"Your majesty will perhaps pardon me for having too indifferently remembered the verses which the nymph dictated to Loret; but if the king has not retained any recollection of them, how could I possibly remember?"
Madame did not receive this shortcoming of the courtier very favorably.
"Ah! madame," added Saint–Aignan, "at present it is no longer a question what the water–nymphs have to say; and one would almost be tempted to believe that nothing of any interest now occurs in those liquid realms. It is upon earth, madame, important events happen. Ah! Madame, upon the earth, how many tales are there full of—"
"Well," said Madame, "and what is taking place upon the earth?"
"That question must be asked of the Dryads," replied the comte; "the Dryads inhabit the forest, as your royal highness is aware."
"I am aware also, that they are naturally very talkative, Monsieur de Saint–Aignan."
"Such is the case, Madame; but when they say such delightful things, it would be ungracious to accuse them of being too talkative."
"Do they talk so delightfully, then?" inquired the princess, indifferently. "Really, Monsieur de Saint–Aignan, you excite my curiosity; and, if I were the king, I would require you immediately to tell us what the delightful things are these Dryads have been saying, since you alone seem to understand their language."
"I am at his majesty's orders, Madame, in that respect," replied the comte, quickly.
"What a fortunate fellow this Saint–Aignan is to understand the language of the Dryads," said Monsieur.
"I understand it perfectly, monseigneur, as I do my own language."
"Tell us all about them, then," said Madame.
The king felt embarrassed, for his confidant was, in all probability, about to embark in a difficult matter. He felt that it would be so, from the general attention excited by Saint–Aignan's preamble, and aroused too by Madame's peculiar manner. The most reserved of those who were present seemed ready to devour every syllable the comte was about to pronounce. They coughed, drew closer together, looked curiously at some of the maids of honor, who, in order to support with greater propriety, or with more steadiness, the fixity of the inquisitorial looks bent upon them, adjusted their fans accordingly, and assumed the bearing of a duelist about to be exposed to his adversary's fire. At this epoch, the fashion of ingeniously constructed conversations, and hazardously dangerous recitals, so prevailed, that, where, in modern times, a whole company assembled in a drawing–room would begin to suspect some scandal, or disclosure, or tragic event, and would hurry away in dismay, Madame's guests quietly settled themselves in their places, in order not to lose a word or gesture of the comedy composed by Monsieur de Saint–Aignan for their benefit, and the termination of which, whatever the style and the plot might be, must, as a matter of course, be marked by the most perfect propriety. The comte as known as a man of extreme refinement, and an admirable narrator. He courageously began, then, amidst a profound silence, which would have been formidable to any one but himself:—"Madame, by the king's permission, I address myself, in the first place, to your royal highness, since you admit yourself to be the person present possessing the greatest curiosity. I have the honor, therefore, to inform your royal highness that the Dryad more particularly inhabits the hollows of oaks; and, as Dryads are mythological creatures of great beauty, they inhabit the most beautiful trees, in other words, the largest to be found."
At this exordium, which recalled, under a transparent veil, the celebrated story of the royal oak, which had played so important a part in the last evening, so many hearts began to beat, both from joy and uneasiness, that, if Saint–Aignan had not had a good and sonorous voice, their throbbings might have been heard above the sound of his voice.
"There must surely be Dryads at Fontainebleau, then," said Madame, in a perfectly calm voice; "for I have never, in all my life, seen finer oaks than in the royal park." And as she spoke, she directed towards De Guiche a look of which he had no reason to complain, as he had of the one that preceded it; which, as we have already mentioned, had reserved a certain amount of indefiniteness most painful for so loving a heart as his.
"Precisely, Madame, it is of Fontainebleau I was about to speak to your royal highness," said Saint–Aignan; "for the Dryad whose story is engaging our attention, lives in the park belonging to the chateau of his majesty."
The affair was fairly embarked on; the action was begun, and it was no longer possible for auditory or narrator to draw back.
