Edouard rose with the dawn. He had no desire to pass another day roaming about the Château of La Roche-Noire, but he promised himself a much sweeter pleasure—he was determined to see the little goatherd again, to revisit the valley where Isaure lived; he had not forgotten the girl for an instant, and, although he had had less to say about her than his friend, he had certainly been more engrossed by thoughts of her. In love as in politics, those who talk little are more to be feared than chatterers.
Edouard went down into the courtyard, where he found the concierge and the gardener, entirely sober, awaiting their master’s waking to make their excuses to him. Paying no heed to those worthies’ assurances of repentance, Edouard left the château, crossed the green and inquired of the first person he met the shortest road to Chadrat. Then he started for that village, climbing the hills and mountains at a rapid pace. In an hour he covered the distance which had taken them twice as long on the preceding day. He soon recognized his surroundings; he saw the valley, the White House, and Isaure’s cottage. Not until then did he stop to take breath before going down into the valley at a more leisurely pace and looking all about.
He halted a few yards from the cottage, at which he gazed for some time, saying to himself:
"There, far from the world, she lives alone. She is as lovely as the angels are painted; she seems virtuous, and as artless as innocence itself! But it is impossible that she should not turn some mountaineer’s head ere long. They are afraid of her, the idiots! But the travellers, the people from the city who see her! It is unreasonable to leave that young girl thus exposed to innumerable perils.—But why should I worry about her? I have seen the child but once; I hardly spoke to her. Am I going to take fire at the first glance, like Alfred? Oh, no! I am more sensible. It would be shocking to try to seduce that sweet girl! But one may come to see her without instantly falling in love with her.—Let us see if she is at home."
Edouard walked to the cottage; but the door was closed, and only the yelping of Vaillant answered the young man, who was sorely disappointed not to find the girl at home. He remembered that she drove her goats to pasture on the neighboring mountain, and he walked in that direction. He soon discovered Isaure seated on a low mound, reading, while her goats cropped the grass nearby.
"These mountaineers are not altogether wrong," thought Edouard, as he watched from a distance the little goatherd, who had not seen him. "It is no common thing to see goatherds reading, and this girl expresses herself altogether too well to be confounded with the ordinary peasant. Someone must have taught her what the other young women in these mountains do not know; and that someone cannot have been either of the peasants who took care of her when she was a child. There is something very strange, mysterious, in everything connected with this girl—doubtless that is why she interests me. How pretty she is, leaning over her book, with her head resting on one of her hands! If I were a painter, how I should like to paint that picture!"
After contemplating her for several minutes more, Edouard approached Isaure. He walked softly in order not to disturb her; but he stumbled over a stone, and at the noise the girl turned quickly. She started in surprise when she discovered a young man near her; but he soon saw that she recognized him, and a faint smile came to her lips. She rose as Edouard drew nearer.
"Remain seated, pray; I do not mean to disturb you," said Edouard, walking to her side awkwardly enough; for we are often most awkward when we wish to appear least so. "I was taking a walk among the hills. I saw you, so I came this way.—But you were reading, were you not?"
"Yes, monsieur, I am very fond of reading!"
"That is a pleasure with which most of the people of these mountains are unacquainted, I fancy."