The poor old woman came in to her.  “What! crying?” she said—­ “do people weep at eighteen?”

Daphne threw herself into Babet’s arms, and sobbed.

“He has deceived me—­left me for his cousin.  I must go.  You will tell him that he has behaved cruelly, that I am——­but no!—­tell him that I forgive him.”

Daphne loved Hector with all her heart, and with all her soul.  There never was an affection so blind, or a girl so innocent.  Before leaving Paris, she had had various visions of what might happen in the country—­how she might meet some graceful cavalier beside the wall of some romantic castle, who would fling himself on his knees before her, like a hero of romance.  And this dream, so cherished in Paris, was nearly realized on the banks of the Lignon.  Hector was exactly the sort of youth she had fancied, and the interest became greater from their enacting the parts of shepherdess and shepherd.  She had been strengthened in this, her first love, by the former illusions of her imagination; and without one thought of evil, she had lost her common sense, and had followed her lover instead of attending to her mamma.  Oh, young damsels, who are fond of pastorals, and can dream of young cavaliers and ancient castles!—­who hear, on one side, the soft whisperings of a lover, and on the other, the sensible remarks of your mother!—­need I tell you which of the two to choose?  If you are still in doubt, read to the end of this story, and you will hesitate no longer.

Hector rejoined his cousin, but during their walk home, neither of them ventured to allude to the incident in the meadow.  Hector augured well from the silence of Clotilde—­he hoped she would not speak of his secret at the chateau.  Vain hope! the moment she found an opportunity, it all came out!  That evening, M. de Langevy saw her more pensive than usual, and asked her the cause.

“Oh, nothing,” she said, and sighed.

The uncle persisted in trying to find it out.

“What is the matter, my dear Clotilde?” he said.  “Has your pilgrimage to the banks of the Lignon disappointed you?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Has my son—–­but where is Hector?”

“He has gone on the pilgrimage again.”

“What the devil is he doing there?” “He has his reasons, of course,” said Clotilde.

“Indeed!—­Do you know what they are?” enquired the father.

“Not the least in the world—­only—­”

“Only what?  I hate these only’s—­out with it all!”

“My dear uncle, I’ve told you I know nothing about it—­only I have seen his shepherdess.”

“His shepherdess?  You’re laughing, Clotilde.  Do you believe in shepherdesses at this time of day?”

“Yes, uncle—­for I tell you I saw his shepherdess fall down in a faint on the side of the Lignon.”

“The deuce you did?  A shepherdess!—­Hector in love with a shepherdess!”

“Yes, uncle; but a very pretty one, I assure you, in silk petticoat and corset of white satin.”