THE DANGER OF CONFIDING ONE'S SECRET TO A GOAT.

Many weeks had elapsed. The first of March had arrived.

The sun, which Dubartas, that classic ancestor of periphrase, had not yet dubbed

the "Grand-duke of Candles," was none the less radiant and joyous on that account.

It was one of those spring days which possesses so much sweetness and beauty,

that all Paris turns out into the squares and promenades and celebrates them as

though they were Sundays.

In those days of brilliancy, warmth, and serenity, there is a certain hour above all

others, when the facade of Notre-Dame should be admired.

It is the moment when the sun, already declining towards the west, looks the

cathedral almost full in the face.

Its rays, growing more and more horizontal, withdraw slowly from the pavement of the

square, and mount up the perpendicular facade, whose thousand bosses in high

relief they cause to start out from the

shadows, while the great central rose window flames like the eye of a cyclops,

inflamed with the reflections of the forge. This was the hour.

Opposite the lofty cathedral, reddened by the setting sun, on the stone balcony built

above the porch of a rich Gothic house, which formed the angle of the square and

the Rue du Parvis, several young girls were

laughing and chatting with every sort of grace and mirth.

From the length of the veil which fell from their pointed coif, twined with pearls, to

their heels, from the fineness of the embroidered chemisette which covered their

shoulders and allowed a glimpse, according

to the pleasing custom of the time, of the swell of their fair virgin bosoms, from the

opulence of their under-petticoats still more precious than their overdress

(marvellous refinement), from the gauze,

the silk, the velvet, with which all this was composed, and, above all, from the

whiteness of their hands, which certified to their leisure and idleness, it was easy

to divine they were noble and wealthy heiresses.

They were, in fact, Damoiselle Fleur-de-Lys de Gondelaurier and her companions, Diane

de Christeuil, Amelotte de Montmichel, Colombe de Gaillefontaine, and the little

de Champchevrier maiden; all damsels of

good birth, assembled at that moment at the house of the dame widow de Gondelaurier, on

account of Monseigneur de Beaujeu and Madame his wife, who were to come to Paris

in the month of April, there to choose

maids of honor for the Dauphiness Marguerite, who was to be received in

Picardy from the hands of the Flemings.

Now, all the squires for twenty leagues around were intriguing for this favor for

their daughters, and a goodly number of the latter had been already brought or sent to

Paris.

These four maidens had been confided to the discreet and venerable charge of Madame

Aloise de Gondelaurier, widow of a former commander of the king's cross-bowmen, who

had retired with her only daughter to her

house in the Place du Parvis, Notre-Dame, in Paris.

The balcony on which these young girls stood opened from a chamber richly

tapestried in fawn-colored Flanders leather, stamped with golden foliage.

The beams, which cut the ceiling in parallel lines, diverted the eye with a

thousand eccentric painted and gilded carvings.

Splendid enamels gleamed here and there on carved chests; a boar's head in faience

crowned a magnificent dresser, whose two shelves announced that the mistress of the

house was the wife or widow of a knight banneret.

At the end of the room, by the side of a lofty chimney blazoned with arms from top

to bottom, in a rich red velvet arm-chair, sat Dame de Gondelaurier, whose five and

fifty years were written upon her garments no less distinctly than upon her face.

Beside her stood a young man of imposing mien, although partaking somewhat of vanity

and bravado--one of those handsome fellows whom all women agree to admire, although

grave men learned in physiognomy shrug their shoulders at them.

This young man wore the garb of a captain of the king's unattached archers, which

bears far too much resemblance to the costume of Jupiter, which the reader has

already been enabled to admire in the first

book of this history, for us to inflict upon him a second description.

The damoiselles were seated, a part in the chamber, a part in the balcony, some on

square cushions of Utrecht velvet with golden corners, others on stools of oak

carved in flowers and figures.

Each of them held on her knee a section of a great needlework tapestry, on which they

were working in company, while one end of it lay upon the rush mat which covered the

floor.

They were chatting together in that whispering tone and with the half-stifled

laughs peculiar to an assembly of young girls in whose midst there is a young man.

The young man whose presence served to set in play all these feminine self-conceits,

appeared to pay very little heed to the matter, and, while these pretty damsels

were vying with one another to attract his

attention, he seemed to be chiefly absorbed in polishing the buckle of his sword belt

with his doeskin glove.

From time to time, the old lady addressed him in a very low tone, and he replied as

well as he was able, with a sort of awkward and constrained politeness.

From the smiles and significant gestures of Dame Aloise, from the glances which she

threw towards her daughter, Fleur-de-Lys, as she spoke low to the captain, it was

easy to see that there was here a question

of some betrothal concluded, some marriage near at hand no doubt, between the young

man and Fleur-de-Lys.

From the embarrassed coldness of the officer, it was easy to see that on his

side, at least, love had no longer any part in the matter.

His whole air was expressive of constraint and weariness, which our lieutenants of the

garrison would to-day translate admirably as, "What a beastly bore!"

The poor dame, very much infatuated with her daughter, like any other silly mother,

did not perceive the officer's lack of enthusiasm, and strove in low tones to call

his attention to the infinite grace with

which Fleur-de-Lys used her needle or wound her skein.

"Come, little cousin," she said to him, plucking him by the sleeve, in order to

speak in his ear, "Look at her, do! see her stoop."

"Yes, truly," replied the young man, and fell back into his glacial and absent-

minded silence. A moment later, he was obliged to bend down

again, and Dame Aloise said to him,--

"Have you ever beheld a more gay and charming face than that of your betrothed?

Can one be more white and blonde? are not her hands perfect? and that neck--does it

not assume all the curves of the swan in ravishing fashion?

How I envy you at times! and how happy you are to be a man, naughty libertine that you

are!

