has her tender secret. Where is the woman so small as to reject a lover when she is herself gentilely and loyally smitten? To yield is a sweet duty."
The Canoness (with languor)—"Thank God, we do not desire our fellowmen's death. We must yield to those who love us."
Marphise (gravely)—"The woman who, being adored with love, would cause the death of a man by her refusal, must be condemned as a homicide. The Court of Love has under my presidency, issued that memorable decree at its last session under the young elm. The said decree was rendered at the instance of the Conservator of the High Privileges of Love, who made the application before the Chamber of Sweet Pledges. The applicant, if I remember rightly, was a lover residing in the purlieus of the 'Delightful Passion,' 'Perseverence Street,' 'Hotel Despair,' where the unhappy fellow was dying of his flame's inhumanity. Fortunately, when our Seneschal of Sweet-Marjoram, accompanied by the Bailiff of the Joy of Joys, notified the tigress of the Court's decree, she recoiled before the fear of falling into mortal sin by causing the death of her admirer, and surrendered unconditionally to him."
The Canoness (with unction)—"It is so sweet a thing to snatch one of God's creatures from the clutches of death!"
Eglantine—"Mercy, dear friends. Why do you not listen to my plan? All the twelve of us have some secret love. Let us select one of us for confessor. We shall each in succession make to her our sweet admission. The confessor shall announce the result of our confidences. We shall thus know the number of those who have a spurred or a tonsured lover. The question will then be settled."
The Canoness—"An excellent idea! What say you, Marphise? I give it my full support."
Marphise—"I accept it! And I am certain our other friends will join in. That will furnish us amusement until night."
Indeed, Eglantine's proposition is gladly accepted by the young women. They draw together, and by common accord choose Marphise as the Lady Confessor. Upon her election, Marphise seats herself on the bench of verdure; her friends step a few paces back and cast mischievous glances upon the Lady Confessor and upon the one confessing. The first of these is Eglantine, the pretty Viscountess of Seligny. She is on her knees at the feet of Marphise, who assuming the manners of a nun, lovingly presses the two hands of the penitent, and addresses her with a self-confident air and sanctimonious voice:
Marphise—"Come, dear daughter, open to me your heart; conceal nothing; frankly confess all your sins; say who is your lover."
Eglantine (with hands joined and eyes lowered)—"Lady Confessor, he whom I love is young and handsome. He is brave as a knight; well-spoken as a clerk; and yet is he neither clerk nor knight. His fame is greater than that of the most famous counts and dukes; and yet is he neither count nor duke. (Marphise listens to the confession with redoubled attention.) Perhaps his birth is obscure, but his glory shines with incomparable luster."
Marphise—"You may well be proud of such a choice. Your lover is a marvel, a phoenix. What is the name of that admirable lover?"
Eglantine—"Lady Confessor, I may boldly name him. His name is Mylio the Trouvere."
Marphise (thrilling and blushing with emotion)—"What! Did you say, dear daughter, that it is—Mylio the Trouvere?"
Eglantine (with downcast eyes)—"Yes, Lady Confessor. That is his name."
Marphise (seeking to suppress her surprise and emotion)—"Go, dear daughter, I pray to God that your lover be faithful to you."
The canoness steps forward in her turn, kneels down, and, slightly smiling, slightly smites her well-rounded bosom with her white hands.
Marphise—"These tokens of sorrow denote some great sin, dear daughter! Is your choice, perchance, blame-worthy?"
The Canoness—"Oh! Not at all! I only fear I am not beautiful enough for my lover, who is the most accomplished of men: youth, wit, beauty, courage—he joins them all in his person! What joy there is in his company!"
Marphise—"And the name of that phoenix?"
The Canoness (languorously)—"Mylio the Trouvere. That is my friend's name."
Marphise (nettled and even angered)—"He again?"
The Canoness—"Do you, perhaps, know my lover?"
Marphise (repressing herself)—"Do you tenderly love that lover, so faithful to you?"
The Canoness (with fire)—"Oh! I love him with all the power of my soul."
Marphise—"Go, dear daughter. Let the next one come. (sighs) May God protect all constant loves."
Ursine, Countess of Mont-Ferrier, approaches on a run and leaping like a doe in the month of May. You never saw, and never will you see a more dainty, more saucy, or more savory creature. She was one of the most giddy-headed climbers among those who gathered fruit. Her chaplet of gladiolas lies awry over her head, and one of the heavy tresses of her warm-blonde hair tumbles undone upon her dimpled shoulder that is as white as it is plump. Her skirt is green of color, and red her stockings. Her impudent mouth is still purple with the juice of grapes, no less ripe than her own lips. She gives a last bite with her pearly teeth to the almost wholly plundered cluster in her hands, and smiling kneels down at Marphise's feet which she tenderly clasps. Before being interrogated, she cries with charming volubility:
"Venerated Priestess, my lover is a mere college bachelor, but he is so perfect, so handsome, so witty! Ah! (she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth) that he would deserve to be a duke, an emperor, or a Pope! Aye, a Pope! Even better, if better could be possible!"
Marphise (a vague apprehension stealing over her)—"And what is the name of that model of a lover, that marvel of a gallant?"
Ursine—"His name, venerated Priestess? (snatching with her lips another grape from the cluster). His name? Oh, for his exploits in love, he should be called 'Valiant!' For his charms: 'Prince Charming!' For his constancy, 'Constant!' For his love, 'Cupid' with the strength of Hercules!"
Marphise—"You are a happy girl, dear daughter. Constancy is a rare jewel in these days of fickleness and deceit."
Ursine (with ecstasy)—"If my lover only thought of being unfaithful, by the stars in heaven, I would scratch out his eyes. Scores of times upon his divine harp did he sing to me of his fidelity. For you must know, my lover sings like a swan! (proudly) It is Mylio the Trouvere!"
After her confession, Ursine rises, and bounding again like a doe, runs to rejoin her friends.
Sighing and silently fretting, Marphise calls and confesses Floril, Huguette, Dulceline, Stephanette, Alix, Emma, Argentine and Adeline in rapid succession. But, alas! do you notice the Lady Confessor? Do you notice her well, and hear her? "And you, dear daughter," she asks, "What is your lover's name?" "Mylio!" "And you?" "Mylio!" "And you?" "Mylio!" Mylio, the same name every time! All the eleven have on their lips only the name of that horrid Mylio. Almost dying with jealousy, the Lady Confessor winds up with a hearty laugh at the experience, especially when the brunette Adeline, the last one to confess, says to her: "I have for lover the most glorious of trouveres, the most valiant, the most faithful of adorers. To say so is to name to you Mylio, Lady Confessor."
Marphise (laughing aloud)—"Oh, poor friends! If that mischievous juggler Adam the Hunchback, or Audefroid the Bastard, only knew our secret, he would to-morrow be singing it under all the tents! It would run from castle
