“Daphne, Daphne,” he cried, “open your eyes.  I love nobody but you—­nobody but you.”

He embraced her tenderly; he wept—­and spoke to her as if she heard:  Daphne opened her eyes for a moment with a look of misery—­and shut them again—­and shuddered.

“No, no!” she said—­“’tis over!  You are no longer Daphnis, and I Daphne no more—­leave me, leave me alone—­to die!”

“My life! my love! my darling Daphne!  I love you—­I swear it to you from my heart.  I do not desert you:  you are the only one I care for!”

In the meantime Clotilde had approached the touching scene.

“’Pon my word, sir! very well”—­she said—­“am I to return to the Chateau by myself?”

“Go, sir, go!” said Daphne, pushing him away, “You are waited for, you are called.”

“But, Daphne—­but, fair cousin”—­

“I won’t listen to you—­my daydream is past—­speak of it no more,” said Daphne.

“Do you know, cousin,” said Clotilde, with a malicious sneer, “that this rural surprise is quite enchanting!  I am greatly obliged to you for getting it up for my amusement.  You did not prepare me for so exquisite a scene; I conclude it is from the last chapter of the Astrea.”

“Ah! cousin,” said Hector, “I will overtake you in a moment—­I will tell you all, and then I don’t think you’ll laugh at us.”

“Excuse me, sir,” cried Daphne, in a tone of disdainful anger—­ “let that history be for ever a secret.  I do not wish people to laugh at the weakness of my heart.  Farewell, sir, let every thing be forgotten—­buried!”

Large tears rolled down the poor girl’s cheek.

“No, Daphne, no!—­I never will leave you.  I declare it before heaven and earth, I will conduct my cousin to the Chateau, and in an hour I will be with you to dry your tears, and to ask pardon of you on my knees.  Moreover, I am not to blame, I call my cousin to witness.  Is it not true, Clotilde, that I don’t love you?”

“’Pon my word, cousin, you have certainly told me you loved me; but as men generally say the contrary of what is the fact, I am willing to believe you don’t.  But I beg you’ll not incommode yourself on my account; I can find my way to the Chateau perfectly well alone.”

She walked away, hiding her chagrin under the most easy and careless air in the world.

“I must run after her,” said Hector, “or she will tell every thing to my father.  Adieu Daphne; in two hours I shall be at the Cottage of the Vines, and more in love than ever.”

“Adieu, then,” murmured Daphne in a dying voice; “adieu,” she repeated on seeing him retire; “adieu!—­as for me, in two hours, I shall not be at the Cottage of Vines.”

CHAPTER VI

She returned to the cottage of old Babet.  On seeing the little chamber she had taken so much pains to ornament with flowers and blossoms, she sank her head upon her bosom.  “Poor roses!” she murmured—­“little I thought when I gathered you, that my heart would be the first to wither!”