As for Jacques, he was in a dream; one might have supposed that his nerves were steeped in the liquid melody--or at times, when he started, that the music came over him like a shower bath of perfume.

His sighs would have conciliated tigers; and when she turned and smiled on him, he almost staggered.

"Now," said Belle-bouche smiling softly, "suppose I sing something a little merrier. You know the minuet always gives place to the reel."

Jacques uttered an expiring a.s.sent, and Belle-bouche commenced singing with her laughing voice the then popular ditty, "Pretty Betty Martin, tip-toe fine."

If her voice sighed before, it laughed out loudly now. The joyous and exhilarating music sparkled, glittered, fell in rosy showers--rattled like liquid diamonds and dry rain. It flashed, and glanced, and ran--and stumbling over itself, fell upwards, showering back again in shattered cadences and fiery foam.

When she ended, Jacques remained silent, and was only waked, so to speak, by hearing his name p.r.o.nounced.

"Yes," he said at random.

Belle-Bouche laughed.

"You agree with me, then, that my voice is wretchedly out of tune?"

she said mischievously.

Poor Jacques only sighed and blushed.

"Betty Martin was a foolish girl," said Belle-bouche, laughing to hide her embarra.s.sment.

"How?" murmured Jacques.

Belle-bouche found that she was involved in a delicate explanation; but thinking boldness the best, she replied:

"Because she could not find just the husband she wanted. You know the song says so--'some were too coa.r.s.e and some too fine.'"

"Yes," murmured Jacques; "and 'tis often the case with us poor fellows. We seldom find the Chloe we want--she flies us ever spite of our attempts to clasp her to our hearts."

"That is not because Chloe is fickle, but because Corydon is so difficult to please," Belle-bouche replied, with a sly little smile.

"Ah! I am not!" he sighed.

"Indeed, you are mistaken; I'm sure you are a very fastidious shepherd."

"No, no. True, I may never find my Chloe; but when I do, then I shall no longer be my own master."

Belle-bouche hesitated, blushed, and said quickly:

"Perhaps you long to meet with an angel."

"Oh, no--only a woman," said Jacques; "and if you will listen, I will describe my ideal in a moment."

"Yes," said Belle-bouche, looking away; for his eyes were fixed upon her with such meaning that she could not return his gaze.

"First," said Corydon, sighing, "she should be young--that is to say, she should unite the grace and innocence of childhood with the splendor and fascination of the fully-developed woman. This is most often found at seventeen--therefore she should be just seventeen."

Belle-bouche was scarcely more than seventeen, as we know. The cunning Jacques went on.

"She should be a blonde, with light golden hair, eyes as azure as the heavens, and, as one great poet said of another, 'with a charming archness' in them."

"Yes," murmured Belle-bouche, whom this description suited perfectly.

"Her voice should not be loud and bold, her manner careless," Jacques went on; "but a delicious gentleness, and even at times a languor, should be diffused through it--diffused through voice and manner, as a perfume is diffused through an apartment, invisible, imperceptible almost, filling us with quiet pleasure."

"Quite a poetical description," said Belle-bouche, trying to laugh.

"She should be soft and tender--full of wondrous thoughts, and ever standing like a gracious angel," sighed the rapturous Jacques, "to bless, console, and comfort me."

"Still prettier," said Belle-bouche, blushing.

"Now let me sum up," said Jacques. "Golden hair, blue eyes, a rosy face full of childlike innocence, at times steeped in dewy languor, and those melting smiles which sway us poor men so powerfully; and lastly, with a heart and soul attuned to all exalted feelings and emotions. There is what I look for--ah, to find her! Better still to dream she could love me."

"Well, can you not find your Chloe?" Belle-bouche murmured, almost inaudibly.

"Never, I fear," said Jacques; "or else," he continued with a sigh, "when we do find her, we always find that some other discoverer claims possession."

Belle-bouche blushed.

"Suppose it is without the consent of the aborigines," she said, attempting to laugh.

Jacques looked at her; then shook his head.

"'Tis the strong hand, not the true heart, which conquers."

"Oh no, it is not!" said Belle-bouche.

"What then?"

"The good, kind heart, faithful and sincere."

Jacques fixed his eyes upon her blushing face, which leaned upon one of her fair hands--the other hand meanwhile being an object of deep interest to her eyes, cast down toward it.

"And should such a heart be wounded?" he said.

"Oh, no!" murmured Belle-bouche, blushing.

"Then do not wound mine!" cried Jacques; "dearest Belle-bouche! light of my heart--that was your portrait! Listen to your faithful----"

Poor, poor Jacques! Fate played with him. For at the very moment when he was about to fall upon his knees--just when his fate was to be decided--just when he saw an Arcadian picture spread before him, in its brilliant hues, all love and sunshine--that excellent old lady Aunt Wimple entered, calmly smiling, and with rustling silk and rattling key basket, dispelled all his fond romantic dreams.

Belle-bouche rose hastily and returned to her embroidery; Aunt Wimple sat down comfortably, and commenced a flood of talk about the weather; and Jacques fell back on an ottoman overcome with despair.

In half an hour he was slowly on his way back to town--his arms hanging down, his head bent to his breast, his dreamy eyes fixed intently upon vacancy.

Jacques saw nothing around him; Belle-bouche alone was in his vision--Belle-bouche, who by another chance was s.n.a.t.c.hed from him.