Austen for Beginners

The Mysteries of Udolpho

Section 4

The Mysteries of Udolpho

by Ann Radcliffe


     Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,
 For many a long month lost in snow profound,
 When Sol from Cancer sends the seasons bland,
 And in their northern cave the storms hath bound;
 From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,
 Torrents are hurl'd, green hills emerge, and lo,
 The trees with foliage, cliffs with flow'rs are crown'd;
 Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go;
 And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.

Several of her succeeding days passed in suspense, for Ludovico could
only learn from the soldiers, that there was a prisoner in the
apartment, described to him by Emily, and that he was a Frenchman,
whom they had taken in one of their skirmishes, with a party of his
countrymen.  During this interval, Emily escaped the persecutions of
Bertolini, and Verezzi, by confining herself to her apartment; except
that sometimes, in an evening, she ventured to walk in the adjoining
corridor.  Montoni appeared to respect his last promise, though he
had prophaned his first; for to his protection only could she
attribute her present repose; and in this she was now so secure, that
she did not wish to leave the castle, till she could obtain some
certainty concerning Valancourt; for which she waited, indeed,
without any sacrifice of her own comfort, since no circumstance had
occurred to make her escape probable.

On the fourth day, Ludovico informed her, that he had hopes of being
admitted to the presence of the prisoner; it being the turn of a
soldier, with whom he had been for some time familiar, to attend him
on the following night.  He was not deceived in his hope; for, under
pretence of carrying in a pitcher of water, he entered the prison,
though, his prudence having prevented him from telling the sentinel
the real motive of his visit, he was obliged to make his conference
with the prisoner a very short one.

Emily awaited the result in her own apartment, Ludovico having
promised to accompany Annette to the corridor, in the evening; where,
after several hours impatiently counted, he arrived.  Emily, having
then uttered the name of Valancourt, could articulate no more, but
hesitated in trembling expectation.  'The Chevalier would not entrust
me with his name, Signora,' replied Ludovico; 'but, when I just
mentioned yours, he seemed overwhelmed with joy, though he was not so
much surprised as I expected.'  'Does he then remember me?' she

'O! it is Mons. Valancourt,' said Annette, and looked impatiently at
Ludovico, who understood her look, and replied to Emily:  'Yes, lady,
the Chevalier does, indeed, remember you, and, I am sure, has a very
great regard for you, and I made bold to say you had for him.  He
then enquired how you came to know he was in the castle, and whether
you ordered me to speak to him.  The first question I could not
answer, but the second I did; and then he went off into his ecstasies
again.  I was afraid his joy would have betrayed him to the sentinel
at the door.'

'But how does he look, Ludovico?' interrupted Emily:  'is he not
melancholy and ill with this long confinement?'--'Why, as to
melancholy, I saw no symptom of that, lady, while I was with him, for
he seemed in the finest spirits I ever saw any body in, in all my
life.  His countenance was all joy, and, if one may judge from that,
he was very well; but I did not ask him.'  'Did he send me no
message?' said Emily.  'O yes, Signora, and something besides,'
replied Ludovico, who searched his pockets.  'Surely, I have not lost
it,' added he.  'The Chevalier said, he would have written, madam, if
he had had pen and ink, and was going to have sent a very long
message, when the sentinel entered the room, but not before he had
give me this.'  Ludovico then drew forth a miniature from his bosom,
which Emily received with a trembling hand, and perceived to be a
portrait of herself--the very picture, which her mother had lost so
strangely in the fishing-house at La Vallee.

Tears of mingled joy and tenderness flowed to her eyes, while
Ludovico proceeded--'"Tell your lady," said the Chevalier, as he gave
me the picture, "that this has been my companion, and only solace in
all my misfortunes.  Tell her, that I have worn it next my heart, and
that I sent it her as the pledge of an affection, which can never
die; that I would not part with it, but to her, for the wealth of
worlds, and that I now part with it, only in the hope of soon
receiving it from her hands.  Tell her"--Just then, Signora, the
sentinel came in, and the Chevalier said no more; but he had before
asked me to contrive an interview for him with you; and when I told
him, how little hope I had of prevailing with the guard to assist me,
he said, that was not, perhaps, of so much consequence as I imagined,
and bade me contrive to bring back your answer, and he would inform
me of more than he chose to do then.  So this, I think, lady, is the
whole of what passed.'

'How, Ludovico, shall I reward you for your zeal?' said Emily:  'but,
indeed, I do not now possess the means.  When can you see the
Chevalier again?'  'That is uncertain, Signora,' replied he.  'It
depends upon who stands guard next:  there are not more than one or
two among them, from whom I would dare to ask admittance to the

'I need not bid you remember, Ludovico,' resumed Emily, 'how very
much interested I am in your seeing the Chevalier soon; and, when you
do so, tell him, that I have received the picture, and, with the
sentiments he wished.  Tell him I have suffered much, and still
suffer--'  She paused.  'But shall I tell him you will see him,
lady?' said Ludovico.  'Most certainly I will,' replied Emily.  'But
when, Signora, and where?'  'That must depend upon circumstances,'
returned Emily.  'The place, and the hour, must be regulated by his

'As to the place, mademoiselle,' said Annette, 'there is no other
place in the castle, besides this corridor, where WE can see him in
safety, you know; and, as for the hour,--it must be when all the
Signors are asleep, if that ever happens!'  'You may mention these
circumstances to the Chevalier, Ludovico,' said she, checking the
flippancy of Annette, 'and leave them to his judgment and
opportunity.  Tell him, my heart is unchanged.  But, above all, let
him see you again as soon as possible; and, Ludovico, I think it is
needless to tell you I shall very anxiously look for you.'  Having
then wished her good night, Ludovico descended the staircase, and
Emily retired to rest, but not to sleep, for joy now rendered her as
wakeful, as she had ever been from grief.  Montoni and his castle had
all vanished from her mind, like the frightful vision of a
necromancer, and she wandered, once more, in fairy scenes of unfading

     As when, beneath the beam
 Of summer moons, the distant woods among,
 Or by some flood, all silver'd with the gleam,
 The soft embodied Fays thro' airy portals stream.

A week elapsed, before Ludovico again visited the prison; for the
sentinels, during that period, were men, in whom he could not
confide, and he feared to awaken curiosity, by asking to see their
prisoner.  In this interval, he communicated to Emily terrific
reports of what was passing in the castle; of riots, quarrels, and of
carousals more alarming than either; while from some circumstances,
which he mentioned, she not only doubted, whether Montoni meant ever
to release her, but greatly feared, that he had designs, concerning
her,--such as she had formerly dreaded.  Her name was frequently
mentioned in the conversations, which Bertolini and Verezzi held
together, and, at those times, they were frequently in contention. 
Montoni had lost large sums to Verezzi, so that there was a dreadful
possibility of his designing her to be a substitute for the debt;
but, as she was ignorant, that he had formerly encouraged the hopes
of Bertolini also, concerning herself, after the latter had done him
some signal service, she knew not how to account for these
contentions between Bertolini and Verezzi.  The cause of them,
however, appeared to be of little consequence, for she thought she
saw destruction approaching in many forms, and her entreaties to
Ludovico to contrive an escape and to see the prisoner again, were
more urgent than ever.

At length, he informed her, that he had again visited the Chevalier,
who had directed him to confide in the guard of the prison, from whom
he had already received some instances of kindness, and who had
promised to permit his going into the castle for half an hour, on the
ensuing night, when Montoni and his companions should be engaged at
their carousals.  'This was kind, to be sure,' added Ludovico:  'but
Sebastian knows he runs no risque in letting the Chevalier out, for,
if he can get beyond the bars and iron doors of the castle, he must
be cunning indeed.  But the Chevalier desired me, Signora, to go to
you immediately, and to beg you would allow him to visit you, this
night, if it was only for a moment, for that he could no longer live
under the same roof, without seeing you; the hour, he said, he could
not mention, for it must depend on circumstances (just as you said,
Signora); and the place he desired you would appoint, as knowing
which was best for your own safety.'

Emily was now so much agitated by the near prospect of meeting
Valancourt, that it was some time, before she could give any answer
to Ludovico, or consider of the place of meeting; when she did, she
saw none, that promised so much security, as the corridor, near her
own apartment, which she was checked from leaving, by the
apprehension of meeting any of Montoni's guests, on their way to
their rooms; and she dismissed the scruples, which delicacy opposed,
now that a serious danger was to be avoided by encountering them.  It
was settled, therefore, that the Chevalier should meet her in the
corridor, at that hour of the night, which Ludovico, who was to be
upon the watch, should judge safest:  and Emily, as may be imagined,
passed this interval in a tumult of hope and joy, anxiety and
impatience.  Never, since her residence in the castle, had she
watched, with so much pleasure, the sun set behind the mountains, and
twilight shade, and darkness veil the scene, as on this evening.  She
counted the notes of the great clock, and listened to the steps of
the sentinels, as they changed the watch, only to rejoice, that
another hour was gone.  'O, Valancourt!' said she, 'after all I have
suffered; after our long, long separation, when I thought I should
never--never see you more--we are still to meet again!  O! I have
endured grief, and anxiety, and terror, and let me, then, not sink
beneath this joy!'  These were moments, when it was impossible for
her to feel emotions of regret, or melancholy, for any ordinary
interests;--even the reflection, that she had resigned the estates,
which would have been a provision for herself and Valancourt for
life, threw only a light and transient shade upon her spirits.  The
idea of Valancourt, and that she should see him so soon, alone
occupied her heart.

At length the clock struck twelve; she opened the door to listen, if
any noise was in the castle, and heard only distant shouts of riot
and laughter, echoed feebly along the gallery.  She guessed, that the
Signor and his guests were at the banquet.  'They are now engaged for
the night,' said she; 'and Valancourt will soon be here.'  Having
softly closed the door, she paced the room with impatient steps, and
often went to the casement to listen for the lute; but all was
silent, and, her agitation every moment increasing, she was at length
unable to support herself, and sat down by the window.  Annette, whom
she detained, was, in the meantime, as loquacious as usual; but Emily
heard scarcely any thing she said, and having at length risen to the
casement, she distinguished the chords of the lute, struck with an
expressive hand, and then the voice, she had formerly listened to,
accompanied it.

     Now rising love they fann'd, now pleasing dole
 They breath'd in tender musings through the heart;
 And now a graver, sacred strain they stole,
 As when seraphic hands an hymn impart!

Emily wept in doubtful joy and tenderness; and, when the strain
ceased, she considered it as a signal, that Valancourt was about to
leave the prison.  Soon after, she heard steps in the corridor;--they
were the light, quick steps of hope; she could scarcely support
herself, as they approached, but opening the door of the apartment,
she advanced to meet Valancourt, and, in the next moment, sunk in the
arms of a stranger.  His voice--his countenance instantly convinced
her, and she fainted away.

On reviving, she found herself supported by the stranger, who was
watching over her recovery, with a countenance of ineffable
tenderness and anxiety.  She had no spirits for reply, or enquiry;
she asked no questions, but burst into tears, and disengaged herself
from his arms; when the expression of his countenance changed to
surprise and disappointment, and he turned to Ludovico, for an
explanation; Annette soon gave the information, which Ludovico could
not.  'O, sir!' said she, in a voice, interrupted with sobs; 'O, sir!
you are not the other Chevalier.  We expected Monsieur Valancourt,
but you are not he!  O Ludovico! how could you deceive us so? my poor
lady will never recover it--never!'  The stranger, who now appeared
much agitated, attempted to speak, but his words faltered; and then
striking his hand against his forehead, as if in sudden despair, he
walked abruptly to the other end of the corridor.

Suddenly, Annette dried her tears, and spoke to Ludovico.  'But,
perhaps,' said she, 'after all, the other Chevalier is not this: 
perhaps the Chevalier Valancourt is still below.'  Emily raised her
head.  'No,' replied Ludovico, 'Monsieur Valancourt never was below,
if this gentleman is not he.'  'If you, sir,' said Ludovico,
addressing the stranger, 'would but have had the goodness to trust me
with your name, this mistake had been avoided.'  'Most true,' replied
the stranger, speaking in broken Italian, 'but it was of the utmost
consequence to me, that my name should be concealed from Montoni. 
Madam,' added he then, addressing Emily in French, 'will you permit
me to apologize for the pain I have occasioned you, and to explain to
you alone my name, and the circumstance, which has led me into this
error?  I am of France;--I am your countryman;--we are met in a
foreign land.'  Emily tried to compose her spirits; yet she hesitated
to grant his request.  At length, desiring, that Ludovico would wait
on the stair-case, and detaining Annette, she told the stranger, that
her woman understood very little Italian, and begged he would
communicate what he wished to say, in that language.--Having
withdrawn to a distant part of the corridor, he said, with a long-
drawn sigh, 'You, madam, are no stranger to me, though I am so
unhappy as to be unknown to you.--My name is Du Pont; I am of France,
of Gascony, your native province, and have long admired,--and, why
should I affect to disguise it?--have long loved you.'  He paused,
but, in the next moment, proceeded.  'My family, madam, is probably
not unknown to you, for we lived within a few miles of La Vallee, and
I have, sometimes, had the happiness of meeting you, on visits in the
neighbourhood.  I will not offend you by repeating how much you
interested me; how much I loved to wander in the scenes you
frequented; how often I visited your favourite fishing-house, and
lamented the circumstance, which, at that time, forbade me to reveal
my passion.  I will not explain how I surrendered to temptation, and
became possessed of a treasure, which was to me inestimable; a
treasure, which I committed to your messenger, a few days ago, with
expectations very different from my present ones.  I will say nothing
of these circumstances, for I know they will avail me little; let me
only supplicate from you forgiveness, and the picture, which I so
unwarily returned.  Your generosity will pardon the theft, and
restore the prize.  My crime has been my punishment; for the portrait
I stole has contributed to nourish a passion, which must still be my

Emily now interrupted him.  'I think, sir, I may leave it to your
integrity to determine, whether, after what has just appeared,
concerning Mons. Valancourt, I ought to return the picture.  I think
you will acknowledge, that this would not be generosity; and you will
allow me to add, that it would be doing myself an injustice.  I must
consider myself honoured by your good opinion, but'--and she
hesitated,--'the mistake of this evening makes it unnecessary for me
to say more.'

