“And all the gracefulness of a duchess,” added the youth.

At one o’clock Hector had found his way to the meadow.  Nobody was there.  He opened the gate of the park, and before he had gone far was met by Madame Deshoulieres.

“My daughter!” she cried in an agitated voice; “You have not seen my daughter?”

“I was in hopes of seeing her here,” replied Hector, with a start of well-acted surprise.

“She is gone off,” resumed the mother; “gone off, like a silly creature, to some convent, disguised as a shepherdess—­the foolish, senseless girl!—­and I am obliged to depart this very day, so that it is impossible to follow her.”

Hector continued to enact astonishment—­he even offered his services to reclaim the fugitive—­and, in short, exhibited such sorrow and disappointment, that the habitual quickness of Madame Deshoulieres was deceived.  The Duchess, Amaranthe, and the mamma all thanked him for his sympathy; and he at last took his leave, with no doubt in his mind, that he was a consummate actor, and qualified for any plot whatever.

He went back to Daphne, who had sunk into despondency once more, and consoled her by painting a brilliant picture of their future happiness.  But on the following day he came later than before—­he seemed dull and listless—­and embraced his shepherdess with evident constraint.  Things like these never escape the observations of shepherdesses, gentle or simple.

“Do you know, Hector, that you are not by any means too gallant?—­A shepherd of proper sentiments would waken his sweetheart every morning with the sound of his pipe.  He would gather flowers for her before the dew was gone, and fill her basket with fruits.  He would carve her initials on the bark of the tree beneath the window, as her name is written on his heart.  But you! you come at nearly noon—­and leave me to attend to myself.  ’Twas I, you inattentive Daphnis, who gathered all these fruits and flowers.  Don’t you see how the room is improved?  Hyacinths in the window, roses on the mantelpiece, and violets every where—­ah! what a time you were in coming!”

They went out into the garden, where the good old Babet was at breakfast, with her cat and the bees.

“Come hither,” continued Daphne, “look at this little corner so beautifully worked—­’tis my own garden—­I have raked and weeded it all.  There is not much planted in it yet, but what a charming place it is for vines!—­and the hedge, how sweet and flourishing!  But what is the matter with you, Hector?  You seem absent—­sad.”

“Oh! nothing, Daphne, nothing indeed—­I only love you more and more every hour; that’s all.”

“Well, that isn’t a thing to be sad about”—­said Daphne, with a smile that would have dispelled any grief less deeply settled than that of her young companion.  He parted from Daphne soon; without letting her into the cause of his disquiet.  But as there is no reason why the secret should be kept any longer, let us tell what was going on at the Chateau de Langevy.