The mysteries of Udolpho, a romance; interspersed with some pieces of poetry. / By Ann Ratcliffe [sic], author of The romance of the forest, A Sicilian romance, &c. ; In three volumes. Vol. I[-III]. ; [Four lines of verse]

THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

CHAP. XXXV.

"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 nothern 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." BEATTIE.

SEVERAL of her succeeding days passed in suspense, for Lu|dovico could only learn from the soldiers, that there was a pri|soner in the apartment, described to him by Emily, and that he was a Frenchman, whom they had taken in one of their skirmish|es, 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 ap|peared 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 concern|ing Valancourt; for which she waited, indeed, without any sa|crifice 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 sometime famil|iar, to attend him on the following night. He was not deceiv|ed in his hope; for under pretence of carrying in a pitcher of water, he entered the prison, though, his prudence having pre|vented 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 ar|rived. 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 sur|prised as I expected." "Does he then remember me?" she exclaimed.

"O! it is Mons. Valancourt," said Annette, and looked im|patiently 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 inquired 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 search|ed 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 given me this." Ludovico then drew forth a miniature from his bo|som, which Emily received with a trembling hand, and perceiv|ed

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 send 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 im|agined, 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, Signo|ra," 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 prison chamber."

"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 cer|tainly 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 opportu|nities."

"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 ••leep, 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 wan|dered, once more, in fairy scenes of unfading happiness:

—"As when, beneath the beam Of summer moons 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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 ter|rific 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, whe|ther Montoni meant ever to release her, but greatly feared, that he had designs concerning her,—such as she had formerly dread|ed. 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 Bertoli|ni 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 de|struction approaching in many forms, and her entreaties to Lu|dovico 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 Che|valier, who had directed him to confide in the guard of the pri|son, from whom he had already received some instances of kind|ness, 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 be|yond 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 meet|ing Valancourt, that it was sometime, 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 dy 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 inter|val 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 th•••• 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 sen|tinels, 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 im|possible 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 Valan|court 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 guess|ed, 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 encreasing, 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 case|ment, she distinguished the chords of the lute, struck with an ex|pressive 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 inquiry, she asked no questions, but burst into tears, and disengaged her|self from his arms: when the expression of his countenance changed to surprise and disappointment, and he turned to Lu|dovico 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 Cheva|lier. 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 des|pair, 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 Va|lancourt, 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 staircase, and detaining Annette, she told the stranger, that her woman understood very little Ital|ian, 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 prob|ably 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 ex|plain 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 your 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 torment."

Emily now interrupted him. "I think, sir, I may leave it to your integrity to determine, whether, after what has just appear|ed, concerning Mons. Valancourt, I ought to return the picture. I think you will acknowledge, that this would not be genero|sity; and you will allow me to add, that it would be doing my|self an injustice. I must consider myself honoured by your good opinion, but"—and she hesitated,—"the mistake of this even|ing makes it unnecessary for me to say more."

"It does, madam,—alas! it does!" said the stranger, who, af|ter 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 hav|ing, at least, attempted to deserve your thanks."

"You deserve them already, sir, "said Emily; "the wish de|serves my warmest thanks. But you will excuse me for remind|ing 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, turn|ing round, saw the door from the staircase 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 corri|dor, calling on Ludovico, who was, however, gone from the staircase, 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 for|ward in search of Ludovico, she returned to the spot were 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, how|ever, have interested her in his success, even had she not disliked and dreaded Verezzi. She 〈◊〉〈◊〉 herself in a chair, and suppli|cated 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 〈◊〉〈◊〉; and she then entreated Du Pont to escape from the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 before Montoni, or his party, should appear; but he still refused 〈◊〉〈◊〉 leave her unprotected; and, while Emi|ly, new more terrified for him, than for herself, enforced the entreaty, they heard steps ascending the private staircase.

"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 land|ing place. Throwing an hasty glance round the chamber, "Fol|low me," said he, "as you value your lives; we have not an instant to lose!"

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

"I cannot stay to tell you now, Signora," replied Ludovico: "sly! sly!"

She immediately followed him, accompanied by Mons. Du Pont, down the staircase, and along a vaulted passage, when sud|denly she recollected Annette, and inquired 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 Ludo|vico, 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 mo|ment; 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, a|larmed 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 extinguish|ed 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, ••••••lied 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, sometime. 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 hor|ses, that the gates might be shut; but they were too much en|gaged, 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,* 1.1 that if the castle should be attacked, you know, I may be able to defend the pass like a hero."

"There, my, good fellow," returned the soldier, "there, take it—it has seen service, though it could do little in defend|ing 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 Lu|dovico. "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 trou|ble of following you further, for I wanted to tell you, if you have a mind to drink the Tuscany wine you must go to Sebas|tain, 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, be|fore they quitted the woods, they heard shouts in the wind, and, on emerging from them, saw lights move quickly near the cas|tle 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 the 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 pa••••, and, consulting whither they should direct their course, it was deter|mined 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 necessa|ries 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. How|ever, 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 stiletto, 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 arrive."

The moon was now risen high over the woods, that hung up|on 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 〈◊〉〈◊〉, 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 Valan|court, 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 too feel so lively a sen|sation. Meanwhile, Emily was alone the object of Dupont's me|lancholy consideration; yet, with the despondency he suffered, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 he mused on his recent disappointment, was mingled a sweet pleasure, occasioned by her presence, though they did not now ex|change a single word. Annette thought of this wonderful es|cape, of the bustle in which Montoni and his people must be, now that their ••light was discovered; of her native country, whither

she hoped she was returning, and of her marriage with Ludovi|co, to which there no longer appeared any impediment, for pov|erty she did not consider such. Ludovico, on his part congrat|ulated 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 happi|ness with the object of his affections, and not a little on the ad|dress, with which he had deceived the sentinel, and conducted the whole 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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 proceed|ed from the town he had mentioned, while his companions, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 this assurance sunk again into silence. Annette was the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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 inquiry, which ended in as serious 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 sometime 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 moonlight; 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 con|tradict this error, for the high grass and other luxuriant vegeta|tion, 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 gran|deur 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 seem|ed to peep from "under the opening eyelids 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 impos|sible 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 hon|est of their exact situation, and requested that he would assist them to pursue their journey; a purpose which he promised to com|ply 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 sad|dle 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 deter|mined to accompany Emily, whether he should obtain intelli|gence

of his regiment, or not; for, though he had as much con|fidence 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 re••olution 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 near|est 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, there|fore, 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, recom|menced their joyous way, as the sun was rising over the moun|tains, 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 vived 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 soften|ing from the wildness, which their interior regions exhibit|ed! 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 Mediterra|nean, 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 for|lorn pilgrim, to weep over the sad spot, where he, who was her father, lay interred. Nor were spirits cheered, when she con|sidered how long it would probably be before she should see Valancourt, who might be stationed with his regiment in a dis|tant

part of France, and that, when they did meet, it would be only to lament the successful villainy 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, rasberries, and figs, promised them grateful refreshment. Soon after, they turned from the road into a grove, whose thick foliage entirely excluded the sunbeams, and where a spring gush|ing from a 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 re|turned withan 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 Pyrennees, 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 melan|choly thought. As the sun was yet too high to allow them to con|tinue 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 inquiring by what accident Du Pont became Montoni's prisoner, and he, pleased with the interest this inquiry expressed and with the excuse it gave him 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 to her of himself, immediately answered her curiosity.

"I came into Italy, madam," said Du Pont, "in the service 〈◊〉〈◊〉 my country. In an adventure among the mountains, our party engaging with the bands of Montoni, was routed, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 with 〈◊〉〈◊〉 few of my comrades, was taken prisoner. When they 〈◊〉〈◊〉 me, whose captive I was, the name of Montoni struck me, for

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 sometime 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 in|terest, that he granted me many indulgencies, 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 con|sequent vengeance of Montoni. He however enabled me to see you more than once. You are surprised, madam, and I will ex|plain 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 nar|rative 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 prodi|gious walls of that edifice, and which were, undoubtedly contriv|ed 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 over|looked 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 my|self opposite to the window."

Emily, remembering the figure that had formerly appeared on the terrace, and which had occasioned her so much anxiety, ex|claimed, "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 ap|prehension, 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 re|strained me, till the distant footstep of a sentinel compelled me suddenly to quit my station.

"It was sometime, before I had another opportunity of wal••|ing, for I could only leave my prison, when it happened to be the turn of one man to guard me; meanwhile, I became con|vinced from some circumstances related by him, that your apart|ment was over-mine, and, when again I ventured forth, I return|ed to your casement, where again I saw you, but without dar|ing to speak. I waved my hand, and you suddenly disappear|ed; then it was, that I forgot my prudence, and yielded to la|mentation; again you appeared—you spoke—I heard the well known accent of your voice! and, at that moment, my discre|tion 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 ut|tered a strange noise, with a hope, that my pursuer would mis|take it for something supernatural, and desist from pursuit. Luckily for myself I succeeded; the man, it seems, was subject to ••its, and the terror he suffered threw him into one, by which accident I secured my retreat. A sense of the danger I had es|caped, and the increased watchfulness, which my apearance had occasioned among the sentinels, deterred me ever after from walking on the terrace; but, in the stillness of night, I fre|quently beguiled myself with an old lute, procured for me by 〈◊〉〈◊〉 soldier, which I sometimes accompanied with my voice, and sometimes, I will acknowledge, with a hope of making my 〈◊〉〈◊〉 heard by you; but it was only a few evenings ago, that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 hope was answered. I then thought I heard a voice in 〈◊〉〈◊〉 wind, calling me; yet, even then I feared to reply, lest the sen|tinel 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 sin|gular 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 pas|sage 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 cir|cumstances, 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 fate."

"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 trem|bled for you;—the more so that I had heard the guests mention your name in a manner, that threatened your repose; and, know|ing, 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 Mon|toni 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 sometime, appeared inattentive to my voice; but, at length, were so much alarmed, that they quitted the a|partment; 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 to 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, whi|ther she hoped her income would sometime 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 re|membrance 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 val|ley, they reached the Arno, and wound along its pastoral mar|gin, 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 moun|tains, 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 Glamorous than even during the noonday heat, loving best the hour when the English beetle, with less offensive sound,

—"winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum* 1.2."

The travellers crossed the Arno by moonlight, at a ferry, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 learning, that Pisa was distant only a few miles down the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 they wished to have proceeded thither in a boat, but, as 〈◊〉〈◊〉

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 moonlight sea—no gay gondolas, dashing the waves,—no 〈◊〉〈◊〉 palaces, to throw enchantment over the fancy and lead 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 the wilds of fairy story. The Arno rol|led through the town, but no music trembled from Balconies over its waters 〈◊〉〈◊〉 gave only the busy voices of sailors on board vessels just arrived from the Mediterranean; the melancholy heav|ing of the anchor, and the shrill boatswain's whistle; sounds which, since that period, have there sunk almost into silence. They then served to ••••••ind 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 inquiries; 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 ac|quire no information concerning it. The travellers retired ear|ly 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 pas|toral 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 Valan|court, 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 comman|der. 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, shed|ding a sympathetic tear to the sorrow of those, that were separat|ing. It was after having witnessed a scene of the latter kind, that she arranged the following stanzas:

THE MARINER.

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, and 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 burl'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 〈◊〉〈◊〉 form is laid; Not is the dirge by villge-maidens ••ear'd, For lovers' spirits guard the holy shade!

CHAP. XXXVI.

—"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!" SACRED DRAMAS.

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 V••ision 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 Cha|teau-le-Blanc, situated in the province of Languedoc, on the shore of the Mditerranean. 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; cir|cumstances, which, together with the duties of his profession, that often called him into the field, had prevented any degree of inti|macy 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 follow|ing year, that he determined to visit that estate, when he design|ed 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 lifetime of the Marchioness, and at th•••• 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 hear•• and vitiate the taste, the shades of Languedoc and the grandeur

of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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 over|come his determination. She prepared, therefore, to obey the command which she could not conquer, and to resign the gay as|semblies 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 moun|tains and the solemnity of gothic halls and of long, long galle|ries, 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 ex|pectations 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 Pa••••ian dances, and a view of the rustic festivities of peasants co•••••• 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 for|mer 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 su|perintend 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 〈◊〉〈◊〉, therefore, with extreme mortifica|tion, that she now understood that 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 sometime, 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 lat|tice, 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 hap|piness. But the emotions of the Countess, on beholding her, were not in unison with those of Blanche, who had never appear|ed 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 Coun|tess rose to go. This was the moment, which Blanche had an|ticipated 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 coun|tenance, to her young companions, who were come to bid her farewel, and wept! Even my lady abbess, so stately and so so|lemn, she saluted with a degree of sorrow, which, an hour be|fore, 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 ••he shad••, 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 re|verie,

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 moun|tains, which had been seen only at a distance during the day, now rising within a few leagues, with the wild cliffs and im|mense 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 pervad|ed 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, ap|peared the Mediterranean, clear as crystal, and blue as the hea|vens it reflected, bearing on its bosom vessels, whose white sails caught the sunbeams, 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 emi|nence, 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 ancient mansion successively appeared—first an embattled turret, rising above the trees—then the broken arch of an immense gateway, retiring beyond them; and she almost fancied herself approach|ing 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 compan|ions, 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 obtain|ed access in the library of her convent, that like many others, belonging to the monks, was stored with these reliques of ro|mantic 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 with|in of the arrival of their lord.

As Blanche leaned from the coach window, she resigned her|self 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, re|flecting 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 entertaining, 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 slow|ly on, under spreading chesnuts, that almost excluded the re|mains 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 re|ceive them, for the night, and had so abruptly quitted, on per|ceiving the wildness of the place, and a figure, which the pos|tillion had fancied was a robber.

"What a dismal place is this!" exclaimed the Countess, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the carriage penetrated the deeper recesses of the woods. "Sure|ly my lord, you do not mean to pass all the autumn in this bar|barous spot! one ought to bring hither a cup of the waters of 〈◊〉〈◊〉

that the remembrance of pleasanter scenes may not heighten, at least, the 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 ser|vants, who had been sent to prepare the chateau, waiting to re|ceive their lord. Lady Blanche now perceived, that the edifice was not built entirely in the gothic style, but that it had addi|tions of a more modern date; the large and gloomy hall, how|ever, into which she now entered, was entirely gothic, and sump|tuous tapestry, which it was now too dark to distinguish, hung upon the walls, and depictured scenes from some of the ancient 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 top•• 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 slop|ing 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 compla|cent 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 inquired for refreshment, the Count, at|tended by his son, went to look over some part of the chateau, and Lady Blanche reluctantly remained to witness the discon|tent and ill humour of her step-mother.

"How long have you lived in this desolate place?" said her ladyship, to the old house keeper, who came to pay her duty. "A|bove twenty years, your ladyship, on the next feast of St. Jerome."

"How happened it, that you have lived here so long, and al|most alone, too? I understood, that the chateau, had been shut up for some years?"

"Yes, madam, it was for many years after my late lord, the Count, went to the wars; but it is above twenty years, since; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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 sometime, 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 cot|tage. 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 for|mer times, Dorothee added—"But the chateau will now be in|habited, and cheerful again; not all the world could tempt 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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 house keeper, now 〈◊〉〈◊〉 from further attendance by the entrance of the Count, who 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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 dis|tance from Paris."

The Count made no reply, but walked abruptly to a window. "There are windows, my lord, but they neither admit enter|tainment, 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 Coun|tess, pointing to the Pyrenees, "and this chateau, though not 〈◊〉〈◊〉 work of rude nature, is to my taste, at least one of savage art. The Count coloured highly. "This place, madam, was th•••• work of my ancestors," said he, "and you must allow me to say•• that your present conversation discovers neither good taste, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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 Coun|tess immediately desiring to be shewn to her own apartment, withdrew, attended by Mademoiselle Bearn.

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 mo••aic work. Through a distant window, that seemed to ter|minate 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 sometime, surveying the grey obscurity, and de|picturing 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, ••lying 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 〈◊〉〈◊〉 distinguish this apartment to be of very light and airy ar|chitecture, 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, ••he moon rose over the sea, and gradually disclosed, in partial ••ight, the beauties of the eminence, on which she stood, whence 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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, ap|peared a long tract of the plains of Languedoc; and to the cast••, 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 moonlight, and their low and measur|ed 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 li|berty, her romantic wilds, while I have been shut in a cloister from the view of these beautiful appearances, which were de|signed to enchant all eyes, and awaken all hearts. How can the poor nuns and friars feel the full fervour of devotion, if they ne|ver 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 earth!"

This enthusiastic soliloquy was interrupted by a rustling noise in the hall; and, while the loneliness of the place made her sen|sible to fear, she thought she perceived something moving be|tween the pillars. For a moment she continued silently observ|ing it, till ashamed of her ridiculous apprehensions, she recol|lected courage enough to demand who was there. "O my young lady, is it you?" said the old housekeeper, who was 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to shut the windows, "I am glad it is you." The manner, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 which she spoke this, with a faint breath, rather surprised Blanche, who said, "You seemed frightened, Dorothee, what is the mat|ter?"

"No, not frightened, ma'amselle," replied Dorothee, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and trying to appear composed, "but I am old, and—〈◊〉〈◊〉 matter startles me." The Lady Blanche smiled at the ••••••|tinction. "I am glad that my lord the Count is come to live•• the chateau, ma'amselle," continued Dorothee, "for it has 〈◊〉〈◊〉 many a year deserted, and dreary enough; now, the place 〈◊〉〈◊〉 look a little as it used to do, when my poor lady was alive Blanche inquired how long it was, since the Marchioness 〈◊〉〈◊〉 "Alas! my lady," rep••led Dorothee, "so long—that I 〈◊〉〈◊〉

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 inquired how long this part of the edifice had been built. "Soon after my lord's marriage, ma'am," replied Do|rothee. "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 ancient 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 intirely 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 ad|ventures 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 civil|ized than to condemn a lady to a purgatory severer even than their own, be it what it may."

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 com|pany, 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 sensa|tions very different from those I formerly experienced."

"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 revisit this

spot, at the distance of many years, you will, perhaps, remem|ber 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 filled 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 case|ments, and, what was the effect of these, its gloomy air, did not re|concile her to its remote situation, in this ancient building. The furniture, also, was of ancient 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, in|deed, 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 represent|ed 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 recol|lecting, 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 〈◊〉〈◊〉, before sunrise, she dismissed her; and then, to dissipate the gloom which reflection had cast upon her spirits, opened one of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 high casements, and was again cheered by the face of living 〈◊〉〈◊〉. The shadowy earth, the air, and ocean—all was still. A|long 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 〈◊〉〈◊〉 involuntarily to the great Author of the sublime objects she con|templated, and she breathed a prayer of finer devotion, than 〈◊〉〈◊〉 she had ever uttered beneath the vaulted roof of a cloister. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 this casement, she remained till the glooms of midnight were stretch|ed over the prospect. She then retired to her pillow, and, "〈◊〉〈◊〉 gay visions of to-morrow," to those sweet slumbers, which 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and happy innocence only know.

"To-morrow, to fresh woods and pastures new."

CHAP. XXXVII.

"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!" THOMPSON.

BLANCHE's slumbers continued, till long after the hour, which she had so impatiently anticipated, for her woman, fatigu|ed 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 splen|dour 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, wh••re 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 reanimated as to receive the civilities of her husband with complacency, and but once for|got 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 con|dition 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 ••itted 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 gradual|ly yielded to pensive complacency. Now, she moved with sol|emn 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 poplar.

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

THE BUTTERFLY TO HIS LOVE.

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 fo••ntain 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 primrose, 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 sunbeam 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 t••ey 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 ••ill, 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 w••ll 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 go|ing 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 ancient first attracted her curiosi|ty; 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 staircase, and through the oak gallery, she entered upon a long suite of cham|bers, whose walls were either hung with tapestry, or wainscoted with cedar, the furniture of which lo••ked almost as ancient 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 deser|tion, 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 staircase, 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 her|self 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 staircase, 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 pas|sage, 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 ex|pressions 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 ac|cepted 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 beau|ties of landscape as her young lady's, or that the constant view of lovely scenery had deadened it, she forbore to praise the sub|ject of Blanche's enthusiasm, which, however, her silence did not repress. To Lady Blanche's inquiry, 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, dur|ing 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 since."

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 lan|guor 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 him.

The cheerfulness, with which Blanche rejoined the party, van|ished, 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 boat.

As she silently surveyed the vast horizon, bending round the distant verge of the ocean, an emotion of sublimest rapture strug|gled 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 or|dered 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 di|ed along the waves. Blanche had now subdued her fears; a de|lightful 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 〈◊〉〈◊〉 those, that were passed.

After near an hour's rowing, the party landed and ascended 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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 glimse 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 drape|ry 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 cof|fee, 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 en|gaged by natural and simple objects, acquiesced in all her de|signs concerning the pavilion.

The paintings on the walls and coved ceiling were to be re|newed; the canopies and sofas were to be of light green da|mask; 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 woody recesses, and the scene was bounded only by a lengthened pomp of groves; from an|other, the woods receding disclosed the distant summits of the Pyrenees; a third fronted an avenue, beyond which the grey towers of Chateu-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 ob|jects of a fifth window, and the others gave in different points of view, the wild scenery of the woods.

After wandering, for sometime, 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 overhung its surface, the glow of the western horizon and the dark clouds, that came slowly from the east. Blanche loved to see the dip|ping oars imprint the water, and to watch the spreading circles they left, which gave a tremulous motion to the reflected land|scape, without destroying the harmony of its features.

Above the darkness of the woods, her eye now caught a clus|ter 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, look|ing round, and listening; but the strain had ceased. "It seem|ed to be a vesper hymn, which I have often heard in my con|vent," said Blanche.

"We are near the monastery, then," observed the Count; and, the boat soon after doubling a lofty head land, the monas|tery 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 fea|tures of the edifice were seen; the great gate and gothic win|dow of the hall, the cloisters and the side of a chapel more re|mote; 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 bri|ony hung in many a fantastic wreath.

All without was silent and forsaken; but while Blanche gaz|ed with admiration on this venerable pile, whose effect was heightened by the strong lights and shadows thrown athwart it by a cloudy sunset, 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 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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 silence.

"These dismal hymns and friars make one quite melancho|ly," 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 cla|mourous 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 deter|mine 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 Ma|demoiselle 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 view|ed 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 shel|ter 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, were 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 sweet|ened 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 con|ducted by the Superior to the refectory.

The Countess, fatigued and discontented, received the polite|ness 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 me|lancholy shade, and where the gloom of evening now loured al|most 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 suc|cession, to the shore, where they burst in white foam, and threw up a high spray over the rocks. A red sulphurous tint over|spread the long line of clouds, that hung above the western ho|rizon, beneath whose dark skirts the sun looking out, illumin|ed the distant shores of Languedoc, as well as the tufted 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of the nearer woods, and shed a partial gleam on the wes|tern waves. The rest of the scene was in deep gloom, except where a sunbeam, darting between the clouds, glanced on the white wings of the sea-fowl, that circled high among them, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 touched the swelling sail of a vessel, which was seen labouring in▪ the storm. Blanche, for sometime, anxiously watched the progress of the bark, as it threw the waves in foam around 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and, as the lightnings flashed, looked to the opening heaven with many a sigh for the fate of the poor mariners.

The sun, at length, set, and the heavy clouds, which had 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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 glo•••• of the whole horizon, warned her to retire from the window▪ and she joined the Abbess, who having exhausted all her 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of conversation with the Countess, had now leisure to notice 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

But their discourse was interrupted by tremenduous peal•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 thunder; and the bell of the monastery soon after ringing 〈◊〉〈◊〉 summoned the inhabitants to prayer. As Blanche passed 〈◊〉〈◊〉 windows she gave another look to the ocean, where, by the ••••|mentary flash, that illumined the vast body of the waters, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 distinguished the vessel she had observed before, amidst a 〈◊〉〈◊〉

foam, breaking the billows, the masts now bowing to the waves, and then rising high in air.

She sighed fervently as she gazed, and then followed the La|dy 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 return|ed 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 win|dow 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 gu•••••• was repeated, the torches were tossed high in the air, as if an|swering the signal, and the firing was then redoubled; but, though the wind bore the sound away, she fancied, as the light|nings glanced, that the vessel was much nearer the shore.

The Count's servants were now seen, running to and fro, o•• 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 mar|iners, 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 al|most intolerable degree: but her suspense, concerning the fat•••• of the mariners, was soon over, when Henri, running breathless into the room, told that the vessel was anchored in the bay be|low, but in so shattered a condition, that it was feared she would part before the crew could disembark. The Count immediate|ly gave orders for his own boats to assist in bringing them to shore, and that such of these unfortunate strangers as could 〈◊〉〈◊〉 be accommodated in the adjacent hamlet should be entertained at the chateau. Among the latter, were Emily St. Aubert, Mon|sieur Du Pont, Ludovico and Annette, who, having embarked at Leghorn and reached Marseilles, were 〈◊〉〈◊〉 thence crossing the Gulph of Lyons, when this storm overtook them. They we•••• 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 acquaint|ance, and much joy and congratulation passed between them, after which Emily was introduced by name to the Count's fam|ily, whose hospitable benevolence dissipated the little embarrass|ment, which her situation had occasioned her, and the part•• 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, grad|ually revived Emily's languid spirits; and Du Pont, relieved from his terrors for her and for himself, felt the full contrast, be|tween his late situation on a dark and tremendous 〈…〉〈…〉

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 pre|sent 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 inquire what occasioned so much uproar in the chateau, and to command silence.

Emily withdrew early to seek the repose she so much requir|ed, 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 inde|scribable joy, but which afterward•• yielded to anxiety and ap|prehension, when she considered the long period, that had elaps|ed, since any letter had passed between them, and how much might have happened in this interval to affect her future peace. But the 〈◊〉〈◊〉, 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 〈◊〉〈◊〉 he could know but by a letter from herself, and after sooth|ing her spirits with the hope of soon hearing, that he was well, and unchanged in his affections, she, at length, sunk to repose.

CHAP. XXXVIII.

Ost woo'd the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright, In cloisters 〈◊〉〈◊〉, far from the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of folly, With freedom by my side, and soft ey'd melancholy." GRAY.

THE Lady Blanche was so much interested for Emily, that, upon hearing she was going to reside in the neighbouring con|vent, she requested the Count would invite her to lengthen her stay at the 〈◊〉〈◊〉. "And you know my dear sir," added Blanche, "〈◊〉〈◊〉 delighted I shall be with such a companion▪ for, at present, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 no friend to walk, or to read with, since Mademoiselle Bears is my mamma's friend only."

The 〈…〉〈…〉 the youthful simplicity, with which his daughter yielded 〈◊〉〈◊〉 impressions; and, though he chose to warn her of their danger, he silently 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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 im|pression 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 sometime 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 interested.

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 ac|quaintance, 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 re|turn his affection, he had not fortitude enough to attempt, at present, to overcome it.

Emily, when she was somewhat recovered, wandered 〈◊〉〈◊〉 her new friend over the grounds belonging to the chateau, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 much delighted with the surrounding views, as Blanche, in 〈◊〉〈◊〉

benevolence of her heart, had wished; from thence she per|ceived, beyond ••••e woods, the towers of the monastery, and re|marked, 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 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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 apart|ments, and the fashion of their old but still magnificent furni|ture, 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 sometime 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 con|cerning it, she asked Dorothee whether it returned 〈◊〉〈◊〉 midnight as usual, and whether the musician had yet been discovered.

"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 inquiry?"

"Ah, young lady! inquiry enough has been made—but who can pursue a spirit?"

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 inquired what this music was, and how long it had been heard.

"Ever since the death of my lady, madam," replied Dorothee,

"Why the place is not haunted, surely?" said Blanche, be|tween 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 th•• old house keeper to proceed with her account, upon whom, how|ever, 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 un|luckily, 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 〈◊〉〈◊〉 believe more of the wonderful than she chose to acknowledge. Just the••, she remembered the spectacle she had witnessed in a chamber of Udolpho, and, by 〈◊〉〈◊〉 odd kind of coincidence, the alarming words, that had acciden|tally met her eye in the MS. papers, which she had destroyed, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 obedience to the command of her father; and she shuddered 〈◊〉〈◊〉

the meaning they seemed to impart, almost as much as at the hor|rible appearance disclosed by the black veil.

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, unable to prevail with Doro|thee to explain the subject of her late hints, had desired, on reach|ing 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 again."

"Certainly I will not," replied Blanche, "if that is really your objection."

"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 af|terwards, as they walked up the gallery, added of 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?" repli|ed Dorothee.

To some further inquiries of Blanche Dorothee was silent; and Emily, observing the tears in her eye, forbore to urge the sub|ject, 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 pre|sented her to the Countess, in a manner so benign, that it recall|ed most powerfully to her mind the idea of her late father, and she felt more gratitude to him, than embarrassment towards 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Countess, who, however, received her with one of those fascinat|ing smiles, which her caprice sometimes allowed her to assume, and which were 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 ap|parent in his manner, when he addressed Emily, who experienced that sweet emotion, which arises from the consciousness of pos|sessing 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 hospitali|ty she had received, and mention 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 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 chateau.

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 i•• France; and as she knew not where the latter might be station|ed, 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 seem|ed to enjoy, as much as formerly, the tranquil evening of a blameless life. He was sitting at the door of his cottage, watch|ing some of his grand children, playing on the grass before him, and now and then, with a laugh, or a commendation, encourag|ing their sports. He immediately recollected Emily whom he was much pleased to see, and she was as rejoiced to hear, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 he had not lost one of his family, since her departure.

"Yes, ma'amselle" said the old man, "we all live merrily to|gether 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 melan|choly, which at times stole over Du Pont; and Emily, pitying the self delusion, which disarmed him of the will to depart, de|termined to withdraw herself as soon as the respect she owed the Count and Countess de Villesort 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 do|ing so should ever occur. Considering the dangerous situation of Du Pont, he but feebly opposed his intention of leaving Cha|teau-le-Blanc, on the following day, but drew from him a pro|mise of a longer visit, when he could return with safety to his peace. Emily herself, though she could not encourage his af|fection, 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 hav|ing 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.

Sometime after her return to the monastery, she received a let|ter from her uncle, Mons. Quesnel, in answer to information that she had arrived in France, and to her inquiries, 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 in|come 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 reprov|ing her for her rejection of Count Morano, whom he affected still to believe a man of honour and fortune; nor of vehemently de|claiming 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 circum|stances would by no means a••••••w her to reside there, and earnestly advised her to remain, for the present, in the convent of St. Claire.

To her inquiries, respecting poor old Theresa, her late fa|ther's servant, he gave no answer. In the postscript to his let|ter, Monsieur Quesnel mentioned M. Motteville, in whose hands the late St. Aubert had placed the chief of his personal proper|ty, 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 al|so 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 suf|fered to enjoy, in wandering among the woods and shores of this delightful province, gradually restored her spirits to their natu|ral tone, except that anxiety would sometimes intrude, concern|ing Valancourt, as the time approached, when it was possible that she might receive a•• answer to her letter.

CHAP. XXXIX.

As when a wave, that from a cloud impends, And, swell'd with tempests, on the ship descends, White are the decks with foam; the winds aloud Howl o'er the masts, and sing through ev'ry shroud: Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors freeze with fears, And instant death on ev'ry wave appears. POPE's HOMER.

THE Lady Blanche, meanwhile, who was left much alone, became impatient for the company of her new friend, whom she wished to observe sharing in the delight she received from 〈◊〉〈◊〉 beautiful scenery around. She had now no person, to whom 〈◊〉〈◊〉

could express her admiration and communicate her pleasures, no eye, that sparkled to her smile, or countenance that reflected her happiness, and she became spiritless and pensive. The Count, observing her dissatisfaction, readily yielded to her entreaties, and reminded Emily of her promised visit; but the silence of Valancourt, which was now prolonged far beyond the period, when a letter might have arrived from Estuviere, oppressed Emi|ly with severe anxiety, and rendering her averse to society, she would willingly have deferred her acceptance of this invitation, till her spirits should be relieved. The Count and his family, however, pressed to see her; and, as the circumstances, that prompted her wish for solitude, could not be explained, there was an appearance of caprice in her refusal, which she could not persevere in, without offending the friends, whose esteem she val|ued. At length, therefore, she returned upon a second visit to Chateau-le-Blanc. Here the friendly manner of Count De Vil|lefort encouraged Emily to mention to him her situation, re|specting the estates of her late aunt, and to consult him on the means of recovering them. He had little doubt, that the law would decide in her favour, and, advising her to apply to it, offered first to write to an advocate at Avignon, on whose opin|ion he thought he could rely. His kindness was gratefully ac|cepted by Emily, who, soothed by the courtesy she daily experi|enced, would have been once more happy, could she have been assured of Valancourt's welfare and unaltered affection. She had now been above a week at the chateau, without receiving in|telligence of him, and though she knew, that if he was absent from his brother's residence, it was scarcely probable her letter had yet reached him, she could not forbear to admit doubts and fears, that destroyed her peace. Again she would consider of all that might have happened in the long period, since her first se|clusion at Udolpho, and her mind was sometimes so overwhelm|ed with an apprehension, that Valancourt was no more, or that he lived no longer for her, that the company even of Blanche be|came intolerably oppressive, and she would sit alone in her apart|ment for hours together, when the engagements of the family al|lowed her to do so, without incivility.

In one of these solitary hours, she unlocked a little box, which contained some letters of Valancourt, with some drawings she had sketched during her stay in Tuscany, the latter which were no longer interesting to her; but, in the letters, she now with melancholy indulgence, meant to retrace the tenderness, that had

so often soothed her, and rendered her, for a moment insensible of the distance, which separated her from the writer. But their effect was now changed; the affection they expressed appealed so forcibly to her heart, when she considered that it had, perhaps, yielded to the powers of time and absence, and even the view of the hand writing recalled so many painful recollections, that she found herself unable to go through the first she had opened, and sat musing, with her cheek resting on her arm, and tears stealing from her eyes, when old Dorothee entered the room to inform her, that dinner would be ready, an hour before the usual time. Emily started on perceiving her, and hastily put up the papers, but not before Dorothee had observed both her agitation and her tears.

"Ah, ma'amselle!" said she, "you, who are so young,—have you reason for sorrow?"

Emily tried to smile, but was unable to speak.

"Alas! dear young lady, when you come to my age, you will not weep at trifles; and surely you have nothing serious to grieve you."

"No, Dorothee, nothing of any consequence," replied Emily, Dorothee, now stooping to pick up something, that had dropped from among the papers, suddenly exclaimed, "Holy Mary! what is it I see?" and then, trembling, sat down in a chair, that stood by the table.

"What is it you do see?" said Emily, alarmed by her man|ner, and looking round the room.

"It is herself," said Dorothee, "her very self! just as she looked a little before she died!"

Emily, still more alarmed, began now to fear, that Dorothee was seized with sudden phrensy, but entreated her to explain herself.

"That picture?" said she, "where did you find it, lady? it is my blessed mistress herself!"

She laid on the table the miniature, which Emily had long ago found among the papers her father had enjoined her to destroy, and over which she had once seen him shed such tender and af|fecting tears; and, recollecting all the various circumstances of his conduct, that had long perplexed her, her emotions increased to an excess, which deprived her of all power to ask the questions she trembled to have answered, and she could only inquire, whe|ther Dorothee was certain the picture resembled the late Mar|chioness.

"O, ma'amselle!" said she, "how came it to strike me 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the instant I saw it, if it was not my lady's likeness? Ah

added she, taking up the miniature, "these are her own blue eyes—looking so sweet and so mild; and there is her very look, such as I have often seen it, when she had sat thinking for a long while, and then, the tears would often steal down her cheeks—but she never would complain! It was that look so meek, as it were, and resigned, that used to break my heart and make me love her so!"

"Dorothee!" said Emily solemnly, "I am interested in the cause of that grief, more so, perhaps, than you may imagine; and I entreat, that you will no longer refuse to indulge my cu|riosity;—it is not a common one."

As Emily said this, she remembered the papers, with which the picture had been found, and had scarcely a doubt, that they had concerned the Marchioness do Villeroi; but with this sup|position came a scruple, whether she ought to inquire further on a subject, which might prove to be the same, that her father had so carefully endeavoured to conceal. Her curiosity, concerning the Marchioness, powerful as it was, it is probable she would now have resisted, as she had formerly done, on unwarily observing the few terrible words in the papers, which had never since been erased from her memory, had she been certain that the history of that lady was the subject of those papers, or that such simple particulars only as it was probable Dorothee could relate were included in her father's command. What was known to her could be no secret to many other persons; and, since it ap|peared very unlikely, that St. Aubert should attempt to conceal what Emily might learn by ordinary means, she at length con|cluded, that if the papers had related to the story of the Mar|chioness, it was not those circumstances of it, which Dorothee could disclose, that he had thought sufficiently important to wish to have concealed. She, therefore, no longer hesitated to make the inquiries, that might lead to the gratification of her curio|sity.

"Ah, ma'amselle!" said Dorothee, "it is a sad story, and cannot be told now: but what am I saying? I never will tell it. Many years have passed, since it happened; and I never loved to talk of the Marchioness to any body, but my husband. He lived in the family, at that time, as well as myself, and he knew many particulars from me, which nobody else did; for I was about the person of my lady in her last illness, and saw and heard as much, or more than my lord himself. Sweet saint! how patient she was! When she died, I thought I could have died with her!"

"Dorothee," said Emily, interrupting her, "what you shall tell, you may depend upon it, shall never be disclosed by me. I have, I repeat it, particular reasons for wishing to be informed on this subject, and am willing to bind myself, in the most so|lemn manner, never to mention what you shall wish me to con|ceal."

Dorothee seemed surprised at the earnestness of Emily's man|ner, and, after regarding her for some moments, in silence, said, "Young lady! that look of yours pleads for you—it is so like my dear mistress's, that I can almost fancy I see her before me; if you were her daughter, you could not remind me of her more. But dinner will be ready—had you not better go down?"

"You will first promise to grant my request," said Emily, "and ought not you first to tell me, ma'amselle, how this picture fell into your hands, and the reasons, you say you have for curiosity about my lady?"

"Why, no, Dorothee," replied Emily, recollecting herself, "I have also particular reasons for observing silence, on these subjects, at least, till I know further; and, remember, I do not promise ever to speak upon them; therefore, do not let me in|duce you to satisfy my curiosity, from an expectation, that I shall gratify yours. What I may judge proper to conceal, does not concern myself alone, or I should have less scruple in re|vealing it; let a confidence in my honour alone persuade you to disclose what I request."

"Well, lady!" replied Dorothee, after a long pause, during which her eyes were fixed upon Emily, "you seem so much in|terested,—and this picture and that face of yours make me think you have some reason to be so,—that I will trust you—and tell some things, that I never told before to any body, but my husband, though there are people, who have suspected as much. I will tell you the particulars of my lady's death, too, and some of my own suspicions; but you must first promise me by all the saints"—

Emily, interrupting her, solemnly promised never to reveal what should be confided to her without Dorothee's consent.

"But there is the horn, ma'amselle sounding for dinner," said Dorothee; "I must be gone."

"When shall I see you again?" inquired Emily.

Dorothee mused, and then replied, "Why, madam, it may make people curious, if it is known I am so much in your a|partment, and that I should be sorry for; so I will come when I am least likely to be observed. I have little leisure in the day,

and I shall have a good deal to say; so, if you please, ma'am, I will come, when the family are all in bed."

"That will suite me very well," replied Emily; "Remem|ber then to night"—

"Aye, that is well remembered," said Dorothee, "I fear I cannot come to night, madam, for there will be the dance of the vintage, and it will be late, before the servants go to rest; for, when they once set in to dance, they will keep it up, in the cool of the air, till morning; at least, it used to be so in my time."

"Ah! is it the dance of the vintage?" said Emily, with a deep sigh, remembering, that it was on the evening of this festival, in the preceding year, that St. Aubert and herself had arrived in the neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc. She paused a moment, overcome by the sudden recollection, and then, re|covering herself, added—"But this dance is in the open woods; you therefore will not be wanted, and can easily come to me."

Dorothee replied, that she had been accustomed to be present at the dance of the vintage, and she did not wish to be absent now; "but if I can get away, madam, I will," said she.