'It does, madam,--alas! it does!' said the stranger, who, after a
long pause, proceeded.--'But you will allow me to shew my
disinterestedness, though not my love, and will accept the services I
offer.  Yet, alas! what services can I offer?  I am myself a
prisoner, a sufferer, like you.  But, dear as liberty is to me, I
would not seek it through half the hazards I would encounter to
deliver you from this recess of vice.  Accept the offered services of
a friend; do not refuse me the reward of having, at least, attempted
to deserve your thanks.'

'You deserve them already, sir,' said Emily; 'the wish deserves my
warmest thanks.  But you will excuse me for reminding you of the
danger you incur by prolonging this interview.  It will be a great
consolation to me to remember, whether your friendly attempts to
release me succeed or not, that I have a countryman, who would so
generously protect me.'--Monsieur Du Pont took her hand, which she
but feebly attempted to withdraw, and pressed it respectfully to his
lips.  'Allow me to breathe another fervent sigh for your happiness,'
said he, 'and to applaud myself for an affection, which I cannot
conquer.'  As he said this, Emily heard a noise from her apartment,
and, turning round, saw the door from the stair-case open, and a man
rush into her chamber.  'I will teach you to conquer it,' cried he,
as he advanced into the corridor, and drew a stiletto, which he aimed
at Du Pont, who was unarmed, but who, stepping back, avoided the
blow, and then sprung upon Verezzi, from whom he wrenched the
stiletto.  While they struggled in each other's grasp, Emily,
followed by Annette, ran further into the corridor, calling on
Ludovico, who was, however, gone from the stair-case, and, as she
advanced, terrified and uncertain what to do, a distant noise, that
seemed to arise from the hall, reminded her of the danger she was
incurring; and, sending Annette forward in search of Ludovico, she
returned to the spot where Du Pont and Verezzi were still struggling
for victory.  It was her own cause which was to be decided with that
of the former, whose conduct, independently of this circumstance,
would, however, have interested her in his success, even had she not
disliked and dreaded Verezzi.  She threw herself in a chair, and
supplicated them to desist from further violence, till, at length, Du
Pont forced Verezzi to the floor, where he lay stunned by the
violence of his fall; and she then entreated Du Pont to escape from
the room, before Montoni, or his party, should appear; but he still
refused to leave her unprotected; and, while Emily, now more
terrified for him, than for herself, enforced the entreaty, they
heard steps ascending the private stair-case.

'O you are lost!' cried she, 'these are Montoni's people.'  Du Pont
made no reply, but supported Emily, while, with a steady, though
eager, countenance, he awaited their appearance, and, in the next
moment, Ludovico, alone, mounted the landing-place.  Throwing an
hasty glance round the chamber, 'Follow me,' said he, 'as you value
your lives; we have not an instant to lose!'

Emily enquired what had occurred, and whither they were to go?

'I cannot stay to tell you now, Signora,' replied Ludovico:  'fly!

She immediately followed him, accompanied by Mons. Du Pont, down the
stair-case, and along a vaulted passage, when suddenly she
recollected Annette, and enquired for her.  'She awaits us further
on, Signora,' said Ludovico, almost breathless with haste; 'the gates
were open, a moment since, to a party just come in from the
mountains:  they will be shut, I fear, before we can reach them! 
Through this door, Signora,' added Ludovico, holding down the lamp,
'take care, here are two steps.'

Emily followed, trembling still more, than before she had understood,
that her escape from the castle, depended upon the present moment;
while Du Pont supported her, and endeavoured, as they passed along,
to cheer her spirits.

'Speak low, Signor,' said Ludovico, 'these passages send echoes all
round the castle.'

'Take care of the light,' cried Emily, 'you go so fast, that the air
will extinguish it.'

Ludovico now opened another door, where they found Annette, and the
party then descended a short flight of steps into a passage, which,
Ludovico said, led round the inner court of the castle, and opened
into the outer one.  As they advanced, confused and tumultuous
sounds, that seemed to come from the inner court, alarmed Emily. 
'Nay, Signora,' said Ludovico, 'our only hope is in that tumult;
while the Signor's people are busied about the men, who are just
arrived, we may, perhaps, pass unnoticed through the gates.  But
hush!' he added, as they approached the small door, that opened into
the outer court, 'if you will remain here a moment, I will go to see
whether the gates are open, and any body is in the way.  Pray
extinguish the light, Signor, if you hear me talking,' continued
Ludovico, delivering the lamp to Du Pont, 'and remain quite still.'

Saying this, he stepped out upon the court, and they closed the door,
listening anxiously to his departing steps.  No voice, however, was
heard in the court, which he was crossing, though a confusion of many
voices yet issued from the inner one.  'We shall soon be beyond the
walls,' said Du Pont softly to Emily, 'support yourself a little
longer, Madam, and all will be well.'

But soon they heard Ludovico speaking loud, and the voice also of
some other person, and Du Pont immediately extinguished the lamp. 
'Ah! it is too late!' exclaimed Emily, 'what is to become of us?' 
They listened again, and then perceived, that Ludovico was talking
with a sentinel, whose voices were heard also by Emily's favourite
dog, that had followed her from the chamber, and now barked loudly. 
'This dog will betray us!' said Du Pont, 'I will hold him.'  'I fear
he has already betrayed us!' replied Emily.  Du Pont, however, caught
him up, and, again listening to what was going on without, they heard
Ludovico say, 'I'll watch the gates the while.'

'Stay a minute,' replied the sentinel, 'and you need not have the
trouble, for the horses will be sent round to the outer stables, then
the gates will be shut, and I can leave my post.'  'I don't mind the
trouble, comrade,' said Ludovico, 'you will do such another good turn
for me, some time.  Go--go, and fetch the wine; the rogues, that are
just come in, will drink it all else.'

The soldier hesitated, and then called aloud to the people in the
second court, to know why they did not send out the horses, that the
gates might be shut; but they were too much engaged, to attend to
him, even if they had heard his voice.

'Aye--aye,' said Ludovico, 'they know better than that; they are
sharing it all among them; if you wait till the horses come out, you
must wait till the wine is drunk.  I have had my share already, but,
since you do not care about yours, I see no reason why I should not
have that too.'

'Hold, hold, not so fast,' cried the sentinel, 'do watch then, for a
moment:  I'll be with you presently.'

'Don't hurry yourself,' said Ludovico, coolly, 'I have kept guard
before now.  But you may leave me your trombone,* that, if the castle
should be attacked, you know, I may be able to defend the pass, like
a hero.'

(* A kind of blunderbuss. [A. R.])

'There, my good fellow,' returned the soldier, 'there, take it--it
has seen service, though it could do little in defending the castle. 
I'll tell you a good story, though, about this same trombone.'

'You'll tell it better when you have had the wine,' said Ludovico. 
'There! they are coming out from the court already.'

'I'll have the wine, though,' said the sentinel, running off.  'I
won't keep you a minute.'

'Take your time, I am in no haste,' replied Ludovico, who was already
hurrying across the court, when the soldier came back.  'Whither so
fast, friend--whither so fast?' said the latter.  'What! is this the
way you keep watch!  I must stand to my post myself, I see.'

'Aye, well,' replied Ludovico, 'you have saved me the trouble of
following you further, for I wanted to tell you, if you have a mind
to drink the Tuscany wine, you must go to Sebastian, he is dealing it
out; the other that Federico has, is not worth having.  But you are
not likely to have any, I see, for they are all coming out.'

'By St. Peter! so they are,' said the soldier, and again ran off,
while Ludovico, once more at liberty, hastened to the door of the
passage, where Emily was sinking under the anxiety this long
discourse had occasioned; but, on his telling them the court was
clear, they followed him to the gates, without waiting another
instant, yet not before he had seized two horses, that had strayed
from the second court, and were picking a scanty meal among the
grass, which grew between the pavement of the first.

They passed, without interruption, the dreadful gates, and took the
road that led down among the woods, Emily, Monsieur Du Pont and
Annette on foot, and Ludovico, who was mounted on one horse, leading
the other.  Having reached them, they stopped, while Emily and
Annette were placed on horseback with their two protectors, when,
Ludovico leading the way, they set off as fast as the broken road,
and the feeble light, which a rising moon threw among the foliage,
would permit.

Emily was so much astonished by this sudden departure, that she
scarcely dared to believe herself awake; and she yet much doubted
whether this adventure would terminate in escape,--a doubt, which had
too much probability to justify it; for, before they quitted the
woods, they heard shouts in the wind, and, on emerging from them, saw
lights moving quickly near the castle above.  Du Pont whipped his
horse, and with some difficulty compelled him to go faster.

'Ah! poor beast,' said Ludovico, 'he is weary enough;--he has been
out all day; but, Signor, we must fly for it, now; for yonder are
lights coming this way.'

Having given his own horse a lash, they now both set off on a full
gallop; and, when they again looked back, the lights were so distant
as scarcely to be discerned, and the voices were sunk into silence. 
The travellers then abated their pace, and, consulting whither they
should direct their course, it was determined they should descend
into Tuscany, and endeavour to reach the Mediterranean, where they
could readily embark for France.  Thither Du Pont meant to attend
Emily, if he should learn, that the regiment he had accompanied into
Italy, was returned to his native country.

They were now in the road, which Emily had travelled with Ugo and
Bertrand; but Ludovico, who was the only one of the party, acquainted
with the passes of these mountains, said, that, a little further on,
a bye-road, branching from this, would lead them down into Tuscany
with very little difficulty; and that, at a few leagues distance, was
a small town, where necessaries could be procured for their journey.

'But, I hope,' added he, 'we shall meet with no straggling parties of
banditti; some of them are abroad, I know.  However, I have got a
good trombone, which will be of some service, if we should encounter
any of those brave spirits.  You have no arms, Signor?'  'Yes,'
replied Du Pont, 'I have the villain's stilletto, who would have
stabbed me--but let us rejoice in our escape from Udolpho, nor
torment ourselves with looking out for dangers, that may never

The moon was now risen high over the woods, that hung upon the sides
of the narrow glen, through which they wandered, and afforded them
light sufficient to distinguish their way, and to avoid the loose and
broken stones, that frequently crossed it.  They now travelled
leisurely, and in profound silence; for they had scarcely yet
recovered from the astonishment, into which this sudden escape had
thrown them.--Emily's mind, especially, was sunk, after the various
emotions it had suffered, into a kind of musing stillness, which the
reposing beauty of the surrounding scene and the creeping murmur of
the night-breeze among the foliage above contributed to prolong.  She
thought of Valancourt and of France, with hope, and she would have
thought of them with joy, had not the first events of this evening
harassed her spirits too much, to permit her now to feel so lively a
sensation.  Meanwhile, Emily was alone the object of Du Pont's
melancholy consideration; yet, with the despondency he suffered, as
he mused on his recent disappointment, was mingled a sweet pleasure,
occasioned by her presence, though they did not now exchange a single
word.  Annette thought of this wonderful escape, of the bustle in
which Montoni and his people must be, now that their flight was
discovered; of her native country, whither she hoped she was
returning, and of her marriage with Ludovico, to which there no
longer appeared any impediment, for poverty she did not consider
such.  Ludovico, on his part, congratulated himself, on having
rescued his Annette and Signora Emily from the danger, that had
surrounded them; on his own liberation from people, whose manners he
had long detested; on the freedom he had given to Monsieur Du Pont;
on his prospect of happiness with the object of his affections, and
not a little on the address, with which he had deceived the sentinel,
and conducted the whole of this affair.

Thus variously engaged in thought, the travellers passed on silently,
for above an hour, a question only being, now and then, asked by Du
Pont, concerning the road, or a remark uttered by Annette, respecting
objects, seen imperfectly in the twilight.  At length, lights were
perceived twinkling on the side of a mountain, and Ludovico had no
doubt, that they proceeded from the town he had mentioned, while his
companions, satisfied by this assurance, sunk again into silence. 
Annette was the first who interrupted this.  'Holy Peter!' said she,
'What shall we do for money on our journey? for I know neither I, or
my lady, have a single sequin; the Signor took care of that!'

This remark produced a serious enquiry, which ended in as serious an
embarrassment, for Du Pont had been rifled of nearly all his money,
when he was taken prisoner; the remainder he had given to the
sentinel, who had enabled him occasionally to leave his prison-
chamber; and Ludovico, who had for some time found a difficulty, in
procuring any part of the wages due to him, had now scarcely cash
sufficient to procure necessary refreshment at the first town, in
which they should arrive.

Their poverty was the more distressing, since it would detain them
among the mountains, where, even in a town, they could scarcely
consider themselves safe from Montoni.  The travellers, however, had
only to proceed and dare the future; and they continued their way
through lonely wilds and dusky vallies, where the overhanging foliage
now admitted, and then excluded the moon-light;--wilds so desolate,
that they appeared, on the first glance, as if no human being had
ever trode them before.  Even the road, in which the party were, did
but slightly contradict this error, for the high grass and other
luxuriant vegetation, with which it was overgrown, told how very
seldom the foot of a traveller had passed it.

At length, from a distance, was heard the faint tinkling of a sheep-
bell; and, soon after, the bleat of flocks, and the party then knew,
that they were near some human habitation, for the light, which
Ludovico had fancied to proceed from a town, had long been concealed
by intervening mountains.  Cheered by this hope, they quickened their
pace along the narrow pass they were winding, and it opened upon one
of those pastoral vallies of the Apennines, which might be painted
for a scene of Arcadia, and whose beauty and simplicity are finely
contrasted by the grandeur of the snow-topt mountains above.

