Early in the following morning, Hector wandered along the banks of
the Lignon, with a fresh-cut crook in his hand. He looked to the
door of the Park d'Urtis, expecting every moment to see the glorious
apparitions of the day before. And at stroke of noon, a lamb rushing
through the gate, careered along the meadow, and the eleven others
ran gayly after it, amidst a peal of musical laughter from Amaranthe.
Daphnè did not laugh.
The moment she crossed the threshold, she glanced stealthily
towards the river. "I thought so," she murmured; "Daphnis has come
back." And Daphnis, in a transport of joy, was hurrying to the
shepherdesses, when he was suddenly interrupted by Madame
Deshoulieres and the Duchess d'Urtis. When the sisters had returned,
on the evening before, Amaranthe, to Daphnè's great discomfiture,
had told word for word all that had occurred; how that a young
sportsman had joined them, and how they had talked and laughed; and
Madame d'Urtis had no doubt, from the description, that it was Hector
de Langevy. Amaranthe having added to the story, that she felt certain,
in spite of Daphnè's declarations to the contrary, that he would meet
them again, the seniors had determined to watch the result. Hector
would fain have made his escape; two ladies he might have faced, but
four!--and two of them above thirty years of age! 'Twas too much; but
his retreat was instantly cut off. He stood at bay, blushed with
all his might, but saluted the ladies as manfully as if he had been
a page. He received three most gracious curtsies in return--only
three; for Daphnè wished to pass on without taking any notice--which
he considered a very favourable omen. He did not know how to begin a
conversation; and besides, he began to get confused; and his blushing
increased to a most alarming extent--and--in short--he held out his
crook to Daphnè. As that young shepherdess had no crook of her own,
and did not know how to refuse the one he offered, she took it,
though her hand trenbled a little, and looked at Madame Deshoulieres.
"I broke your crook yesterday, fair Daphnè," said Hector, "but it is
not lost. I shall make a relic of it--more precious than--than--",
but the bones of the particular saint he was about to name stuck in
his throat and he was silent.
"Monsieur de Langevy," said Madam d'Urtis kindly, "since you make
such a point of aiding these shepherdesses in guarding the flock, I
hope in an hour you will accompany them to the castle to lunch."
"I'll go with them wherever you allow me, madam," said Hector.
(I wonder if the impudent fellow thought he had the permission of
the young ones already.)
"Let that be settled then," said the Duchess. "I shall go and have
the butter cooled, and the curds made--a simple lunch, as befits the
guests."
"The fare of shepherds!" said Madame Deshoulieres, and immediately
set out in search of a rhyme.
Daphnè had walked slowly on, pressing the crook involuntarily to her
heart, and arrived at the river side, impelled by a desire for
solitude, without knowing why. There are some mysterious influences
to which damsels of seventeen seem particularly subject. A lamb--the
gentlest of the flock, which had become accustomed to her
caresses--had followed her like a dog. She passed her small hand
lightly over the snowy neck of the favourite, and looked round to
see what the party she had left were doing. She was astonished to
see her mother and Hector conversing, as if they had been acquainted
for ages, while Madame d'Urtis and Amaranthe were running a race
towards the park. She sat down on the grassy bank, exactly opposite
the oziers where she had seen Hector the preceding day. When she
felt she was quite alone, she ventured to look at the crook. It was
a branch of ash of good size, ornamented with a rustic bouquet and a
bunch of ribands, not very skilfully tied. Daphnè was just going to
improve the knot, when she saw a billet hid in the flowers. What
should she do?--read it? That were dangerous; her confessor did not
allow such venialities--her mamma would be enraged--some people are
so fond of monopolies--and besides, she might be discovered. 'Twould
be better, then, _not_ to read it--a much simpler proceeding; for
couldn't she nearly guess what was in it? And what did she care what
was in it? Not to read it was evidently the safer mode; and
accordingly she--read it through and through, and blushed and smiled,
and read it through and through again. It was none of your
commonplace prosaic epistles--'twas all poetry, all fire; her mamma
would have been enchanted if the verses had only been addressed to
her. Here they are:--
"My sweetest hour, my happiest day,
Was in the happy month of May!
The happy dreams that round me lay
On that delicious morn of May!"
"I saw thee! loved thee! If my love
A tribute unrejected be,
The happiest day of May shall prove
The happiest of my life to me!"
It is quite evident that if such an open declaration had been made
in plain prose, Daphnè would have been angry; but in verse, 'twas
nothing but a poetical license. Instead, therefore, of tearing it in
pieces, and throwing it into the water, she folded it carefully
up, and placed it in the pretty corset of white satin, which seems
the natural escritoire of a shepherdess in her teens. Scarcely had
she closed the drawer, and double locked it, when she saw at her
side--Hector and Madame Deshoulieres.
"My poor child," said the poetess, "how thoughtful you seem on
Lignon's flowery side--forgetful of your sheep--"
'That o'er the meadows negligently stray!'
Monsieur de Langevy, as you have given her a crook, methinks you
ought to aid her in her duties in watching the flock. As for myself,
I must be off to finish a letter to my bishop.
'From Lignon's famous banks
What can I find to say?
The breezes freshly springing,
Make me--and nature--gay.
When Celadon would weep;
His lost Astrea fair,
To Lignon he would creep,
But oh! this joyous air
Would force to skip and leap
A dragon in despair!'--&c. &c.
Madame Deshoulieres had no prudish notions, you will perceive, about
a flirtation--provided it was carried on with the airs and graces of
the Hotel Rambouillet. She merely, therefore, interposed a word here
and there, to show that she was present. Daphne, who scarcely said a
word to Hector, took good care to answer every time her mamma spoke
to her. To be sure, it detracts a little from this filial merit,
that she did not know what she said. But if all parties were pleased,
I don't see what possible right anybody else has to find fault.
The shepherdess Daphnè, or rather Bribri Deshoulieres, as we have
seen, was beautiful, and simple, and tender--beautiful from the
admirable sweetness of her expression--simple, as young girls are
simple: that is to say, with a small spice of mischief to relieve
the insipidity--and tender, with a smile that seems to open the
heart as well as the lips. What struck people in her expression at
first, was a shade of sadness over her features--a fatal presentiment,
as it were, that added infinitely to her charm. Her sister was more
beautiful, perhaps--had richer roses on her cheek, and more of what
is called _manner_ altogether--but if Amaranthe pleased the eyes,
Daphnè captivated the heart; and as the eyes are evidently
subordinate to the heart, Daphne carried the day. Hector accordingly,
on the first burst of his admiration, had _seen_ nothing but
Amaranthe; but when he had left the sisters, it was astonishing how
exclusively he _thought_ of Daphnè.