Emily then hastened to the dining room, where the Count con|ducted himself with the courtesy, which is inseparable from true dignity, and of which the Countess frequently practised lit|tle, though her manner to Emily was an exception to her usual habit. But, if she retained few of the ornamental virtues, she cherished other qualities, which she seemed to consider invalua|ble. She had dismissed the grace of modesty, but then she knew perfectly well how to manage the stare of assurance; her manners had little of the tempered sweetness, which is necessary to render the female character interesting, but she could occasion|ally throw into them an affectation of spirits, which seemed to triumph over every person, who approached her. In the coun|try, however, she generally affected an elegant languor, that persuaded her almost to faint, when her favourite read to her a story of fictitious sorrow; but her countenance suffered no change when living objects of distress solicited her charity, and her heart beat with no transport to the thought of giving them instant relief;—she was a stranger to the highest luxury, of which, perhaps, the human mind can be sensible, for her ben|evolence had never yet called smiles upon the face of miser••

In the evening, the Count, with all his family, except the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, went to the woods to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the festivity of the peasants. The scene was in a glade, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the trees, opening, formed a circle round the turf they highly

overshadowed; between their branches, vines, loaded with ripe clusters, were hung in gay festoons; and, beneath, were tables, with fruit, wine, cheese and other rural fare,—and seats for the Count and his family. At a little distance, were benches for the elder peasants, few of whom, however, could forbear to join the jocund dance, which began soon after sunset, when sev|eral of sixty, tripped it with almost as much glee and airy light|ness, as those of sixteen.

The musicians, who sat carelessly on the grass at the foot of a tree, seemed inspired by the sound of their own instruments, which were chiefly flutes and a kind of a long guitar. Behind stood a boy, flourishing a tamborine, and dancing a solo, except that, as he sometimes gaily tossed the instrument, he tripped among the other dancers, when his antic gestures called forth a broader laugh, and heightened the rustic spirit of the scene.

The Count was highly delighted with the happiness he wit|nessed, to which his bounty had largely contributed, and the Lady Blanche joined the dance with a young gentleman of her father's party. Du Pont requested Emily's hand, but her spir|its were too much depressed, to permit her to engage in the present festivity, which called to her remembrance that of the preceding year, when St. Aubert was living, and of the melan|choly scenes which had immediately followed it.

Overcome by these recollections, she, at length left the spot, and walked slowly into the woods, where the softened music, floating at a distance, soothed her melancholy mind. The moon threw a mellow light among the foliage; the air was balmy and cool, and Emily, lost in thought, strolled on, with|out observing whither, till she perceived the sounds sinking afar off 〈◊〉〈◊〉 an 〈◊〉〈◊〉 stillness round her, except that, sometimes, the nightingale beguiled the silence with

Liquid notes, that close the eye of day.

At length, she found herself ••ear the avenue, which, on the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of her 〈…〉〈…〉, Michael had attempted to pass in search of a house, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 was still nearly as wild and desolate as it had 〈◊〉〈◊〉 appeared; for the Count had been so much engaged in directing other improvements, that he had neglected to give orders concerning this extensive approach, and the road was yet broken, and the trees overloaded with their own luxuriance.

As she stood surveying it, and remembering the emotions which she had 〈◊〉〈◊〉 suffered there, she suddenly recollected the figure, that had 〈◊〉〈◊〉 seen stealing among the trees, and which

had returned no answer to Michael's repeated calls; and she experienced somewhat of the fear, that had then assailed her, for it did not appear improbable, that these deep woods were occa|sionally the haunt of banditti. She, therefore, turned back, and was hastily pursuing her way to the dancers, when she heard steps approaching from the avenue; and, being still beyond the call of the peasants on the green, for she could neither hear their voices, or their music, she quickened her pace; but the persons following gained fast upon her, and, at length distin|guishing the voice of Henri, she walked leisurely, till he came up. He expressed some surprise at meeting her so far from the com|pany; and, on her saying, that the pleasant moonlight had be|guiled her to walk farther than she intended, an exclamation burst from the lips of his companion, and she thought she heard Valancourt speak! It was, indeed, he! and the meeting was such as may be imagined, between persons so affectionate, and so long separated as they had been.

In the joy of these moments, Emily forgot all her past suffer|ings, and Valancourt seemed to have forgotten, that any person but Emily existed; while Henri was a silent and astonished spec|tator of the scene.

Valancourt asked a thousand questions, concerning herself and Montoni, which there was now no time to answer; but she learned that her letter had been forwarded to him, at Paris, which he had previously quitted, and was returning to Gascony, whither the letter also returned, which, at length informed him of Emily's arrival, and on the receipt of which he had imme|diately set out for Languedoc. On reaching the monastery, whence she had dated her letter, he found, to his extreme dis|appointment, that the gates were already closed for the night; and believing, that he should not see Emily, till the morrow, he was returning to his little inn, with the intention of writing to her, when he was overtaken by Henri, with whom he had been intimate at Paris, and was led to her, whom he was se|cretly lamenting that he should not see, till the following day.

Emily, with Valancourt and Henri, now returned to the green, where the l••tter presented Valancourt to the Count, who, she fancied, received him with less than his usual 〈◊〉〈◊〉, though it appeared, that they were not strangers to each other. He was invited, however, to partake of the diversions of the evening; and, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 he had paid his respects to the Count, and while the dance•• continued their festivity, he seated himself by Emily, and conversed, without constraint. The lights, which

were hung among the trees, under which they sat, allowed her a more perfect view of the countenance she had so frequently in absence endeavoured to recollect, and she perceived, with some regret, that it was not the same as when last she saw it. There was all its wonted intelligence and sire; but it had lost much of the simplicity, and somewhat of the open benevolence, that used to characterise it. Still, however, it was an interesting counten|ance; but Emily thought she perceived, at intervals, anxiety contract, and melancholy fix the features of Valancourt; some|times, too, he fell into a momentary musing, and then appeared anxious to dissipate thought; while, at others, as he fixed his eyes on Emily, a kind of sudden distraction seemed to cross his mind. In her he perceived the same goodness and beautiful simplicity, that had charmed him, on their first acquaintance. The bloom of her countenance was somewhat faded, but all its sweetness remained, and it was rendered more interesting, than ever, by the faint expression of melancholy, that sometimes mingled with her smile.

At his request, she related the most important circumstances, that had occured to her, since she left France, and emotions of pi|ty and indignation alternately prevailed in his mind, when he heard how much she had suffered from the villany of Montoni. More than once, when she was speaking of his conduct, of which the guilt was rather softened, than exaggerated, by her repre|sentation, he started from his seat and walked away, apparently overcome as much by self accusation as by resentment. Her suf|ferings alone were mentioned in the few words, which he could address to her, and he listened not to the account, which she was careful to give as distinctly as possible of the present loss of Ma|dame Montoni's estates, and of the little reason there was to ex|pect their restoration. At length, Valancourt remained lost in thought, and then some secret cause seemed to overcome him, with anguish. Again he abruptly left her. When he return|ed, she perceived, that he had been weeping, and tenderly beg|ged, that he would compose himself. "My sufferings are all passed now," said she, "for I have escaped from the tyranny of Montoni, and I see you well—let me also see you happy."

Valancourt was more agitated, than before. "I am unwor|thy of you, Emily," said he, "I am unworthy of you;"—words, by his manner of uttering which Emily was then more shocked than by their import. She 〈◊〉〈◊〉 on him a mournful and inquiring eye. "Do not look that on me," said 〈◊〉〈◊〉 turn|ing away and pressing her hand; "I cannot bear those 〈◊〉〈◊〉."

"I would ask," said Emily, in a gentle but agitated voice, "the meaning of your words; but I perceive, that the question would distress you now. Let us talk on other subjects. To morrow, perhaps, you may be more composed. Observe those moonlight woods, and the towers, which appear obscurely in the perspective. You used to be a great admirer of landscape, and I have heard you say, that the faculty of deriving consolation, under misfortune, from the sublime prospects, which neither op|pression, or poverty withhold from us, was the peculiar blessing of the innocent." Valancourt was deeply affected. "Yes," replied he, "I had once a taste for innocent and elegant delights, I had once an uncorrupted heart." Then, checking himself, he added, "Do you remember our journey together in the Pyre|nees?"

"Can I forget it?" said Emily—"Would that I could!" he replied;—"that was the happiest period of my life. I then loved with enthusiasm, whatever was truely great, or good." It was sometime before Emily could repress her tears, and try to command her emotions. "If you wish to forget that journey," said she, "it must certainly be my wish to forget it also." She paused, and then added, "You make me very uneasy; but this is not the time for further inquiry; yet, how can I bear to be|lieve, even for a moment, that you are less worthy of my esteem than formerly? I have still sufficient confidence in your can|dour, to believe, that, when I shall ask for an explanation, you will give it me."—"Yes," said Valancourt, "yes, Emily: I have not, yet lost my candour: if I had, I could better have dis|guised my emotions, on learning what were your sufferings—your virtues,—while I—I—but I will say no more. I did not mean to have said even so much—I have been surprised into the self-accusation. Tell me, Emily, that you will not forget that jour|ney—will not wish to forget it, and I will be calm. I would not lose the remembrance of it for the whole earth."

"How contradictory is this!" said Emily;—"but we may be overheard. My recollection of it shall depend upon yours; I will endeavour to forget, or to recollect it, as you may do. Let us join the Count."—"Tell me, first," said Valancourt, "that you forgive the uneasiness I have occasioned you, this evening, and that you will still love me."—"I sincerely forgive you," replied Emily. "You best know whether I shall con|tinue to love, you, for you know whether you deserve my esteem. At present, I will believe that you do. It is unnecessary to say," added she, observing his dejection, "how much pain it would

give me to believe otherwise.—The young lady who approaches is the Count's daughter."

Valancourt and Emily now joined the Lady Blanche; and the party, soon after, sat down with the Count, his son, and the Chevalier Du Pont, at a banquet, spread under a gay awning, beneath the trees. At the table also were seated several of the most venerable of the Count's tenants, and it was a festive repast to all but Valancourt and Emily. When the Count retired to the chateau, he did not invite Valancourt to accompany him, who, therefore, took leave of Emily, and retired to his solitary inn for the night: meanwhile, she soon withdrew to her own apartment, where she mused, with deep anxiety and concern, on his behaviour, and on the Count's reception of him. Her atten|tion was 〈◊〉〈◊〉 so wholly engaged, that she forgot Dorothee and her appointment, till morning was far advanced, when, knowing that the good old woman would not come, she retired, for a few hours to repose.

On the following day, when the Count had accidentally joined Emily in one of the walks, they talked of the festival of the pre|ceding evening, and this led him to a mention 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Valancourt. "That is a young man of talents," said he; "you were for|merly acquainted with him, I perceive." Emily said that she was. "He was introduced to me at Paris," said the Count, "and I was much pleased with him, on our first acquaintance." He paused, and Emily trembled, between the desire of hearing more and the fear of shewing the Count, that she felt an interest on the subject. "May I ask," said he, at length, "how long you have known Monsieur Valancourt?"—"Will you allow me to ask your reason for the question, sir?" said she; "and I will answer it immediately."—"Certainly," said the Count, "that is but just. I will tell you my reason. I cannot but perceive that Monsieur Valancourt admires you; in that, however, there is nothing extraordinary; every person, who sees you must do the same. I am above using common place compliments; I speak with sincerity. What I fear, is, that he is a favoured admirer."—"Why do you fear it, sir?" said Emily, endea|vouring to conceal her emotion.—"Because," replied the Count, "I think him not worthy of your favour." Emily, greatly agi|tated, entreated further explanation. "I will give it," said he, "if you will believe, that nothing but a strong interest in your welfare could induce me to hazard that assertion."—"I must believe so, sir," replied Emily.

"But let us rest under these trees," said the Count, observing the paleness of her countenance; "here is a seat—you are fa|tigued."

They sat down, and the Count proceeded. "Many young ladies, circumstanced as you are, would think my conduct, on this occasion, and on so short an acquaintance, impertinent, instead of friendly; from what I have observed of your temper and understanding, I do not fear such a return from you. Our acquaintance has been short, but long enough to make me es|teem you, and feel a lively interest in your happiness. You de|serve to be very happy, and I trust that you will be so." Emily sighed softly, and bowed her thanks. The Count paused again, "I am unpleasantly circumstanced," said he, "but an opportunity of rendering you important service shall overcome inferior considerations. Will you inform me of the manner of your first acquaintance with the Chevalier Valancourt, if the subject is not too painful?"

Emily briefly related the accident of their meeting in the pre|sence of her father, and then so earnestly entreated the Count not to hesitate in declaring what he knew, that he perceived the vio|lent emotion, against which she was contending, and, regarding her with a look of tender compassion, considered how he might communicate his information with least pain to his anxious auditor.

"The Chevalier and my son," said he, "were introduced to each other, at the table of a brother officer, at whose house I also met him, and invited him to my own, whenever he should be dis|engaged. I did not then know, that he had formed an acquain|tance with a set of men, a disgrace to their species, who live by plunder and pass their lives in continual debauchery. I knew several of the Chevalier's family, resident at Paris, and considered them as sufficient pledges for his introduction to my own. But you are ill; I will leave the subject."—"No, sir," said Emily, "I beg you will proceed; I am only distressed."—"Only!" said the Count, with emphasis; "however, I will proceed. I soon learned, that these, his associates, had drawn him into a course of dissipation, from which he appeared to have neither the power, nor the inclination, to extricate himself. He lost large sums at the gaming table; he became infatuated with play; and was ruined. I spoke tenderly of this to his friends, who assured me, that they had remonstrated with him, till they were weary. I afterwards learned, that, in consideration of his talents for play, which were generally successful, when unopposed by the tricks of villany,—that, in consideration of these, the party had initiat|ed him into the secrets of their trade, and allotted him a share of their profits." "Impossible!" said Emily suddenly; "but—pardon me, sir, I scarcely know what I say; allow for the

distress of my mind. I must, indeed, I must believe, that you have not been truly informed. The Chevalier had, doubtless, enemies who misrepresented him."—"I should be most happy to believe so," replied the Count, "but I cannot. Nothing short of conviction, and a regard for your happiness could have urged me to repeat these unpleasant reports."

Emily was silent. She recollected Valancourt's sayings, on the preceding evening, which discovered the pangs of self re|proach, and seemed to confirm all that the Count had related. Yet she had not fortitude enough to dare conviction. Her heart was overwhelmed with anguish at the mere suspicion of his guilt, and she could not endure a belief of it. After a long silence, the Count said, "I perceive, and can allow for, your want of conviction. It is necessary I should give some proof of what I have asserted; but this I cannot do, without subject|ing one, who is very dear to me, to danger."—"What is the danger you apprehend, sir?" said Emily; "if I can prevent it, you may safely confide in my honour."—"On your honour I am certain I can rely," said the Count; "but can I trust your fortitude? Do you think you can resist the solicitation of a favoured admirer, when he pleads, in affliction, for the name of one, who has robbed him of a blessing?"—"I shall not be ex|posed to such a temptation, sir," said Emily, with modest pride, "for I cannot favour one, whom I must no longer esteem. I, however, readily give my word." Tears, in the meantime, contradicted her first assertion; and she felt, that time and ef|fort only could eradicate an affection, which had been formed on virtuous esteem, and cherished by habit and difficulty.

"I will trust you then," said the Count, "for conviction i•• necessary to your peace, and cannot I perceive, be obtained, without this confidence. My son has too often been an eye witness of the Chevalier's ill conduct; he was very near being drawn in by it; he was, indeed, drawn in to the commission of many follies, but I rescued him from guilt and destruction. Judge then, Mademoiselle St. Aubert, whether a father who had nearly lost his only son, by the example of the Chevalier, has not, from conviction, reason to warn those, whom he esteems, against trust|ing their happiness in such hands. I have myself seen the Che|valier engaged in deep play with men, whom I almost shuddered to look upon. If you still doubt, I will refer you to my son."

"I must not doubt what you have yourself witnessed," repli|ed Emily, sinking with grief, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 or what you assert. But the Chevalier has, perhaps, been drawn only into a transient folly,

which he may never repeat. If you had known the justness of his former principles, you would allow for my present incredulity."

"Alas!" observed the Count, "it is difficult to believe that which will make us wretched. But I will not sooth you by flattering and false hopes. We all know how fascinating the vice of gaming is, and how difficult it is, also, to conquer habit; the Chevalier might, perhaps, reform for a while, but he would soon relapse into dissipation—for I fear, not only the bonds of habit would be powerful, but, that his morals are corrupted. And—why should I conceal from you, that play is not his only vice? he appears to have a taste for every vicious pleasure."

The Count hesitated and paused; while Emily endeavoured to support herself, as, with increasing perturbation, she ex|pected what he might further say. A long pause of silence ensued, during which he was visibly agitated; at length, he said, "It would be a cruel delicacy, that could prevail with me to be silent—and I will inform you, that the Chevalier's extrava|gance has brought him twice into the prisons of Paris, from whence he was last extricated, as I was told upon authority, which I cannot doubt, by a well known Parisian Countess, with whom he continued to reside, when I left Paris."

He paused again; and, looking at Emily, perceived her coun|tenance change, and that she was falling from the seat; he caught her, but she had fainted, and he called loudly for assist|ance. They were, however, beyond the hearing of his servants at the chateau, and he feared to leave her while he went thither for assistance, yet knew not how otherwise to obtain it; till a fountain at no great distance caught his eye, and he endeavoured to support Emily against the tree, under which she had been sitting, while he went thither for water. But, again he was perplexed, for he had nothing near him, in which water could be brought, but while, with increased anxiety, he watched her, he thought he perceived in her countenance symptoms of returning life.

It was long, however, before she revived, and she then found herself supported—not by the Count but by Valancourt, who was observing her with looks of earnest apprehension, and who now spoke to her in a tone, tremulous with his anxiety. At the sound of his well known voice, she raised her eyes, but presently closed them, and a faintness again came over her.

The Count, with a look somewhat stern, waved him to with|draw; but he only sighed heavily, and called on the name of Emily, as he again held the water, that had been brought, to her lips. On the Count's repeating his action, and accompany|ing

it with words, Valancourt answered him with a look of deep resentment, and refused to leave the place, till she should revive, or to resign her for a moment to the care of any person. In the next instant, his conscience seemed to inform him of what had been the subject of the Count's conversation with Emily, and indignation flashed in his eyes; but it was quickly repressed, and succeeded by an expression of serious anguish, that induced the Count to regard him with more pity than resentment, and the view of which so much affected Emily, when she again re|vived, that she yielded to the weakness of tears. But she soon restrained them, and, exerting her resolution to appear recovered, she rose, thanked the Count and Henri, with whom Valancourt had entered the garden, for their care, and moved towards the chateau, without noticing Valancout, who, heart struck by her manner, exclaimed in a low voice—"Good God! how have 〈◊〉〈◊〉 deserved this?—what has been said, to occasion this change?"

Emily, without replying, but with increased emotion, quick|ened her steps. "What has thus disordered you, Emily?" said he, as he still walked by her side: "give me a few moments conversation, I entreat you;—I am very miserable!"

Though this was spoken in a low voice, it was overheard by the Count, who immediately replied, ••hat Mademoiselle St. Au|bert was then too much indisposed, to attend to any con|versation, but that he would venture to promise she would see Monsieur Valancourt on the morrow, if she was better.

Valancourt's cheek was crimsoned; he looked haughtily 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the Count, and then at Emily, with successive expressions of sur|prise, grief and supplication, which she could neither misunder|stand, or resist, and she said languidly—"I shall be better to|morrow, and if you wish to accept the Count's permission, I will see you then."

"See me!" exclaimed Valancourt, as he threw a glance of mingled pride and resentment upon the Count; and then, seem|ing to recollect himself, he added—"But I will come, madam; I will accept the Count's permission."

When they reached the door of the chateau, he lingered 〈◊〉〈◊〉 moment, for his resentment was now fled; and then, with 〈◊〉〈◊〉 look so expressive of tenderness and grief, that Emily's heart was not proof against it, he bade her good morning, and bow|ing slightly to the Count, disappeared.

Emily withdrew to her own apartment, under such oppression of heart as she had seldom known, when she endeavoured to re|collect all that the Count had told, to examine the probability of the circumstances he himself believed, and to consider of 〈◊〉〈◊〉

future conduct towards Valancourt. But, when she attempted to think, her mind refused controul, and she could only feel that she was miserable. One moment, she sunk under the convic|tion, that Valancourt was no longer the same, whom she had so tenderly loved, the idea of whom had hitherto supported her under affliction, and cheered her with the hope of happier days,—but a fallen, a worthless character, whom she must teach hersel•• to despise—if she could not forget. Then, unable to endure this terrible supposition, she rejected it, and disdained to believe him capable of conduct, such as the Count had described, to whom she believed he had been misrepresented by some artful enemy; and there were moments, when she even ventured to doubt the integrity of the Count himself, and to suspect, that he was in|fluenced by some selfish motive to break her connection with Valancourt. But this was the error of an instant, only; the Count's character which she had heard spoken of by Du Pont and many other persons, and had herself observed, enabled her to judge, and forbade the supposition; had her confidence, in|deed, been less, there appeared to be no temptation to betray him into conduct so treacherous, and so cruel. Nor did reflec|tion suffer her to preserve the hope, that Valancourt had been misrepresented to the Count, who had said, that he spoke chief|ly from his own observation, and from his son's experience. She must part from Valancourt, therefore, for ever—for what of ei|ther happiness or tranquillity could she expect with a man, whose tastes were degenerated into low inclinations, and to whom vice was become habitual? whom she must no longer esteem, though the remembrance of what he once was, and the long habit of loving him, would render it very difficult for her to despise him.

"O Valancourt!" she would exclaim, "having been separated so long, do we meet, only to be miserable—only to part for ever."

Amidst all the tumult of her mind, she remembered pertina|ciously the seeming candour and simplicity of his conduct, on the preceding night; and, had she dared to trust her own heart, it would have led her to hope much from this. Still she could not resolve to dismiss him for ever, without obtaining further proof of his ill conduct; yet she saw no probability of procuring it, if, indeed proof more positive was possible. Something, how|ever, it was necessary to decide upon, and she almost determined to be guided in her opinion solely by the manner, with which Valancourt should receive her hints concerning his late conduct.

Thus passed the hours till dinner time, when Emily, struggling against the pressure of her grief, dried her tears, and joined the family at table, where the Count preserved towards her the most

delicate attention; but the Countess and Mademoiselle Beam, having looked, for a moment, with surprise, on her dejected coun|tenance, began, as usual, to talk of trifles, while the eyes of Lady Blanche asked much of her friend, who could only reply by a mournful smile.

Emily withdrew as soon after dinner as possible, and was fol|lowed by the Lady Blanche, whose anxious inquiries, however, she found herself quite unequal to answer, and whom she entreated to spare her on the subject of her distress. To converse on any topic, was now, indeed, so extremely painful to her, that she soon gave up the attempt, and Blanche left her, with pity of the sor|row, which she perceived she had no power to assuage.

Emily secretly determined to go to her convent in a day or two; for company, especially that of the Countess and Made|moiselle Bea••••, was intolerable to her, in the present state of her spirits; and, in the retirement of the convent, as well as the kindness of the abbess, she hoped to recover the command of her mind, and to teach it resignation to the event, which, she too plainly perceived, was approaching.

To have lost Valancourt by death, or to have seen him marri|ed to a rival, would, she thought, have given her less anguish, than a conviction of his unworthiness, which must terminate in misery to himself, and which robbed her even of the solitary image her heart so long had cherished. These painful reflection•• were interrupted, for a moment, by a note from Valancourt, written in evident distraction of mind, entreating that she would permit him to see her on the approaching evening, instead of the following morning; a request, which occasioned her so much ag|itation, that she was unable to answer it. She wished to see him, and to terminate her present state of suspense, yet shrunk from the interview, and, incapable of deciding for herself, she, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 length, sent to beg a few moments' conversation with the Count in his library, where she delivered to him the note, and requested his advice. After reading it, he said, that, if she believed her|self well enough to support the interview, his opinion was, that for the relief of both parties, it ought to take place, that evening.

"His affection for you is, undoubtedly, a very sincere one," ad|ded the Count; "and he appears so much distressed, and you, my amiable friend, are so ill at ease—that the sooner the affair is de|cided the better."

Emily replied, therefore, to Valancourt, that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 would see 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and then exerted herself in endeavours to attain fortitude and com|posure, to bear her through the approaching scene—a scene 〈◊〉〈◊〉 afflictingly the reverse of any, to which she had 〈◊〉〈◊〉 forward.

CHAP. XL.

Is all the council that we two have shared, —the hours that we have spent, When we have chid the hasty-footed time For parting us—Oh! and is all forgot? And will you rent our ancient love asunder? MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM.

IN the evening, when Emily was at length informed, that Count De Villefort requested to see her, she guessed that Valan|court was below, and, endeavouring to assume composure and to recollect all her spirits, she rose and left the apartment; but on reaching the door of the library, where she imagined him to be, her emotion returned with such energy, that, fearing to trust her|self in the room, she returned into the hall, where she continued for a considerable time, unable to command her agitated spirits.

When she could recall them, she found in the library Valan|court, seated with the Count, who both rose on her entrance; but she did not dare to look at Valancourt, and the Count, hav|ing led her to a chair, immediately withdrew.

Emily remained with her eyes fixed on the floor, under such oppression of heart, that she could not speak, and with difficulty breathed; while Valancourt threw himself into a chair beside her, and, sighing heavily, continued silent, when, had she raised her eyes, she would have perceived the violent emotions, with which he was agitated.

At length, in a tremulous voice, he said, "I have solicited to see you this evening, that I might, at least, be spared the further torture of suspense, which your altered manner had occasioned me, and which the hints I have just received from the Count have in part explained. I perceive I have enemies, Emily, who envied me my late happiness, and who have been busy in search|ing out the means to destroy it: I perceive, too, that time 〈◊〉〈◊〉 absence have weakened the affection you once felt for me, and that you can now easily be taught to forget me."

His last words faltered, and Emily, less able to speak than 〈◊〉〈◊〉, continued silent.

"O what a meeting is this!" exclaimed Valancourt, starting from his seat, and pacing the room with hurried steps, "what a meeting is this, after our long—long separation!" Again he sat down, and, after the struggle of a moment, he added in a firm but despairing tone, "This is too much—I cannot bear it 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Emily, will you not speak to me?"

He covered his face with his hand, as if to conceal his emo|tion, and took Emily's, which she did not withdraw. Her 〈◊〉〈◊〉 could 〈◊〉〈◊〉 longer be restrained; and, when he raised his eyes 〈◊〉〈◊〉 perceived that she was weeping, all his tenderness returned, and a gleam of hope appeared to cross his mind, for he exclaimed, "O! you so pity me, then, you do love me! Yes, you are still my own Emily—let me believe those tears, that tell me so!"

Emily now 〈◊〉〈◊〉 an effort to recover her firmness, and, hastily drying them, "Yes," said she, "I do pity you—I weep 〈◊〉〈◊〉 you—but, ought I to think of you with affection? You may remember that yester evening I said, I had still sufficient confidence in your candour to believe, that, when I should request an expla|nation of your words, you would give it. This explanation is now unnecessary, I understand them too well; but prove, at least, that your candour is deserving of the confidence I give it, when I ask you, whether you are conscious of being the same estimable Valancourt—whom I once loved."

"Once loved!" cried he,—"the same—the same!" He paus|ed in extreme emotion, and then added, in a voice at once so|lemn, and dejected,—"No—I am not the same!—I am lost—I am no longer worthy of you!"

He again concealed his face. Emily was too much affected by this honest confession to reply immediately, and, while she strug|gled to overcome the pleadings of her heart, and to act with the decisive firmness, which was necessary for her future peace, she perceived all the danger of trusting long to her resolution, in the presence of Valancourt, and was anxious to conclude an inter|view, that tortured them both; yet, when she considered, that this was probably their last meeting, her fortitude sunk at once, and she experienced only emotions of tenderness and of despon|dency.

Valancourt, meanwhile, lost in emotions of remorse and grief, which he had neither the power, or the will to express, sat insen|sible almost of the presence of Emily, his features still concealed, and his breast agitated by convulsive sighs.

"Spare me the necessity," said Emily, recollecting her forti|tude, "spare me the necessity of mentioning those circumstances of your conduct, which oblige me to break our connection for ever. We must part, I now see you for the last time."

"Impossible!" cried Valancourt, roused from his deep silence. "You cannot mean what you say!—you cannot mean to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 me from you for ever!"

"We must part," repeated Emily, with emphasis, "and that for ever! Your own conduct has made this necessary."

"This is the Count's determination," said he haughtily, "not yours, and I shall inquire by what authority he interferes be|tween us." He now rose, and walked about the room in great emotion.

"Let me save you from this error," said Emily, not less agi|tated, "it is my determination, and, if you reflect a 〈◊〉〈◊〉 on your late conduct, you will perceive, that my future peace requires it."

"Your future peace requires, that we should part! part for ever!" said Valancourt, "How little did I ever expect to hear you say so!"

"And how little did I expect, that it would be necessary for me to say so!" rejoined Emily, while her voice softened into tenderness, and her tears flowed again.—"That you—you; Valancourt, would ever fall from my esteem!"

He was silent a moment, as if overwhelmed by the con|sciousness of no longer deserving this esteem, as well as the cer|tainty of having lost it, and then, with impassioned grief, lament|ed the criminality of his late conduct and the misery to which it had reduced him, till, overcome by a recollection of the past and a conviction of the future, he burst into tears, and uttered only deep and broken sighs.

The remorse he had expressed, and the distress he suffered could not be witnessed by Emily with indifference, and, had she not called to her recollection all the circumstances, of which Count De Villefort had informed her, and all he had said of the danger of confiding in repentance, formed under the influ|ence of passion, she might, perhaps, have trusted to the assurances of her heart, and have forgotten his misconduct in the tender|ness which that repentance excited.

Valancourt, returning to the chair beside her, at length, said, in a calm voice," 'Tis true, I am fallen—fallen from my own esteem! but could you, Emily, so soon, so suddenly resign, if you had not before ceased to love me, or, if your conduct was not governed by the designs, I will say, the selfish designs of an|other person! Would you not otherwise be willing to hope for my reformation—and could you bear, by estranging me from you, to abandon me to misery—to myself!"—Emily wept aloud. "No, Emily—no—you would not do this, if you still loved me. You would find your own happiness in saving mine."

"There are too many probabilities against that hope," said Emily, "to justify me in trusting the comfort of my whole

life to it. May I not also ask, whether you could wish me to do this, if you really loved me?"

"Really loved you!" exclaimed Valancourt—"is it possi|ble you can doubt my love! Yet it is reasonable, that you should do so, since you see, that I am less ready to suffer the horror of parting with you•• than, that of involving you in my ruin. Yes, Emily, I am ruined, irreparably ruined! I am involved in debts, which I can never discharge!" Valancourt's look, which was wild, as he spoke this, soon settled into an ex|pression of gloomy despair; and Emily, while she was compell|ed to admire his sincerity, saw, with unutterable anguish, new reasons for fear in the suddenness of his feelings and the extent of the misery, in which they might involve him. After some minutes, she seemed to contend against her grief and to strug|gle for fortitude to conclude the interview. "I will not pro|long these moments," said she, "by a conversation, which can answer no good purpose. Valancourt, farewel!"

"You are not going?" said he, wildly interrupting her, "you will not leave me thus—you will not abondon me even before my mind has suggested any possibility of compromise be|tween the last indulgence of my despair and the endurance of my loss!" Emily was terrified by the sternness of his look, and said, in a soothing voice, "You have yourself acknowledged, that it is necessary we should par••;—if you wish, that I should believe you love me, you will repeat the acknowledgement."—"Never—never," cried ••e—"I was distracted when I made it. O 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Emily, this is too much; though you are not deceived as to my faults, you must be deluded into this exasperation against them. The Count is the barrier between us; but he shall not long re|main so."

"You are, indeed, distracted," said Emily, "the Count is not your enemy; on the contrary, he is my friend, and that might, in some degree, induce you to consider him as yours." "Your friend!" said Valancourt, hastily, "how long has he been your friend, that he can so easily make you forget your lover? Was it he, who recommended to your favour the Mon|sieur Du Pont, who, you say, accompanied you from Italy, and who, I say, has stolen your affections? But I have no right to question you; you are your own mistress. Du Pont, perhaps, may not long triumph over my fallen fortunes!" Emily, more frightened than before by the frantic looks of Valancourt, said, in a tone scarcely audible, "For heaven's sake be reasonable, be composed. Monsieur Du Pont is not your rival, nor is th••

Count his advocate. You have no rival; nor, except yourself, an enemy. My heart is wrung with anguish, which must in|crease while your frantic behaviour shews me, more than ever, that you are no longer the Valancourt I have been accustomed to love."

He made no reply, but sat with his arms rested on the ta|ble and his face concealed by his hands; while Emily stood, silent and trembling, wretched for herself and dreading to leave him in this state of mind.

"O excess of misery!" he suddenly exclaimed, "that I can never lament my sufferings, without accusing myself, nor re|member you, without recollecting the folly and the vice, by which I have lost you! Why was I forced to Paris, and why did I yield to allurements, which were to make me despicable for ever! O! why cannot I look back, without interruption, to those days of innocence and peace, the days of our early love!" The recollection seemed to melt his heart, and the frenzy of de|spair yielded to tears. After a long pause, turning towards her and taking her hand, he said, in a softened voice, "Emily, can you bear that we should part, can you resolve to give up a heart, that loves you like mine, an heart, which, though it has erred, widely erred, is not irretrievable from error, as you well know, it never can be retrievable from love?" Emily made no reply but with her tears. "Can you," continued he, "can you forget all our former days of happiness and confidence, when I had not a thought, that I might wish to conceal from you, when I had no taste, no pleasures, in which you did not par|ticipate?"

"O do not lead me to the remembrance of those days," said Emily, "unless you can teach me to forget the present; I do not mean to reproach you; if I did, I should be spared these tears; but why will you render your present sufferings more conspicuous, by contrasting them with your former virtues?"

"Those virtues," said Valancourt, "might, perhaps, again be mine, if your affection, which nurtured them, was unchanged; but I fear, indeed, I see, that you can no longer love me; else the happy hours, which we have passed together, would plead for me, and you could not look back upon them unmoved. Yet, why should I torture myself with the remembrance, why do I linger here? Am I not ruined, would it not be madness to inv••••e you in my misfortunes, even if your heart was still my own? I will not distress you further. Yet, before I go," added he, in a solemn voice, "let me repeat, that, whatever may be

my destiny, whatever I may be doomed to suffer, I must always love you, most fondly love you! I am going, Emily, I am go|ing to leave you, to leave you, for ever!" As he spoke the last words, his voice trembled, and he threw himself again into the chair, from which he had risen. Emily was utterly unable to leave the room, or to say farewel. All impression of his crim|inal conduct and almost of his follies was obliterated from her mind, and she was sensible only of pity and grief.

"My fortitude is gone," said Valancourt at length; "I can no longer even struggle to recall it. I cannot now leave you, I cannot bid you an eternal farewel; say, as least, that you will see me once again." Emily's heart was somewhat relieved by the request, and she endeavoured to believe, that she ought not to refuse it. Yet she was embarrassed by recollecting, that she was a visitor in the house of the Count, who could not be pleased by the return of Valancourt. Other considerations, however, soon overcame this, and she granted his request, on the condition, that he would neither think of the Count, as his enemy, nor Du Pont as his rival. He then left her, with a heart so much lightened by this short respite, that he almost lost every former sense of misfortune.

Emily withdrew to her own room, that she might compose her spirits and remove the traces of her tears, which would encou|rage the censorious remarks of the Countess and her favourite, as well as excite the curiosity of the rest of the family. She found it, however, impossible to tranquillize her mind, from which she could not expel the remembrance of the late scene with Valancourt, or the consciousness, that she was to see him again, on the morrow. This meeting now appeared more ter|rible to her than the last, for the ingenuous confession he had made of his ill conduct and his embarrassed circumstances, with the strength and tenderness of affection, which this confession discovered, had deeply impressed her, and, in spite of all she had heard and believed to his disadvantage, her esteem began to re|turn. It frequently appeared to her impossible, that he could have been guilty of the depravities reported of him, which, i•• not inconsistent with his warmth and impetuosity, were entirely so with his candour and sensibility. Whatever was the crimi|nality, which had given rise to the reports, she could not now believe them to be wholly true, nor that his heart was finally closed against the charms of virtue. The deep consciousness, which he felt as well as expressed of his errors, seemed to justify the opinion; and, as she understood not the instability of youth|ful

dispositions, when opposed by habit, and that professions fre|quently deceive those, who make, as well as those, who hear them, she might have yielded to the flattering persuasions of her own heart and the pleadings of Valancourt, had she not been guided by the superior prudence of the Count. He represented to her, in a clear light, the danger of her present situation, that of listening to promises of amendment, made under the influence of strong passion, and the flight hope, which could attach to a connection, whose chance of happiness rested upon the retrieval of ruined circumstances and the reform of corrupted habits. On these accounts, he lamented, that Emily had consented to a se|cond interview, for he saw how much it would shake her resolu|tion and increase, the difficulty of her conquest.

Her mind was now so entirely occupied by nearer interests, that she forgot the old housekeeper and the promised history, which so lately had excited her curiosity, but which Dorothee was probably not very anxious to disclose, for night came, the hours passed; and she did not appear in Emily's chamber. With the latter it was a sleepless and dismal night; the more she suffered her memory to dwell on the late scenes with Valan|court, the more her resolution declined, and she was obliged to ••••collect all the arguments, which the Count had made use of to strengthen it, and all the precepts, which she had received from her deceased father, on the subject of self command, to enable her to act, with prudence and dignity, on this the most severe occasion of her life. There were moments, when all her forti|tude forsook her, and when, remembering the confidence of for|mer times, she thought it impossible, that she could renounce Valancourt. His reformation then appeared certain; the ar|guments of Count De Villefort were forgotten; she readily be|lieved all she wished, and was willing to encounter any evil rather than that of an immediate separation.

Thus passed the night in ineffectual struggles between affection and reason, and she rose, in the morning, with a mind, weaken|ed and irresolute, and a frame, trembling with illness.

CHAP. XLI.

Come, weep with me;—past hope, past cure, past help! ROMEO AND JULIET.

VALANCOURT, meanwhile, suffered the tortures of re|morse and despair. The sight of Emily had renewed all the ardour, with which he first loved her, and which had suffered a temporary abatement from absence and the passing scenes of bu|sy life. When, on the receipt of her letter, he set out for Lan|guedoc, he then knew, that his own folly had involved him in ruin, and it was no part of his design to conceal this from her. But he lamented only the delay which his ill conduct must give to their marriage, and did not foresee, that the information could induce her to break their connection for ever. While the prospect of this separation overwhelmed his mind, before stung with self reproach, he awaited their second interview, in a state little short of distraction, yet was still inclined to hope, that his pleadings might prevail upon her not to exact it. In the morn|ing, he sent to know at what hour she would see him; and his note arrived, when she was with the Count, who had sought a•• opportunity of again conversing with her of Valancourt; for he perceived the extreme distress of her mind, and feared, more than ever, that her fortitude would desert her. Emily having dismissed the messenger, the Count returned to the subject of their late conversation, urging his fear of Valancourt's entreaties, and again pointing out to her the lengthened misery, that must en|sue, if she should refuse to encounter some present uneasiness. His repeated arguments could, indeed, alone have protected her from the affection she still felt for Valancourt, and she resolved to be governed by them.

The hour of interview, at length, arrived. Emily went to it, at least, with composure of manner, but Valancourt was so much agitated, that he could not speak, for several minutes, and his first words were alternately those of lamentation, entreaty and self reproach. Afterward, he said, "Emily, I have loved you, I do love you better than my life; but I am ruined by my own conduct. Yet I would seek to entangle you in a connection, that must be miserable for you, rather than subject myself to the punishment which is my due, the loss of you. I am a wretch, but I will be a villain no longer. I will not endeavour to shake your resolution by the pleadings of a selfish passion. I resign you, Emily, and will endeavour to find consolation in consider|ing,

that, though I am miserable, you at least may be happy. The merit of the sacrifice is, indeed, not my own, for I should never, have attained strength of mind to surrender you, if your prudence had not demanded it."

He paused a moment, while Emily attempted to conceal the tears, which came to her eyes. She would have said, "You speak now, as you were wont to do," but she checked herself—"Forgive me, Emily," said he, "all the sufferings I have oc|casioned you, and sometimes, when you think of the wretched Valancourt, remember, that his only consolation would be to believe, that you are no longer unhappy by his folly." The tears now fell fast upon her cheek, and he was relapsing into the phrenzy of despair, when Emily endeavoured to recall her for|titude and to terminate an interview, which only seemed to in|crease the distress of both. Perceiving her tears and that she was rising to go, Valancourt, struggled, once more, to overcome his own feelings and to sooth hers. "The remembrance of this sorrow," said he, "shall in future be my protection, O! never again will example, or temptation have power to seduce me to evil, exalted as I shall be by the recollection of your grief for me."