The morning light, now glimmering in the horizon, shewed faintly, at
a little distance, upon the brow of a hill, which seemed to peep from
'under the opening eye-lids of the morn,' the town they were in
search of, and which they soon after reached.  It was not without
some difficulty, that they there found a house, which could afford
shelter for themselves and their horses; and Emily desired they might
not rest longer than was necessary for refreshment.  Her appearance
excited some surprise, for she was without a hat, having had time
only to throw on her veil before she left the castle, a circumstance,
that compelled her to regret again the want of money, without which
it was impossible to procure this necessary article of dress.

Ludovico, on examining his purse, found it even insufficient to
supply present refreshment, and Du Pont, at length, ventured to
inform the landlord, whose countenance was simple and honest, of
their exact situation, and requested, that he would assist them to
pursue their journey; a purpose, which he promised to comply with, as
far as he was able, when he learned that they were prisoners escaping
from Montoni, whom he had too much reason to hate.  But, though he
consented to lend them fresh horses to carry them to the next town,
he was too poor himself to trust them with money, and they were again
lamenting their poverty, when Ludovico, who had been with his tired
horses to the hovel, which served for a stable, entered the room,
half frantic with joy, in which his auditors soon participated.  On
removing the saddle from one of the horses, he had found beneath it a
small bag, containing, no doubt, the booty of one of the condottieri,
who had returned from a plundering excursion, just before Ludovico
left the castle, and whose horse having strayed from the inner court,
while his master was engaged in drinking, had brought away the
treasure, which the ruffian had considered the reward of his exploit.

On counting over this, Du Pont found, that it would be more than
sufficient to carry them all to France, where he now determined to
accompany Emily, whether he should obtain intelligence of his
regiment, or not; for, though he had as much confidence in the
integrity of Ludovico, as his small knowledge of him allowed, he
could not endure the thought of committing her to his care for the
voyage; nor, perhaps, had he resolution enough to deny himself the
dangerous pleasure, which he might derive from her presence.

He now consulted them, concerning the sea-port, to which they should
direct their way, and Ludovico, better informed of the geography of
the country, said, that Leghorn was the nearest port of consequence,
which Du Pont knew also to be the most likely of any in Italy to
assist their plan, since from thence vessels of all nations were
continually departing.  Thither, therefore, it was determined, that
they should proceed.

Emily, having purchased a little straw hat, such as was worn by the
peasant girls of Tuscany, and some other little necessary equipments
for the journey, and the travellers, having exchanged their tired
horses for others better able to carry them, re-commenced their
joyous way, as the sun was rising over the mountains, and, after
travelling through this romantic country, for several hours, began to
descend into the vale of Arno.  And here Emily beheld all the charms
of sylvan and pastoral landscape united, adorned with the elegant
villas of the Florentine nobles, and diversified with the various
riches of cultivation.  How vivid the shrubs, that embowered the
slopes, with the woods, that stretched amphitheatrically along the
mountains! and, above all, how elegant the outline of these waving
Apennines, now softening from the wildness, which their interior
regions exhibited!  At a distance, in the east, Emily discovered
Florence, with its towers rising on the brilliant horizon, and its
luxuriant plain, spreading to the feet of the Apennines, speckled
with gardens and magnificent villas, or coloured with groves of
orange and lemon, with vines, corn, and plantations of olives and
mulberry; while, to the west, the vale opened to the waters of the
Mediterranean, so distant, that they were known only by a blueish
line, that appeared upon the horizon, and by the light marine vapour,
which just stained the aether above.

With a full heart, Emily hailed the waves, that were to bear her back
to her native country, the remembrance of which, however, brought
with it a pang; for she had there no home to receive, no parents to
welcome her, but was going, like a forlorn pilgrim, to weep over the
sad spot, where he, who WAS her father, lay interred.  Nor were her
spirits cheered, when she considered how long it would probably be
before she should see Valancourt, who might be stationed with his
regiment in a distant part of France, and that, when they did meet,
it would be only to lament the successful villany of Montoni; yet,
still she would have felt inexpressible delight at the thought of
being once more in the same country with Valancourt, had it even been
certain, that she could not see him.

The intense heat, for it was now noon, obliged the travellers to look
out for a shady recess, where they might rest, for a few hours, and
the neighbouring thickets, abounding with wild grapes, raspberries,
and figs, promised them grateful refreshment.  Soon after, they
turned from the road into a grove, whose thick foliage entirely
excluded the sun-beams, and where a spring, gushing from the rock,
gave coolness to the air; and, having alighted and turned the horses
to graze, Annette and Ludovico ran to gather fruit from the
surrounding thickets, of which they soon returned with an abundance. 
The travellers, seated under the shade of a pine and cypress grove
and on turf, enriched with such a profusion of fragrant flowers, as
Emily had scarcely ever seen, even among the Pyrenees, took their
simple repast, and viewed, with new delight, beneath the dark umbrage
of gigantic pines, the glowing landscape stretching to the sea.

Emily and Du Pont gradually became thoughtful and silent; but Annette
was all joy and loquacity, and Ludovico was gay, without forgetting
the respectful distance, which was due to his companions.  The repast
being over, Du Pont recommended Emily to endeavour to sleep, during
these sultry hours, and, desiring the servants would do the same,
said he would watch the while; but Ludovico wished to spare him this
trouble; and Emily and Annette, wearied with travelling, tried to
repose, while he stood guard with his trombone.

When Emily, refreshed by slumber, awoke, she found the sentinel
asleep on his post and Du Pont awake, but lost in melancholy thought. 
As the sun was yet too high to allow them to continue their journey,
and as it was necessary, that Ludovico, after the toils and trouble
he had suffered, should finish his sleep, Emily took this opportunity
of enquiring by what accident Du Pont became Montoni's prisoner, and
he, pleased with the interest this enquiry expressed and with the
excuse it gave him for talking to her of himself, immediately
answered her curiosity.

'I came into Italy, madam,' said Du Pont, 'in the service of my
country.  In an adventure among the mountains our party, engaging
with the bands of Montoni, was routed, and I, with a few of my
comrades, was taken prisoner.  When they told me, whose captive I
was, the name of Montoni struck me, for I remembered, that Madame
Cheron, your aunt, had married an Italian of that name, and that you
had accompanied them into Italy.  It was not, however, till some time
after, that I became convinced this was the same Montoni, or learned
that you, madam, was under the same roof with myself.  I will not
pain you by describing what were my emotions upon this discovery,
which I owed to a sentinel, whom I had so far won to my interest,
that he granted me many indulgences, one of which was very important
to me, and somewhat dangerous to himself; but he persisted in
refusing to convey any letter, or notice of my situation to you, for
he justly dreaded a discovery and the consequent vengeance of
Montoni.  He however enabled me to see you more than once.  You are
surprised, madam, and I will explain myself.  My health and spirits
suffered extremely from want of air and exercise, and, at length, I
gained so far upon the pity, or the avarice of the man, that he gave
me the means of walking on the terrace.'

Emily now listened, with very anxious attention, to the narrative of
Du Pont, who proceeded:

'In granting this indulgence, he knew, that he had nothing to
apprehend from a chance of my escaping from a castle, which was
vigilantly guarded, and the nearest terrace of which rose over a
perpendicular rock; he shewed me also,' continued Du Pont, 'a door
concealed in the cedar wainscot of the apartment where I was
confined, which he instructed me how to open; and which, leading into
a passage, formed within the thickness of the wall, that extended far
along the castle, finally opened in an obscure corner of the eastern
rampart.  I have since been informed, that there are many passages of
the same kind concealed within the prodigious walls of that edifice,
and which were, undoubtedly, contrived for the purpose of
facilitating escapes in time of war.  Through this avenue, at the
dead of night, I often stole to the terrace, where I walked with the
utmost caution, lest my steps should betray me to the sentinels on
duty in distant parts; for this end of it, being guarded by high
buildings, was not watched by soldiers.  In one of these midnight
wanderings, I saw light in a casement that overlooked the rampart,
and which, I observed, was immediately over my prison-chamber.  It
occurred to me, that you might be in that apartment, and, with the
hope of seeing you, I placed myself opposite to the window.'

Emily, remembering the figure that had formerly appeared on the
terrace, and which had occasioned her so much anxiety, exclaimed, 'It
was you then, Monsieur Du Pont, who occasioned me much foolish
terror; my spirits were, at that time, so much weakened by long
suffering, that they took alarm at every hint.'  Du Pont, after
lamenting, that he had occasioned her any apprehension, added, 'As I
rested on the wall, opposite to your casement, the consideration of
your melancholy situation and of my own called from me involuntary
sounds of lamentation, which drew you, I fancy, to the casement; I
saw there a person, whom I believed to be you.  O! I will say nothing
of my emotion at that moment; I wished to speak, but prudence
restrained me, till the distant foot-step of a sentinel compelled me
suddenly to quit my station.

'It was some time, before I had another opportunity of walking, for I
could only leave my prison, when it happened to be the turn of one
man to guard me; meanwhile I became convinced from some circumstances
related by him, that your apartment was over mine, and, when again I
ventured forth, I returned to your casement, where again I saw you,
but without daring to speak.  I waved my hand, and you suddenly
disappeared; then it was, that I forgot my prudence, and yielded to
lamentation; again you appeared--you spoke--I heard the well-known
accent of your voice! and, at that moment, my discretion would have
forsaken me again, had I not heard also the approaching steps of a
soldier, when I instantly quitted the place, though not before the
man had seen me.  He followed down the terrace and gained so fast
upon me, that I was compelled to make use of a stratagem, ridiculous
enough, to save myself.  I had heard of the superstition of many of
these men, and I uttered a strange noise, with a hope, that my
pursuer would mistake it for something supernatural, and desist from
pursuit.  Luckily for myself I succeeded; the man, it seems, was
subject to fits, and the terror he suffered threw him into one, by
which accident I secured my retreat.  A sense of the danger I had
escaped, and the increased watchfulness, which my appearance had
occasioned among the sentinels, deterred me ever after from walking
on the terrace; but, in the stillness of night, I frequently beguiled
myself with an old lute, procured for me by a soldier, which I
sometimes accompanied with my voice, and sometimes, I will
acknowledge, with a hope of making myself heard by you; but it was
only a few evenings ago, that this hope was answered.  I then thought
I heard a voice in the wind, calling me; yet, even then I feared to
reply, lest the sentinel at the prison door should hear me.  Was I
right, madam, in this conjecture--was it you who spoke?'

'Yes,' said Emily, with an involuntary sigh, 'you was right indeed.'

Du Pont, observing the painful emotions, which this question revived,
now changed the subject.  'In one of my excursions through the
passage, which I have mentioned, I overheard a singular
conversation,' said he.

'In the passage!' said Emily, with surprise.

'I heard it in the passage,' said Du Pont, 'but it proceeded from an
apartment, adjoining the wall, within which the passage wound, and
the shell of the wall was there so thin, and was also somewhat
decayed, that I could distinctly hear every word, spoken on the other
side.  It happened that Montoni and his companions were assembled in
the room, and Montoni began to relate the extraordinary history of
the lady, his predecessor, in the castle.  He did, indeed, mention
some very surprising circumstances, and whether they were strictly
true, his conscience must decide; I fear it will determine against
him.  But you, madam, have doubtless heard the report, which he
designs should circulate, on the subject of that lady's mysterious

'I have, sir,' replied Emily, 'and I perceive, that you doubt it.'

'I doubted it before the period I am speaking of,' rejoined Du Pont;-
-'but some circumstances, mentioned by Montoni, greatly contributed
to my suspicions.  The account I then heard, almost convinced me,
that he was a murderer.  I trembled for you;--the more so that I had
heard the guests mention your name in a manner, that threatened your
repose; and, knowing, that the most impious men are often the most
superstitious, I determined to try whether I could not awaken their
consciences, and awe them from the commission of the crime I dreaded. 
I listened closely to Montoni, and, in the most striking passages of
his story, I joined my voice, and repeated his last words, in a
disguised and hollow tone.'

'But was you not afraid of being discovered?' said Emily.

'I was not,' replied Du Pont; 'for I knew, that, if Montoni had been
acquainted with the secret of this passage, he would not have
confined me in the apartment, to which it led.  I knew also, from
better authority, that he was ignorant of it.  The party, for some
time, appeared inattentive to my voice; but, at length, were so much
alarmed, that they quitted the apartment; and, having heard Montoni
order his servants to search it, I returned to my prison, which was
very distant from this part of the passage.'  'I remember perfectly
to have heard of the conversation you mention,' said Emily; 'it
spread a general alarm among Montoni's people, and I will own I was
weak enough to partake of it.'

Monsieur Du Pont and Emily thus continued to converse of Montoni, and
then of France, and of the plan of their voyage; when Emily told him,
that it was her intention to retire to a convent in Languedoc, where
she had been formerly treated with much kindness, and from thence to
write to her relation Monsieur Quesnel, and inform him of her
conduct.  There, she designed to wait, till La Vallee should again be
her own, whither she hoped her income would some time permit her to
return; for Du Pont now taught her to expect, that the estate, of
which Montoni had attempted to defraud her, was not irrecoverably
lost, and he again congratulated her on her escape from Montoni, who,
he had not a doubt, meant to have detained her for life.  The
possibility of recovering her aunt's estates for Valancourt and
herself lighted up a joy in Emily's heart, such as she had not known
for many months; but she endeavoured to conceal this from Monsieur Du
Pont, lest it should lead him to a painful remembrance of his rival.

They continued to converse, till the sun was declining in the west,
when Du Pont awoke Ludovico, and they set forward on their journey. 
Gradually descending the lower slopes of the valley, they reached the
Arno, and wound along its pastoral margin, for many miles, delighted
with the scenery around them, and with the remembrances, which its
classic waves revived.  At a distance, they heard the gay song of the
peasants among the vineyards, and observed the setting sun tint the
waves with yellow lustre, and twilight draw a dusky purple over the
mountains, which, at length, deepened into night.  Then the LUCCIOLA,
the fire-fly of Tuscany, was seen to flash its sudden sparks among
the foliage, while the cicala, with its shrill note, became more
clamorous than even during the noon-day heat, loving best the hour
when the English beetle, with less offensive sound,

 His small but sullen horn,
 As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
 Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.*

(* Collins.  [A. R.])

