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 ESTEJLILE, 
 
 PASTORAL ROMANCE. 
 
 * C 
 
 M. BE FLORIAN, 
 
 K 
 
 MEMBER OF THE FRENCH ACADEMY, AND OF THOSE OF MADRID 
 
 AND FLORENCE. 
 
 EMBELLISHED WITH SEVEN PLATES. 
 
 Rura mihi : riguique placent in vallibus amnes 
 Flumina amo, sylvasque inglorius. 
 
 TRANSLATED 
 
 BY MR. MAXEY. X* 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM, 
 
 Dean Street, Fetter Lane, 
 
 FOR T. BOOSEY, OLD BROAD STREET; 
 VERNOR AND HOOD, POULTRY ; AND J. HATCHARD, PICCADILLY. 
 
 1803. 
 

PREFACE. 
 
 In presenting the present edition of Es- 
 telle to the world, the Translator intreats 
 the candour of a generous public. It is 
 the first time his name ventures to appear 
 before their tribunal ; and he trusts, if he 
 has in any measure caught the spirit of 
 the author, by transfusing any of his poe- 
 tical beauties into English, those minds of 
 affection and sensibility, to whom the Sieur 
 Florian must ever be dear, will approve the 
 attempt. And should they not think he 
 merits their approbation, yet he trusts they 
 will forgive him, as it was translated for 
 his private amusement, and not made pub- 
 lic but after the most pressing and urgent 
 request of a friend, 
 
IV 
 
 A work that has been translated into al- 
 most every European language must cer- 
 tainly possess peculiar beauties in the ori- 
 ginal. Indeed the President of the French 
 Academy, Mons. Sedaine, on the admis- 
 sion of the Sieur Florian as a member of 
 that academy, after enumerating his vari- 
 ous literary performances, dwells for some 
 time with peculiar pleasure on this of Es- 
 telle. " In this beautiful work," he says, 
 " you have rendered homage to the coun- 
 try which gave you birth, and afforded a 
 new proof of that sensibility which so pe- 
 culiarly characterizes you. The episodes, 
 which you have so skilfully interspersed, 
 suspend agreeably the progress without 
 interrupting the effect : they arrest the at- 
 tention of the reader, only to present him, 
 as he passes through the country, with 
 flowers admired for their lustre and per- 
 fume. These episodes the lyric muse with 
 
V 
 
 justice thought belonged to her, and is as- 
 sured the voices of fame will be employed 
 in rehearsing what they hear with so much 
 delight. I should, Sir, dwell upon this work 
 in more extended detail, did I not fear 
 that the most amiable part of the assembly 
 would reproach me for having unskilfully 
 passed over in silence some pictures, some 
 images, and sentiments, which affected 
 their minds with the most tender reflec- 
 tions, and the most lively emotions. Per- 
 haps, likewise, in replacing before your 
 view the sacrifices, the duty, and perfect 
 submission, of the shepherds who are the 
 actors on the scene, I am afraid I should 
 offend in drawing a comparison unfavour- 
 able to the conduct of most men in their 
 impassioned moments." 
 
 Concerning a pastoral which has been 
 so celebrated, little need be said; it is a 
 
VI 
 
 picture of rural nature ; and was there a 
 thought or description in it which the 
 purest mind might not embrace or read, 
 the Translator would not have lent his as- 
 sistance in circulating it ; for he trusts he 
 shall never be employed but in promot- 
 ing the cause of innocence and virtue. 
 
 St. Alban's, 
 April 13th, 1803. 
 
AN 
 
 ESSAY 
 
 PASTORAL POETRY. 
 
 Many authors have written on pastoral poetry, 
 decided on the merits of bucolic poets, and laid 
 down rules for this species of composition; yet 
 few are agreed as to the manner in which it ought 
 to be managed. Some * desire that shepherds 
 should always be described as witty and polite ; 
 somef, on the contrary, recommend never to lose 
 sight of that simplicity of the golden age which 
 constitutes the principal charm in the works of the 
 ancients ; while others X consider allegory as con- 
 stituting the chief merit of the eclogue. 
 
 I shall not discuss these different opinions : I 
 wish merely to give an account of the light in 
 
 * Fontenelle, Treatise on Eclogues, page 156. 
 
 f M. de Chabanon, Essay on Theocritus, p. 26. 
 
 X L' Abbe Desfontaines, Discourse on Pastorals, p. 68, 
 
Vlll 
 
 which pastoral is viewed by myself, and of the 
 means which I consider as most proper to give it 
 a degree of interest, and even perhaps of utility. 
 
 The pastoral stile is reproached with being cold 
 and wearisome : these are faults which never have 
 any favour shewn them, but least of all in France. 
 Yet no one dares not to admire the eclogues of 
 Theocritus and Virgil. Some fine lines of the 
 pastorals of Fontenelle are yet remembered, but 
 no one any longer takes the trouble of reading 
 them ; and it seems, that as soon as a work is an- 
 nounced, of which the heroes are shepherds, that 
 name alone suffices to inspire every one with an 
 inclination to sleep. 
 
 I thought, at first, that this aversion proceeded 
 entirely from the enormous distance betwixt the 
 pastoral life and ours, from the prodigious difference 
 of our manners compared with those of shepherds ; 
 and this certainly has had some influence : but it 
 is possible, likewise, that the fault may be in the 
 manner in which this species of poetry has been 
 managed, for there must be many reasons for dis- 
 gust when every one is dissatisfied. 
 
 It is not my wish either to deny or diminish 
 the merit of the eclogues of Theocritus, of Bion, 
 
IX 
 
 of Moschus, and, above all, of Virgil ! These 
 masterpieces, which have been admired more than 
 twenty ages, will live as long as beautiful poetry, 
 lovely nature, and engaging simplicity, shall have 
 any charms for men of taste. 
 
 The idylls of Petrarch*, of Sannazarf, of Gar- 
 cillassoj, and of Pope||, possess beauties worthy 
 of the ancients. The pastorals of Racan§ some- 
 times justify the eulogies of Despreaux. Segrais^J" 
 and Madame Deshoulieres have interspersed in their 
 eclogues some specimens of beauty and genius, 
 
 * Petrarch wrote Latin eclogues in the fourteenth cen- 
 tury. 
 
 f Sannazar, an Italian poet, wrote in the fifteenth cen- 
 tury : the speakers in his Latin eclogues are fishermen. It 
 was when blaming his choice of fishermen that Fontenelle 
 said, that it was more agreeable to send flowers to his mis- 
 tress than to open oysters for her. 
 
 J Garcillasso, a Spanish poet (not he who composed the 
 History of the Incas), wrote in the sixteenth century some 
 eclogues full of sweetness and sensibility. 
 
 || The celebrated Pope began by writing pastorals, 
 
 § There are some verses in Racan which will always 
 please, without being obliged to recollect that Honoret de 
 Eevil, marquis of Racan, wrote in the time of Malherbes, 
 before the language was well formed. 
 
 ^j Boileau has written in praise of Segrais, and Boileau 
 was certainly in the right. 
 
which, although they were perhaps too much 
 praised in their days, are too much forgotten in 
 ours. Fontenelle and La Motte have mixed in 
 their poems some elegant thoughts, some delicate 
 passages, and charming verses. Many others of 
 the more modern poets* have drawn forth pathe- 
 tic and harmonious sounds from their rural pipes. 
 Gessner, above all, rises superior, in my opinion, 
 to the ancients themselves. Gessner, perhaps, can- 
 not boast of that enchanting poetry which in Vir- 
 gil*ennobles the most common details : he does not 
 always charm the ear, like the Roman poet ; but 
 he speaks as much to the heart, and inspires it 
 with purer sentiments. The taste is formed by 
 reading Virgil, the heart is improved by reading 
 Gessner; the one makes us love and pity Meli- 
 boeus, but the other makes us respect and love 
 virtue. 
 
 After this just and sincere homage paid to my 
 masters, let me be permitted to return to my ideas 
 on the cause of the cold reception which is in ge- 
 neral given to pastorals. 
 
 * PAbbe Mongenot, M. Berquin, M. Leonard, Made- 
 moiselle Levesque, Madame Verdier, whose idyls on Vau- 
 cluse may be compared to the finest pieces of antiquity. 
 
XI 
 
 I think that, without exciting an interest, no 
 work intended to please can have any durable 
 success. Now, is it very easy to make others feel 
 themselves interested in the conversation of two 
 or three speakers, who speak on one subject, and 
 whose ideas revolve on the same point ; who meet 
 and separate without any motive ? Is not this the 
 case with the eclogue ? 
 
 In the best plays the first scene is almost always 
 tedious, because the personages are yet unknown 
 to us ; because they only appear just to open the 
 subject, and prepare us to be interested. We hear 
 them, hoping that our attention will be rewarded 
 with delight : but if pleasure does not come, we 
 are angry ; for the thing of which perhaps men 
 are the most avaricious is their attention. They do 
 not forgive being surprised for nothing ; and this 
 natural sentiment may alone excuse the cruelty 
 with which many worthy persons hiss the piece, 
 or tear the book, of a man whom they would wil- 
 lingly oblige. 
 
 The eclogue has bounds so circumscribed, as to 
 give it hardly the means of preparing the interest : 
 when the interest is excited, the piece finishes, 
 and it is necessary to begin another. A collection 
 
Xll 
 
 of eclogues, in some measure, then, resembles a 
 collection of the first scenes of plays. The reader 
 is not much to blame in throwing aside the^book, 
 and continuing prejudiced against that species of 
 poetry. 
 
 Guarini and Tasso* perceived this; since they 
 were the first who, instead of eclogues, made a 
 species of pastoral drama, in which all the scenes 
 follow each other as in a play, and exhibit a 
 lengthened action conducted by degrees to its end. 
 
 Led away by the taste of their age, they have 
 scattered throughout the Pastor Fido and Aminta 
 many witty and ingenious passages, sometimes in- 
 deed too refined, so much so, that the abundant 
 profusion at length fatigues the reader who is fond 
 of nature, and disfigures two performances which, 
 had they been more simple, would have been 
 masterpieces. 
 
 This manner of writing pastoral poetry is, how- 
 ever, in my opinion, better than detached eclogues : 
 but it still has a coldness in its nature; for the 
 stage does not accord with the actions of shepherds. 
 
 * Authors of Pastor Fido and Aminta. 
 
Xlll 
 
 Among them, all is mild and quiet: there grief 
 weeps and laments its woes without uttering cries of 
 despair ; happiness is enjoyed without being talked 
 of; or, if they speak of their pleasures, it is only 
 to confide them, in a whisper, to the ear of friend- 
 ship. At the theatre, on the contrary, only the 
 extreme passions have any effect. There our at- 
 tention is excited only by violent explosions; 
 there we are, not moved without being forcibly 
 affected. The rage of tragedy has nothing in 
 common with the sorrow of the idyl : the laugh of 
 comedy does not resemble the gaiety of shepherds. 
 These have a language peculiar to themselves ; it 
 is not understood out of their vallies ; and, when 
 introduced on the stage, it is no less out of its 
 place, and no less aukward, than a herdsman in a 
 palace. 
 
 The best means, without doubt, of rendering 
 pastoral interesting, would be to introduce it in a 
 poem where it might preserve all its sweet and 
 simple sounds while in perfect unison with the rest 
 of the work. It is thus that, in the Seasons of 
 M. de St. Lambert, his beautiful descriptions of 
 the revival of nature in spring, of the magnificent 
 landscapes of summer, of the pleasures and the 
 gifts of autumn, and the episodes of Lise and of 
 
XIV 
 
 two lovers near a tomb, are elevated to the most 
 sublime accents of poetry, and descend again, 
 without the reader perceiving it, without the 
 poet having changed his lyre, to the simple and 
 sweet tone of the eclogue. But there are few 
 of genius sufficient to attempt similar works ; and 
 the romance, even after the poem, may be read 
 with interest*. 
 
 In employing thus the pastoral, the advantages 
 of the dramatic form are preserved, while its in- 
 conveniences are avoided ; for the romance ad- 
 mits, and even requires, scenes. In the drama, 
 the necessity of connecting them together by other 
 scenes frequently produces tediousness : in a ro- 
 
 * We do not speak of M. PAbbe de Lille, notwith- 
 standing the descriptions, so beautiful and just, which he 
 has drawn of nature. His enchanting muse has disdained 
 the rural pipe, and the question before us only concerns 
 the pastoral. Mons. the Marquis of Marnezia approaches 
 nearer to it in his poem on the country life. It is through- 
 out a work, in which so true a love of nature, so faithful a 
 representation of its beauties, reign, that it seems to have 
 been composed under the shade of forests, on the banks 
 of rivers, on the tops of mountains; that it makes us regret 
 that the author has not intermixed in it more rustic epi- 
 sodes, which his amiable genius and lively sensibility would 
 have known how to have placed to great advantage. 
 
XV 
 
 mance, two words are sufficient for this con- 
 nexion. The march is lively and rapid, we run 
 on from one event to another, and stop only at 
 those which interest. The dialogues, the recitals, 
 the descriptions, are intermixed, and relieve each 
 other. It is a beautiful country, intersected with 
 rivulets, woods, and hills, in which the reader tra- 
 vels a long while without being fatigued. Let him 
 go the same distance in a noble plain, the scenes 
 of which are less varied ; he will admire, and de- 
 mand to rest himself. 
 
 The charming romance of Daphnis and Chloe* 
 has proved the truth of what I now advance. 
 This inimitable model of elegance and simplicity 
 has always afforded more pleasure than Theocritus 
 and Guarini. It would afford still more than it 
 does, were it not for some images of too free a 
 nature, which ought always to be banished from 
 works of this nature. The loves of shepherds 
 should be no less pure than the crystal of their 
 fountains; and as the principal charm of the most 
 beautiful shepherdess is her modesty, so the prin- 
 cipal charm of the pastoral ought to be the in- 
 spiring of virtue. 
 
 * The romance of Longus is well known, yet we are not 
 certain in what age this author wrote. 
 
XVI 
 
 Sannazar* is, I believe, the first of the modems 
 who formed the eclogue into a romance. The age 
 of literature was then commencing in Italy. An 
 hundred years afterwards, learning had a moment 
 of brilliancy in Spain; and Montemayorf, Gil 
 Polo J, Lopez de Vega||, Figuera, and Michael de 
 Cervantes, imitated Sannazar. After them, Sidney § 
 
 * Sannazar has written a pastoral romance, in Italian, 
 called Arcadia, in which the want of interest and action 
 is sometimes compensated by a tincture of melancholy, 
 which has a charm for tender minds. 
 
 f Georges de Montemayor, a Portuguese, wrote, in the 
 sixteenth century, a romance, in Spanish, intermixed with 
 prose and verse, called Diana. This romance offends against 
 the rules of composition, by its improbabilities, and the 
 multiplicity of its episodes : it has also the still greater fault 
 of beginning with the needless infidelity of its heroine, and 
 of employing magic to cure the hero of his passion. But an 
 infinity of details, and many pieces of poetry, have a cha- 
 racter of sensibility which attaches the reader, and makes 
 him shed tears, Too frequently taste is wounded, almost 
 always the heart is delighted. It cannot be translated ; 
 grace is not translatable. 
 
 X Gil Polo continued the Diana of Montemayor. 
 
 || Lopez de Vega composed Arcadia; Figueroa, an Ama- 
 ryllis; Michael Cervantes likewise composed a Galatea: 
 but all these performances are much inferior to the Diana. 
 
 § Sidney composed the Arcadia. This Arcadia is a large, 
 romance, in the style of Cassandra and Cleopatra, only it 
 has shepherds mixed with the knight errants. 
 
XVII 
 
 in England, and the Marquis d'Urfe* in France, 
 attempted the same species of composition. All 
 these performances were very celebrated in their 
 time, and are almost forgotten in ours. This obli- 
 vion of them is too severe against some of them ; 
 above all, against the Astrea, which was for a long 
 time the delight of France. Astrea has great 
 merit in point of invention. Many highly inte- 
 resting episodes, traits of simplicity, softness, sen- 
 timent, and, above all, the charming characters of 
 Diana and Sylvander, will preserve this book from 
 perishing entirely. 
 
 But this work takes up ten volumes ; and length 
 is a very great fault in almost all works, but is 
 most insupportable of all in pastorals. Such length, 
 which almost always proceeds from the multipli- 
 city of episodes, has the double inconvenience of 
 fatiguing us, and detaching our attention from the 
 principal interest of the piece. All these heroes, 
 all these shepherds, every one of whom relates his 
 history, make us forget those we loved already, 
 embarrass the mind of the reader, and soon render 
 
 * The Marquis d'Urfe is well known, in his Astrea, to 
 have related his own adventures with Diana de Chateau 
 Mora ad, whom he afterwards espoused. 
 
XV111 
 
 him indifferent. Besides, they come from too 
 great a distance. In a pastoral, every thing ought 
 to lie contiguous. Shepherds communicate only 
 with their nearest neighbours: they never quit 
 their valley, their woods, or the banks of their 
 rivers. With them the world ends at a league 
 from their village. We should then, if I may be 
 permitted to say it, make the bounds of a pastoral 
 romance correspond with the place where the 
 scene lays ; we should proportion the piece to the 
 theatre ; and contrive to make the episodes, as it 
 has been ingeniously expressed by an English au- 
 thor, resemble the short excursion of bees, who 
 never leave their hives but to go in search of 
 something to enrich them, and never wander far 
 enough to lose sight of them. 
 
 Almost all the bucolic authors have made use of 
 means which I cannot approve; that is, magic, 
 Theocritus, Virgil, Sannazar, Montemayor, and 
 Lopez de Vega, have introduced sorcery in their 
 pastorals. I admire, indeed, the beauty of their 
 verses; but I cannot find myself interested in 
 lovers who are made to love by philtres, or to 
 cease loving by potions. It is necessary that 
 every thing should be plain and natural in pastorals. 
 A real shepherd is ignorant that there is any other 
 way of gaining a heart than that of offering his 
 
XIX 
 
 own. He ought to imagine that his first love can 
 never be healed ; and if any one should tell him 
 that witchcraft could change the state of his mind, 
 he would prefer his melancholy to such a cure. 
 No bucolic poet could, with propriety, take for his 
 heroine a shepherdess seduced by riches or great- 
 ness. It seems to me that magic is as contradic- 
 tory, and that it is less agreeable to nature. 
 
 It still remains for me to speak of one great ad- 
 vantage of the pastoral romance, which is, the 
 mixture of poetry and prose ; an union which 
 pleases, relieves, and may be made a fruitful source 
 of beauties. 
 
 You have to describe an unfortunate shepherd, 
 seated under the shade of a sycamore tree, his 
 head reclining upon his hand, his flute fallen on 
 the ground at his feet, his dog lying by him, and 
 looking tenderly and sorrowfully at him. You 
 will choose the simplest, plainest, and most expres- 
 sive words, to make your picture striking. If it 
 was in verse, the measure, the rhyme, and a cer- 
 tain profusion that there is always in poetry, would 
 oblige you, whatever were your talents, to make 
 use of other expressions, to employ an adjective, 
 an epithet frequently superfluous. Prose permits 
 you to reject it, and affords you a facility of com- 
 
XX 
 
 pressing and compacting your style, which perhaps 
 is the chief secret to prevent being tedious. When 
 you have shewn your reader the object on which 
 you would fix his attention ; when, by means of 
 perspicuity, precision, and truth, you have created 
 a lively image in his mind, then make your verses ; 
 and, above all, let them be good : they will intro- 
 duce themselyes. It is established that every shep- 
 herd, when melancholy, sings his sorrows. Let 
 yours lament in verses soft and harmonious. Be 
 then the poet; forget the precision, the brevity, 
 that you observed in your recitals; unfold your 
 sentiments ; attach yourself to some tender idea, 
 to some painful recollection, or to the hope of some 
 future good : you will be read, perhaps read over 
 again. The same verses in an eclogue and in a 
 dramatic pastoral, preceded or followed by other 
 verses, would not afford as much pleasure as when 
 introduced in the middle of prose. 
 
 I do not think, however, that these verses should 
 be long, or that they should occur too frequently 
 in the work. In the first place, by lengthen- 
 ing them too much you diminish the effect of 
 them; and, besides, those burthens to the song, 
 which have so much grace in the pastoral verse, 
 and which ought to be used as much as possible, 
 though they please the second, third, and perhaps 
 
XXI 
 
 the fourth time, will beyond that become fatiguing. 
 It is necessary therefore that a shepherd should al- 
 ways leave off singing before he has been desired 
 to be silent. The reader who at the end of a song 
 would cheerfully say encore ! will have greater 
 pleasure in finding a new song some pages fur- 
 ther on. 
 
 But let him be some time without meeting it 
 again ; for the manner of introducing these little 
 pieces is unhappily always the same : it is always 
 some shepherd or shepherdess who sings or who 
 writes them. This is a reason the more why you 
 should not be lavish of them. It is also neces- 
 sary to compensate, by the variety of the subjects, 
 the uniformity of the manner. The author, there- 
 fore, should take great care to avoid singing al- 
 ways of sorrow ; he should sometimes try to inter- 
 mix a little sprightliness in his songs, and to throw- 
 in, if possible, a slight tincture of philosophy : he 
 will have recourse to romance, when romance will 
 accord with his subject; and, finally, under the 
 modest name of songs, he should endeavour to 
 make of them little odes, in imitation of those of 
 Anacreon and Horace. 
 
 As to the style of the prose, it should possess 
 something of the romance, the eclogue, and the 
 
XXII 
 
 poem. It must be simple, for the author narrates ; 
 it must be natural, for the persons of whom it 
 speaks, and whom it represents as speaking, have 
 no other eloquence than that of the heart : it 
 must likewise be dignified, for every where virtue 
 must be introduced, and virtue always expresses 
 itself in a dignified manner. 
 
 Besides, it is not necessary that there should be 
 only shepherds in a pastoral romance. I think, 
 on the contrary, that it is better to intermix with 
 them personages of another state, and even of a 
 very elevated condition, provided they do not, as 
 it were, fall from the clouds, but have a direct 
 connection with the subject. Independently of 
 the variety which this gives to the work, it is con- 
 soling to see heroes and princes assimilate them- 
 selves to simple peasants, become their friends, and 
 think them their brethren, because they have the 
 same inclinations, because good hearts all love the 
 same things, nature and virtue. 
 
 It is by these means principally, it is in describ- 
 ing persons virtuous, and possessed of sensibility, 
 who know how to sacrifice the most ardent pas- 
 sion to duty, and who find the reward of their 
 sacrifice in the duty itself; it is in presenting vir- 
 tue under its most amiable aspect, in proving that 
 
XX111 
 
 it is equally necessary to the shepherd and to the 
 prince, in order to be happy, that I believe it pos- 
 sible to give to the pastoral a degree of utility. 
 Shepherds at present do not read much ; but the 
 masters of their flocks read ; and if authors more 
 skilful than myself would, according to the prin- 
 ciples I have laid down, compose some works in 
 which they should unite, with the advantage of a 
 well-chosen subject, the affecting picture of the 
 manners of the country, the perpetually pleasing 
 descriptions of the beauties of nature, the happy 
 mixture of prose and verse, and, above all, the 
 lessons of a pure and mild morality, such books 
 would be, I fully believe, neither tiresome nor 
 useless, and the poor of the villages would per- 
 ceive that their masters read them frequently. 
 
 I have dared to attempt what others, doubtless, 
 will do better. It is, perhaps, an aukwardness to 
 have begun by laying down the rules and princi- 
 ples which must raise this sort of work to perfec- 
 tion : I fear that I have failed in the first. But if 
 a single reflection of mine may prove useful, my 
 time will not be lost. 
 
 I have, however, never more desired to do my 
 best. Independently of the pastoral style, for 
 which I have always had a predilection, my work 
 
XXIV 
 
 had a most powerful interest in my heart : the 
 scene lies in the province, in the very spot, where 
 I was born. It is so pleasing to speak of one's 
 country, to recollect those places where we passed 
 our youthful days, where we felt our first emo- 
 tions ! The name alone of these places has a secret 
 charm to our souls ; we seem to grow young again 
 in thinking on the happy state of childhood, where 
 the pleasures are so lively, the sorrows so short, 
 the enjoyments so pure ! This remembrance is al- 
 ways accompanied with remembrances still dearer : 
 those to whom we owe our birth, those who took 
 the tenderest care of us, our first, our best friends, 
 present themselves to embellish the scenes which 
 are then retraced in our memory. We think our- 
 selves again with them ; we think ourselves again 
 such as we were then ; we forget the pains, the 
 injustices, we have since experienced, the miseries 
 we have brought upon ourselves, the faults we 
 have committed ; we remember only those senti- 
 ments which are almost always of more worth 
 than actions ; the tears of sensibility flow in spite 
 of ourselves, and we exclaim, with the first of the 
 Latin poets, 
 
 En unquam patrios, longo post tempore, fines, 
 Pauperis et tuguri congestum cespite culmen, 
 Post aliquot, mea regna videns, mirabor aristas ? 
 
ESTEJLIJE* 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 I have already celebrated the shepherds of the 
 Tagus ; I have described their innocent manners, 
 their faithful loves, and the felicity which their 
 pure and tender souls enjoy. It was the first time 
 that my unskilful fingers played upon the rural 
 pipe :• my trembling voice attempted airs quite 
 new to itself; and my dissatisfied ear asked the 
 echo of the woods if the nymphs could under- 
 stand me. Now, less ignorant, but not less timid, 
 I meditate themes more pleasing to my heart : 
 I will celebrate my country ; I will picture those 
 fine climates where the green olive, the purple 
 mulberry, and the golden grape, grow together 
 under a sky of perpetual azure ; where on cheer- 
 ful hillocks, overspread with violets and lilies, 
 numerous flocks are seen to skip and play ; where, 
 in short, a people at once sprightly and sensible, 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 laborious and sportive, preserve themselves from 
 want by industry, and from vice by cheerfulness. 
 
 Hail, O beautiful Occitania 1 ! thou country ever 
 loved by those that have known thee ! Thee the 
 Romans embellished with their most magnificent 
 works of art; thy climate invited the haughty 
 sons of the north to fix their abode on thy plains ; 
 for thee the Arabs quitted their delicious Iberia ; 
 and France has always regarded thee as the most 
 noble prize gained by the victories of Charles 
 Martel ! Nature has united in thy bosom those 
 treasures, only divided among the rest of the 
 world 2 . Under thy sky, as pure, but less scorch- 
 ing than that of Spain, are gathered harvests more 
 abundant than those which grow in the vales of 
 Enna. The rich clusters of thy vines have obli- 
 terated the remembrance of those which grew on 
 the hills of Falernum and Massica : and the olive 
 prospers on thy hills no less than on the shores of the 
 Durance. Thy trees nourish the worm which spins 
 the robes of kings : gold and precious stones are 
 produced by thy fertile soil. Waters which re- 
 store health flow from the summits of thy moun- 
 tains : herbs the most salutiferous grow abundantly 
 in thy fields. How many great men, who sprang 
 from thee, have rendered thy name famous amongst 
 
foreign nations ! The throne of the Caesars is in- 
 debted to thee for its Antonines 3 , and that benefit 
 alone has entitled thee to the gratitude of the 
 world. The east still remembers the brave and 
 wise Raimond, who first of the Christians planted 
 the cross on the walls of the holy city 4 ; Arragon 
 boasts of those kings to whom thou hast given 
 birth 5 ; Rome cherishes the memory of those pon- 
 tiffs she has received from thee 6 ; France glories 
 in thy captains and thy magistrates 7 ; and Poetry, 
 sweet enchantress ! owes to thee her first asylum 8 . 
 O country, fertile in heroes, in talents, in fruits, 
 and in treasures, I hail thee ! 
 
 And you shepherdesses of my country, who con- 
 ceal under a hat of straw those attractions of which 
 so many others would be vain ; you whose hearts 
 have preserved that sacred regard to duty which 
 mixes a secret charm with the sacrifices it pre- 
 scribes; that modesty, amiable yet severe, chief 
 ornament of youth ; that touching simplicity, the 
 only remains of the golden age; lend an ear to 
 my muse. 
 
 Estelle resembled you; Estelle had your bril- 
 liant black eyes, and your long tresses of ebony, 
 and your mild countenance, where candour blends 
 
with grace, that unaffected grace which flies from 
 the beauty who seeks it, but never quits her who 
 is ignorant of it. Estelle had your virtues: she 
 was, however, unhappy. May you never be so ! 
 May your lovely eyes never shed any other tears 
 but those which you weep over my heroine ! 
 