Emily was somewhat comforted by this assurance. "We are now parting for ever," said she; "but, if my happiness is dear to you, you will always remember, that nothing can con|tribute to it more than to believe, that you have recovered your own esteem." Valancourt took her hand; his eyes were cov|ered with tears, and the farewel he would have spoken was lost in sighs. After a few moments, Emily said with difficulty and emotion, "Farewel, Valancourt, may you be happy!" She re|peated her "farewel," and attempted to withdraw her hand, but he still held it and bathed it with his tears. "Why pro|long these moments?" said Emily, in a voice scarcely audible, "they are too painful to us both." "This is too, too much," exclaimed Valancourt, resigning her hand and throwing himself into a chair, where he covered his face with his hands, and was overcome, for some moments, by convulsive sighs. After a long pause, during which Emily wept in silence, and Valan|court seemed struggling with his grief, she again rose to take leave of him. Then, endeavouring to recover his composure, "I am again afflicting you," said he, "but let the anguish I suffer, plead for me." He then added, in a solemn voice, which frequently trembled with the agitation of his heart, "Farewel,

Emily, you will always be the only object of my tenderness. Sometimes you will think of the unhappy Valancourt, and it will be with pity, though it may not be with esteem. O! what is the whole world to me, without you, without your esteem!" He checked himself, "I am falling again into the error I have just lamented. I must not intrude longer upon your patience, or I shall relapse into despair."

He once more bade Emily adieu, pressed her hand to his lips, looked at her, for the last time, and hurried out of the room.

Emily remained in the chair, where he had left her, oppressed with a pain at her heart, which scarcely permitted her to breathe, and listening to his departing steps, sinking fainter and fainter, as he crossed the hall. She was at length rouse•• by the voice of the Countess in the garden, and, her attention being then awakened, the first object which struck her sight, was the vacant chair, where Valancourt had sat. The tears, which had been, for sometime, repressed by the kind of astonishment, that followed his departure, now came to her relief, and she was at length, sufficiently composed to return to her own room.

CHAP. XLII.

This is no mortal business, nor no found That the earth owes!— SHAKESPEARE.

WE now return to the mention of Montoni, whose rage and disappointment were soon lost in nearer interests, than any, which the unhappy Emily had awakened. His depredations hav|ing exceeded their usual limits, and reached an extent, at which neither the timidity of the then commercial senate of Venice, nor their hope of his occasional assistance would permit them to connive, the same effort, it was resolved, should complete the suppression of his power and the correction of his outrages. While a corps of considerable strength was upon the point of re|ceiving orders to march for Udolpho, a young officer, prompted partly by resentment, for some injury, received from Montoni, and partly by the hope of distinction, solicited an interview with the Minister who directed the enterprise. To him he repre|sented, that the situation of Udolpho rendered it too strong to be

taken by open force, except after some tedious operations; that Montoni had lately shewn how capaple he was of adding to its strength all the advantages, which could be derived from the skill of a commander; that so considerable a body of troops, as that allotted to the expedition, could not approach Udolpho with|out his knowledge, and that it was not for the honour of the re|public to have a large part of its regular force employed, for such a time as the siege of Udolpho would require, upon the at|tack of a handful of banditti. The object of the expedition, he thought, might be accomplished much more safely and speed|ily by mingling contrivance with force. It was possible to meet Montoni and his party, without their walls, and to attack them then; or, by approaching the fortress, with the secrecy con|sistent with the march of smaller bodies of troops, to take ad|vantage either of the treachery, or negligence of some of his party, and to rush unexpectedly upon the whole, even in the castle of Udolpho.

This advice was seriously attended to, and the officer who gave it, received the command of the troops, demanded for his purpose. His first efforts were accordingly those of contrivance alone. In the neighbourhood of Udolpho, he waited, till he had secured the assistance of several of the condottieri, of whom he found none, that he addressed, unwilling to punish their im|perious master, and to secure their own pardon from the senate. He learned also the number of Montoni's troops, and that it had been much increased, since his late successes. The conclusion of his plan was soon effected. Having returned with his party, who received the watch word and other assistance from their friends within, Montoni and his officers were surprised by one division, who had been directed to their apartment, while the other main|tained the slight combat, which preceded the surrender of the whole garrison. Among the persons, seized with Montoni, was Orsino, the assassin, who had joined him on his first arrival at Udolpho, and whose concealment had been made known to the senate by Count Morano, after the unsuccessful attempt of the latter to carry off Emily. It was, indeed, partly for the purpose of capturing this man, by whom one of the senate had been murdered, that the expedition was undertaken, and its success was so acceptable to them, that Morano was instantly released, notwithstanding the political suspicions, which Mon|toni, by his secret accusation, had excited against him. The celerity and ••ase, with which this whole transaction was com|pleted, prevented it from attracting curiosity, or even from ob|taining

a place in any of the published records of that time; so that Emily, who remained in Languedoc, was ignorant of the defeat and signal humiliation of her late persecutor.

Her mind was now occupied with sufferings, which no ef|fort of reason had yet been able to controul. Count de Ville|fort, who sincerely attempted whatever benevolence could sug|gest for softening them, sometimes allowed her the solitude she wished for, sometimes led her into friendly parties, and con|stantly protected her, as much as possible, from the shrewd in|quiries and critical conversation of the Countess. He often in|vited her to make excursions, with him and his daughter, dur|ing which he conversed entirely on questions, suitable to her taste, without appearing to consult it, and thus endeavoured grad|ually to withdraw her from the subject of her grief, and to awake other interests in her mind. Emily, to whom he appeared as the enlightened friend and protector of her youth, soon felt for him the render affection of a daughter, and her heart expanded to her young friend Blanche, as to a sister, whose kindness and simplicity compensated for the want of more brilliant qualities. It was long before she could sufficiently abstract her mind from Valancourt to listen to the story, promised by old Doro|thee, concerning which her curiosity had once been so deeply interested; but Dorothee, at length reminded her of it, and Emily desired that she would come that night to her chamber.

Still her thoughts were employed by considerations, which weakened her curiosity, and Dorothee's tap at the door, soon after twelve, surprised her almost as much as if it had not been appointed. "I am come, at last, lady," said she; "I wonder what it is makes my old limbs shake so, to night. I thought once, or twice, I should have dropped, as I was a coming." Emily seated her in a chair, and desired, that she would com|pose her spirits, before she entered upon the subject, that had brought her thither. "Alas," said Dorothee, "it is thinking of that, I believe, which has disturbed me so. In my way hither too, I passed the chamber, where my dear lady died, and every thing was so still and gloomy about me, that I almost fancied I saw her as she appeared upon her death bed."

Emily now drew the chair near to Dorothee, who went on. "It is about twenty years since my lady Marchioness came a bride to the chateau. O! I well remember how she looked, when she came into the great 〈◊〉〈◊〉, where we servants were all assembled to welcome her, and how happy my lord the Marquis seemed. Ah! who would have thought then!—But, as I was

saying, ma'amselle, I thought the Marchioness, with all her sweet looks, did not look happy at heart, and so I told my husband, and he said it was all fancy; so I said no more, but I made my remarks, for all that. My lady Marchioness was then about your age, and, as I have often thought, very like you. Well! my lord the Marquis kept open house, for a long time, and gave such entertainments and there were such gay doings as have never been in the chateau since. I was younger, ma'amselle, then, than I am now, and was as gay as the best of them. I remember I danced with Philip, the butler, in a pink gown, with yellow rib|bons, and a coif, not such as they wear now, but plaited high, with ribbons all about it. It was very becoming truly;—my lord, the Marquis, noticed me. Ah! he was a good natured gentleman then—who would have thought that he!"—

"But the Marchioness, Dorothee," said Emily, "you was telling me of her."

"O yes, my lady Marchioness, I thought she did not seem to be happy at heart, and once, soon after the marriage, I caught her crying in her chamber; but, when she saw me, she dried her eyes, and pretended to smile. I did not dare then to ask what was the matter; but, the next time I saw her crying, I did, and she seemed displeased; so I said no more. I found out, some|time after, how it was. Her father, it seems, had commanded her to marry my lord, the Marquis, for his money, and there was another nobleman, or else a chevalier, that she liked better and that was very fond of her, and she fretted for the loss of him, I fancy, but she never told me so. My lady always tried to con|ceal her tears from the Marquis, for I have often seen her, after she has been so sorrowful, look so calm and sweet, when he came into the room! But my lord, all of a sudden, grew gloomy, fretful, and very unkind, sometimes to my lady. This afflicted her very much, as I saw, for she never complained, and she used to try so sweetly to oblige him and to bring him into a good humour, that my heart has often ached to see it. But he used to be stubborn, and give her harsh answers, and then, when she found it all in vain, she would go to her own room, and cry so! I used to hear her in the anti room, poor dear lady! but I seldom ventured to go to her. I used, sometimes, to think my lord was jealous. To be sure my lady was greatly admired, but she was too good to de|serve suspicion. Among the many chevaliers, that visited at the chateau, there was one, that I always thought seemed just suited for my lady; he was so courteous, yet so spirited, and there was such a grace, as it were, in all he did, or said. I always observed,

that, whenever he had been there, the Marquis was more gloomy and my lady more thoughtful, and it came into my head, that this was the chevalier she ought to have married, but I never could learn for certain."

"What was the chevalier's name, Dorothee?" said Emily.

"Why that I will not tell even to you, ma'amselle, for evil may come of it. I once heard from a person, who is since dead, that the Marchioness was not in law the wife of the Marquis, for that she had before been privately married to the gentleman she was so much attached to, and was afterwards afraid to own it to her fa|ther, who was a very stern man; but this seems very unlikely, and I never gave much faith to it. As I was saying, the Mar|quis was most out of humour, as I thought, when the chevalier I spoke of had been at the chateau, and, at last, his ill treatment of my lady made her quite miserable. He would see hardly any visitors at the castle, and made her live almost by herself. I was her constant attendant, and saw all she suffered, but still she never complained.

"After matters had gone on thus, for near a year, my lady was taken ill, and I thought her long fretting had made her so; but, alas! I fear it was worse than that."

"Worse! Dorothee," said Emily, "can that be possible?"

"I fear it was so, madam, there were strange appearances! But I will only tell what happened. My lord, the Marquis—"

"Hush, Dorothee, what sounds were those?" said Emily.

Dorothee changed countenance, and, while they both listened, they heard, on the stillness of the night, music of uncommon sweetness.

"I have surely heard that voice before!" said Emily, at length.

"I have often heard it, and at this same hour," said Doro|thee, solemnly, "and, if spirits ever bring music—that is surely the music of one!"

Emily, as the sounds drew nearer, knew them to be the same she had formerly heard at the time of her father's death, and, whether it was the remembrance they now revived of that me|lancholy event, or that she was struck with superstitious awe, it is certain, she was so much affected, that she had nearly fainted.

"I think I once told you, madam," said Dorothee, "that I first heard this music, soon after my lady's death! I well remem|ber the night!"—

"Hark! it comes again!" said Emily, "let us open the window, and listen."

They did so; but, soon, the sounds floated gradually away into distance, and all was again still; they seemed to have sunk

among the woods, whose tufted tops were visible upon the clear horizon, while every other feature of the scene was involved in the night shade, which, however, allowed the eye an indistinct view of some objects in the garden below.

As Emily leaned on the window, gazing with a kind of thril|ling awe upon the obscurity beneath, and then upon the cloud|less arch above, enlightened only by the stars, Dorothee, in a low voice, resumed her narrative.

"I was saying, ma'amselle, that I well remember when first I heard that music. It was one night, soon after my lady's death, that I had sat up later than usual, and I don't know how it was, but I had been thinking a great deal about my poor mistress, and of the sad scene I had lately witnessed. The cha|teau was quite still, and I was in a chamber at a good distance from the rest of the servants, and this, with the mournful things I had been thinking of, I suppose, made me low spirited, for I felt very lonely and forlorn, as it were, and listened often, wish|ing to hear a sound in the chateau, for you know, ma'amselle, when one can hear people moving, one does not so much mind, about one's fears. But all the servants were gone to bed, and I sat thinking and thinking, till I was almost afraid to look round the room and my poor lady's countenance often came to my mind, such as I had seen her when she was dying, and, once or twice, I almost thought I saw her before me,—when suddenly I heard such sweet music! it seemed just at my window, and I shall never forget what I felt. I had not power to move from my chair, but then when I thought it was my dear lady's voice, the tears came to my eyes. I had often heard her sing, in her lifetime, and to be sure she had a very fine voice; it had made me cry to hear her many a time, when she has sat in her oriel, of an even|ing, playing upon her lute such sad songs, and singing so. O! it went to ones heart! I have listened in the anti chamber, for the hour together, and she would sometimes sit playing with the window open, when it was summer time till it was quite dark, and when I have gone in, to shut it, she has hardly seemed to know what hour it was. But, as I said, madam, continued Dorothee, "when first I heard the music, that came just now, I thought it was my late lady's, and I have often thought so again, when I have heard it, as I have done at intervals, ever since. Sometimes, many months have gone by, but still it has returned."

"It is extraordinary," observed Emily, "that no person has yet discovered the musician."

"Aye, ma'amselle, if it had been any thing earthly it would have been discovered long ago, but who could have courage to

follow a spirit, and if they had, what good could it do?—for spirits you know, ma'am, can take any shape, or no shape, and they will be here, one minute, and, the next perhaps, in a quite different place!"

"Pray resume your story of the Marchioness," said Emily, "and acquaint me with the manner of her death."

"I will, ma'am," said Dorothee, "but shall we leave the window?"

"This cool air refreshes me," replied Emily, "and I love to hear it creep along the woods, and to look upon this dusky landscape. You was speaking of my lord, the Marquis, when the music interrupted us."

"Yes, madam, my lord, the Marquis, became more and more gloomy; and my lady grew worse and worse, till one night, she was taken very ill, indeed. I was called up, and, when I came to her bed side, I was shocked to see her counte|nance—it was so changed! She looked piteously up at me, and desired I would call the Marquis again, for he was not yet come, and tell him she had something particular to say to him. At last, he came, and he did, to be sure, seem very sorry to see her, but he said very little. My lady told him she felt herself to be dying, and wished to speak with him alone, and then I left the room, but I shall never forget his look as I went."

"When I returned, I ventured to remind my lord about sending for a doctor, for I supposed he had forgot to do so, in his grief; but my lady said it was then too late; but my lord so far from thinking so, seemed to think lightly of her disorder—till she was seized with such terrible pains! O, I never shall for|get her shriek! My lord then sent off a man and horse for the doctor, and walked about the room and all over the chateau, in the greatest distress; and I staid by my dear lady, and did what I could to ease her sufferings. She had intervals of ease, and in one of these she sent for my lord again; when he came, I was going, but she desired I would not leave her. O! I shall never forget what a scene passed—I can hardly bear to think of it now! my lord was almost distracted, for my lady behaved with so much goodness, and took such pains to comfort him, that, if he ever had suffered a suspicion to enter his head, he must now have been convinced he was wrong. And to be sure he did seem to be overwelmed with the thought of his treat|ment of her and this affected her so much that she fainted away.

"We then got my lord out of the room; he went into his library, and threw himself on the floor, and there he staid, and

would hear no reason, that was talked to him. When my lady recovered, she inquired for him, but, afterwards, said she could not bear to see his grief, and desired we would let her die quietly. She died in my arms, ma'amselle, and she went off as peacefully as a child, for all the violence of her disorder was passed."

Dorothee paused, and wept, and Emily wept with her; for she was much affected by the goodness of the late Marchioness, and by the meek patience, with which she had suffered.

"When the doctor came," resumed Dorothee, "alas! he came too late; he appeared greatly shocked to see her, for soon after her death a frightful blackness spread all over her face. When he had sent the attendants out of the room, he asked me several odd questions about the Marchioness, particularly concerning the manner, in which she had been seized, and he often shook his head at my answers, and seemed to mean more, than he chose to say. But I understood him too well. However, I kept my re|marks to myself, and only told them to my husband, who bade me hold my tongue. Some of the other servants, however, sus|pected what I did, and strange reports were whispered about the neighbourhood, but nobody dared to make any stir about them. When my lord heard that my lady was dead, he shut himself up, and would see nobody but the doctor, who used to be with him alone, sometimes for an hour together; and, after that, the doc|tor never talked with me again about my lady. When she was burried in the church of the convent, at a little distance yonder, if the moon was up you might see the towers here, ma'amselle, all my lord's vassals followed the funeral, and there was not a dry eye among them, for she had done a deal of good among the poor. My lord, the Marquis, I never saw any body so melan|choly as he was afterwards, and sometimes he would be in such fits of violence, that we almost thought he had lost his senses. He did not stay long at the chateau, but joined his regiment, and, soon after, all the servants, except my husband and I, received notice to go, for my lord went to the wars. I never saw him af|ter, for he would not return to the chateau, though it is such a fine place, and never finished those fine rooms he was building on the west side of it, and it has, in a manner, been shut up ever since, till my lord the Count came here."

"The death of the Marchioness appears extraordinary," said Emily, who was anxious to know more than she dared to ask.

"Yes, madam," replied Dorothee, "it was extraordinary; I have told you all I saw, and you may easily guess what I think,

I cannot say more, because I would not spread reports, that might offend my lord the Count."

"You are very right," said Emily;—"where did the Mar|quis die?"—"In the north of France, I believe, ma'amselle," re|plied Dorothee. "I was very glad, when I heard my lord the Count was coming, for this had been a sad desolate place, these many years, and we heard such strange noises, sometimes, after my lady's death, that as I told you before, my husband and I left it for a neighbouring cottage. And now, lady, I have told you all this sad history, and all my thought••, and you have promised, you know, never to give the least hint about it."—"I have," said Emily, "and I will be faithful to my promise, Dorothee;—what you have told has interested me more than you can imag|ine. I only wish I could prevail upon you to tell the name of the chevalier, whom you thought so deserving of the Mar|chioness."

Dorothee, however, steadily refused to do this, and then re|turned to the notice of Emily's likeness to the late Marchioness. "There is another picture of her," added she, "hanging in a room of the suite, which was shut up. It was drawn, as I have heard, before she was married, and is much more like you than the miniature." When Emily expressed a strong desire to see this, Dorothee replied, that she did not like to open those rooms; but Emily reminded her that the Count had talked the other day of or 〈◊〉〈◊〉 them to be opened; of which Dorothee seemed to consider much, and then she owned, that she should feel less, if she went into them with Emily first, than otherwise, and at length promised to shew the picture.

The night was too far advanced and Emily was too much affected by the narrative of the scenes, which had passed in those apartments, to wish to visit them at this hour, but she requested that Dorothee would return on the following night, when they were not likely to be observed, and conduct her thither. Be|sides her wish to examine the portrait, she felt a thrilling curios|ity to see the chamber, in which the Marchioness had died, and which Dorothee had said remained, with the bed and furniture, just as when the corpse was removed for interment. The sol|emn emotions, which the expectation of viewing such a scene had awakened, were in unison with the present tone of her mind, depressed by severe disappointment. Cheerful objects rather added to, than removed this depression; but, perhaps, she yield|ed too much to her melancholy inclination, and imprudently la|mented the misfortune, which no virtue of her own could have

taught her to avoid, though no effort of reason could make her look unmoved upon the self degradation of him, whom she had once esteemed and loved.

Dorothee promised to return, on the following night, with the keys of the chambers; and then wished Emily, good re|pose, and departed. Emily, however, continued at the window, musing upon the melancholy fate of the Marchioness, and listen|ing in awful expectation, for a return of the music. But the stillness of the night remained long unbroken, except by the murmuring founds of the woods, as they waved in the breeze, and then by the distant bell of the convent, striking one. She now withdrew from the window, and, as she sat at her bed side, indulging melancholy reveries, which the loneliness of the hour assisted, the stillness was suddenly interrupted, not by music, but by very uncommon sounds, that seemed to come either from the room, adjoining her own, or from one below. The terrible catastrophe, that had been related to her, together with the mys|terious circumstances, said to have since occurred in the chateau, had so much shocked her spirits, that she now sunk, for a mo|ment under the weakness of superstition. The sounds, however, did not return, and she retired to forget in sleep the disasterous story she had heard.

CHAP. XLIII.

Now it is the time of night, That, the graves all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way path to glide." SHAKESPEARE.

ON the next night, about the same hour as before, Dorothee came to Emily's chamber, with the keys of that suite of rooms, which had been particularly appropriated to the late Marchioness. These extended along the north side of the chateau, forming part of the old building; and, as Emily'•• room was in the south, they had to pass over a great extent of the castle, and by the chambers of several of the family, whose observations Dorothee was anxious to avoid, since it might excite inquiry and raise re|ports, such as would displease the Count. She, therefore, re|quested, that Emily would wait half an hour, before they ventur|ed forth, that they might be certain all the servants were gone to

bed. It was nearly one, before the chateau was perfectly still, or Dorothee thought it prudent to leave the chamber. In this interval, her spirits seemed to be greatly affected by the remem|brance of past events, and by the prospect of entering again upon places, where these had occurred, and in which she had not been for so many years. Emily too was affected, but her feelings had more of solemnity, and less of fear. From the silence, into which reflection and expectation had thrown them, they, at length, rous|ed themselves, and left the chamber. Dorothee, at first, carried the lamp, but her hand trembled so much with infirmity and alarm, that Emily took it from her, and offered her arm to sup|port her feeble steps.

They had to descend the great staircase, and, after passing over a wide extent of the chateau, to ascend another which led to the suite of rooms they were in quest of. They stepped cautiously along the open corridor, that ran round the great hall, and into which the chambers of the Count, Countess, and the lady Blanche, opened, and, from thence, descending the chief staircase, they crossed the hall itself. Proceeding through the servants' hall, where the dying embers of a wood fire still glimmered on the hearth, and the supper table was surrounded by chairs, that obstructed their passage, they came to the foot of the back staircase. Old Doro|thee here paused, and looked around; "Let us listen," said she, "if any thing is stirring; Ma'amselle, do you hear any voice?" "None," said Emily, "there certainly is no person up in the chateau, besides ourselves." "No, ma'amselle," said Dorothee, "but I have never been here at this hour before, and, after wh•••• I know, my fears are not wonderful."—"What do you know!" said Emily.—"O ma'amselle, we have no time for talking now; let us go on. That door on the left is the one we must open."

They proceeded, and, having reached the top of the stai•• case, Dorothee applied the key to the lock. "Ah," said 〈◊〉〈◊〉, as she endeavoured to turn it, "so many years have passed since this was opened, that I fear it will not move." Emily 〈◊〉〈◊〉 more successful, and they presently entered a spacious and an|cient chamber.

"Alas!" exclaimed Dorothee, as she entered, "the last time I passed through this door, I followed my poor lady's corpse!"

Emily, struck with the circumstance, and affected by the dusky and solemn air of the apartment, remained silent, and they pass|ed on through a long suite of rooms, till they came to one more spacious than the rest, and rich in the remains of faded magni|ficence.

"Let us rest here, awhile, madam," said Dorothee, faintly, we are going into the chamber, where my lady died! that door opens into it. Ah, ma'amselle! why did you persuade me to come?"

Emily drew one of the massy arm chairs with which the apart|ment was furnished, and begged Dorothee would sit down and try to compose her spirits.

"How the sight of this place brings all that passed formerly to my mind!" said Dorothee; "it seems as if it was but yes|terday since all that sad affair happened!"

"Hark! what noise is that?" said Emily.

Dorothee half starting from her chair, looked round the apart|ment, and they listened—but, every thing remaining still, the old woman spoke again upon the subject of her sorrow. "This saloon, ma'amselle, was in my lady's time the finest apartment in the chateau, and it was fitted up according to her own taste. All this grand furniture, but you can now hardly see what it is for the dust, and our light is none of the best—ah! how I have seen this room lighted up in my lady's time!—all this grand furniture came from Paris, and was made after the fashion of some in the Louvre, there, except those large glasses, and they came from some outlandish place, and that rich tapestry. How the colours are faded already!—since I saw it last!"

"I understood, that was twenty years ago," observed Emily.

"Thereabout, madam," said Dorothee, and well remembered, "but all the time between then and now seems as nothing. That tapestry used to be greatly admired at, it tells the stories out of some famous book, or other, but I have forgot the name."

Emily now rose to examine the figures it exhibited, and dis|covered, by verses in the Provencal tongue, wrought underneath each scene, that it exhibited stories from some of the most cele|brated ancient romances.

Dorothee's spirits being now more composed, she rose, and unlocked the door that led into the late Marchioness's apart|ment, and Emily passed into a lofty chamber, hung round with dark arras, and so spacious, that the lamp she held up did not shew its extent; while Dorothee, when she entered, had drop|ped into a chair, where, sighing deeply, she scarcely trusted her|self with the view of a scene so affecting to her. It was some|time before Emily perceived, through the dusk, the bed on which the Marchioness was said to have died; when, advancing to the upper end of the room, she discovered the high canopi|ed tester of dark green damask, with the curtains descending

to the floor in the fashion of a tent, half drawn, and remaining apparently, as they had been left twenty years before; and over the whole bedding was thrown a counterpane, or pall, of black velvet, that hung down to the floor. Emily shuddered, as she held the lamp over it, and looked within the dark curtains, where she almost expected to have seen a human face, and, sud|denly remembering the horror she had suffered upon discovering the dying Madame Montoni in the turret chamber of Udolpho, her spirits fainted, and she was turning from the bed, when Do|rothee, who had now reached it, exclaimed, "Holy Virgin! methinks I see my lady stretched upon that pall—as when last I saw her!"

Emily, shocked by this exclamation looked involuntarily again within the curtains, but the blackness of the pall only ap|peared; while Dorothee was compelled to support herself upon the side of the bed, and presently tears brought her some relief.

"Ah!" said she, after she had wept awhile, "it was here I sat on that terrible night, and held my lady's hand, and heard her last words, and saw all her sufferings—here she died in my arms!"

"Do not indulge these painful recollections," said Emily, "let us go. Shew me the picture you mentioned, if it will not too much affect you."

"It hangs in the oriel," said Dorothee, rising, and going towards a small door near the bed's head, which she opened, and Emily followed with the light, into the closet of the late Mar|chioness.

"Alas! there she is, ma'amselle," said Dorothee, pointing to a portrait of a lady, "there is her very self! just as she looked when she came first to the chateau. You see, madam, she was all blooming like you, then—and so soon to be cut off!"

While Dorothee spoke, Emily was attentively examining the picture, which bore a strong resemblance to the miniature, though the expression of the countenance in each was some|what different; but, still she thought she perceived some|thing of that pensive melancholy in the portrait, which so strong|ly characterised the miniature.

"Pray ma'amselle, stand beside the picture, that I may look at you together," said Dorothee, who, when the request was complied with, exclaimed again at the resemblance. Emily also as she gazed upon it, thought that she had somewhere seen a per|son very like it, though she could not now recollect who this was.

In this closet were many memorials of the departed Marchi|oness; a robe and several articles of her dress were scattered

upon the chairs, as if they had just been thrown off. On the floor, were a pair of black sattin slippers, and, on the dressing table, a pair of gloves and a long black veil, which, as Emily took it up to examine, she perceived was dropping to pieces with age.

"Ah!" said Dorothee, observing the veil, "my lady's hand laid it there; it has never been moved since!"

Emily, shuddering, immediately laid it down again. "I well remember seeing her take it off," continued Dorothee, "it was on the night before her death, when she had returned from a little walk I had persuaded her to take in the gardens, and she seemed refreshed by it. I told her how much better she looked, and I remember what a languid smile she gave me; but, alas! she little thought, or I either, that she was to die, that night."

Dorothee wept again, and then, taking up the veil, threw it suddenly over Emily, who shuddered to find it wrapped round her, descending even to her feet, and, as she endeavoured to throw it off. Dorothee intreated that she would keep it on for one moment. "I thought," added she, "how like you would look to my dear mistress in that veil;—may your life ma'amselle, be a happier one than hers!"

Emily, having disengaged herself from the veil, laid it again on the dressing table, and surveyed the closet, where every object, on which her eye fixed, seemed to speak of the Marchioness. In a large oriel window of painted glass, stood a table, with a silver crucifix, and a prayer book open; and Emily remember|ed with emotion what Dorothee had mentioned concerning her custom of playing on her lute in this window, before she ob|served the lute itself, lying on a corner of the table, as if it had been carelessly placed there by the hand, that had so often awak|ened it.

"This is a ••ad forlorn place!" said Dorothee, "for, when my dear lady died, I had no heart to put it to rights, or the chamber either; and my lord never came into the rooms after, so they remain just as they did when my lady was removed for interment."

While Dorothee spoke, Emily was still looking on the lute which was a Spanish one, and remarkably large; and then, with a hesitating hand, she took it up, and passed her fingers over the chords. They were out of tune, but uttered a deep and full sound. Dorothee started at their well known tones, and, seeing the lute in Emily's hand, said, "This is the lute my lady Marchioness loved so! I remember when last she played

upon it—it was on the night that she died. I came as usual to undress her, and, as I entered the bed chamber, I heard the sound of music from the oriel, and perceiving it was my lady's, who was sitting there, I stepped softly to the door, which stood a little open, to listen; for the music, though it was mournful, was so sweet! There I saw her, with the lute in her hand, look|ing upwards, and the tears fell upon her cheeks, while she sung a vesper hymn, so soft and so solemn! and her voice trembled, as it were, and then she would stop for a moment, and wipe away her tears, and go on again, lower than before. O! I had often listened to my lady, but never heard any thing so sweet as this; it made me cry, almost, to hear it. She had been at prayers, I fancy, for there was the book open on the table be|side her—aye, and there it lies open still! Pray, let us leave the oriel, ma'amselle," added Dorothee, "this is a heart-breaking place!"

Having returned into the chamber, she desired to look once more upon the bed, when, as they came opposite to the open door, leading into the saloon, Emily, in the partial gleam, which the lamp threw into it, thought she saw something glide along into the obscurer part of the room. Her spirits had been much affected by the surrounding scene, or it is probable this circum|stance, whether real or imaginary, would not have affected her in the degree in did; but she endeavoured to conceal her emo|tion from Dorothee, who, however, observing her countenance change, inquired if she was ill.

"Let us go," said Emily, faintly, "the air of these rooms is unwholesome," but, when she attempted to do so, considering that she must pass through the apartment where the phantom of her terror had appeared, this terror increased, and, too faint to support herself, she sat down on the side of the bed.

Dorothee, believing that she was only affected by a consid|eration of the melancholy catastrophe, which had happened on this spot, endeavoured to cheer her; and then, as they sat to|gether on the bed, she began to relate other particulars concern|ing it, and this without reflecting, that it might increase Emily's emotion, but because they were particularly interesting to her|self. "A little before my lady's death," said she, "when the pains were gone off, she called me to her, and stretching out her hand to me, I sat down just there—where the curtain falls upon the bed. How well I remember her look at the time—death was in it!—I can almost fancy I see her now.—There she lay, ma'amselle—her face was upon the pillow there! This black

counterpane was not upon the bed then; it was laid on, after her death, and she was laid out upon it."

Emily turned to look within the dusky curtains, as if she could have seen the countenance of which Dorothee spoke. The edge of the white pillow only appeared above the blackness of the pall, but, as her eyes wandered over the pall itself, she fancied she saw it move. Without speaking, she caught Doro|thee's arm, who, surprised by the action, and by the look of terror that accompanied it, turned her eyes from Emily to the bed, where, in the next moment she, too, saw the pall slowly lifted, and fall again.

Emily attempted to go, but Dorothee stood fixed and gazing upon the bed; and, at length said—"It is only the wind, that waves it, ma'amselle; we have left all the doors open; see how the air waves the lamp, too.—It is only the wind."

She had scarcely uttered these words, when the pall was more violently agitated than before; but Emily, somewhat ashamed of her terrors, stepped back to the bed, willing to be convinced that the wind only had occasioned her alarm; when, as she gazed within the curtains, the pall moved again, and, in the next moment, the apparition of a human countenance rose above it.

Screaming with terror, they both fled, and got out of the chamber as fast as their trembling limbs would bear them, leav|ing open doors of all the rooms, through which they passed. When they reached the staircase, Dorothee threw open a cham|ber door, where some of the female servants slept, and sunk breathless on the bed; while Emily, deprived of all presence of mind, made only a feeble attempt to conceal the occasion of her terror from the astonished servants; and, though Dorothee, when she could speak, endeavoured to laugh at her own fright, and was joined by Emily, no remonstrances could prevail with the ser|vants, who had quickly taken the alarm, to pass even the remain|der of the night in a room so near to these terrific chambers.

Dorothee having accompanied Emily to her own apartment, they then began to talk over, with some degree of coolness, the strange circumstance, that had just occurred; and Emily would almost have doubted her own perceptions, had not those of Dor|othee attested their truth. Having now mentioned what she had observed in the outer chamber, she asked the housekeeper, whe|ther she was certain no door had been left unfastened, by which a person might secretly have entered the apartments? Dorothee replied, that she had constantly kept the keys of the several doors

in her own possession; that, when she had gone her rounds through the castle, as she frequently di••, to examine if all was safe, she had tried these doors among the rest, and had always found them fastened. It was, therefore, impossible, she added, that any person could have got admittance into the apartments; and, if they could—it was very improbable they should have chose to sleep in a place so cold and forlorn.

Emily observed, that their visit to these chambers had, per|haps, been watched, and that some person, for a frolic, had fol|lowed them into the rooms, with a design to frighten them, and, while they were in the oriel, had taken the opportunity of con|cealing himself in the bed.

Dorothee allowed, that this was possible, till she recollected, that, on entering the apartments, she had turned the key of the outer door, and this, which had been done to prevent their visit being noticed by any of the family, who might happen to be up, must effectually have excluded every person, except themselves, from the chambers; and she now persisted in affirming, that the ghastly countenance she had seen was nothing human, but some dreadful apparition.

Emily was very solemnly affected. Of whatever nature might be the appearance she had witnessed, whether human or supernat|ural, the fate of the deceased Marchioness was a truth not to be doubted; and this unaccountable circumstance, occurring in the very scene of her sufferings, affected Emily's imagination with a superstitious awe, to which, after having detected the fallacies at Udolpho, she might not have yielded, had she been ignorant of the unhappy story, related by the housekeeper. Her she now so|lemnly conjured to conceal the occurrence of this night, and to make light of the terror she had already betrayed, that the Count might not be distressed by reports, which would certainly spread alarm and confussion among his family. "Time," she added, "may explain this mysterious affair; meanwhile let us watch the event in silence."

Dorothee readily acquiesced; but she now recollected that she had left all the doors of the north suite of rooms open, and, not having courage to return alone to lock even the outer one, Emi|ly, after some effort so far conquered her own ••ears, that she of|fered to accompany her to the foot of the back staircase, and to wait there while Dorothee ascended, whose resolution being re|assured by this circumstance, she consented to go, and they left Emily's apartment together.

No sound disturbed the stillness, as they passed along the halls and galleries; but, on reaching the foot of the back staircase,

Dorothee's resolution failed again; having, however, paused a moment to listen, and no sound being heard above, she ascended, leaving Emily below, and, scarcely suffering her eye to glance within the first chamber, she fastened the door, which shut up the whole suite of apartments, and returned to Emily.

As they stepped along the passage, leading into the great hall, a sound of lamentation was heard, which seemed to come from the hall itself, and they stopped in new alarm to listen, when Emily, presently distinguished the voice of Annette, whom she ••ound crossing the hall, with another female servant, and so terri|fied by the report, which the other maids had spread, that, be|lieving she could be safe only where her lady was, she was going for refuge to her apartment. Emily's endeavours to laugh, or to argue her out of these terrors, were equally vain, and, in com|passion to her distress, she consented that she should remain in her room during the night.

CHAP. XLIV.

Hail, mildly-pleasing solitude! Companion of the wise and good— Thine is the balmy breath of morn, Just as the dew-bent rose is born. But chief when evening scenes decay And the faint landscape swims away, Thine is the doubtful sof•• decline, And that best hour of musing thine. THOMPSON.

EMILY's injunctions to Annette to be silent on the subject of her terror were ineffectual, and the occurrence of the preceding night spread such alarm among the servants, who now all affirmed, that they had frequently heard unaccountable noises in the chateau, that a report soon reached the Count of the north side of the castle be|ing haunted. He treated this, at first, with ridicule, but, per|ceiving, that it was productive of serious evil, in the confusion it occasioned among his household, he forbade any person to repeat it, on pain of punishment.

The arrival of a party of his friends soon withdrew his thoughts entirely from this subject, and his servants had now

〈◊〉〈◊〉 leisure to brood over it, except, indeed, in the evenings after supper, when they all assembled in their hall, and related stories of ghosts, till they feared to look round the room; start|ed, if the echo of a closing door murmured along the passage, and refused to go singly to any part of the castle.

On these occasions Annette made a distinguished figure. When she told not only of all the wonders she had witnessed, but of all that she had imagined, in the castle of Udolpho, with the story of the strange disappearance of Signora Laurentini, she made no trifling impression on the mind of her attentive audi|tors. Her suspicions, concerning Montoni, she would also have freely disclosed, had not Ludovico, who was now in the service of the Count, prudently checked her loquacity, whenever it pointed to that subject.

Among the visitors at the chateau was the Baron de Saint Foix, an old friend of the Count, and his son, the Chevalier St. Foix, a sensible and amiable young man, who, having in the preceding year seen the Lady Blanche, at Paris, had become her declared admirer. The friendship, which the Count had long entertained for his father, and the equality of their cir|cumstances made him secretly approve of the connection; but, thinking his daughter at this time too young to fix her choice for life, and wishing to prove the sincerity and strength of the Chevalier's attachment, he then rejected his suit, though with|out forbidding his future hope. This young man now came, with the Baron, his father, to claim the reward of a steady af|fection, a claim, which the Count admitted and which Blanche did not reject.

While these visitors were at the chateau, it became a scene of gaiety and splendour. The pavilion in the woods was fitted up and frequented, in the fine evenings, as a supper room, when the hour usually concluded with a concert, at which the Count and Countess, who were scientific performers, and the Chevaliers Henri and St. Foix, with the Lady Blanche and Emily, whose voices and fine taste compensated for the want of more skilful ex|ecution, usually assisted. Several of the Count's servants per|formed on horns and other instruments, some of which, placed at a little distance among the woods, spoke, in sweet response, to the harmony, that proceeded from the pavilion.

At any other period, these parties would have been delightful to Emily; but her spirits were now oppressed with a melancho|ly, which she perceived that no kind of what is called amuse|ment had power to dissipate, and which the tender, and, frequent|ly,

pathetic, melody of these concerts sometimes increased to a very painful degree.

She was particularly fond of walking in the woods, that hung on a promontory, overlooking the sea. Their luxuriant shade was soothing to her pensive mind, and, in the partial views, which they afforded of the Mediterranean, with its winding shores and passing sails, tranquil beauty was united with gran|deur. The paths were rude and frequently overgrown with veg|etation, but their tasteful owner would suffer little to be done to them, and scarcely a single branch to be lopped from the venera|ble trees. On an eminence, in one of the most sequestered parts of these woods, was a rustic seat, formed of the trunk of a decay|ed oak, which had once been a noble tree, and of which, many lofty branches still flourishing united with beech and pines, to overcanopy the spot. Beneath their deep umbrage, the eye pass|ed over the tops of other woods, to the Mediterranean, and to the left, through an opening, was seen a ruined watch tower, standing on a point of rock, near the sea, and rising from among the tufted foliage.

Hither Emily often came alone in the silence of evening, and, soothed by the scenery and by the faint murmur, that rose from the waves, would sit, till darkness obliged her to return to the chateau. Frequently, also, she visited the watch tower, which commanded the entire prospect, and, when she leaned against its broken walls, and thought of Valancourt, she not once imagined, what was so true, that this tower had been almost as frequently his resort, as her own, since his estrangement from the neigh|bouring chateau.

One evening, she lingered here to a late hour. She had sat on the steps of the building, watching, in tranquil melancholy, the gradual ••ffect of evening over the extensive prospect, till the 〈…〉〈…〉 of the Mediterranean and the massy woods were al|most the only features of the scene, that remained visible; when, as she gazed alternately on these, and on the mild blue of the heavens, where the first pale star of evening appeared, she person|ified the hour in the following lines:

SONG OF THE EVENING HOUR.

Last of the hours, that track the fading day, I move along the realms of twilight air, And hear, remote, the choral song decay Of sister-nymphs, who dance around his car.

