He disdained the danger—­sprang lightly up the trunk, and flung himself along one of the branches, dropping, happily without any accident, on the meadow of the Chateau d’Urtis.  Little more was left for him to do; and that little he did.  He went towards the fair shepherdesses.  He tried to overcome his timidity—­he overwhelmed the first sheep of the flock with his insidious caresses—­and then, finding himself within a few feet of Amaranthe—­he bowed, and smiled, and said, “Mademoiselle.”

He was suddenly interrupted by a clear and silvery voice.

“There are no Mesdemoiselles here—­there are only two shepherdesses, Amaranthe and Daphne.”

Hector had prepared a complimentary speech for a young lady attending a flock of sheep—­but he hadn’t a word to say to a shepherdess.

He bowed again, and there was a pause.

“Fair Amaranthe,” he said—­“and fair Daphne, will you permit a mortal to tread these flowery plains?”

Amaranthe received the speech with a smile, in which a little raillery was mingled.  “You speak like a true shepherd,” she said.

But Daphne was more good-natured, and more touched with the politeness of the sportsman.  She cast her eyes on the ground and blushed.

“Oh—­if you wish to pass through these meadows,” she said—­“we shall be”—­

“We were going to do the honours of our reception room,” continued Amaranthe, “and offer you a seat on the grass.”

“’Tis too much happiness to throw myself at your feet,” replied Hector, casting himself on one knee.

But he had not looked where he knelt, and he broke Daphne’s crook.

“Oh, my poor crook!” she said—­and sighed.

“What have I done?” cried Hector.  “I am distressed at my stupidity—­I will cut you another from the ash grove below.  But you loved this crook,” he added—­“the gift, perhaps, of some shepherd—­some shepherd? —­no, some prince; for you yourselves are princesses—­or fairies.”

“We are nothing but simple shepherdesses,” said Amaranthe.

“You are nothing but beautiful young ladies from the capital,” said Hector, “on a visit at the Chateau d’Urtis.  Heaven be praised—­for in my walks I shall at least catch glimpses of you at a distance, if I dare not come near.  I shall see you glinting among the trees like enchantresses of old.”

“Yes, we are Parisians, as you have guessed—­but retired for ever from the world and its deceitful joys.”

Amaranthe had uttered the last words in a declamatory tone; you might have thought them a quotation from her mamma.

“You complain rather early, methinks,” replied Hector, with a smile; “have you indeed much fault to find with the world?”

“That is our secret, fair sportsman,” answered Amaranthe; “but it seems you also live retired—­an eremite forlorn.”

“I? fair Amaranthe?  I have done nothing but dream of the delights of a shepherd’s life—­though I confess I had given up all hopes of seeing a good-looking shepherdess—­but now I shall go back more happily than ever to my day-dreams.  Ah! why can’t I help you to guard your flock?”