 On the borders of the Gardon, at the bottom 
 of the lofty mountains of the Cevennes, between the 
 town of Anduze and the village of Massanna, is a 
 valley where nature seems to have collected all 
 her treasures. There, in the extended flowery 
 meads, through which wind the waters of the 
 Gardon, are delightful walks under bowers of 
 fig-trees and acacias. The flower-de-luce, the full- 
 blown broom, and daffodils, enamel the ground ; 
 the pomegranate tree, the woodbine, and the haw- 
 thorn, scent the air with their agreeable perfumes ; 
 a circle of hills covered with thick trees encloses 
 the valley on all sides; and rocks covered with 
 snow bound the horizon. 
 
 Near this charming retreat, justly named the 
 Beautiful Plains 9 , lived, under the reign of 
 Louis XII. shepherds and shepherdesses worthy 
 to dwell in such enchanting places. From the 
 villages of Massanna, Marueja, and Arnassan, they 
 
 
were accustomed to assemble in the valley of the 
 Beautiful Plains. Their flocks, sometimes united, 
 sometimes dispersed, wandered about in search of 
 the wild thyme which grew on the hills, while 
 fierce dogs guarded them from the wolves of the 
 mountains; and the shepherds, with the shep- 
 herdesses, sitting together near the river, enjoyed 
 all those agreeable pleasures which a fine sky, a 
 good king, innocence, and equality, had bestowed 
 on them. 
 
 Of all the shepherdesses, the honour and .orna- 
 ment of their country, Estelle was the most hand- 
 some, most tender, and most virtuous. Daughter 
 of the aged Raimond and his wife Marguerita, she 
 loved and revered her parents almost equally with 
 the Supreme Being. Early instructed in her du- 
 ties, and unceasingly occupied in performing them, 
 she never imagined it possible that they could be 
 painful. AH her thoughts were pure as the source 
 of the Gardon : all her desires, had for their object 
 the felicity of others. Innocent, meek, sincere, and 
 sensible,, she never separated happiness from virtue. 
 
 Estelle lived at Massanna. Nemorin, a shepherd 
 of the same village, had loved her from his in- 
 fancy: both of the same age, and both equally 
 
handsome, from their infancy they had been ac- 
 customed to go together to the meadows. Nemorin 
 always carried the scrip and crook of Estelle, and 
 Nemorin went every morning to collect the blue 
 flowers which Estelle loved to mix in the long 
 tresses of her dark hair. Never were these lovely 
 infants absent from each other. Sometimes they 
 joined their flocks, and sat down on the same turf 
 together; and, during their sweet conversation, 
 each was attentive only to the flocks which be- 
 longed to the other; sometimes they went to 
 gather figs or mulberries; and, when their little 
 hands could not reach the higher boughs, Ne- 
 morin got up into the tree, and threw down the 
 best and finest of the fruit into Estelle's apron. 
 At other times, near the juniper trees, they would 
 divert themselves in bending traps to catch the 
 thrushes ; and when either of them first perceived 
 that a bird was caught in its snare, the one ran 
 immediately to find the other, that it might be 
 their property. Their pleasures and their pains 
 were in common, and shared with one another. 
 This innocent friendship was known throughout 
 all the village, was admired by all the good peo- 
 ple ; and the parents of Estelle took no alarm, till 
 an event happened which afforded them some fur- 
 ther light into the subject. 
 
It was on the first of May, when they went to 
 sheep-shearing. This labour is always mixed with 
 entertainments. As soon as the morning arrives, 
 the shepherds and shepherdesses go down to the 
 valley with the sheep they intend to shear : there 
 each shepherd throws the meek animal, uneasy at 
 its future destiny, on its back, and with an osier 
 band binds its four legs together. The sheep, while 
 lying on the ground, raises its head, bleats, and 
 trembles at the sight of the terrible shears which it 
 sees in the hands of the shepherd. They sit round 
 in a circle, and the shearing commences: mean- 
 time the clattering of the steel shears, the songs of 
 the young shepherds, the loud shouts of general 
 joy, interrupt not the music of those who, having 
 no flocks to attend, are dancing near them. At 
 some distance, robust young men divert themselves 
 in leaping and wrestling ; some on little horses, 
 which have the swiftness of stags, dispute for the 
 prize of the race ; and others with bats make their 
 balls fly through the air faster than the eye can 
 follow them. Many of the shepherds leave their 
 work, and dance with the shepherdesses; while 
 the youngest girls take the heavy shears, and with 
 their weak and inexperienced hands, afraid of 
 hurting the tender sheep, cut off the tops of the 
 wool. 
 
8 
 
 When the hour for refreshment arrives, they all 
 quickly assemble round a large table, covered with 
 the produce of the country. Moderation and joy 
 preside over the feast, the expence of which is 
 defrayed by the rich, while the poor do the ho- 
 nours of the board. Husbands and lovers sit 
 near their wives and sweethearts ; the mothers 
 converse about the prizes their sons have gained ; 
 the old men relate the histories of former days; 
 while the shepherdesses sing their favourite new 
 songs. The musk- wine sparkles in the glasses, and 
 excites cheerfulness without producing licentious- 
 ness. All are contented, all are happy ; and the 
 day is passed in labour, love, and pleasure. 
 
 When the evening arrives, and the wool is 
 brought home to the village, they all assemble 
 under an aged poplar, which has for more than a 
 century been set apart for that purpose. Its vene- 
 rable trunk is encircled with a double row of turf: 
 here are seated the old men, holding a young 
 ram, ornamented with ribbons and garlands, in- 
 tended as the reward of him who excels in singing. 
 
 The first day of the contest, all the swains of 
 Massanna were vanquished by a shepherd named 
 Helion, a relation of Estelle, who came from the 
 
flowery banks of the Durance to see her family. 
 The old men awarded to him the prize ; and, 
 whether it were friendship for Estelle, who was 
 not yet twelve years old, or a desire to please 
 Raimond, the Provencal victor offered the ram to 
 his amiable cousin, asking only a kiss for his reward. 
 
 Nemorin, who, at his age, was scarcely proper to 
 enter the lists ; Nemorin, who had hardly reached 
 his thirteenth year, immediately went out of the 
 company of children, among whom he had mixed, 
 and springing towards Helion with eyes full of 
 anger, " The prize," says he, " is not yours ; you 
 have not conquered me." 
 
 All the assembly applauded, smiling. Nemorin 
 demanded to be heard. He had the ram carried 
 back into the hands of the judges ; and, standing 
 in the midst of the assembly, called to him the 
 young Isidore, his friend, his companion, and then 
 modestly looking at the shepherds, " I have ap- 
 plauded, as well as you," says he, " the fine voice 
 of the celebrated Helion; but is the happy Pro- 
 vence the only country in which they excel in 
 singing ? The desire of revenging my country will 
 supply the place of genius in me : Helion has ce- 
 
10 
 
 lebrated the beauty of the banks of the Durance, 
 from whence he came ; his countrymen only know 
 those beauties ; but I will sing of love, a subject 
 dear to all mankind." He spoke, and drew from 
 his scrip a flute, on which he played a tender 
 tune ; he then put the instrument into the hands 
 of Isidore, who, repeating the same sounds, ac- 
 companied these words : 
 
 Despise not the swain who before you appears, 
 If a stripling he seems, and if few are his years; 
 Since the deity Cupid, whose reign is so mild, 
 That he governs with smiles, is himself hut a child : 
 Though he king over shepherds and princes may be, 
 Yet you all must allow he's a stripling like me. 
 
 In the timid His he that does boldness infuse, 
 And the haughty to meekness he quickly subdues ; 
 The sage from the freedom he boasts of restrains, 
 But grants him the bliss to rejoice in his chains : 
 King of sages and heroes howe'er he may be, 
 Yet you all must allow he's a stripling like me. 
 
 >Tis he that created whatever does move, 
 And animates all with the sweet breath of love ; 
 Over earth, to the skies, in the depth of the seas, 
 All creation submits to whatever he please : 
 What though he the king of all nature may be, 
 Yet, say, is he not, sirs, a stripling like me ? 
 
11 
 
 They tell me whoe'er would his favour obtain, 
 Will be sure to experience a portion of pain ; 
 But though many bitters he puts in our cup, 
 He sweetens them all with a mixture of hope : 
 He alone king of hearts ever was and will be ; 
 Yet you all must allow he's a stripling like me. 
 
 At my age, it is true, few are skilPd in his art, 
 
 But Estelle has begun to illumine my heart, 
 
 As the sun, when 'tis rising, progressively shines, 
 
 And first fair Aurora her colours combines : 
 
 King of gods and of men though young Cupid may be, 
 
 You all must allow he's a stripling like me. 
 
 Thus sung young Nemorin. With united voices 
 they all bestowed on him the prize. Helion also, 
 forcing a smile, applauded his young conqueror. 
 The rest of the children made the air resound 
 with their joy, and brought crowns to Nemorin ; 
 who, running to the ram, seized it, and took it 
 in his arms, but could hardly lift it up; so, assisted 
 by Isidore and his young companions, he carried 
 it to the feet of Estelle : " I have sung" said he, 
 " the god of love ; if love has made me victorious, 
 it was that the prize might belong to you." 
 
 Estelle, blushing, looked at her mother. Mar- 
 guerita permitted her to receive the present ; but 
 the shepherdess still hesitated. At length, with a 
 
12 
 
 trembling hand, she laid hold of the green rib- 
 bon which was placed round the ram's neck. The 
 applauses increased ; the company of children es- 
 pecially, who, on account of his victory, then re- 
 garded Nemorin as their chief, broke out in trans- 
 ports of joy. All desired, all boldly insisted, that 
 Estelle should kiss Nemorin. Estelle, frightened, 
 fell back into the arms of Marguerita, refusing to 
 obey ; but Marguerita and the judges affirmed that 
 custom had established it as due to the conqueror. 
 
 Estelle, then colouring like the wild rose, inclined 
 her face towards Nemorin, at the same time hold- 
 ing fast her mother's hand. Nemorin approached 
 trembling, cast down his eyes, and bent on his 
 knees, while his ardent lips scarcely ventured gen- 
 tly to impress the blushing cheeks of Estelle. Oh ! 
 what reason had they to lament this kiss ! Oh ! 
 how did it augment the fire which already began 
 to consume them ! The oil which the olive pro- 
 duces increases not with greater rapidity the flame 
 on which it is thrown. 
 
 From that moment Nemorin perceived every 
 day his affection increase towards Estelle; and 
 every day the tender shepherdess found Nemorin 
 more lovely : their time of life, too, added new 
 
13 
 
 rigour to their mutual inclinations. Very soon 
 Estelle was alarmed at that involuntary confusion 
 which agitated her mind; very soon Nemorin, 
 terrified, knew all the violence of that fire which 
 consumed him ; but it was now too late to extin- 
 guish it : both were smitten with a dart, the wound 
 of which would never be healed; both had to 
 combat with their hearts, with love, and with six- 
 teen years. 
 
 The old Raimond, the father of Estelle, per- 
 ceived with grief the passion of the young shep- 
 herd. Raimond had promised his daughter to a 
 farmer of Lezan. A strict observer of his word, 
 he would rather have died than forfeit it. Jealous 
 of his authority, even to excess, Raimond became 
 inflexible as soon as ever he found any attempt to 
 abridge it. Severe to others, as well as himself, 
 he required in all hearts the austere virtues of his 
 own. A good husband, a good father, but with 
 little tenderness, he regarded as weakness every 
 sentiment which was not duty. 
 
 His first care was to prohibit Nemorin from 
 coming to his house, and to forbid his daughter 
 to speak to the shepherd. Estelle obeyed : but 
 
14 
 
 every day in the valley the two lovers met ; they 
 cast a single glance on each other ; and, without 
 violating the orders of Raimond, without ap- 
 proaching, without speaking, they had, when they 
 parted, said all which they had to say. 
 
 &> 
 
 This calm did not last long. One morning 
 when the young shepherd was going out with his 
 sheep, he saw EstehVs father appear, who de- 
 manded, with a sad and severe voice, a minute's 
 conversation. Nemorin, trembling, left his sheep, 
 made the old man sit down upon the side of the 
 cistern from which his lambs drank, and standing, 
 out of respect to him, he heard these words : 
 
 *' I am come hither, Nemorin, to open to you 
 my whole soul, that you may judge of my con- 
 duct. I had a friend, who was named Maurice ; 
 we had an affection for each other upwards of 
 forty years. Long ago, when an unfortunate 
 winter destroyed my sheep, perished my vines, 
 and froze my olive trees, my family and my re- 
 lations quite forsook me: then Maurice, whose 
 riches raised him above the fear of indigence, 
 divided his goods with me. I have lost this friend. 
 At his dying hour he made me swear that I would 
 
15 
 
 unite Estelle with his son Meril. Meril has all his 
 father's virtues; he loves my daughter; he de- 
 pends upon the word I gave my dying benefactor : 
 think you I can break it ?" Raimond was then si- 
 lent. Nemorin dared not answer. " My esteem 
 for you/" continued the old man, " interprets your 
 silence : nevertheless, you love my daughter ; your 
 love for her is publicly known. Will you pro- 
 mise me to stifle it ? Will you swear to me that 
 you will avoid all places where you may meet 
 with Estelle ? Certain of your honour, I shall no 
 longer have the least alarm. If this effort is too 
 much for you, I force Estelle from her country, 
 her relations, and all that is dear to her ; I hasten 
 to unite her with Meril ; in a word, if it be ne- 
 cessary, we will go beyond sea to dwell where 
 you will not be." 
 
 Thus spake the old man. Nemorin thus replied 
 to him. 
 
 " Raimond, Were I to promise wholly to avoid 
 your daughter, or even to forget an affection which 
 is dearer to me than life, I should deceive myself: 
 but it is not right that, to avoid me, you should 
 remove Estelle from her country; it is not just 
 that, on my account, you should punish all this 
 
16 
 
 neighbourhood ; it is for me alone to leave it. It will 
 occasion my death : this is my only hope : but I 
 should die a more grievous death still, if I saw 
 Estelle united to Meril. Receive, then, my oath." 
 
 Here the shepherd stopped a little, and, leaning 
 against the cistern, his head sunk down on his 
 breast. " Yes, I swear to you," added he, u that 
 I will go far away from Massanna. An orphan, 
 and master of myself, my life is in my own dis- 
 posal : I will set out this day. I will go and fix 
 my abode at as great a distance as you chuse : 
 name yourself the place of my exile, or rather of 
 my sepulchre." 
 
 " I pity thee," answered the old man ; " but 
 this sacrifice is necessary. I only ask of you to 
 go over to the other side of the Gardon : promise 
 me you never will repass it ; I shall be content and 
 easy." 
 
 " Let it be so," replied Nemorin; " if Estelle 
 can but be happy, I will pass over the Gardon 
 for ever !" 
 
 Having said this, he left the old man ; but had 
 not gone many steps before he fell down and 
 
17 
 
 fainted. Raimond ran to him, took him in his 
 arms, and strove to recall him to life. The shep- 
 herd opened his languid eyes, and gently repelled 
 Raimond, desiring him to go away. The old man 
 left him; but much moved. He then began to think 
 in what manner he could find the means of recom- 
 pensing the virtue of the young shepherd ; and 
 with this design took his route towards the fine 
 valley of Remistan. 
 
 As soon as Nemorin had recovered his senses, 
 he ran to seek Isidore. Isidore was that morning 
 gone to the city to seek for a physician for his be- 
 nefactor, who was ill. In coming back from his 
 friend's, the sorrowful Nemorin passed before the 
 house of Estelle : the door was shut ; the shep- 
 herdess's window was also shut. Her flock was 
 not permitted to go out that day; Raimond had 
 forbidden it, fearful lest Estelle should see Ne- 
 morin. The shepherd guessed at the old man's 
 intention. Motionless, with clasped hands, and 
 eyes full of tears, he looked a long time at the 
 house. " Oh, how many times," said he, " have 
 I not seen her at this window ! How many times, 
 before sun-rise, have I been here to wait for the 
 moment in which she would come out ! but here I 
 shall come no more ! I shall never see her again !" 
 
18 
 
 Saying these words, he sunk down on a smooth 
 stone that he had formerly conveyed to that place 
 for Estelle to sit upon, when, bringing back her 
 sheep from the pastures, she opened the gate for 
 the lambs, and diverted herself in seeing them 
 run bleating to their mothers' teats. The unhappy 
 shepherd, with the point of his knife, marked 
 upon the stone his last adieus, kissed it a thousand 
 times, and bathed it with his tears : then, regain- 
 ing with slow steps his dwelling, took his flute and 
 his crook, assembled again his little flock, and, 
 followed by his faithful dog Medor, the terror of 
 the wolves, he departed, sighing. He turned back 
 his head an hundred times towards the house of 
 his amiable fair, as he took the longest route to 
 arrive at the bridge of Ners, where he was to pass 
 the river. , 
 
 When he approached the bridge, about a league 
 distant from Massanna, he stopped, rested his flock, 
 and, willing to retard the moment in which he 
 must go over to the other shore, he laid himself 
 down under an olive tree, near his faithful Medor, 
 whose tender and uneasy looks seemed to seek in 
 those of his master for the cause of his sorrow. 
 Then the unhappy shepherd, casting his last looks 
 on the beautiful valley he had left, plaintively sung 
 these words : 
 
19 
 
 And am I then going my country to leave, 
 
 And for ever from her that I love to depart ? 
 Must I drag on a life from each morn to each eve, 
 
 While anguish oppresses and tortures my heart ? 
 Charming vallies ! in which we were wont oft to stray, 
 
 Where pleasure, and virtue, and innocence reign ; 
 Where Estelle and I have pass'd many a day ; 
 
 Charming vallies ! I ne'er shall behold you again. 
 
 Ye fields ! that so often of flow'rs I've despoiPd, 
 
 To adorn my dear Estelle's long ringlets of hair ; 
 Ye roses ! whose charms have in contest been foil'd, 
 
 For your beauty could never with Estelle's compare ; 
 Ye pure limpid streams ! which yon vales glide among, 
 
 Who so often her image did wish to retain, 
 And her charms to reflect would your courses prolong ; 
 
 Sweet streams ! I shall never behold you again. 
 
 Ye meads ! where when infants we us'd to resort, 
 
 Which so often the scenes of affection did prove; 
 Where we lisp'd our regards, and the neighbours all thought, 
 
 Though infants in years, we were not so in love : 
 Ye trees ! on whose bark we have read with delight 
 
 The name I had grav'n her praise to obtain, 
 The only name then which I knew how to write ; 
 
 Ye trees ! I shall never behold you again. 
 
 While Nemorin was singing these words, Estelle, 
 whose father, tinder various pretences, had kept 
 her in doors all day, was thinking upon her shep- 
 herd, and wishing for the morrow, that she might 
 
20 
 
 see him again. The morning had scarce appeared, 
 when she let out her sheep, and ran to awake the 
 young shepherdess Rose; Rose, her faithful friend, 
 and confidant in all her secrets ; Rose, who, at 
 seventeen years of age, handsome, amiable, sin- 
 cere, and sensible, had never dreamt of marriage, 
 or of love ; because her friendship for Estelle was 
 sufficient to engage her heart. 
 
 The two friends, uniting their sheep, went down 
 together to the valley. No other flocks were yet 
 there. Soon, indeed, they all arrived ; but Ne- 
 morin did not appear. Every shepherd and herds, 
 man enquired for him. Estelle alone dared not to 
 complain of his absence, but looked without ceas- 
 ing towards the way which he usually came. 
 The whole day passed away without any news of 
 Nemorin. Estelle, uneasy and afflicted, returned 
 home early, conducted Rose to her habitation, 
 and then quite pensive, came to reckon her sheep 
 at the accustomed stone. Approaching it, she per- 
 ceived some letters, and recollecting the hand- 
 writing of her lover, ran to it, and read these sor- 
 rowful lines : 
 
 Dear shepherdess, adieu! 
 
 Adieu, my only love ! 
 From those sweet meads I go, 
 
 Where thou wert wont to rove. 
 
21 
 
 ExiPd to th> other shore, 
 I still will sing my dear ; 
 
 But, ah ! my voice no more 
 Shall ever reach thine ear. 
 
 Yet weep not, lovely friend ; 
 
 My troubles soon will fly : 
 With life our sorrows end : 
 
 And who leaves thee must die. 
 
 Estelle, in spite of her tears, read this tender 
 farewel again and again. She could not take her 
 eyes from it ; she pleased herself in repeating it ^ 
 she kissed the letters : but, forced at length to leave 
 the stone, she re-entered her house deeply thought- 
 ful on this departure, this exile, the motives of 
 which she could not penetrate. 
 
 Marguerita, the good Marguerita, perceived the 
 melancholy of her daughter, and, clasping her in 
 her arms, enquired of her the cause, 
 
 Estelle, without answering, took her by the hand, 
 led her to the stone, and, bursting into tears, 
 shewed her the words which were marked there. 
 Marguerita participated in her sufferings, pressed 
 Estelle upon her maternal heart, and would have 
 gone the same instant to enquire in the village 
 
22 
 
 what was become of Nemorin ; but Raimond, who 
 then returned home, called to him his wife and 
 his daughter. 
 
 " You are not ignorant," said he to Marguerita, 
 u of the promise I made to Maurice. The time is 
 now come for me to fulfil it ; Meril arrives this even- 
 ing from Lezan. You know him, my daughter ; 
 you know how much his virtues make him respected 
 in all the district ; prepare yourself to be his wife. 
 Though I am obliged to go to Maguelonna on bu- 
 siness of importance, I will not set out until you 
 are married : it shall be in three days. Your mo- 
 ther can tell you it would not be in my power to 
 give you to any other husband, even if I had not 
 chosen so good a one for you." 
 
 Raimond, after having said this, went out to 
 meet Meril. Estelle and her mother, quite con- 
 founded, as soon as Raimond was got at some dis- 
 tance, threw themselves into one another's arms. 
 At length, Marguerita related to her daughter the 
 vow made to Maurice. Estelle wept, and was 
 silent. " Alas !" cried Marguerita, u I feel all 
 you suffer; but I cannot relieve you. Thou art 
 dearer to me than life, but I would die a thousand 
 times sooner than oppose the least wish of my 
 
23 
 
 husband : he is to me the image of God him*- 
 self; his will is my law ; and the qualities I adore 
 in him add still more to the respect which his pre- 
 sence has over me. Pardon me, my dear Estelle, 
 pardon me these sentiments, which nothing can 
 alter. I know how to weep with thee ; do thou 
 know how to obey with thy mother." 
 
 At these words, she embraced Estelle ; and both 
 remained a long time encircled in one another's 
 arms : but, perceiving Raimond coming, they has- 
 tened to wipe their eyes. The old man appeared, 
 followed by Meril; Estelle turned pale at the sight 
 of him, and Marguerita advanced to support her. 
 
 The young farmer presented himself with more 
 freedom than gracefulness : his person, less agree- 
 able than noble, proclaimed that gravity which 
 stern virtue bestows : his eyes, not very animated, 
 looked for Estelle without any appearance of ea- 
 gerness. 
 
 " There is your wife," said Raimond to him ; 
 " she will love her husband, as she has ever loved 
 her duties. With respect to yours, you know 
 them, and I am sure you will fulfil them; for 
 you are the son of Maurice." 
 
24 
 
 Meril at these words took Estelle by the hand, 
 and steadily looking at her, (t Daughter of Rai- 
 mond," said he, " my heart has been yours ever 
 since the first day that I saw you at the wake in 
 our village : I shall endeavour to gain yours : and, 
 if esteem and assiduity have any claims upon a 
 soul of sensibility, I trust I shall attain it in time." 
 
 Estelle blushed, without answering. Marguerita 
 took up the conversation, while Raimond had the 
 table put in order ; seating Meril near Estelle, and, 
 during supper, conversing of his friendship for 
 Maurice, of the pleasure it afforded him to marry 
 his daughter with the son of his old friend, and of 
 the numerous flocks Estelle should have for her 
 portion. 
 
 When the repast was over, the old man, wish- 
 ing that Meril should hear the charming voice of 
 his daughter, ordered her to sing : it was in vain 
 that Marguerita w r ould have spared her the pain- 
 ful task ; for Raimond repeated his orders. Mar- 
 guerita said no more; and the sorrowful Estelle 
 sung this song, which Nemorin had taught her : 
 
25 
 
 How delightful the morn is when first I discern, 
 
 At my windows, the swallows appear ; 
 Sprightly birds ! I rejoice at your annual return, 
 
 For you tell 'tis the spring of the year. 
 Hark ! the same nest, they say, as they to it repair, 
 
 The same scene of affection shall prove ; 
 Fond birds ! that thus twitter in constancy's ear 
 
 The return of the season for love. 
 
 When the frost first appears to have silver'd the ground, 
 
 And the foliage no longer is green, 
 On the tops of the houses, assembled around, 
 
 The swallows together are seen. 
 Let's depart, let's depart, to each other they cry, 
 
 From the storms which the winter will bring ; 
 From the tempests and snows faithful lovers should fly, 
 
 Where they live must for ever be spring. 
 
 If perchance on their passage, as cheerful they go, 
 
 Through misfortune one falls in the snare, 
 And becomes the sad victim of some cruel foe, 
 
 Who artfully did it prepare : 
 When he finds he's unable his mate to rejoin, 
 
 He quickly with grief wears away ; 
 While his partner, as constant, begins straight to pine, 
 
 And, near to him, expires the same day. 
 
 Estelle could not finish her song. Raimond, 
 who perceived it, would not insist upon it at that 
 time. He quitted the table; and Meril, more 
 smitten than ever with the charms of Estelle, 
 
26 
 
 embraced the old man, beseeching him to hasten 
 his happiness, and retired to his uncle Prosper, 
 who dwelt at Massanna. 
 
 Marguerita, whose maternal eyes had never been 
 taken off the eyes of her daughter ; Marguerita, 
 who knew and partook in all her trouble, tenderly 
 desired Estelle to retire to rest. Estelle obeyed, 
 came and saluted her father, and, falling into her 
 mother's arms, pressed her closely to her bosom ; 
 then turning aside her face, to hide her tears, she 
 hastened to gain that asylum where at least she 
 was free to weep. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST BOOKi 
 
ESTELJLE, 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 The tortures of love are cruel; but the listlessness 
 of an insensible heart is still more so : even the 
 pleasures arising from grandeur, riches, and vanity, 
 are not worth so much as the pains of lovers. A 
 man loaded with honours, encompassed with trea- 
 sures, and surrounded with slaves, often experi- 
 ences a void more terrible than grief. He looks 
 back with delight on his earlier years : he was 
 then, it is true, poor, obscure, and despised : but 
 he was in love ; the remembrance of this alone 
 is more pleasing to him than all the enjoyments 
 of fortune or pride. O love ! love ! thou only 
 canst satisfy our souls ; and, when connected with 
 virtue, art the source of all our felicity Ah, 
 may she ever be thy guide, and thou her com- 
 forter ! Children of heaven, may you never for- 
 sake one another, but always walk hand in hand 
 
28 
 
 together ! If in your way you should meet with 
 vexations or misfortunes, mutually support each 
 other : those misfortunes will leave you ; while the 
 happiness you afterwards enjoy will be an hundred 
 times more charming, and the remembrance of 
 former pains will give a greater zest to your plea- 
 sures. Thus, after a storm, the fields look more 
 green; the country, covered with liquid pearls, 
 appears more beautiful ; the flowers with greater 
 brilliancy lift up again their bending heads ; and 
 we hear, with increased delight, the lark or the 
 nightingale singing and fluttering their wings. 
 
 Estelle, alone in her chamber, thought on the 
 fatal marriage which, in three days, was to take 
 place. She could not comprehend why Nemorin 
 had forsaken her; she invented motives for his 
 departure : she formed the resolution to go and 
 seek for him ; and, reflecting on the words, " the 
 other shore," which were in the adieus of Nemo- 
 rin, she resolved to go down to the side of the 
 Gardon, to learn some news of him. 
 
 As soon as the day-light appeared, Estelle ran 
 to the valley. She left her flock under the care of 
 Rose, and, followed only by her favourite sheep, 
 the same that Nemorin had given her on the day 
 
29 
 
 when he excelled Helion, she went along the banks 
 of the river towards the bridge of Ners. 
 
