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.