CHAPTER I.

It is pleasant to see the reapers resting after their work, in the shadows of the trees. Indeed, it may be pleasant to be a reaper reposing. Yet a disappointed, wretched lover can find no pleasure in anything but being miserable; and lovers, disappointed in love, do so indulge in misery, that it _must_ be a pleasure.

Nemorino, the poor young farmer, was a disappointed lover, and on one particular autumn evening, when the reapers were sitting in the shadow of the trees, he took no notice of _them_, but kept his eyes fixed upon Adina, who, on her part, kept her eyes fixed upon her book, like St. Dunstan of old.

The fact is, Adina was a coquette, and no one likes your unalterably attached man more than a thorough coquette. A coquette--that is, a thorough coquette--never does marry an unalterably attached man. She usually marries a man who thinks just a little more of himself than he does of his bride, and a coquette is happy ever after in consequence.

Well Adina, who, by the way, was by no means poor, lived in a farm-house, in the exact centre of her farm, and did nothing but what she pleased. And Adina ran very considerable risk of marrying Sergeant Belcore, of the attractive chasseurs; and she quite laughed at the attentions of Nemorino. Handsome; yes, certainly handsome, but _so_ stupid, so different to Sergeant Belcore.

See you, in her heart of hearts, a coquette knows her own inestimable little worth, and so, consequently, she cannot help despising a man who thoroughly believes in her.

On this particular evening she was more contemptuous with respect to Nemorino than she had ever shown herself, and truth to tell, sitting under a tree reading, she looked, and was, very pert indeed.

She made him jealous of her very book; it was such an interesting book. Suddenly, when the poor fellow ceased looking for an instant--

“Ah, ah! capital! Just listen: ’The beautiful Tristano quite burned away with love for the cruel Isotta, who SCORNED him (here she looked scornfully at Nemorino). At last, he found a sage, who gave him a love-philtre, and after that, the lovely Isotta was continually following the handsome Tristano.’ Nonsense! that only proves that the lovely Isotta was as stupid as somebody else I know. Hark! there are the drums; oh, delight, here comes _the sergeant_;” and then she looked wickedly at the disconsolate Nemorino.

Who was certainly very different to “_the sergeant_.” Nemorino was tall, comely-looking, flaxen-haired, and ingenuous; Sergeant Belcore was equally tall, but he was more than comely-looking. Such a figure had Sergeant Belcore! And Sergeant Belcore’s moustache, a long, sweeping moustache, which stood out straight on each side of his face, in the mathematical manner, and was as bright as his splendid boots. His handsome black hair, too, was clipped short to the pole of his neck; and altogether, Sergeant Belcore was very spruce indeed; and Sergeant Belcore knew it.

He thought he was in love with Adina, but he certainly was not; whereof, in proof of which, witness the nosegay. No lover--really a lover--comes up as cool as a cucumber to offer his bouquet? No, he suggests the flowers, so to speak, with many doubts; and if it be accepted, he don’t twirl his moustaches (if he has any), as though he had done a very admirable thing.

All of which conduct was Sergeant Belcore’s, when he stepped cavalierly up to the maiden. As for Nemorino, poor fellow, he looked more lone, dismal, and ridiculous than before.

“O, country nymph, I present this nosegay to you, as Paris did the apple, because you are the loveliest.”

“Ah, ah, ah! very good.”

Nemorino sighs.

“And I see clearly I’ve carried your heart by storm. Well, well, no girl can withstand a red coat.”

“Ah, ah, ah! very good, sergeant.”

“Ah, me!” sighed the love-born swain.

“Well, pretty one, if your love equals mine, let’s ground arms--capitulate; on what day will you marry me?”

“Ah, ah, ah! very good, Sergeant Belcore.”

“Come--come--come--here’s the conqueror.”

“Sergeant, sergeant, you storm too soon. Who should cry victory before the battle has begun? And besides, _I_ am Adina.”

“I wish,” thought the poor stricken lover, “_I_ could talk as bravely as the sergeant.”

“Well well, as sure as I’ve a military moustache, I’ll not desert the post.”

“Spoken like a brave sergeant. But, in the meantime, may I offer you something to eat?”

“I’m one of the family already,” thought the sergeant; so he said, “If _you_ sit at the same table.”

“Ah, ah, ah! _very_ good, Sergeant Belcore. Go in, go in.”

_She_ saw Nemorino was coming up to speak to her.

“One little word, Adina.”

“Oh, _two_ little words for Nemorino. The usual sighs, though he had much better go and see his uncle, who is ill--they say _very_ ill.”

“He is not so sick as I am, Adina.”

“And, then, if his uncle dies, he’ll make somebody else his heir.”

“What does that matter to me, Adina?”

“And then he’ll die of hunger and misery;” addressed generally to the surrounding landscape.

“Either of hunger or love, what matters it, Adina?”

“Well, well. He _is_ modest, which Sergeant Belcore certainly is NOT. This Nemorino don’t presume, and I never shall love him.”

“But why--why, Adina?”

“He might as well ask the wind why it loveth to go this way or that, over brook or field.”

“Then I ought?”

“Then he ought to think no more about me.”

“But I cannot, Adina.”

“But why?”

“You might as well ask the river why it flows to the sea.”

“Ah, I see; because he _must_!”

“Even as the river floweth onwards to the sea, I’ll follow Adina.”

“Ah, ah, ah!”

And with this general winding up of her interviews with the luckless youth, she ran in, and clapped to the little door.