 As she proceeded, the sorrowful Estelle looked 
 continually at the opposite side of the river. When- 
 ever she saw a flock of sheep, her heart panted 
 with hope ; she quickened her steps, and approach- 
 ing nearer to the river, stretched out her neck, 
 and bent her body over the waves, while her eyes 
 wandered in search of the shepherd. Sometimes 
 a little hillock, or thick wood, or rocks, hindered 
 Estelle from examining the other side ; then she 
 sung aloud, that Nemorin might hear her : but the 
 modest shepherdess, not willing to be understood 
 by any one but by him alone, had chosen this 
 song : 
 
 When Anna found, the other day, 
 
 Her fav'rite lamb had gone astray, 
 
 She mourn'd her loss in grief profound, 
 
 While echo to the woods around 
 
 Repeated thus the plaintive sound : 
 
 Whither, fondling, dost thou rove ? 
 
 Hast thou forfeited my love ? 
 Alas ! I am sure, if I know my own heart, 
 From the friend that I love I would never depart. 
 
 Sweet lambkin, that so oft I've seen. 
 Though suffering want, and hunger keen, 
 
30 
 
 Yet all the fragrant herbage leave, -\ 
 
 And only from my hands receive > 
 
 The flovv'rets which I chose to give ; J 
 Whither, fondling, dost thou rove ? 
 Hast thou forfeited my love ? 
 Alas ! I am sure, if I know my own heart, 
 From the friend that I love I would never depart. 
 
 How, at the sound of Anna's voice, 
 Oft didst thy little heart rejoice ; 
 Ah ! whither, lambkin, art thou gone ? -\ 
 And canst thou hear thy mistress moan, > 
 Yet leave thy Anna all alone ? 3 
 
 Whither, fondling, dost thou rove ? 
 Hast thou forfeited my love ? 
 Alas ! I am sure, if I know my own heart, 
 From the friend that I love I would never depart. 
 
 Estelle, having arrived at the angle which the 
 Gardon makes opposite to Marueja, had only a 
 short turn to take to reach the bridge of Ners, 
 when she perceived a flock of sheep feeding in 
 the peninsula which the river forms in that quar- 
 ter. Estelle stopped, looked at them, iut could 
 neither discover the shepherd nor his dog. She 
 continued walking on, when one of the sheep that 
 was nearest the river's side began to bleat. Di- 
 rectly Estelle's lamb jumped into the river, and 
 swam over; and, running in amidst the flock 5 
 
I 
 
SI 
 
 leaped, skipped, and expressed its joy at finding 
 them again. 
 
 At the commotion caused amongst the sheep, the 
 faithful dog Medor began directly to run to them ; 
 and soon from a heap of wild medlar trees, which 
 -shaded a ruinated dwelling, Estelle saw a shepherd 
 come out : it was he ! it was Nemorin ! Alas ! he 
 would have been known by none but Estelle : his 
 dress was in disorder, his hair fell over his fore- 
 head, a deadly paleness covered his counte- 
 nance, his withered cheeks were furrowed with 
 tears, and his languid eyes looked stedfastly on the 
 ground. 
 
 With slow steps he advanced towards his flock, 
 when EstehVs ram came skipping to him. The 
 astonished shepherd examined it, stopped, and 
 lifted up his eyes towards the other side of th,e 
 river: he saw Estelle motionless, leaning on her 
 crook, and fixing on him her eyes, full of pity. 
 
 At this sight Nemorin screamed out, and hur- 
 ried towards Estelle. Estelle, by an involuntary 
 motion, made towards Nemorin. Both stopped 
 not until the water wetted their shoes ; then they 
 cast their eyes sorrowfully downwards upon the 
 
32 
 
 river which separated them, and looked silently 
 at each other. At length, the shepherdess broke 
 the silence. 
 
 " Nemorin," says she, " have you forsaken us ? 
 Why do you fly from our village, where they all 
 love you, and where they thought you loved them ? 
 What motive has rendered your country hateful 
 to you ? Has some misfortune happened to you ? 
 Why will you change your friends V* 
 
 " Estelle," answered Nemorin ; " Estelle, if you 
 knew my heart, if you had the least idea of that 
 sensation which so deeply and tenderly occupies 
 my whole soul, you would be very sure that my 
 death must follow this departure ; but it was ne- 
 cessary, either that I should behold you unhappy, 
 or become so myself. I could not hesitate. Alas ! 
 we are both so ! I fear it, and I hope it For- 
 give me, Estelle, this expression ; it escaped from 
 my tenderness alone : misfortune is not presump- 
 tions." 
 
 The shepherd then related all that Raimond had 
 said to him ; the resolution of the old man to con- 
 duct Estelle into another country, if Nemorin 
 would not exile himself from Massanna, if he had 
 
 \ 
 
33 
 
 not taken the oath never to repass the river. <( I wiil 
 keep this oath/' added he, firmly. " I know your 
 inflexible father : if I dared to brave him, it would 
 be you that he would punish. Ah ! let him not 
 doubt of my obedience ! I would expose my life 
 a thousand times for my love ; but, for my love 
 itself, I cannot bring Estelle into danger." 
 
 Estelle, at these words, cast on him a glance of 
 grief and tenderness. She then told him every 
 thing that had happened since his departure ; of 
 the arrival of Meril, of his marriage being de- 
 layed, and of the little hope she had from her 
 mother: but she did not dare tell him that the 
 nuptials were to take place in two days, for she 
 was afraid that might drive the shepherd into 
 despair. 
 
 Nemorin, while listening to her, endeavoured 
 to put on an air of tranquillity. He smothered the 
 tears which filled his eyes, he disguised his tor- 
 ments for fear of increasing those of Estelle, and 
 affected a courage which he had not, that he 
 might communicate it to his mistress. 
 
 " Obey," said he, with a broken voice, (< obey 
 your father ; it is the first of duties : woe to that 
 
34 
 
 love which renders a heart less virtuous ! Meril is 
 worthy of esteem. The love he has for you will 
 give him new qualities. In living near Estelle he 
 cannot fail to become amiable. You will love 
 him . . . yes, love him ! love him ! ... be happy . . .If, 
 to make you so, it is necessary to forget Nemorin 
 entirely, if the remembrance of me can trouble 
 your repose .... Estelle ! Estelle ! . . . I consent, I 
 wish, that you would forget me. That effort, you 
 may believe me, will never cost you so much as 
 this one word costs me." 
 
 In saying these words, Nemorin turned back 
 abruptly, hid his face with both his hands, and 
 with hasty steps reached the asylum from which 
 he came. Estelle dared not recall him. Her head 
 sunk down on her shoulder, her eyes fixed on the 
 shepherd ; she remained motionless. Nemorin, 
 having got near the clump of trees, could not 
 hinder himself from turning his eyes towards Es- 
 telle* He stretched his arms towards her, and, 
 with a stifled voice, cried, Farewel ! He repeated 
 twice this mournful farewel, and then flung him- 
 self among the ruins. 
 . 
 
 The shepherdess staid a long time on the same 
 spot, but he did not appear any more. The un~ 
 
35 
 
 happy Estelle, determined on her last resource, 
 called back her favourite lamb, who soon re-crossed 
 the river. She then went back the same way to 
 Massanna, though stopping at every step she took. 
 
 She had not quite lost sight of the shrubs which 
 shaded the ruins, when all at once, as she turned 
 round a hedge, she perceived a young man, who 
 stepped before her, and presented his hand to her. 
 It was Meril. Estelie blushed ; but, being willing 
 to profit of the moment, she conducted him into a 
 little shrubbery of evergreens, which was near the 
 river, and, trembling, said to him these words : 
 
 " Pardon, Meril, a young and timid girl, who 
 till this day always lived free and happy, if she 
 experiences a little fear at the moment she is to 
 submit to a master. . I cannot compose the agita- 
 tion which fills my heart ; I address myself to you 
 to relieve it. But, before I open my soul entirely, 
 as I ought, and as I wish, let me entreat you to 
 answer me with the utmost sincerity. Do you 
 really love me V y 
 
 " Estelie," answered Meril, " I have loved you 
 these two years. The violence I have done to my-p 
 self in only speaking to your father has rendered 
 
36 
 
 this passion stronger. The certainty of being your 
 husband has carried it to its height. This senti- 
 ment is more dear, more necessary to me, than life : 
 it will only be extinguished with it." 
 
 At these words Estelle turned pale, and sup- 
 pressed the confession she had been ready to make. 
 She kept silent a moment, and then striving to 
 recover her voice, " I esteem your virtues," said 
 she to Meril ; " but, before I became your wife, 
 I could wish to have time to cherish your good 
 qualities. I dare ask of you ; I dare expect a favour 
 of you, which I should not be able to obtain from 
 my father. Defer yourself our marriage until he 
 returns from Maguelonna. My heart will be moved 
 with that mark of your love ; and, if you knew 
 this heart, you would not, perhaps, disdain to 
 command its gratitude." 
 
 " You demand of me," said Meril, " a painful 
 sacrifice ; but, as you have desired it, it is become 
 necessary for me so to do : I will go and speak to 
 Raimond ; I will endeavour to obtain from him 
 what will be painful only to myself. I am ignorant 
 of the motive for your demand. But since it is the 
 secret of Estelle, it is surely respectable. Adieu ! 
 depend on my word. Those who are unacquainted 
 
 
37 
 
 with the art of pleasing, should at least know how 
 to obey." 
 
 Having said this, Meril left her. Estelle re- 
 mained affected with his last words. The son of 
 Maurice had inspired her with pity ; but Nemorin, 
 Nemorin alone, could inspire her with love. 
 
 While she was thus employing her last endea- 
 vours to preserve herself for him, the unhappy 
 shepherd, a prey to cruel thoughts and overpow- 
 ering reflections, without a friend, without a com- 
 forter, was surprised that his own virtue could not 
 quiet his violent torments. Certain that he had 
 fulfilled his duty, he was enraged with himself 
 that he could not experience any alleviation of his 
 misery. Returned to the side of the river, he 
 looked at the place which Estelle had quitted, and 
 could not take his eyes from it. Sitting on a large 
 fragment of rock, bewailing the short moments of 
 his past happiness, calculating the long years of 
 his sorrowful future, he began to lament his sor- 
 rows in these words : 
 
 The die now is cast : I sink under the weight ; 
 Fve no hope of prevailing : alas ! cruel fate ! 
 What barb'rous delight canst thou take in my grief? 
 Ah ! hasten my death : 'tis my only relief: 
 
38 
 
 Why must I exist thus in torture ? ah ! why 
 Not grant me my boon ? All I ask is to die. 
 
 Is this the reward of so constant a flame, 
 Of a virtue that never incurr'd the least shame ? 
 Of my life and my strength Pve devoted the whole 
 Unto thee, O thou Love ! of all nature the soul ; 
 I have serv'd thee until the last gasp of my breath, 
 And art thou, O L6ve ! now the cause of my death ! 
 
 Amidst all my pain, but one refuge remains ; 
 
 I have seen, without succour, like me, on the plains, 
 
 A poor feeble elm, beat about by the wind, 
 
 While the rains underneath 'gainst its roots were combin'd : 
 
 It fell to the ground : like that elm, I presume, 
 
 I too may be still in the night of the tomb. 
 
 Nemorin ceased singing. A profound melan- 
 choly took possession of him. Fixed, motionless, 
 with eyes sullen and fierce, he looked at the water 
 rolling along. He felt in himself a violent desire 
 to throw himself in the waves ; and thrice he 
 grasped the rock on which he was sitting, that he 
 might not give way to this horrible temptation. 
 At length, judging that the place would only in- 
 crease his despair, he ran and collected his flock, 
 began to proceed on his journey, and then leaving 
 Ners upon his right, he directed his steps towards 
 the mountains of Vezenobre. 
 
39 
 
 Having arrived near the wood of Meigron, he 
 beheld a lad about thirteen years of age, who 
 came, with tears in his eyes, beseeching him, in a 
 lamentable voice, to save him from a great misfor- 
 tune. " I was," said he, " keeping my father's 
 flock ; my dog was asleep ; ah, the dog of a shep- 
 herd of my age ought never to sleep ! a terrible 
 wolf^came out of the wood, and has taken from 
 me my finest lamb, which was at a little distance 
 from its mother. The wolf ran off with it. The 
 poor sheep followed after her lamb : she will soon 
 be devoured with it, unless you will come to my 
 assistance ; for I am not big enough to kill a wolf, 
 but I am big enough to love with all my heart 
 those who do me any favour." 
 
 Nemorin, affected by the voice, gracefulness, and 
 tears of the lad ; Nemorin, whose misfortunes had 
 increased his natural sensibility, seized directly an 
 iron spike, which he always carried in his scrip, 
 and, fastening it to his crook, he called his dog 
 Medor, enquired which way the wolf had fled, 
 and, guided by the lad, who ran as fast as him- 
 self, he flew, and pushed into the wood. 
 
 Nemorin, the lad, and Medor, ran a long time 
 without taking breath : they could perceive nei* 
 
40 
 
 ther wolf nor sheep. The youth, who kept always 
 encouraging the shepherd, led him by several 
 windings to a little hill, from which he could dis- 
 cover the plain of the Gardon and the village of 
 Massanna. 
 
 At this sight Nemorin stopped : he experienced 
 a transport of joy, as if, after long absence he 
 had seen his country again ; with his eyes fixed 
 on Massanna, and his heart palpitating with love, 
 he sought out the house of Estelle, distinguished 
 it ; and his eyes were full of tears of joy. He 
 experienced, what he had no more expected he 
 should experience, a sensation almost pleasing. 
 Happy upon this hill, he formed an intention to 
 build a hut there, and never to leave it. O how 
 eccentric are lovers ! How miserable these unfor- 
 tunate people make themselves ! This same Ne- 
 morin, who fled from the peninsula of Ners, be- 
 cause Estelle had come there, would now dwell 
 upon this mountain, whence he might see her 
 house every day. 
 
 After having satisfied himself with a sight so 
 dear to him, the shepherd recollected the lad, and 
 reproached himself with having forgotten him. 
 Determined to give him one of his sheep, to re- 
 
41 
 
 place that which he had lost, he sought for him, 
 he called, but in vain. 
 
 Having lost himself, he knew not any longer 
 what way to take to rejoin his own flock, when 
 he heard the noise of some little bells, and soon 
 discovered his sheep, conducted by the lad for 
 whom he was in such anxiety. 
 
 ° Let your fears be removed," said the lad to him : 
 " whilst you were here, your dog saved my sheep ; 
 then I employed myself in bringing back yours 
 to you : here they are. Farewel ! good shepherd ; 
 the night draws on apace ; it is time that you should 
 seek a retiring place. Our farm is too far off to 
 offer it you; but at the bottom of this hill you 
 will find the good Remistan, whose hospitality will 
 return you all the kindness you have been willing 
 to shew me." 
 
 Having said these words, the lad took him by 
 the hand, led him a few steps towards the other 
 side of the hill, shewed him the valley of Remistan, 
 and disappeared like a flash of lightning. 
 
 Nemorin cast his eyes on the valley, and became 
 enchanted with the prospect. In a space of about 
 

 42 . 
 
 a mile square, surrounded with mountains, he be- 
 held a meadow, intersected by many bowers of 
 elm and sycamore trees. A loud waterfall poured 
 down from the top of a rock, and became there 
 a limpid stream. On its sides a little orchard, 
 planted with the most fruitful trees, was inclosed 
 by a quick hedge of wild quinces and barberry 
 bushes. At some distance, the river formed a lake, 
 in the middle of which was erected a cottage, 
 shaded over with willows : large stones placed in 
 the water, at a small distance from each other, 
 formed the only way which led to it. A flock of 
 sheep appeared feeding on the side of the lake 5 
 and an old shepherd, lying on the grass, accom- 
 panied with his flute the larks and the linnets. 
 
 Nemorin descended into the valley, crossed the 
 meadow, passed over the rivulet, and proceeded 
 towards the old shepherd. , He was already close 
 to him, when he saw him leave his flute, and be- 
 gin to sing. Then Nemorin stopped to hear these 
 words : 
 
 In this charming solitude, 
 
 Oaks and shady elms among; 
 Free from all disquietude, 
 
 Smoothly roll my days along. 
 
43 
 
 In myself I joy possess, 
 
 Safe from vain desires I live, 
 And experience happiness 
 
 Which no scenes of mirth can give. 
 
 Milk that's pure, and fruit that's sweet, 
 
 Here my ev'ry want supply ; 
 Flow'rs are strew'd beneath my feet, 
 
 O'er my head's an azure sky. 
 If sometimes a tempest loud 
 
 Causes me a moment's pain, 
 Soon it passes with the cloud, 
 
 The rainbow brings me peace again. 
 
 In the world, that restless state, 
 
 Man a prey to grief we find ; 
 But, at length, a blest retreat 
 
 Calms the sorrows of his mind : 
 So these waters furious pour 
 
 Down yon mountain's rocky side, 
 When they reach this quiet shore, 
 
 Soft meand'ring on they glide. 
 
 Nemorin, after he had heard the old shepherd's 
 song, approached him, saluted him, and requested 
 hospitality of him. Remistan gave him a kind 
 reception, offered him all he possessed, and in- 
 vited him to follow him into his cottage, that he 
 might present him with such milk and fruits as 
 it afforded. 
 
44 
 
 The lover of Estelle, led by his aged host, passed 
 with him over the stones of the lake. He arrived 
 in the little island, where every thing he saw was 
 charming to his sight. The cottage was built on 
 a little hill, covered by the arbutus shrub. Bee- 
 hives, placed at the entrance, were surrounded 
 with rose bushes, acacias, and jessamines, which 
 afforded nourishment for the bees, and ornamented 
 their dwelling. The inside of this retreat was a 
 natural grotto, overrun by a wild vine. From the 
 midst of the vine branches, full of leaves, spouted 
 forth a fountain, which, falling on beds of leaves, 
 slid away murmuring through a narrow mossy 
 channel, and emptied itself into the lake. Many 
 openings, chiselled out of the rock, contained large 
 vessels filled with milk ; others, not quite so high, 
 were filled with fruits, placed in baskets. Farther 
 off were collected the utensils of agriculture, the 
 remedies for the sick sheep, the different sorts of 
 garden seeds ; all that was necessary for a man to 
 live happily, and to obtain from nature those be- 
 nefits which she can bestow. 
 
 "How much your lot is to be envied!" said 
 Nemorin to the old shepherd ; " your days roll 
 on in this solitude innocent and peaceable. You 
 never have to suffer the injustice, or the cruel- 
 
45 
 
 ties of your fellow mortals. You possess real hap- 
 piness; and love, formidable love, troubles not 
 your felicity !" 
 
 " My son," answered the old man, " be assured 
 that no mortal on earth enjoys perfect happiness. 
 He whose lot seems to be the most agreeable has 
 always some inward troubles. I, myself, though 
 I thank the supreme being every morning for 
 the happiness he grants to me, I mix sometimes 
 my tears with this fountain of crystal water; I 
 
 groan M " Ah I" cried Nemorin, " you then 
 
 have also lost your mistress ?" .... As these words 
 fell from him, the old man smiled ; and uncover- 
 ing his bald head, " My son," said he, " observe 
 these few white hairs. My age, which causes so 
 many other misfortunes, at least preserves me from 
 those of love. I no longer lament for my mistress, 
 but I regret my country ; and this sentiment never 
 is extinguished." 
 
 " I was born on the borders of the Isere. A 
 soldier from my very youth, I spent my best days 
 in the camps of King Charles the Eighth. I served, 
 during the Neapolitan campaigns, with that brave 
 knight, the honour of Dauphiny, the glory of France, 
 that Bayard, whose virtues have rendered our arms 
 
46 
 
 more illustrious than all our victories in Italy. At 
 liberty by the peace, I was detained by love in 
 this beautiful country. I loved a shepherdess of 
 
 Massanna" 'Of Massanna ?* cried Nemorin. 
 
 c{ Yes, my son, and I was beloved ; but her pa- 
 rents obliged her to give her hand to another hus- 
 band. Resolved to leave the place, that I might 
 not add to her unhappiness, I came into this lonely 
 retreat, to conceal my despair. Here, overwhelmed 
 with grief, but at least free from any thing with 
 which I might reproach myself, I employed, to 
 relieve my mind, those helps which heaven has 
 given us, reason, labour, and time. I cleared the 
 valley, I turned aside the rivulet which enlivens 
 my meadow ; my hands adorned this grotto ; I 
 planted these trees which thou seest loaded with 
 fruits; and that flock, which thou beholdest 
 grazing under the shade of yonder poplar, is the 
 produce of two lambs which my shepherdess 
 gave me. 
 
 " The more I occupied myself, the less I suffered. 
 I soon understood that my mistress was happy with 
 her spouse ; I blessed God for it, and I looked on 
 this happiness as my recompence for having ful- 
 filled my duty. By little and little my mind be- 
 came calm ; and there remained no more of my 
 
47 
 
 old passion but an agreeable remembrance, which, 
 affording a secret delight to my heart, rendered 
 my solitude more dear to me, and attached me to 
 life, by making me enjoy the chief of blessings, 
 the esteem of myself. Tranquil in this valley, 
 where I have created every thing, where I have 
 seen the birth of every thing, nothing would be 
 wanting to my happiness, were it not for one wish, 
 which continually causes me uneasiness. 
 
 " I am old ; I approach the period of life ; and 
 I should be glad, before that arrives, to see again 
 the village where I was born, the country where 
 I passed my infant years, the house in which my 
 mother lived. I should not find her any more 
 there, but I would go and weep upon her grave ; 
 I should discover the place where, when I was a 
 child, I have seen her sit and spin. This urgent 
 craving of my heart makes itself felt every day 
 more and more, without my being allowed to en- 
 tertain a hope of ever seeing it satisfied. Alone, 
 without a relation, without a friend ; how forsake 
 my flock, my cottage, all my goods ! how expose 
 myself to lose, in a moment, that which has cost 
 me so many years ! Who would take care of my 
 orchard, and of my sheep, during my absence? 
 
48 
 
 Where can I find the amiable shepherd who would 
 take charge of them until I returned ?" 
 
 " My father," answered Nemorin directly, " I 
 thought my soul was shut to pleasure ; but that of 
 hearing of you, and the hope of being useful to 
 you, now reanimate it. I will take the charge of 
 your flocks, your bee-hives, and your cottage, 
 during the time you shall be gone to visit your 
 country again. I have also a flock ; at this mo- 
 ment it is scattered on this high mountain. Per- 
 mit me to bring it down into the valley, to mix 
 it with yours. My care and tenderness shall be 
 equally distributed amongst them. On your re- 
 turn, you shall give me back mine ; and the hap- 
 piness which you will have enjoyed will have 
 more than repaid my feeble service." 
 
 " Ah ! I consent to it," replied the old shep- 
 herd ; but I exact an oath from thee. Swear to 
 me, by that thou lovest best, that thou wilt not 
 leave this valley until I return ; and if I stay more 
 than two years, or death should surprise me in my 
 long journey, honour me in accepting this grotto, 
 this flock, this valley, which I have cultivated, in 
 the hope of leaving it to a virtuous shepherd. I 
 have found thee : be thou my heir." 
 
49 
 
 Nemorin would have opposed the will of the 
 old man, but his resistance was in vain. Remistan, 
 with the point of his knife, inscribed on a frag- 
 ment of bark the donation he had made to Ne- 
 morin. The shepherd, in his turn, swore to him, 
 by the shepherdess he adored, but whom he 
 would not name, that he would not forsake the 
 valley before the two years were expired. P Ne- 
 vertheless," added he, " I demand that I shall be 
 permitted every day to ascend that mountain." 
 Remistan would hardly agree to it. At length the 
 old shepherd gave up this point, and went with 
 his young friend to re-assemble the flock, which 
 he had left on the mountain. 
 
 Both together drove them down into the valley : 
 then the good old man settled Nemorin in the 
 grotto. He instructed him in the principal secrets 
 that long experience had taught him on the care 
 of his flocks, and the culture of his trees. He 
 added counsels for the happiness, or at least for 
 the quiet of his life : and, without putting to him 
 any indiscreet questions, without any appearance 
 of seeking to penetrate into the cause of his grief, 
 he knew how to mix in his discourse consolations 
 most proper for the evils which the young shep- 
 herd suffered. 
 
 E 
 
50 
 
 After having thus passed part of the night, the 
 hermit and the young shepherd laid down on 
 the same bed of leaves. The fatigue of the pre- 
 ceding day soon caused Nemorin to sleep : then 
 Remistan, getting up, went out of the grot with 
 the utmost precaution ; and, without waiting for 
 the dawning of Aurora, he immediately began his 
 journey. 
 
 END OF THE SECOND BOOK. 
 
ESTEiLJLE, 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 Real love cannot exist without esteem ; but the 
 most perfect esteem is not love. That passion, 
 so soft and so violent, source of pleasures and of 
 pains, of torments and delights, that flame which 
 consumes and vivifies, is never kindled but once. 
 Pure souls know how to sacrifice it to virtue, and 
 give to duty every thing which depends on them- 
 selves : but they no longer experience that attrac- 
 tion, that irresistible charm, that rapid flight of 
 all the thoughts towards one only object, those 
 terrible fears, those lively hopes, those profound 
 sorrows for a single look of anger, and those in- 
 expressible raptures for a pressure of the hand : 
 they are no longer felt ; they pass away with the 
 first love ; the heart is no longer susceptible of 
 them. It is like a lily cut from its stalk ; the plant 
 still lives, but it no more produces flowers. It was 
 
52 
 
 not in the power of Estelle to love Meril, yet she 
 did not the less render justice to his virtues. Cer- 
 tain that the estimable young man would keep the 
 promise which he had made her, she was fearful 
 that her father would not consent to defer the 
 nuptials. In order to give the son of Maurice 
 time to persuade Raimond, she passed all the day 
 in the valley, conversing with the faithful Rose, 
 and did not return with her flock till it was late. 
 A trembling seized her as she re-entered the house. 
 Meril waited for her at the door. " Recover your 
 spirits," said he ; " 1 have laboured against my- 
 self." He had only time to pronounce these words, 
 when Marguerita and Raimond appeared. 
 
 " Estelle," said the old man, " I had resolved 
 to unite you with Meril before I went to Mague- 
 lonna, w T here I am under obligations to discharge a 
 debt due to a shepherd on the river Leza : but 
 your spouse, who is not willing to be loved merely- 
 through duty, has asked to have some time allowed 
 him, that he may gain your affection : I shall 
 therefore set out before your marriage. During 
 the fortnight that I shall be absent, Meril will be 
 at his uncle Prospers ; he will see you every day, 
 and, without doubt, will gain your love. The day 
 after my return your marriage shall take place 
 
53 
 
 nor shall any pretence whatsoever, my child, re- 
 tard a moment which will be the happiest of my 
 life." 
 
 While Raimond thus spoke, Estelle looked at 
 her mother, and read in her sympathetic eyes that 
 she participated in all her feelings. Meril took 
 the hand of Estelle, and, gently pressing it, said 
 to her in a faultering voice, " Are fifteen days 
 sufficient to obtain that place in your heart which 
 I would desire to possess }" " Alas !" answered 
 Estelle, " gratitude has to-day given it you in my 
 esteem." Raimond heard these words, turned to- 
 wards his daughter, and kissed her. This embrace, 
 to which Estelle was not accustomed, made her 
 shed tears of joy ; she even ventured to press her 
 father to her bosom. The old man, who felt his 
 daughter's tears bathe his white locks, embraced 
 her a second time, and, turning away his head 
 that she might not see his emotion, he said to her, 
 " My daughter, I am content," 
 
 During the remainder of the evening, Meril, 
 without losing sight of Estelle, did not importune 
 her with his love. Raimond shewed him more 
 tenderness, more confidence, and gave him an ac- 
 count of the vines, of the olive trees, and of the 
 
flocks, which he intended to be his portion. He 
 advised Meril to sell his goods at Lezan, and to 
 come and dwell at Massanna, in order, as he said, 
 that he might not live a day far from his dear 
 daughter. Marguerita heard him with delight. 
 Meril consented to every thing ; and poor Estelle, 
 her heart ready to burst with sighs, attempted to 
 thank her father, and to smile upon her spouse. 
 
