“Rivulets of water, skillfully led in along tiny grooves, serpentined among the parterres, half hidden in rare and brilliant flowers.  Dainty shepherdesses in waiting line stretched hand in hand to the water’s edge, and formed a species of avenue leading to the table of honor.

“In advance of the retinue went Orpheus and Linus, accompanied by three nymphs, reciting verses to their Majesties,—­who had, however, at this moment, more eyes than ears, and could not cease admiring the bevy of shepherdesses in their picturesque costumes, brightly colored and so varied.  These shepherdesses, forming afterward into separate groups, each group the graceful rival of the next, wore the costumes of the different provinces and danced to music the respective dances there in usage:  those of Poitiers to the music of the bagpipe, those of Provence to the kettle-drums, the Champenoises to the small hautboys, the violins and the tambourines, and so for the rest.

“The aged trees which covered with shade the banqueting tables formed a vast octagonal hall, in the centre of which rose in all its majesty a gigantic oak-tree.  At its base vaulted the jet of a fountain, the limpid waters springing from a basin of glittering shells.

“The table of honor was taken by the king; his mother, Catherine de Medici; the Duke of Anjou, who was afterward to become Henry III; the Queen of Spain; Henry of Navarre, (afterward Henry IV,) and Margot, his future wife.

“The repast was served with promptness.  Six proficient bagpipe-players went before five shepherds and ten shepherdesses, who advanced three by three, each bearing a salver.  Six stewards guided them by crooks ornamented by flowers.  Following this, eight shepherds and sixteen shepherdesses made the service at the other tables; one and two advanced at a time, depositing their salvers and retiring to make way for others.

“At the latter part of the repast, appeared six violin-players, resplendent in tinseled garb; also nine nymphs of a marvelous beauty; a swarm of musicians accompanied them, disguised as satyrs.

“Toward nightfall, to the astonishment of all, suddenly shone out a luminous rock lit up with fantastic glow; out of which came forth as by magic countless naiads, their soft robes glistening with jewels; they dart out upon the sward and join in a fair and lissome dance.”

But one thing was wanting to crown this princely picnic,—­a storm.  It came.  Says the queen Margot, who was pleased to relate herself the details of this fete:  “Envious Fortune, unable to suffer the glory of this fair dance, hurled upon us a strange rain and tempest; and the confusion of the sudden evening retreat by boat across the river brought out next day as many mirthful anecdotes as the lavish festival itself had brought gratifications.”

Such was a fete champetre in the sixteenth century,—­filled in with all the luxuriant pomp and splendor which the French love so dearly.