Then, as I follow through the azure void, His partial splendour from my straining eye Sinks in the depths of space; my only guide His faint ray dawning on the farthest sky;

Save that sweet, lingering strain of gayer hours! Whose close my voice prolongs in dying notes, While mortals on the green earth own its pow'rs, As downward on the evening gale it floats.

When fades along the west the sun's last beam As, weary, to the nether world he goes, And mountain-summits catch the purple gleam, And slumbering ocean faint and fainter glows.

Silent upon the globe's broad shade I steal, And o'er its dry turf shed the cooling dews, And ev'ry fever'd herb and flow'ret heal, And all their fragrance on the air diffuse.

Where'er I move, a tranquil pleasure reigns; O'er all the scene the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 tints I send, That forests wild and mountains, stretching plains And peopled towns, in soft confusion blend.

Wide o'er the world I waft the fresh'ning wind, Low breathing through the woods and twilight vale, In whispers soft, that woo the pensive mind Of him who loves my lonely steps to hail.

His tender oaten reed I watch to hear, Stealing its sweetness o'er some plaining till, Or soothing ocean's wave, when storms are near, Or swelling in the breeze from distant hill!

I wake the fairy elves, who shun the light; When, from their blossom'd beds, they ••lily peep, And spy my pa••e star leading on the night,— Forth to their games and revelry they leap;

Send all the prison'd sweets abroad in air, That with them slumber'd in the flow'ret's cell; Then to the shores and moonlight brooks repair, Till the high larks their matin carol swell.

The wood-nymphs hail my airs and temper'd shade, With ditties soft and lightly sportive dance, On river margin of some bow'ry glade, And strew their fresh buds as my steps advance:

But, swift I pass, and distant regions trace, For moonbeams silver all the eastern cloud, And day's last crimson vestage fades apace; Down the steep west I fly from midnight's shroud.

The moon was now rising out of the sea. She watched its gradual progress, the extending line of radiance it threw upon the waters, the sparkling oars, the sail faintly silvered, and the wood tops and the battlements of the watch tower, at whose foot she was sitting, just tinted with the rays. Emily's spirits were in harmony with this scene. As she sat meditating, sounds stole by her on the air, which she immediately knew to be the music and the voice she had formerly heard at midnight, and the emotion of awe, which she felt, was not unmixed with terror, when she considered her remote and lonely situation. The sounds drew nearer. She would have risen to leave the place, but they seem|ed to come from the way she must have taken towards the cha|teau, and she awaited the event in trembling expectation. The sounds continued to approach, for sometime, and then ceased. Emily sat listening, gazing and unable to move, when she saw a figure emerge from the shade of the woods and pass along the bank, at some little distance before her. It went swiftly, and her spirits were so overcome with awe, that, though she saw, she did not much observe it.

Having left the spot, with a resolution never again to visit it alone, at so late an hour, she began to approach the chateau, when she heard voices calling her from the part of the wood, which was nearest to it. They were the shouts of the Count's servants, who were sent to search for her; and, when she enter|ed the supper room, where he sat with Henri and Blanche, he gently reproached her with a look, which she blushed to have deserved.

This little occurrence deeply impressed her mind, and, when she withdrew to her own room, it recalled so forcibly the cir|cumstances she had witnessed, a few nights before, that she had scarcely courage to remain alone. She watched to a late hour, when, no sound having renewed her fears, she at length sunk to repose. But this was of short continuance, for she was disturb|ed by a loud and unusual noise, that seemed to come from the gallery into which her chamber opened. Groans were distinctly heard, and immediately after, a dead weight fell against her door, with a violence, that threatened to burst it open. She called loudly to know who was there, but received no answer, though at intervals, she still thought she heard something like a low moaning. Fear deprived her of the power to move. Soon after, she heard footsteps in a remote part of the gallery, and as they approached, she called more loudly than before, till the steps paused at her door. She then distinguished the voices of

several of the servants, who seemed too much engaged by some circumstance without, to attend to her calls; but, Annette soon after entering the room for water, Emily understood, that one of the maids had fainted, whom she immediately desired them to bring into her room, where she assisted to restore her. When this girl had recovered her speech, she affirmed, that, as she was passing up the back staircase, in the way to her chamber, she had seen an apparition on the second landing place; she held the lamp low, she said, that she might pick her way, several of the stairs being infirm and even decayed, and it was upon raising her eyes, that she saw this appearance. It stood for a moment in the corner of the landing place, which she was approaching, and then gliding up the stairs, vanished at the door of the apartment, that had been lately opened. She heard afterwards a hollow sound.

"Then the devil has got a key to that apartment," said Doro|thee, "for it could be nobody but he; I locked the door myself!"

The girl, springing down the stairs and passing up the great staircase, had run with a faint scream, till she reached the gallery, where she fell, groaning, at Emily's door.

Gently chiding her for the alarm she had occasioned, Emily tried to make her ashamed of her fears; but the girl persisted i•• saying, that she had seen an apparition, till she went to her own room, whither she was accompanied by all the servants present, except Dorothee, who, at Emily's request, remained with her during the night. Emily was perplexed, and Dorothee was terrified, and mentioned many occurrences of former times, which had long since confirmed her superstitions; among these, acco••••|ing to her belief, she had once witnessed an appearance, like that just described, and on the very same spot, and it was the remembrance of it, that had made her pause, when she was go|ing to ascend the stairs with Emily, and which had increased her reluctance to open the north apartments. Whatever might be Emily's opinions, she did not disclose them, but listened atten|tively to all that Dorothee communicated, which occasioned 〈◊〉〈◊〉 much thought and perplexity.

From this night the terror of the servants increased to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 an excess, that several of them determined to leave the chateau and requested their discharge of the Count, who, if he had 〈◊〉〈◊〉 faith in the subject of their alarm, thought proper to disse•••••••• it, and, anxious to avoid the inconvenience that threatened 〈◊〉〈◊〉 employed ridicule and then argument to convince them they 〈◊〉〈◊〉 nothing to apprehend from supernatural agency. But fear 〈◊〉〈◊〉 rendered their minds inaccessible to reason; and it was 〈◊〉〈◊〉,

that Ludovico proved at once his courage and his gratitude for the kindness he had received from the Count, by offering to watch, during a night, in the suite of rooms, reputed to be haunted. He feared, he said, no spirits, and, if any thing of human form appeared—he would prove that he dreaded that as little.

The Count paused upon the offer, while the servants who heard it looked upon one another in doubt and amazement, and An|nette, terrified for the safety of Ludovico, employed tears and en|treaties to dissuade him from his purpose.

"You are a bold fellow," said the Count, smiling, "Think well of what you are going to encounter, before you finally de|termine upon it. However, if you persevere in your resolution, I will accept your offer, and your intrepidity shall not go unre|warded."

"I desire no reward, your Excellenza," replied Ludovico, "but your approbation. Your Excellenza has been sufficiently good to me already; but I wish to have arms, that I may be equal to my enemy, if he should appear."

"Your sword cannot defend you against a ghost," replied the Count, throwing a glance of irony upon the other servants, "neither can bars, or bolts; for a spirit you know, can glide through a key hole, as easily as through a door."

"Give me a sword, my lord Count," said Ludovico, "and I will lay all the spirits, that shall attack me, in the red sea."

"Well," said the Count, "you shall have a sword and good cheer, too; and your brave comrades here will, perhaps, have courage enough to remain another night in the chateau, since your boldness will certainly, for this night, at least, confine all the malice of the spectre to yourself."

Curiosity now struggled with fear in the minds of several of his fellow servants, and, at length, they resolved to await the event of Ludovico's rashness.

Emily was surprised and concerned, when she heard of his in|tention, and was frequently inclined to mention what she had witnessed in the north apartments to the Count, for she could not entirely divest herself of fears for Ludovico's safety, though her reason represented these to be absurd. The necessity, how|ever, of concealing the secret, with which Dorothee ha•• entrust|ed her, and which must have been mentioned with the late oc|currence, in excuse for her having so privately visited the north apartments, kept her entirely silent on the subject of her appre|hension; and she tried only to sooth Annette, who held, that Ludovico was certainly to be destroyed; and who was much

less affected by Emily's consolatory efforts, than by the manner of old Dorothee, who often, as she exclaimed Ludovico, sighed, and threw up her eyes to heaven.

CHAP. XLV.

Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound! Whose soft dominion o'er this 〈◊〉〈◊〉 sways, And all the widely-silent places round, Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays What never yet was sung in mortal lays." THOMPSON.

THE Count gave orders for the north apartments to be op|ened and prepared for the reception of Ludovico; but Dorothee, remembering what she had lately witnessed there, feared to obey, and, not one of the other servants daring to venture thither, the rooms remained shut up till the time when Ludovico was to re|tire thither for the night, an hour, for which the whole house|hold waited with impatience.

After supper, Ludovico by the order of the Count, attended him in his closet, where they remained alone for near half an hour, and, on leaving which, his lord delivered to him a sword.

"It has seen service in mortal quarrels," said the Count, jo|cosely, "you will use it honourably, no doubt, in a spiritual one. To morrow, let me hear that there is not one ghost remaining in the chateau."

Ludovico received it with a respectful bow. "You shall be obeyed, my Lord," said he, "I will engage, that no spectre shall disturb the peace of the chateau after this night."

They now returned to the supper room, where the Count guests awaited to accompany him and Ludovico to the door 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the north apartments, and Dorothee being summoned for the keys, delivered them to Ludovico, who then led the way, fol|lowed by most of the inhabitants of the chateau. Having reached the back staircase, several of the servants shrunk back, and refused to go further, but the rest followed him to the top of the staircase, where a broad landing place allowed them to flock round him, while he applied the key to the door, during which they watched him with as much eager curiosity as if he had been performing some magical rite.

Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it, and Dorothee, who had lingered far behind, was called forward, un|der

whose hand the door opened slowly, and her eye glancing within the dusky chamber, she uttered a sudden shriek, and re|treated. At this signal of alarm, the greater part of the crowd hurried down the stairs, and the Count, Henri and Ludovico were left alone to pursue the inquiry, who instantly rushed into the apartment, Ludovico with a drawn sword, which he had just time to draw from the scabbard, the Count with the lamp in his hand, and Henri carrying a basket, containing provision for the courageous adventurer.

Having looked hastily round the first room, where nothing appeared to justify alarm, they passed on to the second; and here too all being quiet, they proceeded to a third in a more tempered step. The Count had now leisure to smile at the dis|composure, into which he had been surprised, and to ask Ludov|ico in which room he designed to pass the night.

"There are several chambers beyond these, your Excellenza," said Ludovico, pointing to a door, "and in one of them is a bed, they say. I will pass the night there, and when I am weary of watching, I can lie down."

"Good;" said the Count, "let us go on. You see these rooms shew nothing, but damp walls and decaying furniture. I have been so much engaged since I came to the chateau, that I have not looked into them till now. Remember, Ludovico, to tell the housekeeper, to morrow to throw open these windows. The damask hangings are dropping to pieces, I will have them taken down, and this antique furniture removed."

"Dear sir!" said Henri, "here is an arm chair so massy with gilding, that it resembles one of the state chairs at the Louvre, more than any thing else."

"Yes," said the Count, stopping a moment to survey it, "There is a history belonging to that chair, but I have not time to tell it.—Let us pass on. This suite runs to a greater extent than I had imagined; It is many years since I was in them. But where is the bed room you speak of, Ludovico?—these are on|ly anti chambers to the great drawing room. I remember them in their splendour!"

"The bed, my Lord," replied Ludovico, "they told me, was in a room that opens beyond the saloon, and terminates the suite."

"O, here is the saloon," said the Count, as they entered the spacious apartment, in which Emily and Dorothee had rested. He here stood for a moment, surveying the reliques of faded gran|deur, which it exhibited—the sumptuous tapestry—the long and low sophas of velvet, with frames heavily carved and gilded—the

floor inlaid with small squares of fine marble, and covered in the centre with a piece of very rich tapestry work—the case|ments of painted glass, and the large Venetian mirrors of a 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and quality, such as at that period France could not make, which reflected, on every side, the spacious apartment. These had formerly also reflected a gay and brilliant scene, for this had been the state room of the chateau, and here the Marchioness had held the assemblies, that made part of the festivities of her nuptials. If the wand of a magician could have recalled the vanished groups, many of them vanished even from the the earth! that once had passed over these polished mirrors, what a varied and contrasted picture would they have exhibited with the present! Now, instead of a blaze of lights, and a splen|did and busy crowd, they reflected only the rays of the one glimmering lamp, which the Count held up, and which scarcely served to shew the three forlorn figures, that stood surveying the room, and the spacious and dusky walls around them.

"Ah!" said the Count to Henri, awaking from his deep re|verie, "how the scene is changed since last I saw it! I was a young man, then, and the Marchioness was alive and in her bloom; many other persons were here, too, who are now no more! There stood the orchestry; here we tripped in many a sprightly maze—the walls echoing to the dance! Now they resound only one feeble voice—and even that will, ere long be heard no more! My son, remember, that I was once as young as yourself, and that you must pass away like those, who have pre|ceded you—like those, who, as they sung and danced in this once gay apartment, forgot that years are made up of mo|ments, and that every step they took carried them nearer to their graves. But such reflections are useless, I had almost said crim|inal, unless they teach us to prepare for eternity, since, otherwise they cloud our present happiness, without guiding us to a future one. But enough of this; let us go on."

Ludovico now opened the door of the bed room, and the Count, as he entered, was struck with the funeral appearance, which the dark arras gave to it. He approached the bed, with an emo|tion of solemnity, and, perceiving it to be covered with the pall of black velvet, paused; "what can this mean?" said he, as he gazed upon it.

"I have heard, my Lord," said Ludovico, as he stood at the feet, looking within the canopied curtains, "that the Lady Mar|chioness de Villeroi died in this chamber, and remained here till she was removed to be buried; and this, perhaps, Signor, may account for the pall."

The Count made no reply, but stood for a few moments en|gaged in thought, and evidently much affected. They turning to Ludovico, he asked him with a serious air, whether he thought his courage would support him through the night? "If you doubt this," added the Count, "do not be ashamed to own it; I will release you from your engagement, without exposing you to the triumphs of your fellow servants."

Ludovico paused; pride, and something very like fear, seem|ed struggling in his breast; pride, however, was victorious; he blushed, and his hesitation ceased.

"No, my Lord," said he, "I will go through with what I have begun; and I am grateful for your consideration. On that hearth I will make a fire, and, with the good cheer in this bas|ket, I doubt not I shall do well."

"Be it so," said the Count; "but how will you beguile the tediousness of the night, if you do not sleep?

"When I am weary, my Lord," replied Ludovico, "I shall not fear to sleep; in the meanwhile I have a book, that will en|tertain me."

"Well," said the Count, "I hope nothing will disturb you; but if you should be seriously alarmed in the night, come to my apartment. I have too much confidence in your good sense and courage, to believe you will be alarmed on slight grounds; or suffer the gloom of this chamber, or its remote situation, to over|come you with ideal terrors. To morrow, I shall have to thank you for an important service; these rooms shall then be thrown open, and my people will be convinced of their error. Good night, Ludovico; let me see you early in the morning, and re|member what I lately said to you."

"I will, my Lord; good night to your Excellenza; let me attend you with the light."

He lighted the Count and Henri through the chambers to the outer door; on the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 place stood a lamp, which one of the affrighted servants had left, and Henri, as he took it up, again bade Ludovico good night, who, having respectfully re|turned the wish, closed the door upon them, and fastened it. Then, as he retired to the bed chamber, he examined the rooms, through which he passed, with more minuteness than he had done before, for he apprehended, that some person might have concealed himself in them, for the purpose of frightening him. No one, however, but himself, was in these chambers, and, leav|ing open the doors, through which he passed, he came again to

the great drawing room, whose spaciousness and silent gloom somewhat awed him. For a moment he stood, looking back through the long suite of rooms he had quitted, and, as he turn|ed, perceiving a light and his own figure, reflected in one of the large mirrors, he started. Other objects too were seen obscurely on its dark surface, but he paused not to examine them, and re|turned hastily into the bed room, as he surveyed which, he ob|served the door of the 〈◊〉〈◊〉, and opened it. All within was still. On looking round, his eye was arrested by the portrait of the deceased Marchioness, upon which he gazed, for a considerable time, with great attention and some surprise; and then, having examined the closet, he returned into the bed room, where he kindled a wood fire, the bright blaze of which revived his spi|rits, which had began to yield to the gloom and silence of the place, for gusts of wind alone broke at intervals this silence. He now drew a small table and a chair near the fire, took a bottle of wine, and some cold provision out of his basket, and regaled himself. When he had finished his repast, he said his sword up|on the table, and, not feeling disposed to sleep, drew from his pocket the book he had spoken of. It was a volume of old Provencal tales. Having stirred the fire into a brighter blaze, trimmed his lamp, and drawn his chair upon the hearth, he be|gan to read, and his attention was soon wholly occupied by the scenes, which the page disclosed.

The Count, meanwhile, had returned to the supper room, whither those of the party, who had attended him to the north apartment, had retreated, upon hearing Dorothee's scream, and who were now earnest in their inquiries concerning those cham|bers. The Count rallied his guests on their precipitate retreat, and on the superstitious inclination which had occasioned it, and this led to the question, Whether the spirit, after it has quitted the body, is ever permitted to revisit the earth; and if it is, whether it was possible for spirits to become visible to the sense. The Baron was of opinion, that the first was probable, and the last was possible, and he endeavoured to justify this opinion by respectable authorities, both moment and modern, which he quot|ed. The Count, however, was decidedly against him, and a long conversation ensued, in which the usual arguments on these sub|jects were on both sides brought forward with skill, and discussed with candour, but without converting either party to the opin|ion of his opponent. The effect of their conversation on their auditors was various. Though the Count had much the superi|ority of the Bavon in point of argument, he had considerably

fewer adherents; for that love, so natural to the human mind, of whatever is able to distend its faculties with wonder and astonish|ment, attached the majority of the company to the side of the Baron; and, though many of the Count's propositions were un|answerable, his opponents were inclined to believe this the con|sequence of their own want of knowledge, on so abstracted a subject, rather than that arguments did not exist, which were forcible enough to conquer his.

Blanche was pale with attention, till the ridicule in her father's glance called a blush upon her countenance, and she then endea|voured to forget the superstitious tales she had been told in her convent. Meanwhile, Emily had been listening with deep at|tention to the discussion of what was to her a very interesting question, and, remembering the appearance she had witnessed in the apartment of the late Marchioness, she was frequently chill|ed with awe. Several times she was on the point of mentioning what she had seen, but the fear of giving pain to the Count, and the dread of his ridicule, restrained her; and, awaiting in an|xious expectation the event of Ludovico's intrepidity, she deter|mined that her future silence should depend upon it.

When the party had separated for the night, and the Count retired to his dressing room, the remembrance of the desolate scenes he had lately witnessed in his own mansion deeply affected him, but at length he was aroused from his reverie and his si|lence. "What music is that I hear?" said he suddenly to his valet, "Who plays at this late hour?"

The man made no reply, and the Count continued to listen, and then added, "That is no common musician; be touches the instrument with a delicate hand; who is it Pierre?"

"My Lord!" said the man, hesitatingly.

"Who plays that instrument?" repeated the Count.

"Does not your lordship know, then!" said the valet.

"What mean you?" said the Count, somewhat sternly.

"Nothing, my Lord, I meant nothing," rejoined the man submissively—"Only—that music—goes about the house at midnight often, and I thought your lordship might have heard it before."

"Music goes about the house at midnight! Poor fellow!—does nobody dance to the music, too?"

"It is not in the chateau, I believe, my Lord; the sounds come from the woods, they say, though they seem so near; but then a spirit can do any thing!"

"Ah, poor follow!" said the Count, "I perceive you are as

filly as the rest of them; to morrow, you will be convinced of your ridiculous 〈…〉〈…〉 But hark!—what voice is that?"

"O my Lord 〈…〉〈…〉 voice we often hear with the music."

"Often!" said the Count, "How often, pray? It is a very fine one."

"Why, my Lord, I myself have not heard it more than two or three times, but there are those who have lived here longer that have heard it often enough."

"What a swell was that!" exclaimed the Count, as he still listened, "And now, what a dying cadence! This is surely something more than mortal!"

"That is what they say▪ my Lord," said the 〈◊〉〈◊〉: "they say it is nothing mortal, that utters it; and if I might say my thoughts"—

"Peace!" said the Count, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 listened till the strain 〈◊〉〈◊〉 away.

"This is strange!" said he, as he 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 the window, "Close the casements, Pierre."

Pierre obeyed, and the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 soon after dismissed him, but did not so soon lose the remembrance of the music, which long, vibrated in his fancy in tones of melting sweetness, while sur|prise and perplexity engaged his thoughts.

Ludovico, meanwhile, in his remote chamber, heard, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and then, the faint echo of a closing door, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the family retired to rest, and then the hall clock, at a great distance, strike twelve. "It is midnight," said he, and he looked suspiciously round the spacious chamber. The fire on the hearth was now nearly ex|piring, for his attention having been engaged by the book before him ••he had forgotten every thing besides; but he soon added fresh wood, not because he was cold, though the night was stormy, out because he was cheerless; and, having again trimmed his ••amp, he poured out a glass of wine, drew his chair nearer to the crackling blaze, tried to be deaf to the wind, that howled mournfully at the casements, endeavoured to abstract his mind from the melancholy that was stealing upon him, and again took up his book. It had been lent to him by Dorothee, who had formerly picked it up in an obscure corner of the Marquis's li|brary, and who having opened it and perceived some of the mar|vels it related, had carefully preserved it for her own entertain|ment, its condition giving her some excuse for detaining it from its proper station. The damp corner into which 〈◊〉〈◊〉 had fallen, had caused the cover to be disfigured and mouldy, and the leave to be so discoloured with spots, that it was not without difficulty

the letters could be traced. The fictions of the Provencal wri|ters, whether drawn from the Arabian legends, brought by the Saracens into Spain, or recounting the chivalric exploits perform|ed by the crusaders, whom the Troubadours accompanied to the cast, were generally splendid and always marvellous, both in scen|ery and incident; and it is not wonderful, that Dorothee, and Ludovico should be fascinated by inventions, which had capti|vated the careless imagination in every rank of society, in a for|mer age. Some of the tales, however, in the book now before Ludovico, were of simple structure, and exhibited nothing of the magnificent machinery and heroic manners, which usually charac|terised the fables of the twelfth century, and of this description was the one he now happened to open, which, in its original style, was of great length, but which may be thus shortly related. The reader will perceive, that it is strongly tinctured with the superstition of the times.

THE PROVENCAL TALE.

"THERE lived, in the province of 〈◊〉〈◊〉, a noble Baron, famous for his magnificence and courtly hospitalities. His castle was graced with ladies of exquisite beauty, and thronged with illustrious knights; for the honours he 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to feats of chivalry invited the brave of distant countries to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his lists, and his court was more splendid than those of many princes. Eight minstrels were retained in his service, who used to sing to their harps ro|mantic fictions, taken from the Arabians, or adventures of chi|valry, that befe' knights during the crusades, or the martial deeds of the Baron, their lord; while he, surrounded by his knights and ladies, banqueted in the great hall of his castle, where the costly tapestry, that adorned the walls with pictured exploits of his ancestors, the casements of painted glass, enriched with ar|morial bearings, the gorgeous banners that waved along the roof, the sumptuous canopies, the profusion of gold and silver that glit|tered on the sideboards, the numerous dishes, that covered the tables, the number and gay liveries of the attendants, with the chivalric and splended attire of the guests, united to form a scene of magnificence, such as we may not hope to see in these degen|erate days.

"Of the Baron, the following adventure is related. One night having retired late from the banquet to his chamber, and dismissed his attendants, he was surprised by the appearance of a stranger of a noble air, but of a sorrowful and dejected counte|nance.

Believing, that this person had been secreted in the apart|ment, since it appeared impossible he could have lately passed the anti room, unobserved by the pages in waiting, who would have prevented this intrusion on their lord, the Baron, calling loudly for his people, drew his sword, which he had not yet taken from his side, and stood upon his defence. The stranger slowly ad|vancing, told him, that there was nothing to fear; that he came with no hostile design, but to communicate to him a terrible se|cret, which it was necessary for him to know.

"The Baron, appeased by the courteous manners of the stran|ger, after surveying him, for sometime, in silence, returned his sword into the scabbard, and desired him to explain the means, by which he had obtained access to the chamber, and the pur|pose of this extraordinary visit.

"Without answering either of these inquiries, the stranger said, that he could not then explain himself, but that, if the Ba|ron would follow him to the edge of the forest, at a short dis|tance from the castle walls, he would there convince him, that he had something of importance to disclose.

"This proposal again alarmed the Baron, who could scarcely believe, that the stranger meant to draw him to so solitary a spot, at this hour of the night, without harbouring a design against his life, and he refused to go, observing, at the same time, that, if the stranger's purpose was an honourable one, he would not persist in refusing to reveal the occasion of his visit, in the apart|ment where they were.

"While he spoke this, he viewed the stranger still more at|tentively than before, but observed no change in his countenance, or any symptom, that might intimate a consciousness of evil de|sign. He was habited like a knight, was of a tall and majestic stature, and of dignified and courteous manners. Still, howev|er, he refused to communicate the subject of his errand in any place, but that he had mentioned, and, at the same time, gave hints concerning the secret he would disclose, that awakened a degree of solemn curiosity in the Baron, which at length induced him to consent to follow the stranger, on certain conditions.

"Sir knight," said he, "I will attend you to the forest, and will take with me only four of my people, who shall witness our conference."

To this, however, the Knight objected.

"What I would disclose," said he, with solemnity, "is to you alone. There are only three living persons to whom the circumstance is known; it is of more consequence to you and

your house, than I shall now explain. In future years, you will look back to this night with satisfaction or repentance, accord|ingly as you now determine. As you would hereafter prosper—follow me; I pledge you the honour of a knight, that no evil shall befall you;—if you are 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to dare futurity—remain in your chamber, and I will depart as I came."

"Sir knight," replied the Baron, "how is it possible, that my future peace can depend upon my present determination?"

"That is not now to be told," said the stranger, "I have ex|plained myself to the utmost. It is late; if you follow me it must be quickly;—you will do well to consider the alternative."

"The Baron mused, and, as he looked upon the knight, he perceived his countenance assume a singular solemnity."

[Here Ludovico thought he heard a noise, and he threw a glance round the chamber, and then held up the lamp to assist his observation; but not perceiving any thing to confirm his alarm, he took up the book again and pursued the story.]

"The Baron paced his apartment, for sometime, impressed by the last words of the stranger, whose extraordinary request he feared to grant, and feared also to refuse. At length, he said, "Sir knight, you are utterly unknown to me; tell me yourself, is it reasonable, that I should trust myself alone with a stranger, at this hour, in a solitary forest? Tell me, at least, who you are, and who assisted to secret you in this chamber."

"The knight frowned at these latter words, and was a mo|ment silent; then, with a countenance somewhat stern, he said,

"I am an English knight; I am called Sir Bevys of Lan|caster,—and my deeds are not unknown at the Holy City, whence I was returning to my native land, when I was benighted in the neighbouring forest."

"Your name is not unknown to fame," said the Baron, "I have heard of it." (The Knight looked haughtily.) "But why, since my castle is known to entertain all true knights, did not your herald announce you? Why did you not appear at the banquet, where your presence would have been welcomed, instead of hiding yourself in my castle and stealing to my chamber, at midnight?"

"The stranger frowned, and turned away in silence; but the Baron repeated the questions.

"I come not," said the Knight, "to answer inquiries, but to reveal facts. If you would know more, follow me, and again I pledge the honour of a Knight, that you shall return in safety.—Be quick in your determination—I must be gone."

"After some further hesitation, the Baron determined to follow the stranger, and to see the result of his extraordinary request; he, therefore, again drew forth his sword, and, taking up a lamp, bade the Knight lead on. The latter obeyed, and opening the door of the chamber they passed into the anti room, where the Baron, surprised to find all his pages asleep, stopped, and, with hasty vio|lence, was going to reprimand them for their carelessness, when the Knight waved his hand, and looked so expressively upon the Baron, that the latter restrained his resentment, and passed on.

"The Knight, having descended a staircase, opened a secret door, which the Baron had believed was known only to himself, and, proceeding through several narrow and winding passages, came, at length, to a small gate, that opened beyond the walls of the castle. Meanwhile, the Baron followed in silence and amazement, on perceiving that these secret passages were so 〈◊〉〈◊〉 known to a stranger, and felt inclined to return from an adven|ture, that appeared to partake of treachery, as well as danger. Then considering that he was armed, and observing the courteous and noble air of his conductor, his courage returned, he blushed, that it had failed him for a moment, and he resolved to trace the mystery to its source. "He now found himself on the heathy platform, before his castle, where, looking up, he perceived lights glimmering in the different casements of the guests, who were retiring to sleep; and while he shivered in the blast, and looked on the dark and desolate scene around him, he thought of the comforts of his warm chamber, rendered cheerful by the bla••e of wood, and felt, for a moment, the full contrast of his present situation."

[Here Ludovico paused a moment, and looking at his own fire, gave it a brightening stir.]

"The wind was strong, and the Baron watched his lamp with anxiety, expecting every moment to see it extinguished; but, though the flame wavered, it did not expire, and he still followed the stranger, who often sighed as he went, but did not speak.

"When they reached the borders of the forest, the Knight turned, and raised his head, as if he meant to address the Baron, but then, closing his lips in silence, he walked on.

"As they entered, beneath the dark and spreading boughs, the Baron, affected by the solemnity of the scene, hesitated whether to proceed, and demanded how much further they were to go. The Knight replied only by a gesture, and the Baron, with hesitating steps and a suspicious eye, followed through an

obscure and intricate path, till, having proceeded a considerable way, he again demanded whither they were going, and refused to proceed unless he was informed.

"As he said this, he looked at his own sword, and at the Knight alternately, who shook his head, and whose dejected countenance disarmed the Baron, for a moment, of suspicion.

"A little further is the place, whither I would lead you," said the stranger; "no evil shall befall you—I have sworn it on the honour of a Knight."

"The Baron, reassured, again followed in silence, and they soon arrived at a deep recess of the forest, where the dark and lofty chesnuts entirely excluded the sky, and which was so overgrown with underwood, that they proceeded with difficulty. The Knight sighed deeply as he passed, and sometimes paused; and having, at length, reached a spot, where the trees crowded into a knot, he turned and, with a terrific look, pointing to the ground, the Baron saw there the body of a man, stretched at its length, and weltering in blood; a ghastly wound was on the forehead, and death appear|ed already to have contracted the features.

"The Baron, on perceiving the spectacle, started in horror, looked at the Knight for explanation, and was then going to raise the body and examine if there were yet any remains of life; but the stranger, waving his hand, fixed upon him a look so ear|nest and mournful, as not only much surprised him, but made him desist.

"But, what were the Baron's emotions, when, on holding the lamp near the features of the corpse, he discovered the exact resemblance of the stranger his conductor, to whom he now look|ed up in astonishment and inquiry? As he gazed, he perceived the countenance of the Knight change, and begin to fade, till his whole form gradually vanished from his astonished sense! While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice was heard to utter these words:—"

[Ludovico started, and laid down the book, for he thought he heard a voice in the chamber, and he looked toward the bed, where, however, he saw only the dark curtains and the pall. He listened, scarcely daring to draw his breath, but heard only the distant roaring of the sea in the storm, and the blast, that rushed by the casements; when, concluding, that he had been deceived by its sighings, he took up his book to finish the story.]

"While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice was heard to utter these words:—

"The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaster, a noble knight of Eng|land, lies before you. He was, this night, way laid and murder|ed, as he journeyed from the Holy City towards his native land. Respect the honour of knighthood and the law of humanity; inter the body in christian ground, and cause his murderers to be punished. As ye observe, or neglect this, shall peace and happi|ness, or war and misery, light upon you and your house for ever!"

"The Baron, when he recovered from the awe and astonish|ment, into which this adventure had thrown him, returned to his castle, whither he caused the body of Sir Bevys to be remov|ed; and, on the following day, it was interred, with the honours of knighthood, in the chapel of the castle, attended by all the no|ble knights and ladies, who graced the court of the Baron de Brunne."

Ludovico having finished this story, laid aside the book, for he felt drowsy, and, after putting more wood on the fire and taking another glass of wine, he reposed himself in the arm chair on the hearth. In his dream he still beheld the chamber where he really was, and, once or twice, started from imperfect slum|bers, imagining he saw a man's face, looking over the high back of his arm chair. This idea had so strongly impressed him, that, when he raised his eyes, he almost expected to meet other eyes, fixed upon his own, and he quitted his seat and looked behind the chair, before he felt perfectly convinced, that no person was there.—Thus closed the hour.

CHAP. XLVI.

Enjoy the honey heavy dew of slumber: Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound. SHAKESPEARE.

THE Count, who had slept little during the night, rose early, and, anxious to speak with Ludovico, went to the north apart|ment; but, the outer door having been fastened, on the preced|ing night, he was obliged to knock loudly for admittance. Neither the knocking, or his voice was heard; but, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the distance of this door from the bed room, and that Ludovico, wearied with watching, had probably fallen into a deep sleep, the Count was not surprised on receiving no answer, and, leav|ing the door, he went down to walk in his grounds.

It was a gray autumnal morning. The sun, rising over Pro|vence, gave only a feeble light, as his rays struggled through the vapours that ascended from the sea, and floated heavily over the wood tops, which were now varied with many a mellow tint of autumn. The storm was passed, but the waves were yet vio|lently agitated, and their course was traced by long lines of foam, while not a breeze fluttered in the sails of the vessels, near the shore, that were weighing anchor to depart. The still gloom of the hour was pleasing to the Count, and he pursued his way through the woods, sunk in deep thought.

Emily also rose at an early hour, and took her customary walk along the brow of the promontory, that overhung the Mediterra|nean. Her mind was now not occupied with the occurrences of the chateau, and Valancourt was the subject of her mournful thoughts; whom she had not yet taught herself to consider with indifference, though her judgment constantly reproached her for the affection, that lingered in her heart, after her esteem for him was departed. Remembrance frequently gave her his parting look and the tones of his voice, when he had bade her a last fare|wel; and, some accidental associations now recalling these cir|cumstances to her fancy, with peculiar energy, she shed bitter tears to the recollection.

Having reached the watch tower, she seated herself on the broken steps, and, in melancholy dejection, watched the waves, half hid in vapour, as they came rolling towards the shore, and threw up their light spray round the rocks below. Their hol|low murmur and the obscuring mists, that came in wreaths up the cliffs, gave a solemnity to the scene, which was in harmony with the temper of her mind, and she sat, given up to the re|membrance of past times, till this became too painful, and she abruptly quitted the place. On passing the little gate of the watch tower, she observed letters, engraved on the stone postern, which she paused to examine, and, though they appeared to have been rudely cut with a penknife, the characters were familiar to her; at length, recognizing the hand writing of Valancourt, she read, with trembling anxiety, the following lines, entitled

SHIPWRECK.

'Tis solemn midnight! On this lonely sleep, Beneath this watch-tower's desolated wall, Where mystic shapes the wonderer appall, I rest; and view below the desart deep, As through tempestuous clouds the moon's cold light Gleams on the wave. Viewless, the winds of night

With loud mysterious force the billows sweep, A••d sullen roar the surges, far below, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 still pauses of the gust I hear 〈…〉〈…〉 of spirits, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 sweet and slow, And oft among the clouds their forms appear. But hark! what shriek of death comes in the gale, And in the distant ray what glimmering 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Bends to the storm?—Now sinks the note of fear! Ah! wretched mariners!—no more shall day Unclose his cheering 〈◊〉〈◊〉 light ye on your way!

From these lines it appeare••, that Valancourt had visited the tower; that he had probably been here on the preceding night, for it was such an one as they described, and that he had left the building very lately, since it had not long been light, and without light it was impossible these letters could have been cut. It was thus even probable, that he might be yet in the gardens.

As these reflections passed rapidly over the mind of Emily, they called up a variety of contending emotions, that almost overcame her spirits; but her first impulse was to avoid him, and, imme|diately leaving the tower, she returned, with hasty steps, towards the chateau. As she passed along, she remembered the music she had lately heard near the tower, with the figure, which had ap|peared, and, in this moment of agitation, she was inclined to be|lieve, that she had then heard and seen Valancourt; but other recollections soon convinced her of her error. On turning into a thicker part of the woods, she perceived a person walking slow|ly in the gloom at some little distance, and, her mind engaged by the idea of him, she started and paused, imagining this to be Valancourt. The person advanced with quicker steps, and, be|fore she could recover recollection enough to avoid him, he spoke, and she then knew the voice of the Count, who expressed some surprise, on finding her walking at so early an hour, and made a feeble effort to rally her on her love of solitude. But he soon perceived this to be more a subject of concern than of light laugh|ter, and, changing his manner, affectionately expostulated with Emily, on thus indulging unavailing regret; who, though she ac|knowledged the justness of all he said, could not restrain her tears, while she did so, and he presently quitted the topic. Ex|pressing surprise at not having yet heard from his friend, the Ad|vocate at Avignon, in answer to the questions proposed to him, respecting the estates of the late Madame Montoni, he, with friendly zeal, endeavoured to cheer Emily with hopes of estab|lishing her claim to them; while she felt, that the estates could now contribute little to the happiness of a life, in which Valan|court had no longer an interest.

When they returned to the chateau. Emily retired to her apart|ment, and Count de Villefort to the door of the north chambers. This was still fastened, but, being now determined to arouse Lu|dovico, he renewed his calls more loudly than before, after which a total silence ensued, and the Count, finding all his efforts to be heard ineffectual, at length began to fear, that some accident had befallen Ludovico, whom terror of an imaginary being might have deprived of his senses. He, therefore, left the door with an intention of summoning his servants to force it open, some of whom he now heard moving in the lower part of the chateau.

To the Count's inquiries, whether they had seen or heard Lu|dovico, they replied in affright, that not one of them had ventur|ed on the north side of the chateau, since the preceding night.

"He sleeps soundly then," said the Count, "and is at such a distance from the outer door, which is fastened, that to gain admittance to the chambers it will be necessary to force it. Bring an instrument, and follow me."

The servants stood mute and dejected, and it was not till 〈◊〉〈◊〉 all the household were assembled, that the Count's orders were obeyed. In the mean time Dorothee was telling of a door that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 from a gallery, leading from the great staircase into the last 〈◊〉〈◊〉 room of the saloon, and this being much nearer to the bed chamber, it appeared probable, that Ludovico might easily be awakened by an attempt to open it. Thither, there|fore the Count went, but his voice was as ineffectual at this door as it had proved at the remoter one; and now, seriously interest|ed for Ludovico, he was himself going to strike upon the door with the instrument, when he observed its singular beauty, and withheld the blow. It appeared, on the first glance, to be of ebony, so dark and close was its grain and so high its polish; but it proved to be only of larch wood of the growth of Pro|vence, then famous for its forests of larch. The beauty of its polished hue, and of its delicate carvings determined the Count to spare this door, and he returned to that leading from the back staircase, which being at length forced, he entered the first anti room, followed by Henri and a few of the most courageous of his servants, the rest awaiting the event of the inquiry on the stairs and landing place.

All was silent in the chambers, through which the Count pass|ed, and, having reached the saloon, he called loudly upon Lu|dovico; after which, still receiving no answer, he threw open the door of the bed room, and entered.

The profound stillness within confirmed his apprehensions for Ludovico, for not even the breathings of a person in sleep were heard; and his uncertainty was not soon terminated, since, the shutters being all closed, the chamber was too dark for any object to be distinguished in it.

The Count bade a servant open them, who, as he crossed the room to do so, stumbled over something, and fell to the floor, when his cry occasioned such panic among the few of his fellows, who had ventured thus far, that they instantly fled, and the Count and Henri were left to finish the adventure.

Henri then sprung across the room, and opening a window shutter, they perceived, that the man had fallen over a chair near the hearth, in which Ludovico had been sitting;—for he sat there no longer, nor could any where be seen by the im|perfect light that was admitted into the apartment. The Count, seriously alarmed, now opened other shutters, that he might be enabled to examine further, and, Ludovico not yet appearing, he stood for a moment, suspended in astonishment and scarcely trusting his senses, till, his eyes glancing on the bed, he advanc|ed to examine whether he was there asleep. No person, how|ever, was in it, and he proceeded to the oriel, where every thing remained as on the preceding night, but Ludovico was no where to be found.