"It will be worth listening to," said Madame; "for the story not only appears to me to have all the interest of a national incident, but still more, seems to be a circumstance of very recent occurrence."
"I ought to begin at the beginning," said the comte. "In the first place, then, there lived at Fontainebleau, in a cottage of modest and unassuming appearance, two shepherds. The one was the shepherd Tyrcis, the owner of extensive domains transmitted to him from his parents, by right of inheritance. Tyrcis was young and handsome, and, from his many qualifications, he might be pronounced to be the first and foremost among the shepherds in the whole country; one might even boldly say he was the king of shepherds." A subdued murmur of approbation encouraged the narrator, who continued:—"His strength equals his courage; no one displays greater address in hunting wild beasts, nor greater wisdom in matters where judgment is required. Whenever he mounts and exercises his horse in the beautiful plains of his inheritance, or whenever he joins with the shepherds who owe him allegiance, in different games of skill and strength, one might say that it is the god Mars hurling his lance on the plains of Thrace, or, even better, that it was Apollo himself, the god of day, radiant upon earth, bearing his flaming darts in his hand." Every one understood that this allegorical portrait of the king was not the worst exordium the narrator could have chosen; and consequently it did not fail to produce its effect, either upon those who, from duty or inclination, applauded it to the very echo, or on the king himself, to whom flattery was very agreeable when delicately conveyed, and whom, indeed, it did not always displease, even when it was a little too broad. Saint–Aignan then continued:—"It is not in games of glory only, ladies, that the shepherd Tyrcis had acquired that reputation by which he was regarded as the king of the shepherds."
"Of the shepherds of Fontainebleau," said the king, smilingly, to Madame.
"Oh!" exclaimed Madame, "Fontainebleau is selected arbitrarily by the poet; but I should say, of the shepherds of the whole world." The king forgot his part of a passive auditor, and bowed.
"It is," paused Saint–Aignan, amidst a flattering murmur of applause, "it is with ladies fair especially that the qualities of this king of the shepherds are most prominently displayed. He is a shepherd with a mind as refined as his heart is pure; he can pay a compliment with a charm of manner whose fascination it is impossible to resist; and in his attachments he is so discreet, that beautiful and happy conquests may regard their lot as more than enviable. Never a syllable of disclosure, never a moment's forgetfulness. Whoever has seen and heard Tyrcis must love him; whoever loves and is beloved by him, has indeed found happiness." Saint–Aignan here paused; he was enjoying the pleasure of all these compliments; and the portrait he had drawn, however grotesquely inflated it might be, had found favor in certain ears, in which the perfections of the shepherd did not seem to have been exaggerated. Madame begged the orator to continue. "Tyrcis," said the comte, "had a faithful companion, or rather a devoted servant, whose name was—Amyntas."
"Ah!" said Madame, archly, "now for the portrait of Amyntas; you are such an excellent painter, Monsieur de Saint–Aignan."
"Madame—"
"Oh! comte, do not, I entreat you, sacrifice poor Amyntas; I should never forgive you."
"Madame, Amyntas is of too humble a position, particularly beside Tyrcis, for his person to be honored by a parallel. There are certain friends who resemble those followers of ancient times, who caused themselves to be buried alive at their masters' feet. Amyntas's place, too, is at the feet of Tyrcis; he cares for no other; and if, sometimes, the illustrious hero—"
"Illustrious shepherd, you mean?" said Madame, pretending to correct M. de Saint–Aignan.
"Your royal highness is right; I was mistaken," returned the courtier; "if, I say, the shepherd Tyrcis deigns occasionally to call Amyntas his friend, and to open his heart to him, it is an unparalleled favor, which the latter regards as the most unbounded felicity."
"All that you say," interrupted Madame, "establishes the extreme devotion of Amyntas to Tyrcis, but does not furnish us with the portrait of Amyntas. Comte, do not flatter him, if you like; but describe him to us. I will have Amyntas's portrait." Saint–Aignan obeyed, after having bowed profoundly to his majesty's sister–in–law.
