The sun had sunk behind a bed of clouds—the nightingale began its song, and the fresh green leaves rustled beneath the mild breath of the evening breeze. The bee hummed joyously on its homeward way, loaded with the sweets of the spring flowers. Down in the valley, the voice of the hinds driving their herds to rest, increased the rustic concert; the river rippled on beneath the mysterious shade of old fantastic trees, and the air was filled with soft noises, and rich perfumes, and the voice of birds. There was no room in Hector's heart for all these natural enjoyments. "To-morrow," he said, kissing the broken crook—"I will come back again to-morrow."
CHAPTER III.
Early in the following morning, Hector wandered along the banks of the Lignon, with a fresh-cut crook in his hand. He looked to the door of the Park d'Urtis, expecting every moment to see the glorious apparitions of the day before. And at stroke of noon, a lamb rushing through the gate, careered along the meadow, and the eleven others ran gayly after it, amidst a peal of musical laughter from Amaranthe. Daphnè did not laugh.
The moment she crossed the threshold, she glanced stealthily towards the river. "I thought so," she murmured; "Daphnis has come back." And Daphnis, in a transport of joy, was hurrying to the shepherdesses, when he was suddenly interrupted by Madame Deshoulieres and the Duchess d'Urtis. When the sisters had returned, on the evening before, Amaranthe, to Daphnè's great discomfiture, had told word for word all that had occurred; how that a young sportsman had joined them, and how they had talked and laughed; and Madame d'Urtis had no doubt, from the description, that it was Hector de Langevy. Amaranthe having added to the story, that she felt certain, in spite of Daphnè's declarations to the contrary, that he would meet them again, the seniors had determined to watch the result. Hector would fain have made his escape; two ladies he might have faced, but four!—and two of them above thirty years of age! 'Twas too much; but his retreat was instantly cut off. He stood at bay, blushed with all his might, but saluted the ladies as manfully as if he had been a page. He received three most gracious curtsies in return—only three; for Daphnè wished to pass on without taking any notice—which he considered a very favourable omen. He did not know how to begin a conversation; and besides, he began to get confused; and his blushing increased to a most alarming extent—and—in short—he held out his crook to Daphnè. As that young shepherdess had no crook of her own, and did not know how to refuse the one he offered, she took it, though her hand trenbled a little, and looked at Madame Deshoulieres.
"I broke your crook yesterday, fair Daphnè," said Hector, "but it is not lost. I shall make a relic of it—more precious than—than—", but the bones of the particular saint he was about to name stuck in his throat and he was silent.
"Monsieur de Langevy," said Madam d'Urtis kindly, "since you make such a point of aiding these shepherdesses in guarding the flock, I hope in an hour you will accompany them to the castle to lunch."
"I'll go with them wherever you allow me, madam," said Hector. (I wonder if the impudent fellow thought he had the permission of the young ones already.)
"Let that be settled then," said the Duchess. "I shall go and have the butter cooled, and the curds made—a simple lunch, as befits the guests."
"The fare of shepherds!" said Madame Deshoulieres, and immediately set out in search of a rhyme.
Daphnè had walked slowly on, pressing the crook involuntarily to her heart, and arrived at the river side, impelled by a desire for solitude, without knowing why. There are some mysterious influences to which damsels of seventeen seem particularly subject. A lamb—the gentlest of the flock, which had become accustomed to her caresses—had followed her like a dog. She passed her small hand lightly over the snowy neck of the favourite, and looked round to see what the party she had left were doing. She was astonished to see her mother and Hector conversing, as if they had been acquainted for ages, while Madame d'Urtis and Amaranthe were running a race towards the park. She sat down on the grassy bank, exactly opposite the oziers where she had seen Hector the preceding day. When she felt she was quite alone, she ventured to look at the crook. It was a branch of ash of good size, ornamented with a rustic bouquet and a bunch of ribands, not very skilfully tied. Daphnè was just going to improve the knot, when she saw a billet hid in the flowers. What should she do?—read it? That were dangerous; her confessor did not allow such venialities—her mamma would be enraged—some people are so fond of monopolies—and besides, she might be discovered. 'Twould be better, then, not to read it—a much simpler proceeding; for couldn't she nearly guess what was in it? And what did she care what was in it? Not to read it was evidently the safer mode; and accordingly she—read it through and through, and blushed and smiled, and read it through and through again. It was none of your commonplace prosaic epistles—'twas all poetry, all fire; her mamma would have been enchanted if the verses had only been addressed to her. Here they are:—