The Hotel du Roi is by far the most aristocratic resort in Bergheim. "Kings, queens, and emperors" have lodged there; some of the leading men and the fairest women in Europe have at times made their home there. The hotel has a certain aristocratic character of its own. Second-rate people never go there; its magnificence is of too quiet and dignified a kind. The gorgeous suites of rooms are always inhabited by some of the leading Continental families. Bergheim itself is a sleepy little town. The lake is very beautiful; tall mountains slope down to the edge; the water is deep, clear, and calm; green trees fringe the banks; water-lilies sleep on its tranquil breast. The Lake of Bergheim has figured in poetry, in song, and in pictures.
Hyacinth gazed at it with keen delight. Suddenly it struck her that the house was not Lady Vaughan's, consequently not under her ladyship's control, and that she could go out into those fairylike looking grounds if she wished.
She took her hat and a black lace shawl and went down-stairs. She was soon reassured. She was doing nothing unusual. One or two ladies were already in the gardens, and in one of the broad open paths she saw an English nursemaid with some little children around her. Hyacinth walked on with a light, joyous heart. She never remembered to have seen the world so fair; she had never seen sunshine so bright, or flowers so fair; nor had she ever heard such musical songs from the birds.
Over the girl's whole soul, as she stood, there came a rapturous sense of security and gratitude. She was safe; the folly, amounting almost to sin, of her girlhood, was already fading into the obscurity of a dark, a miserable dream. She was safe under heaven's blessed sunlight, life growing fairer and more beautiful every hour. She was grateful for her escape.
Then it struck her that she heard the sound of falling water, and she went down a long, vine-covered path—surely the loveliest picture in the world. The vines had been trained so as to form a perfect arch; the grapes hung in rich, ripe bunches; flowers grew underfoot; and at the end of the grove was a high white rock from which water fell with a rippling, rushing, musical sound, into a small clear pool. Hyacinth looked at the scene in wonder. She had never seen anything so pretty in her life. She went up to the water; it was cool, so clear, so fresh and sparkling. She threw off her hat and plunged her hands into it. She laughed aloud as the water ran foaming over them. She little dreamed what a lovely picture she herself made standing under the shade of the vines, her fair, brilliant face almost dazzling in the dim light, her fair hair shining like gold. The morning breeze had brought the most dainty and exquisite bloom to her face, her eyes were as bright as stars, her lips like newly-blown roses, and, as she stood with the foam rushing over her little white hands, the world might have searched in vain for one more lovely.
Then she thought how refreshing a draught of that sparkling water would be. She gathered a large vine-leaf and filled it. She had just raised it to her lips when a rich, deep, musical voice said:
"Do not drink that water; it is not considered good."
The vine-leaf fell from her hands, her face flushed crimson. She had thought that she was quite alone. She looked around, but could see no one.
"I beg pardon if I have alarmed you," said the same voice, "but the water of the fall is not considered good; it is supposed to come from the lake."