"Amyntas," he said, "is somewhat older than Tyrcis; he is not an ill–favored shepherd; it is even said that the muses condescended to smile upon him at his birth, even as Hebe smiled upon youth. He is not ambitious of display, but he is ambitious of being loved; and he might not, perhaps, he found unworthy of it, if he were only sufficiently well–known."
This latter paragraph, strengthened by a killing glance, was directed straight to Mademoiselle de Tonnay–Charente, who received them both unmoved. But the modesty and tact of the allusion had produced a good effect; Amyntas reaped the benefit of it in the applause bestowed upon him: Tyrcis's head even gave the signal for it by a consenting bow, full of good feeling.
"One evening," continued Saint–Aignan, "Tyrcis and Amyntas were walking together in the forest, talking of their love disappointments. Do not forget, ladies, that the story of the Dryad is now beginning, otherwise it would be easy to tell you what Tyrcis and Amyntas, the two most discreet shepherds of the whole earth, were talking about. They reached the thickest part of the forest, for the purpose of being quite alone, and of confiding their troubles more freely to each other, when suddenly the sound of voices struck upon their ears."
"Ah, ah!" said those who surrounded the narrator. "Nothing can be more interesting."
At this point, Madame, like a vigilant general inspecting his army, glanced at Mademoiselle de Tonnay–Charente, who could not help wincing as they drew themselves up.
"These harmonious voices," resumed Saint–Aignan, "were those of certain shepherdesses, who had been likewise desirous of enjoying the coolness of the shade, and who, knowing the isolated and almost unapproachable situation of the place, had betaken themselves there to interchange their ideas upon—" A loud burst of laughter occasioned by this remark of Saint–Aignan, and an imperceptible smile of the king, as he looked at Tonnay–Charente, followed this sally.
"The Dryad affirms positively," continued Saint–Aignan, "that the shepherdesses were three in number, and that all three were young and beautiful."
"What were their names?" said Madame, quickly.
"Their names?" said Saint–Aignan, who hesitated from fear of committing an indiscretion.
"Of course; you call your shepherds Tyrcis and Amyntas; give your shepherdesses names in a similar manner."
"Oh! Madame, I am not an inventor; I relate simply what took place as the Dryad related it to me."
"What did your Dryad, then, call these shepherdesses? You have a very treacherous memory, I fear. This Dryad must have fallen out with the goddess Mnemosyne."
"These shepherdesses, Madame? Pray remember that it is a crime to betray a woman's name."
"From which a woman absolves you, comte, on the condition that you will reveal the names of the shepherdesses."
"Their names were Phyllis, Amaryllis, and Galatea."
"Exceedingly well!—they have not lost by the delay," said Madame, "and now we have three charming names. But now for their portraits."
Saint–Aignan again made a slight movement.
"Nay, comte, let us proceed in due order," returned Madame. "Ought we not, sire, to have the portraits of the shepherdesses?"
The king, who expected this determined perseverance, and who began to feel some uneasiness, did not think it safe to provoke so dangerous an interrogator. He thought, too, that Saint–Aignan, in drawing the portraits, would find a means of insinuating some flattering allusions which would be agreeable to the ears of one his majesty was interested in pleasing. It was with this hope and with this fear that Louis authorized Saint–Aignan to sketch the portraits of the shepherdesses, Phyllis, Amaryllis, and Galatea.
"Very well, then; be it so," said Saint–Aignan, like a man who has made up his mind, and he began.
"Phyllis," said Saint–Aignan, with a glance of defiance at Montalais, such as a fencing–master would give who invites an antagonist worthy of him to place himself on guard, "Phyllis is neither fair nor dark, neither tall nor short, neither too grave nor too gay; though but a shepherdess, she is as witty as a princess, and as coquettish as the most finished flirt that ever lived. Nothing can equal her excellent vision. Her heart yearns for everything her gaze embraces. She is like a bird, which, always warbling, at one moment skims the ground, at the next rises fluttering in pursuit of a butterfly, then rests itself upon the topmost branch of a tree, where it defies the bird–catchers either to come and seize it or to entrap it in their nets." The portrait bore such a strong resemblance to Montalais, that all eyes were directed towards her; she, however, with her head raised, and with a steady, unmoved look, listened to Saint–Aignan, as if he were speaking of an utter stranger.
