was at that golden age--the only golden age the world
has ever seen--when the heart passes from vision to vision (as the
bee from flower to flower)--and wanders, in its dreams of hope, from
earth to heaven, from sunshine to shade--from warbling groves to
sighing maidens. But alas! the heart of Hector searched in vain for
sighing maidens in the woods of Langevy. In the chateau, there was
no one but an old housekeeper, who had probably not sighed for thirty
years, and a chubby scullion-maid--all unworthy of a soul that
dreamed romances on the banks of the Lignon. He counted greatly on a
cousin from Paris, who had promised them a visit in the spring. In
the meantime, he paced up and down with a gun on his shoulder,
pretending to be a sportsman--happy in his hopes, happy in the clear
sunshine, happy because he knew no better--as happens to a great
many other people in the gay days of their youth, in this most
unjustly condemned and vilipended world. And now you will probably
guess what occurred one day he was walking in his usual dreamy state
of abstraction, and as nearly as possible tumbled head foremost into
the Lignon. By dint of marching straight on, without minding either
hedge or ditch, he found himself, when he awakened from his reverie,
with his right foot raised, in the very act of stepping off the bank
into the water. He stood stock-still, in that somewhat unpicturesque
attitude--his mouth wide open, his eyes strained, and his cheek
glowing with all the colours of the rainbow. He had caught a glimpse
of our two enchanting shepherdesses on the other side of the stream,
who were watching his movements by stealth. He blushed far redder
than he had ever done before, and hesitated whether he should
retreat or advance. To retreat, he felt, would look rather awkward:
at the same time, he thought it would be too great a price to pay
for his honour to jump into the river. And, besides, even if he got
over to the other side, would he have courage to speak to them?
Altogether, I think he acted more wisely, though less chivalrously,
than some might have done in his place. He laid down his gun, and
seated himself on the bank, and looked at the sheep as they fed on
the opposite side. At twenty years of age, love travels at an amazing
pace; and Hector felt that he was already over head and ears with
one of the fair shepherdesses. He did not stop to examine which of
them it was; it was of no consequence--sufficient for him that he
knew he was in love--gone--captivated. If he had been twenty years
older, he would perhaps have admired them both: it would have been
less romantic, but decidedly more wise.
It is not to be denied that Amaranthe and Daphnè blushed a little,
too, at this sort of half meeting with Hector. They hung down their
heads in the most captivating manner, and continued silent for some
time. But at last Amaranthe, more lively than her sister,
recommenced her chatter. "Look, Bribri," she said--"Daphnè I mean--he
is one of the silvan deities, or perhaps Narcissus looking at himself
in the water."
"Rather say, looking at you," replied Daphnè, with a blush.
"'Tis Pan hiding himself in the oziers till you are metamorphosed
into a flute, dear Daphnè."
"Not so, fair sister," replied Daphnè; "'tis Endymion in pursuit of
the shepherdess Amaranthe."
"At his present pace, the pursuit will last some time. If he weren't
quite so rustic, he would be a captivating shepherd, with his long
brown ringlets. He has not moved for an hour. What if he has taken
root like a hamadryad?"
"Poor fellow!" said Daphnè, in the simplest tone in the world;
"he looks very dull all by himself."
"He must come over to us--that's very plain. We will give him a crook
and a bouquet of flowers."
"Oh, just the thing!" exclaimed the innocent Daphnè. "We need a
shepherd: and yet, no, no"--she added, for she was a little jealous
of her sister--"'tis a lucky thing there is river between us."
"I hope he will find a bridge _per passa lou riou d'amor_."
Now, just at that moment Hector's mind was set on passing the river
of Love. In casting his eyes all round in search of a passage, he
perceived an old willow half thrown across the stream. With a little
courage and activity, it was a graceful and poetical bridge. Hector
resolved to try it. He rose and went right onward towards the tree;
but, when he arrived, he couldn't help reflecting that, at that
season, the river was immensely deep. He disdained the danger--sprang
lightly up the trunk, and flung himself along one of the branches,
dropping, happily without any accident, on the meadow of the Chateau
d'Urtis. Little more was left for him to do; and that little he did.
He went towards the fair shepherdesses. He tried to overcome his
timidity--he overwhelmed the first sheep of the flock with his
insidious caresses--and then, finding himself within a few feet of
Amaranthe--he bowed, and smiled, and said, "Mademoiselle."
