The Youth of Jefferson Part 14

"Good," said Jacques; "that signifies:

Strike up, Sir Asinus, With your braying mouth; Never fear for hay, The crop of oats is ample.'

But on reflection the translation is bad--'belle bouche is not 'braying mouth;' which reminds me that I must take my departure."

"Where are you going, unhappy profaner of ecclesiastical psalmody?"

"To see Belle-bouche," sighed Jacques.

Sir Asinus tore his hair.

"Then I'll go too," he cried.

"I've the last horse at the Raleigh," observed Jacques with melancholy pleasure. "Good morning, my dear friend. Take care of yourself."

And leaving Sir Asinus with a polite bow, Jacques went down the staircase. As for Sir Asinus, in the excess of his rage he sat down and composed a whole canto of an epic--which luckily has not descended to our day. The rats preserved humanity.

CHAPTER IX.

THE LUCK OF JACQUES.

Belle-bouche was busily at work upon a piece of embroidery when Jacques entered; and this embroidery was designed for a fire-screen.

It represented a parroquet intensely crimson, on a background uniformly emerald; and the eyes of the melancholy lover dwelt wistfully upon the snowy hands selecting the different colors from a tortoise-sh.e.l.l work-box filled with spools of silk.

Belle-bouche greeted the entrance of her admirer with a frank smile, and held out her hand, which poor Jacques pressed to his lips with melancholy pleasure.

"I find Miss Belle-bouche always engaged in some graceful occupation,"

he said mournfully; "she is either reading the poets, or writing poetry herself in all the colors of the rainbow."

The beauty treated this well-timed compliment with a smile.

"Oh, no," she said; "I am only working a screen."

"It is very pretty."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes."

And then Jacques paused; his conversation as usual dried up like a fountain at midsummer. He made a desperate effort.

"I thought I heard you singing as I entered," he said.

"Yes, I believe I was," smiled Belle-bouche.

"What music was so happy?" Jacques sighed.

Belle-bouche laughed.

"A child's song," she said.

"Pray what!"

"'Lady bird, lady bird, fly away home.'"

"A most exquisite air," sighed Jacques; "please commence again."

"But I have finished."

"Then something else, my dearest Miss Belle-bouche; see how unfortunate I am--pray pardon me."

"Willingly," said Belle-bouche, smiling with a roseate blush.

"I always fancy myself in Arcady when I am near you," he said tenderly.

"Why? because you find me very idle?"

"Oh, no; but Arcady, you know, was the abode of sylvan queens--dryads and oreads and naiads," said the cla.s.sic Jacques; "and you are like them."

"Like a dryad?"

"They were very beautiful."

Belle-bouche blushed again; and to conceal her blushes bent over the screen. Jacques sighed.

"Chloes are dead, however," he murmured, "and the reed of Pan is still. The fanes of Arcady are desolate."

And having uttered this beautiful sentiment, the melancholy Jacques was silent.

"Do you like 'My Arcady?'" asked Belle-bouche; "I think it very pretty."

"It is the gem of music. Ah! to hear you sing it," sighed poor Corydon.

Belle-bouche quite simply rose, and going to the spinet, sat down and played the prelude.

Jacques listened with closed eyes and heaving bosom.

"Please hand me the music," said Belle-bouche; "there in the scarlet binding."

Jacques started and obeyed. As she received it, the young girl's hand touched his own, and he uttered a sigh which might have melted rocks.

The reason was, that Jacques was in love: we state the fact, though it has probably appeared before.

Belle-bouche's voice was like liquid moonlight and melodious flowers.

Its melting involutions and expiring cadences unwound themselves and floated from her lips like satin ribbon gradually drawn out.