"Is that all, Monsieur de Saint–Aignan?" inquired the princess.
"Oh! your royal highness, the portrait is but a mere sketch, and many more additions could be made, but I fear to weary your patience, or offend the modesty of the shepherdess, and I shall therefore pass on to her companion, Amaryllis."
"Very well," said Madame, "pass on to Amaryllis, Monsieur de Saint–Aignan, we are all attention."
"Amaryllis is the eldest of the three, and yet," Saint–Aignan hastened to add, "this advanced age does not reach twenty years."
Mademoiselle de Tonnay–Charente, who had slightly knitted her brows at the commencement of the description, unbent them with a smile.
"She is tall, with an astonishing abundance of beautiful hair, which she fastens in the manner of the Grecian statues; her walk is full of majesty, her attitude haughty; she has the air, therefore, rather of a goddess than a mere mortal, and among the goddesses, she most resembles Diana the huntress; with this sole difference, however, that the cruel shepherdess, having stolen the quiver of young love, while poor Cupid was sleeping in a thicket of roses, instead of directing her arrows against the inhabitants of the forest, discharges them pitilessly against all poor shepherds who pass within reach of her bow and of her eyes."
"Oh! what a wicked shepherdess!" said Madame. "She may some day wound herself with one of those arrows she discharges, as you say, so mercilessly on all sides."
"It is the hope of shepherds, one and all!" said Saint–Aignan.
"And that of the shepherd Amyntas in particular, I suppose?" said Madame.
"The shepherd Amyntas is so timid," said Saint–Aignan, with the most modest air he could assume, "that if he cherishes such a hope as that, no one has ever known anything about it, for he conceals it in the very depths of his heart." A flattering murmur of applause greeted this profession of faith on behalf of the shepherd.
"And Galatea?" inquired Madame. "I am impatient to see a hand so skillful as yours continue the portrait where Virgil left it, and finish it before our eyes."
"Madame," said Saint–Aignan, "I am indeed a poor dumb post beside the mighty Virgil. Still, encouraged by your desire, I will do my best."
Saint–Aignan extended his foot and hand, and thus began:—"White as milk, she casts upon the breeze the perfume of her fair hair tinged with golden hues, as are the ears of corn. One is tempted to inquire if she is not the beautiful Europa, who inspired Jupiter with a tender passion as she played with her companions in the flower–spangled meadows. From her exquisite eyes, blue as azure heaven on the clearest summer day, emanates a tender light, which reverie nurtures, and love dispenses. When she frowns, or bends her looks towards the ground, the sun is veiled in token of mourning. When she smiles, on the contrary, nature resumes her jollity, and the birds, for a brief moment silenced, recommence their songs amid the leafy covert of the trees. Galatea," said Saint–Aignan, in conclusion, "is worthy of the admiration of the whole world; and if she should ever bestow her heart upon another, happy will that man be to whom she consecrates her first affections."
Madame, who had attentively listened to the portrait Saint–Aignan had drawn, as, indeed, had all the others, contented herself with accentuating her approbation of the most poetic passage by occasional inclinations of her head; but it was impossible to say if these marks of assent were accorded to the ability of the narrator of the resemblance of the portrait. The consequence, therefore, was, that as Madame did not openly exhibit any approbation, no one felt authorized to applaud, not even Monsieur, who secretly thought that Saint–Aignan dwelt too much upon the portraits of the shepherdesses, and had somewhat slightingly passed over the portraits of the shepherds. The whole assembly seemed suddenly chilled. Saint–Aignan, who had exhausted his rhetorical skill and his palette of artistic tints in sketching the portrait of Galatea, and who, after the favor with which his other descriptions had been received, already imagined he could hear the loudest applause allotted to this last one, was himself more disappointed than the king and the rest of the company. A moment's silence followed, which was at last broken by Madame.
