The castle clock sounded the hour of luncheon. Hector offered his arm
to Madame Deshoulieres; Daphnè called her flock. They entered the
park, and were joined by the Duchess d'Urtis and Amaranthe. The
collation was magnificent. First course, an omelette au jambon, entrèe
cakes, and fresh butter; second course, a superb cream cheese.
Dessert, a trifle and preserves. All these interesting details are
embalmed in the poetic correspondence of Madame Deshoulieres, in
which every dish was duly chronicled for the edification of her
friends.
At nightfall--for Hector lingered as long as he could--the young
shepherd quitted the party with great regret; but there was no time
to lose, for he had two leagues to go, and there was no moon, and
the roads were still broken into immense ruts by the equinoctial
rains. On the following day, Hector returned to the Chateau d'Urtis
through the meadow. When he arrived near the willow that served for
his bridge across the river, he was surprised to see neither
shepherdess nor flock in the field. He tripped across the tree,
lamenting the bad omen; but scarcely had he reached the other side
when he saw some sheep straggling here and there. He rushed towards
them, amazed at not seeing either Amaranthe or Daphnè; and what was
his enchantment when, on advancing a little further, he perceived
his adored shepherdess by the margin of the Lignon, which at that
point formed a pretty little cascade. The tender Daphnè had thrown
her beautiful arm round one of the young willows in flower, and,
trusting to its support, leaned gracefully over the waterfall, in
the shadow of its odoriferous leaves. She had allowed her soul to
wander in one of those delicious reveries, of which the
thread--broken and renewed a thousand times--is the work of the joy
which hopes, and the sadness which fears. She was not aware of
Hector's approach. When she saw him, she started, as if waking from
a dream.
"You are all alone," said Hector, drawing near.
She hurriedly told him that her sister would soon join her. The two
lovers kept silence for some time, looking timidly at each other,
not venturing to speak, as if they feared the sound of their own
voices in the solitude.
"There seems a sadness," said Hector at length, but his voice
trembled as he spoke--"there seems a sadness on your brow?"
"'Tis true," replied Daphnè. "Mamma has heard from Monsieur
Deshoulieres. He is going to pass through Avignon soon, and we are
going away to see him on his passage."
"Going away!" cried Hector, turning pale.
"Yes! and I felt myself so happy," said Daphnè, mournfully,
"in these meadows with my sheep, that I loved so well."
When Daphnè spoke of her sheep, she looked at Hector.
"But why should you go? Madame Deshoulieres could return for you here"
--
"And take me away when I had been longer here--my grief would only
be greater. No--I must go now or stay always."
On hearing these words Hector fell on one knee, seized her hand and
kissed it, and, looking up with eyes overflowing with love, said--
"Yes--always! always!--you know that I love you, Daphnè--I wish to
tell you how I will adore you all my life long."
Daphnè yielded to her heart--and let him kiss her hand without
resistance.
"But alas!" she said, "I can't be always guarding a flock. What will
the poor shepherdess do?"
"Am I not your shepherd? your Daphnis?" cried Hector, as if
inspired--"trust to me, Daphnè--to my heart--to my soul! This hand
shall never be separated from yours: we shall live the same life--in
the sane sunshine--in the same shadow--in the same hovel--in the
same palace; but with you, dearest Daphnè, the humblest hut would be
a palace. Listen, my dearest Daphnè: at a short distance from here
there is a cottage--the Cottage of the Vines--that belongs to the
sister of my nurse, where we can live in love and happiness--no eye
to watch and no tongue to wound us."
"Never! never!" said Daphnè.
She snatched her hands from those of her lover, retreated a few paces,
and began to cry. Hector went up to her; he spoke of his
affection--he besought her with tears in his eyes--he was so
eloquent and so sincere, that poor Daphnè was unable to resist, for
any length of time, those bewildering shocks of first love to which
the wisest of us yield: she said, all pale and trembling--
"Well--yes--I trust myself to you--and heaven. I am not to blame--is
it my fault that I love you so?"
