ashamed at having such a son, and himself gave the required kiss, always for the purpose of saving the dignity of his race.
“Ah! the little jackass!” exclaimed the great monarch, who was a man of parts.
II
It was at twenty that Simplice became a perfect idiot. He came across a forest and fell in love.
In those olden times people did not beautify trees by clipping them with shears, and it was not the fashion to raise grass by sowing it, or to sprinkle gravel on paths. The branches grew as they pleased; God alone undertook to moderate the brambles and preserve the footways. The forest Simplice came across was an immense nest of verdure, multitudes of leaves and impenetrable masses of yoke-elms intersected by majestic avenues. The moss, inebriated with dew, revelled in a debauchery of growth; the sweetbriers, extending their flexible arms, sought one another in the glades to perform frantic dances round the great trees; the great trees themselves, whilst remaining calm and serene, distorted their roots in the shade, and rose tumultuously to kiss the rays of summer. The green grass grew anywhere, on the branches as on the ground; the leaves embraced the wood, while the Easter daisies and myosotis, in their haste to bloom, sometimes made a mistake and blossomed on the old fallen trunks. And all these branches, all these herbs, all these flowers sang; all mingled, crowded together, to babble more at ease, to relate to one another, in whispers, the mysterious love-making of the corolla. A breath of life ran to the depths of the gloomy coppices, giving voice to each bit of moss in the matchless concerts at dawn and twilight. It was an immense festival of the foliage.
The lady-birds, beetles, dragon-flies, butterflies, all the beautiful sweethearts of the flowering hedges, met at the four corners of the wood. They had established their little republic there; the paths were their paths; the brooks their brooks; the forest their forest. They stretched themselves out commodiously at the foot of the trees; on the low branches, in the dry leaves, living there as at home, quietly and by right of conquest. They had, for that matter, like civil persons, left the lofty branches to nightingales and other songsters.
The forest which already sang by its branches, its leaves, and flowers, sang also by its insects and birds.
III
In a few days Simplice became an old friend of the forest. They gossiped so madly together that he lost the little reason that still remained to him. When he left the forest to shut himself up between four walls, to seat himself at a table, to lie in a bed, he was all in a dream. At length, one fine morning, he suddenly abandoned his apartments, and took up his quarters beneath the beloved foliage.
There, he chose himself an immense palace.
His drawingroom was a vast circular glade, about a thousand superficial toises in extent. It was decked with long green drapery all round; five hundred flexible columns supported a veil of emerald-coloured lace; the ceiling itself was a large dome of blue shot satin, studded with golden nails.
For bedroom he had a delicious boudoir, full of mystery and freshness. Its floor and walls were hidden beneath soft carpeting of inimitable workmanship. The alcove, hollowed out of the rock by some giant, was lined with pink marble, whilst the ground was strewn with ruby dust He also had his bathroom, with a spring of sparkling water and a crystal bath, buried in a cluster of flowers. I will not tell you, Ninon, of the thousand galleries that intersected the palace, nor of the ballroom, the theatre, and gardens. It was one of those royal residences such as God knows how to build.
Henceforth the prince could be a simpleton at his ease. His father thought he had been changed into a wolf, and sought an heir more worthy of the throne.
IV
Simplice was very busy on the days following his installation. He struck up an acquaintance with his neighbours, the beetle of the grass and the butterfly of the air. All were good creatures, and had almost as much wit as men.
At the commencement, he experienced some difficulty in learning their language, but he soon perceived that he had only his early education to thank for that. He soon conformed to the concise tongue of the insects. One sound ultimately sufficed for him, as for them, to designate a hundred different objects, according to the inflection of the voice and length of the note. So that he became unaccustomed to speak the language of men, so poor in spite of its wealth.
He was charmed with the manners of his new friends. He marvelled above all at their way of expressing their opinion anent kings, which is not to have any. In short, he felt ignorant among them, and decided to go and study at their schools.
He showed more discretion in his intercourse with the mosses and hawthorns. As he could not yet catch the words of the flowers and blades of grass, his acquaintance with them was of a somewhat reserved character.
Altogether the forest did not look at him askance. It understood that his was a small mind and that he would live in good understanding with the creatures. They no longer hid from him. It often happened that he surprised a butterfly at the bottom of a path ruffling the frill of a daisy.
The hawthorn soon conquered its timidity so far as to give the young prince lessons. It amorously taught him the language of the perfumes and colours. Henceforth the purple corollas greeted Simplice every morning when he rose; the green leaf related to him the tittle-tattle of the night, the cricket confided to him in a whisper that he was madly in love with the violet Simplice had chosen a golden dragon-fly, with a slender waist and fluttering wings, for sweetheart. The pretty beauty showed herself despairingly coquettish; she gambolled, seemed to call him, then cleverly fled just as his hand was on her. The great trees, who saw the sport, smartly rebuked her, and gravely said among themselves that she would end badly;
V
Simplice all at once became anxious.
The lady-bird, who was the first to notice their friend’s sadness, endeavoured to ascertain from him what it was all about. He replied amidst tears that he was as gay as at the commencement.
He now rose with the sun and wandered through the copses until night. He put the branches softly aside and examined each bush. He raised the leaves and gazed at its shadows.
“What can our pupil be looking for?” inquired the hawthorn of the moss.
The dragon-fly, astonished at being abandoned by her lover, fancied he had gone mad with love. She came teasing around him. But he did not look at her. The great trees had formed a correct opinion of her. She promptly consoled herself with the first butterfly she met at the crossroads.
The leaves were sad. They watched the young prince questioning every tuft of grass, searching the long avenues with his eyes; they listened to him complaining of the thickness of the brambles, and said:
“Simplice has seen Flower-of-the-Waters, the undine of the spring.”
VI
Flower-of-the-Waters was the daughter of a ray of light and a drop of dew. Her beauty was so limpid that a lover’s kiss would make her die; she exhaled such sweet perfume that a kiss from her lips would kill a lover.
The forest knew it, and the jealous forest hid its darling child. For sanctuary it had given her a spring shaded with its most bushy boughs. There Flower-of-the-Waters beamed, in silence and shade, amidst her sisters. Being idle she resigned herself to the stream, her little feet half veiled by the wavelets, her fair head crowned with limpid pearls. Her smile delighted the water-lilies and gladiolus. She was the soul of the forest.
She lived unattended with care, knowing nothing of the earth but her mother, the
