Ten Years Later by Alexandre Dumas (suggested reading TXT) 📗

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