He was suddenly interrupted by a clear and silvery voice.
"There are no Mesdemoiselles here--there are only two shepherdesses,
Amaranthe and Daphnè."
Hector had prepared a complimentary speech for a young lady attending
a flock of sheep--but he hadn't a word to say to a shepherdess.
He bowed again, and there was a pause.
"Fair Amaranthe," he said--"and fair Daphnè, will you permit a mortal
to tread these flowery plains?"
Amaranthe received the speech with a smile, in which a little
raillery was mingled. "You speak like a true shepherd," she said.
But Daphnè was more good-natured, and more touched with the
politeness of the sportsman. She cast her eyes on the ground and
blushed.
"Oh--if you wish to pass through these meadows," she said--"we shall
be"--
"We were going to do the honours of our reception room," continued
Amaranthe, "and offer you a seat on the grass."
"'Tis too much happiness to throw myself at your feet," replied
Hector, casting himself on one knee.
But he had not looked where he knelt, and he broke Daphnè's crook.
"Oh, my poor crook!" she said--and sighed.
"What have I done?" cried Hector. "I am distressed at my stupidity--I
will cut you another from the ash grove below. But you loved this
crook," he added--"the gift, perhaps, of some shepherd--some shepherd?
--no, some prince; for you yourselves are princesses--or fairies."
"We are nothing but simple shepherdesses," said Amaranthe.
"You are nothing but beautiful young ladies from the capital," said
Hector, "on a visit at the Chateau d'Urtis. Heaven be praised--for in
my walks I shall at least catch glimpses of you at a distance, if I
dare not come near. I shall see you glinting among the trees like
enchantresses of old."
"Yes, we are Parisians, as you have guessed--but retired for ever
from the world and its deceitful joys."
Amaranthe had uttered the last words in a declamatory tone; you
might have thought them a quotation from her mamma.
"You complain rather early, methinks," replied Hector, with a smile;
"have you indeed much fault to find with the world?"
"That is our secret, fair sportsman," answered Amaranthe; "but it
seems you also live retired--an eremite forlorn."
"I? fair Amaranthe? I have done nothing but dream of the delights of
a shepherd's life--though I confess I had given up all hopes of
seeing a good-looking shepherdess--but now I shall go back more
happily than ever to my day-dreams. Ah! why can't I help you to
guard your flock?"
The two young girls did not know what to say to this proposition.
Daphnè at last replied--
"Our flock is very small--and quite ill enough attended to as it is."
"What joy for me to become Daphnis--to sing to you, and gather roses,
and twine them in your hair!"
"Let us say no more," interrupted Amaranthe, a little disquieted at
the sudden ardour of Daphnis; "the sun is going down: we must return
to the park. Adieu," she added, rising to go away.
"Adieu, Daphnis!" murmured the tender Daphnè, confused and blushing.
Hector did not dare to follow them. He stood for a quarter of an
hour with his eyes fixed first on them, and then on the door of the
park. His heart beat violently, his whole soul pursued the steps of
the shepherdesses.
"'Adieu, Daphnis,' the lovely Daphnè said to me. I hear her sweet
voice still! How beautiful she is! how beautiful they are,
both--Amaranthe is more graceful, but Daphnè is more winning--bright
eyes--white hands! sweet smiles! and the delicious dress, so simple,
yet so captivating! the white corset that I could not venture to
look at--the gown of silk that couldn't hide the points of the
charming little feet. 'Tis witchery--enchantment--Venus and Diana--I
shall inevitably go mad. Ah, cousin! you ought to have come long ago,
and all this might never have occurred."
The sun had sunk behind a bed of clouds--the nightingale began its
song, and the fresh green leaves rustled beneath the mild breath of
the evening breeze. The bee hummed joyously on its homeward way,
loaded with the sweets of the spring flowers. Down in the valley,
the voice of the hinds driving their herds to rest, increased the
rustic concert; the river rippled on beneath the mysterious shade of
old fantastic trees, and the air was filled with soft noises, and
rich perfumes, and the voice of birds. There was no room in Hector's
heart for all these natural enjoyments. "To-morrow," he said,
kissing the broken crook--"I will come back again to-morrow."