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."