A tender embrace followed these words. Evening was now come; the sun,
sinking behind the clouds on the horizon, cast but a feeble light;
the little herdsman was driving home his oxen and his flock of
turkeys, whose gabbling disturbed the solemnity of the closing day.
The flock belonging to the castle turned naturally towards the
watering-place.
"Look at my poor sheep," said Daphnè, throwing back the curls which
by some means had fallen over her forehead--"look at my poor sheep:
they are pointing out the road I ought to go."
"On the contrary," replied Hector, "the ungrateful wretches are going
off very contentedly without you."
"But I am terrified," rejoined Daphnè: "how can I leave my mother in
this way? She will die of grief!"
"She will write a poem on it; and that will be all."
"I will write to her that I was unable to resist my inclination for
a monastic life, and that I have gone, without giving her notice, to
the nunnery of St. Marie that we were speaking of last night."
So said the pure and candid Bribri, hitting in a moment on the
ingenious device; so true it is, that at the bottom of all
hearts--even the most amiable--there is some small spark of mischief
ready to explode when we least expect it.
"Yes--dearest," cried Hector, delighted at the thought, "you will
write to her you have gone into the convent; she will go on to
Avignon; we shall remain together beneath these cloudless skies, in
this lovely country, happy as the birds, and free as the winds of
the hill!"
Daphnè thought she heard some brilliant quotation from her mother,
and perhaps was, on that account, the more easily led by Hector.
After walking half an hour, with many a glance by the way, and many
a smile, they arrived in front of the Cottage of the Vines--the good
old woman was hoeing peas in her garden--she had left her house to
the protection of an old grey cat, that was sleeping in the doorway.
Daphnè was enraptured with the cottage. It was beautifully retired,
and was approached by a little grass walk bordered by elder-trees;
and all was closed in by a pretty orchard, in which luxuriant vines
clambered up the fine old pear-trees, and formed in festoons between
the branching elms. The Lignon formed a graceful curve and nearly
encircled the paddock.
"At all events," said Daphnè, "if I am wretched here, my tears will
fall into the stream I love."
"But you will have no time to weep," replied Hector, pressing her
hand, "all our days will be happy here! Look at that window half
hidden in vine-leaves; 'tis there you will inhale the fragrance of
the garden every morning when you awake; look at that pretty bower
with the honeysuckle screen, 'tis there we will sit every evening,
and talk over the joys of the day. Our life will be bright and
beautiful as a sunbeam among roses!"
They had gone inside the cottage. It had certainly no great
resemblance to a palace; but under these worn rafters--within these
simple walls--by the side of that rustic chimney--poverty itself
would be delightful, in its tidiness and simplicity, if shared with
one you loved. Daphnè was a little disconcerted at first by the
rough uneven floor, and by the smell of the evening meal--the
toasted cheese, and the little oven where the loaf was baking; but,
thanks to love--the enchanter, who has the power of transforming to
what shape he likes, and can shed his magic splendours over any
thing--Daphnè found the cottage charming, and she was pleased with
the floor, and the toasted cheese, and the oven! The good old woman,
on coming in from the garden, was astonished at the sight of Hector
and Daphnè.
"What a pretty sister you have, Monsieur Hector!" she said.
"Listen to me, Babet--since your daughter married, nobody has used
the little room up stairs. This young lady will occupy it for a few
days; but you must keep it a secret from all the world--you
understand."
"Don't be afraid, Master Hector--I am delighted to have so pretty a
tenant for my daughter's room. The bed is rather small, but it is
white and clean, and the sheets are fresh bleached. They smell of
the daisies yet. You will sup with me, my fair young lady?"
continued Babet, turning to Daphnè; "my dishes are only pewter, but
there is such a flavour in my simple fare--my vegetables and
fruits--I can't account for it, except it be the blessing of heaven."
Babet spread a tablecloth like snow, and laid some dishes of fruit
upon the table. Hector took a tender farewell of Daphnè, and kissed
her hand at least a dozen times. At last he tore himself away, with
a promise that he would be with her at daybreak next morning.