Daphnè hardly slept all night in her chamber. She was disturbed by
many thoughts, and became alarmed at the step she had taken. At
earliest dawn she threw open her window. The first sun-rays,
reflected on a thousand dewdrops on the trees; the chirping of the
birds, which already began their matin song; the joyous voice of the
cock, which crowed in a most satisfactory and majestic manner in the
paddock of her hostess; all these sights and sounds, to which she
was so little accustomed, restored her serenity of mind once more.
She dwelt more on the attractions of her love--so adventurous, so
romantic. Love's ways, like those of wickedness, are strewed at
first with roses, and Daphnè was only at the entrance of the path.
While she was repelling from her heart the miserable fancies that had
crowded on her at night, she all of a sudden perceived Hector by the
whitethorn hedge.
"Welcome! welcome!" she cried, "you come to me with the sun."
"How lovely you are this morning!" said Hector to her, with a look
of admiration which there needed no physiognomist to discover was
profoundly real. She looked at herself when he spoke, and perceived
she was but half dressed. She threw herself on the foot of her bed.
"What am I to do?" she thought, "I can't always wear a silk petticoat
and a corset of white satin?"
She dressed herself notwithstanding, as last night, trusting to fate
for the morrow. Hector had brought her writing materials, and she
composed a tender adieu to her mamma.
"Admirably done!" cried Hector; "I have a peasant here who will carry
it to Madame Deshoulieres--as for me, I shall go as usual to the
Park d'Urtis at noon. When they see me they will have no suspicion.
Your mamma goes away this evening, so that after to-day we shall
have nothing to fear."
The lovers breakfasted in the spirits which only youth and love can
furnish. Daphnè had herself gone to the fountain with the broken
pitcher of the cottage. "You perceive, Hector," she said, on seating
herself at the table, "that I have all the qualifications of a
peasant girl."
"And all the gracefulness of a duchess," added the youth.
At one o'clock Hector had found his way to the meadow. Nobody was
there. He opened the gate of the park, and before he had gone far was
met by Madame Deshoulieres.
"My daughter!" she cried in an agitated voice; "You have not seen my
daughter?"
"I was in hopes of seeing her here," replied Hector, with a start of
well-acted surprise.
"She is gone off," resumed the mother; "gone off, like a silly
creature, to some convent, disguised as a shepherdess--the foolish,
senseless girl!--and I am obliged to depart this very day, so that
it is impossible to follow her."
Hector continued to enact astonishment--he even offered his services
to reclaim the fugitive--and, in short, exhibited such sorrow and
disappointment, that the habitual quickness of Madame Deshoulieres
was deceived. The Duchess, Amaranthe, and the mamma all thanked him
for his sympathy; and he at last took his leave, with no doubt in
his mind, that he was a consummate actor, and qualified for any plot
whatever.
He went back to Daphnè, who had sunk into despondency once more, and
consoled her by painting a brilliant picture of their future
happiness. But on the following day he came later than before--he
seemed dull and listless--and embraced his shepherdess with evident
constraint. Things like these never escape the observations of
shepherdesses, gentle or simple.
"Do you know, Hector, that you are not by any means too gallant?--A
shepherd of proper sentiments would waken his sweetheart every
morning with the sound of his pipe. He would gather flowers for her
before the dew was gone, and fill her basket with fruits. He would
carve her initials on the bark of the tree beneath the window, as
her name is written on his heart. But you! you come at nearly
noon--and leave me to attend to myself. 'Twas I, you inattentive
Daphnis, who gathered all these fruits and flowers. Don't you see
how the room is improved? Hyacinths in the window, roses on the
mantelpiece, and violets every where--ah! what a time you were in
coming!"
They went out into the garden, where the good old Babet was at
breakfast, with her cat and the bees.
"Come hither," continued Daphnè, "look at this little corner so
beautifully worked--'tis my own garden--I have raked and weeded it
all. There is not much planted in it yet, but what a charming place
it is for vines!--and the hedge, how sweet and flourishing! But what
is the matter with you, Hector? You seem absent--sad."
"Oh! nothing, Daphnè, nothing indeed--I only love you more and more
every hour; that's all."
"Well, that isn't a thing to be sad about"--said Daphnè, with a smile
that would have dispelled any grief less deeply settled than that of
her young companion. He parted from Daphnè soon; without letting her
into the cause of his disquiet. But as there is no reason why the
secret should be kept any longer, let us tell what was going on at
the Chateau de Langevy.
His cousin Clotilde had arrived the evening before, with an old aunt,
to remain for the whole spring! Monsieur de Langevy, who was not
addicted to circumlocution in his mode of talk, told his son
point-blank, that his cousin was a pretty girl, and what was more, a
considerable heiress--so that it was his duty--his, Hector de
Langevy--the owner of a great name and a very small fortune, to
marry the said cousin--or if not, he must stand the consequences.
