The shepherdess Daphne, 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, Daphne 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 Daphne.

CHAPTER IV.

The castle clock sounded the hour of luncheon.  Hector offered his arm to Madame Deshoulieres; Daphne 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, entree 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 Daphne; 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 Daphne 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.