The travellers crossed the Arno by moon-light, at a ferry, and,
learning that Pisa was distant only a few miles down the river, they
wished to have proceeded thither in a boat, but, as none could be
procured, they set out on their wearied horses for that city.  As
they approached it, the vale expanded into a plain, variegated with
vineyards, corn, olives and mulberry groves; but it was late, before
they reached its gates, where Emily was surprised to hear the busy
sound of footsteps and the tones of musical instruments, as well as
to see the lively groups, that filled the streets, and she almost
fancied herself again at Venice; but here was no moon-light sea--no
gay gondolas, dashing the waves,--no PALLADIAN palaces, to throw
enchantment over the fancy and lead it into the wilds of fairy story. 
The Arno rolled through the town, but no music trembled from
balconies over its waters; it gave only the busy voices of sailors on
board vessels just arrived from the Mediterranean; the melancholy
heaving of the anchor, and the shrill boatswain's whistle;--sounds,
which, since that period, have there sunk almost into silence.  They
then served to remind Du Pont, that it was probable he might hear of
a vessel, sailing soon to France from this port, and thus be spared
the trouble of going to Leghorn.  As soon as Emily had reached the
inn, he went therefore to the quay, to make his enquiries; but, after
all the endeavours of himself and Ludovico, they could hear
of no
bark, destined immediately for France, and the travellers returned to
their resting-place.  Here also, Du Pont endeavoured to learn where
his regiment then lay, but could acquire no information concerning
it.  The travellers retired early to rest, after the fatigues of this
day; and, on the following, rose early, and, without pausing to view
the celebrated antiquities of the place, or the wonders of its
hanging tower, pursued their journey in the cooler hours, through a
charming country, rich with wine, and corn and oil.  The Apennines,
no longer awful, or even grand, here softened into the beauty of
sylvan and pastoral landscape; and Emily, as she descended them,
looked down delighted on Leghorn, and its spacious bay, filled with
vessels, and crowned with these beautiful hills.

She was no less surprised and amused, on entering this town, to find
it crowded with persons in the dresses of all nations; a scene, which
reminded her of a Venetian masquerade, such as she had witnessed at
the time of the Carnival; but here, was bustle, without gaiety, and
noise instead of music, while elegance was to be looked for only in
the waving outlines of the surrounding hills.

Monsieur Du Pont, immediately on their arrival, went down to the
quay, where he heard of several French vessels, and of one, that was
to sail, in a few days, for Marseilles, from whence another vessel
could be procured, without difficulty, to take them across the gulf
of Lyons towards Narbonne, on the coast not many leagues from which
city he understood the convent was seated, to which Emily wished to
retire.  He, therefore, immediately engaged with the captain to take
them to Marseilles, and Emily was delighted to hear, that her passage
to France was secured.  Her mind was now relieved from the terror of
pursuit, and the pleasing hope of soon seeing her native country--
that country which held Valancourt, restored to her spirits a degree
of cheerfulness, such as she had scarcely known, since the death of
her father.  At Leghorn also, Du Pont heard of his regiment, and that
it had embarked for France; a circumstance, which gave him great
satisfaction, for he could now accompany Emily thither, without
reproach to his conscience, or apprehension of displeasure from his
commander.  During these days, he scrupulously forbore to distress
her by a mention of his passion, and she was compelled to esteem and
pity, though she could not love him.  He endeavoured to amuse her by
shewing the environs of the town, and they often walked together on
the sea-shore, and on the busy quays, where Emily was frequently
interested by the arrival and departure of vessels, participating in
the joy of meeting friends, and, sometimes, shedding a sympathetic
tear to the sorrow of those, that were separating.  It was after
having witnessed a scene of the latter kind, that she arranged the
following stanzas:


 Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow'd the tide;
 And blue the heaven in its mirror smil'd;
 The white sail trembled, swell'd, expanded wide,
 The busy sailors at the anchor toil'd.

 With anxious friends, that shed the parting tear,
 The deck was throng'd--how swift the moments fly!
 The vessel heaves, the farewel signs appear;
 Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!

 The last dread moment comes!--The sailor-youth
 Hides the big drop, then smiles amid his pain,
 Sooths his sad bride, and vows eternal truth,
 'Farewel, my love--we shall--shall meet again!'

 Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood;
 The crowded shore sinks, lessening, from his view,
 As gradual glides the bark along the flood;
 His bride is seen no more--'Adieu!--adieu!'

 The breeze of Eve moans low, her smile is o'er,
 Dim steals her twilight down the crimson'd west,
 He climbs the top-most mast, to seek once more
 The far-seen coast, where all his wishes rest.

 He views its dark line on the distant sky,
 And Fancy leads him to his little home,
 He sees his weeping love, he hears her sigh,
 He sooths her griefs, and tells of joys to come.

 Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales,
 In one vast shade the seas and shores repose;
 He turns his aching eyes,--his spirit fails,
 The chill tear falls;--sad to the deck he goes!

 The storm of midnight swells, the sails are furl'd,
 Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly shore,
 Fast o'er the waves the wretched bark is hurl'd,
 'O Ellen, Ellen! we must meet no more!'

 Lightnings, that shew the vast and foamy deep,
 The rending thunders, as they onward roll,
 The loud, loud winds, that o'er the billows sweep--
 Shake the firm nerve, appall the bravest soul!

 Ah! what avails the seamen's toiling care!
 The straining cordage bursts, the mast is riv'n;
 The sounds of terror groan along the air,
 Then sink afar;--the bark on rocks is driv'n!

 Fierce o'er the wreck the whelming waters pass'd,
 The helpless crew sunk in the roaring main!
 Henry's faint accents trembled in the blast--
 'Farewel, my love!--we ne'er shall meet again!'

 Oft, at the calm and silent evening hour,
 When summer-breezes linger on the wave,
 A melancholy voice is heard to pour
 Its lonely sweetness o'er poor Henry's grave!

 And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard
 Around the grove, where Ellen's form is laid;
 Nor is the dirge by village-maidens fear'd,
 For lovers' spirits guard the holy shade!


     Oh! the joy
 Of young ideas, painted on the mind
 In the warm glowing colours fancy spreads
 On objects not yet known, when all is new,
 And all is lovely!

We now return to Languedoc and to the mention of Count De Villefort,
the nobleman, who succeeded to an estate of the Marquis De Villeroi
situated near the monastery of St. Claire.  It may be recollected,
that this chateau was uninhabited, when St. Aubert and his daughter
were in the neighbourhood, and that the former was much affected on
discovering himself to be so near Chateau-le-Blanc, a place,
concerning which the good old La Voisin afterwards dropped some
hints, that had alarmed Emily's curiosity.

It was in the year 1584, the beginning of that, in which St. Aubert
died, that Francis Beauveau, Count De Villefort, came into possession
of the mansion and extensive domain called Chateau-le-Blanc, situated
in the province of Languedoc, on the shore of the Mediterranean. 
This estate, which, during some centuries, had belonged to his
family, now descended to him, on the decease of his relative, the
Marquis De Villeroi, who had been latterly a man of reserved manners
and austere character; circumstances, which, together with the duties
of his profession, that often called him into the field, had
prevented any degree of intimacy with his cousin, the Count De
Villefort.  For many years, they had known little of each other, and
the Count received the first intelligence of his death, which
happened in a distant part of France, together with the instruments,
that gave him possession of the domain Chateau-le-Blanc; but it was
not till the following year, that he determined to visit that estate,
when he designed to pass the autumn there.  The scenes of Chateau-le-
Blanc often came to his remembrance, heightened by the touches, which
a warm imagination gives to the recollection of early pleasures; for,
many years before, in the life-time of the Marchioness, and at that
age when the mind is particularly sensible to impressions of gaiety
and delight, he had once visited this spot, and, though he had passed
a long intervening period amidst the vexations and tumults of public
affairs, which too frequently corrode the heart, and vitiate the
taste, the shades of Languedoc and the grandeur of its distant
scenery had never been remembered by him with indifference.

During many years, the chateau had been abandoned by the late
Marquis, and, being inhabited only by an old steward and his wife,
had been suffered to fall much into decay.  To superintend the
repairs, that would be requisite to make it a comfortable residence,
had been a principal motive with the Count for passing the autumnal
months in Languedoc; and neither the remonstrances, or the tears of
the Countess, for, on urgent occasions, she could weep, were powerful
enough to overcome his determination.  She prepared, therefore, to
obey the command, which she could not conquer, and to resign the gay
assemblies of Paris,--where her beauty was generally unrivalled and
won the applause, to which her wit had but feeble claim--for the
twilight canopy of woods, the lonely grandeur of mountains and the
solemnity of gothic halls and of long, long galleries, which echoed
only the solitary step of a domestic, or the measured clink, that
ascended from the great clock--the ancient monitor of the hall below. 
From these melancholy expectations she endeavoured to relieve her
spirits by recollecting all that she had ever heard, concerning the
joyous vintage of the plains of Languedoc; but there, alas! no airy
forms would bound to the gay melody of Parisian dances, and a view of
the rustic festivities of peasants could afford little pleasure to a
heart, in which even the feelings of ordinary benevolence had long
since decayed under the corruptions of luxury.

The Count had a son and a daughter, the children of a former
marriage, who, he designed, should accompany him to the south of
France; Henri, who was in his twentieth year, was in the French
service; and Blanche, who was not yet eighteen, had been hitherto
confined to the convent, where she had been placed immediately on her
father's second marriage.  The present Countess, who had neither
sufficient ability, or inclination, to superintend the education of
her daughter-in-law, had advised this step, and the dread of superior
beauty had since urged her to employ every art, that might prevail on
the Count to prolong the period of Blanche's seclusion; it was,
therefore, with extreme mortification, that she now understood he
would no longer submit on this subject, yet it afforded her some
consolation to consider, that, though the Lady Blanche would emerge
from her convent, the shades of the country would, for some time,
veil her beauty from the public eye.

On the morning, which commenced the journey, the postillions stopped
at the convent, by the Count's order, to take up Blanche, whose heart
beat with delight, at the prospect of novelty and freedom now before
her.  As the time of her departure drew nigh, her impatience had
increased, and the last night, during which she counted every note of
every hour, had appeared the most tedious of any she had ever known. 
The morning light, at length, dawned; the matin-bell rang; she heard
the nuns descending from their chambers, and she started from a
sleepless pillow to welcome the day, which was to emancipate her from
the severities of a cloister, and introduce her to a world, where
pleasure was ever smiling, and goodness ever blessed--where, in
short, nothing but pleasure and goodness reigned!  When the bell of
the great gate rang, and the sound was followed by that of carriage
wheels, she ran, with a palpitating heart, to her lattice, and,
perceiving her father's carriage in the court below, danced, with
airy steps, along the gallery, where she was met by a nun with a
summons from the abbess.  In the next moment, she was in the parlour,
and in the presence of the Countess who now appeared to her as an
angel, that was to lead her into happiness.  But the emotions of the
Countess, on beholding her, were not in unison with those of Blanche,
who had never appeared so lovely as at this moment, when her
countenance, animated by the lightning smile of joy, glowed with the
beauty of happy innocence.

After conversing for a few minutes with the abbess, the Countess rose
to go.  This was the moment, which Blanche had anticipated with such
eager expectation, the summit from which she looked down upon the
fairy-land of happiness, and surveyed all its enchantment; was it a
moment, then, for tears of regret?  Yet it was so.  She turned, with
an altered and dejected countenance, to her young companions, who
were come to bid her farewell, and wept!  Even my lady abbess, so
stately and so solemn, she saluted with a degree of sorrow, which, an
hour before, she would have believed it impossible to feel, and which
may be accounted for by considering how reluctantly we all part, even
with unpleasing objects, when the separation is consciously for ever. 
Again, she kissed the poor nuns and then followed the Countess from
that spot with tears, which she expected to leave only with smiles.

But the presence of her father and the variety of objects, on the
road, soon engaged her attention, and dissipated the shade, which
tender regret had thrown upon her spirits.  Inattentive to a
conversation, which was passing between the Countess and a
Mademoiselle Bearn, her friend, Blanche sat, lost in pleasing
reverie, as she watched the clouds floating silently along the blue
expanse, now veiling the sun and stretching their shadows along the
distant scene, and then disclosing all his brightness.  The journey
continued to give Blanche inexpressible delight, for new scenes of
nature were every instant opening to her view, and her fancy became
stored with gay and beautiful imagery.

It was on the evening of the seventh day, that the travellers came
within view of Chateau-le-Blanc, the romantic beauty of whose
situation strongly impressed the imagination of Blanche, who
observed, with sublime astonishment, the Pyrenean mountains, which
had been seen only at a distance during the day, now rising within a
few leagues, with their wild cliffs and immense precipices, which the
evening clouds, floating round them, now disclosed, and again veiled. 
The setting rays, that tinged their snowy summits with a roseate hue,
touched their lower points with various colouring, while the blueish
tint, that pervaded their shadowy recesses, gave the strength of
contrast to the splendour of light.  The plains of Languedoc,
blushing with the purple vine and diversified with groves of
mulberry, almond and olives, spread far to the north and the east; to
the south, appeared the Mediterranean, clear as crystal, and blue as
the heavens it reflected, bearing on its bosom vessels, whose white
sails caught the sun-beams, and gave animation to the scene.  On a
high promontory, washed by the waters of the Mediterranean, stood her
father's mansion, almost secluded from the eye by woods of
intermingled pine, oak and chesnut, which crowned the eminence, and
sloped towards the plains, on one side; while, on the other, they
extended to a considerable distance along the sea-shores.

As Blanche drew nearer, the gothic features of this antient mansion
successively appeared--first an embattled turret, rising above the
trees--then the broken arch of an immense gate-way, retiring beyond
them; and she almost fancied herself approaching a castle, such as is
often celebrated in early story, where the knights look out from the
battlements on some champion below, who, clothed in black armour,
comes, with his companions, to rescue the fair lady of his love from
the oppression of his rival; a sort of legends, to which she had once
or twice obtained access in the library of her convent, that, like
many others, belonging to the monks, was stored with these reliques
of romantic fiction.