 The next day, before dawn, Estelle and her 
 mother had already prepared all that was neces- 
 sary for Raimond's journey. Marguerita had sewed 
 up over-night, in a leathern girdle, the money that 
 Raimond was to carry to Maguelonna. Estelle had 
 filled a portmanteau with provisions, which two 
 servants fastened upon their master's mule. Meril 
 assisted them, lamenting that he could not follow 
 the old man. " My son," said Raimond to him, 
 " I leave you with your spouse and your mother : 
 in abiding with them you will be most useful to 
 me; and it is in loving each other reciprocally 
 you will prove that you love me." 
 
 Having said these words, he mounted his mule ; 
 and, not allowing that any of his servants should 
 accompany him, he set out on his journey to Ma- 
 guelonna. Meril followed him with his eyes until 
 
he was out of sight : then turning towards Mar- 
 guerita and Estelle, " I have lost," said he, " my 
 patron : now he is gone, nobody will love me." 
 Estelle and her mother were moved with the affec- 
 tionate manner in which he spoke those words. 
 Marguerita reanimated his courage. Then Meril 
 ventured to intreat Estelle that she would permit 
 him to accompany her sometimes to the valley; 
 and she could not refuse him. 
 
 From that moment the amorous Meril, without 
 fatiguing Estelle by his assiduities, was continually 
 employed in those delicate and engaging attentions 
 towards her, which always gain a tender heart, 
 when that heart is not already given to another. 
 Too penetrating not to perceive that a deep sor- 
 row preyed on Estelle, he strove perpetually to 
 divert it, without ever seeking to discover the 
 cause. Every day some new entertainment had 
 Estelle for its object; every day some agreeable 
 surprise compelled her gratitude. If the shep- 
 herdess spoke of a situation that seemed pleasant, 
 the next day she found there a cottage which bore 
 her name. If at any time she happened to praise 
 some beautiful lambs, that evening those lambs 
 were in her fold. Meril spared no expence to in- 
 crease, or to adorn, the meadows and possessions 
 
56 
 
 of Estelle : he even endeavoured to acquire those 
 talents which were agreeable to her, and attained 
 them so far as to compose this song, which he en- 
 graved on a beech tree. 
 
 I love, but I cannot my passion express, 
 Nor tell the respect for Estelle I possess ; 
 My muse to attempt it unable would prove, 
 She's so hard to describe, though so easy to love. 
 
 If I say she's the fairest of all that are fair, 
 'Tis no more than what each other swain does declare y 
 >Tis a truth that has long in the village been known, 
 And remains but a secret to Estelle alone. 
 
 Should I shew how each virtue in her does combine, 
 In her praise all her friends and relations would join ; 
 The neighbours would say all the same, and much more, 
 But peculiarly so the unfortunate poor. 
 
 If, more hardy, I still should attempt to explain 
 The torments I suffer, th' excess of my pain ; 
 My heart, it is true, would with feelings abound, 
 But language sufficient could never be found. 
 
 Then let me be silent, lest I should offend 
 The nymph whom I love ; for I cannot pretend 
 To find words, what so highly I think of, to tell, 
 And I'd better say nothing than not say it well* 
 
57 
 
 They were the first verses that Meril had ever 
 made. Estelle read them, and smiled. Meril 
 thought himself the happiest of men : but he was 
 mistaken. The faithful shepherdess was entirely 
 taken up in thinking on Nemorin. Every day 
 she and her friend Rose led their flocks to the side 
 of the Ners. As soon as they arrived at the bridge, 
 she stopped, sat down on the banks of the river, 
 and Rose went over to the other side to gain infor- 
 mation of the exiled shepherd. She came back 
 again some hours afterwards; and her sorrowful 
 countenance afar off announced that her excursion 
 was in vain. Now .the shepherdess would weep ; 
 now she imagined that Nemorin had thrown him- 
 self in the river. All the endeavours, all the con- 
 solations of Rose could not remove this idea from 
 her mind. The approach of the unhappy mar- 
 riage served to fill the measure of Estelle's tor- 
 ments ; but she lost all hope, when Raimond was 
 to come home the next day. 
 
 That day, which Estelle supposed to be the last 
 of her liberty, she rose as soon as it was morning, 
 went and found her friend, and both descended into 
 the valley. " My dear Rose," said she, " to-morrow 
 it will not be permitted me to think of Nemorin ; 
 to-morrow I can no more pronounce his dear name : 
 
* 58 
 
 let us, my amiable friend, make the most of these 
 last moments which my heart may enjoy. I have 
 begun this day rather sooner, that I may have the 
 longer time to speak to you about him. Go with 
 me down yonder, towards those two willows which 
 shade that fountain covered with flower-de-luces 
 and maiden-hair ; it was there that, for the first 
 time after my father's prohibition, he ventured to 
 approach me ; it is there . . . but I will not tell you 
 
 till I shall be at the same place. 
 
 Then they walked silently together towards the 
 fountain ; where, as soon as they were arrived, 
 Estelle, fetching again a deep sigh, said : " We 
 were then very young ; it was a short time after 
 his victory over Helion. Mind, my dear Rose ; 
 I was sitting there, leaning against that tree : I 
 was spinning with my distaff, and thinking on 
 him. My thread broke, my spindle fell on the 
 ground ; I forgot to gather it up. All at once I 
 saw him appear; he came by yonder way: he 
 held in his hands a hat, in which was a nest of 
 young linnets. Approaching me, he bent on his 
 knees, presented me the nest, and sung a song, 
 which I have never forgotten. Hear it, Rose; I 
 will sing it. Perhaps I may weep while singing ; 
 but these tears will do me no harm : besides, have 
 I not need to accustom myself to tears P 
 
J:^<^> 
 
59 
 
 At these words the shepherdess embraced Rose, 
 holding her a moment close to her bosom ; then, 
 endeavouring to recover her voice, <e Stand you 
 there/* said she; " it is there that he was; and 
 these are the words he sung to me : 
 
 This morning, in a may-blown hedge, 
 
 A linnet's nest I took ; 
 An aged shepherd, in a rage, 
 
 Then came, and thus he spoke : 
 You wretch, you should be punish'd well 
 
 For taking them away : 
 I told him they were for Estelle ; 
 
 He had nothing more to say. 
 
 The mother, trembling for her young, 
 
 Pursu'd me o'er the plain, 
 Entreating, as she flew along, 
 
 To have them back again : 
 " They're my first pledge of love," said she, 
 
 " Oh ! give them back, I pray." 
 Estelle, I said they were for thee ; 
 
 She had nothing more to say. 
 
 Blest birds ! in plaintive songs express 
 
 My passion for my dear ! 
 Alas ! I can't that bliss possess, 
 
 For Raimond is severe : 
 Tell her, I moan the whole day long ; 
 
 My heart, to grief a prey, 
 Thinks still on her, although my tongue 
 
 Dare nothing more to say. 
 
60 
 
 Indulging themselves thus in conversation, the 
 two shepherdesses passed the day at the fountain 
 of willows. The prudent Meril, respecting their 
 solitude, dared not come to interrupt them. They 
 went home in the evening in good time, as Estelle 
 expected to find her father returned. 
 
 He was not arrived. Marguerita sat up all night 
 waiting for her husband. The sun rose without 
 Raimond appearing : it retired to rest, yet he re- 
 turned not. Marguerita was already bathed in 
 tears ; Meril spoke about going to meet him ; Estelle, 
 uneasy for the author of her life, in wishing for 
 the return of her father, forgot her fatal marriage. 
 
 After three days vain expectation, Meril, im- 
 patient, insisted on going to Maguelonna. He 
 armed himself with a stick pointed with steel, and, 
 followed by one of his servants, he bid adieu to 
 Marguerita and her daughter, promising not to 
 come back again without Raimond. 
 
 He departed. The sorrowful Marguerita re- 
 mained with Estelle and the amiable Rose. Every 
 evening the mother and her two daughters (it was 
 thus she used to call them) went to meet Raimond. 
 Every day they advanced further and further; 
 and when night covered the earth, they returned 
 
61 
 
 fatigued to their house, but never resigned them- 
 selves to slumber until after they had offered up a 
 fervent prayer to God, entreating him to preserve 
 the travellers. 
 
 One night, during this pious employment, they 
 heard the dogs bark ; Estelle hastened to the door : 
 it was MeriPs servant. He was alone, and brought 
 a letter. He presented it in a manner which, chilled 
 the mother and daughter with terror. Marguerita 
 trembled as she broke the seal ; Estelle and Rose 
 listened, and she read this fatal billet : 
 
 " MERIL to MARGUERITA. 
 
 <( Arm yourself with all the powers of your soul, 
 for the news I have to relate must give you a se-» 
 vere shock. 
 
 " War has again broken out betwixt the king of 
 Arragon and our good king. The Catalonian pirates 
 have surprised Maguelonna. They have slaughtered 
 the inhabitants, pillaged and burnt the houses, and, 
 retiring to their vessels on the approach of the 
 forces of the district, have left behind them only 
 ashes. My unfortunate friend was in the town 
 during the night of this horrible carnage. The 
 few citizens who escaped from the enemy are come 
 
62 
 
 back again since their departure. Raimond has 
 not appeared again. I have sought him; I 
 have enquired every where for Raimond ; I have 
 no hope of finding him again. The dead were 
 all buried when I arrived at Maguelonna .... why 
 am I not myself near the body of my friend ! 
 
 " Adieu ! Marguerita : think that there remains 
 to you a daughter, for whom it is necessary you 
 should live. To me nothing is left : I will fly, 
 therefore, to a desert. There will I wait, far from 
 you, that death which shall reunite me to Raymond. 
 It is the only means that my heart has left no more 
 to trouble, by its constancy, her to whom I dare 
 not say adieu \" 
 
 Marguerita fainted away at the reading of this 
 letter. Estelle, bursting into tears, endeavoured 
 to restore her to life; Rose assisted them both. 
 At length, Marguerita recovered her senses : but 
 tears could not yet relieve her. Her profound 
 and silent grief could not give itself vent so soon. 
 After a long and melancholy silence, she asked for 
 the servant of Meril, to enquire herself concerning 
 the particulars of his misfortune : but this servant 
 was no longer at Massanna. His master had or- 
 dered him to proceed directly to Lezan, and to 
 
63 
 
 sell what property he had remaining there ; Meril 
 determining to see his country again no more, 
 but to go and end his days in a foreign land. 
 
 The disconsolate Marguerita was near dying of 
 grief. Estelle lavished on her those attentions so 
 soothing to minds of sensibility, and which they 
 only know how to afford. Without speaking of 
 consolation, she had the art of administering it to 
 her. Driven herself almost to despair, by losing 
 the author of her life, in mingling her tears with 
 those of her mother she finished by wiping them 
 from her eyes. All that the most delicate tender- 
 ness could imagine, all that it could put in practice, 
 was employed by Estelle. Heaven rewarded her, 
 by preserving her mother; but till the day that 
 she was certain of having restored some tranquil- 
 lity to that bleeding heart, the virtuous shepherdess 
 forbad herself to think of Nemorin. 
 
 After more than two months employed in these 
 pious attentions, Estelle allowed her mind to think 
 of love. Nothing remained any longer to constrain 
 her. Meril, by leaving his country, had himself 
 renounced his claims. Marguerita was far from 
 making any obstacles to a happiness which alone 
 could alleviate her own sorrows. The dawn of a 
 
64 
 
 happy future begun to open on the eyes of the 
 shepherdess; nothing more was wanting than to 
 find again him that she loved. 
 
 Marguerita was the first to speak to her about 
 him. Estelle blushed, and embraced her. The 
 good mother sent her servants directly to learn 
 some tidings of Nemorin. Estelle and Rose searched 
 for him on the mountains of Ledignan, in the woods 
 of Saint Nazarus; they went even to the valley 
 of Florian, approached the neighbourhood of Vi- 
 dourla, and made the solitary rocks of Couta re- 
 echo with the name of Nemorin. 
 
 All their excursions were in vain; the shep- 
 herd had been seen in none of those places. The 
 two friends every time came back more afflicted 
 to the good Marguerita, who comforted them in 
 her turn. 
 
 One day, when Estelle and the faithful Rose 
 were wandering by the side of Cardet, fatigued 
 with the length of their journey, they sat down 
 under a pine tree ; and Estelle, looking at the cot- 
 tages in the distant village, began this song : 
 
65 
 
 Ah ! if in your village there chance to be seen 
 A swain of so sprightly and charming a mien, 
 So sensible too, that he's form'd to delight, 
 To gain ev'ry heart, and be lov'd at first sight, 
 *Tis my friend : I beseech you my shepherd restore, 
 For he loves me indeed, and I do him adore. 
 
 If so plaintive, so tender, so sweet, is his song, 
 That echo's enchanted the woods all among ; 
 If his flute, when he plays, does send forth such a sound, 
 That each shepherdess pensively listens around $ 
 Still 'tis he : I beseech you my shepherd restore, 
 For he loves me indeed, and I do him adore. 
 
 If when he says nothing his looks do impress 
 Such a power as no other did ever possess ; 
 If his jokes are so modest, yet cheerful the while, 
 That no nymph ever blush'd, but always did smile ; 
 Still 'tis he : I beseech you my shepherd restore, 
 For he loves me indeed, and I do him adore. 
 
 If you hear any time that the lab'ring poor, 
 Regarding his flock as he goes by his door, 
 Intreats of the shepherd to give him a lamb, 
 Which he gen'rously grants, and besides gives the dam ; 
 Oh ! 'tis he : I beseech you my shepherd restore, 
 For he loves me indeed, and I do him adore, 
 
 Estelle had not finished her song, when a lad 
 about thirteen years of age, who had heard her 
 
66 
 
 without being seen, came out of a little thicket at 
 a small distance, and said to her, in an affecting 
 manner, " I know him whom you seek; come 
 along with me, and I will bring you to Nemorin." 
 
 The shepherdess, at this name, could not forbear 
 uttering a scream of pleasure. She pressed the 
 hand of Rose, thanked the stripling in the sweetest 
 manner possible, and both attended their young 
 guide. 
 
 Hilaric, for that was the name of the lad, led 
 them to the banks of the river, loosened a boat 
 which was fastened by an osier band, handed the 
 shepherdesses into it, and then, taking hold of the 
 oars, rowed them to the other side. Rose was 
 frightened, but Estelle encouraged her. The lad 
 then conducted them towards the wood of Mai- 
 gron. By many turnings they ascended and de- 
 scended many little hills. At length they came 
 to a little strait path, which led to the beautiful 
 valley of Remistan. Charming place ! but the 
 place of exile, where the faithful Nemorin passed 
 all his nights w r eeping for his mistress, and his days 
 on the mountain, looking towards her house, which 
 at a distance he could discern. 
 
67 
 
 The departing rays of the sun now shone only 
 on the tops of the mountains, when Hilaric and 
 the two shepherdesses arrived in the valley. 
 The anxious looks of Estelle wandered over the 
 cottage, the orchard, and the banks of the un- 
 ruffled lake. She could not see Nemorin, but afar 
 off she perceived his flock, and soon recollected 
 his faithful dog Medor. At this sight her eyes 
 overflowed with tears of joy, and her heart palpi- 
 tated with such quickness that she was obliged to 
 stop and lean against a poplar tree. Some letters 
 were cut on its bark; she looked at them, and 
 read these words : 
 
 Lovely tree, which /so often recalls to my mind 
 
 Those trees where I grav'd her dear name on the rind ; 
 
 Ye pure limpid streams, and thou beautiful vale, 
 
 Whenever I view you, I think on Estelle : 
 O remembrance, tho' sweet, yet the source of much pain, 
 Forsake me ! for why will you with me remain ? 
 
 If sometime, perchance, as reclin'd in the shade, 
 • By the soft murm'ring stream, I to sleep am betray'd ; 
 In my dreams I behold the dear nymph with delight, 
 But I 'wake, and the vision departs from my sight. 
 O remembrance, tho* sweet, yet the source of much pain, 
 Forsake me ! for why would you with me remain ? 
 
68 
 
 Ah ! weak man that I am ! by what madness possess^., 
 Do I suffer such tumults to rise in my breast ? 
 Alas ! should these thoughts go for ever away, 
 I still find my heart would be ready to say, 
 O remembrance, tho' sweet, yet the source of much pain, 
 Why will you forsake me? oh ! come back again. 
 
 Estelle wiped the tears from her eyes to read a 
 second time these verses, when Hilaric discovered 
 Nemorin, who was coming down the mountain by 
 the same path where they had stopped. Estelle 
 immediately concealed herself in a hazel thicket : 
 Rose and the lad hid themselves with her: and 
 there the trembling shepherdess, with tearful eyes, 
 beheld all the movements of the shepherd. 
 
 He descended in silence, his head bending to 
 the ground, and holding in his hand a green ri- 
 band which Estelle had formerly given him. He 
 stopped every now and then, looked at the ri- 
 band, kissed it, and then walked on. When he 
 came near to the spot in which the shepherdesses 
 were hid, he fixed his eyes a long time on the 
 riband, and suddenly turning round his head, 
 " Why," cried he, " do I thus endeavour to en- 
 crease my misery by the remembrance of past 
 happiness ? Why still preserve these cruel pledges 
 of a love which never can be fortunate ? I will no 
 
69 
 
 longer regard thee, O fatal riband ! of which the 
 colour has deceived me : begone far from me ! 
 begone for ever, along with all my treacherous 
 hopes!" Saying these words, he threw away the 
 riband, and appeared more resigned ; but a gen- 
 tle breath of Zephyr wafting the riband towards 
 the hazel thicket, Nemorin. sprang to recover it : 
 then Estelle, more nimble than he, caught it, and 
 presenting it to the shepherd, " It has not de- 
 ceived you," said she ; " Estelle still loves you." 
 
 Nemorin, astonished, could not believe his eyes, 
 and remained motionless. At length, he shrieked, 
 fell on his knees, and held out his arms towards 
 Estelle. 
 
 The shepherdess, pressing his hand, with a lovely 
 smile, lifted him up again. " Yes," said she, <* it 
 is myself, it is indeed myself. We have no longer 
 any more misfortunes to fear. Rise, Nemorin, 
 rise : our happiness is now beginning." 
 
 Rose and Hilaric then accosted him. She con- 
 firmed to the astonished shepherd, this assurance 
 of felicity, which he still looked upon as a dream. 
 As soon as the happy shepherd was recovered 
 from his surprise, so as to be able to understand 
 
70 
 
 them, they both led him to the foot of a tall poplar 
 tree, and seated him in the midst of them. 
 
 There Estelle related to him all the events that 
 had passed. She gave fresh tears to the memory 
 of her father; and Nemorin had no need of re- 
 flection to repel from his heart the least expression 
 of a joy that would have been offensive to his 
 shepherdess. 
 
 As soon as Estelle had finished her recital, Rose 
 was urgent that the shepherd should immediately 
 come away with them back to Massanna. Nemo- 
 rin cast down his eyes, and then looking up again 
 sorrowfully towards Estelle, " My benefactor," said 
 he to her, " the venerable Remistan, made me 
 swear to wait for him here. This generous Re- 
 mistan loaded me with kindness, at a time when, 
 forced to renounce you, nothing was left me on 
 earth. How can I break my promise to my friend -? 
 Ought I to violate an oath consecrated by the 
 name of Estelle r" 
 
 Estelle, distressed and surprised, dared not ad- 
 vise Nemorin to break his promise. Rose endea- 
 voured to find reasons for it; when Hilar ic, smiling, 
 said to them, " It is on me, on me alone, that your 
 
71 
 
 happiness depends: listen, and return me your 
 thanks. 
 
 " It is now almost three months since I was on 
 this hill, catching birds, when your father, the 
 aged Raimond, desired me to conduct him to the 
 valley of Remistan. I left my bird-calls, and di- 
 rected the old man, observing in my mind, at the 
 same time, that he was very thoughtful and me- 
 lancholy. We found the good Remistan employed 
 in making osier baskets, at this same place where 
 we now are. Raimond, after having saluted him, 
 desired me to leave them by themselves. This 
 awakened my curiosity : so, pretending to go away 
 from them, I came round about, and hid myself 
 in this very hazel thicket. It was improper, I 
 confess ; but my fault has been of service to you. 
 Raimond began by relating to the hermit your 
 passion for Estelle, his intention of uniting her to 
 Meril, and the promise he had forced from you, 
 that you would pass over the Gardon, never to re- 
 turn. ' I admire and I pity Nemorin/ added he, 
 in a tone of emotion. ' I have taken from him his 
 mistress, I have exiled him from his country ; I 
 will at least soften his banishment. But Nemorin 
 would refuse my gifts: it is through your hands 
 that they must be conveyed. I shall thus find the 
 
72 
 
 double pleasure of doing good, and of remaining 
 unknown. 
 
 € I know/ continued he, ( that for a long time 
 past you have had an excessive desire to return to 
 your country. You have offered many times to 
 sell me this delightful valley ; fix now your price, 
 and I will buy it of you directly, provided you 
 will find the means to make Nemorin accept this 
 small recompence for all the misfortunes I have 
 brought upon him, and that you have address 
 enough to obtain from him a vow that he will not 
 leave this place for a considerable length of time/ 
 
 " Such was the conversation of Raimond. The 
 two old men consulted together on the manner in 
 which they should draw you into this valley : 
 they determined to employ me on the service. 
 Then calling me to him, but without acquainting 
 me with his intentions (which I already knew), 
 he sent me in search of you, promising to give me 
 four lambs if I succeeded in bringing you into this 
 place. 
 
 " I sought for and I discovered you in the pe- 
 ninsula of Ners, and observed you, unperceived, 
 that day when Estelle came to speak to you. The 
 
73 
 
 next day I followed you, and pretended to have 
 occasion for your assistance : thus I led you to the 
 place where they wished you should come. Re- 
 mistan has done all the rest. Raimond gave me 
 the four lambs he promised, laying an injunction 
 on me not to speak about it, which I faithfully 
 kept. But to-day, having heard the sorrows of 
 Estelle, I was willing to shorten her pain ; and 
 thought the death of Raimond disengaged me 
 from preserving that secret any longer which 
 would render you so unhappy." 
 
 The young Hilaric having thus spoken, Nemorin 
 embraced him a thousand times. (< My friend," 
 said he, " seeing this valley, this orchard, and 
 this cottage, are mine, I now give them to thee : 
 for what need have I to possess any thing here, as 
 I am going to live with my Estelle ? Estelle, ap- 
 proving of Nemorin's gift, spoke for some time in 
 praise of the goodness of her father. Her lover, 
 too, added his eulogies; and these two virtuous 
 hearts, forgetting their past misfortunes, shed tears 
 together to the memory of their former perse- 
 cutor. 
 
 The night now stretched its curtains all around ; 
 it was time to begin their journey to Massanna. 
 
74 
 
 Nemorin departed with Estelle and Rose. Arrived 
 on the banks of the Gardon, they met with some 
 fishermen, who soon rowed them to the other 
 shore, from whence they had but a very short 
 distance to reach the village. 
 
 END OF THE THIRD BOOK. 
 
ESTEJLLE* 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 It is necessary that we should have known the 
 terrible misery of living far from the person we 
 love, to be capable of forming any idea of those 
 raptures which the soul experiences, when the 
 blessings which it had lost are restored to it. The 
 bitter tears of absence must have been shed, to be 
 sensible of the luxury of those sweet tears which 
 fall when lovers meet. I pity thee, O thou unfor- 
 tunate lover ! who art forced by a cruel fate to 
 quit the object of thy vows. Every step thou 
 takest adds to thy sorrows : every hour recalls some 
 lost pleasure to thy mind. Thou calculatest, in 
 despair, all the moments which must expire be- 
 fore thy banishment will end ; and thou thinkest 
 to shorten them, by continually counting them 
 over again. Thine e}^es are cast an hundred times 
 a day on the road which leads towards those places 
 where thou hast left, thine heart. With terror 
 
76 
 
 thou comparest the distance it is from thee, and 
 the traveller whom thou discoverest going that way 
 seems to thee as if he enjoyed a happier destiny 
 than kings. I pity thee ; but thou wilt be an ob- 
 ject of envy on that day when thou shalt fly again 
 to thy beloved ; that day when, discovering her 
 house afar off, thou shalt discern her at her win- 
 dow, waiting the happy moment which will repay 
 so many sorrows. Ah ! that moment ! .... if it 
 were to be prolonged, thou wouldst not be able to 
 support it ; thy soul, which had strength to bear 
 up against thy sorrows, would be overwhelmed 
 with such an excess of happiness ! 
 
 Nemorin experienced this in passing with his 
 mistress over the river, in finding himself again 
 in that valley which he had not had the hope of 
 ever seeing more, in thinking that he was going 
 to live with Estelle, to love her, to tell her so 
 without controul, and to enjoy her as his own, 
 ere many months were passed. These ideas, these 
 hopes, the emotion which he felt, almost deprived 
 him of reason. He walked silently along, holding 
 the arm of his shepherdess, continually clasping 
 it to his heart, and unable to express his rapture 
 but by pressing to his lips the hands of Rose and 
 of his mistress. 
 
./.. //,:/.,„ .,r 
 
77 
 
 The night had entirely closed in before they 
 reached Massanna. . Marguerita, uneasy for her 
 daughter, had sent some servants, with lighted 
 torches of pine, in search of Estelle, who she 
 thought had lost herself. The joy she felt on see- 
 ing her appear with Nemorin, was the first she 
 had experienced since the death of Raimond. She 
 embraced the young shepherd ; then joining his 
 hand to her daughter's, " Her heart has chosen 
 thee," said she to him; " in that choice her heart 
 and mine have ever been agreed. Be thou her 
 husband, Nemorin ; and mayst thou make her as 
 happy as she is beloved by her mother." 
 
 Estelle and Nemorin fell on their knees at Mar- 
 guerita's feet. This good mother blessed them ; 
 then tenderly lifting them up again, " My chil- 
 dren," said she, " I ask one favour of you. Three 
 months have hardly elapsed since the death of my 
 worthy spouse. Allow me to defer your marriage 
 till the expiration of the first six months. I know 
 very well that at that period my grief will be the 
 same, but my mourning will be less deep. Be- 
 sides, in spite of my friendship for Nemorin, the 
 consideration alone that he was not my husband's 
 choice seems to prescribe to me this delay. Par- 
 
78 
 
 don me this, my children; decency requires it, 
 and my heart demands it/ 1 
 
 In saying these words Marguerita melted into 
 tears. The two lovers comforted her, and pro- 
 mised not to speak of their nuptials until the six 
 months were expired. Nemorin, after having an 
 hundred times thanked Marguerita, Estelle, and 
 Rose ; Nemorin, transported with joy, went back 
 to his former cottage, and gave himself up to the 
 agreeable hope that nothing henceforward could 
 oppose his happiness. 
 
 The next day, as soon as it was morning, he 
 was in the valley. Estelle and Rose were not slow 
 in following him there. Both stopped at some 
 distance to observe the shepherd going from tree 
 to tree, to discover again the letters he had for- 
 merly engraven on them. He imprinted his lips 
 on those which he found again, and wrote anew 
 those which time had obliterated. Nemorin, in- 
 toxicated with love, could not grow tired in re- 
 viewing these places. He cast his softened eyes 
 ou every object which surrounded him. He re- 
 turned to this incessantly, and addressed them in 
 these words : 
 
79 
 
 Hail, thou spot ! which I quitted with sorrow and care, 
 When my mind was all misery, all anguish my heart , 
 
 Lovely place ! to affection and tenderness dear, 
 What rapt'rous delight do thy scenes now impart ! 
 
 When obliged by a rigid command far away 
 To wander forlorn from this beautiful plain, 
 
 Still Love in my breast held unshaken his sway, 
 Though Hope hVd no longer to solace my pain, 
 
 I must own that in various places Pve seen 
 
 Streams, and flowers, and reehVd under many a tree 5 
 
 But those flowers and those streams, and that foliage sogreen 3 
 Though charming to some, were not charming to me. 
 
 ? Tis the country we have in our infancy known, 
 ' Where the clear limpid streams yield most joy to our sight ; 
 There the flowers are more lovely, the trees there alone 
 Can under their shade give us greater delight. 
 
 Oh ! how pleasant it is when our life we can end 
 
 In that place which the scene of our childhood did prove ? 
 
 To grow old while surrounded with many a friend, 
 
 Without changing our dwelling, or changing our love ! 
 