Hector, at the first intimation, had revolted indignantly against
the inhuman proposal, and made many inaudible vows of undying
constancy to his innocent and trusting Daphne; but by degrees, there
is no denying that--without thinking of the fortune--he found
various attractions in his cousin. She was beautiful, graceful,
winning. She took his arm quite unceremoniously. She had the most
captivating small-talk in the world. In short, if it had not been
for Daphnè, he would have been in love with her at once. As he was
obliged, of course, to escort his cousin in her walks--or break with
her altogether--he did not go for two whole days to the Cottage of
the Vines. On the third day Clotilde begged him to take her to the
banks of the Lignon, and as the request was made in presence of his
father, he dared not refuse. He contented himself--by way of a
relief to his conscience--with breathing a sigh to Daphnè. The
straightest road from the Château de Langevy to the Lignon, led past
the Cottage of the Vines--but Hector had no wish to go the
straightest road. He took a detour of nearly two miles, and led her
almost to the Park D'Urtis. While Clotilde amused herself by
gathering the blossoms, and turning aside the pendent boughs of
the willows that hung over the celebrated stream. Hector looked
over the scene of his first meeting with the shepherdesses, and
sighed--perhaps without knowing exactly wherefore. He was suddenly
startled by a scream--Clotilde, in stretching too far forward, had
missed her footing, and fallen upon the bank; she was within an inch
of rolling into the river. Hector rushed to her, raised her gently up,
and begging her to lean her head upon his shoulder, assisted her up
the bank. "She's like a naiad surprised by a shepherd"--he
thought--and it is not improbable that at that moment he pressed his
lips pretty close to the pale cheek that rested almost in his breast.
When he lifted up his head, he perceived, half hidden among the
willows, on the other side of the river--Daphnè! She had wandered to
see once more the cradle of her love, to tread the meadow where, two
days only before--could it be only two days?--she had been so happy.
What did she see? What did she hear? As her only reply to the kiss
to which she had so unfortunately been a witness, she broke her
crook in an excess of indignation. But it was too much to bear. She
fell upon the bank, and uttered a plaintive cry. At that cry--at
sight of his poor Daphnè fainting upon the grass, he rushed like a
madman across the stream, buoyant with love and despair. He ran to
his insensate shepherdess, regardless of the exclamations of the
fair Clotilde, and raised her in his trembling arms.
"Daphnè, Daphnè," he cried, "open your eyes. I love nobody but
you--nobody but you."
He embraced her tenderly; he wept--and spoke to her as if she heard:
Daphnè opened her eyes for a moment with a look of misery--and shut
them again--and shuddered.
"No, no!" she said--"'tis over! You are no longer Daphnis, and I
Daphnè no more--leave me, leave me alone--to die!"
"My life! my love! my darling Daphnè! I love you--I swear it to you
from my heart. I do not desert you: you are the only one I care for!"
In the meantime Clotilde had approached the touching scene.
"'Pon my word, sir! very well"--she said--"am I to return to the
Chateau by myself?"
"Go, sir, go!" said Daphnè, pushing him away, "You are waited for,
you are called."
"But, Daphnè--but, fair cousin"--
"I won't listen to you--my daydream is past--speak of it no more,"
said Daphnè.
"Do you know, cousin," said Clotilde, with a malicious sneer,
"that this rural surprise is quite enchanting! I am greatly obliged
to you for getting it up for my amusement. You did not prepare me
for so exquisite a scene; I conclude it is from the last chapter of
the Astrea."
"Ah! cousin," said Hector, "I will overtake you in a moment--I will
tell you all, and then I don't think you'll laugh at us."
"Excuse me, sir," cried Daphnè, in a tone of disdainful anger--
"let that history be for ever a secret. I do not wish people to
laugh at the weakness of my heart. Farewell, sir, let every thing be
forgotten--buried!"
Large tears rolled down the poor girl's cheek.
"No, Daphnè, no!--I never will leave you. I declare it before heaven
and earth, I will conduct my cousin to the Chateau, and in an hour I
will be with you to dry your tears, and to ask pardon of you on my
knees. Moreover, I am not to blame, I call my cousin to witness. Is
it not true, Clotilde, that I don't love you?"
"'Pon my word, cousin, you have certainly _told_ me you loved me;
but as men generally say the contrary of what is the fact, I am
willing to believe you don't. But I beg you'll not incommode
yourself on my account; I can find my way to the Chateau perfectly
well alone."
She walked away, hiding her chagrin under the most easy and careless
air in the world.
"I must run after her," said Hector, "or she will tell every thing
to my father. Adieu Daphnè; in two hours I shall be at the Cottage
of the Vines, and more in love than ever."
"Adieu, then," murmured Daphnè in a dying voice; "adieu," she
repeated on seeing him retire; "adieu!--as for me, in two hours, I
shall _not_ be at the Cottage of Vines."