The Count now checked his amazement, considering that Ludovico might have left the chambers, during the night, overcome by the terrors, which their lonely deso|lation and the recollected reports, concerning them, had inspired. Yet if this had been the fact, the man would naturally have sought society, and his fellow servants had all declared they had not seen him; the door of the outer room also had been found fastened, with the key on the inside; it was impossible, therefore, for him to have passed through that, and all the outer doors of this suite were found, on examination, to be bolted and locked, with the keys also within them. The Count, being then compelled to believe, that the lad had escap|ed through the casements, next examined them, but such as op|ened wide enough to admit the body of a man, were found to be carefully secured either by iron bars, or by shutters, and no vestige appeared of any person having attempted to pass them; neither was it probable, that Ludovico would have incurred the risk of breaking his neck, by leaping from a window, when he might have walked safely through a door.

The Count's amazement did not admit of words; but he re|turned once more to examine the bed room, where was no ap|pearance

of disorder, except that occasioned by the late over|throw of the chair rear which had stood a small table, and on this Ludovico's sword, his lamp, the book he had been reading, and the remnant of his flask of wine still remained. At the foot of the table, too, was the basket with some fragments of pro|vision and wood.

Henri and the servant now uttered their astonishment with|out reserve, and, though the Count said little, there was a seri|ousness in his manner, that expressed much. It appeared that Ludovico must have quitted these rooms by some concealed passage, for the Count could not believe that any supernatural means had occasioned this event, yet, if there was any such passage, it seemed inexplicable why he should retreat through it, and it was equally surprising, that not even the smallest vestige should appear, by which his progress could be traced. In the rooms every thing remained as much in order as if he had just walked out by the common way.

The Count himself assisted in lifting the arras, with which the bed chamber, saloon and one of the anti rooms were hung, that he might discover if any door had been concealed behind it; but, after a laborious search, none was ••ound, and he, at length, quitted the apartments, having secured the door of the last anti chamber, the key of which he took into his own possession. He then gave orders, that strict search should be made for Ludovico not only in the chateau, but in 〈◊〉〈◊〉 neighbourhood, and retiring with Henri to his closet, they remained there, in conversation for a considerable time, and whatever was the subject of it, Hen|ri from this hour lost much of his vivacity, and his manners were particularly grave and reserved, whenever the topic which now agitated the Count's family with wonder and alarm, was in|troduced.

On the disappearing of Ludovico, Baron St. Foix seemed strengthened in all his former opinions concerning the probability of apparitions, though it was difficult to discover what connection there could possibly be between the two subjects, or to account for this effect otherwise than by supposing, that the mystery attend|ing Ludovico, by exciting awe and curiosity, reduced the mind to a state of sensibility, which rendered it more liable to the in|fluence of superstition in general. It is, however, certain, that from this period the Baron and his adherents became more big|oted to their own systems than before, while the terrors of the Count's servants increased to an excess that occasioned many of them to quit the mansion immediately, and the rest remained only till others could be procured to supply their places.

The most strenuous search after Ludovico proved unsuccessful, and after several days of indefatigable inquiry, poor Annette gave herself up to despair, and the other inhabitants of the cha|teau to amazement.

Emily, whose mind had been deeply affected by the disaster|ous fate of the late Marchioness and with the mysterious con|nection, which she fancied had existed between her and St. Au|bert, was particularly impressed by the late extraordinary event, and much concerned for the loss of Ludovico, whose integrity and faithful services claimed both her esteem and gratitude. She was now very desirous to return to the quiet retirement of her convent, but every hint of this was received with real sorrow by the Lady Blanche, and affectionately set aside by the Count, for whom she felt much of the respectful love and admiration of a daughter, and to whom, by Dorothee's consent, she at length, mentioned the appearance, which they had witnessed in the cham|ber of the deceased Marchioness. At any other period he would have smiled at such a relation, and have believed that its object had existed only in the distempered fancy of the relater; but he now attended to Emily with seriousness, and when she conclud|ed, requested of her a promise, that this occurrence should rest in silence.

"Whatever may be the cause and the import of these extraor|dinary occurrences," added the Count, "time only can explain them. I shall keep a wary eye upon all that passes in the cha|teau, and shall pursue every possible means of discovering the fate of Ludovico. Meanwhile, we must be prudent and be si|lent. I will myself watch in the north chambers, but of this we will say nothing, till the night arrives, when I purpose doing so."

The Count then sent for Dorothee, and required of her also a promise of silence, concerning what she had already or might in future witness of an extraordinary nature; and this ancient servant now related to him the particulars of the Marchioness de Villeroi's death, with some of which he appeared to be al|ready acquainted, while by others he was evidently surprised and agitated. After listening to this narrative, the Count retired to his closet, where he remained alone for several hours; and, when he again appeared, the solemnity of his manner surprised and alarmed Emily, but she gave no utterance to her thoughts.

On the week following the disappearance of Ludovico, all the Count's guests took leave of him, except the Baron, his son Mons. St. Foix, and Emily; the latter of whom was soon after embarrassed and distressed by the arrival of another visitor, Mons.

Du Pont, which made her determine upon withdrawing to her convent immediately. The delight that appeared in his coun|tenance, when he met her, told that he brought back the same ardour of passion which had formerly banished him from Cha|teau-le-Blanc. He was received with reserve by Emily, and with pleasure by the Count, who presented him to her with a smile, that seemed intended to plead his cause, and who did not hope the less for his friend, from the embarrassment she betrayed.

But M. Du Pont, with truer sympathy seemed to understand her manner, and his countenance quickly lost its vivacity and sunk into the languor of despondency.

On the following day, however, he sought an opportunity of declaring the purport of his visit, and renewed his suit; a de|claration, which was received with real concern by Emily, who endeavoured to lessen the pain she might inflict by a second re|jection, with assurances of esteem and friendship; yet she left him in a state of mind, that claimed and excited her tenderest compassion; and being more sensible than ever of the impropri|ety of remaining longer at the chateau, she immediately sought the Count, and communicated to him her intention of returning to the convent.

"My dear Emily," said he, "I observe, with extreme con|cern, the illusion you are encouraging—an illusion common to young and sensible minds. Your heart has received a severe shock; you believe you can never entirely recover it, and you will encourage this belief, till the habit of indulging sorrow will subdue the strength of your mind, and discolour your future views with melancholy and regret. Let me dissipate this illusion, and awaken you to a sense of your danger."

Emily smiled mournfully, "I know what you would say, my dear sir," said she, "and am prepared to answer you. I feel, that my heart can never know a second affection; and that I must never hope even to recover its tranquillity—if I suffer my|self to enter into a second engagement."

"I know, that you feel all this," replied the Count; "and I know, also, that time will overcome these feelings, unless you cherish them in solitude, and, pardon me, with romantic tender|ness. Then, indeed, time will only confirm habit. I am parti|cularly empowered to speak on this subject, and to sympathize in your sufferings," added the Count, with an air of solemnity, "for I have known what it is to love, and to lament the object of my love. Yes," continued he, while his eyes filled with tears, "I have suffered!—but those times have passed away—long passed! and I can now look back upon them without emotion."

"My dear sir," said Emily, timidly, "what mean those tea••? they speak, I fear, another language—they plead for me."

"They are weak tears, for they are useless ones," replied the Count, drying them, "I would have you superior to such weak|ness. These, however, are only faint traces of a grief, which, if it not had been opposed by long continued effort, might have led me to the verge of madness! Judge, then, whether I have not cause to warn you of an indulgence, which may produce so terrible an effect, and which must certainly, if not opposed, overcloud the years, that otherwise might be happy. M. Du Pont is a sensible and amiable man, who has long been tenderly attached to you; his family and fortune are unexceptionable;—after what I have said, it is unnecessary to add, that I should rejoice in your feli|city, and that I think M. Du Pont would promote it. Do not weep, Emily," continued the Count, taking her hand, "there is happiness reserved for you."

He was silent a moment; and then added, in a firmer voice, "I do not wish that you should make a violent effort to over|come your feelings; all I, at present, ask, is, that you will check the thoughts, that would lead you to a remembrance of the past; that you will suffer your mind to be engaged by present objects; that you will allow yourself to believe it possible you may yet be happy; and that you will sometimes think with complacency of poor Du Pont, and not condemn him to the state of despondency, from which, my dear Emily, I am endeavouring to withdraw you."

"Ah! my dear sir," said Emily, while her tears still fell, "do not suffer the benevolence of your wishes to mislead Mons. Du Pont with an expectation that I can ever accept his hand. If I understand my own heart, this can never be; your instruction I can obey in almost every other particular, than that of adopt|ing a contrary belief."

"Leave me to understand your heart," replied the Count, with a faint smile. "If you pay me the compliment to be guid|ed by my advice in other instances, I will pardon your incredu|lity, respecting your future conduct towards Mons. Du Pont. I will not even press you to remain longer at the chateau than your own satisfaction will permit; but though I forbear to op|pose your present retirement, I shall urge the claims of friend|ship for your future visits."

Tears of gratitude mingled with those of tender regret, while Emily thanked the Count for the many instances of friendship she had received from him; promised to be directed by his ad|vice upon every subject but one, and assured him of the

pleasure, with which she should, at some future period, accept the invitation of the Countess and himself—if Mons. Du Pont was not at the chateau.

The Count smiled at this condition. "Be it so," said he, "meanwhile the convent is so near the chateau, that my daugh|ter and I shall often visit you; and if, sometimes we should dare to bring you another visitor—will you forgive us?"

Emily looked distressed, and remained silent.

"Well," rejoined the Count, "I will pursue this subject no further, and must now entreat your forgiveness for having pressed it thus far. You will, however, do me the justice to believe, that I have been urged only by a sincere regard for your happi|ness, and that of my amiable friend Mons. Du Pont."

Emily, when she left the Count, went to mention her intend|ed departure to the Countess, who opposed it with polite ex|pressions of regret; after which, she sent a note to acquaint the lady abbess, that she should return to the convent; and thither she withdrew on the evening of the following day. M. Du Pont, in extreme regret, saw her depart, while the Count endeavoured to cheer him with a hope, that Emily would sometimes regard him with a more favourable eye.

She was pleased to find herself once more in the tranquil re|tirement of the convent, where she experienced a renewal of all the maternal kindness of the abbess, and of the sisterly attentions of the nuns. A report of the late extraordinary occurrence at the chateau had already reached them, and, after supper, on the evening of her arrival, it was the subject of conversation in the convent parlour, where she was requested to mention some par|ticulars of that unaccountable event. Emily was guarded in her conversation, on this subject, and briefly related a few cir|cumstances concerning Ludovico, whos•• disappearance, her au|ditors almost unanimously agreed, had been effected by super|natural means.

"A belief had so long prevailed," said a nun, who was called sister Frances, "that the chateau was haunted, that I was sur|prised, when I heard the Count had the temerity to inhabit it. Its former possessor, I fear, had some deed of conscience to atone for; let us hope that the virtues of its present owner will pre|serve him from the punishment due to the errors of the last, if, indeed, he was criminal."

"Of what crime, then, was he suspected?" said a Madem|oiselle Feydeau, a boarder at the convent.

"Let us pray for his soul!" said a nun, who had till now sat in silent attention. "If he was criminal, his punishment in this world was sufficient."

There was a mixture of wildness and solemnity in her manner of delivering this, which struck Emily exceedingly; but Ma|demoiselle repeated her question, without noticing the solemn eagerness of the nun.

"I dare not presume to say what was his crime," replied sister Frances; "but I have heard many reports of an extraordinary nature, respecting the late Marquis de Villeroi, and among oth|ers, that, soon after the death of his lady, he quitted Chateau-le-Blanc, and never afterwards returned to it. I was not here at the time, so I can only mention it from report, and so many years have passed since the Marchioness died, that few of our sisterhood, I believe, can do more."

"But I can," said the nun, who had before spoke, and whom they called sister Agnes.

"You then," said Mademoiselle Feydeau, "are possibly ac|quainted with circumstances, that enable you to judge, whether he was criminal or not, and what was the crime imputed to him."

"I am," replied the nun; "but who shall dare to scrutinize my thoughts—who shall dare to pluck out my opinion? God only is his judge, and to that judge he is gone!"

Emily looked with surprise at sister Frances, who returned her a significant glance.

"I only requested your opinion," said Mademoiselle Feydeau, mildly; "if the subject is displeasing to you, I will drop it."

"Displeasing!"—said the nun, with emphasis.—"We are idle talkers; we do not weigh the meaning of the words we use; displeasing is a poor word. I will go pray." As she said this she rose from her seat, and with a profound sigh quit|ted the room.

"What can be the meaning of this?" said Emily, when she was gone.

"It is nothing extraordinary," replied sister Frances, "she is often thus; but she has no meaning in what she says. Her in|tellects are at times deranged. Did you never see her thus before?"

"Never," said Emily. "I have, indeed, sometimes, thought, that there was the melancholy of madness in her look, but never before perceived it in her speech. Poor soul I will pray for her!"

"Your prayers then, my daughter, will unite with ours," ob|served the lady abbess, "she has need of them."

"Dear Lady," said Mademoiselle Feydeau, addressing the ab|bess, "what is your opinion of the late Marquis? The strange circumstances, that have occurred at the chateau, have so much awakened my curiosity, that I shall be pardoned the question. What was his imputed crime, and what the punishment, to which sister Agnes alluded?"

"We must be cautious of advancing our opinion," said the abbess, with an air of reserve, mingled with solemnity, "we must be cautious of advancing our opinion on so delicate a sub|ject. I will not take upon me to pronounce, that the late Mar|quis was criminal, or to say what was the crime of which he was suspected; but, concerning the punishment our daughter Agnes hinted, I know of none he suffered. She probably allud|ed to the severe one, which an exasperated conscience can in|flict. Beware, my children, of incurring so terrible a punishment,—it is the purgatory of this life! The late Marchioness I knew well; she was a pattern to such as live in the world; nay, ••••r sacred order need not have blushed to copy her virtues! our holy convent received her mortal part; her heavenly spirit, I doubt not, ascended to its sanctuary!"

As the abbess spoke this, the last bell of vespers struck up, and she rose. "Let us go, my children," said she, "and intercede for the wretched; let us go and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 our sins, and endeavour to purify our souls for the heaven to which she is gone!"

Emily was affected by the solemnity of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 exhortation, and, remembering her father, "The heaven, to which he, to••, is gone!" said she, family, as she suppressed her sighs, and follow|ed the abbess and the nuns to the chapel.

CHAP. XLVII.

Be thou a spirit of health, or 〈◊〉〈◊〉 damn'd, Bring with 〈…〉〈…〉 from heaven o•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 from hell, Be thy 〈◊〉〈◊〉 wicked 〈…〉〈…〉. —I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 speak to thee."— HAMLET.

COUNT DE VILLEFORT, at length, received a letter from the advocate at 〈◊〉〈◊〉 encouraging Emily to assert her claim to the estates of the late Madame Mont•••••• 〈◊〉〈◊〉, about the same time, a messenger arrived from 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 with intelli|gence, that made an appeal to the law on this subject unnecessary,

since it appeared, that the only person, who could have opposed her claim, was now no more. A friend of M. Quesnel, who resid|ed at Venice, had sent him an account of the death of Montoni, who had been brought to trial with Orsino, as his supposed ac|complice in the murder of the Venetian nobleman. Orsino was found guilty, condemned and executed upon the wheel, but no|thing being discovered 〈◊〉〈◊〉 criminate Montoni, and his colleagues, on this charge, they were all released, except Montoni, who, being considered by the senate as a very dangerous person, was, for other reasons, ordered again into confinement, where it was said, he had died in a doubtful and mysterious manner, and not with|out suspicion of having been poisoned. The authority, from which M. Quesnel had received this information, would not al|low him to doubt its truth, and he told Emily, that she had now only to lay claim to the estates of her late aunt, to secure them, and added, that he would himself assist in the necessary forms of this business. The term, for which La Vallee had been let be|ing now also nearly expired, he acquainted her with the circum|stance, and advised her to take the road thither, through Tho|louse, where he promised to meet her, and where it would be proper for her to take possession of the estates of the late Madame Montoni; adding, that he would spare her any difficulties, that might occur on that occasion from the want of knowledge on the subject, and that he believed it would be necessary for her to be at Tholouse, in about three weeks from the present time.

An increase of fortune seemed to have awakened this sudden kindness in M. Quesnel towards his niece, and it appeared, that he entertained more respect for the rich heiress, than he had ever felt compassion for the poor and unfriended orphan.

The pleasure with which she received this intelligence, was clouded when she considered, that he, for whose sake she had once regretted the want of fortune, was no longer worthy of sharing it with her; but, remembering the friendly admonition of the Count, she checked this melancholy reflection, and endea|voured to feel only gratitude for the unexpected good, that now attended her; while it formed no inconsiderable part of her sat|isfaction to know, that La Vallee, her native home, which was endeared to her by it's having been the residence of her parents, would soon be restored to her possession. There she meant to fix her future residence, for, though it could not be compared with the chateau at Tholouse, either for extent, or magnificence, its pleasant scenes and the tender remembrances, that haunted them, had claims upon her heart, which she was not inclined to sacri|fice

to ostentation. She wrote immediately to thank M. Ques|nel for the active interest he took in her concerns, and to say, that she would meet him at Tholouse at the appointed time.

When Count de Villefort, with Blanche, came to the convent to give Emily the advice of the advocate, he was informed of the contents of M. Quesnel's letter, and gave her his sincere con|gratulations, on the occasion; but she observed, that when the first expression of satisfaction had faded from his countenance, an unusual gravity succeeded, and she scarcely hesitated to inquire its cause.

"It has no new occasion," replied the Count; "I am harrass|ed and perplexed by the confusion, into which my family is thrown by their foolish superstition. Idle reports are floating round me, which I can neither admit to be true, or prove to be false; and I am, also, very anxious about the poor fellow, Ludo|vico, concerning whom I have not been able to obtain informa|tion. Every part of the chateau and every part of the neighbour|hood, too, has I believe, been searched, and I know not what further can be done, since I have already offered large rewards for the disco|very of him. The keys of the north apartment I have not suf|fered to be out of my possession, since he disappeared, and I mean to watch in those chambers, myself, this very night."

Emily seriously alarmed for the Count, united her entreaties with those of the Lady Blanche, to dissuade him from his purpose.

"What should I fear?" said he, "I have no faith in super|natural combats, and for human opposition I shall be prepared; my, I will even promise not to watch alone."

"But who, dear sir, will have courage enough to watch with you?" said Emily.

"My son," replied the Count. "If I am not carried off in the night," added he, smiling, "you shall hear the result of my adventure, to morrow."

The Count and Lady Blanche, shortly afterwards, took leave of Emily, and returned to the chateau, where he informed Henri of his intention, who, not without some secret reluctance, con|sented to be the partner of his watch; and, when the design was mentioned after supper, the Countess was terrified, and the Baron, and M. Du Pont joined with her in entreating, that he would not tempt his fate, as Ludovico had done. "We know not," added the Baron, "the nature, or the power of an evil spirit; and that such a spirit haunts those chambers can now, I think, scarcely be doubted. Beware, my lord, how you provoke its vengeance, since it has already given us one terrible example

of its malice. I allow it may be probable, that the spirits of the dead are permitted to return to the earth only on occasions of high import; but the present import may be your destruction."

The Count could not forbear smiling; "Do you think then, Baron," said he, "that my destruction is of sufficient importance to draw back to earth the soul of the departed? Alas! my good friend, there is no occasion for such means to accomplish the de|struction of any individual. Wherever the mystery rests, I trust I shall, this night, be able to detect it. You know I am not superstitious."

"I know that you are incredulous," interrupted the Baron.

"Well, call it what you will, I meant to say, that, though you know I am free from superstition—if any thing supernatural has appeared. I doubt not it will appear to me, and if any strange event hangs over my house, or if any extraordinary transaction has formerly been connected with it, I shall probably be made acquainted with it. At all events I will invite discovery; and, that I may be equal to a mortal attack, which in good truth, my friend, is what I most expect, I shall take care to be well armed."

The Count took leave of his family, for the night, with an as|sumed gaiety, which but ill concealed the anxiety, that depressed his spirits, and retired to the north apartments, accompanied by his son and followed by the Baron, M. Du Pont and some of the domestics, who all bade him good night at the outer door. In these chambers every thing appeared as when he had last been here; even in the bed room no alteration was visible, where he lighted his own fire, for none of the domestics could be prevailed upon to venture thither. After carefully examining the chamber and the oriel, the Count and Henri drew their chairs upon the hearth, set a bottle of wine and a lamp before them, laid their swords upon the table, and, stirring the wood into a blaze, began to converse on indifferent topics. But Henri was often silent and abstracted, and sometimes threw a glance of mingled awe and curiosity round the gloomy apartment; while the Count gradu|ally ceased to converse, and sat either lost in thought, or reading a volume of Tacitus, which he had brought to beguile the tedious|ness of the night.

CHAP. XLVIII.

Give thy thoughts no tongue. SHAKESPEARE.

THE Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for his friend had kept awake, rose early to inquire the event of the night, when, as he passed the Count's closet, hearing steps within, he knocked at the door, and it was opened by his friend himself. Rejoicing to see him in safety, and curious to learn the occurrences of the night, he had not immediately leisure to observe the unusual gravity, that overspread the features of the Count, whose reserved answers first occasioned him to notice it. The Count, then smil|ing, endeavoured to treat the subject of his curiosity with levity; but the Baron was serious, and pursued his inquiries so closely, that the Count, at length, resuming his gravity, said, "Well, my friend, press the subject no further, I entreat you; and let me request also, that you will hereafter be silent upon any thing you may think extraordinary in my future conduct. I do not scruple to tell you, that I am unhappy, and that the watch of the last night has not assisted me to discover Ludovico; upon every occurrence of the night you must excuse my reserve."

"But where is Henri?" said the Baron, with surprise and disappointment at this denial.

"He is well in his own apartment," replied the Count. "You will not question him on this topic, my friend, since you know my wish."

"Certainly not," said the Baron somewhat chagrined, "since it would be displeasing to you; but methinks, my friend, you might rely on my discretion, and drop this unusual reserve. However, you must allow me to suspect, that you have seen rea|son to become a convert to my system, and are no longer the in|credulous knight you lately appeared to be."

"Let us talk no more upon this subject," said the Count; "you may be assured, that no ordinary circumstance has imposed this silence upon me towards a friend, whom I have called so for near thirty years; and my present reserve cannot make you question either my esteem, or the sincerity of my friendship."

"I will not doubt either," said the Baron, "though you must allow me to express my surprise, at this silence."

"To me I will allow it," replied the Count, "but I earnestly entreat that you will forbear to notice it to my family, as well as every thing remarkable you may observe in my conduct to|wards them."

The Baron readily promised this, and, after conversing for sometime on general topics, they descended to the breakfast room, where the Count met his family with a cheerful countenance, and evaded their inquiries by employing light ridicule, and as|suming an air of uncommon gaiety, while he assured them, that they need not apprehend any evil from the north chambers, since Henri and himself had been permitted to return from them in safety.

Henri, however, was less successful in disguising his feelings. From his countenance an expression of terror was not entirely fad|ed; he was often silent and thoughtful, and, when he attempted to laugh at the eager inquiries of Mademoiselle Bearn, it was evidently only an attempt.

In the evening, the Count called, as he had promised, at the convent, and Emily was surprised to perceive a mixture of play|ful ridicule and of reserve in his mention of the north apartment▪ Of what had occurred there, however, he said nothing, and, when she ventured to remind him of his promise to tell her the result of his inquiries, and to ask if he had received any proof, that those chambers were haunted, his look became solemn, for a moment, then, seeming to recollect himself, he smiled, and said, "My dear Emily, do not suffer my lady abbess to infect your good understanding with these fancies; she will teach you to ex|pect a ghost in every dark room. But believe me," added he, with a profound sigh, "the apparition of the dead comes not on light or sportive errands, to terrify, or to surprise the timid." He paused, and fell into a momentary thoughtfulness, and then added, "We will say no more on this subject."

Soon after, he took leave, and, when Emily joined some of the nuns, she was surprised to find them acquainted with a circumstance which she had carefully avoided to mention, and expressing their admiration of his intrepidity in having dared to pass a night in the apartment, whence Ludovico had disappear|ed; for she had not considered with what rapidity a tale of won|der circulates. The nuns had acquired their information from peasants, who brought fruit to the monastery, and whose whole attention had been fixed, since the disappearance of Ludovico, on what was passing in the castle.

Emily listened in silence to the various opinions of the nuns, concerning the, conduct of the Count, most of whom condemn|ed it as rash and presumptuous, affirming, that it was provoking the vengeance of an evil spirit, thus to intrude upon its haunts.

Sister Frances contended, that the Count had acted with the bravery of a virtuous mind. He knew himself guiltless of

aught, that should provoke a good spirit, and did not fear the spells of an evil one, since he could claim the protection of an higher Power, of Him, who can command the wicked and will protect the innocent.

"The guilty cannot claim that protection!" said sister Agnes, "let the Count look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim! Yet who is he, that shall dare to call himself innocent!—all earthly innocence is but comparative. Yet still how wide asunder are the extremes of guilt, and to what an horrible depth may we fall! Oh!"—

The nun, as she concluded, uttered a shuddering sigh, that startled Emily, who, looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixed on hers, after which the sister rose, took her hand, gazed earnestly upon her countenance, for some moments, in silence, and then said,

"You are young—you are innocent! I mean you are yet inno|cent of any great crime!—But you have passions in your heart,—scorpions; they sleep now—beware how you awaken them!—they will sting you, even unto death!"

Emily, affected by these words and by the solemnity, with which they were delivered, could not suppress her tears.

"Ah! is it so?" exclaimed Agnes, her countenance soften|ing from its sternness—"so young, and so unfortunate! We are sisters, then indeed. Yet, there is no bond of kindness among the guilty," she added, while her eyes resumed their wild ex|pression, "no gentleness,—no peace, no hope! I knew them all once—my eyes could weep—but now they burn, for now, my soul is fixed and fearless!—I lament no more!"

"Rather let us repent, and pray," said another nun. "We are taught to hope, that prayer and penitence will work our sal|vation. There is hope for all who repent!"

"Who repent and turn to the true faith," observed sister Frances.

"For all but me!" replied Agnes solemnly, who paused, and then abruptly added, "My head burns, I believe I am not well. O! could I strike from my memory all former scenes—the fig|ures that rise up like furies, to torment me!—I see them when I sleep, and, when I am awake, they are still before my eyes! I see them now—now!

She stood in a fixed attitude of horror, her straining eyes mov|ing slowly round the room, as if they followed something. One of the nuns gently took her hand, to lead her from the parlour. Agnes became calm, drew her other hand across her eyes, look|ed

again, and, sighing deeply, said, "They are gone—they are gone! I am feverish, I know not what I say. I am thus, some|times, but it will go off again, I shall soon be better. Was not that the vesper bell?"

"No," replied Frances, "the evening service is passed. Let Margaret lead you to your cell."

"You are right," replied sister Agnes, "I shall be better there. Good night, my sisters, remember me in your orisons!"

When they had withdrawn, Frances, observing Emily's emo|tion, said, "Do not be alarmed, our sister is often thus derang|ed though I have not lately seen her so frantic; her usual mood is melancholy. This fit has been coming on, for several days; seclusion and the customary treatment will restore her."

"But how rationally she conversed, at first!" observed Emi|ly," "her ideas followed each other in perfect order."

"Yes," replied the nun, "this is nothing new; nay, I have sometimes known her argue not only with method, but with acuteness, and then, in a moment, start off into madness."

"Her conscience seems afflicted," said Emily, "did you ever hear what circumstance reduced her to this deplorable con|dition?"

"I have," replied the nun, who said no more till Emily re|peated the question, when she added in a low voice, and look|ing significantly towards the other boarders, "I cannot tell you now, but, if you think it worth your while, come to my cell, to night, when our sisterhood are at rest, and you shall hear more; but remember we rise to midnight prayers, and come either be|fore or after midnight."

Emily promised to remember, and the abbess soon after ap|pearing, they spoke no more of the unhappy nun.

The Count, meanwhile, on his return home, had found M. Du Pont in one of those ••its of despondency, which his attach|ment to Emily frequently occasioned him, an attachment, that had subsisted too long to be easily subdued, and which had already outlived the opposition of his friends. M. Du Pont had first seen Emily in Gascony, during the lifetime of his parent, who, on discovering his son's partiality for Mademoiselle St. Aubert, his inferior in point of fortune, forbade him to declare it to her family, or to think of her more. During the life of his father, he had observed the first command, but had found it impractica|ble to obey the second, and had, sometimes soothed his passion by visiting her favourite haunts, among which was the fishing house, where once or twice, he addressed her in verse, concealing

his name, in obedience to the promise he had given his father. There too he played the pathetic air, to which she had listened with such surprise and admiration; and there he found the miniature that had since cherished a passion fatal to his repose. During his ex|pedition into Italy, his father died; but he received his liberty at a moment, when he was the least enabled to profit by it, since the object that rendered it most valuable, was no longer within the reach of his vows. By what accident he discovered Emily, and assisted to release her from a terrible imprisonment, has already appeared, and also the unavailing hope, with which he then en|couraged his love, and the fruitless efforts, that he had since made to overcome it.

The Count still endeavoured, with friendly zeal, to sooth him with a belief, that patience, perseverance and prudence, would finally obtain for him happiness and Emily; "Time," said he, "will wear away the melancholy impression, which disappoint|ment has left on her mind, and she will be sensible of your merit. Your services have already awakened her gratitude, and your suf|erings her pity; and trust me, my friend, in a heart so sensible as hers, gratitude and pity lead to love. When her imagination is res|cued from its present delusion, she will readily accept the hom|age of a mind like yours."

Du Pont sighed, while he listened to these words; and, en|deavouring to hope what his friend believed, he willingly yield|ed to an invitation to prolong his visit at the chateau, which we now leave for the monastery of St. Claire.

When the nuns had retired to rest, Emily stole to her appoint|ment with sister Frances, whom she found in her cell, engaged in prayer, before a little table, where appeared the image she was addressing, and above, the dim lamp, that gave light to the place. Turning her eyes, as the door opened, she beckoned to Emily to come in, who having done so, seated herself in silence beside the nun's little mattress of straw, till her orisons should conclude. The latter soon rose from her knees, and, taking down the lamp and placing it on the table, Emily perceived there a human scull and bones, lying beside an hour glass; but the nun, without observing her emotion, sat down on the mat|tress by her, saying, "Your curiosity, sister, has made you punct|ual, but you have nothing remarkable to hear in the his|tory of poor Agnes, of whom I avoided to speak in the presence of my lay sisters, only because I would not publish her crime to them."

"I shall consider your confidence in me as a favour," said Em|ily, "and will not misuse it."

"Sister Agnes," resumed the nun, "is of a noble family, ••s the dignity of her air must already have informed you, but I will not dishonour their name so much as to reveal it. Love was the occasion of her crime and of her madness. She was beloved by a gentleman of inferior fortune, and her father, as I have heard, bestowing her on a nobleman, whom she disliked, an ill governed passion proved her destruction.—Every obliga|tion of virtue and of duty was forgotten, and she prophaned her marriage vows; but her guilt was soon detected, and she would have fallen a sacrifice to the vengeance of her husband, had not her father contrived to convey her from his power. By what means he did this, I never could learn; but he secreted her in this convent, where he afterwards prevailed with her to take the veil, while a report was circulated in the world, that she was dead, and the father, to save his daughter, assisted the rumour, and em|ployed such means as induced her husband to believe she had be|come a victim to his jealousy. You look surprised," added the nun, observing Emily's countenance; "I allow the story is un|common, but not, I believe, without a parallel."

"Pray proceed," said Emily, "I am interested."

"The story is already told," resumed the nun, "I have only to mention, that the long struggle, which Agnes suffered, be|tween love, remorse and a sense of the duties she had taken up|on herself in becoming of our order, at length unsettled her rea|son. At first, she was frantic and melancholy by quick alterna|tives; then she sunk into a deep and settled melancholy, which still, however, has at times, been interrupted by ••its of wildness, and, of late, these have again been frequent."

Emily was affected by the history of the sister, some parts of whose story brought to her remembrance that of the Marchion|ess de Villeroi, who had also been compelled by her father to forsake the object of her affections, for a nobleman of his choice, but, from what Dorothee had related, there appeared no reason to suppose, that she had escaped the vengeance of a jealous hus|band, or to doubt for a moment the innocence of her conduct. But Emily, while she sighed over the misery of the nun, could not forbear shedding a few tears to the misfortunes of the Mar|chioness; and when she returned to the mention of sister Agnes, she asked Frances if she remembered her in her youth, and whether she was then beautiful.

"I was not here at the time, when she took the vows," replied Frances, "which is so long ago, that few of the present sisterhood, I believe, were witnesses of the ceremony; nay, even our lady

mother did not then preside over the convent: but I can remem|ber, when sister Agnes was a very beautiful woman. She retains that air of high rank, which always distinguished her, but her beauty, you must perceive, is fled; I can scarcely discover even a vestige of the loveliness, that once animated her features."

"It is strange," said Emily, "but there are moments, when her countenance has appeared familiar to my memory! You will think me fanciful, and I think myself so, for I certainly nev|er saw sister Agnes, before I came to this convent, and I must, therefore, have seen some person, whom she strongly resembles, though of this I have no recollection."

"You have been interested by the deep melancholy of her countenance," said Frances, "and its impression has probably deluded your imagination; for I might as reasonably think I per|ceived a likeness between you and Agnes, as you, that you have seen her any where but in this convent, since this has been her place of refuge, for nearly as many years as make your age."

"Indeed!" said Emily.

"Yes," rejoined Frances, "and why does that circumstance excite your surprise?"

Emily did not appear to notice this question, but remained thoughtful, for a few moments, and then said, "It was about that same period that the Marchioness de Villeroi expired."

"That is an odd remark," said Frances.

Emily, recalled from her reverie, smiled, and gave the conver|sation another turn, but it soon came back to the subject of the unhappy nun, and Emily remained in the cell of sister Frances, till the midnight bell aroused her; when apologizing for hav|ing interrupted the sister's repose, till this late hour, they quitted the cell together. Emily returned to her chamber, and the nun, bearing a glimmering taper, went to her devotion in the chapel.

Several days followed, during which Emily saw neither the Count, or any of his family; and, when, at length, he appeared, she remarked, with concern, that his air was unusually disturbed.

"My spirits are harrassed," said he, in answer to her anxious inquiries, 'and I mean to change my residence for a little while, an experiment, which, I hope, will restore my mind to its usual tranquillity. My daughter and myself will accompany the Ba|ron St. Foix to his chateau. It lies in a valley of the Pyrenees, that opens towards Gascony, and I have been thinking, Emily, that when you set out for La Vallee, we may go part of the way together; it would be a satisfaction to me to guard you towards your home.

She thanked the Count for his friendly consideration, and la|mented, that the necessity for her going first to Tholouse would render this plan impracticable▪ "But, when you are at the Ba|ron's residence," she added, "you will be only a short journey from La Vallee, and I think, sir, you will not leave the country without visiting me; it is unnecessary to say with what pleasure I should receive you and the Lady Blanche."

"I do not doubt it," replied the Count, "and I will not deny myself and Blanche the pleasure of visiting you, if your affairs should allow you to be at La Vallee, about the time when we can meet you there."

When Emily said that she should hope to see the Countess also, she was not sorry to learn that this lady was going, accompanied by Mademoiselle Bearn, to pay a visit, for a few weeks, to a family in lower Languedoc.

The Count, after some further conversation on his intended journey and on the arrangement of Emily's, took leave; and many days did not succeed this visit, before a second letter from M. Quesnel informed her, that he was then at Tholouse, that La Valle was at liberty, and that he wished her to set off for the former place, where he awaited her arrival, with all pos|sible dispatch, since his own affairs pressed him to return to Gas|cony. Emily did not hesitate to obey him, and, having taken an affecting leave of the Count's family, in which M. Du Pont was still included, and of her friends at the convent, she set out for Tholouse, attended by the unhappy Annette, and guarded by a steady servant of the Count.

CHAP. XLIX.

I ••ll'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thought•• are link'd by many a hidden chain: Awake but one and lo! what 〈◊〉〈◊〉 rise! Each 〈◊〉〈◊〉 its image as the other flies! PLEASURES OF MEMORY.

EMILY pursued her journey, without any accident, along the plains of Languedoc towards the north west; and, on this her return to Tholouse, which she had last left with Madame Montoni, she thought much on the melancholy fate of her aunt, who, but for her own imprudence, might now have been living in happiness there! Montoni, to••, often rose to her fancy, such

as she had seen him in his days of triumph, bold, spirited and commanding; such also as she had since beheld him in his days of vengeance; and now, only a few short months had passed—and he had no longer the power, or the will to afflict;—he had become a clod of earth, and his life was vanished like a shadow! Emily could have wept at his fate, had she not remembered his crimes; for that of her unfortunate aunt she did weep, and all sense of her errors was overcome by the recollection of her mis|fortunes.

Other thoughts and other emotions succeeded, as Emily drew near the well known scenes of her early love, and considered, that Valancourt was lost to her and to himself, for ever. At length, she came to the brow of the hill, whence, on her departure for Italy, she had given a farewel look to this beloved landscape, amongst whose woods and fields she had so often walked with Valancourt, and where he was then to inhabit, when she would be far, far away! She saw, once more, that chain of the Pyre|nees, which overlooked La Vallee, rising, like faint clouds, on the horizon. "There, too, is Gascony, extended at their feet!" said she, "O my father,—my mother! And there, too, is the Garonne!" she added, drying the tears, that obscured her sight, "and Tholouse, and my aunt's mansion, and the groves in her gar|den!—O my friends! are ye all lost to me—must I never, never see ye more!" Tears rushed again to her eyes, and she continued to weep, till an abrupt turn in the road had nearly occasioned the carriage to overset, when, looking up, she perceived another part of the well known scene around Tholouse, and all the reflections and anticipations, which she had suffered, at the moment, when she bade it last adieu, came with recollected force to her heart. She remembered how anxiously she had looked forward to the futurity, which was to decide her happiness concerning Valan|court, and what depressing fears had assailed her; the very words she had uttered, as she withdrew her last look from the prospect, came to her memory. "Could I but be certain," she had then said, "that I should ever return, and that Valancourt would still live for me—I should go in peace!"

Now, that futurity, so anxiously anticipated, was arrived, she was returned—but what a dreary blank appeared!—Valancourt no longer lived for her! She had no longer even the melancholy satisfaction of contemplating his image in her heart, for he was no longer the same Valancourt she had cherished there—the so|lace of many a mournful hour, the animating friend, that had en|abled her to bear up against the oppression of Montoni—the dis|tant

hope, that had beamed over her gloomy prospect! On per|ceiving this beloved idea to be an illusion of her own creation, Valancourt seemed to be annihilated, and her soul sickened at the blank, that remained. His marriage with a rival, even his death, she thought she could have endured with more fortitude, than this discovery; for then, amidst all her grief, she could have looked in secret upon the image of goodness, which her fancy had drawn of him, and comfort would have mingled with her suffering!

Drying her tears, she looked once more upon the landscape, which had excited them, and perceived, that she was passing the very bank where she had taken leave of Valancourt, on the morning of her departure from Tholouse, and she now saw him, through her returning tears, such as he had appeared, when she looked from the carriage to give him a last adieu—saw him leaning mournfully against the high trees, and remembered the fixed look of mingled tenderness and anguish, with which he had then regarded her. This recollection was too much for her heart, and she sunk back in the carriage, nor once looked up, till it stopped at the gates of what was now her own mansion.

These being opened, and by the servant, to whose care the chateau had been entrusted, the carriage drove into the court, where, alighting, she hastily passed through the great hall, now silent and solitary, to a large oak parlour, the common sitting room of the late Madame Montoni, where, instead of being re|ceived by M. Quesnel, she found a letter from him, informing her, that business of consequence had obliged him to leave Tho|louse two days before. Emily was, upon the whole, not sorry to be spared his presence, since his abrupt departure appeared to indicate the same indifference, with which he had formerly re|garded her. This letter informed her, also, of the progress he had made in the settlement of her affairs, and concluded with di|rections, concerning the forms of some business, which remained for her to transact. But M. Quesnel's unkindness did not long occupy her thoughts, which returned to the remembrance of the persons she had been accustomed to see in this mansion, and chiefly of the ill guided and unfortunate Madame Montoni. In the room, where she now sat, she had breakfasted with her on the morning of their departure for Italy; and the view of it brought most forcibly to her recollection all she had herself suffered, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 that time, and the many gay expectations, which her aunt had formed, respecting the journey before her. While Emily's mind was thus engaged, her eyes wandered unconsciously to a large

window, that looked upon the garden, and here new memorials of the past spoke to her heart, for she saw extended before her, the very avenue, in which she had parted with Valancourt, on the eve of her journey; and all the anxiety, the tender interest he had shewn, concerning her future happiness, his earnest remon|strances against her committing herself to the power of Montoni, and the truth of his affection, came afresh to her memory. At this moment, it appeared almost impossible, that Valancourt could have become unworthy of her regard, and she doubted all that she had lately heard to his disadvantage, and even his own words, which had confirmed Count De Villefort's report of him. Over|come by the recollections, which the view of this avenue occa|sioned, she turned abruptly from the window, and sunk into a chair beside it, where she sat, given up to grief, till the entrance of Annette, with coffee, aroused her.