 It was now the beginning of summer ; and all 
 the flocks of the plain were, according to ancient 
 custom, soon to leave the banks of the river, and 
 go to the mountains, where they might enjoy a less 
 scorching air, and a fresher pasturage. The sheep 
 of Estelle alone formed a numerous flock. A master 
 was necessary, while in a strange country, to watch 
 
80 
 
 over the shepherds who conducted them. As long 
 as Raimond lived, he always went the journey 
 himself. Marguerita now required that Nemorin 
 should supply his place. " It belongs to thee, my 
 son," said she to him, " to take care of the pro- 
 perty of thy spouse. Besides, thy return here, 
 thy passion for Estelle, that attention which thou 
 canst not hinder thyself from paying to her, would 
 give a pretext to calumny. It is needful to sepa- 
 rate you, Nemorin. Conduct our flocks to the 
 mountains ; thou wilt come back again in the be- 
 ginning of autumn ; Estelle's mourning will then 
 be ended : her hand will recompense thee for the 
 sacrifice which I now impose on thee." 
 
 This resolution of Marguerita pierced the hearts 
 of the two lovers ; but they felt the necessity of 
 it. The shepherdess herself, in spite of the ex- 
 treme uneasiness which the very idea of being 
 separated from Nemorin occasioned to her, the 
 shepherdess herself desired it of him; and the 
 unhappy shepherd, always submissive to the will 
 of Estelle, dared not to complain when she had 
 spoken it. 
 
 The time of the departure of the flocks is a 
 remarkable period in that country where Estelle 
 
81 
 
 lived. Preparations are long made for it. Each 
 farmer, each shepherd, marks his sheep with a let- 
 ter or a cypher; he collects the men who are to 
 conduct them to the mountains; gives them his 
 orders, and his advice; and furnishes them with 
 arms, and provisions for themselves. The day, 
 the hour, is fixed, when all the flocks of the vil- 
 lage meet in the same place. It is from hence 
 they all set out together. 
 
 The march is begun by the goats, a light un- 
 toward troop, who advance, throwing up their 
 heads, skipping, now dispersing themselves, then 
 coming back again, choosing the most difficult 
 paths, springing to the tops of the rocks, there 
 stopping to browse on the extremities of the ver- 
 dure, fearing neither shepherd nor dogs, and obe- 
 dient only to their own caprice. 
 
 After them, at some distance, come the rams, 
 whose fleeces have been cut away, to paint them 
 of different colours. Their horns are encircled 
 with ribbons. Their haughtiness and their gravity 
 seem to be heightened by these ornaments. They 
 proceed, followed by dogs, fortified round their 
 necks with glittering collars, the steel points of 
 which sparkle in the sun. These submissive and 
 
82 
 
 faithful guardians allow the rams to take the lead 
 when there is no danger to fear, but resume it at 
 the least appearance of peril. Behind them come 
 the young lambs and their dams, an innumerable 
 flock, whose little bells accompany the bleating of 
 the sheep, the barking of the dogs, and the songs 
 of the young shepherds. 
 
 These last close the rear. Dressed in their holi- 
 day clothes, their hats and their flutes are adorned 
 with nosegays, which they have received from 
 their sweethearts. Armed with spears instead of 
 crooks, a warlike air mixes itself with their natural 
 mildness. Surrounded by all the inhabitants of 
 the village, they advance, playing tunes which are 
 answered by applauses. The shepherdesses gather 
 together in the road they are to take ; many among 
 them shed tears ; all put up prayers for their speedy 
 return ; and, hand in hand, accompany the shep- 
 herds to a rivulet, where the two bands separate, 
 singing alternately this song : 
 
 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 Lovely nymphs of the valley, adieu ! 
 
 We are forc'd with our flocks to depart ; 
 To countries far distant we go, 
 
 And thoughtful ness burdens each heart : 
 For while absent no pleasures our time shall employ, 
 We'll be strangers to love, and be strangers to joy. 
 
83 
 
 SHEPHERDESSES. 
 Ye friends, and ye brethren, so dear, 
 
 And ye lovers, we bid you adieu ! 
 May your hearts be kept true and sincere, 
 And fortune your footsteps pursue ! 
 While you're absent no pleasures our time shall employ, 
 "We'll be strangers alike or to love or to joy. 
 
 SHEPHERDS. 
 Sweet nymphs ! on yon mountains afar 
 
 Though the flocks may delightfully feed, 
 Yet your swains are companions of care ! 
 Yes, we shall be wretched indeed ! 
 To divert us no pleasures our time shall employ, 
 We all shall be strangers to love and to joy. 
 
 SHEPHERDESSES. 
 Should a traveller happen to pass 
 
 By our village while you are away, 
 In amazement he'd cry out, alas ! 
 This village was wont to be gay ! 
 Why now does not pleasure your moments employ ? 
 Why, ye nymphs, are ye strangers to love and to joy r 
 
 SHEPHERDS. 
 To render us faithless and vain 
 
 Should the nymphs of the mountains appear, 
 And try to console every swain, 
 
 We would say, ye are handsome, ye fair; 
 But while absent no pleasure our time shall employ. 
 We have vow'd to be stranscers to love and to joy. 
 
84 
 
 SHEPHERDESSES. 
 Should the beaus of the city the while 
 
 Attempt our affection to gain, 
 And with flattery our hearts to beguile, 
 We would tell them 'twas labour in vain : 
 While you're absent no pleasure our time shall employ, 
 We too will be strangers to love and to joy. 
 
 Such is the order of this festival, the arrival of 
 which Nemorin saw with so much concern. He 
 would not be present at the departure ; witnesses 
 so numerous would have put him under restraint 
 in taking his farewel. While all the flocks were 
 assembling in the valley, Nemorin and Estelle had 
 promised each other that they would meet at the 
 fountain of willows. 
 
 They both arrived before the hour agreed upon. 
 Rose attended her friend. As soon as Nemorin 
 perceived his shepherdess, he ran towards her. 
 Estelle quickened her steps towards him. They 
 approached each other, and would have spoken, 
 but could not pronounce one word. A terrible 
 weight oppressed them. They looked, weeping, 
 at each other; took one another by the hand; 
 and, still keeping silence, came and sat down near 
 the fountain of willows. Rose staid behind at 
 some distance from them. 
 
85 
 
 At length, the shepherd said, " Must I then 
 leave you again ? Must I again go and suffer those 
 torments which I thought would have been death 
 to me ? And it is you that have wished it ; it is 
 you that have commanded it ! Ah ! Estelle, I obey 
 you ; but you will soon learn how much it has cost 
 me to fulfil your commands." 
 
 In saying these words, the shepherd let go the 
 hand of the shepherdess, and turned aside his eyes 
 full of tears. Estelle remained some moments be- 
 fore she could answer him. At last, with faulter- 
 ing voice, 
 
 " It is thus," said she, " thou consolest me ! 
 It is thus that he who possesses my heart takes 
 care not to abuse it ! In grate ! it is I who remain 
 behind ; and thou who darest to complain ! It is 
 thou who venturest to compare this departure to 
 that on which I cannot reflect without shuddering. 
 Consider that the day of thy return is fixed ; that 
 the hand of Estelle awaits thee ; and that nothing 
 shall trouble us more" 
 
 "^kh ! forgive me, my dear Estelle," cried the 
 shepherd, taking back her hand, " forgive the de- 
 lirium which my grief occasioned. I leave thee ! 
 
86 
 
 I leave thee ! that word alone deprives me of my 
 reason. The most dreadful misgivings overwhelm 
 my soul ; the most sorrowful ideas pursue me ; a 
 secret voice seems to prophesy that I shall expe- 
 rience the greatest of all imaginable evils 
 
 my love, my dear love ! swear to love me for 
 ever ; thou hast told me so a thousand times, but 
 
 1 have still need of hearing it; repeat again to 
 me the vow, that thou wilt never forget me !" 
 
 <e Forget thee V 9 answered Estelle. " Ah ! ob- 
 serve where thou leavest me : here all is full of 
 thee ; here I shall behold thee every where. This 
 meadow, this fountain, thy house, that of my mo- 
 ther, all that surrounds me, all that attracts my 
 sight, will recall Nemorin to my mind. I shall 
 come every day to this meadow, I shall come and 
 sit down at this fountain, and my tears will bathe 
 the place where thou art now sitting. I shall go 
 by thy house, I shall enter again into my own, 
 and both will be a desert. Ah ! my love, my 
 dear love, be not afraid that I shall forget thee ; 
 rather let us fear. . . .Thy terrors have passed into 
 my soul ; I experience, like thee, terrible mis- 
 givings. Yesterday, in the evening, the bird of 
 night came and perched upon my window; I 
 heard his funereal cries even to the dawn of morn- 
 
87 
 
 ing. O my love, my dear love ! .... Do not, do 
 not go ; return to my mother ; our tears will pa- 
 cify her. t Go not, my dear Nemorin ; stay with 
 me, stay with the half of thyself. Say, my love ! 
 tell me, tell me, dost thou wish not to go ?" 
 
 Rose, hearing these words, made haste to reach 
 them : Nemorin, transported with joy, was just 
 going to consent to what Estelle desired. The 
 prudent Rose opposed it ; she recalled to their 
 minds the resolution of Marguerita, the injurious 
 reports against Estelle which the return of Nemo- 
 rin would occasion, the respect, the obedience due 
 to their tender parent, and, above all, the distress 
 they would occasion her. 
 
 Rose spake ! the lovers wept ! but they agreed 
 to the reasons of Rose. Nemorin rose to leave 
 them, but Estelle detained him ; she gave him a 
 bracelet of her hair, which the shepherd put on 
 his heart; then pressing his lips on the hand of 
 Estelle, he bade adieu, again repeated it, and still 
 could not resolve to proceed on his journey. Es- 
 telle also repeated farewell, bade him depart, but 
 took not back her hand. Rose, at length, sepa- 
 rated them ; and, notwithstanding the tears, not- 
 withstanding the cries of Nemorin, she dragged 
 
88 
 
 far from him the unhappy Estelle, who still turned 
 back her head, and stopped to hold out her hand 
 to him. 
 
 The shepherd, motionless, followed her with his 
 eyes. Soon he saw her no longer. At length, 
 he tore himself away from the fountain, and took 
 the road to Lezan. 
 
 It was near this village that Nemorin rejoined 
 his flock. Pursuing his journey towards Anduze, 
 he gained the woods of Valory ; and, directing 
 his way towards Melonza, after ten days journey- 
 ing, he arrived on the borders of the Galaizon. 
 
 It was here he was to pass the summer. His 
 first care was to seek out the most solitary pastu- 
 rages. Afar from all the other shepherds., occu- 
 pied only with thinking on Estelle, he buried him- 
 self in the mountain, he climbed up the steepest 
 rocks. Impatient to see an end of the day, he 
 folded his sheep before it was evening, and made 
 haste to retire into "his hut, hoping the next day 
 would come* the quicker. 
 
 He had already seen the sun retire to rest seven- 
 teen times, when one morning, plunged in the 
 
89 
 
 most profound melancholy, he got up before the 
 dawn, and went to sit upon a distant rock. 
 
 Aurora had not yet tinged the horizon, the stars 
 scattered their brilliant fires through the vast ex- 
 panse of the heavens ; the waning moon reflected 
 in the rivers its feeble and trembling light. The 
 distant echo of the rocks answered to the monoto- 
 nous cries of the inhabitants of the marshes ; all the 
 country was covered with a gloomy veil ; some 
 glow-worms, wandering here and there, could alone 
 be distinguished in the general obscurity. 
 
 Nemorin, after having a long time meditated on 
 this profound calm, which augmented his sadness, 
 turned his eyes towards the east, and sung these 
 words : 
 
 The sun now too slowly the morning pursues, 
 Bright Phosphor, arise, and dispel the dank dews : 
 Alas ! when 'tis night, then I wish for the day ; 
 But no sooner does Phoebus his glories display, 
 Than I wish him retir'd, and I long for the night -, 
 For, far off from my love, I can find no delight. 
 
 On these lonely mountains all nature's asleep, 
 The rams now repose near their favourite sheep, 
 The lambs by their mother have sunk into rest, 
 L And the wood-pigeon quietly sleeps in its nest : 
 
90 
 
 'Tis only my lot thus to moan the whole night, 
 For far off from my love I can find no delight. 
 
 Whilst Pm sure to be lov'd, what's the reason of this ? 
 The rest of the shepherds all envy my bliss, 
 And I know perfect happiness waits my return ! 
 That Estelle will be mine then ! but somehow I mourn ; 
 Secret terror disturbs me all day and all night, 
 While Pm far from my love, from my only delight. 
 
 Thus sung the unfortunate shepherd ; and now 
 the early Aurora began to adorn the mountains 
 with her rosy and golden hues. Nemorin, once 
 so enraptured with the beauties of nature, Nemorin 
 now beheld without delight the majestic rising of 
 the sun. He returned melancholy to his flocks ; 
 when perceiving at some distance a shepherdess 
 who was coming towards him, his idea was to 
 avoid her ; but, thinking he recollected this shep- 
 herdess, he stopped to look at her. 
 
 She drew near, with slow steps, with clasped 
 hands, and seemingly overwhelmed with fatigue 
 and sorrow. Nemorin looked at her attentively, 
 but what was his surprise when he saw it was Rose ! 
 
 Full of uneasiness and dread, he hastened to- 
 wards her. He saw the tears in her eyes ; but, 
 
91 
 
 covered with deadly paleness, and with open mouth, 
 he waited in silent expectation till Rose should in- 
 form him of his destiny. 
 
 " Unhappy Nemorin I" said she to him, " I was 
 not willing to confide to any other the melancholy 
 duty of which I am to acquit myself Estelle has 
 asked the favour of me ; Estelle has entreated, that 
 I would deliver to you the last expressions of her 
 
 love, the last farewell of her heart " " What 
 
 say you ?" cried Nemorin "Is Estelle no 
 
 longer living ?"..." Yes, Estelle lives still ; but to 
 you she is dead." 
 
 At these words Nemorin fell on the earth, en- 
 tirely deprived of reason. Rose ran to fetch some 
 water from a neighbouring spring, sprinkled his 
 face with it, called to him, and took him by the 
 hand. The unfortunate youth opened his eyes, 
 and looking sorrowfully towards Rose, " Put an 
 end to my existence," said he, t€ oh : in pity, put 
 an end to my life. Estelle has changed ! Estelle 
 no longer loves me ! My life is a frightful tor- 
 ment ! Estelle is changed ! Estelle no longer loves 
 me !" Repeating these words, he struck his fore- 
 head against the ground, grasping it with his 
 hands as his last asylum, and biting the stones and 
 grass, which he drenched with his bitter tears. 
 
92 
 
 " Estelle adores you," answered Rose ; " and this 
 love which cannot be extinguished, this love more 
 dear to her than life, must for ever make her un- 
 happy." 
 
 At these words Nemorin lifted up his head. 
 " She loves me ¥' cried he ; " she still loves me ! 
 Do you assure me of that ? Ah ! do you not de- 
 ceive me ? If her heart is yet mine, speak ; I shall 
 be able to bear every thing," Rose repeated to 
 him that he was but too well beloved. The shep- 
 herd, then more calm, wiped his tears, and listened 
 attentively to this recital of the faithful Rose. 
 
 " Eight days have not yet elapsed since Estelle 
 said to me continually, that before three months 
 were past you would become her spouse. We 
 went every morning together to the fountain of 
 willows ; there we passed the live-long day con- 
 versing about you ; and when the return of the 
 gleaners told us it was time to go home, we went 
 back to Marguerita, and there we still talked of 
 you. 
 
 " One evening, while we were engaged in this 
 agreeable conversation, we heard a violent knock- 
 ing at the door ; we started, in spite of ourselves. 
 After we had recovered our fright, Estelle and I 
 
93 
 
 opened the door. Judge of our astonishment when 
 we found it was Raimond and Meril. The first 
 action of Estelle was to throw herself on her fa- 
 ther's neck. She held him embraced a long time 
 without observing Meril, and then ran to announce 
 to Marguerita the unexpected arrival of her hus- 
 band. O my friend ! my tears still flow in recol- 
 lecting the rapture, the transports of Marguerita. 
 She could not believe her happiness; she gazed 
 upon Raimond, she bathed him with her tears, 
 and then dried them that she might still gaze on 
 him, and assure herself that it really was him that 
 she pressed against her bosom. Raimond, whose 
 tears stifled him, made vain attempts to speak. 
 Embraced in turn, and at once, by his wife and 
 daughter, this old man, little accustomed to caress- 
 ing, could not sustain the sensations which then 
 agitated him. 
 
 " At length, when their general joy was a little 
 calmed, Raimond, taking Meril by the hand, pre- 
 sented him to Marguerita and his daughter : ' Be- 
 hold my deliverer/ said he to them ; f behold him 
 who has restored to you your husband, and your 
 father. Listen to the affecting recital of- what he 
 has done for me/ Then, notwithstanding the en- 
 treaties of Meril to desist, Raimond related how, on 
 
94 
 
 the same night on which he reached Maguelonna, 
 some Catalonian pirates had surprised and pillaged 
 the town ; and having awakened among the first 
 who were alarmed (and having for his only arms a 
 large stick), Raimond defended himself for a long 
 while ; but, overwhelmed by numbers, he was 
 wounded, loaded with chains, and dragged to the 
 vessels of the conquerors, who sailed away at break 
 of day. He was carried to Barcelona, where, 
 after he was cured, the pirates fixed so high a price 
 on his ransom, that the generous Raimond resolved 
 rather to remain in slavery, than to cause the ruin 
 of his wife and his daughter by letting them know 
 of his misfortune. Submitting to all the miseries of 
 his fate, he served as a sailor on board the enemy's 
 ships, and was reposing one day on the sea shore, 
 when he saw Meril appear. 
 
 " Meril, after having supposed that Raimond 
 was killed, after having written so to us, had sold 
 all his property at Lezan, for the purpose of fixing 
 his abode in Rousillon. Here, being informed by 
 prisoners that Raimond was a captive in Barcelona, 
 he hastened thither with all his fortune. That for- 
 tune became the price of Raimond's liberty. The 
 virtuous Meril looked upon that day as the hap- 
 piest of his life. More happy in his poverty than 
 
95 
 
 ever he had been in his riches, he took with his 
 friend the road to Massanna, where they were 
 now just arrived. 
 
 • " Raimond wept while he made this recital. 
 He terminated it by taking the hand of his daugh- 
 ter, and saying to the worthy Meril, * This is the 
 only blessing that belongs to me, for all that I pos- 
 sess besides would not pay you w^hat my ransom 
 has cost you. Accept this, my friend, not to free 
 me from any obligation to thee, I love to remain 
 indebted to thee, but to add still more to what 
 you have already done for me.'" 
 
 At this part Nemorin interrupted the young 
 Rose : " It is all over then," said he ; " my misery 
 is now complete. I admire and I love my rival ; 
 Meril has merited the hand of Estelle. May they 
 be happy ! May they be happy together ! and 
 may I be the only one that is miserable !" 
 
 " After this behaviour of Meril," continued 
 Rose, " Estelle and Marguerita were convinced 
 that nothing could put aside the marriage, to which 
 Raimond attached his happiness. This old man, 
 without acquainting himself with what had passed 
 during his absence, without testifying either curi- 
 
96 
 
 osity or discontent, took Estelle aside, and shew- 
 ing to her his arms, still black with the recent 
 marks of his chains, ' What day/ said he, look- 
 ing at her, ' are you willing to espouse my deli- 
 verer }' Estelle replied, to-morrow. 
 
 u At this word Raimond embraced her : but, 
 seeing she turned pale, he left her with Margue- 
 rita, and went to make preparations for the nup- 
 tials. Then Estelle wrote to you. I have burnt 
 her letter, which would only have increased your 
 misery. Fearing your despair, my friend desired 
 me to set out with Hilaric to inform you of this 
 dreadful news, to weep with you, and to offer you 
 all those consolations which friendship can admi- 
 nister. These are the motives which have guided 
 me : O forgive me, my friend, the ill which I do 
 you." 
 
 r They are then married V demanded the 
 shepherd, in a mournful tone. " They are in- 
 deed," answered Rose ; " and never before were 
 any nuptials celebrated under such melancholy 
 auspices. The unhappy Estelle, pale, her eyes 
 red with weeping, dragged herself to the altar. 
 There, in bending on her knees, she fell on the 
 stones. When the solemn oath was to have been 
 
97 
 
 pronounced, her sobs and tears stifled her voice ; 
 and her eyes closed against the light. Marguerita 
 and myself, who observed her commotion, sprung 
 to her, and supported her on our bosoms. Meril 
 would have put off the ceremony; but Estelle, 
 collecting all her strength, raised herself up, seized 
 the hand of Meril, and with a firm voice pro- 
 nounced the dreadful word which engaged her 
 for ever. 
 
 <e In leaving the church, a violent fever seized 
 her; and every day we expected she would 
 breathe her last. Meril continually attended her ; 
 Meril, unceasingly attentive, but never importu- 
 nate, lavished on her the most tender attentions. 
 Since then, for three days, the married couple 
 have had long conversations together : at the close 
 of which they both wept ; but Estelle was more 
 tranquil. From that moment her fever has abated, 
 and her life is now out of danger, at least as long 
 as she does not see you : but if ever you seek to 
 see her, if you should ever venture to appear be- 
 fore her, it is all over with my friend ; your pre- 
 sence would kill her. I entreat you then, Nemo- 
 rin, I beseech you, by my constant friendship, by 
 the virtues of your own heart, by your love for 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 Estelle, never to come again into your own coun- 
 try. You have no longer any hope : all is finished 
 for you. Add not to your misery by encreasing 
 that of your beloved ; in lighting up the jealousy 
 of Meril, in making her at once the victim of her 
 father, her husband, and her lover." 
 
 Rose ceased speaking. Nemorin preserved a 
 dreadful silence. His dry eyes were fixed upon 
 Rose without seeing her ; his breathing was inter- 
 rupted ; he could neither speak nor weep. Rose 
 waited some minutes ; then holding out her hand 
 to him, " Do you hate me ?" said she to him. This 
 word made the shepherd burst into a flood of tears. 
 " I hate you !" cried he, " you ! the only person on 
 earth who deigns to sorrow for my misfortunes ! 
 / hate you, my best friend ! Ah ! while this heart 
 shall beat, it shall ever be penetrated with the 
 tenderest friendship for you. It has, alas! not 
 long to love you .... At least, its last sentiment 
 will be to obey your counsels. I will leave you, 
 my dear Rose ; I will go every day further off 
 from her, from you, from all that is dear to me ; 
 I will, if possible, put the distance of the whofe 
 earth between her and me. Adieu ! my friend, 
 my only friend ! adieu for ever ! Rose, for ever ! 
 
99 
 
 This word, so agreeable to me formerly, oh ! how 
 bitter it is to me now ! Above all things, never 
 speak to her of me, never pronounce my name to 
 her ; tell her only that I am gone, that I am gone 
 to live far from her, to cure myself, perhaps, of 
 my unfortunate love, to force myself to imitate 
 
 her example, and to forget No, Rose, no ; 
 
 never, never : tell her, rather, that my last sigh 
 will be for her; that in dying I shall pronounce 
 
 her name ; that always Ah ! Rose, Rose, 
 
 my heart did not deceive me that day when I last 
 bade her farewel : her heart presaged it also .... 
 Farewel, Rose ; my dear Rose, farewel ! you will 
 never see me more !" 
 
 At these words he threw himself on the neck 
 of Rose, and folded her in his arms. 
 
 This shepherdess, who all her life had never 
 permitted any shepherd even to kiss her hand, 
 now herself embraced her friend, mingled her tears 
 with his, and pressed him to her bosom. Her 
 modesty was not alarmed : so true is it that friend- 
 ship purines every thing which it approaches. 
 
 At last the unhappy shepherd tore himself away 
 from Rose^ and fled precipitately, with an air of 
 
100 
 
 distraction. Rose, alarmed at his despair, got up 
 and ran after him. She called to him, she re- 
 joined him ; and, resolving not to leave him alone 
 in the first moments of his anguish, she followed 
 his steps. 
 
 END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. 
 
ESTELLE* 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 1 ender friendship ! thou delight of all good hearts, 
 it was in heaven that thou wast born: thou de- 
 scended st on earth at the first miseries of mortals. 
 The Creator, ever attentive to solace, by an act of 
 beneficence, each calamity incident to human na- 
 ture, opposed thee alone against all pains. With- 
 out thee, eternally the sport of fate, we should pass 
 in tears the long moments of this short life. With- 
 out thee, feeble vessels deprived of the pilot, always 
 beaten about by contrary winds, driven at their 
 will here and there, through a sea overspread with 
 rocks, we should perish without being pitied, or 
 escape again to suffer. Thou art the tranquil port 
 where we take refuge during the storm> where we 
 felicitate ourselves after the danger. Benefactress 
 of all mortals, thou alone bestowest on them those 
 enjoyments which remorse and fear can never 
 poison ! 
 
102 
 
 Rose remained three days with Nemorin, and 
 afforded him all those consolations which the un- 
 happy lover could receive. Without enquiring 
 whether the way they went carried them farther 
 from or nearer to Massanna, Rose was entirely 
 engaged in endeavouring to give a little calm to 
 the torn heart of the shepherd. He was the lover 
 of her friend : this title alone made her cherish 
 Nemorin as the most beloved of brothers. Rose 
 called him by that name in those villages where 
 they arrived in the evenings, and where the pea- 
 sants hastened to afford them hospitality. 
 
 Hilaric followed afar off the amiable Rose ; and 
 would not disturb the conversations of friendship. 
 After three days, however, he informed the shep- 
 herdess that she was getting further and further 
 from her village, and that the roads by which 
 they were to return there began to be unknown 
 to him. Then Nemorin joined with the young 
 guide in entreating Rose to return to Massanna. 
 The friend of Estelle did not consent to it, until 
 she had made the shepherd promise that he would 
 be careful of himself. 
 
 Thus left alone, the melancholy swain plunged 
 into the woods, where he remained several weeks, 
 
103 
 
 feeding on the wild fruits, and continually brood- 
 ing on his misery. Resolved to quit Occitania, 
 he took the first road he found, and, walking 
 without any fixed rout, after many days, which 
 he never counted, he reached the plains of St. Eu- 
 lalia. There he stopped, worn out with fatigue, 
 rested himself at the foot of a mulberry tree, and 
 for some moments closed his eyes. He was soon 
 awakened by a soft and tender voice. This voice, 
 which was not unknown to Nemorin, thus expressd 
 itself: 
 
 The youth who, far absent from her he adores, 
 
 Counts the moments as slow they depart, 
 And he who the perfidy sadly deplores 
 
 Of the mistress so dear to his heart, 
 Although their condition may often seem hard, 
 
 Yet with hope they their state may endure : 
 How easy's their fate, when with mine 'tis compared; 
 
 For my sorrows admit of no cure. 
 
 I lov'd a dear nymph, the delight of the plain, 
 
 Her affection, her heart, was my own; 
 But, alas ! on this earth there is nothing but pain, 
 
 No certain felicity's known : 
 Our joys, while we're here, all resemble the rose, 
 
 In the morning 'tis lovely and gay, 
 But no sooner its leaves to the zephyr unclose 
 
 Than it speedily withers away. 
 
104 
 
 The nymph that I lov'd, the delight of my heart, 
 
 Alas ! she has sunk in the grave ; 
 All that beauty, or grace, or that youth, could impart, 
 
 Not a moment the virgin could save. 
 Ah ! soon shall I follow my love to the tomb, 
 
 And be hid in the vault under ground ; 
 When the oak is cut down, we may then tell the doom 
 
 Of the ivy which clasp'd it around. 
 
 Nemorin, affected by these accents, advanced 
 towards the place from whence they came. He 
 beheld a shepherd reclining on the grass, his head 
 supported by his hand, and his eyes bathed with 
 tears. Scarcely had he looked on him, but he re- 
 collected Isidore, Isidore his former companion, 
 the first friend of his childhood, to whom Nemorin 
 had not been able to bid adieu, when he first left 
 Massanna, and whom he could not again find in 
 the village when Estelle brought him back. 
 
