"My sweetest hour, my happiest day,
Was in the happy month of May!
The happy dreams that round me lay
On that delicious morn of May!"
"I saw thee! loved thee! If my love
A tribute unrejected be,
The happiest day of May shall prove
The happiest of my life to me!"
It is quite evident that if such an open declaration had been made in plain prose, Daphnè would have been angry; but in verse, 'twas nothing but a poetical license. Instead, therefore, of tearing it in pieces, and throwing it into the water, she folded it carefully up, and placed it in the pretty corset of white satin, which seems the natural escritoire of a shepherdess in her teens. Scarcely had she closed the drawer, and double locked it, when she saw at her side—Hector and Madame Deshoulieres.
"My poor child," said the poetess, "how thoughtful you seem on
Lignon's flowery side—forgetful of your sheep—"
'That o'er the meadows negligently stray!'
Monsieur de Langevy, as you have given her a crook, methinks you ought to aid her in her duties in watching the flock. As for myself, I must be off to finish a letter to my bishop.
'From Lignon's famous banks
What can I find to say?
The breezes freshly springing,
Make me—and nature—gay.
When Celadon would weep;
His lost Astrea fair,
To Lignon he would creep,
But oh! this joyous air
Would force to skip and leap
A dragon in despair!'—&c. &c.
Madame Deshoulieres had no prudish notions, you will perceive, about a flirtation—provided it was carried on with the airs and graces of the Hotel Rambouillet. She merely, therefore, interposed a word here and there, to show that she was present. Daphne, who scarcely said a word to Hector, took good care to answer every time her mamma spoke to her. To be sure, it detracts a little from this filial merit, that she did not know what she said. But if all parties were pleased, I don't see what possible right anybody else has to find fault.
The shepherdess Daphnè, or rather Bribri Deshoulieres, as we have seen, was beautiful, and simple, and tender—beautiful from the admirable sweetness of her expression—simple, as young girls are simple: that is to say, with a small spice of mischief to relieve the insipidity—and tender, with a smile that seems to open the heart as well as the lips. What struck people in her expression at first, was a shade of sadness over her features—a fatal presentiment, as it were, that added infinitely to her charm. Her sister was more beautiful, perhaps—had richer roses on her cheek, and more of what is called manner altogether—but if Amaranthe pleased the eyes, Daphnè captivated the heart; and as the eyes are evidently subordinate to the heart, Daphne carried the day. Hector accordingly, on the first burst of his admiration, had seen nothing but Amaranthe; but when he had left the sisters, it was astonishing how exclusively he thought of Daphnè.