"Dear madam, how melancholy this place looks now," said Annette, "to what it used to do! It is dismal coming home, when there is nobody to welcome one!"

This was not the moment, in which Emily could bear the remark; her tears fell again, and as soon as she had taken the coffee, she retired to her apartment, where she endeavoured to repose her fatigued spirits. But busy memory would still supply her with the visions of former times: she saw Valancourt inter|esting and benevolent, as he had been wont to appear in the days of their early love, and, amidst the scenes, where she had believ|ed that they should sometimes pass their years together!—but, at length, sleep closed▪ these afflicting scenes from her view.

On the following morning, serious occupation recovered her from such melancholy reflections; for, being desirous of quitting Tholouse, and of hastening on to La Vallee, she made some in|quiries into the condition of the estate, and immediately dis|patched a part of the necessary business concerning it, according to the directions of Mons. Quesnel. It required a strong effort to abstract her thoughts from other interests sufficiently to attend to this, but she was rewarded for her exertions by again experi|encing, that employment is the surest antidote to sorrow.

This day was devoted entirely to business; and, among other concerns, she employed means to learn the situation of all her poor tenants, that she might relieve their wants, or confirm their comforts.

In the evening, her spirits were so much strengthened, that she thought she could bear to visit the gardens, where she had so 〈◊〉〈◊〉 walked with Valancourt; and, knowing, that, if she de|layed

to do so, their scenes would only affect her the more, when|ever they should be viewed, she took advantage of the present state of her mind, and entered them.

Passing hastily the gate leading from the court into the gar|dens, she hurried up the great avenue, scarcely permitting her memory to dwell for a moment on the circumstance of her hav|ing here parted with Valancourt, and soon quitted this for other walks less interesting to her heart. These brought her, at length, to the flight of steps, that led from the lower garden to the ter|race, on seeing which, she became agitated, and hesitated whether to ascend, but, her resolution returning, she proceeded.

"Ah!" said Emily, as she ascended, "these are the same high trees, that used to wave over the terrace, and these the same flowery thickets—the libernum, the wild rose, and the cerinthe, which were wont to grow beneath them! Ah! and there, too, on that bank, are the very plants, which Valancourt so carefully reared!—O when last I saw them!"—She checked the thought, but could not restrain her tears, and, after walking slowly on for a few moments, her agitation, upon the view of this well known scene, increased so much, that she was obliged to stop, and lea•••• upon the wall of the terrace. It was a mild, and beautiful even|ing. The sun was setting over the extensive landscape, to which his beams, sloping from beneath a dark cloud, that overhung the west, gave rich and partial colouring, and touched the tufted summits of the groves, that rose from the garden below, with a yellow gleam. Emily and Valancourt had often admired to|gether this scene, at the same hour; and it was exactly on this spot, that, on the night preceding her departure for Italy, she had listened to his remonstrances against the journey, and to the pleadings of passionate affection. Some observations, which she made on the landscape, brought this to her remembrance, and with it all the minute particulars of that conversation: the alarm|ing doubts he had expressed concerning Montoni, doubts, which had since been fatally confirmed; the reasons and entreaties he had employed to prevail with her to consent to an immediate marriage; the tenderness of his love, the paroxysms of his grief, and the conviction he had repeatedly expressed, that they should never meet again in happiness! All these circumstances rose afresh to her mind, and awakened the various emotions she had then suffered. Her tenderness for Valancourt became as power|ful as in the moments, when she thought, that she was parting with him and happiness together, and when the strength of her mind had enabled her to triumph over present suffering, rather

than to deserve the reproach of her conscience by engaging in a clandestine marriage. "Alas!" said Emily, as these recollec|tions came to her mind, "and what have I gained by the forti|tude I then practised?—am I happy now?—He said, we should meet no more in happiness; but, O! he little thought his own misconduct would separate us, and lead to the very evil he then dreaded!"

Her reflections increased her anguish, while she was compell|ed to acknowledge, that the fortitude she had formerly exerted, if it had not conducted her to happiness, had saved her from irre|trievable misfortune—from Valancourt himself! But in these moments she could not congratulate herself on the prudence, that had saved her; she could only lament, with bitterest anguish, the circumstances, which had conspired to betray Valancourt into a course of life so different from that, which the virtues, the taste, and the pursuits of his early years had promised; but she still loved him too well to believe, that his heart was even now de|praved, though his conduct had been criminal. An observation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubert more than once, now oc|curred to her. "This young man," said he, speaking of Valan|court, "has never been at Paris;" a remark, that had surprised her at the time it was uttered, but which she now understood, and she exclaimed sorrowfully, "O Valancourt! if such a friend as my father had been with you at Paris—your noble, ingenuous nature would not have fallen!"

The sun was now set, and, recalling her thoughts from their mel|ancholy subject, she continued her walk; for the pensive shade of twilight was pleasing to her, and the nightingales from the surrounding groves began to answer each other in the long drawn, plaintive note, which always touched her heart; while all the fragrance of the flowery thickets, that bounded the terrace, was awakened by the cool evening air, which floated so lightly among their leaves, that they scarcely trembled as it passed.

Emily came, at length, to the steps of the pavilion, that ter|minated the terrace, and where her last interview with Valan|court, before her departure from Tholouse, had so unexpectedly taken place. The door was now shut, and she trembled, while she hesitated whether to open it; but her wish to see again a place, which had been the chief scene of her former happiness, at length overcoming her reluctance to encounter the painful regret it would renew, she entered. The room was obscured by a mel|ancholy shade; but through the open lattices, darkened by the hanging foliage of the vines, appeared the dusky landscape, th••

Garonne reflecting the evening light, and the west still glowing. A chair was placed near one of the balconies, as if some person had been sitting there, but the other furniture of the pavilion remained exactly as usual, and Emily thought it looked as if it had not once been moved since she set out for Italy. The silent and deserted air of the place added solemnity to her emotions, for she heard only the low whisper of the breeze, as it shook the leaves of the vines, and the very faint murmur of the Garonne.

She seated herself in a chair, near the lattice, and yielded to the sadness of her heart, while she recollected the circumstances of her parting interview with Valancourt, on this spot. It was here too, that she had passed some of the happiest hours of her life with him, when her aunt favoured the connection, for here she had often sat and worked, while he conversed, or read; and she now well remembered with what discriminating judgment, with what tempered energy, he used to repeat some of the sub|limest passages of their favourite authors; how often he would pause to admire with her their excellence, and with what ten|der delight he would listen to her remarks, and correct her taste.

"And is it possible," said Emily, as these recollections re|turned, "is it possible, that a mind so susceptible of whatever is grand and beautiful, could stoop to low pursuits, and be sub|dued by frivolous temptations?"

She remembered how often she had seen the sudden tear start in his eye, and had heard his voice tremble with emotion, while he related any great or benevolent action, or repeated a senti|ment of the same character. "And such a mind," said she, "such a heart, were to be sacrificed to the habits of a great city!"

These recollections becoming too painful to be endured, she abruptly left the pavilion, and, anxious to escape from the me|morials of her departed happiness, returned towards the cha|teau. As she passed along the terrace, she perceived a person, walking with a slow step, and a dejected air, under the trees, at some distance. The twilight, which was now deep, would not allow her to distinguish who it was, and▪ she imagined it to be one of the servants, till, the sound of her steps seeming to reach him, he turned half round, and she thought she saw Valancourt!

Whoever it was, he instantly struck among the thickets on the left, and disappeared, while Emily, her eyes fixed on the place whence he had vanished, and her frame trembling so excessively, that she could scarcely support herself, remained, for some mo|ments, unable to quit the spot, and scarcely conscious of existence.

With her recollection, her strength returned, and she hurried to|ward the house, where she did not venture to inquire who had been in the gardens, lest she should betray her emotion; and she sat down alone, endeavouring, to recollect the figure, air and fea|tures of the person she had just seen. Her view of him, how|ever, had been so transient, and the gloom had rendered it so imperfect, that she could remember nothing with exactness; yet the general appearance of his figure, and his abrupt departure, made her still believe that this person was Valancourt. Sometimes, indeed, she thought, that her fancy, which had been occupied by the idea of him, had suggested his image to her uncertain sight: but this conjecture was fleeting. If it was himself, whom she had seen, she wondered much, that he should be at Tholouse, and more, how he had gained admittance into the garden; but as often as her impatience prompted her to inquire whether any stranger had been admitted, she was restrained by an unwilling|ness to betray her doubts, and the evening was passed in anxi|ous conjecture, and in efforts to dismiss the subject from her thoughts. But these endeavours were ineffectual, and a thous|and inconsistent emotions assailed her, whenever she fancied that Valancourt might be near her; now she dreaded it to be true, and now she feared it to be false; and, while she constantly tri|ed to persuade herself, that she wished the person, whom she had seen, might not be Valancourt, her heart as constantly con|tradicted her reason.

The following day was occupied by the visits of several neigh|bouring families, formerly intimate with Madame Montoni, who came to condole with Emily on her death, to congratulate her upon the acquisition of these estates, and to inquire about Mon|toni, and concerning the strange reports they had heard of her own situation; all which was done with the utmost decorum, and the visitors departed with as much composure as they had arrived.

Emily was wearied by these formalities, and disgusted by the subservient manners of many persons, who had thought her scarcely worthy of common attention, while she was believed to be a dependant of Madame Montoni.

"Surely," said she, "there is some magic in wealth, which can thus make persons pay their court to it, when it does not even bene|fit themselves. How strange it is that a fool or a knave, with riches, should be treated with more respect by the world, than a good man, or a wise man in poverty!"

It was evening, before she was left alone, and she then wished to have refreshed her spirits, in the free air of her garden; but

she feared to go thither, lest she should meet again the person, whom she had seen on the preceding night, and he should prove to be Valancourt. The suspense and anxiety she suffered, on this subject, she found all her efforts unable to controul, and her secret wish to see Valancourt once more, though unseen by him, powerfully prompted her to go, but prudence and a delicate pride restrained her, and she determined to avoid the possibility of throwing herself in his way, by forbearing to visit the gar|dens, for several days.

When, after near a week, she again ventured thither, she made Annette her companion, and confined her walk to the low|er grounds, but often started as the leaves rustled in the breeze, imagining, that some person was among the thickets; and, at the turn of every alley, she looked forward with apprehen|sive expectation. She pursued her walk thoughtfully and silent|ly, for her agitation would not suffer her to converse with An|nette, to whom, however, thought and silence were so intolera|ble, that she did not scruple at length to talk to her mistress.

"Dear madam," said she, "why do you start so? one would think you knew what has happened."

"What has happened?" said Emily in a faltering voice, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 trying to command her emotion.

"The night before last, you know, madam"—

"I know nothing, Annette," replied her lady in a more hur|ried voice.

"The night before last, madam, there was a robber in the garden."

"A robber," said Emily, in an eager, yet doubting tone.

"I suppose he was a robber, madam. What else could he he?"

"Where did you see him, Annette?" rejoined Emily, look|ing round her, and turning back towards the chateau.

"It was not I that saw him, madam, it was Jean the garden|er. It was twelve o'clock at night, and as he was coming across the court to go the back way into the house, what should ••e see—but somebody walking in the avenue, that fronts the garden gate! So, with that, Jean guessed how it was, and he went into the house for his gun."

"His gun!" exclaimed Emily.

"Yes, madam, his gun; and then he came out into the court to watch him, presently he sees him come slowly down the avenue, and lean over the garden gate, and look up at the house for a long time; and I warrant he examined it well, and settled what window he should break in at."

"But the gun," said Emily—"the gun!"

"Yes, madam, all in good time. Presently, Jean says, the robber opened the gate, and was coming into the court, and then he thought proper to ask him his business: so he called out again, and bade him say who he was, and what he wanted. But the man would do neither; but turned upon his heel, and passed into the garden again. Jean knew then well enough how it was, and so he fired after him."

"Fired!" exclaimed Emily.

"Yes, madam, fired off his gun; but, Holy Virgin! ••hat makes you look so pale, madam? The man was not killed,—I dare say; but if he was, his comrades carried him off: for when Jean went in the morning, to look for the body, it was gone, and nothing to be seen but a track of blood on the ground. Jean followed it, that he might find out where the man got into the garden, but it was lost in the grass, and"—

Annette was interrupted: for Emily's spirits died away, and she would have fallen to the ground, if the girl had not caught her, and supported her to a bench, close to them.

When, after a long absence, her senses returned, Emily desir|ed to be led to her apartment; and, though she trembled with anxiety to inquire further on the subject of her alarm, she found herself too ill at present, to dare the intelligence which it was possible she might receive of Valancourt. Having dismiss|ed Annette, that she might weep and think at liberty, she endeavoured to recollect the exact air of the person, whom she had seen on the terrace, and still her fancy gave her the figure of Valancourt. She had, indeed, scarcely a doubt, that it was he whom she had seen, and at whom the gardener had fired: for the manner of the latter person, as described by Annette, was not that of a robber•• nor did it appear probable, that a robber would have come 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to break into a house so spacious as this.

When Emily thought herself sufficiently recovered, to listen to what Jean might have to relate, she sent for him; but he could inform her of no circumstance, that might lead to a knowl|edge of the person, who had been shot, or of the consequence of the wound; and, after severely reprimanding him, for having fired with bullets, and ordering diligent inquiry to be made in the neighbourhood for the discovery of the wounded person, she dismissed him, and herself remained in the same state of terrible suspense. All the tenderness she had ever felt for Valancourt, was recalled by the sense of his danger; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the more she con|sidered the subject, the more her conviction strengthened, that it

was he, who had visited the gardens, for the purpose of soothing the misery of disappointed affection, amidst the scenes of his former happiness.

"Dear madam," said Annette, when she returned, "I never saw you so affected before; I dare say the man is not killed."

Emily shuddered, and lamented bitterly the rashness of the gardener in having fired.

"I knew you would be angry enough about that, madam, or I should have told you before; and he knew so too; for, says he, 'Annette, say nothing about this to my lady. She lies on the other side of the house, so did not hear the gun, perhaps; but she would be angry with me, if she knew, seeing there is blood. But then,' says he, 'how is one to keep the garden clear, if one is afraid to fire ••t a robber, when one sees him?"

"No more of this," said Emily, "pray leave me."

Annette obeyed, and Emily returned to the agonizing consid|erations, that had assailed her before, but which she, at length, endeavoured to sooth by a new remark. If the stranger was Valancourt, it was certain he had come alone, and it appeared, therefore, that he had been able to quit the gardens, without as|sistance; a circumstance which did not seem probable, had his wound been dangerous. With this consideration, she endeavour|ed to support herself, during the inquiries, that were making by her servants in the neighbourhood; but day after day came, and still closed in uncertainty, concerning this affair▪ and Emily suf|fering in silence, at length, drooped, and sunk under the pressure of her anxiety. She was attacked by a slow fever, and when she yielded to the persuasion of Annette to send for medical advice▪ the physicians prescribed little beside air, gentle excercise and a|musement: but how was this last to be obtained? She, however, endeavoured to abstract her thoughts from the subject of her anx|iety, by employing them in promoting that happiness in others, which she had lost herself; and, when the evening was fine, she usually took an airing, including in her ride the cottages of some of her tenants, on whose condition she made such observations, as often enabled her, unasked, to fulfil their wishes.

Her indisposition, and the business she engaged in, relative to this estate, had already protracted her stay at Tholouse, beyond the period she had formerly fixed for her departure to La Vallee; and now she was unwilling to leave the only place, where it seemed possible, that certainty could be obtained on the subject of her distress. But the time was come, when her presence was neces|sary at La Vallee, a letter from the Lady Blanche now informing

her, that the Count and herself, being then at the chateau of the Baron St. Foix, purposed to visit her at La Vallee, on their way home as soon they should be informed of her arrival there. Blanche added, that they made this visit, with the hope of in|ducing her to return with them to Chateau-le-Blanc.

Emily, having replied to the letter of her friend, and said that she should be at La Vallee in a few days, made hasty prepara|tions for the journey; and, in thus leaving Tholouse, endeav|oured to support herself with a belief, that, if any fatal accident had happened to Valancourt, she must in this interval have heard of it.

On the evening before her departure, she went to take leave of the terrace and the pavilion. The day had been sultry, but a light shower, that fell just before sunset, had cooled the air, and given that soft verdure to the woods and pastures, which is so refreshing to the eye; while the rain drops still trembling on the shrubs, glittered in the last yellow gleam, that lighted up the scene, and the air was filled with fragrance, exhaled by the late shower from herbs and flowers and from the earth itself. But the lovely prospect, which Emily beheld from the terrace, was no longer viewed by her with delight; she sighed deeply as her eye wandered over it, and her spirits were in a state of such dejection, that she could not think of her approaching return to La Vallee, without tears and seemed▪ to mourn again the death of her father, as if it had been an event of yesterday.

Having reached the pavilion, she seated herself at the open l••ttice, and while her eyes settled on the distant mountains, that overlooked Gascony, still gleaming on the horizon, though the sun had now left the plains below, "Alas!" said she, "I return to your long lost scenes, but shall meet no more the parents, that were wont to render them delightful! no more shall see the smile of welcome, or hear the well known voice of fondness:—all will now be cold and silent in what was once my happy home."

Tears stole down her cheek, as the remembrance of what that home had been, returned to her; but, after indulging her sor|row for sometime, she checked it, accusing herself of ingrati|tude in forgetting the friends, that she possessed, while she la|mented those that were departed; and she at length, left the pa|vilion and the terrace, without having observed a shadow of Valancourt or of any other person.

CHAP. L.

"Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade! Ah fields belov'd in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel ••he gales, that from ye blow, A momentary bliss bestow As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to sooth." GRAY.

ON the following morning, Emily left Tholouse at an early hour, and reached La Vallee about sunset. With the melancholy she experienced on the review of a place which had been the re|sidence of her parents, and the scene of her earliest delight, was mingled, after the first shock had subsided, a tender and unde|scribable pleasure. For time had so far blunted the acuteness of her grief, that she now courted every scene, that awakened the memory of her friends; in every room, where she had been accustomed to see them, they almost seemed to live again; and she felt that La Vallee was still her happiest home. One of the first apartments she visited, was that, which had been her father's library, ••nd here she seated herself in his arm chair, and, while she contemplated, with tempered resignation, the picture of past times, which her memory gave, the tears she shed could scarcely be called those of grief.

Soon after her arrival, she was surprised by a visit from the venerable M. Barreaux, ••ho came impatiently to welcome the daughter of his late respected neighbour to her long deserted home. Emily was comforted by the presence of an old friend, and they passed an interesting hour in conversing of former times, and i•• relating some of the circumstances, that had occurred to each, since they parted.

The evening was so far advanced, when M. Barreaux left Emily, that she could no•• visit the garden that night; but, on the following morning, she traced its 〈◊〉〈◊〉 regretted scenes with fond impatience; and, as she walked beneath the groves, which her father had planted, and where she had so 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 in affectionate conversation with him, his countenance, ••••s smile, even the accents of his voice, returned with exactness ••o her fan|cy, and her heart melted to the tender recollections.

This, too, was his favourite season of the year, at which they had often together admired the rich and variegated tints of these

woods and the magical effect of autumnal lights upon the moun|tains; and now, the view of these circumstances made memory eloquent. As she wandered pensively on, she fancied the fol|lowing address

TO AUTUMN.

Sweet Autumn! how thy melancholy grace Steals on my heart, as through th••se shades I wind! Sooth••d by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace Each lonely image of the pensive mind! Lov'd scenes, lov'd friends—long lost! around me rise, And wake the melting thought, the tender tear! That ••ear, that thought, which more than mirth I prize— Sweet as the gradual tint, that paints thy year! Thy farewel smile, with fond regret▪ I view, Thy beaming lights, soft gliding o'er the woods; Thy distant landscape, touch'd with yellow hue While falls the lengthen'd gleam; thy winding floods, Now veil'd in shade, save where the skiff's white ••ails Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming ray. But now, e'en now!—the partial vision fails, And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away! Emblem of life!—Thus checquer'd is its plan, Thus joy succeeds to grief—thus smiles the varied man!

One of Emily's earliest inquiries, after her arrival at La Val|lee, was concerning Theresa, her father's old servant, whom it ••ay be remembered that M. Quesnel had turned from the house when it was let, without any provision. Understanding that she lived in a cottage at no great distance, Emily walked thither, and, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Approaching, was pleased to see, that her habitation was pleas|antly situated on a green slope, sheltered by a tuft of oaks, and had an appearance of comfort and extreme neatness. She found the old woman within, picking vinestalks, who on perceiving her young mistress, was nearly overcome with joy.

"Ah! my dear young lady!" said she, "I thought I should never see you again in this world, when I heard you was gone to that outlandish country. I have been hardly used, since you went; I little thought they would have turned me out of my old master's family in my old age!"

Emily lamented the circumstance, and then assured her, that ••he would make her latter days comfortable, and expressed sat|isfaction, on seeing her in so pleasant an habitation.

Theresa thanked her with tears, adding, "Yes, mademoiselle, it is a very comfortable home, thanks to the kind friend

who took me out of my distress, when you was too far off to help me, and placed me here! I little thought!—but no more of that—"

"And who was this kind friend?" said Emily: "whoever it was, I shall consider him as mine also."

"Ah mademoiselle! that friend forbade me to blazon the good deed—I must not say, who it was. But how you are al|tered since I saw you last! You look so pale now, and so thin, too; but then, there is my old master's smile•• Yes, that will never leave you, any more than the goodness, that used to make him smile. Alas-a-day! the poor lost a friend indeed, when he died!"

Emily was affected by this mention of her father, which The|resa observing, changed the subject. "I heard, mademoiselle," said she, "that Madame Cheron married a foreign gentleman, after all, and took you abroad how does she do?"

Emily now mentioned her death. "Alas!" said Theresa, "if she had not been my master's sister, I should never have loved her; she was always so cross. But how does that dear young gentleman do, M. Valancourt? he was an handsome youth, and a good one; is he well, mademoiselle?"

Emily was much agitated.

"A blessing on him!" continued Theresa. Ah, my dear young lady, you need not look so shy; I know all about it. Do you think that I do not know that he loves you? Why, when you was away, mademoiselle, he used to come to the chateau, and walk about it, so disconsolate! He would go into every room in the lower part of the house, and, sometimes, he would sit himself down in a chair, with his arms across, and his 〈◊〉〈◊〉 on the floor, and there he would sit, and think, and think 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the hour together. He used to be very fond of the south par|lour, because I told him it used to be yours; and there 〈◊〉〈◊〉 would stay, looking at the pictures, which I said you drew, and playing upon your lute, that hung up by the window, and read|ing in your books till sunset, and then he must go back 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his brother's chateau. And then—"

"It is enough, Theresa," said Emily.—"How long have you lived in this cottage—and how can I serve you? will you remain here, or return and live with me?"

"Nay, mademoiselle!" said Theresa, "do not be so shy to your poor old servant. I am sure it is no disgrace to like such a good young gentleman."

A deep sigh escaped from Emily.

"Ah! how he did love to talk of you! I loved him for that. Nay, for that matter, he liked to hear me talk, for he did not say much himself. But I soon found out what he came to the chateau about. Then, he would go into the garden, and down to the terrace, and sit under that great tree 〈◊〉〈◊〉, for the day to|gether, with one of your books in his hand; but he did not read much, I fancy; for one day I happened to go that way, and I heard somebody talking. Who can be here? says I: I am sure I let nobody into the garden, but the Chevalier! So I walked softly to see who it could be; and behold it was the Chevalier himself, talking to himself about you. And he re|peated your name, and sighed so! and said he had lost you for ever, for that you would never return for him. I thought he was out in his reckoning there, but I said nothing, and stole away."

"No more of this trifling," said Emily, awakening from her reverie: "it displeases me."

"But when M. Quesnel let the chateau, I thought it would have broke the Chevalier's heart."

"Theresa," said Emily seriously, "you must name the Che|valier no more!"

"Not name him, mademoiselle!" cried Theresa: "what times are come up now? Why I love the Chevalier next to my old master and you, mademoiselle."

"Perhaps your love was not well bestowed, then," replied Emily, trying to conceal her tears; "but, however that might ••e, we shall meet no more."

"Meet no more!—not well bestowed!" exclaimed Theresa. "What do I hear? No, mademoiselle, my love was well be|stowed, for it was the Chevalier Valancourt, who gave me this cottage, and has supported me in my old age, ever since M. Quesnel turned me from my master's house."

"The Chevalier Valancourt!" said Emily, trembling ex|tremely.

"Yes, mademoiselle, he himself, though he made me promise not to tell; but how could one help, when one heard him ill spoken of? Ah! dear young lady, you may well weep, if you have behaved unkindly to him, for a more tender heart than his never young gentleman had. He found me out in my distress when you was too far off to help me; and M. Quesnel refused to do so, and bade me go to service again—Alas! I was too old for that!—The Chevalier found me, and bought me this cot|tage, and gave me m••••ey to furnish it, and bade me seek out another poor woman to live with me; and he ordered his broth|er's

steward to pay me, every quarter, that which has support|ed me in comfort. Think then, mademoiselle, whether I have not reason to speak well of the Chevalier. And there are oth|ers who could have afforded it better than he: and I am afraid he has hurt himself by his generosity, for quarter day is gone by long since, and no money for me! But do not weep so, made|moiselle: youarenot sorry surely to hear of the poor Cheva|lier's goodness."

"Sorry!" said Emily, and wept the more. "But how long is it since you have seen him?"

"Not this many a day, mademoiselle."

"When did you hear of him?" inquired Emily, with increas|ed emotion.

"Alas! never since he went away so suddenly into Languedoc; and he was but just come from Paris then, or I should have seen him, I am sure. Quarter day is gone by long since, and, as I said, no money for me; and I begin to fear some harm has hap|pened to him: and if I was not so far from Estuviere, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 lame, I should have gone to inquire before this time; and I have nobody to send so far.

Emily's anxiety, as to the fate of Valancourt, was now scarce|ly endurable, and, since propriety would not suffer her to send to the chateau of his brother, she requested that Theresa would im|mediately hire some person to go to his steward from herself, and, when he asked for the quarterage due to her, to make inquiries concerning Valancourt. But she first made Theresa promise never to mention her name in this affair, or ever with that of the Chevalier Valancourt; and her former faithfulness to M. St. Aubert induced Emily to confide in her assurances. There•••• now joyfully undertook to procure a person for this errand, and then Emily, after giving her a sum of money to supply her with present comforts, returned, with spirits heavily oppressed, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 her home, lamenting, more than ever, than an heart, possessed of so much benevolence as Valancourt's, should have been contamin|ated by the vices of the world, but affected by the delicate af|fection, which his kindness to her old servant expressed for her|self.

CHAP. LI.

—"Light thickens, and the crow Makes win•• to the ••ooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop, and drowze: While night's black agents to their preys do rouze." MACBETH.

MEANWHILE Count De Villefort and Lady Blanche had passed a pleasant fortnight at the chateau de St. Foix, with the Baron and Baroness, during which they made frequent excur|sions among the mountains, and were delighted with the romantic wi••dness of Pyrenean scenery. It was with regret, that the Count bade adieu to his old friends, although with the hope of being soon united with them in one family; for it was settled, that M. St. F••ix, who now attended them into Gascony, should receive the hand of the Lady Blanche, upon their arrival at Chateau-le-Blanc. As the road, from the Baron's residence to La Vallee, was over some of the wildest tract of the Pyrenees, and where a carriage wheel had never passed, the Count hired mules for him|self and his family, as well as a couple of stout guides, who were well armed, informed of all the p••ss•••• of the mountains, and who boasted, too, that they were acquainted with every brake and dingle in the way, could tell the names of all the highest points of this chain of Alps. knew every forest, that spread along their narrow vallies, the shallowest part of every torrent they must cross, and the exact distance of every goat-herd's and hun|ter's cabin they should have occasion to pass,—which last article of learning required no very capacious memory, for even such simple inhabitants were but thinly scattered over these wilds.

The Count left the chateau de St. Foix, early in the morning, with an intention of passing the night at a little inn upon the mountains, about half way to La Vallee, of which his guides had informed him; and, though this was frequented chiefly by Spanish muleteers, on their rouse 〈◊〉〈◊〉 France, and, of course, would afford only sorry accommodation•• the Count had no alter|native, for it was the only place like an inn, on the road.

After a day of admiration and fatigue, the travellers found themselves about sunset, in a woody valley, overlooked, on every 〈◊〉〈◊〉, by abrupt heights. They had proceeded for many leagues, without seeing a human habitation, and had only heard, now and then, at a distance, the melancholy tinkling of a sheep-bell; but now they caught the notes of merry music, and presently saw,

within a little green recess among the rocks, a group of moun|taineers, tripping through a ••ance. The Count, who could not look upon the happiness, any more than on the misery of others, with indifference, halted to enjoy this scene of simple pleasure. The group before him consisted of French and Spanish peasants, the inhabitants of a neighbouring hamlet, some of whom were performing a sprightly dance, the women with castanets in their hands, to the sounds of a lute and a tamborine, till, from the brisk melody of France, the music softened into a slow move|ment, to which two female peasants danced a Spanish Pavan.

The Count, comparing this with the scenes of such gaiety a•• he had witnessed at Paris, where false taste painted the features, and, while it vainly tried to supply the glow of nature, concealed the charms of animation—where affectation so often distorted the air, and vice perverted the manners—sighed to think, that natu|ral graces and innocent pleasures flourished in the wilds of soli|tude, while they drooped amidst the concourse of polished soci|ety. But the lengthening shadows reminded the travellers, that they had no time to lose; and, leaving this joyous group, they pursued their way towards the little inn, which was to shelter them from the night.

The rays of the setting sun now threw a yellow gleam upon the forests of pine and chesnut, that swept down the lower region of the mountains, and gave resplendent tints to the snowy points above. But soon, even this light faded fast, and the scenery as|sumed a more tremenduous appearance, invested with the obscu|rity of twilight. Where the torrent had been seen, it was now only heard; where the wild cliffs had displayed every variety of form and attitude a dark mass of mountains now alone appeared; and the vale, which far, far below had opened its dreadful chas••, the eye could no longer fathom. A melancholy gleam still lin|gered on the summits of the highest Alps, overlooking the deep repose of evening, and seeming to make the stillness of the hour 〈◊〉〈◊〉 awful.

Blanche viewed the scene in silence, and listened with enthusi|asm to the murmur of the pines, that extended in dark lines along the mountains, and to the faint voice of the izard, among the rocks, that came at intervals on the air. But her enthusiasm sunk into apprehension, when, as the shadows deepened, she look|ed upon the doubtful precipice, that bordered the road, as well as on the various fantastic forms of danger, that glimmered through the obscurity beyond it; and she asked her father, how far they were from the inn, and whether he did not consider the

road to be dangerous at this late hour. The Count repeated the first question to the guides, who returned a doubtful answer, ad|ding, that when it was darker, it would be safest to rest till the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 rose. "It is scarcely safe to proceed now," said the Count; but ••••e guides assuring him that there was no danger, went on. Blanche, revived by this assurance, again indulged a pensive plea|sure, as she watched the progress of twilight gradually spreading its 〈◊〉〈◊〉 over the woods and mountains, and stealing from the eye every minuter feature of the scene, till the grand outlines of nature alone remained. Then fell the silent dews, and every wild flower, and aromatic plant, that bloomed among the cliffs, breathed forth its sweetness; then, too, when the mountain-bee had crept into its blossomed bed, and the hum of every little in|sect, that had floated gaily in the sunbeam, was hushed, the found of many streams, not heard till now, murmured at a dis|tance. The bats alone, of all the animals inhabiting this region, seemed awake; and, while they flitted across the silent path, which Blanche was pursuing, she remembered the following lines which Emily had given her:

TO THE BAT.

From haunt of man, from day's obtrusive glare, Tho•• shroud'st thee in the ruin's ivv'd tow'r, Or in some shadowy glen's romantic bow'r, Where wizard forms their mystic charms prepare, Where Horror lurks and ever-boding Care! But, at the sweet and silent ev'ning hour. When clos'd in sleep is ev'ry languid flow'r, Thou lov'st to sport upon the twilight air, Mocking the eye, that would by course pursue, In many a wanton-round, elastic, gay, Thou flit'st athwart the pensive wand'rer's way, As his lone footsteps print the mountain-dew. From Indian isles thou com'st, with summer's car, Twilight thy love—thy guide her beaming star!

To a warm imagination, the dubious forms, that float, half veiled in darkness, afford a higher delight, than the most distinct scenery, that the sun can shew. While the fancy thus wanders over landscapes partly of its own creation, a sweet complacency steals upon the mind, and

Refines it all to subtlest feeling, Bids the tear of rapture roll.

The distant note of a torrent, the weak trembling of the breeze among the woods, or the far-off sound of a human voice,

now lost and heard again, are circumstances which wonderfully heighten the enthusiastic tone of the mind. The young St. Foix, who saw the presentations of a fervid fancy, and felt whatever enthusiasm could suggest, sometimes interrupted the si|lence, which the rest of the party seemed by mutual consent to preserve, remarking and pointing out to Blanche the most strik|ing effect of the hour upon the scenery; while Blanche, whose apprehensions were beguiled by the conversation of her lover, yielded to the taste so congenial to his, and they conversed in a low restrained voice, the effect of the pensive tranquillity, which twilight and the scene inspired rather than of any fear that they should be heard. But, while the heart was thus soothed to ten|derness, St. Foix gradually mingled, with his admiration of the country, a mention of his affection; and he continued to speak, and Blanche to listen, till the mountains, the woods, and the magical illusions of twilight were remembered no more.

The shadows of evening soon shifted to the gloom of night, which was somewhat anticipated by the vapours, that, gathering fast round the mountains, rolled in dark wreathes along their sides; and the guides proposed to rest, till the moon should rise, adding, that they thought a storm was coming on. As they looked round for a spot, that might afford some kind of shelter, an object was perceived obscurely through the dusk, on a point of rock, a little way down the mountain, which they imagined to be a hunter's or a shepherd's cabin, and the party, with cau|tious steps, proceeded towards it. Their labour, however, was not rewarded, or their apprehensions soothed; for, on reaching the object of their search, they discovered a monumental cross, which marked the spot to have been polluted by murder.

The darkness would not permit them to read the inscriptio••▪ but the guides know this to be a cross, raised to the memory of a Count de Beliard, who had been murdered here by a hoard of banditti, that had infested this part of the Pyrenees, a few years before; and the uncommon 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of the monument seemed to justify the supposition, that it was erected for a person of some distinction. Blanche shuddered, as she listened to some horrid particulars of the Count's fa••••, which one of the guides related in a low, restrained tone, as if the sound of his own voice frightened him; but, while they lingered at the cross, attending to his narrative, a flash of lightning glanced upon the rocks, thunder muttered at a distance, and the traveller, now alarmed, quitted this scene of solitary horror, in search of shelter.

Having regained their former 〈◊〉〈◊〉, the guides 〈◊〉〈◊〉 they pass|ed on, endeavoured to interest the Count by various stro••es of

robbery, and even of murder, which had been perpetrated in the very places they must unavoidably pass, with accounts of their own dauntless courage and wonderful escapes. The chief guide, or rather he, who was the most completely armed, drawing forth one of the four pistols that were tucked into his belt, swore, that it had sho•• three robbers within the year. He then brandished a clasp-knife of enormous length, and was going to recount the wonderful execution it had done, when St. Foix, perceiving, that Blanche was terrified, interrupted him. The Count, mean|while, secretly laughing at the terrible histories and extravagant boastings of the man, resolved to humour him, and, telling Blanche in a whisper, his design, beg••n to recount some exploits of his own, which infinitely exceeded any related by the guide.

To these surprising circumstances he so artfully gave the col|ouring of truth, that the courage of the guides was visibly af|fected by them, who continued silent, long after the Count had ceased to speak. The loquacity of the chief hero thus laid asleep, the vigilance of his eyes and ears seemed more thorough|ly awakened, for he listened with much appearance of anxiety, to the deep thunder, which murmured at intervals, and often paused, as the breeze, that was now rising, rushed among the pines. But, when he made a sudden 〈◊〉〈◊〉 before a tuft of cork trees, that projected over the road, and drew forth a pistol, be|fore he would venture to brave the banditti which might lurk behind it, the Count could no longer refrain from laughter.

Having now, however, arrived at a level spot, somewhat shel|tered from the air, by overhanging cliffs and by a wood of larch, that rose over a precipice on the left, and the guides being yet ignorant how far they were from the inn, the travellers deter|mined to rest, till the moon should rise, or the storm disperse. Blanche, recalled, to a sense of the present moment, looked on the surrounding gloom, with terror; but giving her hand to St. Foix, she alighted, and the whole party entered a kind of cave, if such it could be called, which was only a shallow cavity, formed by the curve of impending rocks. A light being struck, a fire was kindled, whose blaz•• afforded some degree of cheer|fulness and no small comfort, fo••, though the day had been hot, the night air of this mountainous region was chilling; a fire was partly necessary also to keep off the wolves, with which those wilds were infested.

Provisions being spread upon a projection of the rock, the Count and his family partook of a supper, which, in a scene-less rude, would certainly have been thought less excellent.

When the repast was finished, St. Foix, impatient for the moon, sauntered along the precipice, to a point, that fronted the east; but all was yet wrapt in gloom, and the silence of night was broken only by the murmuring of woods, that waved far below, or by distant thunder, and, now and then, by the faint voices of the party he had quitted. He viewed, with emotions of awful sublimity, the long volumes of sulphurous clouds, that floated along the upper and middle regions of the air, and the light|nings, that flashed from them, sometimes silently, and, at oth|ers, followed by sullen peals of thunder, which the mountains feebly prolonged. while the whole horizon, and the abyss, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 which he stood, were discovered in the momentary light. Upon the succeeding darkness, the fire, which had been kindled in the cave, threw a partial gleam, illumining some points of the op|posite rocks, and the summits of pine woods, that hung beetling on the cliffs below, while their recesses seemed to frown in deeper shade.

St. Foix stopped to observe the picture, which the party in the cave presented, where the elegant form of Blanche was finely contrasted by the majestic figure of the Count, who was ••eared by her on a rude stone, and each was rendered more impressive by the grotesque habits and strong features of the guides and other attendants, who were in the back ground of the piece.—The effect of the light, too, was interesting; on the surrounding figures it threw a strong, though pale gleam, and glittered on their bright arms; while upon the foliage of a gigantic larch, that impended its shade over the cliff above, appeared a red▪ dusky tint, deepening almost imperceptibly into the blackness of night.

While St. Foix contemplated the scene, the moon, broad and yellow, rose over the eastern summits, from among embattled clouds, and shewed dimly the grandeur of the heavens, the mass of vapours, that rolled half way down the precipice beneath, and the doubtful mountains.

"What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime, Like shipwreck'd mariner on desart coast, And view th' enormous waste of vapour, tost In billows length'ning to th' horizon round!"* 2.1

From this romantic reverie he was awakened by the voices of the guides, repeating his name, which was reverbed from cliff to

••liff, till an hundred tongues seemed to call him; when he soon quieted the fears of the Count and the Lady Blanche, by re|turning to the cave. As the storm however, seemed approaching, they did not quit their place of shelter; and the Count seated between his daughter and St. Foix, endeavoured to divert the fears of the former, and conversed on subjects, relating to the natural history of the scene, among which they wandered. He spoke of the mineral and fossile substances, found in the depths of these mountains.—the veins of marble and granite, with which they abounded, the strata of shells, discovered near their summits, many thousand fathom above the level of the sea, and at a vast distance from its present shore;—of the tremenduous chasms and caverns of the rocks, the grotesque form of the mountains, and the various phaenomena, that seem to stamp upon the world the history of the deluge. From the natural history he descended to the mention events and circumstances, connected with the civil story of the Pyrenees; named some of the most remarkable fortresses, which France and Spain had erected in the passes of these mountains; and gave a brief account of some cel|ebrated sieges and encounters in early times, when Ambition first frightened Solitude from these her deep recesses, made her mountains, which before had echoed only to the torrent's roar, tremble with the clang of arms, and, when man's first footsteps in her sacred haunts had left the print of blood!