 The two shepherds, on seeing each other, im- 
 mediately run into one another's arms, in which 
 they remained for a considerable time : they then 
 gazed on each other, mutually divined their mis- 
 fortunes, and, without speaking, each pitied the 
 other. Nemorin broke silence. " My friend," 
 said he, " I see it ; we both suffer from the same 
 
i 
 
 105 
 
 cause, Love" . . . " Ah !" cried Isidore, u speak only 
 of friendship." 
 
 At this word he threw himself again on his 
 friend's breast. Anxious, however, to be ac- 
 quainted with each other's sorrows, they went 
 and sat down under a myrtle hedge, which grew 
 above their heads, and Nemorin commenced the 
 recital of all which he had suffered. 
 
 He shed tears, and shed them abundantly. Isi- 
 dore interrupted him, to recount the story of his 
 misfortunes. r . 
 
 " You know my first calamities ; you know 
 that, when deprived of my parents in my cradle, 
 I was brought up by a farmer of Massanna, the 
 good, the worthy Casimir, w r hom the poor will 
 ever lament, and whose loss the rich have not re- 
 placed. He died the same day that, for the first 
 time, you left our village. Before he expired, he 
 said these words to me : 
 
 . \ My son, you were born of a noble family, 
 but you possess nothing. Your father, my best 
 friend, committed you to my care in your infancy. 
 I have endeavoured to inspire you with virtue \ it 
 
106 
 
 was the only heritage that a shepherd could leave. 
 I will add to it, however, what little money I can 
 spare, not from the poor, but from myself. Buy 
 with it a flock, if you are willing to continue the 
 harmless life of a shepherd. If the noble blood 
 from whence you sprang inspires you with other 
 wishes, go and fight for our good king ; and may 
 your valour restore to you all that of which fortune 
 has deprived you ! Whatever you may decide on, 
 my dear son, never forget virtue, and sometimes 
 think on my tenderness/ 
 
 u Saying these words, he expired. I shall not 
 paint to you my sorrow: you behold my tears 
 flow only at the name of Casimir ! 
 
 " The next day I quitted Massanna, which 
 seemed to me a desert. After having in vain 
 attempted to search for you, I resolved to go to 
 Montpelier, to ask a sword from that young hero, 
 the celebrated Gaston de Foix, who then governed 
 our states. I went down towards the ancient city 
 of Sauve ; I followed the banks of Vidourla, and 
 I reached the delightful valley where St. Hippo- 
 lytus is built. Enchanted with the country which 
 surrounded me, I sat down on the side of the 
 river; I leaned against an old poplar, to satisfy 
 
107 
 
 my eyes with the prospect with which they were 
 enraptured. 
 
 f It was then the beginning of spring. The 
 meadows were enamelled with flowers ; the linden 
 tree, the bay, and the hawthorn, embalmed the 
 air with their perfumes; a thousand birds were 
 billing in the branches; the bulls and the rams 
 sported with the heifers and the sheep on the 
 grass wet with the dew of the morning ; and the 
 gentle zephyr agitated at once the trees and the 
 silver streams. The soft murmurs of the waters, 
 mingled with the gentle rustling of the leaves, 
 the notes of the nightingale, and bleating of the 
 flocks, overpowered my soul with an involuntary 
 sensation ; and, out of myself as it were, I listened 
 to this song of the shepherdesses, whom I heard 
 at a distance. 
 
 See, sweet Spring's return'd again ! 
 Now from care and work refrain ; 
 Dance, and sing, and laugh, and play, 
 This is nature's holiday ! 
 Lose no time, each hour improve ; 
 Spring's the season made for love. 
 
 Hark ! the waters murm'ring by, 
 Hark ! the gentle zephyr's sigh, 
 See, the verdure of the fields, 
 And the beauties Flora yields, 
 
108 
 
 All proclaim, each hour improve, 
 Spring's the season made for love. 
 
 Hark ! the goldfinch in the grove, 
 Hark ! the plaintive turtle dove, 
 Hark ! the lark, while soaring high, 
 And the chirping cricket nigh, 
 All are singing, time improve, 
 Spring's the season made for love. 
 
 Though dear nature's charming spring 
 Does revolving pleasures bring, 
 When our spring of youth is gone, 
 'Twill no more like this come on ; 
 Then, ye youths, each hour improve, 
 Spring's the season made for love. 
 
 " In the midst of this reverie, which engaged 
 all my senses, I fell into a gentle slumber. Scarcely 
 were my eyes closed, when you appeared to me 
 in a dream : yes, Nemorin, I saw you, in the same 
 dress which you now wear, and the same blue silk 
 handkerchief tied under your chin. You sup- 
 ported yourself on your crook, and looked at me 
 with eyes full of tears. 
 
 ' Fly, unfortunate man/ you said to me, ' fly ; 
 there is still time left to do it. In a moment thou 
 wilt no longer be able. It is here that Love awaits 
 
109 
 
 thee. O Isidore, I pity thee : thou knowest him 
 not, this formidable Love ! Ah ! may you never 
 know him ! May you never feel the miseries caused 
 by absence, the tears which fear occasions to flow, 
 the tortures of jealousy, vexations without motives, 
 and the injustice of suspicion ! Isidore, my dear 
 Isidore, I am myself a sad example of the unhappy 
 victims made by Love. Tremble, lest thou should st 
 become more to be pitied than myself! trem- 
 ble!'.... 
 
 " At these words thou disappearedst. I awaked 
 directly, and found myself bathed in a cold sweat. 
 I heard some shrill screams, and saw two young 
 shepherdesses, all pale, trembling, and dismayed, 
 ready to throw themselves in the river, to escape 
 from a furious bull. I got up, I saw the dreadful 
 animal bounding along the bank, stooping his head, 
 half closing his eyes, presenting his two menacing 
 horns, and scattering around the foam from his 
 smoking nostrils. 
 
 " Accustomed from my infancy to encountering 
 bulls, I ran to him, I irritated him, and the fu- 
 rious animal made directly at me. Standing firm 
 on my feet, I waited for the moment when he 
 should bend down his head to strike at me : I 
 
110 
 
 sprang upon his two horns, forcing all my weight 
 on the one, and raising up the other, I over- 
 turned him without any struggle*. 
 
 " The bull fell, and rolled into the stream. At 
 the noise of his fall the two shepherdesses came 
 back. Encouraged by seeing the bull swim to 
 the other side of the shore, they came and thanked 
 me for the service I had rendered them* 
 
 <e O my friend, that very moment decided the 
 fate of my life. Adelaide, for so was the youngest 
 shepherdess called, was scarcely sixteen. Sweet- 
 ness and grace were painted in every feature. 
 Her beauty, the lustre of which struck at first sight, 
 seemed afterwards to borrow its charms from her 
 goodness and sincerity. A look at her was suffi- 
 cient to excite admiration ; but no sooner did she 
 cast a glance on you, than she was loved without 
 thinking on her beauty. 
 
 " Delphine, her elder sister, asked me, I be- 
 lieve, some questions. I hardly heard her ; Ade- 
 laide occupied me entirely. When I would have 
 
 * The young peasants of Languedoe are exercised to 
 this manner of fighting bulls. 
 
Ill 
 
 answered, my tongue remained frozen ; a trem- 
 bling seized me all over; I stammered a few 
 words without connexion. Delphine perceived 
 my confusion : she spoke to her sister. Adelaide 
 blushed. I felt myself blush ; and my embarrass- 
 ment redoubled. 
 
 " The two sisters then left me. I did not dare 
 to follow them. They stopped at a little distance, 
 and employed themselves in gathering narcissuses. 
 Delphine chose the handsomest; Adelaide culled 
 them by chance : sometimes, even quite lost in 
 thought, she let those narcissuses fall which she 
 had gathered already, and cut the grass instead of 
 the flowers. 
 
 ee Delphine, less embarrassed than her sister, 
 informed her that it was time to retire. Adelaide 
 repeated it herself. Both took the road to a castle, 
 surrounded with turrets, built on the top of a hill. 
 A goatherd informed me that it was the strong 
 castle of Aguzan; that it belonged to an old 
 knight, the richest and most powerful in that 
 country, who had been sometime a widower, 
 and was father to the two beautiful damsels I had 
 just met with. 
 
112 
 
 <s Overwhelmed by this information, I imme- 
 diately beheld the abyss of woe into which a love 
 without hope had precipitated me. Every thing 
 that you had said to me in the dream directly 
 came into my mind. Alarmed at the miseries 
 which awaited me, I would have fled : I returned 
 to the road, but I could not pass beyond the old 
 poplar where I had slept. Seated in the same 
 place, my eyes fixed on the spot where I had 
 seen her, endeavouring to think upon my own 
 affairs, but able to think on her alone, I waited 
 the morrow. 
 
 " As long as the night lasted, I promised my- 
 self to set off at break of day. As soon as the 
 morning had displayed its charms, I then resolved 
 to wait till the evening. I ran through the mea- 
 dow, seeking the flowers which she had dropped : 
 my heart fluttered with joy ; whenever I found one 
 of them, I loaded it with kisses. Richer with 
 this treasure than had I possessed all the wealth of 
 the world, I then went and sat down again at the 
 foot of the poplar, where I sung these words : 
 
 Sweet narcissus, which lately a virgin possessed, 
 Whose complexion was fairer than thine, 
 
 Since in this lonely mead thou art fall'n from her breast, 
 I for ever will take thee to mine. 
 
113 
 
 Sweet flow'r, since 'tis thee that the shepherdess chose, 
 Since 'tis thee that she cull'd from the ground, 
 
 From this time thou surpassest the lily and rose, 
 And art king of the vallies around. 
 
 Sweet flow'r, I'll esteem thee my principal bliss 
 
 Until death shall my passion remove : 
 I will gaze on thy charms, all thy beauties I'll kiss, 
 
 In the pleasing delirium of love. 
 
 To adorn the dear breast of so lovely a maid, 
 
 No doubt, was most flatt'ring to thee ; 
 But While on my heart, in my bosom, thou'rt laid, 
 
 Far from her thou never canst be. 
 
 " I had scarce finished, when I heard a noise. 
 I turned round my head, and beheld Adelaide with 
 Delphine. I rose to salute them. I hid my flowers 
 in my bosom, and seemed as if I would have re- 
 tired, but Delphine stopped me." 
 
 * Shepherd/ says she, * we ought to retire, if 
 we interrupt your songs/ " My songs," I trem- 
 blingly replied, " cannot be interesting to any 
 person here. Pardon a stranger for having forgot 
 himself in these charming places." 
 
 * You may continue here without any fear,* 
 Adelaide then said to me ; ' these meadows be- 
 
114 
 
 long to my father ; and we are under such obliga- 
 tions to you, that we ought not to treat you as a 
 stranger/ 
 
 <c In saying these words a suffusion overspread 
 her countenance: she viewed Delphine with a 
 timid look, as if she asked her approbation to 
 what she had said. I would have answered, but I 
 could not. Delphine pitied my embarrassment: 
 she asked me my name, my country, and what 
 motives led me to St. Hippolyta. I hesitated not 
 to recount to her, that, having lost the good Casi- 
 mir, I was without a friend, without an asylum, 
 and that I was going to serve in the forces of 
 Gaston de Foix. Delphine dissuaded me from this 
 design; Adelaide added, that Casimir was not the 
 only one who knew how to love virtue in distress. 
 
 <c At that instant the meadows re-echoed with 
 the sound of horns. Presently a pack of hounds 
 arrived, conducted by many servants ; in the mid- 
 dle of them an aged gentleman, with a grave and 
 noble countenance, armed with a long cross-bow, 
 gave orders to all the hunters. 
 
 u He seemed at first surprised to meet his daugh- 
 ters in the meadow ; but Delpine, springing to his 
 
115 
 
 neck, wished him a happy day's sport, and assured 
 him they had only risen so early that morning to 
 employ themselves for his interest." 
 
 * For some time past/ said she to him, ' you 
 have been wishing to procure a chief shepherd ; 
 and here is one from those Cevennes where the 
 shepherds are so renowned. I will answer for 
 him myself. You will not reject him when you 
 know the service he has rendered us/ 
 
 u Delphine then related to her father the dan- 
 ger from which I had rescued them. The aged 
 Aguzan asked me several questions: I repeated, 
 blushing, what I had told already to his daughter. 
 The old gentleman took me into his service, of- 
 fered his hand to me in token of friendship, and 
 ordered one of his huntsmen to conduct me to his 
 flocks. 
 
 " In going away I met the eyes of Adelaide. 
 That single glance completed the loss of my feeble 
 reason. I ran to take possession of the flocks. 
 The next day I led them into that beautiful mea- 
 dow, now become so dear to my soul. Adelaide 
 came there again. I dared to approach her; I 
 dared to speak to her. She answered me with 
 
116 
 
 that sweetness, that gracefulness, that modesty, 
 which refine love at the same time that they en- 
 crease it, and make the most ardent of passions 
 the most amiable of virtues. 
 
 " Adelaide spoke to me concerning my situa- 
 tion, offered up prayers for my happiness, and 
 instructed me in the best means to gain the affec- 
 tions of her father. I was enabled to put them in 
 practice. At the end of some weeks I was the 
 favourite of the old man : I was steward over his 
 farm, his flocks, and his house. 
 
 a Adelaide congratulated me on my success, 
 and I could not reply to her ; I was not able suf- 
 ficiently to express to her my happiness and gra- 
 titude. In the fear of saying too much, I said not 
 enough. The respect with which her presence 
 inspired me was even more great than my love. 
 
 " Our agreeable interviews became more and 
 more frequent. Adelaide and Delphi ne came 
 every morning into the meadow. I was at the 
 castle the rest of the day. Never had I pro- 
 nounced the name of love, yet Adelaide was sen- 
 sible that I adored her ; never did she say a word 
 that could give her father the least suspicion, yet 
 I was certain I was beloved by her. 
 
117 
 
 " At length, I ventured to inform her of my 
 birth. This information gave pleasure to her heart. 
 A ray of hope entered into our souls. Ah ! how 
 senseless were we ! 
 
 €f One day Adelaide came later than she was 
 accustomed to the meadow. She was melancholy ; 
 her countenance no longer possessed those brilliant 
 hues which resembled the vermil apple. Her eyes 
 had lost their wonted lustre ; her hands trembled 
 as she laid hold of mine." * My friend/ said she, 
 in a feeble voice, ' last night my father informed 
 us, that, in order to procure to my sister the most 
 splendid match in the province, he was resolved 
 that I should take the veil. Delphine screamed 
 with horror. She threw herself at my father's 
 feet ; she besought him to stop a marriage which 
 would render both of us miserable. My father 
 repulsed her from him. Exasperated at her sup- 
 plications, and my silence, he declared, in a ter- 
 rible tone, that to-morrow he would carry me to 
 the convent of Anduze, from whence I should 
 never come out more. The tears, the cries of my 
 sister, did but inflame his rage. His ambition is 
 flattered by the idea of having for his son-in-law 
 the young count of Assiers, and his love for me is 
 sacrificed to that ambition. 
 
118 
 
 ' But I shall not go to the convent. The disor- 
 der and fright I have felt, the fury in which I have 
 seen my father, have produced in me such vio- 
 lent sensations, that their consequences must prove 
 fatal. A burning fever has consumed me all the 
 night ; my head and my inside seem on fire ; and 
 scarcely can I support myself. The certainty in 
 which I am of sinking under my miseries has in- 
 spired me with strength once more to come and 
 see thee again, to bid a last farewel to this delight- 
 ful meadow, the asylum of our loves. My heart 
 melts as I behold it; my tears flow as I look at 
 this venerable tree, where for the first time ..... 
 Ah ! my dear Isidore, take me from this place : 
 here I should regret life too much/ 
 
 " As she spoke these words I perceived her faint 
 away. I supported her ; I called to her ; but she 
 replied not. I carried her, in this situation, to 
 the castle, where her maids put her to bed. Her 
 disorder was soon at its height. The aged Aguzan 
 wished me to relieve Delphine in the care she 
 took of her sister. Thanks to an order so dear to 
 me, I never quitted Adelaide from that moment. 
 Always attentive to assist and wait upon her, con- 
 tinually kneeling at the feet while Delphine sat at 
 the head of her bed, we spent nine days and nine 
 
119 
 
 flights, weeping when Adelaide closed her eyes 
 for a moment, and composing our countenances 
 whenever she opened them to look at us. Ah ! 
 my friend, how painful is this feigned composure ! 
 What did not Delphine and myself suffer, when 
 hiding our tears under an air of cheerfulness, and 
 affecting a hope which we did not possess ! Death, 
 death itself, which we so much feared for Adelaide, 
 would have been to us an hundred times more 
 agreeable than the continual agonies we endured. 
 
 " In the mean time, Aguzan, alarmed at the 
 danger of his daughter, had sent to Montpellier 
 for advice. The physician waited for the eleventh 
 day to pronounce our sentence. The eleventh day 
 came. The physician took his leave ! I fell sense- 
 less on the ground on seeing him depart. 
 
 u When I came to myself, I went to take my 
 place at the bed of Adelaide. She knew nobody. 
 For three days she had been delirious. She, how- 
 ever, looked stedfastly at me, and regarded me 
 with that ghastly smile which brings tears into the 
 eyes of even the most insensible." 
 
 c I am cured/ said she to me ; ' to-morrow I 
 shall marry Isidore ; to-morrow I shall become the 
 
120 
 
 wife of the most amiable of husbands : after that 
 I shall die. I have promised it. I wish you would 
 be present at my wedding, and that you would 
 die with me/ 
 
 " As she spoke thus incoherently, she held out 
 her hand to me ; but her father coming in, she 
 pushed me away, pronounced the name of the 
 convent, and her delirium increased to madness. 
 
 " As night approached, her disorder seemed to 
 abate. It was now the twelfth night that Delphine 
 and I had passed without closing our eyes. Del- 
 phine prevailed on her father to retire ; and, over- 
 come with fatigue, she threw herself on a couch, 
 where, in spite of her grief, a profound sleep 
 seized on all her senses. All the maids and ser- 
 vants of Adelaide were likewise asleep. I only 
 was awake in her chamber. She was then calm ; 
 overcome with the force of her disorder, she re- 
 posed, or seemed to repose. I viewed her for a 
 long time ; I contemplated that countenance which, 
 but a few days before, was the most beautiful in 
 nature, now red, flushed with heat, and covered 
 with a parched skin ; that mouth, lately the sanc- 
 tuary of love, from whence never proceeded any 
 words but those of affection and tenderness, now 
 
121 
 
 exhaling a fiery and short-fetched breath. I wished 
 to inhale it, hoping thereby to imbibe her disorder, 
 and to die with her. I gently approached my 
 head towards her, and, reclining on her bolster, 
 I received with gloomy pleasure the effluvia which 
 exhaled from her bosom. 
 
 " The kind of happiness which I then enjoyed 
 in finding myself supported by the same pillow 
 with Adelaide, the extreme fatigue and the watch- 
 ings of the preceding days, made me sink, in spite 
 of myself, not into sleep, but into a deep heavi- 
 ness, which deprived me of the use of my facul- 
 ties. All my strength was exhausted, all my senses 
 were stupified ; overcome with what I had suf- 
 fered, I lost all sense of pain, and experienced 
 that horrible repose which is given by annihila- 
 tion. My eyes, nevertheless, were not closed ; 
 my eyes were not taken from her ; for I believe 
 that I saw, and did really see her turn round her 
 head to look at me; and, gently raising herself, 
 and leaning with difficulty upon her elbow, while 
 she stedfastly looked at me, she said to me these 
 words, which I think I still hear her repeat : 
 
 e My well-beloved, I am going to leave you ; I 
 am going to leave you for ever. I thank you for 
 
122 
 
 loving me ; you have rendered happy all the time 
 of my life that I have known you. I die, my dear 
 friend ; but sure I am I shall not die in your heart, 
 and that no other will ever occupy my place there. 
 For myself, if, as I hope, love can subsist after 
 death, my spirit, while waiting for yours, will be 
 always occupied with you, will follow your steps, 
 will continually hover around you, will be the 
 assiduous witness of your actions and your thoughts. 
 Think on this whenever you weep for your love ; 
 your tears will thus be less bitter. Farewel, fare- 
 wel ! my dearest friend, farewel ! My death is not 
 painful, since I die in your arms. It would indeed 
 be much easier, could I say, Farewel, my husband, 
 farewel ! Accept this title, O my well-beloved ; 
 I give it you at this moment ; and I take God to 
 witness it, who beholds all our actions, and Death, 
 who is now waiting to receive me. He is here : 
 I feel him. Receive quickly, O my husband, 
 this ring, which I have worn ever since I was a 
 child, and which I give you as a pledge of my 
 love. Receive also this kiss from your spouse ; it 
 is the first and the last she has ever given/ 
 
 " At these words I felt her lips pressed softly 
 on my face, and a scorching tear fell from her 
 eyes on my cheek. I immediately recovered my 
 
123 
 
 senses : I looked at her but she was no more. 
 
 She was no more, O Nemorin ! and I found on 
 my finger the ring she had worn from her infancy, 
 and I felt on my cheek the scorching tear which 
 fell from her eyes .... 
 
 " I raised myself; I cried out, I called her my 
 wife ; I pressed her to my bosom. This awakened 
 Delphine, who in vain attempted to quiet me. I 
 pushed her far from me. Still she encreased her 
 efforts, fearing the arrival of her father. She or- 
 dered the servants to force me from the body 
 of her sister. They seized me ; they would have 
 dragged me away : but I cast myself on the ground. 
 I clasped fast hold of the bed, against which I 
 beat my head ; while the blood, mingling with my 
 tears, ran down my face. Delphine, on her knees, 
 entreated me to follow her out of the room : she 
 persuaded me to quit the castle ; and, fearful lest 
 the fury of her father should be exerted against 
 me, when so many testimonies should convince 
 him of my love, she made me vow to wander far 
 from the melancholy scene, the place of sorrow. 
 I swore to her that I would do so. I ran to hide 
 myself in the neighbouring woods, sunk into stupid 
 grief, incapable of forming any ideas ; passing the 
 nights in caverns, uttering horrible cries, calling 
 
124 
 
 on the name of Adelaide, and spending all the 
 days with my face lying on the ground, that I 
 might not behold the rays of the sun. 
 
 " At length I left the wood. I wandered from 
 village to village, every where lamenting my mi- 
 sery, demanding bread, which was given me as 
 an unhappy madman. I learned yesterday that the 
 Spaniards had declared war against us, and that 
 they over-run our country with fire and sword. 
 I seek them, that they may kill me. 
 
 " Such, my friend, is my fate. Believe me ; 
 weep for Adelaide, but attempt not to console 
 me." 
 
 Such was the recital of Isidore. Nemorin, with- 
 out making any answer, pressed him for a long 
 time in his arms. Resolved never more to quit 
 one another, these two unfortunate youths got up, 
 and were going to pursue their journey, when a 
 noise which they heard from behind the hedge, 
 where they had been sitting, made them turn 
 their eyes on that side. They instantly perceived 
 a warrior standing, who fixed on them his com- 
 passionate eyes. 
 
U5 
 
 This warrior, scarcely nineteen years of age, 
 was tall and well proportioned ; his countenance, 
 handsome and agreeable, had all the graces of 
 youth; his long dark hair fell in waving tresses 
 over his armour ; his helmet lay at his feet ; a 
 white scarf, bespangled with fleur de lis wrought 
 in gold, supported his rich sword. Every thing 
 declared him a prince ; while his eyes, his air of 
 nobleness, courage, and goodness, testified that he 
 was a hero. 
 
 The two shepherds, awed with respect, drew 
 back in silence ; when the prince approached to- 
 wards them. * 
 
 " Stay, shepherds," said he ; " I never love to 
 see any but the enemies of France fly from me. 
 Concealed amongst these shrubs, I have overheard 
 your conversation : I have wept at your misfor- 
 tunes ; and I entreat you to accept from me every 
 consolation which my friendship can bestow. I 
 was born a prince ; but I am a man, and my heart 
 draws towards me all those whom my fortune 
 divides from it. Take courage then, shepherds 
 and deign to put confidence in the words of Gaston 
 de Foix." 
 
126 
 
 At the noble name of Gaston the two shepherds 
 bent one knee to the earth. Gaston, the nephew 
 of Louis the Twelfth, was governor of Occitania. 
 His justice and his goodness made him dear to the 
 whole province. There was not a shepherd but 
 had heard of Gaston : all knew that it was to him 
 they were indebted for the felicity they enjoyed. 
 The mother who every morning taught her child 
 to return thanks to the Supreme Being, taught it 
 at the same time to bless the name of Gaston. 
 
 The prince hastened to raise up the shepherds. 
 " How happy am I" said he, " to think I wan- 
 dered this morning from my gamp to breathe here 
 the freshness of the morning air ! Yesterday I re- 
 lieved two persons in distress, and God has re- 
 warded me to-day in leading me to two others." 
 
 As he pronounced these words he held out his 
 hand to the shepherds, who bathed it with their 
 tears. " Do not quit me," added Gaston ; " but 
 come with me, and defend your brethren. The 
 virtuous Louis, judging of the hearts of other kings 
 by his own, thought that treaties were more sure 
 than conquests : he is punished for his confidence. 
 The perfidious king of Arragon has sent an army, 
 
127 
 
 under the command of the valiant Mendoza. 
 Half of Languedoc is ravaged ; and Mendoza is 
 already before the walls of Nismes. I go, to die, 
 or to defend them. Follow me, my brave shep- 
 herds ; exchange your crooks for lances ; and may 
 the glory of having usefully served your country 
 console you for having in vain served love." 
 
 Thus he spoke : and the two shepherds, deter- 
 mining never to forsake the hero, took with him 
 the road to the camp. 
 
 END OF THE FIFTH BOOK. 
 
ESTELLE* 
 
 BOOK VL 
 
 \J greatness ! how excellent art thou when en- 
 gaged in the service of virtue ! How pleasing to 
 the feeling mind is the spectacle of 'a great man 
 employed in relieving his fellow-creatures ! How 
 often have I enjoyed the sight ! How frequently 
 have I seen objects of distress surround in tears 
 him who put an end to their misfortunes; him 
 who, born in the purple of royalty, forsakes his 
 palace, and flies to their cottages, to raise them up 
 when destroyed, and to bring back abundance ! 
 I behold him daily, this beneficent mortal, traverse 
 his immense domains, and choosing for the mo- 
 ment of his appearance that in which the poor 
 have need of him. There, where the winter has 
 been most severe, where the flames have exercised 
 their ravages, where the impetuous torments Tiave 
 carried away the hopes of the husbandman, it is 
 there where he is sure to be found. Engaged in 
 
129 
 
 following misfortune ; he arrives almost as soon as 
 itself, to efface its footsteps. He appears, and the 
 poor is rich, the unfortunate dries up his tears, 
 the oppressed obtains possession of his rights. It 
 is for their sakes he values his rank, it is for them 
 that he has riches. The benefit he has conferred 
 is his reward ; above all, when the object is igno- 
 rant of the donor ! Ah ! let his modesty be not 
 alarmed ; my respect and my love prevent me 
 from naming him. 
 
 Isidore and Nemorin, conducted by the amiable 
 prince who interested himself so much in their 
 behalf, silently pursued the road to the camp ; 
 when the young Gaston, to turn their thoughts 
 from their misfortunes, talked to them of th^ir 
 country, of the advantages which distinguished it 
 from the other dominions of Louis, and of that 
 celebrated city where the troubadours went every 
 year to dispute for the eglantine, marigold and 
 violet of gold, which are appointed for the reward 
 of genius. The prince was ignorant of the origin 
 of this ancient and famous custom; Nemorin, to 
 inform him concerning it, having formerly learnf 
 of one of the shepherds on the banks of Arriege 
 the romance of Clementina Isauria, thus related it 
 to the prince. 
 
130 
 
 ISAURIA. A ROMANCE. 
 
 Where Thoulouse rears its stately head, 
 A place long known to fame, 
 
 There Iiv'd a young, a beauteous maid, 
 And Clementine her name. 
 
 This nymph the handsome Lautrec lov'd, 
 
 And was belov'd again ; 
 feut their inhuman parents prov'd 
 
 The source of all their pain. 
 
 Say, fate, why does it happen so, 
 
 That oft those souls, we see, 
 Who with the finest feelings glow, 
 
 Are born to misery ? 
 
 Alphonso, Clementina's sire, 
 
 Had long resolv'd in mind, 
 She should not have her heart's desire, 
 
 Nor be to Lautrec join'd. 
 
