When the Baron was half-way up the stair, he stopped short, on seeing the two lovers sitting close to each other, the one weeping, and the other trying to console her. There was such an air of infantine candour about them both, and both seemed so miserable, that the hard heart of sixty-three was nearly touched. "Very well!"--he said, and walked into the room. Daphnè uttered a scream of terror, and her tears redoubled. "There is nothing to cry about," said M. de Langevy; "but as for you, young man, you must let me into the secret, if you please." "I have nothing to tell you," said Hector, in a determined tone. Daphnè, who had leant for support on his shoulder, fell senseless on her chair. "Father," said Hector, bending over her, "you perceive that this is no place for you." "Nor for you, either," said the old man in a rage. "What do you mean by such folly? Go home this instant, sir, or you shall never enter my door again." But Hector made no reply. His whole attention was bestowed on Daphnè. "I ask you again, sir," said the father, still more angry at his son's neglect. "Think well on what you do." "I _have_ thought, sir," replied Hector, raising the head of the still senseless Daphnè. "You may shut your door for ever." "None of your impudence, jackanapes. Will you come home with me now, or stay here?" "If I go with you, sir," said Hector, "it will be to show my respect to you as my father, but I must tell you that I love Mademoiselle Deshoulieres, and no one else. We are engaged, and only death shall part us." "Deshoulieres--Deshoulieres," said the Baron, "I've heard that name before. I knew a Colonel Deshoulieres in the campaigns of Flanders; a gallant fellow, with a beautiful wife, a number of wounds, many medals, but not a _sou_. Are you coming, sir?" Daphnè motioned him to go, and Hector followed his father in silence. He was not without hopes of gaining his permission to love his poor Daphnè as much as he chose. M. de Langevy bowed to her as he went out of the room; and wishing Babet a good appetite as he passed the kitchen door, commenced a sermon for the edification of poor Hector, which lasted all the way. The only attention Hector paid to it was to turn round at every pause, and take a look at the little casement window. When Daphnè saw him disappear among the woods at the side of the road, she sighed; and while the tears rolled down her cheek, she said, "Adieu, adieu! I shall never see him more!" She looked sadly round the little apartment--now so desolate; she gathered one of the roses that clustered round the window, and scattered the leaves one by one, and watched them as they were wafted away by the breeze. "Even so will I do with my love," said the poetical shepherdess; "I will scatter it on the winds of death."