As Blanche sat attentive to the narrative, that rendered the scenes doubly interesting, and resigned to solemn emotion, while she considered that she was on the very ground, once polluted by these events, her reverie was suddenly interrupted by a sound that came in the wind.—It was the distant bark of a watch dog. The travellers listened with eager hope, and, as the wind blew stronger, fancied that the sound came from no great distance; and, the guides having little doubt, that it proceeded from the inn they were in search of, the Count determined to pursue his way. The moon now afforded a stronger, though still an un|certain light as she moved among broken clouds: and the tra|vellers, led by the sound, recommenced their journey along the brow of the precipice, preceded by a single torch, that now con|tended with the moonlight; for the guides, believing they should reach t••e inn soon after sunset, had neglected to provide more. In silent caution they followed the sound, which was heard but at intervals, and which, after some time entirely ceased. The guides endeavoured, however, to point their course to the quarter, whence it had issued, but the deep roaring of a

torrent soon seized their attention, and presently they came to a tremenduous chasm of the mountain, which seemed to forbid all further progress. Blanche alighted from her mule, as did the Count and St. Foix, while the guides traversed the edge in search of a bridge, which, however rude, might convey them to the opposite side, and they, at length, confessed, what the Count had begun to suspect, that they had been for sometime doubtful of their way, and were now certain only, that they had lost it.

At a little distance, was discovered a rude and dangerous pas|sage, formed by an enormous pine, which thrown across the chasm, united the opposite precipices, and which had been felled probably by the hunter, to facilitate his chace of the izard, or the wolf. The whole party, the guides excepted, shuddered at the prospect of crossing this alpine bridge, whose sides afforded no kind of defence, and from which to fall was to die. The guides, however, prepared to lead over the mules, while Blanche stood trembling on the brink, and listening to the roar of the wa|ters, which were seen descending from rocks above, overhung with lofty pines, and thence precipitating themselves into the deep abyss, where their white surges gleamed faintly in the moon|light. The poor animals proceeded over this perilous bridge with instinctive caution, neither frightened by the noise of the cataract, or deceived by the gloom, which the impending foli|age threw athwart their way. It was now, that the solitary torch, which had been hitherto of little service, was found to be an inestimable treasure; and Blanche, terrified, shrinking, but endeavouring to recollect all her firmness and presence of mind, preceded by her lover and supported by her father, followed the red gleam of the torch, in safety, to the opposite cliff.

As they went on, the heights contracted, and formed a narrow pass at the bottom of which, the torrent they had just crossed, was heard to thunder. But they were again cheered by the bark of a dog, keeping watch, perhaps, over the flocks of the moun|tains, to protect them from the nightly descent of the wolves. The sound was much nearer than before, and, while they rejoiced in the hope of soon reaching a place of repose, a light was seen to glimmer at a distance. It appeared at a height considerably above the level of their path, and was lost and seen again, as if the waving branches of trees sometimes excluded and then ad|mitted its rays. The guides hallowed with all their strength, but the sound of no human voice was heard in return, and, at length, as a more effectual means of making themselves known, they fired a pistol. But, while they listened in anxious expec|tation,

the noise of the explosion was alone heard, echoing among the rocks, and it gradually sunk into a silence, which no friend|ly hint of man disturbed. The light, however, that had been seen before, now became plainer, and, soon after, voices were heard indistinctly on the wind; but, upon the guides repeating the call, the voices suddenly ceased, and the light disappeared.

The Lady Blanche was now almost sinking beneath the pres|sure of anxiety, fatigue and apprehension, and the united efforts of the Count and St. Foix could scarcely support her spirits. As they continued to advance, an object was perceived on a point of rock above, which the strong rays of the moon then falling on it, appeared to be a watch tower. The Count, from its situation and some other circumstances, had little doubt that it was such, and believing, that the light had proceeded from thence, he endeavoured to reanimate his daughter's spirits by the near prospect of shelter and repose, which, however rude the ac|commodation, a ruined watch tower might afford.

"Numerous watch towers have been erected among the Py|renees," said the Count, anxious only to call Blanche's atten|tion from the subject of her fears; "and the method by which they give intelligence of the approach of the enemy, is, you know, by fires, kindled on the summits of these edifices. Sig|nals have thus, sometimes, been communicated from post to post along a frontier line of several hundred miles in length. Then, as occasion may require, the lurking armies emerge from their fortresses and the forests, and march forth to defend, perhaps, the entrance of some grand pass, where, planting them|selves on the heights, they assail their astonished enemies, who wind along the glen below, with fragments of the shat|tered cliff, and pour death and defeat upon them. The an|cient forts, and watch towers, overlooking the grand passes of the Pyrenees, are carefully preserved; but some of those in in|ferior stations have been suffered to fall into decay, and are now frequently converted into the more peaceful habitation of the hunter, or the shepherd, who after a day of to••••, retires hither, ••nd, with his faithful dogs, forgets, near a cheerful blaze, the labour of the chace, or the anxiety of collecting his wandering flocks, while he is sheltered from the nightly storm."

"But are they always thus peacefully inhabited?" said the Lady Blanche.

"No," replied the Count, "they are sometimes the asylum of French and Spanish smugglers, who cross the mountains with contraband goods from their respective countries, and the latter

are particularly numerous, against whom strong parties of the king's troops are sometimes sent. But the desperate resolution of these adventurers, who, knowing, that, if they are taken, they must expiate the breach of the law by the most cruel death, tra|vel in large parties, well armed, often daunts the courage of the soldiers. The smugglers, who seek only safety, never engage, when they can possibly avoid it; the military, also, who know, that in these encounters, danger is certain, and glory almost un|attainable, are equally reluctant to fight; an engagement, there|fore, very seldom happens, but, when it does, it never concludes till after the most desperate and bloody conflict. You are in|attentive, Blanche," added the Count; "I have wearied you with a dull subject; but see, yonder, in the moonlight, is the edifice we have been in search of, and we are fortunate to be so near it, before the storm bursts."

Blanche, looking up, perceived that they were at the foot of the cliff, on whose summit the building stood, but no light now issued from it; the barking of the dog too had, for sometime, ceased, and the guides began to doubt, whether this was really the object of their search. From the distance, at which they surveyed it, shewn imperfectly by a cloudy moon, it appeared to be of more extent than a single watch tower; but the difficulty was how to ascend the height, whose abrupt declivities seemed to afford no kind of path way.

While the guides carried forward the torch to examine the cliff, the Count, remaining with Blanche and St. Foix at its foot, under the shadow of the woods, endeavoured again to beguile the time by conversation, but again anxiety abstracted the mind of Blanche; and he then consulted, apart with St. Foix, whe|ther, it would be advisable, should a path be found, to venture to an edifice, which might possibly harbour banditti. They con|sidered, that their own party was not small, and that several of them were well armed; and, after enumerating the dangers, to be incurred by passing the night in the open wild, exposed, per|haps, to the effects of a 〈◊〉〈◊〉 storm, there remained not a doubt, that they ought to endeavour to obtain admittance to the edi|fice above, at any hazard respecting the inhabitants it might harbour; but the darkness and the dead silence, that surround|ed it, appeared to contradict the probability of its being in|habited at all.

A shout from the guides aroused their attention, after which, in a few minutes, one of the Count's servants returned with in|telligence, that a path was found, and they immediately hasten|ed

to join the guides, when they all ascended a little winding way cut in the rock among thickets of dwarf wood, and, after much toil and some danger, reached the summit, where several ruined towers, surrounded by a massy wall, rose to their view, partially illumined by the moonlight. The space around the building was silent, and apparently forsaken, but the Count was cautious; "Step softly," said he, in a low voice, "while we reconnoitre the edifice."

Having proceeded silently along for some paces, they stopped at a gate, whose portals were terrible even in ruins, and, after a moment's hesitation, passed on to the court of entrance, but paused again at the head of a terrace, which, branching from it, ran along the brow of a precipice. Over this, rose the main body of the edifice, which was now seen to be, not a watch tower, but one of those ancient fortresses, that, from age and neglect, had fallen to decay. Many parts of it, however, appeared to be still entire; it was built of grey stone, in the heavy Saxon-gothic style, with enormous round towers, buttresses of proportionable strength, and the arch of the large gate, which seemed to open into the hall of the fabric, was round, as was that of a window above. The air of solemnity, which must so strongly have characterized the pile even in the days of its early strength, was now consid|erably heightened by its shattered battlements and half demolish|ed walls, and by the huge masses of ruin, scattered in its wide area, now silent and grass grown. In this court of entrance stood the gigantic remains of an oak, that seemed to have flourished and decayed with the building, which it still appeared frowning|ly to protect by the few remaining branches, leafless and moss grown, that crowned its trunk, and whose wide extent told how enormous the tree had been in a former age. This fortress was evidently once of great strength, and, from its situation on a point of rock, impending over a deep glen, had been of great power to annoy, as well as to resist; the Count, therefore, as he stood surveying it, was somewhat surprised, that it had been suffered, ancient as it was, to sink into ruins, and its present lonely and deserted air excited in his breast emotions of melancholy awe. While he indulged, for a moment, these emotions, he thought he heard a sound of remote voices steal upon the stillness, from within the building, the front of which he again surveyed with scrutinizing eyes, but yet no light was visible. He now deter|mined to walk round the fort, to that remote part of it, whence ••e thought the voices had arisen, that he might examine whe|ther any light could be discerned there, before he ventured to

knock at the gate; for this purpose, he entered upon the ter|race, where the remains of cannon were yet apparent in the thick walls, but he had not proceeded many paces when his steps were suddenly arrested by the loud barking of a dog with|in, and which he fancied to be the same, whose voice had been the means of bringing the travellers thither. It now appeared certain, that the place was inhabited, and the Count returned to consult again with St. Foix, whether he should try to obtain admittance, for its wild aspect had somewhat shaken his former resolution; but, after a second consultation, he submitted to the considerations, which before determined him, and which were strengthened by the discovery of the dog, that guarded the fort, as well as by the stillness that pervaded it. He therefore, ordered one of his servants to knock at the gate, who was ad|vancing to obey him, when a light appeared through the loop hole of one of the towers, and the Count called loudly, but, re|ceiving no answer, he went up to the gate himself, and struck up|on it with an iron pointed pole, which had assisted him to climb the steep. When the echoes had ceased, that this blow had awakened the renewed barking, and there were now more than one dog,—was the only sound, that was heard. The Count stepped back, a few paces, to observe whether the light was in the tower, and, perceiving, that it was gone, he returned to the por|tal, and had lifted the pole to strike again, when again he fan|cied he heard the murmur of voices within, and paused to listen. He was confirmed in the supposition, but they were too remote, to be heard otherwise than in a murmur, and the Count now let the pole fall heavily upon the gate; when almost immediately a profound silence followed. It was apparent, that the people within had heard the sound, and their caution in admitting strangers gave him a favourable opinion of them. "They are either hunters or shepherds," said he "who like ourselves, have proba|bly sought shelter from the night within these walls, and are fearful of admitting strangers, lest they should prove robbers. I will endeavour to remove their fears." So saying, he called aloud, "We are friends, who ask shelter from the night." In a few moments, steps were heard within, which approached, and a voice then inquired—"Who calls?" "Friends," repeated the Count; "open the gates and you shall know more." Strong bolts were now heard to be undrawn, and a man, armed with a hunting spear, appeared. "What is it you want at this hour?" said he. The Count beckoned his attendants, and then answered, that he wished to inquire the way to the nearest cabin. "Are

you so little acquainted with these mountains," said the man, "as not to know, that there is none, within several leagues? I can|not shew you the way; you must seek it—there is a moon." Saying this, he was closing the gate, and the Count was turning away, half disappointed and half afraid, when another voice was heard from above, and, on looking up, he saw a light, and a man's face, at the grate of the portal. "Stay, friend, you have lost your way?" said the voice. "You are hunters, I suppose, lik•• ourselves: I will be with you presently." The voice ceased, and the light disappeared. Blanche had been alarmed by the appearance of the man, who had opened the gate, and she now entreated her father to quit the place; but the Count had ob|served the hunter's spear, which he carried; and the words from the tower encouraged him to await the event. The gate was soon opened, and several men in hunters' habits, who had heard above what had passed below, appeared, and, having listened sometime to the Count, told him he was welcome to rest there for the night. They then pressed him with much courtesy, to enter, and to partake of such fare as they were about to sit down to. The Count, who had observed them attentively while they spoke, was cautious, and somewhat suspicious; but he was also weary, fearful of the approaching storm, and of encountering al|pine heights in the obscurity of night; being likewise somewhat confident in the strength and number of his attendants, he, after some further consideration, determined to accept the invitation. With this resolution he called his servants, who, advancing round the tower, behind which some of them had silently listened to this conference, followed their Lord, the Lady Blanche, and St. Foix into the fortress. The strangers led them on to a large and rude hall, partially seen by a fire, that blazed at its extremity, round which four men, in the hunter's dress, were seated, and on the hearth were several dogs stretched in sleep. In the middle of the hall stood a large table, and over the fire some part of an animal was boiling. As the Count approached, the men arose, and the dogs, half raising themselves, looked fiercely at the stran|gers, but, on hearing their masters' voices, kept their postures on the hearth.

Blanche looked round this gloomy and spacious hall; then at the men, and to her father, who, smiling cheerfully at her, ad|dressed himself to the hunters. "This is an hospitable hearth," said he, "the blaze of a fire is reviving after having wandered so long in these dreary wilds. Your dogs are tired; what suc|cess have you had?" "Such as we usually have," replied one

of the men, who had been 〈◊〉〈◊〉 in the hall, "we kill our game 〈◊〉〈◊〉 tolerable certainty." "These are fellow hunters," said one of the men who had brought the Count hither, "that have lost their way, and I have told them there is room enough in the fort for us all." "Very true, very true" replied his companion, "What luck have you had in the chace, brothers? We have killed two izards, and that you will say is pretty well." "You mistake, friend," said the Count, "we are not hunters, but tra|vellers; but, if you will admit us to hunters' fare, we shall be well contented, and will repay your kindness." "Sit down then, brother," said one of the men: "Jacques, lay more fuel on the ••••re, the kid will soon be ready; bring a seat for the lady too. Ma'amselle, will you taste our brandy? it is true Barcelona, and as bright as ever flowed from a k••g." Blanche timidly smiled, and was going to refuse, when her father prevented her, by taking, with a good humoured air, the glass offered to his daughter; and M••••s St. Foix, who was seated next her, pressed her hand, and gave her an encouraging look, but her attention was engaged by a man, who sat silently by the fire▪ observing St. Foix, with a 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and earnest eye.

"You lead a jolly life here," said the Count. "The life of a hunter is a pleasant and a healthy one; and the repose is sweet, which succeeds to your labour."

"Yes," replied one of his hosts, "our life is pleasant enough. We live here only during the summer, and autumnal months; in winter, the plac•••• dreary, and the swoln torrents, that descend, from the heights, pu•• a stop to the chace."

"'Tis a life of liberty and enjoyment," said the Count: "I should like to pass a month in your way very well."

"We find employment for our guns too," said a man who stood behind the Count: "here are plenty of birds, of deli|cious flavour, that feed upon the wild thyme and herbs, that grow in the vallies. Now I think of it, there is a brace of birds hung up in the stone gallery; go fetch them, Jacques, we will have them dressed."

The Count now made inquiry, concerning the method of pur|suing the chace among the rocks and precipices of these romantic regions, and was listening to a curious detail, when a horn was sounded at the gate. Blanche looked timidly at her father, who continued to converse on the subject of the chace, but whose countenance was somewhat expressive of anxiety, and who often turned his eyes towards that part of the hall nearest the gate. The horn founded again, and a loud halloo succeeded. "These

are some of our companions, returned from their day's labour," said a man, going lazily from his seat towards the gate; and in a few minutes, two men appeared, each with a gun over his shoul|der, and pistols in his belt. "What cheer, my lads? what cheer?" said they, as they approached. "What luck?" return|ed their companions: "have you brought home your supper? You shall have none else."

"Hah! who the devil have you brought home?" said they in bad Spanish, on perceiving the Count's party, "are they from France, or Spain?—where did you meet with them?"

"They met with us, and a merry meeting too," replied his companion aloud in good French. "This chevalier, and his party, had lost their way, and asked a night's lodging in the fort." The others made no reply, but threw down a kind of knapsack, and drew forth several brace of birds. The bag sounded heavily as it ••ell to the ground, and the glitter of some bright metal within, glanced on the eye of the Count, who now surveyed, with a more inquiring look, the man that held the knapsack. He was a tall robust figure, of a hard counten|ance, and had short black hair, curling in his neck. Instead of the hunter's dress, he wore a faded military uniform; sandals were laced on his broad legs, and a kind of short trowsers hung from his waist. On his head he wore a leathern cap, some|what resembling in shape an ancient Roman helmet; but the brows that scowled beneath it, would have characterized those of the barbarians, who conquered Rome, rather than those of a Roman soldier. The Count, at length, turned away his eyes, and remained silent and thoughtful, till, again raising them, he perceived a figure standing in an obscure part of the hall, fixed in attentive gaze on St. Foix, who was conversing with Blanche, and did not observe this; but the Count, soon after, saw the same man, looking over the shoulder of the soldier as atten|tively at himself. He withd••rw his eye, when that of the Count met it, who felt mistrust gathering fast upon his mind, but feared to betray it in his countenance, and, forcing his fea|tures to assume a smile, addressed Blanche on some indifferent subject. When he again looked round, he perceived, that the soldier and his companion were gone.

The man, who was called Jacques, now returned from the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 gallery. "A fire is lighted there," said he, "and the birds are dressing; the table too is spread there, for that place is warmer than this."

His companions approved of the removal, and invited their guests to follow to the gallery, of whom Blanche appeared dis|tressed,

and remained seated, and St. Foix looked at the Count, who said, he preferred the comfortable blaze of the fire he was then near. The hunters, however, commended the warmth of the other apartment, and pressed his removal with such seeming courtesy, that the Count, half doubting, and half fearful of be|traying his doubts, consented to go. The long and ruinous pas|sages, through which they went, somewhat daunted him, but the thunder, which now burst in loud peals above, made it dangerous to quit this place of shelter, and he forbore to pro|voke his conductors by shewing that he distrusted them. The hunters led the way, with a lamp; the Count and St. Foix, who wished to please their hosts by some instances of familiari|ty, carried each a seat, and Blanche followed, with faltering steps. As she passed on, part of her dress caught on a nail in the wall, and, while she stopped, somewhat too scrupulously, to disengage it, the Count, who was talking to St. Foix, and nei|ther of whom observed the circumstance, followed their con|ductor round an abrupt angle of the passage, and Blanche was left behind in darkness. The thunder prevented them from hearing her call, but, having disengaged her dress, she quickly followed, as she thought, the way they had taken. A light that glimmered at a distance, confirmed this belief, and she proceed|ed towards an open door, whence it issued, conjecturing the room beyond to be the stone gallery the men had spoken of. Hearing voices as she advanced, she paused within a few pa|ces of the chamber, that she might be certain whether she was right, and from thence, by the light of a lamp, that hung from the ceiling, observed four men, seated round a table, over which they leaned in apparent consultation. In one of them she dis|tinguished the features of him, whom she had observed, gazing at St. Foix, with such deep attention; and who was now speak|ing in an earnest, though restrained voice, till, one of his compan|ions seeming to oppose him, they spoke together in a loud and harsher tone. Blanche, alarmed by perceiving, that neither her father, or St. Foix were there, and terrified at the fierce counte|nances and manners of these men, was turning hastily from the chamber, to pursue her search of the gallery, when she heard one of the men say:

"Let all dispute end here. Who talks of danger? Follow my advice, and there will be none—secure them, and the rest are an easy prey." Blanche, struck with these words, paused a mo••ent▪ to hear more. "There is nothing to be got by the rest," said one of his companions, "I am never for blood when

I can help it—dispatch the two others, and our business is done, the rest may go."

"May they so," exclaimed the first ruffian, with a tremendu|ous oath—"What! to tell how we have disposed of their mas|ters, and to send the kings troops to drag us to the wheel! You was always a choice adviser—I warrant we have not yet forgot St. Thomas's eve last year."

Blanche's heart now sunk with horror. Her first impulse was to retreat from the door, but, when she would have gone, her trembling frame refused to support her, and having tottered a few paces, to a more obscure part of the passage, she was com|pelled to listen to the dreadful councils of those, who she was no longer suffered to doubt, were banditti. In the next moment, she heard the following words, "Why you would not murder the whole gang?"

"I warrant our lives are as good as theirs," replied his com|••••de. "If we don't kill them they will hang us: better they should die than we be hanged."

"Better, better," cried his comrades.

"To commit murder is a hopeful way of escaping the gal|lows!" said the first ruffian—"many an honest fellow has run his head into the noose that way, though." There was a pause of some moments, during which they appeared to be considering.

"Confound those fellows," exclaimed one of the robbers im|patiently, "they ought to have been here by this time; they will come back presently with the old story, and no booty: if they were here, our business would be plain and easy. I see we shall not be able to do the business to night, for our numbers are not equal to the enemy, and in the morning they will be for marching off, and how can we detain them without force?"

"I have been thinking of a scheme, that will do," said one of his comrades; "if we can dispatch the two chevaliers silent|ly, it will be easy to master the rest."

"That's a plausible scheme, in good faith," said another with a smile of scorn—"If I can eat my way through the prison wall, I shall be at liberty!—How can we dispatch them silently?"

"By poison," replied his companions.

"Well said; that will do," said the second ruffian, "that will give a lingering death too, and satisfy my revenge. These 〈◊〉〈◊〉 shall take care how they again tempt our vengeance."

"I knew the son, the moment I saw him," said the man, whom Blanche had observed gazing on St. Foix, "though he does not know me; the father I had almost forgotten."

"Well, you may say what you will," said the third ruffian, "but I don't believe he is ••he Baron, and I am as likely to know as any of you, for I was one of them, that attacked him, with our brave lads, that suffered."

"And was not I another?" said the first ruffian, "I tell you he is the Baron; but what does 〈◊〉〈◊〉 whether he is or not? shall we let all this booty go out of our hands? It is not often we have such luck as this. While 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the chance of the wheel for smuggling a few pounds of tobacco▪ to cheat the king•••• manufactory, and of breaking our necks down the precipices in the chace of our food; and, now and then, rob a brother smug|gler, or a straggling pilgrim, of what scarcely repays us the pow|der we fire at them, shall we let such a prize as this go? Why they have enough about them to keep us for—"

"I am not for that, I am not for that," replied the third rob|ber, "let us make the most of them: only, if this is the Baron, I should like to have a slash the more at him, for the sake of our brave comrades, that he brought to the gallows."

"Aye, aye, slash as much as you will," rejoined the first man, "but I tell you the Baron is a taller man."

"Confound your quibbling, said the second ruffian, "shall we let them go or not? If we stay here much longer, they will take the hint, and march off without our leave. Let them ••e who they will, they are rich, or why all those servants? Did you see the ring, he, you call the Baron, had on his finger?—it was diamond; but he has not got it on now: he saw me looking at it, I warrant, and took it off."

"Aye, and then there is the picture; did you see that? She has not taken that off," observed the first ruffian, it hangs at her neck; if it had not sparkled so, I should not have found it out, for it was almost hid by her dress; those are diamonds too, and a rare many of them there must be, to go round such a large picture."

"But how are we to manage this business?" said the second ruffian: "let us talk of that, there is no fear of there being booty enough, but how are we to secure it?"

"Aye, aye," said his comrades, "let us talk of that, and remember no time is to be lost."

"I am still for poison," observed the third, "but con••ider their number; why there are nine or ten of them, and armed too; when I saw so many at the gate, I was not for letting them in, you know, nor you either."

"I thought they might be some of our enemies," replied the second, "I did not so much mind numbers."

"But you must mind them now," rejoined his comrade, "or it will be worse for you. We are not more than six, and how can we master 〈◊〉〈◊〉 by open force? I tell you we must give some of them a dose, and the rest may then be managed."

"I'll tell you a better way," rejoined the other impatiently, "draw closer."

Blanche, who had listened to this conversation, in an agony, which it would be impossible to describe, could no longer dis|tinguish what was said, for the ruffians now spoke in lowered voices; but the hope, that she might save her friends from the plot, if she could find her way quickly to them, suddenly reani|mated her spirits, and lent her strength enough to turn her steps in search of the gallery. Terror, however, and darkness con|spired against her, and, having moved a few yards, the feeble light, that issued from the chamber, no longer even contended with the gloom, and, her foot stumbling over a step that crossed the passage, she fell to the ground.

The noise startled the banditti, who became suddenly silent, and then all rushed to the passage, to examine whether any per|son was there, who might have overheard their councils. Blanche saw them approaching, and perceived their fierce and eager looks: but, before she could raise herself, they discovered and seized her, and, as they dragged her towards the chamber they had quitted, her screams drew from them horrible threatenings.

Having reached the room, they began to consult what they should do with her. "Let us first know what she has heard," said the chief robber. "How long have you been in the passage, lady, and what brought you there?"

"Let us first secure that picture," said one of his comrades, approaching the trembling Blanche. "Fair lady, by your leave that picture is mine; come, surrender it, or I shall seize it."

Blanche, entreating their mercy, immediately gave up the miniature, while another of the ruffians fiercely interrogated her, concerning what she had overheard of their conversation, when, her confusion and terror too plainly telling what her tongue feared to confess, the ruffians looked expressively upon one another, and two of them withdrew to a remote part of the room, as if to consult further.

"These are diamonds by St. Peter!" exclaimed the fellow, who had been examining the miniature, "and here is a very pret|ty picture too, faith; as handsome a young chevalier, as you would wish to see by a summer's sun. Lady, this is your spouse, I warrant, for it is the spark, that was in your company just now."

Blanche, sinking with terror, conjured him to have pity on her, and, delivering him her purse, promised to say nothing of what had passed, if he would suffer her to return to her friends.

He smiled ironically, and was going to reply, when his atten|tention was called off by a distant noise; and, while he listened, he grasped the arm of Blanche more firmly, as if he feared she would escape from him, and she again shrieked for help.

The approaching sounds called the ruffians from the other part of the chamber. "We are betrayed," said they; "but let us listen a moment, perhaps it is only our comrades come in from the mountains, and if so, our work is sure; listen!"

A distant discharge of shot confirmed this supposition for a moment, but, in the next, the former sounds drawing nearer, the clashing of swords, mingled with voices of loud contention, and with heavy groans, were distinguished in the avenue leading to the chamber. While the ruffians prepare•• their arms, they heard themselves called by some of their comrades afar off, and then a shrill horn was sounded without the fortress, a 〈◊〉〈◊〉, it appeared, they too well understood; for three of them, leaving the Lady Blanche to the care of the fourth, instantly rushed from the chamber.

While Blanche, trembling, and nearly fainting, was supplicat|ing for release, she heard amid the tumult, that approached, the voice of St. Foix, and she had scarcely renewed her shriek, when the door of the room was thrown open, and he appeared, much disfigured with blood, and pursued by several ruffians. Blanche neither saw or heard any more; her head swam, her sight failed, and she became senseless in the arms of the robber, who had detained her.

When she recovered, she perceived, by the gloomy light, that trembled round her, that she was in the same chamber, but nei|ther the Count, St. Foix or any other person appeared, and she continued for sometime entirely still, and nearly in a state of stupefaction. But, the dreadful images of the past returning, she endeavoured to raise herself, that she might seek her friends, when a sullen groan, at a little distance, reminded her of St. Foix, and of the condition, in which she had seen him enter this room; then, starting from the floor, by a sudden effort of horror, she advanced to the place whence the sound had proceeded, where a body was lying stretched upon the pavement, and where, by the glimmering light of a lamp, she discovered the pale and disfigured countenance of St. Foix. Her horrors, at that mo|ment, may be easily imagined. He was speechless; his eyes

were half closed, and, on the hand, which she grasped in the ag|ony of despair, cold damps had settled. While she vainly re|peated his name, and called for assistance, steps approached, and a person entered the chamber, who, she soon perceived was not the Count, her father; but, what was her astonishment, when sup|plicating him to give his assistance to St. Foix, she discovered Ludovico! He scarcely paused to recognise her, but immediate|ly bound up the wounds of the Chevalier, and, perceiving, that he had fainted probably from loss of blood, ran for water; but he had been absent only a few moments, when Blanche heard other steps approaching, and, while she was almost frantic with apprehension of the ruffians, the light of a torch flashed upon the walls, and then, Count De Villefort appeared, with an affright|ed countenance, and breathless with impatience, calling upon his daughter. At the sound of his voice, she rose, and ran to his arms, while he, letting fall the bloody sword he held, press|ed her to his bosom in a transport of gratitude and joy, and then hastily inquired for St. Foix, who now gave some signs of life. Ludovico soon after returning with water and brandy, the former was applied to his lips, and the latter to his temples and hands, and Blanche, at length, saw him unclose his eyes, and then heard him inquire for her; but the joy she felt, on this occasion, was interrupted by new alarms, when Ludovico said it would be necessary to remove Mons. St. Foix immediately, and added, "The banditti, that are out, my Lord, were expect|ed home, an hour ago, and they will certainly find us, if we de|lay. That shrill horn, they know, is never sounded by their comrades but on most desperate occasions, and it echoes among the mountains for many leagues round. I have known them brought home by its sound even from the Pied de Melicant. Is any body standing watch at the great gate, my Lord?"

"Nobody," replied the Count; "the rest of my people are now scattered about I scarcely know where. Go, Ludovico, collect them together, and look out yourself, and listen if you hear the feet of mules."

Ludovico then hurried away and the Count consulted as to the means of removing St. Foix, who could not have borne the motion of a mule, even if his strength would have supported him in the saddle.

While the Count was telling, that the banditti, whom they had found in the ••ort, were secured in the dungeon, Blanche ob|served that he was himself wounded, and that his left arm was

entirely useless; but he smiled at her anxiety, assuring her the wound was trifling.

The Count's servants, except two who kept watch at the gate, now appeared, and, soon after▪ Ludovico. "I think I hear mules coming along the glen, my Lord," said he, "but the roaring of the torrent below will not let me be certain; however, I have brought what ••ill serve the Chevalier," he added, shewing a bear's skin fastened to a couple of long poles, which had been adapted for the purpose of bringing home such of the banditti as happened to be wounded in their encounters. Ludovico spread it on the ground, and, placing the skins of several goats upon it, made a kind of bed, into which the Chevalier, who was howe|ver now much revived, was gently lifted; and, the poles being raised upon the shoulders of the guides, whose footing among these steeps could best be depended upon, he was borne along with an easy motion. Some of the Count's servants were also wounded—but not materially, and, their wounds being bound up, they now followed to the great gate. As they passed along the hall, a loud tumult was heard at some distance, and Blanche was terrified. "It is only those villains in the dungeon, my Lady." said Ludovico. "They seem to be bursting it open," said the Count. "No, my Lord," replied Ludovico, "it has an iron door; we have nothing to fear from them; but let me go first, and look out from the rampart."

They quickly followed him, and sound their mules browsing before the gates, where the party listened anxiously, but heard no sound, except that of the torrent below and of the early breeze, sighing among the branches of the old oak, that grew in the court; and they were now glad to perceive the first tints of dawn over the mountain tops. When they had mounted their mules, Ludovico undertaking to be their guide, led them by an easier path, than that by which they had formerly ascended, into the glen. "We must avoid that valley to the east, my Lord," said he, "or we may meet the banditti; they went out that way in the morning."

The travellers, soon after, quitted this glen, and found them|selves in a narrow ••alley that stretched towards the north-west. The morning light upon the mountains now strengthened fast, and gradually discovered the green hillocks, that skirted the winding feet of the cliffs, tufted with cork tree, and ever-green oak. The thunder clouds being dispersed, had left the sky per|fectly serene, and Blanche was revived by the fresh breeze, and by the view of verdure, which, the late rain had brightened.

Soon after, the sun arose, when the dripping rocks, with the shrubs that fringed their summits, and many a turfy slope be|low, sparkled in his rays. A wreath of mist was seen, floating along the extremity of the valley, but the gale bore it before the travellers, and the sunbeams gradually drew it up towards the summit of the mountains. They had proceeded about a league, when St. Foix having complained of extreme faintness, they stopped to give him refreshment, and, that the men who bore him, might rest. Ludovico had brought from the fort some flasks of rich Spanish wine, which now proved a reviving cor|dial not only to St. Foix but to the whole party, though to him it gave only temporary relief, for it fed the fever that burned in his veins, and he could neither disguise in his countenance the anguish he suffered, or suppress the wish, that he was arrived at the inn, where they had designed to pass the preceding night.

While they thus reposed themselves under the shade of the dark green pines, the Count desired Ludovico to explain short|ly, by what means he had disappeared from the north apartment, how he came into the hands of the banditti, and how he had contributed so essentia•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to serve him, and his family, for to him he justly attributed their present deliverance. Ludovico was going to obey him, when suddenly they heard the echo of a pistol-shot, from the way they had passed, and they rose in a|larm, hastily to pursue their route.

CHAP. LII.

"Ah why did fate his steps decoy In stormy paths to roam, Remote from all congenial joy!" BEATTIE.

EMILY, meanwhile, was still suffering anxiety as to the fate of Valancourt; but Theresa, having, at length, found a person, whom she could entrust on her errand to the steward, informed her, that the messenger would return on the following day; and Emily promised to be at the cottage, Theresa being too lame to attend her.

In the evening, therefore, Emily set out alone for the cottage, with a melancholy foreboding, concerning Valancourt, while, perhaps, the gloom of the hour might contribute to depress her spirits. It was a grey autumnal evening towards the close of the

season; heavy mists partially obscured the mountains, and a chill|ing breeze, that sighed among the beech woods, strewed her path with some of their last yellow leaves. These circling in the blast and foretelling the death of the year, gave an image of desolation to her mind, and, in her fancy, seemed to announce the death of Valancourt. Of this she had, indeed, more than once so strong a presentiment, that she was on the point of returning home, feel|ing herself unequal to an encounter with the certainty she anti|cipated, but, contending with her emotions, she so far command|ed them, as to be able to proceed.

While she walked mournfully on, gazing on the long volumes of vapour, that poured upon the sky, and watching the swallows tossed along the wind, now disappearing among tempestuous clouds, and then emerging for a moment, in circles upon the calmer air, the afflictions and vicissitudes of her late life seemed pourtrayed in these fleeting images;—thus had she been tossed upon the stormy sea of misfortune for the last year, with but short intervals of peace, if peace that could be called, which was only the delay of evils. And now, when she had escaped from so many dangers, was become independent of the will of those, who had oppressed her, and found herself mistress of a large for|tune, now, when she might reasonably have expected happiness, she perceived that she was as distant from it as ever. She would have accused herself of weakness and ingratitude in thus suffer|ing a sense of the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 blessings she possessed to be overcome by that of a single misfortune, had this misfortune affected her|self alone; but, when she had wept for Valancourt even as liv|ing, tears of compassion had mingled with those of regret, and while she lamented a human being degraded to vice, and conse|quently to misery, reason and humanity claimed these tears, and fortitude had not yet taught her to separate them from those of love; in the present moments, however, it was not the certainty of his guilt, but the apprehension of his death (of a death also, to which she herself, however innocently, appeared to have been in some degree instrumental) that oppressed her. This fear increas|ed, as the means of certainty concerning it approached; and, when she came within view of Theresa's cottage, she was so much disordered, and her resolution sailed her so entirely, that, unable to proceed, she rested on a bank, beside her path; where, as she sat, the wind that groaned sullenly among the lofty branches above, seemed to her melancholy imagination to bear the sounds of distant lamentation, and, in the pauses of the gust, she still fan|cied, she heard the feeble and far off notes of distress. Attention

convinced her, that this was no more than fancy; but the in|creasing gloom, which seemed the sudden close of day, soon warn|ed her to depart, and, with faltering steps, she again moved to|ward the cottage. Through the casement appeared the cheerful blaze of a wood fire, and Theresa, who had observed Emily ap|proaching, was already at the door to receive her.

"It is a cold evening, madam," said she, "storms are com|ing on, and I thought you would like a fire. Do take this chair by the hearth."

Emily, thanking her for this consideration, sat down, and then, looking in her face, on which the wood fire threw a gleam, she was struck with its expression, and, unable to speak, sunk back in her chair with a countenance so full of woe, that Theresa in|stantly comprehended the occasion of it, but she remained silent. "Ah!" said Emily, at length, "it is unnecessary for me to ask the result of your inquiry, your silence, and that look, sufficiently explain it;—he is dead!"

"Alas! my dear young lady," replied Theresa, while tears filled her eyes, "this world is made up with trouble! the rich have their share as well as the poor! But we must all endeavour to bear what Heaven pleases."

"He is dead then!" interrupted Emily, "Valancourt is dead!"

"A-well-a-day! I fear he is," replied Theresa.

"You fear!" said Emily, "do you only fear?"

"Alas! yes, Madam, I fear he is! neither the steward, or any of the Epourville family, have heard of him since he left Languedoc, and the Count is in great affliction about him, for he says he was always punctual in writing, but that now he has not received a line from him, since he left Languedoc; he ap|pointed to be at home, three weeks ago, but he has neither come, or written, and they fear some accident has befallen him. Alas! that ever I should live to cry for his death,! I am old, and might have died without being missed, but he"—Emily was faint, and asked for some water, and Theresa, alarmed by the voice, in which she spoke, hastened to her assistance, and, while she held the water to Emily's lips, continued, "My dear young mistress, do not take it so to heart; the Chevalier may be alive and well, for all this; let us hope the best!"

"O no! I cannot hope," said Emily, "I am acquainted with circumstances, that will not suffer me to hope. I am somewhat better now, and can hear what you have to say. Tell me, I entreat, the particulars of what you know."

"Stay till you are a little better, mademoiselle, you look sadly!"

"O no. Theresa, tell me all, while I have the power to hear it," said Emily, "tell me all, I conjure you!"

"Well, madam, I will then; but the steward did not say much, for Richard says he seemed shy of talking about Mons. Valancourt, and what he gathered was from Gabriel, one of the servants, who said he had heard it from my lord's gentleman."

"What did he hear?" said Emily.

"Why, madam, Richard has but a bad memory, and could not remember half of it, and, if I had not asked him a great many questions, I should have heard little indeed. But he says that Gabriel said, that he and all the other servants were in great trouble about M. Valancourt, for the he was such a kind young gentleman, they all loved him, as well as if he had been their own brother—and now, to think what was become of him! For he used to be so courteous to them all and, if any of them had been in fault, M. Valancourt was the first to persuade my lord to forgive them. And then, if any poor family was in dis|tress, M. Valancourt was the first, too, to relieve them, though some folks, not a great way off, could have afforded that much better than he. And then, said Gabriel, he was so gentle to every body, and, for all he had seen a noble look with him, he never would command, and call about him, as some of your quality people do, and we never minded him the less for that. Nay, says Gabriel, for that matter, we minded him the more, and would all have run to obey him at a word, sooner than if some folks had told us what to do at full length; aye, and were more afraid of displeasing him, too, than of them that used rough words to us."

Emily, who no longer considered it to be dangerous to listen to praise bestowed on Valancourt, did not attempt to interrupt Theresa, but sat, attentive to her words, though almost over|whelmed with grief. "My Lord," continued Theresa, "frets about M. Valancourt sadly, and the more, because, they say, he had been ••ather harsh against him lately. Gabriel says he had it from my Lord's valet, that M. Valancourt had comported him|self wildly at Paris, and had spent a great deal of money, more a great deal than my lord liked, for he loves money better than M. Valancourt, who had been led astray sadly. Nay, for that matter, M. Valancourt had been put into prison at Paris, and my Lord, says Gabriel, refused to take him out, and said he de|served to suffer; and, when old Gregoire, the butler, heard of this, he actually bought a walking stick to take with him to Paris, to visit his young master; but the next thing we hear is, that

M. Valancourt, is coming home. O, it was a joyful day when he came; but he was sadly altered, and my Lord looked very cool upon him, and he was very sad, indeed. And, soon after, he went away again into Languedoc, and, since that time, we have never seen him."

Theresa paused, and Emily, sighing deeply, remained with her eyes fixed upon the floor without speaking. After a long pause, she inquired what further Theresa had heard. "Yet why should I ask?" she added; "what you have already told is too much. O Valancourt! thou art gone—for ever gone! and I—I have murdered thee!" These words, and the countenance of despair which accompanied them, alarmed Theresa, who began to fear, that the shock of the intelligence Emily had just received, had affected her senses. "My dear young lady, be composed," said she, "and do not say such frightful words. You murder M. Valancourt,—dear heart!" Emily replied only by a heavy sigh.

