The Youth of Jefferson | Page 4

and innocence of childhood, the grace and elegance of the inhabitants of that realm of fairies which we read of in the olden poets--all the warmth, and reality, and beauty of those lovelier fairies of our earth. Around her delicate brow and rosy cheeks fall myriads of golden "drop curls," which veil the deep-blue eyes, half closed and fixed upon the open volume in her hand. Belle-bouche is very richly clad, in a velvet gown, a satin underskirt from which the gown is looped back, wide cuffs and profuse lace at wrists and neck; and on her diminutive feet, which peep from the skirt, are red morocco shoes tied with bows of ribbon, and adorned with heels not more than three inches in height. Her hair is powdered and woven with pearls--she wears a pearl necklace; she looks like a child dressed by its mother for a ball, and spoiled long ago by "petting."
Belle-bouche reads the "Althea" of Lovelace, and smiles approvingly at the gallant poet's assertion, that the birds of the air know no such liberty as he does, fettered by her eyes and hair. It is the fashion for Lovelaces to make such declarations, and with a coquettish little movement she puts back the drop curls, and raises her blue eyes to the sky from which they have stolen their hue.
She remains for some moments is this reverie, and is not aware of the approach of a gallant Lovelace, who, hat in hand, the feather of the said hat trailing on the ground, draws near.
Who is this gallant but our friend of one day's standing, the handsome, the smiling, the forlorn, the melancholy--and, being melancholy, the interesting--Jacques.
He approaches smiling, modest, humble--a consummate strategist; his ambrosial curls and powdered queue tied with its orange ribbon, shining in the sun. He wears a suit of cut velvet with gold buttons; a flowered satin waistcoat reaching to his knees; scarlet silk stockings, and high-heeled worsted shoes. His cuffs would enter a barrel with difficulty, and his chin reposes upon a frill of irreproachable Mechlin lace.
Jacques finds the eyes suddenly turned upon him, and bows low. Then he approaches, falls upon one knee, and presses his lips gallantly to the hand of the little beauty, who smiling carelessly rises in a measure from her recumbent position.
"Do I find the fair Belinda reading?" says the gallant; "what blessed book is made happy by the light of her eyes?"
Which remarkable words, we must beg the reader to remember, were after the fashion of the time and scarcely more than commonplace. The fairer portion of humanity had even then perfected that sovereignty over the males which in our own day is so very observable. So, instead of replying in a tone indicating surprise, the little beauty answers quite simply:
"My favorite--Lovelace."
Jacques heaves a sigh; for the music of the voice has touched his heart--nay, overwhelmed it with a new flood of love.
He dangles his bonnet and plume, and carefully arranges a drop curl. He, the prince of wits, the ornament of ball rooms, the star of the minuet and reel, is suddenly quite dumb, and seems to seek for a subject to discourse upon in surrounding objects.
A happy idea strikes him; a thought occurs to him; he grasps at it with the desperation of a drowning man. He says:
"'Tis a charming day, fairest Belle-bouche--Belinda, I mean. Ah, pardon my awkwardness!"
And the unhappy Corydon betrays by his confusion how much this slip of the tongue has embarrassed him--at least, that he wishes her to think so.
The little beauty smiles faintly, and bending a fatal languishing glance upon her admirer, says:
"You called me--what was it?"
"Ah, pardon me."
"Oh certainly!--but please say what you called me."
"How can I?"
"By telling me," says the beauty philosophically.
"Must I?" says Jacques, reflecting that after all his offence was not so dreadful.
"If you please."
"I said Belle-bouche."
"Ah! that is----?"
"Pretty-mouth," says Lovelace, with the air of a man who is caught feloniously appropriating sheep; but unable to refrain from bending wistful looks upon the topic of his discourse.
Belle-bouche laughs with a delicious good humor, and Jacques takes heart again.
"Is that all?" she says; "but what a pretty name!"
"Do you like it, really?" asks the forlorn lover.
"Indeed I do."
"And may I call you Belle-bouche?"
"If you please."
Jacques feels his heart oppressed with its weight of love. He sighs. This manoeuvre is greeted with a little laugh.
"Oh, that was a dreadful heigho!" she says; "you must be in love."
"I am," he says, "desperately."
A slight color comes to her bright cheek, for it is impossible to misunderstand his eloquent glance.
"Are you?" she says; "but that is wrong. Fie on't! Was ever Corydon really in love with his Chloe--or are his affections always confined to the fluttering ribbons, and the crook, wreathed with flowers, which make her a pleasant object only, like