intelligent, and as everything he says is excessively agreeable, I think I have done very right in not bringing him hither." The Princess said not a word about that; but continued to question Abricotine respecting the Prince,—whether she did not know his name, his family, whence he came, whither he was going; and finally she fell into a profound reverie.
Leander narrowly observed everything, and continued to speak as he had begun. "Abricotine is ungrateful, Madam," said he. "This poor stranger will die of grief if he do not see you." "Well, parrot, let him die then," replied the Princess, sighing, "and as thou presumest to talk on this matter like a rational person, and not like a little bird, I forbid thee ever to speak to me again about this stranger." Leander was charmed to see that the words of Abricotine and of the parrot had made such an impression on the Princess. He gazed on her, with a delight which made him forget the oath he had taken never to love again so long as he lived. Certainly, there could be no comparison between the Princess and that coquette, Blondine. "Is it possible," said he to himself, "that this masterpiece of nature, this wonder of our time, should dwell for ever in an island where nobody dares approach her! But," continued he, "what does it signify to me that all other men are banished, since I have the honour to be present; to see, to hear, to admire her, and love her, as I already do to distraction?"
It was late; the Princess passed into a saloon of marble and porphyry, where several sparkling fountains in full play shed around them a delicious coolness. As soon as she entered an overture commenced, and a sumptuous supper was served. On each side of the saloon were aviaries, full of rare birds, of which Abricotine had the care.
Leander had acquired during his travels the art of imitating their various notes; he imitated even such as were not there. The Princess listened, looked, was astonished, and at length rose from the table and approached one of the cages. Leander warbled half as loudly again, and assuming the voice of a canary-bird, he sang the following words to an air which he improvised on the spot:—
Life without love is but a winter's day;
Joyless along its lonely path we stray.
Love, then,—O love a lover who adores thee!
All here invites—e'en Love himself implores thee!