 " Pve fix'd upon a spouse,'* said he ; 
 
 if Him, daughter, you shall have:" 
 The nymph fell down on bended knee, 
 
 And thus did pity crave : 
 
 {t Oh ! press me not with him to wed ;-*• 
 
 My life you did impart ; 
 Take that again, and strike me dead, 
 
 For Lautrec has my heart." 
 
131 
 
 The sire, icTwhom revenge was dear, 
 
 Ne'er heeded lovers' pains, 
 But took her to a prison near, 
 
 And loaded her with chains. 
 
 He put her in a dungeon deep, 
 
 Far off from mortal sights 
 Then left the maiden there to weep 
 
 And mourn from morn to night. 
 
 Soon as the constant Lautrec found 
 
 The prison where she lay, 
 Like a true swain he watch'd around $ 
 
 Lamenting night and day. 
 
 So have I seen a mournful bird 
 
 Attending near the cage 
 In which its partner was immur'd, 
 Nor would its grief assuage. 
 
 One midnight, at the solemn hour, 
 
 She heard her lover's voice ; 
 Which, like some sweet celestial pow'r, 
 
 Made ev'ry nerve rejoice. 
 
 Unto the dungeon bars she sprung, 
 " Lautrec, my love !" said she, 
 
 " Those plaintive sighs to thee belong, 
 Ah ! weep no more for me. 
 
 " Wipe up your team's, ah ! dry them quite, 
 
 Think not my faith I'll break; 
 This dungeon and these chains are light 
 
 When borne for your dear sake. 
 
132 
 
 " Yet from my father's fury fly, 
 
 For 'tis in vain to stay ; 
 Go, seek the meed of vict'ry, 
 
 Where Philip leads the way. 
 
 " When he beholds your martial deeds, 
 Your fate his heart will move, 
 
 For Philip has a heart which bleeds 
 For persecuted love. 
 
 " Yes, Philip will our cause espouse, 
 Then take this pledge with thee, 
 
 This nosegay, pledge of sacred vows, 
 And wear it, love, for me. 
 
 " These flow'rs my constancy will shew, 
 
 These I to thee resign ; 
 The marigold, the violet blue, 
 
 And lovely eglantine. 
 
 " The wild rose is most dear to me, 
 
 The violet too^s my flow'r ; 
 The marigold will th> emblem be 
 
 Of th' anguish I endure. 
 
 " These flow'rs, which now I ardent kiss, 
 
 And water with my tears, 
 Shall make you recollect our bliss, 
 
 Our sorrows, and our cares." 
 
 She said ; and from the grate she threw 
 
 Those flowers to her swain, 
 Who saw Alphonso come in view, 
 
 Then fled across the plain. 
 
133 
 
 He took the nearest road he found, 
 
 Intent on love and fame, 
 And wak'd the echoes all around 
 
 With Clementina's name. 
 
 It happen'd soon that war broke out 
 With th' enemies of France, 
 
 And Edward's armies on their route 
 To Thoulouse did advance. 
 
 Quickly he then return'd again, 
 But scarce had reach'd the lines, 
 
 When many a chief of Thoulouse slain 
 The victory resigns. 
 
 One only warrior still remain'd, 
 Who too would soon have died, 
 
 But Lautrec with his shield sustain'd 
 Him, fighting by his side. 
 
 He saw 'twas Clementina's sire : 
 
 Exerting then his aid, 
 Resolv'd to oonquer or expire, 
 
 He vaProus deeds display 'd : 
 
 His body did the old man screen, 
 Till pierc'd with many a Wound ; 
 
 Such brav'ry ne'er before was seen, 
 And th' English fled around. 
 
 Alas ! his wounds too fatal were, 
 
 He fell on honour's bed ; 
 Alphonso would have left him there, 
 
 But dying thus he said. 
 
134 
 
 " Ah ! cruel father of my love, 
 
 I would have been thy son, 
 But thou wouldst not my vows approve ^ 
 
 Ah ! now my glass is run : 
 
 " Yet still I have revenge most dear, 
 
 I've sav'd her father's life : 
 This death is sweet ; oh ! hear my pray'r 
 
 For her my wish'd-for wife ! 
 
 " Oh ! render happy all the days 
 
 Of lovely Clementine, 
 And tell her what her Lautrec says, 
 
 Ere he does life resign ! 
 
 " I charge thee with my last adieu ! 
 
 Take back these bloody flow'rs ; 
 Tell her my love was ever true, 
 
 I lov'd with all my pow'rs. 
 
 " This treasure, nearest to my heart, 
 
 With dying lips I kiss, 
 And now to thee the gift impart - } 
 
 Alphonso, give her this." 
 
 Thus having said, he breath'd his last : 
 
 Alphonso, overcome 
 With sorrow for his conduct past, 
 
 Convey'd the nosegay home ; 
 
 Relating all to Clementine, 
 And back the flow'rs he gave : 
 
 The lovely nymph began to pine, 
 And soon sunk in the grave. 
 
135 
 
 But, ere the chilling hand of death 
 
 Had seiz'd upon her mind, 
 She did by testament bequeath 
 
 The goods she left behind : 
 
 She there ordain'd, that ev'ry year, 
 
 In mem'ry of her love, 
 The flowers those fav'rite bards should wear 
 
 Who did most skilful prove. 
 
 And that they should be wrought in gold 
 
 She order'd by her will : 
 Which custom still their country hold, 
 
 And faithfully fulfil. 
 
 Nemorin had scarce finished his romance, when 
 they arrived at the camp of the young hero. The 
 two shepherds, surprised at the sight, stopped to 
 view it. The quantity of glittering lances, the 
 tents of which the streamers waved in the air, 
 the colours, the standards, all the martial retinue, 
 filled them with admiration. The prince per- 
 ceived it. 
 
 " Shepherds," said he, " these are our cottages ; 
 they are less peaceable than yours ; but love inha- 
 bits them likewise. In the midst of the tumult of 
 arms, we sigh here as well as you, and like you 
 we also are faithful." 
 
136 
 
 While he was thus speaking, he beheld the 
 principal generals of His army approach towards 
 him : the brave Narbonne, the young Bernis, the 
 prudent Crussol, and the amiable Duroure. These 
 valiant warriors, whose noble ancestors were the 
 glory of Occitania, conducted to their general a 
 soldier of the garrison of Nismes, wounded, and 
 breathless with fatigue. This soldier brought to 
 Gaston a letter from Talleyrand, governor of the 
 city ; and related to him, that, pursued by the Spa- 
 niards, whose camp he had passed through, he had 
 received two wounds from a cross-bow, which how- 
 ever had not retarded his progress. The prince 
 loaded the young soldier with presents, and com- 
 manded Nemorin to take care of, his wounds. 
 
 The shepherd had not need of this command : he 
 had recollected the young messenger ; itwasHilaric, 
 that amiable lad who conducted Estelle to the beau- 
 tiful valley. Nemorin embraced him a thousand 
 times ; and, as soon as his wounds were dressed, 
 he enquired what circumstances had forced him 
 to leave his country ? how long it was since he 
 quitted Massanna ? He dared not mention the name 
 of Estelle, but multiplied his questions on every 
 subject connected with the shepherdess. 
 
137 
 
 <c You are then ignorant," said Hilaric, <c of our 
 misfortunes. A detachment from the Spanish army 
 has penetrated into our peaceful retreats, has ran- 
 sacked our property, destroyed our flocks, burnt 
 our houses" 
 
 <e What say'st thou r" cried Nemorin ? " And 
 thou dost not speak of Estelle !" 
 
 " She is fled," answered Hilaric, " along with 
 the greatest part of the inhabitants. Estelle, 
 MeriJ, the aged Raimond, Marguerita, Rose, and 
 myself, came and sought refuge in the walls of 
 Nismes; but the terrible Mendoza arrived there 
 yesterday : Mendoza has now blockaded the city. 
 Our governor is in want of provisions. He en- 
 quired if any soldier was willing to attempt passing 
 the Spanish lines, to convey a letter to Gaston. 
 I offered myself. I have succeeded ; and your 
 prince is thereby informed, that if he delays longer 
 than two days, Nismes will be obliged to sur- 
 render." 
 
 Thus spake the young Hilaric. Nemorin made 
 him repeat that Estelle had escaped from all dan- 
 ger. He learned also, with a pleasure mixed with 
 bitterness, that Meril was solely occupied in pro- 
 moting the happiness of his wife; that he had 
 
138 
 
 many times exposed his life to defend her in the 
 flight; and that since his arrival at Nismes, no 
 soldier had shewn more zeal or more valour than 
 Meril. 
 
 While Nemorin was applauding the good quali- 
 ties of his rival, Gaston called a council of war, 
 and determined to attack Mendoza. Every ob- 
 stacle was foreseen, all the hours were calculated ; 
 but it was necessary that instructions should be 
 sent that night to the governor of the city, to pre- 
 pare for a sally, which might assure the victory. 
 Hilaric, who was wounded, could not return to 
 Nismes. Another messenger, therefore, must be 
 sent, who could clear twelve leagues before morn- 
 ing, and be able to escape the enemy's guards. 
 The enterprize was dangerous. Nemorin imme- 
 diately offered himself. 
 
 Gaston embraced him, and gave him a letter 
 for Talleyrand. Isidore would not quit his friend ; 
 and both, armed with lances, immediately set out 
 on the journey. 
 
 Animated by all the motives which have a 
 power over ardent souls, the two friends, in six 
 hours, had traversed the long space which they 
 had to go. The dawn had not yet appeared when 
 
139 
 
 they came near the Spanish camp. To avoid it, 
 they took a circuit to approach the city on the 
 side which they supposed was the least guarded. 
 
 But the prudent Mendoza, fearing to be sur- 
 prized by Gaston, had stationed guards so as to 
 cover the country all round. The unfortunate 
 shepherds advanced silently behind a long hedge, 
 which hid from them one of the enemy's posts. 
 All at once they came directly upon it, and found 
 themselves surrounded by eight soldiers, who called 
 to them to surrender. 
 
 Isidore ran his lance through the first that ap- 
 proached him. Isidore, at the same instant, fell 
 himself, weltering in his own blood. Nemorin 
 wished to defend him ; he received a large wound ; 
 and while he held out his hand to assist his com- 
 panion, the soldiers, falling on him, disarmed him. 
 
 u My friend," said Isidore to him, " congratu- 
 late me : I am dying ; I am going to join my 
 Adelaide. The only regret which I feel is to leave 
 you in the perilous situation which surrounds you; 
 my only pain" He could not finish : he ex- 
 pired. The Spaniards immediately dragged away 
 Nemorin, who demanded to be conducted to their 
 general. 
 
140 
 
 Being arrived in Mendoza's presence, and sur- 
 rounded on all sides, he took out the letter which 
 Gaston had entrusted him with, and looking at the 
 Spaniard with respect and boldness, " Sir," said 
 he, " I have sworn to suffer death sooner than be- 
 tray these contents. Open then my bosom, if 
 you desire to read them." 
 
 As he pronounced these words, he tore the let- 
 ter, and swallowed the various fragments of it. 
 Immediately a general cry was heard, and a thou- 
 sand swords were raised over Nemorin. Mendoza 
 thrust them back. 
 
 '" Stop," cried he, " stop, brave Castilians ; re- 
 spect a noble action, which, without doubt, you 
 yourselves would have done. Courage, when de- 
 fenceless, has ever been held sacred by the Spa- 
 niards. And you, young and valiant soldier, return 
 to him who sent you ; tell him my vigilance has 
 been able to prevent your penetrating to Nismes ; 
 but that, without deigning to be too inquisitive 
 concerning his mysterious designs, Mendoza pro- 
 poses to him a way for delivering the besieged 
 city. Let him, in the face of our two armies, 
 enter the lists with me alone. If he is victorious, 
 the siege shall be raised : I pledge my honour to 
 
141 
 
 him. If he is conquered, I demand his assur- 
 ance likewise, that the city shall be surrendered 
 to me." 
 
 After these words, he ordered Nemorin's wounds 
 to be dressed, and commanded an escort to recon- 
 duct him to Gaston. 
 
 Nemorin, penetrated with admiration for Men- 
 doza, but distressed at having failed in his com- 
 mission, and above all that he had lost his friend, 
 intreated the Spanish general to grant the unfor- 
 tunate Isidore the honours of burial. After hav- 
 ing obtained this mournful favour, he hastened to 
 leave the camp, and soon rejoined Gaston, who was 
 advancing by forced marches to his enemy. 
 
 Gaston arrived, drew up his army on the de- 
 lightful plain of Vistra, sent to apprize Mendoza 
 that he accepted the conditions, and demanded 
 the day of the combat, the hour, the place, and 
 the arms. The Spaniard replied to him, To-mor- 
 row morning, at break of day, on foot> with sword 
 and dagger, in presence of both the armies. The 
 lists were immediately erected ; both the warriors 
 began to prepare for the battle ; and the two ar- 
 mies offered up their prayers to heaven. 
 
142 
 
 As soon as Aurora had opened the gates of the 
 east, the ramparts of Nismes were crowded with 
 soldiers. The tops of the amphitheatres, the roofs 
 of the temples and houses, were covered with a 
 multitude of people. The Spanish lances glittered 
 on the summit of the Tourmagne. Different posts 
 of French or Castilian troops occupied the sur- 
 rounding hills ; and the distant mountains were 
 thronged with the inhabitants of the country, who 
 with uplifted hands to heaven implored its assist- 
 ance for their defender. 
 
 At the appointed hour the Spaniards quitted 
 their camp. Covered with glittering coats of mail, 
 which reflected the rays of the sun, they marched 
 with the utmost regularity into the plain, and 
 slowly ranged their battalions, bristling with spears. 
 A profound silence reigned amongst them. Im- 
 moveable in their ranks, occupied only in obey- 
 ing, they' saw only their chiefs. Valour and haugh- 
 tiness seemed painted on their sun-burnt counte- 
 nances, a noble and austere gravity tempered their 
 warlike ardour. 
 
 The French quitted their tents. Their light bat- 
 talions ran and formed themselves opposite their 
 enemies : chiefs and soldiers mixed together. The 
 
us 
 
 equality of courage, freedom, and national gaiety, 
 rendered them all companions. Resting negli- 
 gently on their lances, they seemed as if assisting 
 at an entertainment. Without hate as without 
 fear, they smiled at their enemies, informed them 
 that Gaston was invincible, and seemed to lament 
 Mendoza for having provoked the young hero. 
 The Castilians shuddered, and were silent. The 
 French laughed, and sung this song : 
 
 Gaston ! Gaston ! your country's fame and glory 
 Depends upon your valour ; your skill you now must prove -, 
 
 When therefore in the combat keep in your view He fore ye 
 The noblest prize of honour, the mistress that you love ; 
 
 The triple federation ensures success in fight, 
 
 For prowess, love, and glory, in Frenchmen all unite. 
 
 When in the field of battle, or in the tents of Venus, 
 We meet a cruel enemy, or still more cruel fair, 
 
 Our gallantry and valour .soon decides the cause between u£ r 
 For vain is their resistance when we the combat dare : 
 
 The triple federation ensures success in fight, 
 
 For prowess, love, and glory, in Frenchmen all unite. 
 
 \Vheu o'er the hardy warrior or mistress we're victorious^ 
 So lenient is our triumph, the soldier ne'er complains ; 
 
 And to the vanquished fair ones we even think it glorious 
 To yield ourselves submissive, and joyful wear their chains : 
 
 All own the federation ensures success in fight, 
 
 For prowess, love, and glory, in Frenchmen still unite* 
 
144 
 
 But soonMendoza made his appearance, mounted 
 on a stately courser of Andalusia, which, curbed 
 by his master's hand, scattered around the foam 
 with which he whitened his golden bit. Jewels 
 sparkled on his armour ; a plume of red feathers 
 shaded his helmet ; and a scarf of the same colour 
 supported his glittering sword. He advanced 
 gravely with a haughty air, ordered the barrier to 
 be opened, left his steed at the entrance, and, 
 walking about, waited for Gaston. 
 
 This prince approached on full gallop. White 
 plumes waved on his head, his armour of polished 
 steel shone brighter than the diamond. On his 
 shield was seen an amorous cypher ; the same cy- 
 pher was embroidered on his splendid scarf. Swift 
 as the lightning he flew, arrived, and leaped to 
 the ground ; saluted Mendoza, and demanded the 
 signal. 
 
 The trumpets sounded ; and the two champions, 
 with sword in one hand, and dagger in the othei, 
 furiously began the attack. 
 
 Gaston, more impetuous than his valiant adver- 
 sary, made immediately four thrusts at him, which 
 were all parried. Mendoza, in his turn, then pressed 
 
145 
 
 Gaston ; pretended to aim a thrust at his face ; and 
 then, rapidly dropping his sword under that of his 
 antagonist, he reached his side : the blood instantly 
 gushed out. 
 
 At this sight the French turned pale, the Spa- 
 niards uttered a cry of joy. But the skilful Gas- 
 ton, at the moment in which he was struck, turn- 
 ing away his body, made by this movement the 
 wound but slight ; and, lunging forth his left arm, 
 thrust his dagger at his enemy's neck. The dag- 
 ger broke against the coat of mail, but the blood 
 of Mendoza did not the less stain his arms ; and 
 the French, in their turn, answered to the shout 
 of the Castilians. 
 
 Gaston had now only his sword. Mendoza saw 
 this, and threw away his poignard. " Prince," 
 said he, " I desire no advantage ; let our arms be 
 equal as well as our valour;" 
 
 As he spoke these words he pressed on Gaston, 
 and aimed a blow at his head, which made the 
 hero stagger. Gaston fell back a step Or two, 
 sprung on one side, and, uniting all his strength, 
 struck his sharp sword upon the Spaniard's helmet. 
 The broken helmet rolled in the dust ; Mendoza 
 
146 
 
 himself touched the earth with his left hand ; but he 
 raised himself more terrible than ever. " Stop I" 
 cried Gaston to him ; <c the danger is not equal." 
 
 He spoke, unloosed his helmet, cast it from 
 him, and continued the combat. 
 
 The two armies, filled with admiration, trembled 
 for their valiant chiefs. Their heads were no longer 
 defended but by their swords, and their multi- 
 plied attacks inspired with terror the bravest sol- 
 dier ; when suddenly a courier approached, who 
 advanced towards the lists with all the speed with 
 which his horse could carry him, and called out 
 to the two heroes to stop. 
 
 At his cries, and those of the two armies, Gas- 
 ton and Mendoza, surprised, suspended their com- 
 bat. The courier, in the name of the king of 
 France, commanded the barrier to be opened, 
 and delivered a letter from Louis to Gaston. The 
 prince, having read it, cast away his sword. 
 
 " No more of war," cried he ; " our monarchs 
 cease to be enemies. Germaine, my sister, mar- 
 ries your sovereign, and becomes the guarantee of 
 a firm and lasting peace between Louis and Fer- 
 
147 
 
 dinand. To me, above all> this peace is dear ; I 
 prefer the friendship of Mendoza above the glory 
 even of having resisted him." 
 
 He said; and the Spanish hero> moved by so 
 much courtesy, wished to kiss with respect the 
 hand of the brother of his queen. Gaston em- 
 braced him, and the two warriors quitted the lists 
 to proclaim peace* 
 
 This happy news was soon circulated. A thou^ 
 sand joyful acclamations rent the sky. The gates 
 of the city were opened : the inhabitants offered 
 their houses to the French and Spaniards* The 
 two generals, taking one another by the hand at 
 the head of their two armies, now mingled to^ 
 gether, entered the city of Nismes in the midst 
 of acclamation. Both were conducted to Talley- 
 rand's house, where their wounds were dressed. 
 Their soldiers were quartered among the citizens, 
 and the severest discipline prevented any disorder 
 intermingling with the general festivity. 
 
 Nemorin, the only unfortunate amongst such a 
 multitude of happy persons, had not quitted Gas- 
 ton. As soon as that prince had entered the pa- 
 lace, the sorrowful Nemorin traversed the city, 
 
148 
 
 desiring, yet fearing, to meet Estelle. He dared 
 not ask any information concerning her ; he trem- 
 bled to pronounce her name ; but he enquired of 
 all he saw if they knew not Rose or Marguerita. 
 Scarcely would any one listen to him ; none gave 
 him an answer ; for soldiers, citizens, and foreign- 
 ers, were all taken up with the public joy. 
 
 The shepherd employed all the day in his use- 
 less search. In the evening he wandered again 
 through the city ; when, passing by an ancient 
 temple of Diana, he found himself suddenly in 
 the middle of a burial ground, where many new- 
 made graves recalled to mind the horrors of the 
 siege. Nemorin stopped in this solemn place : he 
 seated himself upon an ancient tomb : and there, 
 fixing his eyes on the earth, that only asylum 
 where the weary are at rest, enveloped in the 
 shades of night, and surrounded with funereal 
 images, Nemorin heard in silence the cries of the 
 solitary screech-owl, seated near him on an iron 
 cross. 
 
 He experienced a secret pleasure while he thus 
 gave himself up to the profoundest sorrow; but 
 presently he heard, at a small distance from him, 
 the sound of groans and lamentations. The shep- 
 
149 
 
 herd listened, lifted up his eyes, and could just 
 distinguish, through the gloom, a female in mourn- 
 ing, kneeling with clasped hands on a grave. Her 
 head was covered with crape. Nemorin approached 
 her, and heard her pronounce these words : 
 
 " O thou, who didst possess of my heart all 
 which it could grant thee ! Thou who didst 
 wish to render me happy, but wert not ren- 
 dered happy by me ! Forgive me, O my worthy 
 spouse ! forgive me, for always avoiding thy pure 
 love, for having accepted the sacrifice of thy chaste 
 desires. I owed them to thee ; I was not worthy 
 of thee. Thou meritedst a partner whose heart 
 would have been thine alone; but mine could 
 never extinguish the flame with which it was first 
 enkindled. Ah! at least, if from thy celestial 
 abode thou canst read the bottom of my heart, 
 thou canst not doubt the sincerity of my grief, 
 The bitter tears with which I bathe thy tomb must 
 at least prove that my respect and friendship for 
 thee are no less dear to me than my first love/* 
 
 At these words, and the sound of this voice, 
 Nemorin believed himself in 3, drea n. Move- 
 less, and lost as it were to himself, he listened a 
 long time before he could be certain that it was 
 Esteile. When he could no longer doubt it, he 
 
150 
 
 sprang towards the shepherdess, threw himself at 
 her feet, and with sobs cried out, u Is it thou 
 who art restored to me ? Is it indeed my Estelle, 
 whose knees Nemorin thus embraces }" 
 
 Estelle, terrified at first, yet soon recollected 
 the shepherd ; but, without leaving him time to 
 persist in his conversation, " You are," said she, 
 in a severe tone of voice, " upon the tomb of 
 Meril ; you are speaking to his widqw ! she ought 
 not, she will not listen to you," 
 
 At these words she fled. Nemorin, struck with 
 fear, remained kneeling on the tomb with open 
 mouth and extended arms. 
 
 Yet the desire to know where Estelle resided 
 soon brought him to himself. He got up, ran after 
 her, and saw her enter into a house of mean ap^ 
 pearance, which the shepherd gazed on a long 
 time. At length, with a heart full of grief, not 
 daring yet to indulge itself with hope, he returned 
 back to the palace of Gaston to relate every thing 
 to his protector. 
 
 The prince consoled the shepherd. He did 
 more ; he took the necessary measures to complete 
 the felicity of Estelle and Nemorin. Immediately 
 
151 
 
 he issued orders for the inhabitants of Nismes to 
 assemble in the amphitheatre. Gaston took care 
 privately that the aged Raimond should be amongst 
 them. The prince then, followed by his officers 
 and Nemorin, presented himself in the midst of 
 the affectionate multitude, who made the air re- 
 sound with transports on viewing their deliverer. 
 
 <e Citizens," said he to them, " I have fought 
 for you ; but to the best of kings you must ascribe 
 your deliverance ; it is he who has given you 
 peace; yes, you owe every thing to Louis, no- 
 thing to Gaston. Let us then together implore 
 that heaven will long preserve to us the father of 
 his people ! 
 
 " I entreat, nevertheless, your grateful remem- 
 brance of one of your compatriots, who, commis- 
 sioned by me to inform you of the day of my 
 arrival, was taken by the Spaniards, and would 
 sooner have suffered death than deliver up the 
 letter which I had entrusted him with for you. 
 Behold him I" added he, " behold this virtuous 
 soldier \" at the same time presenting Nemorin to 
 them. " There is but one reward alone worthy 
 of his heart ; and it is of thee, Raimond, that I ask 
 it. Nemorin adores your daughter. The glorious 
 
152 
 
 death of Meril has left her at liberty. Acquit, 
 then, the debt of thy country, by giving Estelle 
 to her worthy lover. Gaston de Foix entreats it 
 of thee : Gaston wishes to command nothing ; but 
 he beseeches every citizen to join with him to 
 persuade Raimond," 
 
 Having thus spoken, all the people gave a shout, 
 Raimond threw himself at the feet of the prince. 
 Nemorin was already there. The hero raised 
 them up, and made them embrace each other. 
 
 " Will you pardon me my felicity ?" said the 
 shepherd to the old man, with trembling accents, 
 ' My daughter is thine/ answered he ; ' but you 
 will doubtless consent that the marriage should be 
 delay ed > . . . " Till the moment," interrupted Ne- 
 morin, " that the ancient friend of Meril shall 
 deign to, fix it." 
 
 As soon as he had said this, he besought him to 
 give him his blessing. Raimond granted it. The 
 whole assembly applauded ; and Gaston dismissed 
 fhem with these words : 
 
 " I now quit you, citizens, to repair the ruins 
 of war, to convey relief to the desolated villages,. 
 
153 
 
 You, Nemorin, will second me : I charge you with 
 the distribution of my treasures to the inhabitants 
 of Massanna. Go, then; rebuild their houses; 
 purchase new flocks for them ; relieve, succour, 
 every unfortunate person; and be not afraid of 
 exhausting my treasures: I am then only rich 
 when I bestow them." 
 
 At these words the hero retired, to avoid the 
 transports of gratitude and love. He then rejoined 
 Mendoza; and departed with that warrior, who 
 was to restore to him the places taken during the 
 war. 
 
 Oh ! what were the joyful sensations of Rose 
 and Marguerita when they saw Nemorin approach, 
 conducted by Raimond ! Estelle almost fainted 
 away at the recital of what had passed. Her 
 blushes and her silence were her only reply. 
 
 Nemorin, out of respect to her mourning, would 
 not utter one word which might in the least dis^ 
 please the shepherdess. Intimidated even by his 
 happiness, hardly dared he look at Estelle, hardly 
 seemed he to remember that he had been beloved 
 by her. It w T as to Rose that he spoke of it, it was 
 with Rose alone that he appeared to have the air 
 of a lover. 
 
154 
 
 The next day they quitted Nismes, and took 
 with them Hilaric. They soon arrived at Mas- 
 sanna. From that hour Nemorin was busily em- 
 ployed in distributing the gifts of Gaston. He 
 rebuilt the cottages, caused the lands to be reac- 
 tivated, recalled the labourers; and, that the days 
 might pass the swifter, he employed the whole of 
 them in acts of goodness. 
 
 At length, the long year of mourning ended, 
 and the happy Nemorin became the spouse of 
 Estelle. ^lose conducted them to the altar ; Rose 
 could with difficulty repress her transports of joy. 
 She stopped every one she met, and called on 
 them to admire Estelle; spoke to them of her 
 virtues, of her past sufferings, and her present 
 happiness. Tears of joy ran down her cheeks ; 
 and when the affectionate Estelle pronounced that 
 delightful vow, that she would love Nemorin for 
 ever ; in spite of the sanctity of the place, Rose 
 could not contain her transport, and sprang to the 
 neck of her friend. 
 
 From that time Rose was taken into Estelle's 
 house. Marguerita and Raimond, always dear to, 
 always respected by, this amiable family, lived in • • 
 the midst of them to a good and peaceable old 
 age. Peace, friendship, and love, were the inhe- 
 
155 
 
 ritance they left to their children ; whose posterity 
 still remains in that delightful country to which I 
 owe my birth. 
 