"Well, sir," she inquired, "What is your majesty's opinion of these three portraits?"
The king, who wished to relieve Saint–Aignan's embarrassment without compromising himself, replied, "Why, Amaryllis, in my opinion, is beautiful."
"For my part," said Monsieur, "I prefer Phyllis; she is a capital girl, or rather a good–sort–of–fellow of a nymph."
A gentle laugh followed, and this time the looks were so direct, that Montalais felt herself blushing almost scarlet.
"Well," resumed Madame, "what were those shepherdesses saying to each other?"
Saint–Aignan, however, whose vanity had been wounded, did not feel himself in a position to sustain an attack of new and refreshed troops, and merely said, "Madame, the shepherdesses were confiding to one another their little preferences."
"Nay, nay! Monsieur de Saint–Aignan, you are a perfect stream of pastoral poesy," said Madame, with an amiable smile, which somewhat comforted the narrator.
"They confessed that love is a mighty peril, but that the absence of love is the heart's sentence of death."
"What was the conclusion they came to?" inquired Madame.
"They came to the conclusion that love was necessary."
"Very good! Did they lay down any conditions?"
"That of choice, simply," said Saint–Aignan. "I ought even to add,—remember it is the Dryad who is speaking,—that one of the shepherdesses, Amaryllis, I believe, was completely opposed to the necessity of loving, and yet she did not positively deny that she had allowed the image of a certain shepherd to take refuge in her heart."
"Was it Amyntas or Tyrcis?"
"Amyntas, Madame," said Saint–Aignan, modestly. "But Galatea, the gentle and soft–eyed Galatea, immediately replied, that neither Amyntas, nor Alphesiboeus, nor Tityrus, nor indeed any of the handsomest shepherds of the country, were to be compared to Tyrcis; that Tyrcis was as superior to all other men, as the oak to all other trees, as the lily in its majesty to all other flowers. She drew even such a portrait of Tyrcis that Tyrcis himself, who was listening, must have felt truly flattered at it, notwithstanding his rank as a shepherd. Thus Tyrcis and Amyntas had been distinguished by Phyllis and Galatea; and thus had the secrets of two hearts revealed beneath the shades of evening, and amid the recesses of the woods. Such, Madame, is what the Dryad related to me; she who knows all that takes place in the hollows of oaks and grassy dells; she who knows the loves of the birds, and all they wish to convey by their songs; she who understands, in fact, the language of the wind among the branches, the humming of the insect with its gold and emerald wings in the corolla of the wild–flowers; it was she who related the particulars to me, and I have repeated them."
"And now you have finished, Monsieur de Saint–Aignan, have you not?" said Madame, with a smile that made the king tremble.
"Quite finished," replied Saint–Aignan, "and but too happy if I have been able to amuse your royal highness for a few moments."
"Moments which have been too brief," replied the princess; "for you have related most admirably all you know; but, my dear Monsieur de Saint–Aignan, you have been unfortunate enough to obtain your information from one Dryad only, I believe?"
"Yes, Madame, only from one, I confess."
"The fact was, that you passed by a little Naiad, who pretended to know nothing at all, and yet knew a great deal more than your Dryad, my dear comte."
"A Naiad!" repeated several voices, who began to suspect that the story had a continuation.
"Of course close beside the oak you are speaking of, which, if I am not mistaken, is called the royal oak—is it not so, Monsieur de Saint–Aignan?"
Saint–Aignan and the king exchanged glances.
"Yes, Madame," the former replied.
"Well, close beside the oak there is a pretty little spring, which runs murmuringly over the pebbles, between banks of forget–me–nots and daffodils."
"I believe you are correct," said the king, with some uneasiness, and listening with some anxiety to his sister–in–law's narrative.
"Oh! there is one, I can assure you," said Madame; "and the proof of it is, that the Naiad who resides in that little stream stopped me as I was about to come."
"Ah?" said Saint–Aignan.