The carriages stopped at a gate, which led into the domain of the
chateau, but which was now fastened; and the great bell, that had
formerly served to announce the arrival of strangers, having long
since fallen from its station, a servant climbed over a ruined part
of the adjoining wall, to give notice to those within of the arrival
of their lord.

As Blanche leaned from the coach window, she resigned herself to the
sweet and gentle emotions, which the hour and the scenery awakened. 
The sun had now left the earth, and twilight began to darken the
mountains; while the distant waters, reflecting the blush that still
glowed in the west, appeared like a line of light, skirting the
horizon.  The low murmur of waves, breaking on the shore, came in the
breeze, and, now and then, the melancholy dashing of oars was feebly
heard from a distance.  She was suffered to indulge her pensive mood,
for the thoughts of the rest of the party were silently engaged upon
the subjects of their several interests.  Meanwhile, the Countess,
reflecting, with regret, upon the gay parties she had left at Paris,
surveyed, with disgust, what she thought the gloomy woods and
solitary wildness of the scene; and, shrinking from the prospect of
being shut up in an old castle, was prepared to meet every object
with displeasure.  The feelings of Henri were somewhat similar to
those of the Countess; he gave a mournful sigh to the delights of the
capital, and to the remembrance of a lady, who, he believed, had
engaged his affections, and who had certainly fascinated his
imagination; but the surrounding country, and the mode of life, on
which he was entering, had, for him, at least, the charm of novelty,
and his regret was softened by the gay expectations of youth.  The
gates being at length unbarred, the carriage moved slowly on, under
spreading chesnuts, that almost excluded the remains of day,
following what had been formerly a road, but which now, overgrown
with luxuriant vegetation, could be traced only by the boundary,
formed by trees, on either side, and which wound for near half a mile
among the woods, before it reached the chateau.  This was the very
avenue that St. Aubert and Emily had formerly entered, on their first
arrival in the neighbourhood, with the hope of finding a house, that
would receive them, for the night, and had so abruptly quitted, on
perceiving the wildness of the place, and a figure, which the
postillion had fancied was a robber.

'What a dismal place is this!' exclaimed the Countess, as the
carriage penetrated the deeper recesses of the woods.  'Surely, my
lord, you do not mean to pass all the autumn in this barbarous spot! 
One ought to bring hither a cup of the waters of Lethe, that the
remembrance of pleasanter scenes may not heighten, at least, the
natural dreariness of these.'

'I shall be governed by circumstances, madam,' said the Count, 'this
barbarous spot was inhabited by my ancestors.'

The carriage now stopped at the chateau, where, at the door of the
great hall, appeared the old steward and the Parisian servants, who
had been sent to prepare the chateau, waiting to receive their lord. 
Lady Blanche now perceived, that the edifice was not built entirely
in the gothic style, but that it had additions of a more modern date;
the large and gloomy hall, however, into which she now entered, was
entirely gothic, and sumptuous tapestry, which it was now too dark to
distinguish, hung upon the walls, and depictured scenes from some of
the antient Provencal romances.  a vast gothic window, embroidered
with CLEMATIS and eglantine, that ascended to the south, led the eye,
now that the casements were thrown open, through this verdant shade,
over a sloping lawn, to the tops of dark woods, that hung upon the
brow of the promontory.  Beyond, appeared the waters of the
Mediterranean, stretching far to the south, and to the east, where
they were lost in the horizon; while, to the north-east, they were
bounded by the luxuriant shores of Languedoc and Provence, enriched
with wood, and gay with vines and sloping pastures; and, to the
south-west, by the majestic Pyrenees, now fading from the eye,
beneath the gradual gloom.

Blanche, as she crossed the hall, stopped a moment to observe this
lovely prospect, which the evening twilight obscured, yet did not
conceal.  But she was quickly awakened from the complacent delight,
which this scene had diffused upon her mind, by the Countess, who,
discontented with every object around, and impatient for refreshment
and repose, hastened forward to a large parlour, whose cedar
wainscot, narrow, pointed casements, and dark ceiling of carved
cypress wood, gave it an aspect of peculiar gloom, which the dingy
green velvet of the chairs and couches, fringed with tarnished gold,
had once been designed to enliven.

While the Countess enquired for refreshment, the Count, attended by
his son, went to look over some part of the chateau, and Lady Blanche
reluctantly remained to witness the discontent and ill-humour of her

'How long have you lived in this desolate place?' said her ladyship,
to the old house keeper, who came to pay her duty.

'Above twenty years, your ladyship, on the next feast of St. Jerome.'

'How happened it, that you have lived here so long, and almost alone,
too?  I understood, that the chateau had been shut up for some

'Yes, madam, it was for many years after my late lord, the Count,
went to the wars; but it is above twenty years, since I and my
husband came into his service.  The place is so large, and has of
late been so lonely, that we were lost in it, and, after some time,
we went to live in a cottage at the end of the woods, near some of
the tenants, and came to look after the chateau, every now and then. 
When my lord returned to France from the wars, he took a dislike to
the place, and never came to live here again, and so he was satisfied
with our remaining at the cottage.  Alas--alas! how the chateau is
changed from what it once was!  What delight my late lady used to
take in it!  I well remember when she came here a bride, and how fine
it was.  Now, it has been neglected so long, and is gone into such
decay!  I shall never see those days again!'

The Countess appearing to be somewhat offended by the thoughtless
simplicity, with which the old woman regretted former times, Dorothee
added--'But the chateau will now be inhabited, and cheerful again;
not all the world could tempt me to live in it alone.'

'Well, the experiment will not be made, I believe,' said the
Countess, displeased that her own silence had been unable to awe the
loquacity of this rustic old housekeeper, now spared from further
attendance by the entrance of the Count, who said he had been viewing
part of the chateau, and found, that it would require considerable
repairs and some alterations, before it would be perfectly
comfortable, as a place of residence.  'I am sorry to hear it, my
lord,' replied the Countess.  'And why sorry, madam?'  'Because the
place will ill repay your trouble; and were it even a paradise, it
would be insufferable at such a distance from Paris.'

The Count made no reply, but walked abruptly to a window.  'There are
windows, my lord, but they neither admit entertainment, or light;
they shew only a scene of savage nature.'

'I am at a loss, madam,' said the Count, 'to conjecture what you mean
by savage nature.  Do those plains, or those woods, or that fine
expanse of water, deserve the name?'

'Those mountains certainly do, my lord,' rejoined the Countess,
pointing to the Pyrenees, 'and this chateau, though not a work of
rude nature, is, to my taste, at least, one of savage art.'  The
Count coloured highly.  'This place, madam, was the work of my
ancestors,' said he, 'and you must allow me to say, that your present
conversation discovers neither good taste, or good manners.' 
Blanche, now shocked at an altercation, which appeared to be
increasing to a serious disagreement, rose to leave the room, when
her mother's woman entered it; and the Countess, immediately desiring
to be shewn to her own apartment, withdrew, attended by Mademoiselle

Lady Blanche, it being not yet dark, took this opportunity of
exploring new scenes, and, leaving the parlour, she passed from the
hall into a wide gallery, whose walls were decorated by marble
pilasters, which supported an arched roof, composed of a rich mosaic
work.  Through a distant window, that seemed to terminate the
gallery, were seen the purple clouds of evening and a landscape,
whose features, thinly veiled in twilight, no longer appeared
distinctly, but, blended into one grand mass, stretched to the
horizon, coloured only with a tint of solemn grey.

The gallery terminated in a saloon, to which the window she had seen
through an open door, belonged; but the increasing dusk permitted her
only an imperfect view of this apartment, which seemed to be
magnificent and of modern architecture; though it had been either
suffered to fall into decay, or had never been properly finished. 
The windows, which were numerous and large, descended low, and
afforded a very extensive, and what Blanche's fancy represented to
be, a very lovely prospect; and she stood for some time, surveying
the grey obscurity and depicturing imaginary woods and mountains,
vallies and rivers, on this scene of night; her solemn sensations
rather assisted, than interrupted, by the distant bark of a watch-
dog, and by the breeze, as it trembled upon the light foliage of the
shrubs.  Now and then, appeared for a moment, among the woods, a
cottage light; and, at length, was heard, afar off, the evening bell
of a convent, dying on the air.  When she withdrew her thoughts from
these subjects of fanciful delight, the gloom and silence of the
saloon somewhat awed her; and, having sought the door of the gallery,
and pursued, for a considerable time, a dark passage, she came to a
hall, but one totally different from that she had formerly seen.  By
the twilight, admitted through an open portico, she could just
distinguish this apartment to be of very light and airy architecture,
and that it was paved with white marble, pillars of which supported
the roof, that rose into arches built in the Moorish style.  While
Blanche stood on the steps of this portico, the moon rose over the
sea, and gradually disclosed, in partial light, the beauties of the
eminence, on which she stood, whence a lawn, now rude and overgrown
with high grass, sloped to the woods, that, almost surrounding the
chateau, extended in a grand sweep down the southern sides of the
promontory to the very margin of the ocean.  Beyond the woods, on the
north-side, appeared a long tract of the plains of Languedoc; and, to
the east, the landscape she had before dimly seen, with the towers of
a monastery, illumined by the moon, rising over dark groves.

The soft and shadowy tint, that overspread the scene, the waves,
undulating in the moon-light, and their low and measured murmurs on
the beach, were circumstances, that united to elevate the
unaccustomed mind of Blanche to enthusiasm.

'And have I lived in this glorious world so long,' said she, 'and
never till now beheld such a prospect--never experienced these
delights!  Every peasant girl, on my father's domain, has viewed from
her infancy the face of nature; has ranged, at liberty, her romantic
wilds, while I have been shut in a cloister from the view of these
beautiful appearances, which were designed to enchant all eyes, and
awaken all hearts.  How can the poor nuns and friars feel the full
fervour of devotion, if they never see the sun rise, or set?  Never,
till this evening, did I know what true devotion is; for, never
before did I see the sun sink below the vast earth!  To-morrow, for
the first time in my life, I will see it rise.  O, who would live in
Paris, to look upon black walls and dirty streets, when, in the
country, they might gaze on the blue heavens, and all the green

This enthusiastic soliloquy was interrupted by a rustling noise in
the hall; and, while the loneliness of the place made her sensible to
fear, she thought she perceived something moving between the pillars. 
For a moment, she continued silently observing it, till, ashamed of
her ridiculous apprehensions, she recollected courage enough to
demand who was there.  'O my young lady, is it you?' said the old
housekeeper, who was come to shut the windows, 'I am glad it is you.' 
The manner, in which she spoke this, with a faint breath, rather
surprised Blanche, who said, 'You seemed frightened, Dorothee, what
is the matter?'

'No, not frightened, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee, hesitating and
trying to appear composed, 'but I am old, and--a little matter
startles me.'  The Lady Blanche smiled at the distinction.  'I am
glad, that my lord the Count is come to live at the chateau,
ma'amselle,' continued Dorothee, 'for it has been many a year
deserted, and dreary enough; now, the place will look a little as it
used to do, when my poor lady was alive.'  Blanche enquired how long
it was, since the Marchioness died?  'Alas! my lady,' replied
Dorothee, 'so long--that I have ceased to count the years!  The
place, to my mind, has mourned ever since, and I am sure my lord's
vassals have!  But you have lost yourself, ma'amselle,--shall I shew
you to the other side of the chateau?'

Blanche enquired how long this part of the edifice had been built. 
'Soon after my lord's marriage, ma'am,' replied Dorothee.  'The place
was large enough without this addition, for many rooms of the old
building were even then never made use of, and my lord had a princely
household too; but he thought the antient mansion gloomy, and gloomy
enough it is!'  Lady Blanche now desired to be shewn to the inhabited
part of the chateau; and, as the passages were entirely dark,
Dorothee conducted her along the edge of the lawn to the opposite
side of the edifice, where, a door opening into the great hall, she
was met by Mademoiselle Bearn.  'Where have you been so long?' said
she, 'I had begun to think some wonderful adventure had befallen you,
and that the giant of this enchanted castle, or the ghost, which, no
doubt, haunts it, had conveyed you through a trap-door into some
subterranean vault, whence you was never to return.'

'No,' replied Blanche, laughingly, 'you seem to love adventures so
well, that I leave them for you to achieve.'

'Well, I am willing to achieve them, provided I am allowed to
describe them.'

'My dear Mademoiselle Bearn,' said Henri, as he met her at the door
of the parlour, 'no ghost of these days would be so savage as to
impose silence on you.  Our ghosts are more civilized than to condemn
a lady to a purgatory severer even, than their own, be it what it

Mademoiselle Bearn replied only by a laugh; and, the Count now
entering the room, supper was served, during which he spoke little,
frequently appeared to be abstracted from the company, and more than
once remarked, that the place was greatly altered, since he had last
seen it.  'Many years have intervened since that period,' said he;
'and, though the grand features of the scenery admit of no change,
they impress me with sensations very different from those I formerly

'Did these scenes, sir,' said Blanche, 'ever appear more lovely, than
they do now?  To me this seems hardly possible.'  The Count,
regarding her with a melancholy smile, said, 'They once were as
delightful to me, as they are now to you; the landscape is not
changed, but time has changed me; from my mind the illusion, which
gave spirit to the colouring of nature, is fading fast!  If you live,
my dear Blanche, to re-visit this spot, at the distance of many
years, you will, perhaps, remember and understand the feelings of
your father.'

Lady Blanche, affected by these words, remained silent; she looked
forward to the period, which the Count anticipated, and considering,
that he, who now spoke, would then probably be no more, her eyes,
bent to the ground, were filed with tears.  She gave her hand to her
father, who, smiling affectionately, rose from his chair, and went to
a window to conceal his emotion.

