“This is surely Florien’s,” thought she; and she looked for the other gift with less interest. It was an elegant little gold watch, with a Persian landscape, a gazelle and birds of Paradise beautifully engraved on the back. When a spring was touched, the watch opened, a little circular plate of gold slid away, and up came a beautiful rose, round which a jewelled bee buzzed audibly. On the edge of the golden circle below were the words Rosa bella in ultramarine enamel. When another spring was touched, the rose went away, and the same melody that sounded from the heart of the golden apple seemed to be played by fairies on tinkling dew-drops. It paused a moment, and then struck up a lively dance. The circular plate again rolled away, and up sprung an inch-tall opera-dancer, with enamelled scarf, and a very small diamond on her brow. Leaping and whirling on an almost invisible thread of gold, she kept perfect time to the music, and turned her scarf most gracefully. Rosabella drew a long breath, and a roseate tinge mantled her beautiful face, as she met her grandfather’s gaze fixed lovingly upon her. She thought to herself, “There is no doubt now which is Florien’s;” but she said aloud, “They are both very beautiful; are they not, dear grandfather? I am not worthy that so much pains should be taken to please me.” The old man smiled upon her, and fondly patted the luxuriant brown hair, which shone like threads of amber in the sun. “Which dost thou think most beautiful?” said he.
She evaded the question, by asking, “Which do you?”
“I will tell thee when thou hast decided,” answered he.
She twisted and untwisted the strings of her boddice, and said she was afraid she should not be impartial. “Why not?” he inquired. She looked down bashfully, and murmured, in a very low voice, “Because I can easily guess which is Florien’s.”
“Ah, ha,” exclaimed the kind old man; and he playfully chucked her under the chin, as he added, “Then I suppose I shall offend thee when I give a verdict for the bee and the opera-dancer?”
She looked up blushing, and her large serious brown eyes had for a moment a comic expression, as she said, “I shall do the same.”
Never were disciples of the beautiful placed in circumstances more favourable to the development of poetic souls. The cottage of Antoine Breguet was
“In a glade,
Where the sun harbours; and one side of it
Listens to bees, another to a brook.
Lovers, that have just parted for the night,
Dream of such spots when they have said their prayers;
Or some tired parent, holding by the hand
A child, and walking toward the setting sun.”
In the stillness of the night, they could hear the “rushing of the arrowy Rhone.” From a neighbouring eminence could be seen the transparent Lake of Geneva, reflecting the deep blue heaven above. Mountains, in all fantastic forms, enclosed them round; now draped in heavy masses of sombre clouds, and now half revealed through sun-lighted vapour, like a veil of gold. The flowing silver of little waterfalls gleamed among the dark rocks. Grape-vines hung their rich festoons by the roadside, and the beautiful barberry bush embroidered their leaves with its scarlet clusters. They lived under the same roof with a guileless good old man, and with an innocent maiden, just merging into beautiful womanhood; and more than all, they were both under the influence of that great inspirer, Love.
Rosabella was so uniformly kind to both, that Pierre could never relinquish the hope that constant devotedness might in time win her affections for himself. Florien, having a more cheerful character, and more reliance on his own fascinations, was merely anxious that the lovely maiden should prefer his workmanship, as decidedly as she did his person and manners. Under this powerful stimulus, in addition to the ambition excited by the old watch-maker’s proposal, the competition between them was active and incessant. But the groundwork of their characters was so good, that all little heart-burnings of envy or jealousy were quickly checked by the predominance of generous and kindly sentiments.