 Happy country ! from whence fortune has in- 
 deed exiled me, but which is not less dear to my 
 mind ; I shall at least have celebrated thee, I shall 
 have consecrated to thee the last accents of my 
 rural pipe ! Yes, I now swear, by thy beloved 
 name, that henceforth I bid an eternal farewel te 
 the pastoral muse ! Never shall any other songs 
 profane the flute on which I have sung the charms 
 of my native soil. Ah ! what subject can now 
 afford me pleasure, after having described the 
 smiling meads, where the beauties of nature, for 
 the first time, made an impression on my heart ? 
 Lovely vales, happy banks, where, when young, I 
 was wont to cull the flowers! Majestic trees, 
 planted by my grandsire, whose lofty heads 
 touched the clouds, when, bending o'er his crutch, 
 he often made me admire them ! Ye limpid brooks, 
 which bathe the meadows of Florian, and which, 
 in the days of my infancy, I leaped over with so . 
 much difficulty, but yet with so much delight } 
 I shall never see you more : I shall grow old in 
 sorrow, far removed from the place of my birth, 
 from that spot where repose the ashes of my fa^ 
 
156 
 
 thers : and, should I arrive at old age, the cheer- 
 ing sun of my country will not reanimate my 
 feeble limbs. Ah ! may I not at least hope, that 
 my mortal remains shall be carried to that valley 
 where I beheld the lambs frolic and play when 
 I was a child ! Why cannot I be assured of re- 
 posing under that lofty palm-tree where the shep- 
 herdesses of the village assemble to dance ! I should 
 wish that their pious hands may water the turf 
 which covers my grave; that the faithful lover 
 and his mistress may always choose it for their 
 seat ; that the children, after their sports are over, 
 may scatter their nosegays there; and that the 
 shepherds of the country may sometimes melt 
 in sympathy as they read this inscription on my 
 tomb: 
 
 In this silent peaceful shade 
 Our beloved friend is laid ; 
 Forc'd, when living, to resort 
 To the city and the court ; 
 Yet these scenes he held most dear, 
 For his heart was ever here. 
 
 END OF THE SIXTH BOOK. 
 
NOTES* 
 
NOTES. 
 
 1 Ijanguedoc, or Occitania, one of the finest and 
 most extensive provinces of France, was anciently 
 inhabited by the Volscians. They were subdued 
 by the Romans, under the consulate of Quintus 
 Fabius Maximus, in the year of Rome 634. It 
 was then called The Roman Province ; and after- 
 wards, when all Gaul had submitted to the arms 
 of Caesar, Languedoc received the name of Gaul 
 Narbonnese, or Transalpine Gaul. The Romans, 
 ever attentive to attach to themselves by their 
 arts the people whom they had conquered by 
 their arms, planted colonies in Languedoc. These 
 carried thither their religion, their language, and 
 their manners ; they founded new cities, rebuilt 
 the ancient ones, and spared no pains in orna- 
 menting them with circus's, temples, and master- 
 pieces of architecture ; such as the amphitheatre, 
 the maison quarree at Nismes, the bridge of the 
 Gard, and many other monuments, which are still 
 looked upon with admiration. Attracted by the 
 fineness of the climate, the families of the con- 
 
160 
 
 tjuerors came in crowds to settle there; and the! 
 conquered, in their turn, went to seek for honours 
 at Rome; where, in the time of Cicero, great 
 numbers of them were admitted into the senate. 
 
 Gaul Narbonnese, sometimes happy, sometimes 
 oppressed, according as the throne of the world 
 was occupied by a good prince or a monster, either 
 suffered or profited from the revolutions of the 
 empire. It embraced Christianity, under the reign 
 of Commodus, about the year 1 80 of our sera ; and 
 almost as soon became heretical. When the suc- 
 cessors of Theodosius, more engaged in contro- 
 verting the Arians than in repelling the barbarians, 
 permitted the empire to be dismembered, this pro- 
 vince, after having been ravaged by the Vandals, 
 the Alans, the Swiss, and Germans, fell at length 
 under the dominion of the Visigoths, who chose 
 Thoulouse for their capital about the year 418. 
 
 More flourishing under their government than 
 under that of the emperors, Narbonnese soon after- 
 wards took the name of Septimania or Hither 
 Spain. In spite of the victories of Clovis, in spite 
 of its continual wars with France, it obeyed near 
 300 years the kings of the Visigoths, who reigned 
 in Ulterior Spain. 
 
161 
 
 The Arabian Moors, vanquishers of those kings 
 and of Spain, got possession of Septimania in the 
 year 720, but did not keep it long. Conquered, 
 in their turn, at the memorable battle of Poictiers, 
 they repassed the Pyrenees ; and Pepin the Short, 
 son of Charles Martel, who then filled the throne 
 of France, made himself master of Septimania in 
 the year 759, not by conquest, but by a treaty. 
 
 Under the feeble successors of Charlemagne, 
 the unfortunate Septimania, ravaged in turn by 
 the Saracens, the Normans, and Hungarians, had 
 dukes and marquises, less engaged indeed in reliev- 
 ing its misfortunes than rendering themselves inde- 
 pendent of the kings of France. Then, towards 
 the year 850, began the Raimonds, counts of Thou- 
 louse ; who, from being only governors under the 
 first kings of the second race, arrived at the pos- 
 session of the whole province, with all the rights 
 of sovereignty. Many of the Raimonds were 
 worthy of their fortune ; but the most illustrious 
 was Raimond of St. Giles, the fourth of the name, 
 so renowned for his exploits in the holy land. 
 See note 4 . 
 
 This hero died at Mount Pilgrim, in the year 
 1105. His two sons, Alphonso and Bertram!, 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 who succeeded each other, followed the footsteps 
 of their father, and, leaving their estates in Eu- 
 rope, went to fight and to die in Asia. These 
 brave crusaders, without doubt, were far from 
 foreseeing that, thirty years afterwards, Pope In- 
 nocent III. would publish a crusade against their 
 grandson, Raimond VI. ; that the cruel Simon de 
 Montfort would slaughter, pillage, and burn the 
 unhappy Languedocians, under the same banner 
 of the cross formerly planted by Raimond IV. on 
 the tower of David; that the unfortunate Rai- 
 mond VI. should be excommunicated, pursued, 
 and publicly scourged, by a legate, because he was 
 not willing to exterminate his subjects ; should be 
 obliged to join with his enemies to lay waste his 
 own dominions; should be driven from the capital 
 with his only son, and despoiled of all his posses- 
 sions ; to see them pass to the executioner of hi& 
 subjects. Yet, in the midst of so much adver- 
 sity, Raimond VI. displayed unexampled courage, 
 patience, and wisdom ; bending to the storm when 
 he had no other resource, taking up arms as soon 
 as he could find soldiers ; submissive to the church, 
 yet haughty to the robbers who abused that sacred 
 name, he retook Thoulouse and almost all his do- 
 minions ; and at last died full of years, misfortunes, 
 and glory. 
 
163 
 
 His son, Raimond VII. had assisted his father 
 in the recovery of his possessions. He knew how 
 to defend them against Amauri of Montfort, and 
 against Louis VIII. to whom Montfort had sold 
 what he could no longer preserve. The inquisi- 
 tion, introduced into this province in the year 1204, 
 was established there by the council of Thoulouse 
 in 1229. It proved a source of new calamities. 
 The inquisitors abused their power in such a man- 
 ner, that Gregory Iras obliged to suspend them 
 from their functions : but being re-established soon 
 afterwards, the flames were rekindled, and the in- 
 quisitors were massacred. Their death raised up 
 new enemies to Raimond : he, however, quieted 
 the tempest ; and, being reconciled with the Pope, 
 and with the king St. Louis, he died lamented by 
 his subjects, whom he would have rendered hap- 
 pier, had it not been for his continual wars, and, 
 above all, for the inquisition. 
 
 Raimond VII. left only one daughter, whose 
 name was Joan, who had married Alphonsus, count 
 of Poictiers, and brother of St. Louis. At the 
 death of her father, Joan, his sole heir, united her 
 sovereignty to the house of France, Alphonsus 
 and Joan dying childless, within three days of each 
 other, Philip the Hardy, king of France, and ne- 
 
164 
 
 phew of Alphonsus, repaired to Thoulouse, in the 
 year 1271, to take possession of this beautiful pro- 
 vince, which has ever since been inviolably at- 
 tached to the crown of France. 
 
 2 Upper Languedoc is covered with the finest 
 harvests of corn ; the Lower, less fertile in grain, 
 produces those excellent wines of Frontigniac, 
 Lunel, St. Perny, St. Giles, Cornas, &c. Olives 
 are cultivated here with as much success as in 
 Provence. The flocks, which cover the moun- 
 tains of the Cevennes, and the prodigious quan- 
 tities of mulberry trees, are the principal riches 
 of the country. The Arriege, the Ceze, the Gar 
 don, and the Tarn, roll down spangles of gold, 
 which proves that the mountains contain mines of 
 that precious metal. In many cantons are mines 
 of iron, lead, tin, and copper, jet, vitriol, bitumen, 
 antimony, sulphur, and coals. Marble quarries 
 are very common ; those of Cosnes, in the diocese 
 of Narbonne, furnish abundance of that beauti- 
 fully veined marble which bears the name of the 
 province. Near to Castres, and in other parts> 
 they find those Turquoises which equal those that 
 are brought from the East. Mineral waters are 
 very plentiful; the most celebrated are those of 
 Vals, Lodeve, Alais, Servan, Balaruc, and Vendres, 
 
165 
 
 besides an infinite number of others. Medicinal 
 plants abound ; in the neighbourhood of Montpel- 
 lier alone they reckon upwards of three thousand 
 sorts, and the mountains of the Cevennes produce 
 many more. 
 
 3 Antoninus Pius, that model for kings, who, 
 by adopting Marcus Aurelius, may be said to have 
 found out the means of existing after death, was 
 originally of Nismes. 
 
 4 Raimond St. Giles, the fourth of the name, 
 count of Thoulouse, rendered great service to Al- 
 phonsus IV. king of Castile, in his wars against 
 the Moors, and in recompence obtained his daugh- 
 ter Elvira, sister of Theresa, who married Henry 
 of Burgundy, founder of the kingdom of Portugal. 
 Raimond went to the holy land in 1096, at the 
 head of 100,000 men. His exploits at the sieges 
 of Nice, Antioch, and Jerusalem, gained him im- 
 mortal glory. All the eastern historians are more 
 lavish of their praises of Raimond St. Giles than 
 of Godfrey or any other. After the conquest of 
 Jerusalem, the Christians offered him the crown, 
 but he refused it. Godfrey was then elected, and 
 soon quarrelled with Raimond. Raimond, how- 
 ever, assisted him in gaming the famous battle of 
 
166 
 
 Asealon. Rajpond, with four hundred knights alone, 
 subdued many cities, of which he formed a prin- 
 cipality. He built a fortress, which he named 
 Mount Pilgrim, where he established his residence. 
 Elvira, his spouse, never forsook him, followed 
 him in all his campaigns, and bore him several 
 children, which he baptized in the river Jordan, 
 and who became heroes like their father. At 
 length he died, in 1105, at Mount Pilgrim, in the 
 64th year of his age, after having spent ten years 
 of battle and of victory in Palestine. 
 
 5 James I. king of Arragon, was born at Mont- 
 pellier, the 1st of February, 1208. He was son 
 of Mary of Montpellier, heiress of that lordship, 
 and of the brave Peter II. king of Arragon, who 
 was slain at the battle of Muret, in defending his 
 ally, his brother-in-law, Raimond VI. against the 
 usurper Simon de Montfort. Two crusaders of 
 Montfort's army, Alain de Roncy and Florent de 
 Ville, had formed a conspiracy against the life of 
 Peter: but he having changed his armour with 
 one of his knights, the two crusaders attacked the 
 knight. Alain, not perceiving in the defence he 
 made that noble bravery which he knew belonged 
 to king Peter, exclaimed, " This is not he I* Peter, 
 not far distant, hearing these words, and enraged 
 
167 
 
 at the two warriors, lifted up his mask, and with 
 a loud voice said to them, " No, certainly, that is 
 not him; but here I am. " As he finished these 
 words, he made a stroke at the French soldier, 
 and threw down his horse : then penetrating into 
 the midst of his enemies, he performed prodigies 
 of valour. But Alain and Florent, rallying their 
 troops, surrounded the valiant king, and, directing 
 all their aim at him alone, finished by leaving him 
 dead on the field. Thus perished, in the flower 
 of his age, one of the most amiable monarch s in 
 the world. Peter was large, well made, magni- 
 ficent, and possessed integrity equal to his bravery. 
 His justice and his goodness rendered him the idol 
 of his subjects. All the accomplishments that 
 could at that time be acquired were united in him. 
 He delighted in, and cultivated a taste for, pro- 
 vencal poetry, and had the honour of being a 
 good troubadour. This great prince, too little 
 known, and especially too seldom praised, go- 
 verned his subjects like a father, and died like a 
 hero, while fighting for justice and friendship. 
 
 Peter II. left the crown of Arragon and the 
 lordship of Montpellier to James I. his son ; and 
 this prince was worthy of his father. Sixty years 
 victories over the Moors procured him the surname 
 
168 
 
 of Conqueror, a title truly glorious to him, since 
 he acquired it only by delivering his country from 
 the usurpers who had oppressed it. In triumphing 
 over his enemies he knew how to render his peo- 
 ple happy. He cultivated the arts and literature, 
 and has left some invaluable memoirs of his own 
 life. 
 
 Guy Fulcodi, pope, under the name of Cle- 
 ment IV. was a native of St. Giles, the son of a 
 respectable counsellor. Guy first entered into the 
 army, married a young woman that he loved, 
 and had several children. He next studied the 
 law, and became very celebrated. To his pro- 
 found erudition he united those more estimable 
 endowments, integrity, wisdom, and humility. 
 His sovereign Raimond VI. Alphonsus count of 
 Poictiers and Thoulouse, St. Louis king of France, 
 and the king of Arragon, all employed him in 
 their most difficult affairs. Having lost his wife, 
 he took orders, was soon made bishop of Puy, 
 archbishop of Narbonne, cardinal, and pope. 
 
 His new dignity did not inflate him with pride. 
 The following is part of a letter he wrote, after 
 his exaltation, to his nephew Peter St. Giles : 
 
169 
 
 " The transient honour with which I am attired, 
 " far from encreasing the pride of my relations or 
 " myself, ought to render us more humble. Do 
 " not seek, because of me, to procure a more ele- 
 " vated match for your sister : let her marry the 
 " son of a private gentleman. In that case I pro- 
 " mise to give her for her dower three hundred 
 " livres tournois ; but if she aspires to a higher 
 " match, I will give her nothing at all. Inform 
 " my dear daughters, Mabilia and Cecilia, that I 
 " intend they should have the same husbands as 
 " they would otherwise have had if I had re- 
 Cf mained only a priest. They are the daughters 
 " of Guy Fulcodi, not of the pope : they possess 
 " my warmest affections, but my dignity is no- 
 " thing to them." 
 
 Clement preserved a tender affection for Lan- 
 guedoc, his country, and for his former friends. 
 He loved literature, and left behind him some 
 writings, and the reputation of an irreproachable 
 pontiff. 
 
 William de Grimoard, pope, under the appella- 
 tion of Urban V. of the family of Duroure, was 
 a native of Grisoc, in the Gevaudan. His virtues 
 obtained him the tiara. He governed the church 
 
170 
 
 with much prudence, edification, and piety. He 
 died in the year 1370. 
 
 n Amongst the vast number of illustrious war- 
 riors which Languedoc has produced, the most 
 renowned, after the Raimonds, are Amalric, vis- 
 count of Narbonne, whose heroic achievements 
 were so eminent, that in the year 1290 all the ci- 
 ties of the Guelph party, leagued together under 
 the title of The Society of Tuscany, chose Amalric 
 for their general. Charles the Handsome, king of 
 France, appointed him general of the army des- 
 tined to carry on the crusade against the infidels. 
 He died in the year 1328. 
 
 The famous Gaston de Foix, who gained the 
 battle of Ravenna, and died at the age of twenty- 
 three, with the reputation of being the greatest 
 general of the age, was born at Mazeres, in the 
 diocese of Mirepoix, the 10th of December, 1489. 
 His parents were John V. count de Foix, and Ma- 
 delena of France, sister of Louis XII. Gaston was 
 viscount of Narbonne, and took the title of king 
 of Navarre. His victories, his youth, his extra- 
 ordinary talents, and, above all, his amiable vir- 
 tues, rendered him the idol of the people and the 
 soldiers. Louis XII. said of him : " Gaston is my 
 
171 
 
 pupil ; it is I that have tutored him, and that have 
 formed him to those virtues which we all admire 
 in him." This hero died in his laurels at Ravenna, 
 and his death drew after it the loss of Italy. 
 
 Among the heroes produced by Languedoc may 
 be ranked Constance Cezelli, the wife of Barry, 
 governor of Leucate, a small town in Lower Lan- 
 guedoc. During the wars of the league, Barry 
 was taken prisoner by the leaguers; Constance 
 was then in her native country, at Montpellier. 
 Being informed of the misfortune which had hap- 
 pened to her husband, she hastened to embark at 
 Maguelonna, arrived at Leucate, reanimated the 
 courage of the garrison, and prepared for a most 
 vigorous defence. The leaguers and the Spaniards 
 attacked her, but Constance rendered all their ef- 
 forts useless. The cowardly besiegers, enraged at 
 a resistance which they ought to have admired, 
 prepared a gallows, and threatened the heroine 
 they would hang her husband upon it, unless she 
 delivered up the town. Constance, in this hor- 
 rible alternative, offered all her property, and even 
 her own person, for the ransom of her husband : 
 iC My fortune and my life are mine," said she ; 
 " I will give them willingly for my spouse : but 
 i( my town belongs to my king, and my honour to 
 
172 
 
 €< my God ; it is my duty to preserve them to my 
 " last breath. " The besiegers had the atrocity to 
 hang her husband, and sent the dead body to her. 
 The garrison of Leucate besought their generous 
 commander to deliver up to them a prisoner of dis- 
 tinction, that the duke of Montmorency had sent 
 to them, to enable them to retaliate the cruelty. 
 Constance refused to accept the prisoner, and 
 avenged herself more nobly by compelling her 
 enemies to raise the siege. Henry IV. in grati- 
 tude, made Constance governor of Leucate until 
 her son Hercules came of age. This horrible and 
 sublime action happened in the year 1590. 
 
 John du Caylar, of St. Bonnet de Toiras, was 
 born in Languedoc, in 1585. He was Marshal of 
 France under Louis XII. and esteemed one of the 
 most famous generals in his time. After having 
 performed great services he died in disgrace, be- 
 cause he had displeased cardinal Richlieu. 
 
 The chevalier D'Assas, the Decius of France, 
 was bora in the neighbourhood of Vigan, a small 
 town in the Cevennes. Every one is acquainted 
 with what heroism he devoted himself to death 
 when at Closterkamp, in the year 1760, being 
 stationed near a wood, during the night, with a 
 
173 
 
 detachment of the brave ^egiment of Auvergne, 
 and having entered alone into the wood, to examine 
 it, he found himself all of a sudden surrounded 
 by a troop of enemies; who, pointing their bayo- 
 nets at his breast, threatened him with instant 
 death if he spoke one word. On this one word 
 depended the fate of his detachment, and proba- 
 bly of the army. D'Assas did not hesitate a mo- 
 ment, but cried out, " Follow me, Auvergne ; 
 " here are our enemies ! w and instantly he fell, 
 pierced with wounds. 
 
 Louis XVI. has perpetuated the remembrance of 
 this sublime action by granting an hereditary pen- 
 sion to the family of Assas, until the male line be- 
 comes extinct. 
 
 Under this article we might enumerate a multi- 
 tude of names of the brave men which this pro- 
 vince has produced, if we were to make oat a list 
 of all those excellent officers who were natives of 
 it, and who yet serve with so much honour in the 
 old regiments, better known indeed by the ene- 
 mies than by the citizens of the capital. 
 
 8 Languedoc has produced many celebrated ma- 
 gistrates, too numerous to mention. The famous 
 Nogaret, who served Philip the Handsome with 
 
174 
 
 so much zeal during his dispute with pope Boni- 
 face VIII. was a native of St. Felix de Caraman* 
 in the diocese of Thoulouse. He applied himself 
 from his youth> to the study of jurisprudence, and 
 became successively professor of law in the uni- 
 versity of Montpellier, chief justice of the juris- 
 diction of Beaucaire and Nismes, knight, chancel- 
 lor, and keeper of the seals of France. He was 
 indebted for his elevation to his talents alone. 
 
 John Bertrandi, keeper of the seals in 1530 > 
 was born at Thoulouse. Merely an advocate, he 
 was deputed by the states of the province to carry 
 their list of grievances to the king. He was the 
 following year nominated a counsellor of the par- 
 liament of Paris. He next became first president 
 of the parliament of Thoulouse ; obtained the of- 
 fice of keeper of the seals in 1551, which was 
 created for him by Henry II. because the chan- 
 cellor Olivier had retired from court. Bertrandi 
 remained keeper of the seals until the death of 
 Henry II. ; after which he entered into the church, 
 was made bishop of Comminges, archbishop of 
 Sens, and cardinal. 
 
 The parliament of Thoulouse, instituted by Phi- 
 lip the Bold, and which has continued its sittings 
 ever since the year 1280, though sometimes re- 
 
175 
 
 United with the parliament of Paris, at length 
 separated, and, fixed entirely at Languedoc by- 
 Charles VII. in 1443, has almost always had ma- 
 gistrates of distinguished merit for its presidents. 
 Amongst the most illustrious, the celebrated Du- 
 ranti possesses one of the first ranks. His death 
 deserves to be related : 
 
 When the tragical death of the duke of Guise, 
 and his brother the cardinal, at Blois, had filled 
 the state with troubles, the city of Thoulouse sig- 
 nalized itself by its attachment to the league, and 
 by its fury against Henry III. The Thoulousians 
 deputed their principal magistrate to the Parisian s, 
 to form a covenant of union with them. They 
 remitted this authority to eighteen of the most 
 factious amongst them, in like manner as Paris 
 had chosen sixteen ; and they sent them through- 
 out the whole province to excite it to rebellion. 
 
 Duranti, chief president of the parliament of 
 Thoulouse, and D'Aifis, advocate general, remained 
 faithful to their duty and their king. They both 
 became the objects of hatred of the eighteen. These, 
 masters of the city, obliged the chief president to 
 call an extraordinary meeting of the chambers, 
 to decide, Whether, as Henry de Valois was ex- 
 
176 
 
 communicated, the people of Thoulouse were not 
 freed from their oath of fidelity towards him. 
 
 The opinions, as Duranti had foreseen, were di- 
 vided ; and he put an end to the assembly without 
 coming to any determination. But the palace was 
 surrounded with armed men. The chief presi- 
 dent, having got into his coach, was attacked by 
 swords and lances ; none of which, however, 
 touched him, as he sunk down into the bottom of 
 the carriage. His coachman set the horses on full 
 gallop, to regain his master's house, but unfortu- 
 nately drove against a wall, and thereby over- 
 turned the coach. Duranti, obliged to get out, 
 took refuge in the town-house. The few friends 
 which he had immediately fled. The shops were 
 shut up, and chains and barricadoes were placed 
 in the streets. 
 
 The parliament, assembled again, commanded 
 that Duranti should be transferred to the convent 
 of the Jacobins. He went there, escorted by two 
 bishops, partizans of the league, and their satel- 
 lites. A guard was placed at his door, with orders 
 to permit nobody to see him, not even his only 
 daughter. Rose Caulet his wife, and two servants, 
 had liberty to enter with him, on condition they 
 
177 
 
 should not attempt to stir out again. His house 
 and his papers were ransacked, but nothing was 
 found which could serve as a pretext to the slight- 
 est reproach. 
 
 His death was, however, determined on. The 
 armed factions repaired to the Jacobins, and en- 
 deavoured to force open the gate. They could 
 not succeed. They set fire to it, and entered the 
 convent without meeting with any resistance from 
 the guards, who were in concert with them. Cha- 
 pelier, one of the principal of these assassins, ac- 
 costed the president, and commanded him to come 
 and answer to the people. Duranti fell on his 
 knees, offered up a prayer to God, embraced his 
 wife, took leave of her, and went to meet his 
 death. 
 
 When he was arrived at the gate, which had 
 been burnt down, Chapelier, dragging him vio- 
 lently along, cried out, with a loud voice, " Here 
 he is!" " Yes," added Duranti, who had on his 
 robes, and whose calm looks bore the impres- 
 sion of innocence, " yes, here I am." " What 
 crime have I committed that could inspire you 
 with this implacable hatred ?" These few words, 
 pronounced with dignity, the remains of authority 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 diffused over the countenance of this venerable old 
 man, the involuntary respect which virtue inspires 
 in crime, struck the factious with awe. They 
 were all silent, and probably would have fell on 
 their knees before the magistrate, had not the shot 
 of a musquet, fired at a distance, lodged in his 
 breast. Duranti fell, and his last words were a 
 prayer to heaven for his murderers ! 
 
 The people immediately reassumed their fury, 
 dragged the dead body of Duranti through the 
 streets of the city, and then ran to the prison to 
 assassinate the attorney-general d'Affis. 
 
 Thus perished, victims of their zeal and fidelity, 
 these two virtuous magistrates, enlightened men, 
 of whom the province ought to be proud, and 
 who have the same claims to admiration, and to 
 the respect of every good Frenchman, as Brisson, 
 Lorcher, and Tardif. 
 
 9 Languedoc may be regarded as the cradle of 
 that poetry called Proven9al, which was cultivated 
 at Thoulouse during the reign of its first counts. 
 Raimond the Fifth, his son, his grandson, and many 
 knights of the province, were Troubadours, and 
 knew how to sing the praises of their fair almost 
 
179 
 
 as well as how to fight for them. In 1323, under 
 the reign of Charles the Handsome, seven princi- 
 pal citizens of Thoulouse, under the title of The 
 Gay Society of the Seven Troubadours of Thou- 
 louse, wrote a circular letter to all the poets of 
 Languedoc, inviting them to come and read their 
 performances at Thoulouse, the 1st of May ensu- 
 ing, with the promise of bestowing a violet of 
 gold to him * ho should compose the best romance. 
 
 On the day appointed many Troubadours ar- 
 rived, and repaired to the garden of the seven 
 judges. They read their works before the magi- 
 strates, the notables, and a very numerous audi- 
 ence of the people. The prize was adjudged to 
 a romance composed in honour of the Virgin, by 
 Arnaud Vidal de Castelnaudari, who was imme- 
 diately created a doctor of the gay science. 
 
 The seven associates continued their assemblies, 
 chose one of their number to be chancellor, and 
 gave the title of secretary to another. They pub- 
 lished their statutes, which they called the Laws 
 of Love, They likewise added two other flowers 
 to the violet; the eglantine, and the marigold. 
 Their society finally became so celebrated, that, 
 in 1388, John, king of Arragon, sent ambassador* 
 

 180 
 
 to Charles VI. to request some poets from the pro- 
 vince of Narbonne, who might also establish a 
 Gay Society in his dominions. 
 
 Such was the origin of the academy of the 
 Floral Games, which received additional lustre, to- 
 wards the conclusion of the fourteenth or com- 
 mencement of the fifteenth century, by the libe- 
 rality of a Thoulousian lady, named Clementine 
 Isaura. This lady, of whom indeed we know but 
 little, bequeathed by will a sum sufficient to de- 
 fray the expences of the three flowers which the 
 academy of Thoulouse still gives every year. 
 The magistrates and inhabitants of this city, out 
 of gratitude to Clementine Isaura, erected, about 
 the middle of the sixteenth century, a statue of 
 white marble, in one of the rooms of the guildhall 
 of the city, where it is still to be seen, and which 
 is crowned with flowers every third year, on the 
 3d of May, the day on which they distribute the 
 prizes. Louis XIV. in 1694, by letters patent, 
 established this academy, which I believe is the 
 most ancient of academies. 
 
 Nothing positive is known of Clementine Isaura; 
 I thought myself therefore at liberty, in a romance, 
 to make her sole institutress of the Floral Games, 
 
181 
 
 and to invent a motive for her choice of the three 
 flowers which are distributed as the prizes. 
 
 10 This description is but a faithful and striking 
 picture of a charming valley, situated between 
 Cardet and Massanna/ which is called The Beau- 
 tiful Plain, and which nature has rendered a most 
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