The fatigues of the day made the party separate at an early hour,
when Blanche retired through a long oak gallery to her chamber, whose
spacious and lofty walls, high antiquated casements, and, what was
the effect of these, its gloomy air, did not reconcile her to its
remote situation, in this antient building.  The furniture, also, was
of antient date; the bed was of blue damask, trimmed with tarnished
gold lace, and its lofty tester rose in the form of a canopy, whence
the curtains descended, like those of such tents as are sometimes
represented in old pictures, and, indeed, much resembling those,
exhibited on the faded tapestry, with which the chamber was hung.  To
Blanche, every object here was matter of curiosity; and, taking the
light from her woman to examine the tapestry, she perceived, that it
represented scenes from the wars of Troy, though the almost
colourless worsted now mocked the glowing actions they once had
painted.  She laughed at the ludicrous absurdity she observed, till,
recollecting, that the hands, which had wove it, were, like the poet,
whose thoughts of fire they had attempted to express, long since
mouldered into dust, a train of melancholy ideas passed over her
mind, and she almost wept.

Having given her woman a strict injunction to awaken her, before sun-
rise, she dismissed her; and then, to dissipate the gloom, which
reflection had cast upon her spirits, opened one of the high
casements, and was again cheered by the face of living nature.  The
shadowy earth, the air, and ocean--all was still.  Along the deep
serene of the heavens, a few light clouds floated slowly, through
whose skirts the stars now seemed to tremble, and now to emerge with
purer splendour.  Blanche's thoughts arose involuntarily to the Great
Author of the sublime objects she contemplated, and she breathed a
prayer of finer devotion, than any she had ever uttered beneath the
vaulted roof of a cloister.  At this casement, she remained till the
glooms of midnight were stretched over the prospect.  She then
retired to her pillow, and, 'with gay visions of to-morrow,' to those
sweet slumbers, which health and happy innocence only know.

  To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.


     What transport to retrace our early plays,
 Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied
 The woods, the mountains and the warbling maze
 Of the wild brooks!

Blanche's slumbers continued, till long after the hour, which she had
so impatiently anticipated, for her woman, fatigued with travelling,
did not call her, till breakfast was nearly ready.  Her
disappointment, however, was instantly forgotten, when, on opening
the casement, she saw, on one hand, the wide sea sparkling in the
morning rays, with its stealing sails and glancing oars; and, on the
other, the fresh woods, the plains far-stretching and the blue
mountains, all glowing with the splendour of day.

As she inspired the pure breeze, health spread a deeper blush upon
her countenance, and pleasure danced in her eyes.

'Who could first invent convents!' said she, 'and who could first
persuade people to go into them? and to make religion a pretence,
too, where all that should inspire it, is so carefully shut out!  God
is best pleased with the homage of a grateful heart, and, when we
view his glories, we feel most grateful.  I never felt so much
devotion, during the many dull years I was in the convent, as I have
done in the few hours, that I have been here, where I need only look
on all around me--to adore God in my inmost heart!'

Saying this, she left the window, bounded along the gallery, and, in
the next moment, was in the breakfast room, where the Count was
already seated.  The cheerfulness of a bright sunshine had dispersed
the melancholy glooms of his reflections, a pleasant smile was on his
countenance, and he spoke in an enlivening voice to Blanche, whose
heart echoed back the tones.  Henri and, soon after, the Countess
with Mademoiselle Bearn appeared, and the whole party seemed to
acknowledge the influence of the scene; even the Countess was so much
re-animated as to receive the civilities of her husband with
complacency, and but once forgot her good-humour, which was when she
asked whether they had any neighbours, who were likely to make THIS
BARBAROUS SPOT more tolerable, and whether the Count believed it
possible for her to exist here, without some amusement?

Soon after breakfast the party dispersed; the Count, ordering his
steward to attend him in the library, went to survey the condition of
his premises, and to visit some of his tenants; Henri hastened with
alacrity to the shore to examine a boat, that was to bear them on a
little voyage in the evening and to superintend the adjustment of a
silk awning; while the Countess, attended by Mademoiselle Bearn,
retired to an apartment on the modern side of the chateau, which was
fitted up with airy elegance; and, as the windows opened upon
balconies, that fronted the sea, she was there saved from a view of
the HORRID Pyrenees.  Here, while she reclined on a sofa, and,
casting her languid eyes over the ocean, which appeared beyond the
wood-tops, indulged in the luxuries of ENNUI, her companion read
aloud a sentimental novel, on some fashionable system of philosophy,
for the Countess was herself somewhat of a PHILOSOPHER, especially as
to INFIDELITY, and among a certain circle her opinions were waited
for with impatience, and received as doctrines.

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, hastened to indulge, amidst the wild
wood-walks around the chateau, her new enthusiasm, where, as she
wandered under the shades, her gay spirits gradually yielded to
pensive complacency.  Now, she moved with solemn steps, beneath the
gloom of thickly interwoven branches, where the fresh dew still hung
upon every flower, that peeped from among the grass; and now tripped
sportively along the path, on which the sunbeams darted and the
checquered foliage trembled--where the tender greens of the beech,
the acacia and the mountain-ash, mingling with the solemn tints of
the cedar, the pine and cypress, exhibited as fine a contrast of
colouring, as the majestic oak and oriental plane did of form, to the
feathery lightness of the cork tree and the waving grace of the

Having reached a rustic seat, within a deep recess of the woods, she
rested awhile, and, as her eyes caught, through a distant opening, a
glimpse of the blue waters of the Mediterranean, with the white sail,
gliding on its bosom, or of the broad mountain, glowing beneath the
mid-day sun, her mind experienced somewhat of that exquisite delight,
which awakens the fancy, and leads to poetry.  The hum of bees alone
broke the stillness around her, as, with other insects of various
hues, they sported gaily in the shade, or sipped sweets from the
fresh flowers:  and, while Blanche watched a butter-fly, flitting
from bud to bud, she indulged herself in imagining the pleasures of
its short day, till she had composed the following stanzas.


 What bowery dell, with fragrant breath,
 Courts thee to stay thy airy flight;
 Nor seek again the purple heath,
 So oft the scene of gay delight?

 Long I've watch'd i' the lily's bell,
 Whose whiteness stole the morning's beam;
 No fluttering sounds thy coming tell,
 No waving wings, at distance, gleam.

 But fountain fresh, nor breathing grove,
 Nor sunny mead, nor blossom'd tree,
 So sweet as lily's cell shall prove,--
 The bower of constant love and me.

 When April buds begin to blow,
 The prim-rose, and the hare-bell blue,
 That on the verdant moss bank grow,
 With violet cups, that weep in dew;

 When wanton gales breathe through the shade,
 And shake the blooms, and steal their sweets,
 And swell the song of ev'ry glade,
 I range the forest's green retreats:

 There, through the tangled wood-walks play,
 Where no rude urchin paces near,
 Where sparely peeps the sultry day,
 And light dews freshen all the air.

 High on a sun-beam oft I sport
 O'er bower and fountain, vale and hill;
 Oft ev'ry blushing flow'ret court,
 That hangs its head o'er winding rill.

 But these I'll leave to be thy guide,
 And shew thee, where the jasmine spreads
 Her snowy leaf, where may-flow'rs hide,
 And rose-buds rear their peeping heads.

 With me the mountain's summit scale,
 And taste the wild-thyme's honied bloom,
 Whose fragrance, floating on the gale,
 Oft leads me to the cedar's gloom.

 Yet, yet, no sound comes in the breeze!
 What shade thus dares to tempt thy stay?
 Once, me alone thou wish'd to please,
 And with me only thou wouldst stray.

 But, while thy long delay I mourn,
 And chide the sweet shades for their guile,
 Thou may'st be true, and they forlorn,
 And fairy favours court thy smile.

 The tiny queen of fairy-land,
 Who knows thy speed, hath sent thee far,
 To bring, or ere the night-watch stand,
 Rich essence for her shadowy car:

 Perchance her acorn-cups to fill
 With nectar from the Indian rose,
 Or gather, near some haunted rill,
 May-dews, that lull to sleep Love's woes:

 Or, o'er the mountains, bade thee fly,
 To tell her fairy love to speed,
 When ev'ning steals upon the sky,
 To dance along the twilight mead.

 But now I see thee sailing low,
 Gay as the brightest flow'rs of spring,
 Thy coat of blue and jet I know,
 And well thy gold and purple wing.

 Borne on the gale, thou com'st to me;
 O! welcome, welcome to my home!
 In lily's cell we'll live in glee,
 Together o'er the mountains roam!

When Lady Blanche returned to the chateau, instead of going to the
apartment of the Countess, she amused herself with wandering over
that part of the edifice, which she had not yet examined, of which
the most antient first attracted her curiosity; for, though what she
had seen of the modern was gay and elegant, there was something in
the former more interesting to her imagination.  Having passed up the
great stair-case, and through the oak gallery, she entered upon a
long suite of chambers, whose walls were either hung with tapestry,
or wainscoted with cedar, the furniture of which looked almost as
antient as the rooms themselves; the spacious fire-places, where no
mark of social cheer remained, presented an image of cold desolation;
and the whole suite had so much the air of neglect and desertion,
that it seemed, as if the venerable persons, whose portraits hung
upon the walls, had been the last to inhabit them.

On leaving these rooms, she found herself in another gallery, one end
of which was terminated by a back stair-case, and the other by a
door, that seemed to communicate with the north-side of the chateau,
but which being fastened, she descended the stair-case, and, opening
a door in the wall, a few steps down, found herself in a small square
room, that formed part of the west turret of the castle.  Three
windows presented each a separate and beautiful prospect; that to the
north, overlooking Languedoc; another to the west, the hills
ascending towards the Pyrenees, whose awful summits crowned the
landscape; and a third, fronting the south, gave the Mediterranean,
and a part of the wild shores of Rousillon, to the eye.

Having left the turret, and descended the narrow stair-case, she
found herself in a dusky passage, where she wandered, unable to find
her way, till impatience yielded to apprehension, and she called for
assistance.  Presently steps approached, and light glimmered through
a door at the other extremity of the passage, which was opened with
caution by some person, who did not venture beyond it, and whom
Blanche observed in silence, till the door was closing, when she
called aloud, and, hastening towards it, perceived the old
housekeeper.  'Dear ma'amselle! is it you?' said Dorothee, 'How could
you find your way hither?'  Had Blanche been less occupied by her own
fears, she would probably have observed the strong expressions of
terror and surprise on Dorothee's countenance, who now led her
through a long succession of passages and rooms, that looked as if
they had been uninhabited for a century, till they reached that
appropriated to the housekeeper, where Dorothee entreated she would
sit down and take refreshment.  Blanche accepted the sweet meats,
offered to her, mentioned her discovery of the pleasant turret, and
her wish to appropriate it to her own use.  Whether Dorothee's taste
was not so sensible to the beauties of landscape as her young lady's,
or that the constant view of lovely scenery had deadened it, she
forbore to praise the subject of Blanche's enthusiasm, which,
however, her silence did not repress.  To Lady Blanche's enquiry of
whither the door she had found fastened at the end of the gallery
led, she replied, that it opened to a suite of rooms, which had not
been entered, during many years, 'For,' added she, 'my late lady died
in one of them, and I could never find in my heart to go into them

Blanche, though she wished to see these chambers, forbore, on
observing that Dorothee's eyes were filled with tears, to ask her to
unlock them, and, soon after, went to dress for dinner, at which the
whole party met in good spirits and good humour, except the Countess,
whose vacant mind, overcome by the languor of idleness, would neither
suffer her to be happy herself, or to contribute to the happiness of
others.  Mademoiselle Bearn, attempting to be witty, directed her
badinage against Henri, who answered, because he could not well avoid
it, rather than from any inclination to notice her, whose liveliness
sometimes amused, but whose conceit and insensibility often disgusted

The cheerfulness, with which Blanche rejoined the party, vanished, on
her reaching the margin of the sea; she gazed with apprehension upon
the immense expanse of waters, which, at a distance, she had beheld
only with delight and astonishment, and it was by a strong effort,
that she so far overcame her fears as to follow her father into the

As she silently surveyed the vast horizon, bending round the distant
verge of the ocean, an emotion of sublimest rapture struggled to
overcome a sense of personal danger.  A light breeze played on the
water, and on the silk awning of the boat, and waved the foliage of
the receding woods, that crowned the cliffs, for many miles, and
which the Count surveyed with the pride of conscious property, as
well as with the eye of taste.

At some distance, among these woods, stood a pavilion, which had once
been the scene of social gaiety, and which its situation still made
one of romantic beauty.  Thither, the Count had ordered coffee and
other refreshment to be carried, and thither the sailors now steered
their course, following the windings of the shore round many a woody
promontory and circling bay; while the pensive tones of horns and
other wind instruments, played by the attendants in a distant boat,
echoed among the rocks, and died along the waves.  Blanche had now
subdued her fears; a delightful tranquillity stole over her mind, and
held her in silence; and she was too happy even to remember the
convent, or her former sorrows, as subjects of comparison with her
present felicity.

The Countess felt less unhappy than she had done, since the moment of
her leaving Paris; for her mind was now under some degree of
restraint; she feared to indulge its wayward humours, and even wished
to recover the Count's good opinion.  On his family, and on the
surrounding scene, he looked with tempered pleasure and benevolent
satisfaction, while his son exhibited the gay spirits of youth,
anticipating new delights, and regretless of those, that were passed.

After near an hour's rowing, the party landed, and ascended a little
path, overgrown with vegetation.  At a little distance from the point
of the eminence, within the shadowy recess of the woods, appeared the
pavilion, which Blanche perceived, as she caught a glimpse of its
portico between the trees, to be built of variegated marble.  As she
followed the Countess, she often turned her eyes with rapture towards
the ocean, seen beneath the dark foliage, far below, and from thence
upon the deep woods, whose silence and impenetrable gloom awakened
emotions more solemn, but scarcely less delightful.