Is not my Fleur-de-Lys adorably beautiful, and are you not desperately in love with

her?" "Of course," he replied, still thinking of

something else.

"But do say something," said Madame Aloise, suddenly giving his shoulder a push; "you

have grown very timid."

We can assure our readers that timidity was neither the captain's virtue nor his

defect. But he made an effort to do what was

demanded of him.

"Fair cousin," he said, approaching Fleur- de-Lys, "what is the subject of this

tapestry work which you are fashioning?"

"Fair cousin," responded Fleur-de-Lys, in an offended tone, "I have already told you

three times. 'Tis the grotto of Neptune."

It was evident that Fleur-de-Lys saw much more clearly than her mother through the

captain's cold and absent-minded manner. He felt the necessity of making some

conversation.

"And for whom is this Neptunerie destined?" "For the Abbey of Saint-Antoine des

Champs," answered Fleur-de-Lys, without raising her eyes.

The captain took up a corner of the tapestry.

"Who, my fair cousin, is this big gendarme, who is puffing out his cheeks to their full

extent and blowing a trumpet?"

"'Tis Triton," she replied. There was a rather pettish intonation in

Fleur-de-Lys's--laconic words.

The young man understood that it was indispensable that he should whisper

something in her ear, a commonplace, a gallant compliment, no matter what.

Accordingly he bent down, but he could find nothing in his imagination more tender and

personal than this,--

"Why does your mother always wear that surcoat with armorial designs, like our

grandmothers of the time of Charles VII.?

Tell her, fair cousin, that 'tis no longer the fashion, and that the hinge (gond) and

the laurel (laurier) embroidered on her robe give her the air of a walking

mantlepiece.

In truth, people no longer sit thus on their banners, I assure you."

Fleur-de-Lys raised her beautiful eyes, full of reproach, "Is that all of which you

can assure me?" she said, in a low voice.

In the meantime, Dame Aloise, delighted to see them thus bending towards each other

and whispering, said as she toyed with the clasps of her prayer-book,--

"Touching picture of love!"

The captain, more and more embarrassed, fell back upon the subject of the

tapestry,--"'Tis, in sooth, a charming work!" he exclaimed.

Whereupon Colombe de Gaillefontaine, another beautiful blonde, with a white

skin, dressed to the neck in blue damask, ventured a timid remark which she addressed

to Fleur-de-Lys, in the hope that the

handsome captain would reply to it, "My dear Gondelaurier, have you seen the

tapestries of the Hotel de la Roche-Guyon?"

"Is not that the hotel in which is enclosed the garden of the Lingere du Louvre?" asked

Diane de Christeuil with a laugh; for she had handsome teeth, and consequently

laughed on every occasion.

"And where there is that big, old tower of the ancient wall of Paris," added Amelotte

de Montmichel, a pretty fresh and curly- headed brunette, who had a habit of sighing

just as the other laughed, without knowing why.

"My dear Colombe," interpolated Dame Aloise, "do you not mean the hotel which

belonged to Monsieur de Bacqueville, in the reign of King Charles VI.? there are indeed

many superb high warp tapestries there."

"Charles VI.! Charles VI.!" muttered the young captain,

twirling his moustache. "Good heavens! what old things the good

dame does remember!"

Madame de Gondelaurier continued, "Fine tapestries, in truth.

A work so esteemed that it passes as unrivalled."

At that moment Berangere de Champchevrier, a slender little maid of seven years, who

was peering into the square through the trefoils of the balcony, exclaimed, "Oh!

look, fair Godmother Fleur-de-Lys, at that

pretty dancer who is dancing on the pavement and playing the tambourine in the

midst of the loutish bourgeois!" The sonorous vibration of a tambourine was,

in fact, audible.

"Some gypsy from Bohemia," said Fleur-de- Lys, turning carelessly toward the square.

"Look! look!" exclaimed her lively companions; and they all ran to the edge of

the balcony, while Fleur-de-Lys, rendered thoughtful by the coldness of her

betrothed, followed them slowly, and the

latter, relieved by this incident, which put an end to an embarrassing conversation,

retreated to the farther end of the room, with the satisfied air of a soldier

released from duty.

Nevertheless, the fair Fleur-de-Lys's was a charming and noble service, and such it had

formerly appeared to him; but the captain had gradually become blase'; the prospect

of a speedy marriage cooled him more every day.

Moreover, he was of a fickle disposition, and, must we say it, rather vulgar in

taste.

Although of very noble birth, he had contracted in his official harness more

than one habit of the common trooper. The tavern and its accompaniments pleased

him.

He was only at his ease amid gross language, military gallantries, facile

beauties, and successes yet more easy.

He had, nevertheless, received from his family some education and some politeness

of manner; but he had been thrown on the world too young, he had been in garrison at

too early an age, and every day the polish

of a gentleman became more and more effaced by the rough friction of his gendarme's

cross-belt.

While still continuing to visit her from time to time, from a remnant of common

respect, he felt doubly embarrassed with Fleur-de-Lys; in the first place, because,

in consequence of having scattered his love

in all sorts of places, he had reserved very little for her; in the next place,

because, amid so many stiff, formal, and decent ladies, he was in constant fear lest

his mouth, habituated to oaths, should

suddenly take the bit in its teeth, and break out into the language of the tavern.

The effect can be imagined!

Moreover, all this was mingled in him, with great pretentions to elegance, toilet, and

a fine appearance. Let the reader reconcile these things as

best he can.

I am simply the historian.

He had remained, therefore, for several minutes, leaning in silence against the

carved jamb of the chimney, and thinking or not thinking, when Fleur-de-Lys suddenly

turned and addressed him.

After all, the poor young girl was pouting against the dictates of her heart.

"Fair cousin, did you not speak to us of a little Bohemian whom you saved a couple of