"Yes, indeed," continued the princess, "and she did so in order to communicate to me many particulars Monsieur de Saint–Aignan has omitted in his recital."
"Pray relate them yourself, then," said Monsieur, "you can relate stories in such a charming manner." The princess bowed at the conjugal compliment paid her.
"I do not possess the poetical powers of the comte, nor his ability to bring to light the smallest details."
"You will not be listened to with less interest on that account," said the king, who already perceived that something hostile was intended in his sister–in–law's story.
"I speak, too," continued Madame, "in the name of that poor little Naiad, who is indeed the most charming creature I ever met. Moreover, she laughed so heartily while she was telling me her story, that, in pursuance of that medical axiom that laughter is the finest physic in the world, I ask permission to laugh a little myself when I recollect her words."
The king and Saint–Aignan, who noticed spreading over many of the faces present a distant and prophetic ripple of the laughter Madame announced, finished by looking at each other, as if asking themselves whether there was not some little conspiracy concealed beneath these words. But Madame was determined to turn the knife in the wound over and over again; she therefore resumed with the air of the most perfect candor, in other words, with the most dangerous of all her airs: "Well, then, I passed that way," she said, "and as I found beneath my steps many fresh flowers newly blown, no doubt Phyllis, Amaryllis, Galatea, and all your shepherdesses had passed the same way before me."
The king bit his lips, for the recital was becoming more and more threatening. "My little Naiad," continued Madame, "was cooing over her quaint song in the bed of the rivulet; as I perceived that she accosted me by touching the hem of my dress, I could not think of receiving her advances ungraciously, and more particularly so, since, after all, a divinity, even though she be of a second grade, is always of greater importance than a mortal, though a princess. I thereupon accosted the Naiad, and bursting into laughter, this is what she said to me:"
""Fancy, princess…" You understand, sire, it is the Naiad who is speaking?"
The king bowed assentingly; and Madame continued:—""Fancy, princess, the banks of my little stream have just witnessed a most amusing scene. Two shepherds, full of curiosity, even indiscreetly so, have allowed themselves to be mystified in a most amusing manner by three nymphs, or three shepherdesses,"—I beg your pardon, but I do not now remember if it was nymphs or shepherdesses she said; but it does not much matter, so we will continue."
The king, at this opening, colored visibly, and Saint–Aignan, completely losing countenance, began to open his eyes in the greatest possible anxiety.
""The two shepherds," pursued my nymph, still laughing, "followed in the wake of the three young ladies,"—no, I mean, of the three nymphs; forgive me, I ought to say, of the three shepherdesses. It is not always wise to do that, for it may be awkward for those who are followed. I appeal to all the ladies present, and not one of them, I am sure, will contradict me."
The king, who was much disturbed by what he suspected was about to follow, signified his assent by a gesture.
""But," continued the Naiad, "the shepherdesses had noticed Tyrcis and Amyntas gliding into the wood, and, by the light of the moon, they had recognized them through the grove of the trees." Ah, you laugh!" interrupted Madame; "wait, wait, you are not yet at the end."
The king turned pale; Saint–Aignan wiped his forehead, now dewed with perspiration. Among the groups of ladies present could be heard smothered laughter and stealthy whispers.
""The shepherdesses, I was saying, noticing how indiscreet the two shepherds were, proceeded to sit down at the foot of the royal oak; and, when they perceived that their over–curious listeners were sufficiently near, so that not a syllable of what they might say could be lost, they addressed towards them very innocently, in the most artless manner in the world indeed, a passionate declaration, which from the vanity natural to all men, and even to the most sentimental of shepherds, seemed to the two listeners as sweet as honey.""
The king, at these words, which the assembly was unable to hear without laughing, could not restrain a flash of anger darting from his eyes. As for Saint–Aignan, he let his head fall upon his breast, and concealed, under a silly laugh, the extreme annoyance he felt.
"Oh," said the king, drawing himself up to his full height, "upon my word, that is a most amusing jest, certainly; but, really and truly, are you sure you quite understood the language of the Naiads?"