The pavilion had been prepared, as far as was possible, on a very
short notice, for the reception of its visitors; but the faded
colours of its painted walls and ceiling, and the decayed drapery of
its once magnificent furniture, declared how long it had been
neglected, and abandoned to the empire of the changing seasons. 
While the party partook of a collation of fruit and coffee, the
horns, placed in a distant part of the woods, where an echo sweetened
and prolonged their melancholy tones, broke softly on the stillness
of the scene.  This spot seemed to attract even the admiration of the
Countess, or, perhaps, it was merely the pleasure of planning
furniture and decorations, that made her dwell so long on the
necessity of repairing and adorning it; while the Count, never
happier than when he saw her mind engaged by natural and simple
objects, acquiesced in all her designs, concerning the pavilion.  The
paintings on the walls and coved ceiling were to be renewed, the
canopies and sofas were to be of light green damask; marble statues
of wood-nymphs, bearing on their heads baskets of living flowers,
were to adorn the recesses between the windows, which, descending to
the ground, were to admit to every part of the room, and it was of
octagonal form, the various landscape.  One window opened upon a
romantic glade, where the eye roved among the woody recesses, and the
scene was bounded only by a lengthened pomp of groves; from another,
the woods receding disclosed the distant summits of the Pyrenees; a
third fronted an avenue, beyond which the grey towers of Chateau-le-
Blanc, and a picturesque part of its ruin were seen partially among
the foliage; while a fourth gave, between the trees, a glimpse of the
green pastures and villages, that diversify the banks of the Aude. 
The Mediterranean, with the bold cliffs, that overlooked its shores,
were the grand objects of a fifth window, and the others gave, in
different points of view, the wild scenery of the woods.

After wandering, for some time, in these, the party returned to the
shore and embarked; and, the beauty of the evening tempting them to
extend their excursion, they proceeded further up the bay.  A dead
calm had succeeded the light breeze, that wafted them hither, and the
men took to their oars.  Around, the waters were spread into one vast
expanse of polished mirror, reflecting the grey cliffs and feathery
woods, that over-hung its surface, the glow of the western horizon
and the dark clouds, that came slowly from the east.  Blanche loved
to see the dipping oars imprint the water, and to watch the spreading
circles they left, which gave a tremulous motion to the reflected
landscape, without destroying the harmony of its features.

Above the darkness of the woods, her eye now caught a cluster of high
towers, touched with the splendour of the setting rays; and, soon
after, the horns being then silent, she heard the faint swell of
choral voices from a distance.

'What voices are those, upon the air?' said the Count, looking round,
and listening; but the strain had ceased.  'It seemed to be a vesper-
hymn, which I have often heard in my convent,' said Blanche.

'We are near the monastery, then,' observed the Count; and, the boat
soon after doubling a lofty head-land, the monastery of St. Claire
appeared, seated near the margin of the sea, where the cliffs,
suddenly sinking, formed a low shore within a small bay, almost
encircled with woods, among which partial features of the edifice
were seen;--the great gate and gothic window of the hall, the
cloisters and the side of a chapel more remote; while a venerable
arch, which had once led to a part of the fabric, now demolished,
stood a majestic ruin detached from the main building, beyond which
appeared a grand perspective of the woods.  On the grey walls, the
moss had fastened, and, round the pointed windows of the chapel, the
ivy and the briony hung in many a fantastic wreath.

All without was silent and forsaken; but, while Blanche gazed with
admiration on this venerable pile, whose effect was heightened by the
strong lights and shadows thrown athwart it by a cloudy sun-set, a
sound of many voices, slowly chanting, arose from within.  The Count
bade his men rest on their oars.  The monks were singing the hymn of
vespers, and some female voices mingled with the strain, which rose
by soft degrees, till the high organ and the choral sounds swelled
into full and solemn harmony.  The strain, soon after, dropped into
sudden silence, and was renewed in a low and still more solemn key,
till, at length, the holy chorus died away, and was heard no more.--
Blanche sighed, tears trembled in her eyes, and her thoughts seemed
wafted with the sounds to heaven.  While a rapt stillness prevailed
in the boat, a train of friars, and then of nuns, veiled in white,
issued from the cloisters, and passed, under the shade of the woods,
to the main body of the edifice.

The Countess was the first of her party to awaken from this pause of

'These dismal hymns and friars make one quite melancholy,' said she;
'twilight is coming on; pray let us return, or it will be dark before
we get home.'

The count, looking up, now perceived, that the twilight of evening
was anticipated by an approaching storm.  In the east a tempest was
collecting; a heavy gloom came on, opposing and contrasting the
glowing splendour of the setting sun.  The clamorous sea-fowl skimmed
in fleet circles upon the surface of the sea, dipping their light
pinions in the wave, as they fled away in search of shelter.  The
boatmen pulled hard at their oars; but the thunder, that now muttered
at a distance, and the heavy drops, that began to dimple the water,
made the Count determine to put back to the monastery for shelter,
and the course of the boat was immediately changed.  As the clouds
approached the west, their lurid darkness changed to a deep ruddy
glow, which, by reflection, seemed to fire the tops of the woods and
the shattered towers of the monastery.

The appearance of the heavens alarmed the Countess and Mademoiselle
Bearn, whose expressions of apprehension distressed the Count, and
perplexed his men; while Blanche continued silent, now agitated with
fear, and now with admiration, as she viewed the grandeur of the
clouds, and their effect on the scenery, and listened to the long,
long peals of thunder, that rolled through the air.

The boat having reached the lawn before the monastery, the Count sent
a servant to announce his arrival, and to entreat shelter of the
Superior, who, soon after, appeared at the great gate, attended by
several monks, while the servant returned with a message, expressive
at once of hospitality and pride, but of pride disguised in
submission.  The party immediately disembarked, and, having hastily
crossed the lawn--for the shower was now heavy--were received at the
gate by the Superior, who, as they entered, stretched forth his hands
and gave his blessing; and they passed into the great hall, where the
lady abbess waited, attended by several nuns, clothed, like herself,
in black, and veiled in white.  The veil of the abbess was, however,
thrown half back, and discovered a countenance, whose chaste dignity
was sweetened by the smile of welcome, with which she addressed the
Countess, whom she led, with Blanche and Mademoiselle Bearn, into the
convent parlour, while the Count and Henri were conducted by the
Superior to the refectory.

The Countess, fatigued and discontented, received the politeness of
the abbess with careless haughtiness, and had followed her, with
indolent steps, to the parlour, over which the painted casements and
wainscot of larch-wood threw, at all times, a melancholy shade, and
where the gloom of evening now loured almost to darkness.

While the lady abbess ordered refreshment, and conversed with the
Countess, Blanche withdrew to a window, the lower panes of which,
being without painting, allowed her to observe the progress of the
storm over the Mediterranean, whose dark waves, that had so lately
slept, now came boldly swelling, in long succession, to the shore,
where they burst in white foam, and threw up a high spray over the
rocks.  A red sulphureous tint overspread the long line of clouds,
that hung above the western horizon, beneath whose dark skirts the
sun looking out, illumined the distant shores of Languedoc, as well
as the tufted summits of the nearer woods, and shed a partial gleam
on the western waves.  The rest of the scene was in deep gloom,
except where a sun-beam, darting between the clouds, glanced on the
white wings of the sea-fowl, that circled high among them, or touched
the swelling sail of a vessel, which was seen labouring in the storm. 
Blanche, for some time, anxiously watched the progress of the bark,
as it threw the waves in foam around it, and, as the lightnings
flashed, looked to the opening heavens, with many a sigh for the fate
of the poor mariners.

The sun, at length, set, and the heavy clouds, which had long
impended, dropped over the splendour of his course; the vessel,
however, was yet dimly seen, and Blanche continued to observe it,
till the quick succession of flashes, lighting up the gloom of the
whole horizon, warned her to retire from the window, and she joined
the Abbess, who, having exhausted all her topics of conversation with
the Countess, had now leisure to notice her.

But their discourse was interrupted by tremendous peals of thunder;
and the bell of the monastery soon after ringing out, summoned the
inhabitants to prayer.  As Blanche passed the window, she gave
another look to the ocean, where, by the momentary flash, that
illumined the vast body of the waters, she distinguished the vessel
she had observed before, amidst a sea of foam, breaking the billows,
the mast now bowing to the waves, and then rising high in air.

She sighed fervently as she gazed, and then followed the Lady Abbess
and the Countess to the chapel.  Meanwhile, some of the Count's
servants, having gone by land to the chateau for carriages, returned
soon after vespers had concluded, when, the storm being somewhat
abated, the Count and his family returned home.  Blanche was
surprised to discover how much the windings of the shore had deceived
her, concerning the distance of the chateau from the monastery, whose
vesper bell she had heard, on the preceding evening, from the windows
of the west saloon, and whose towers she would also have seen from
thence, had not twilight veiled them.

On their arrival at the chateau, the Countess, affecting more
fatigue, than she really felt, withdrew to her apartment, and the
Count, with his daughter and Henri, went to the supper-room, where
they had not been long, when they heard, in a pause of the gust, a
firing of guns, which the Count understanding to be signals of
distress from some vessel in the storm, went to a window, that opened
towards the Mediterranean, to observe further; but the sea was now
involved in utter darkness, and the loud howlings of the tempest had
again overcome every other sound.  Blanche, remembering the bark,
which she had before seen, now joined her father, with trembling
anxiety.  In a few moments, the report of guns was again borne along
the wind, and as suddenly wafted away; a tremendous burst of thunder
followed, and, in the flash, that had preceded it, and which seemed
to quiver over the whole surface of the waters, a vessel was
discovered, tossing amidst the white foam of the waves at some
distance from the shore.  Impenetrable darkness again involved the
scene, but soon a second flash shewed the bark, with one sail
unfurled, driving towards the coast.  Blanche hung upon her father's
arm, with looks full of the agony of united terror and pity, which
were unnecessary to awaken the heart of the Count, who gazed upon the
sea with a piteous expression, and, perceiving, that no boat could
live in the storm, forbore to send one; but he gave orders to his
people to carry torches out upon the cliffs, hoping they might prove
a kind of beacon to the vessel, or, at least, warn the crew of the
rocks they were approaching.  While Henri went out to direct on what
part of the cliffs the lights should appear, Blanche remained with
her father, at the window, catching, every now and then, as the
lightnings flashed, a glimpse of the vessel; and she soon saw, with
reviving hope, the torches flaming on the blackness of night, and, as
they waved over the cliffs, casting a red gleam on the gasping
billows.  When the firing of guns was repeated, the torches were
tossed high in the air, as if answering the signal, and the firing
was then redoubled; but, though the wind bore the sound away, she
fancied, as the lightnings glanced, that the vessel was much nearer
the shore.

The Count's servants were now seen, running to and fro, on the rocks;
some venturing almost to the point of the crags, and bending over,
held out their torches fastened to long poles; while others, whose
steps could be traced only by the course of the lights, descended the
steep and dangerous path, that wound to the margin of the sea, and,
with loud halloos, hailed the mariners, whose shrill whistle, and
then feeble voices, were heard, at intervals, mingling with the
storm.  Sudden shouts from the people on the rocks increased the
anxiety of Blanche to an almost intolerable degree:  but her
suspense, concerning the fate of the mariners, was soon over, when
Henri, running breathless into the room, told that the vessel was
anchored in the bay below, but in so shattered a condition, that it
was feared she would part before the crew could disembark.  The Count
immediately gave orders for his own boats to assist in bringing them
to shore, and that such of these unfortunate strangers as could not
be accommodated in the adjacent hamlet should be entertained at the
chateau.  Among the latter, were Emily St. Aubert, Monsieur Du Pont,
Ludovico and Annette, who, having embarked at Leghorn and reached
Marseilles, were from thence crossing the Gulf of Lyons, when this
storm overtook them.  They were received by the Count with his usual
benignity, who, though Emily wished to have proceeded immediately to
the monastery of St. Claire, would not allow her to leave the
chateau, that night; and, indeed, the terror and fatigue she had
suffered would scarcely have permitted her to go farther.

In Monsieur Du Pont the Count discovered an old acquaintance, and
much joy and congratulation passed between them, after which Emily
was introduced by name to the Count's family, whose hospitable
benevolence dissipated the little embarrassment, which her situation
had occasioned her, and the party were soon seated at the supper-
table.  The unaffected kindness of Blanche and the lively joy she
expressed on the escape of the strangers, for whom her pity had been
so much interested, gradually revived Emily's languid spirits; and Du
Pont, relieved from his terrors for her and for himself, felt the
full contrast, between his late situation on a dark and tremendous
ocean, and his present one, in a cheerful mansion, where he was
surrounded with plenty, elegance and smiles of welcome.

Annette, meanwhile, in the servants' hall, was telling of all the
dangers she had encountered, and congratulating herself so heartily
upon her own and Ludovico's escape, and on her present comforts, that
she often made all that part of the chateau ring with merriment and
laughter.  Ludovico's spirits were as gay as her own, but he had
discretion enough to restrain them, and tried to check hers, though
in vain, till her laughter, at length, ascended to MY LADY'S chamber,
who sent to enquire what occasioned so much uproar in the chateau,
and to command silence.

Emily withdrew early to seek the repose she so much required, but her
pillow was long a sleepless one.  On this her return to her native
country, many interesting remembrances were awakened; all the events
and sufferings she had experienced, since she quitted it, came in
long succession to her fancy, and were chased only by the image of
Valancourt, with whom to believe herself once more in the same land,
after they had been so long, and so distantly separated, gave her
emotions of indescribable joy, but which afterwards yielded to
anxiety and apprehension, when she considered the long period, that
had elapsed, since any letter had passed between them, and how much
might have happened in this interval to affect her future peace.  But
the thought, that Valancourt might be now no more, or, if living,
might have forgotten her, was so very terrible to her heart, that she
would scarcely suffer herself to pause upon the possibility.  She
determined to inform him, on the following day, of her arrival in
France, which it was scarcely possible he could know but by a letter
from herself, and, after soothing her spirits with the hope of soon
hearing, that he was well, and unchanged in his affections, she, at
length, sunk to repose.


     Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright,
 In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of folly,
 With freedom by my side, and soft-ey'd melancholy.

The Lady Blanche was so much interested for Emily, that, upon hearing
she was going to reside in the neighbouring convent, she requested
the Count would invite her to lengthen her stay at the chateau.  'And
you know, my dear sir,' added Blanche, 'how delighted I shall be with
such a companion; for, at present, I have no friend to walk, or to
read with, since Mademoiselle Bearn is my mamma's friend only.'

The Count smiled at the youthful simplicity, with which his daughter
yielded to first impressions; and, though he chose to warn her of
their danger, he silently applauded the benevolence, that could thus
readily expand in confidence to a stranger.  He had observed Emily,
with attention, on the preceding evening, and was as much pleased
with her, as it was possible he could be with any person, on so short
an acquaintance.  The mention, made of her by Mons. Du Pont, had also
given him a favourable impression of Emily; but, extremely cautious
as to those, whom he introduced to the intimacy of his daughter, he
determined, on hearing that the former was no stranger at the convent
of St. Claire, to visit the abbess, and, if her account corresponded
with his wish, to invite Emily to pass some time at the chateau.  On
this subject, he was influenced by a consideration of the Lady
Blanche's welfare, still more than by either a wish to oblige her, or
to befriend the orphan Emily, for whom, however, he felt considerably

On the following morning, Emily was too much fatigued to appear; but
Mons. Du Pont was at the breakfast-table, when the Count entered the
room, who pressed him, as his former acquaintance, and the son of a
very old friend, to prolong his stay at the chateau; an invitation,
which Du Pont willingly accepted, since it would allow him to be near
Emily; and, though he was not conscious of encouraging a hope, that
she would ever return his affection, he had not fortitude enough to
attempt, at present, to overcome it.

Emily, when she was somewhat recovered, wandered with her new friend
over the grounds belonging to the chateau, as much delighted with the
surrounding views, as Blanche, in the benevolence of her heart, had
wished; from thence she perceived, beyond the woods, the towers of
the monastery, and remarked, that it was to this convent she designed
to go.

'Ah!' said Blanche with surprise, 'I am but just released from a
convent, and would you go into one?  If you could know what pleasure
I feel in wandering here, at liberty,--and in seeing the sky and the
fields, and the woods all round me, I think you would not.'  Emily,
smiling at the warmth, with which the Lady Blanche spoke, observed,
that she did not mean to confine herself to a convent for life.

'No, you may not intend it now,' said Blanche; 'but you do not know
to what the nuns may persuade you to consent:  I know how kind they
will appear, and how happy, for I have seen too much of their art.'

When they returned to the chateau, Lady Blanche conducted Emily to
her favourite turret, and from thence they rambled through the
ancient chambers, which Blanche had visited before.  Emily was amused
by observing the structure of these apartments, and the fashion of
their old but still magnificent furniture, and by comparing them with
those of the castle of Udolpho, which were yet more antique and
grotesque.  She was also interested by Dorothee the house-keeper, who
attended them, whose appearance was almost as antique as the objects
around her, and who seemed no less interested by Emily, on whom she
frequently gazed with so much deep attention, as scarcely to hear
what was said to her.

While Emily looked from one of the casements, she perceived, with
surprise, some objects, that were familiar to her memory;--the fields
and woods, with the gleaming brook, which she had passed with La
Voisin, one evening, soon after the death of Monsieur St. Aubert, in
her way from the monastery to her cottage; and she now knew this to
be the chateau, which he had then avoided, and concerning which he
had dropped some remarkable hints.

Shocked by this discovery, yet scarcely knowing why, she mused for
some time in silence, and remembered the emotion, which her father
had betrayed on finding himself so near this mansion, and some other
circumstances of his conduct, that now greatly interested her.  The
music, too, which she had formerly heard, and, respecting which La
Voisin had given such an odd account, occurred to her, and, desirous
of knowing more concerning it, she asked Dorothee whether it returned
at midnight, as usual, and whether the musician had yet been

'Yes, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee, 'that music is still heard, but
the musician has never been found out, nor ever will, I believe;
though there are some people, who can guess.'

'Indeed!' said Emily, 'then why do they not pursue the enquiry?'

'Ah, young lady! enquiry enough has been made--but who can pursue a

Emily smiled, and, remembering how lately she had suffered herself to
be led away by superstition, determined now to resist its contagion;
yet, in spight of her efforts, she felt awe mingle with her
curiosity, on this subject; and Blanche, who had hitherto listened in
silence, now enquired what this music was, and how long it had been

'Ever since the death of my lady, madam,' replied Dorothee.

'Why, the place is not haunted, surely?' said Blanche, between
jesting and seriousness.

'I have heard that music almost ever since my dear lady died,'
continued Dorothee, 'and never before then.  But that is nothing to
some things I could tell of.'

'Do, pray, tell them, then,' said Lady Blanche, now more in earnest
than in jest.  'I am much interested, for I have heard sister
Henriette, and sister Sophie, in the convent, tell of such strange
appearances, which they themselves had witnessed!'

'You never heard, my lady, I suppose, what made us leave the chateau,
and go and live in a cottage,' said Dorothee.  'Never!' replied
Blanche with impatience.

'Nor the reason, that my lord, the Marquis'--Dorothee checked
herself, hesitated, and then endeavoured to change the topic; but the
curiosity of Blanche was too much awakened to suffer the subject thus
easily to escape her, and she pressed the old house-keeper to proceed
with her account, upon whom, however, no entreaties could prevail;
and it was evident, that she was alarmed for the imprudence, into
which she had already betrayed herself.

'I perceive,' said Emily, smiling, 'that all old mansions are
haunted; I am lately come from a place of wonders; but unluckily,
since I left it, I have heard almost all of them explained.'

Blanche was silent; Dorothee looked grave, and sighed; and Emily felt
herself still inclined to believe more of the wonderful, than she
chose to acknowledge.  Just then, she remembered the spectacle she
had witnessed in a chamber of Udolpho, and, by an odd kind of
coincidence, the alarming words, that had accidentally met her eye in
the MS. papers, which she had destroyed, in obedience to the command
of her father; and she shuddered at the meaning they seemed to
impart, almost as much as at the horrible appearance, disclosed by
the black veil.

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, unable to prevail with Dorothee to
explain the subject of her late hints, had desired, on reaching the
door, that terminated the gallery, and which she found fastened on
the preceding day, to see the suite of rooms beyond.  'Dear young
lady,' said the housekeeper, 'I have told you my reason for not
opening them; I have never seen them, since my dear lady died; and it
would go hard with me to see them now.  Pray, madam, do not ask me

'Certainly I will not,' replied Blanche, 'if that is really your

'Alas! it is,' said the old woman:  'we all loved her well, and I
shall always grieve for her.  Time runs round! it is now many years,
since she died; but I remember every thing, that happened then, as if
it was but yesterday.  Many things, that have passed of late years,
are gone quite from my memory, while those so long ago, I can see as
if in a glass.'  She paused, but afterwards, as they walked up the
gallery, added to Emily, 'this young lady sometimes brings the late
Marchioness to my mind; I can remember, when she looked just as
blooming, and very like her, when she smiles.  Poor lady! how gay she
was, when she first came to the chateau!'

'And was she not gay, afterwards?' said Blanche.

Dorothee shook her head; and Emily observed her, with eyes strongly
expressive of the interest she now felt.  'Let us sit down in this
window,' said the Lady Blanche, on reaching the opposite end of the
gallery:  'and pray, Dorothee, if it is not painful to you, tell us
something more about the Marchioness.  I should like to look into the
glass you spoke of just now, and see a few of the circumstances,
which you say often pass over it.'

'No, my lady,' replied Dorothee; 'if you knew as much as I do, you
would not, for you would find there a dismal train of them; I often
wish I could shut them out, but they will rise to my mind.  I see my
dear lady on her death-bed,--her very look,--and remember all she
said--it was a terrible scene!'

'Why was it so terrible?' said Emily with emotion.

'Ah, dear young lady! is not death always terrible?' replied

To some further enquiries of Blanche Dorothee was silent; and Emily,
observing the tears in her eyes, forbore to urge the subject, and
endeavoured to withdraw the attention of her young friend to some
object in the gardens, where the Count, with the Countess and
Monsieur Du Pont, appearing, they went down to join them.

When he perceived Emily, he advanced to meet her, and presented her
to the Countess, in a manner so benign, that it recalled most
powerfully to her mind the idea of her late father, and she felt more
gratitude to him, than embarrassment towards the Countess, who,
however, received her with one of those fascinating smiles, which her
caprice sometimes allowed her to assume, and which was now the result
of a conversation the Count had held with her, concerning Emily. 
Whatever this might be, or whatever had passed in his conversation
with the lady abbess, whom he had just visited, esteem and kindness
were strongly apparent in his manner, when he addressed Emily, who
experienced that sweet emotion, which arises from the consciousness
of possessing the approbation of the good; for to the Count's worth
she had been inclined to yield her confidence almost from the first
moment, in which she had seen him.

Before she could finish her acknowledgments for the hospitality she
had received, and mention of her design of going immediately to the
convent, she was interrupted by an invitation to lengthen her stay at
the chateau, which was pressed by the Count and the Countess, with an
appearance of such friendly sincerity, that, though she much wished
to see her old friends at the monastery, and to sigh, once more, over
her father's grave, she consented to remain a few days at the

To the abbess, however, she immediately wrote, mentioning her arrival
in Languedoc and her wish to be received into the convent, as a
boarder; she also sent letters to Monsieur Quesnel and to Valancourt,
whom she merely informed of her arrival in France; and, as she knew
not where the latter might be stationed, she directed her letter to
his brother's seat in Gascony.

In the evening, Lady Blanche and Mons. Du Pont walked with Emily to
the cottage of La Voisin, which she had now a melancholy pleasure in
approaching, for time had softened her grief for the loss of St.
Aubert, though it could not annihilate it, and she felt a soothing
sadness in indulging the recollections, which this scene recalled. 
La Voisin was still living, and seemed to enjoy, as much as formerly,
the tranquil evening of a blameless life.  He was sitting at the door
of his cottage, watching some of his grandchildren, playing on the
grass before him, and, now and then, with a laugh, or a commendation,
encouraging their sports.  He immediately recollected Emily, whom he
was much pleased to see, and she was as rejoiced to hear, that he had
not lost one of his family, since her departure.

'Yes, ma'amselle,' said the old man, 'we all live merrily together
still, thank God! and I believe there is not a happier family to be
found in Languedoc, than ours.'

Emily did not trust herself in the chamber, where St. Aubert died;
and, after half an hour's conversation with La Voisin and his family,
she left the cottage.

During these the first days of her stay at Chateau-le-Blanc, she was
often affected, by observing the deep, but silent melancholy, which,
at times, stole over Du Pont; and Emily, pitying the self-delusion,
which disarmed him of the will to depart, determined to withdraw
herself as soon as the respect she owed the Count and Countess De
Villefort would permit.  The dejection of his friend soon alarmed the
anxiety of the Count, to whom Du Pont, at length, confided the secret
of his hopeless affection, which, however, the former could only
commiserate, though he secretly determined to befriend his suit, if
an opportunity of doing so should ever occur.  Considering the
dangerous situation of Du Pont, he but feebly opposed his intention
of leaving Chateau-le-Blanc, on the following day, but drew from him
a promise of a longer visit, when he could return with safety to his
peace.  Emily herself, though she could not encourage his affection,
esteemed him both for the many virtues he possessed, and for the
services she had received from him; and it was not without tender
emotions of gratitude and pity, that she now saw him depart for his
family seat in Gascony; while he took leave of her with a countenance
so expressive of love and grief, as to interest the Count more warmly
in his cause than before.

In a few days, Emily also left the chateau, but not before the Count
and Countess had received her promise to repeat her visit very soon;
and she was welcomed by the abbess, with the same maternal kindness
she had formerly experienced, and by the nuns, with much expression
of regard.  The well-known scenes of the convent occasioned her many
melancholy recollections, but with these were mingled others, that
inspired gratitude for having escaped the various dangers, that had
pursued her, since she quitted it, and for the good, which she yet
possessed; and, though she once more wept over her father's grave,
with tears of tender affection, her grief was softened from its
former acuteness.

Some time after her return to the monastery, she received a letter
from her uncle, Mons. Quesnel, in answer to information that she had
arrived in France, and to her enquiries, concerning such of her
affairs as he had undertaken to conduct during her absence,
especially as to the period for which La Vallee had been let, whither
it was her wish to return, if it should appear, that her income would
permit her to do so.  The reply of Mons. Quesnel was cold and formal,
as she expected, expressing neither concern for the evils she
suffered, nor pleasure, that she was now removed from them; nor did
he allow the opportunity to pass, of reproving her for her rejection
of Count Morano, whom he affected still to believe a man of honour
and fortune; nor of vehemently declaiming against Montoni, to whom he
had always, till now, felt himself to be inferior.  On Emily's
pecuniary concerns, he was not very explicit; he informed her,
however, that the term, for which La Vallee had been engaged, was
nearly expired; but, without inviting her to his own house, added,
that her circumstances would by no means allow her to reside there,
and earnestly advised her to remain, for the present, in the convent
of St. Claire.

To her enquiries respecting poor old Theresa, her late father's
servant, he gave no answer.  In the postscript to his letter,
Monsieur Quesnel mentioned M. Motteville, in whose hands the late St.
Aubert had placed the chief of his personal property, as being likely
to arrange his affairs nearly to the satisfaction of his creditors,
and that Emily would recover much more of her fortune, than she had
formerly reason to expect.  The letter also inclosed to Emily an
order upon a merchant at Narbonne, for a small sum of money.

The tranquillity of the monastery, and the liberty she was suffered
to enjoy, in wandering among the woods and shores of this delightful
province, gradually restored her spirits to their natural tone,
except that anxiety would sometimes intrude, concerning Valancourt,
as the time approached, when it was possible that she might receive
an answer to her letter.

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