The castle clock sounded the hour of luncheon. Hector offered his arm to Madame Deshoulieres; Daphnè called her flock. They entered the park, and were joined by the Duchess d'Urtis and Amaranthe. The collation was magnificent. First course, an omelette au jambon, entrèe cakes, and fresh butter; second course, a superb cream cheese. Dessert, a trifle and preserves. All these interesting details are embalmed in the poetic correspondence of Madame Deshoulieres, in which every dish was duly chronicled for the edification of her friends.
At nightfall—for Hector lingered as long as he could—the young shepherd quitted the party with great regret; but there was no time to lose, for he had two leagues to go, and there was no moon, and the roads were still broken into immense ruts by the equinoctial rains. On the following day, Hector returned to the Chateau d'Urtis through the meadow. When he arrived near the willow that served for his bridge across the river, he was surprised to see neither shepherdess nor flock in the field. He tripped across the tree, lamenting the bad omen; but scarcely had he reached the other side when he saw some sheep straggling here and there. He rushed towards them, amazed at not seeing either Amaranthe or Daphnè; and what was his enchantment when, on advancing a little further, he perceived his adored shepherdess by the margin of the Lignon, which at that point formed a pretty little cascade. The tender Daphnè had thrown her beautiful arm round one of the young willows in flower, and, trusting to its support, leaned gracefully over the waterfall, in the shadow of its odoriferous leaves. She had allowed her soul to wander in one of those delicious reveries, of which the thread—broken and renewed a thousand times—is the work of the joy which hopes, and the sadness which fears. She was not aware of Hector's approach. When she saw him, she started, as if waking from a dream.
"You are all alone," said Hector, drawing near.
She hurriedly told him that her sister would soon join her. The two lovers kept silence for some time, looking timidly at each other, not venturing to speak, as if they feared the sound of their own voices in the solitude.
"There seems a sadness," said Hector at length, but his voice trembled as he spoke—"there seems a sadness on your brow?"
"'Tis true," replied Daphnè. "Mamma has heard from Monsieur Deshoulieres. He is going to pass through Avignon soon, and we are going away to see him on his passage."
"Going away!" cried Hector, turning pale.
"Yes! and I felt myself so happy," said Daphnè, mournfully, "in these meadows with my sheep, that I loved so well."
When Daphnè spoke of her sheep, she looked at Hector.
"But why should you go? Madame Deshoulieres could return for you here" —