"Dear lady, it breaks my heart to see you look so," said Theresa, "do not sit with your eyes upon the ground, and all so pale and melancholy; it frightens me to see you." Emily was still silent, and did not appear to hear any thing that was said to her. "Besides, mademoiselle," continued Theresa, "M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet, for what we know."

At the mention of his name, Emily raised her eyes, and fixed them, in a wild gaze upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to understand what had been said. "Aye, my dear lady," said Theresa, mistaking the meaning of this considerate air, "M. Valancourt may be alive and merry ••et."

On the repetition of these words, Emily comprehended their import, but, instead of producing the effect intended, they seem|ed only to heighten her distress. She rose hastily from her chair; paced the little room, with quick steps, and, often sighing deep|ly, clasped her hands, and shuddered.

Meanwhile, Theresa, with simple, but honest affection, en|deavoured to comfort her; put more wood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighter blaze, swept the hearth, set the chair, which Emily had left, in a warmer situation, and then drew forth from a cupboard a flask of wine. "It is a stormy night, madam," said she, "and blows cold—do come nearer the fire, and take a glass of this wine; it will comfort you, as it has done me, often and often, for it is not such wine as one gets every day; it is rich Languedoc, and the last of six flasks that M. Valancourt sent me the night before he left Gascony for Paris. They have ferved me ever since, as cordials, and I never drink it, but I think of

him, and what kind words he said to me when he gave them. Theresa, says he, you are not young now, and should have a glass of good wine, now and then. I will send you a few flasks, and, when you taste them, you will sometimes remember me your friend. Yes, those were his very words—me your friend!" Emily still paced the room, without seeming to hear what The|resa said, who continued speaking. "And I have remembered him, often enough, poor young gentleman!—for he gave me this roof for a shelter, and that, which has supported me. Ah! he is in heaven, with my blessed master, if ever saint was!"

Theresa's voice faltered; she wept and set down the flask, unable to pour out the wine. Her grief seemed to recall Emily from her own, who went towards her, but then stopped, and, having gazed on her, for a moment, turned suddenly away, as if overwhelmed by the reflection, that it was Valancourt, whom▪ Theresa lamented.

While she yet paced the room, the still, soft note of an oboe, or flute, was heard mingling with the blast, the sweetness of which affected Emily's spirits; she paused a moment in atten|tion; the tender tones, as they swelled along the wind, till they were lost again in the ruder gust, came with a plaintiveness, that touched her heart, and she melted into tears.

"Aye," said Theresa, drying her eyes, "there is Richard, our neighbour's son, playing on the oboe; it is sad enough to hear such sweet music now." Emily continued to weep, without re|plying. "He often plays of an evening," added Theresa, "and, sometimes, the young folks dance to the sound of his oboe. But, dear young lady! do not cry so; and pray take a glass of this wine," continued she, pouring some into a glass, and handing i•• to Emily, who reluctantly took it.

"Taste it for M. Valancourt's sake," said Theresa, as Emily lifted the glass to her lips, "for he gave it to me, you know, madam." Emily's hand trembled, and she split the wine as she withdrew it from her lips. "For whose sake!—who gave the wine?" said she in a faltering voice. "M. Valancourt, dear lady. I knew you would be pleased with it. It is the last flask I have left."

Emily set the wine upon the table, and burst into tears, while Theresa disappointed and alarmed, tried to comfort her; but she only waved her hand, entreated she might be left alone, and wept the more.

A knock at the cottage door prevented Theresa from imme|diately obeying her mistress, and she was going to open it, when

Emily, checking her, requested she would not admit any person; but, afterwards, recollecting, that she had ordered her servant to attend her home, she said it was only Philippe, and endeavoured to restrain her tears, while Theresa opened the door.

A voice, that spoke without, drew Emily's attention. She listened, turned her eyes to the door, when, a person now ap|peared, and immediately a bright gleam, that flashed from the fire, discovered Valancourt!

Emily, on perceiving him, started from her chair, trembled, and, sinking into it again, became insensible to all around her.

A scream from Theresa now told, that she knew Valancourt, whom her imperfect sight, and the duskiness of the place had prevented her from immediately recollecting; but his attention was immediately called from her to the person, whom he saw, falling from a chair near the fire; and, hastening to her assist|ance, he perceived he was supporting Emily! The various emo|tions, that seized him upon thus unexpectedly meeting with her, from whom he had believed he had parted for ever, and on be|holding her pale and lifeless in his arms—may, perhaps, be ima|gined, though they could neither be then expressed, or now de|scribed, any more than Emily's sensations, when, at length, she unclosed her eyes, and, looking up, again saw Valancourt. The intense anxiety, with which he regarded her, was instantly chang|ed to an expression of mingled joy and tenderness, as his eye met hers, and he perceived, that she was reviving. But he could only exclaim, "Emily!" as he silently watched her recovery, while she averted her eye, and feebly attempted to withdraw her hand; but, in these the first moments which succeeded to the pangs his supposed death had occasioned her, she forgot every fault, which had formerly claimed indignation, and beholding Valancourt, such as he appeared, when he won her early affection, she experienced emotions of only tenderness and joy. This, alas! was but the sunshine of a few short moments; recollec|tions rose, like clouds, upon her mind, and, darkening the illusive image, that possessed it, she again beheld Valancourt degraded—Valancourt unworthy of the esteem and tenderness she had once bestowed upon him; her spirits faltered, and, withdrawing her hand, she turned from him to conceal her grief, while he, yet more embarrassed and agitated, remained silent.

A sense of what she owed to herself restrained her tears, and taught her soon to overcome, in some degree, the emotions of mingled joy, and sorrow, that contended at her heart, as she rose, and, having thanked him for the assistance he had given her, bade

Theresa good evening. As she was leaving the cottage, Valan|court, who seemed suddenly awakened as from a dream, entreat|ed, in a voice that pleaded powerfully for compassion, a few mo|ments attention. Emily's heart perhaps, pleaded as powerfully, but she had resolution enough to resist both, together with the clamorous entreaties of Theresa, that she would not venture home alone in the dark, and had already opened the cottage door, when the pelting storm compelled her to obey their re|quests.

Silent and embarrassed, she returned to the fire, while Valan|court, with increasing agitation, paced the room, as if he wished, yet feared to speak, and Theresa expressed without restraint her joy and wonder upon seeing him.

"Dear heart! sir," said she, "I never was so surprised and overjoyed in my life. We were in great tribulation before you came, for we thought you was dead, and were talking and la|menting about you, just when you knocked at the door. My young mistress there was crying, fit to break her heart.—"

Emily looked with much displeasure at Theresa, but, before she could speak, Valancourt, unable to repress the emotion, which Theresa's imprudent discovery occasioned, exclaimed, "O my Emily! am I then still dear to you! Did you, indeed, hon|our me with a thought—a tear? O heavens! you weep—you weep now!"

"Theresa, sir," said Emily, with a reserved air, and trying to conquer her tears, "has reason to remember you with gratitude, and she was concerned, because she had not lately heard of you. Allow me to thank you for the kindness you have shewn her, and to say, that, since I am now upon the spot, she must not be further indebted to you."

"Emily!" said Valancourt, no longer master of his emotions, "is it thus you meet him, whom once you meant to honour with your hand—thus you meet him, who has loved you—suf|fered for you?—Yet what do I say? Pardon me, pardon me, mademoiselle St. Aubert, I know not what I utter. I have no longer any claim upon your remembrance—I have forfeited every pretension to your esteem, your love. Yes! let me not forget that I once possessed your affections, though to know that I have lost them, is my severest affliction. Affliction—do I call it!—that is a term of mildness."

"Dear heart!" said Theresa, preventing Emily from reply|ing, "talk of once having her affections! Why, my dear young lady loves you now, better than she does any body in the whole world, though she pretends to deny it."

"This is insupportable!" said Emily; "Theresa, you know not what you say. Sir, if you respect my tranquillity, you will spare me from the continuance of this distress."

"I do respect your tranquillity too much, voluntarily to in|terrupt it," replied Valancourt, in whose bosom pride now con|tended with tenderness; "and will not be a voluntary intruder. I would have entreated a few moments attention—yet I know not for what purpose. You have ceased to esteem me, and to re|count to you my sufferings will degrade me more, without ex|citing even your pity. Yet I have been, O Emily! I am in|deed very wretched!" added Valancourt, in a voice, that soft|ened from solemnity into grief.

"What! is my dear young master going out in all this rain!" said Theresa. "No, he shall not stir a step. Dear! dear! to see how gentlefolks can afford to throw away their happiness! Now, if you were poor people, there would be none of this. To talk of unworthiness, and not caring about one another, when I know there are not such a kind hearted lady and gentleman in the whole province, nor any that love one another half so well, if the truth was spoken!"

"Emily, in extreme vexation, now rose from her chair, "I must be gone," said she, "the storm is over."

"Stay, Emily, stay, mademoiselle St. Aubert!" said Valan|court, summoning all his resolution, "I will no longer distress you by my presence. Forgive me, that I did not sooner obey you, and, if you can, sometimes, pity one, who, in losing you—has lost all hope of peace! May you be happy, Emily, however wretched I remain, happy as my fondest wish would have you!"

His voice faltered with the last words, and his countenance changed, while, with a look of ineffable tenderness and grief, he gazed upon her for an instant, and then quitted the cottage.

"Dear heart! dear heart!" cried Theresa, following him to the door, "why, Monsieur Valancourt! how it rains! what a night is this to turn him out in! why it will give him his death; and it was but now you was crying, mademoiselle, because he was dead. Well! young ladies do change their minds in a minute, as one may say!"

Emily made no reply, for she heard not what was said, while, lost in sorrow and thought, she remained in her chair by the fire, with her eyes fixed, and the image of Valancourt still before them.

"M. Valancourt is sadly altered! madam," said Theresa, "he looks so thin to what he used to do, and so melancholy, and then he wears his arm in a sling."

Emily raised her eyes at these words, for she had not observed this last circumstance, and she now did not doubt, that Valan|court had received the shot of her gardener at Tholouse; with this conviction her pity for him returning, she blamed herself for having occasioned him to leave the cottage, during the storm.

Soon after her servants arrived with the carriage, and Emily, having censured Theresa for her thoughtless conversation to Val|ancourt, and strictly charging her never to repeat any hints of the same kind to him, withdrew to her home, thoughtful and dis|consolate.

Meanwhile, Valancourt had returned to a little inn of the vil|lage, whither he had arrived only a few moments before his visit to Theresa's cottage, on the way from Tholouse to the chateau of the Count de Duvarney, where he had not been since he bade adieu to Emily at the Chateau-le-Blanc, in the neighbourhood of which he had lingered for a considerable time, unable to summon resolution enough to quit a place, that contained the object most dear to his heart. There were times, indeed, when grief and despair urged him to appear again before Emily, and, regardless of his ruined circumstances, to renew his suit. Pride, however, and the tenderness of his affection, which could not long endure the thought of involving her in his misfortunes, at length, so far triumphed over passion, that he relinquished this desperate design, and quitted Chateau-le-Blanc. But still his fancy wandered among the scenes, which had witnessed his early love, and, on his way to Gascony, he stopped at Tholouse, where he remain|ed when Emily arrived, concealing, yet indulging his melancholy in the gardens, where he had formerly passed with her so many happy hours; often recurring, with vain regret, to the evening before her departure for Italy, when she had so unexpectedly met him on the terrace, and endeavouring to recall to his memory every word and look, which had then charmed him, the argu|ments he had employed to dissuade her from the journey, and the tenderness of their last farewel.

In such melancholy recollections he had been indulging, when Emily unexpectedly appeared to him on this very terrace, the evening after her arrival at Tholouse. His emotions, on thus seeing her, can scarcely be imagined; but he so far overcame the first promptings of love, that he for••ore to discover himself, and abrubtly quitted the gardens. Still, however, the vision he had seen haunted his mind; he became more wretched than before, and the only solace of his sorrow was to return in the silence of the night; to follow the paths which he believed her steps had

pressed, during the day; and, to watch round the habitation where she reposed. It was in one of these mournful wanderings, that he had received by the fire of the gardener, who mistook him for a robber, a wound in his arm, which had detained him at Tholouse till very lately, under the hands of a surgeon. There, regardless of himself and careless of his friends, whose late un|kindness had urged him to believe, that they were indifferent as to his fate, he remained, without informing them of his situa|tion; and now, being sufficiently recovered to bear travelling, he had taken La Vallee in his way to Estuviere, the Count's residence, partly for the purpose of hearing of Emily, and of be|ing again near her, and partly for that of inquiring into the situ|ation of poor old Theresa, who, he had reason to suppose, ••ad been deprived of her stipend, small as it was, and which inquiry had brought him to her cottage, when Emily happened to be there.

This unexpected interview, which had at once shewn him the tenderness of her love and the strength of her resolution, renew|ed all the acuteness of the despair, that had attended their for|mer separation, and which no effort of reason could teach him, in these moments, to subdue. Her image, her look, the tones of her voice, all dwelt on his fancy, as powerfully as they had lately appeared to his senses, and banished from his heart every emotion, except those of love and despair.

Before the evening concluded, he returned to Theresa's cot|tage, that he might hear her talk of Emily, and be in the place, were she had so lately been. The joy, felt and expressed by that faithful servant, was quickly changed to sorrow, when she ob|served, at one moment, his wild and phrensied look, and, at ano|ther, the dark melancholy that overhung him.

After he had listened, and for a considerable time, to all she had to relate, concerning Emily, he gave Theresa nearly all the money he had about him, though she repeatedly refused it, de|claring, that her mistress had amply supplied her wants; and then, drawing a ring of value from his finger, he delivered it her with a solemn charge to present it to Emily; of whom he en|treated, as a last favour, that she would preserve it for his sake, and sometimes, when she looked upon it remember the unhappy giver.

Theresa wept as she received the ring, but it was more from sympathy than from any presentiment of evil; and before she could reply, Valancourt abruptly left the cottage. She followed him to the door, calling upon his name and entreating him to return; but she received no answer, and saw him no more.

CHAP. LIII.

"Call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold." MILTON.

ON the following morning, as Emily sat in the parlour ad|joining the library, reflecting on the scene of the preceding night, Annette rushed wildly into the room, and, without speaking, sunk breathless into a chair. It was sometime before she could an|swer the anxious inquiries of Emily, as to the occasion of her emotion, but, at length, she exclaimed, "I have seen his ghost, madam, I have seen his ghost!"

"Who do you mean?" said Emily, with extreme impatience.

"It came in from the hall, madam," continued Annette, "as I was crossing to the parlour."

"Who are you speaking of?" repeated Emily," who came in from the hall?"

"It was dressed just as I have seen him, often and often," added Annette. "Ah! who could have thought—"

Emily's patience was now exhausted, and she was reprimand|ing her for such idle fancies, when a servant entered the room, and informed her, that a stranger without begged leave to speak with her.

It immediately occurred to Emily, that this stranger was Va|lancourt, and she told the servant to inform him, that she was engaged, and could not see any person. The servant having de|livered his message, returned with one from the stranger, urging the first request, and saying that he had something of consequence to communicate; while Annette, who had hitherto sat silent and amazed, now started up, and crying, "It is Ludovico!—it is Ludovico!" ran out of the room. Emily bade the servant follow her, and, if it really was Ludovico, to shew him into the parlour.

In a few minutes, Ludovico appeared, accompanied by An|nette, who, as joy rendered her forgetful of all rules of decorum towards her mistress, would not suffer any person to be heard for sometime but herself. Emily expressed surprise and satisfac|tion, on seeing Ludovico in safety, and the first emotions increas|ed, when he delivered letters from Count De Villefort and the Lady Blanche, informing her of their late adventure, and of their present situation at an inn among the Pyrenees, where they had

been detained by the illness of Mons. St. Foix, and the indispo|sition of Blanche, who added, that the Baron St Foix was just arrived to attend his son to his chateau, where he would remain till the perfect recovery of his wounds, and then return to Lan|guedoc, but that her father and herself purposed to be at La Val|lee, on the following day. She added, that Emily's presence would be expected at the approaching nuptials, and begged she would be prepared to proceed, in a few days, to Chateau-le-Blanc. For an account of Ludovico's adventure, she referred her to himself; and Emily, though much interested, concern|ing the means, by which he had disappeared from the north apartments, had the forbearance to suspend the gratification of her curiosity, till he had taken some refreshment, and had con|versed with Annette, whose joy, on seeing him in safety, could not have been more extravagant, had he arisen from the grave.

Meanwhile, Emily perused again the letters of her friends, whose expressions of esteem and kindness were very necessary con|solations to her heart, awakened as it was by the late interview to emotions of keener sorrow and regret.

The invitation to Chateau-le-Blanc was pressed with so much kindness by the Count and his daughter, who strengthened it by a message from the Countess, and the occasion of it was so im|portant to her friend, that Emily could not refuse to accept it, nor, though she wished to remain in the quiet shades of her na|tive home, could she avoid perceiving the impropriety of re|maining there alone, since Valancourt was again in the neigh|bourhood. Sometimes, too, she thought, that change of scenery and the society of her friends might contribute, more than re|tirement, to restore her to tranquillity.

When Ludovico again appeared, she desired him to give a de|tail of his adventure in the north apartments, and to tell by what means he became a companion of the banditti, with whom the Count had found him.

He immediately obeyed, while Annette, who had not yet had leisure to ask him many questions, on the subject, prepared to listen with a countenance of extreme curiosity, venturing to re|mind her lady of her incredulity, concerning spirits, in the castle of Udolpho, and of her own sagacity in believing in them; while Emily, blushing at the consciousness of her late credulity, observ|ed, that, if Ludovico's adventure could justify Annette's super|stition, he had probably not been here to relate it.

Ludovico smiled at Annette, and bowed to Emily, and then began as follows:

"You may remember, madam, that, on the night, when I sat up in the north chamber my lord, the Count, and Moos. Henri accompanied me thither, and that, while they remained there, nothing happened to excite any alarm. When they were gone I made a fire in the bed room, and, not being inclined to sleep, I sat down on the hea••th with a book I had brought with me to divert my mind. I confess I did sometimes look round the chamber, with something like apprehension—"

"O very like it, I dare say," interrupted Annette, "and I dare say too, if the truth was known, you shook from head to foot."

"Not quite so bad as that," replied Ludovico, smiling, "but several times, as the wind whistled round the castle, and shook the old casements, I did fancy I heard odd noises, and, once or twice, I got up and looked about me; but nothing was to be seen, except the grim figures in the tapestry, which seemed to frown upon me, as I looked at them. I had sat thus for above an hour," continued Ludovico, "when again I thought I heard a noise, and glanced my eyes 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the room, to discover what it came from, but, not perceiving any thing, I began to read again, and, when I had finished the story I was upon, I felt drowsy, and dropped asleep. But presently I was awakened by the noise I had heard before, and it seemed to come from that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of the chamber, where the bed stood; and then, whether it was the story I had been reading that affected my spirits, o•• the strange reports, that had been spread of these apartments, I don't know, bu••▪ when I looked towards the bed again, I fancied I saw a man's face within the dusky ••••••tains."

At the mention of this, Emily trembled, and looked anxiously, remembering the spectacle she had herself witnessed there with Dorothee.

"I confess, madam, my heart did fail me, at that infrant," continued Ludovico, "but a return of the noise drew my atten|tion from the bed, and I then distinctly heard a sound, like that of a key, turning in a lock, but what surprised me more was, that I saw no door where the sound seemed to come from. In the next moment, however, the arras near the bed was slowly lifted, and a person appeared behind it, entering from a small door in the wall. He stood for a moment as if half retreating, with his head bending under the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 which concealed the upper part of his face, except his eyes scowling beneath the tapestry as he held it; and then, while he raised it higher, I saw the face of another man behind, looking over his shoulder. I know not how it was,

but, though my sword was upon the table before me, I had not the power just then to seize it, but sat quite still, watching them, with my eyes half shut as if I was asleep. I suppose they thought me so, and were debating what they should do, for I heard them whisper, and they stood in the same posture for the value of a minute, and then, I thought I perceived other faces in the dus|kiness beyond the door, and heard louder whispers."

"This door surprises me," said Emily, "because I under|stood, that the Count had caused the arras to be lifted, and the walls examined, suspecting, that they might have concealed a passage through which you had departed."

"It does not appear so extraordinary to me, madam," replied Ludovico, "that this door should escape notice, because it was formed in a narrow compartment, which appeared to be part of the outward wall, and, if the Count had not passed over it, he might have thought it was useless to search for a door where it seemed as if no passage could communicate with one; but the truth was, that the passage was formed within the wall itself.—But, to return to the men, whom I saw obscurely beyond the door, and who did not suffer me to remain long in suspense, con|cerning their design. They all rushed into the room, and sur|rounded me, though not before I had snatched up my sword to defend myself. But what could one man do against four? They soon disarmed me, and, having fastened my arms, and gagged my mouth, forced me through the private door, leaving my sword upon the table, to assist, as they said, those who should come in the morning to look for me, in fighting against the ghosts. They then led me through many narrow passages, cut, as I fancied, in the walls, for I had never seen them before, and down several flights of steps, till we came to the vaults under|neath the castle; and then opening a stone door, which I should have taken for the wall itself, we went through a long passage, and down other steps cut in the solid rock, when another door delivered us into a cave. After turning and twining about, for sometime, we reached the mouth of it, and I found myself on the sea beach at the foot of the cliffs, with the chateau above. A ••oar was in waiting, into which the ruffians got, forcing me along with them, and we soon reached, a small vessel, that was at anchor, where other men appeared, when setting me aboard, two of the fellows who had seized me followed, and the other two ••owed back to the shore, while we set sail. I soon found out what all this meant, and what was the business of these men at the chateau. We landed in Rousillon, and, after lingering several

days about the shore, some of their comrades came down from the mountains, and carried me with them to the fort, where I re|mained till my Lord so unexpectedly arrived, for they had taken good care to prevent my running away, having blindfolded me, during the journey, and, if they had not done this, I think I never could have found my road to any town, through the wild country we traversed. After I reached the sort I was watched like a prisoner, and never suffered to go out, without two or three companions, and I became so weary of life, that I often wished to get rid of it."

"Well, but they let you talk," said Annette, "they did not gagg you after they got you away from the chateau, so I don't see what reason there was to be so very weary of living; to say nothing about the chance you had of seeing me again."

Ludovico smiled, and Emily also, who inquired what was the motive of these men for carrying him off.

"I soon found out, madam," resumed Ludovico, "that they were pirates, who had, during many years, secreted their spoil in the vaults of the castle, which, being so near the sea, suited their purpose well. To prevent detection they had tried to have in believed that the chateau was haunted, and, having discovered the private way to the north apartments, which had been shut up ever since the death of the lady marchioness, they easily suc|ceeded. The housekeeper and her husband, who were the only persons, that had inhabited the castle, for some years, were so terrified by the strange noises they heard in the nights, that they would live there no longer; a report soon went abroad, that it was haunted, and the whole country believed this the more read|ily, I suppose, because it had been said, that the lady marchioness had died in a strange way, and because my lord never would re|turn to the place afterwards."

"But why," said Emily, "were not these pirates contented with the cave—why did they think it necessary to deposit their spoil in the castle?"

"The cave, madam," replied Ludovico, "was open to any body, and their treasures would not long have remained undis|covered there, but in the vaults they were secure so long as the report prevailed of their being haunted. Thus then, it appears, that they brought at midnight, the spoil they took on the seas, and kept it till they had opportunities of disposing of it to ad|vantage. The pirates were connected with Spanish smugglers and banditti, who live among the wilds of the Pyrenees, and carry on various kinds of traffic, such as nobody would think of; and

with this desperate horde of banditti I remained, till my lord arrived. I shall never forget what I felt, when I first discovered him—I almost gave him up for lost! but I knew, that, if I shewed myself, the banditti would discover who he was, and probably murder us all, to prevent their secret in the chateau being detected. I, therefore, kept out of my lord's sight, but had a strict watch upon the ruffians, and determined, if they offered him or his family violence, to discover myself, and sight for our lives. Soon after, I overhead some of them laying a most diabolical plan for the murder and plunder of the whole party, when I contrived to speak to some of my lord's attendants, telling them what was going forward, and we consulted what was best to be done; meanwhile my lord, alarmed at the absence of the Lady Blanche demanded her, and the ruffians having given some unsatisfactory answer, my lord and Mons. St. Foix became furious, so then we thought it a good time to discover the plot, and rushing into the chamber, I called out, "Treachery! my Lord Count, defend yourself!" His lordship and the chevalier drew their swords directly, and a hard battle we had, but we conquered at last, as, madam, you are already informed of by my Lord Count."

"This is an extraordinary adventure," said Emily, "and much praise is due, Ludovico, to your prudence and intrepidity. There are some circumstances, however, concerning the north apartments, which still perplex me; but, perhaps, you may be able to explain them. Did you ever hear the banditti relate any thing extraordinary of these rooms."

"No, madam," replied Ludovico," I never heard them speak about the rooms, except to laugh at the credulity of the old housekeeper, who once was very near catching one of the pirates; it was since the Count arrived at the chateau, he said, and he laughed heartily as he related the trick he had played off."

A blush overspread Emily's cheek, and she impatiently desired Ludovico to explain himself.

"Why, my lady," said he, "as this fellow was, one night in the bed room, he heard somebody approaching through the next apartment, and not having time to lift up the arras, and unfasten the door, he hid himself in the bed just by. There he lay for sometime in as great a fright, I suppose—"

"As you was in," interrupted Annette, "when you sat up so boldly to watch by yourself."

"Aye," said Ludovico, "in as great a fright as he ever made any body else suffer; and presently the housekeeper and some

other person came up to the bed, when he, thinking they were going to examine it, bethought him, that his only chance of escaping detection, was by terrifying them; so he lifted up the counterpane, but that did not do, till he raised his face above it, and then they both set off, he said, as if they had seen the devil, and he got out of the rooms undiscovered."

Emily could not forbear smiling at this explanation of the deception, which had given her so much superstitious terror, and was surprised, that she could have suffered herself to be thus alarmed, till she considered, that, when the mind has once begun to yield to the weakness of superstition, trifles impress it with the force of conviction. Still, however, she remembered with awe, the mysterious music, which had been heard, at midnight, near Chateau-le-Blanc, and she asked Ludovico if he could give any explanation of it; but he could not.

"I only know, madam," he added, "that it did not belong to the pirates, for I have heard them laugh about it, and say, they believed the devil was in league with them there."

"Yes, I will answer for it he was," said Annette, her countenance brightening. "I was sure all along, that he or his spirits had something to do with the north apartments, and now you see, madam, I am right at last."

"It cannot be denied, that his spirits were very busy in that part of the chateau," replied Emily, smiling. "But I am surprised, Ludovico, that these pirates should ••••••severe in their schemes, after the arrival of the Count; what ••••uld they expect but certain detection?"

"I have reason to believe, madam," replied Ludovico, "that it was their intention to persevere no longer than was necessary for the removal of the stores, which were deposited in the vaults; and it appeared, that they had been employed in doing so from within a short period after the Count's arrival; but, as they had only a few hours in the night for this business, and were carrying on other schemes at the same time, the vaults were not above half emptied, when they took me away. They gloried exceedingly in this opportunity of confirming the superstitious reports, that had been spread of the north chambers, were careful to leave every thing there as they had found it, the better to promote the deception, and frequently, in their jocose moods, would laugh at the consternation which they believed the inhabitants of the castle had suffered upon my disappearing, and it was to prevent the possibility of my betraying their secret, that they had removed me to such a distance. From that period, they considered the

chateau as nearly their own; but I found from the discourse of their comrades, that, though they were cautious, at first, in shewing their power there, they had once very nearly betrayed themselves. Going, one night, as was their custom, to the north chambers to repeat the noises, that had occasioned such alarm among the servants, they heard, as they were about to unfasten the secret door, voices in the bed room. My lord has since told me, that himself and M. Henri were then in the apartment, and they heard very extraordinary sounds of lamentation, which it seems were made by these fellows, with their usual design of spreading terror, and my lord has owned, he then felt somewhat more than surprise; but, as it was necessary to the peace of his family, that no notice should be taken, he was silent on the subject, and enjoined silence to his son."

Emily, recollecting the change, that had appeared in the spirits of the Count, after the night, when he had watched in the north room, now perceived the cause of it; and, having made some further inquiries upon this strange affair, she dismissed Ludovico, and went to give orders for the accommodation of her friends on the following day.

In the evening, Theresa, lame as she was, came to deliver the ring, with which Valancourt had entrusted her, and, when she presented it, Emily was much affected, for she remembered to have seen him wear it often in happier days. She was however, much displeased, that Theresa had received it, and positively refused to accept it herself, though to have done so would have afforded her a melancholy pleasure. Theresa entreated, expostulat|ed, and then described the distress of Valancourt, when he had given the ring, and repeated the message, with which he had commissioned her to deliver it; and Emily could not conceal the extreme sorrow this recital occasioned her, but wept, and remained lost in thought.

"Alas! my dear young lady!" said Theresa, "why should all this be? I have known you from your infancy, and it may well be supposed I love you; as if you was my own, and wish as much to see you happy. M. Valancourt, to be sure, I have not known so long, but then I have reason to love him, as though he was my own son. I know how well you love one another, or why all this weeping and wailing?" Emily waved her hand for Theresa to be silent, who, disregarding the signal, continued, "And how much you are alike in your tempers and ways, and, that, if you were married, you would be the happiest couple in the whole province—then what is there to prevent your marry|ing?

Dear dear! to see how some people fling away their hap|piness, and then cry and lament about it, just as if it was not their own doing, and as if there was more pleasure in wailing and weeping, than in being at peace. Learning, to be sure, is a fine thing, but, if it teaches folks no better than that, why I had ra|ther be without it; if it would teach them to be happier I would say something to it, then it would be learning and wisdom too."

Age and long services had given Theresa a privilege to talk, but Emily now endeavoured to check her loquacity, and, though she felt the justness of some of her remarks, did not choose to explain the circumstances that had determined her conduct to|wards Valancourt. She, therefore, only told Theresa, that it would much displease her to hear the subject renewed; that she had reasons for her conduct, which she did not think it proper to mention, and that the ring must be returned, with an assurance, that she could not accept it with propriety; and, at the same time, she forbade Theresa to repeat any future message from Va|lancourt, as she valued her esteem and kindness. Theresa was afflicted, and made another attempt, though feeble, to interest her for Valancourt, but the unusual displeasure, expressed in Emily's countenance, soon obliged her to desist, and she departed in won|der and lamentation.

To relieve her mind in some degree, from the painful recol|lections, that intruded upon it, Emily busied herself in prepara|tions for the journey into Languedoc, and, while Annette, who as|sisted her, spoke with joy and affection of the safe return of Lu|dovico, she was considering how she might best promote their happiness, and determined, if it appeared, that his affection was as unchanged as that of the simple and honest Annette, to give her a marriage portion, and sett•••• them on some part of her estate. These considerations led her to the remembrance of her father's paternal domain, which his affairs had formerly compelled him to dispose of to M. Quesnel, and which she frequently wished to regain, because St. Aubert had lamented, that the chief lands of his ancestors had passed into another family, and because they ••ad been his birth-place and the haunt of his early years. To the estate at Tholouse she had no peculiar attachment, and it was her wish to dispose of this, that she might purchase her paternal domains, if M. Quesnel could be prevailed on to part with them, which, as he talked much of living in Italy, did not appear very improbable.

CHAP. LIV.

"Sweet is the breath of vernal shower, The bees' collected treasures sweet, Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet The still small voice of gratitude." GRAY.

ON the following day, the arrival of her friend revived the drooping Emily, and La Vallee became once more the scene of social kindness and of elegant hospitality. Illness and the ter|ror she had suffered had stolen from Blanche much of her spright|liness, but all her affectionate simplicity remained, and, though she appeared less blooming, she was not less engaging than be|fore. The unfortunate adventure on the Pyrenees had made the Count very anxious to reach home, and, after little more than a week's stay at La Vallee, Emily prepared to set out with her friends for Languedoc, assigning the care of her house, dur|ing her absence, to Theresa. On the evening, preceding her de|parture, this old servant brought again the ring of Valancourt, and, with tears, entreated her mistress to receive it, for that she had neither seen or heard of M. Valancourt, since the night when he delivered it to her. As she said this, her countenance expressed more alarm, than she dared to utter; but Emily, checking her own propensity to fear considered, that he had probably return|ed to the residence of his brother, and, again refusing to accept the ring, bade Theresa preserve it, till she saw him, which, with extreme reluctance, she promised to do.

On the following day, Count De Villefort, with Emily and the Lady Blanche, left La Vallee, and, on the ensuing evening, arrived at the Chateau-le Blanc, where the Countess, Henri, and M. Du Pont, whom Emily was surprised to find there, received them with much joy and congratulation. She was concerned to observe, that the Count still encouraged the hopes of his friend, whose countenance declared, that his affection had suffered no abatement from absence, and was much distressed, when, on the second evening after her arrival, the Count, having withdrawn her from the Lady Blanche, with whom she was walking, re|newed the subject of M. Du Pont's hopes. The mildness, with which she listened to his intercessions at first, deceiving him, as to her sentiments, he began to believe, that, her affection for Va|lancourt being overcome, she was, at length, disposed to think fa|vourably of M. Du Pont; and, when she afterwards convinced

him of his mistake, he ventured, in the earnestness of his wish to promote what he considered to be the happiness of two persons, whom he so much esteemed, gently to remonstrate with her, on thus suffering an ill placed affection to poison the happiness of her most valuable years.

Observing her silence and the deep dejection of her counte|nance, he concluded with saying, "I will not say more now, but I will still believe, my dear Mademoiselle St. Aubert, that you will not always reject a person, so truly estimable as my friend Du Pont."

He spared her the pain of replying, by leaving her; and she strolled on, somewhat displeased with the Count for having per|severed to plead for a suit, which she had repeatedly rejected, and lost amidst the melancholy recollections, which this topic had revived, till she had insensibly reached the borders of the woods, that screened the monastery of St. Clair, when, perceiving how far she had wandered, she determined to extend her walk a lit|tle farther, and to inquire after the abbess and some of her friends among the nuns.

Though the evening was now drawing to a close, she accepted the invitation of the friar, who ••••••ned the gate, and, anxious to meet some of her old acquaintan•••• proceeded towards the con|vent parlour. As she crossed the lawn, that sloped from the front of the monastery, towards the sea, she was struck with the picture of repose, exhibited by some monks, sitting in the clois|ters, which extended under the brow of the woods, that crowned this eminence; where, as they meditated, at this twilight hour holy subjects, they sometimes suffered their attention to be re|lieved by the scene before them, not thought it profane to lock at nature, now that it had exchanged the brilliant colour, 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 for the sober ••ue of evening. Before the cloisters, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 spread an ancient chesnut, whose ample branches were designed to screen the full magnificence of a scene, that might tempt the wish to worldly pleasures; but still, beneath the dark and spread|ing foliage, gleamed a wide extent of ocean, and many a passing sail; while, to the right and left, thick woods were seen stretch|ing along the winding shores. So much as this had been admit|ted, perhaps, to give to the secluded votary an image of the dan|gers and vicissitudes of life, and to console him, now that he had renounced its pleasures, by the certainty of having escaped its evils. As Emily walked pensively along, considering how much suffering she might have escaped, had she become a votaress of the order, and remained in this retirement from the time of

her father's death, the vesper bell struck up, and the monks retired slowly towards the chapel, while she, pursuing her way, entered the great hall, where an unusual silence seemed to reign. The parlour too, which opened from it, she found vacant, but, as the evening bell was sounding, she believed the nuns had withdrawn into the chapel, and sat down to rest, for a moment, before she returned to the chateau, where, however, the increas|ing gloom made her now anxious to be.

Not many minutes had elapsed, before a nun, entering in haste, inquired for the abbess, and was retiring, without recol|lecting Emily, when she made herself known, and then learned, that a mass was going to be performed for the soul of sister Ag|nes, who had been declining for sometime, and who was now be|lieved to be dying.

Of her sufferings the sister gave a melancholy account, and of the horrors into which she had frequently started, but which had now yielded to a dejection so gloomy, that neither the prayers, in which she was joined by the sisterhood, or the assurances of her confessor, had power to recall her from it, or to cheer her mind even with a momentary gleam of comfort.

To this relation Emily listened with extreme concern, and, recollecting the phrensied manners and the expressions of horror, which she had herself witnessed of Agnes, together, with the history, that sister Frances had communicated, her compassion was heightened to a very painful degree. As the evening was already far advanced, Emily did not now desire to see her, or to join in the mass, and, after leaving many kind remembrances with the nun, for her old friends, she quitted the monastery, and returned over the cliffs towards the chateau, meditating upon what she had just heard, till at length, she forced her mind upon less interesting subjects.

The wind was high, and, as she drew near the chateau, she often paused to listen to its awful sound, as it swept over the billows, that beat below, or groaned along the surrounding woods; and, while she rested on a cliff at a short distance from the cha|teau, and looked upon the the wide waters, seen dimly beneath the last shade of twilight, she thought of the following address,

TO THE WINDS.

Viewless, through heaven's vast vault your course ye steer, Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go! Mysteriou pow'rs! I hear ye murmur low, Till swells your loud gust on my startled car, And, awful! seem•• to say—some God is near!

I love to list your midnight voices float In the dread storm, that o'er the ocean rolls, And, while their charm the angry wave controuls, Mix, with its sullen roar, and sink remote. Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note, The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail, A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps ••he gale! But soon, ye sightless pow'rs! your rest•••••• o'er, Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air, Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear, And the faint warbled dirge—is heard no more!

Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign! The loud lament yet bear not on your breath! Bear not the crash of bark far on the main, Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain, The crew's dread chorus sinking into death! Oh! give not these, ye pow'rs! I ask alone, As rapt I climb these dark romantic sleeps, The elemental war, the billow's moan; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the still, sweet tear, that listening fancy weeps!

CHAP. LV.

—"Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets, More need she the divine, than the physician. MACBETH.

ON the following evening, the view of the convent towers, rising among the shadowy woods, reminded Emily of the nun, whose condition had so much affected her; and, anxious to know how she was, as well as to see some of her former friends, ••he and the Lady Blanche extended their walk to the monastery. At the gate stood a carriage, which, from the heat of the horses, appeared to have just arrived; but a more than common still|ness pervaded the court and the cloisters, through which Emily and Blanche passed in their way to the great hall, where a nun, who was crossing to the staircase, replied to the inquiries of the former, that sister Agnes was still living, and sensible, but that it was thought she could not survive the night. In the parlour, they found several of the boarders, who rejoiced to see Emily, and told her many little circumstances that had happened in the convent since her departure, and which were interesting to her only because they related to persons, whom she had regarded with affection. While they thus conversed, the abbess entered the room, and expressed much satisfaction at seeing Emily, but her manner was unusually solemn, and her countenance dejected.

"Our house," said she, after the first salutations were over, "is truly a house of mourning, a daughter is now paying the debt of nature. You have heard, perhaps that our daughter Agnes is dying?"

Emily expressed her sincere concern.

"Her death presents to us a great and awful lesson," contin|ued the abbess; "let us read it, and profit by it; let it teach us to prepare ourselves for the change, that awaits us all! You are young, and have it yet in your power to secure "the peace that passeth all understanding"—the peace of conscience. Preserve it in your youth, that it may comfort you in age; for vain, alas! and imperfect are the good deeds of our latter years, if those of our early life have been evil!"

Emily would have said, that good deeds she hoped, were never vain! but she considered that it was the abbess who spoke, and she remained silent.

"The latter days of Agnes," resumed the abbess, "have been exemplary; would they might atone for the errors of her for|mer ones! Her sufferings now, alas! are great; let us believe, that they will make her peace hereafter! I have left her with her confessor, and a gentleman, whom she has long been anxi|ous to see, and who is just arrived from Paris. They, I hope, will be able to administer the repose, which her mind has hitherto wanted."

Emily fervently joined in the wish.

"During her illness, she has sometimes named you," resumed the abbess; "perhaps, it would comfort her to see you; when her present visitors have left her, we will go to her chamber, if the scene will not be too melancholy for your spirits. But, in|deed, to such scenes, however painful, we ought to accustom our|selves, for they are salutary to the soul, and prepare us for what we are ourselves to suffer."

Emily became grave and thoughtful; for this conversation bro't to her recollection the dying moments of her beloved father, and she wished once more to weep over the spot, where his remains were bu|ried. During the silence, which followed the abbess' speech, many minute circumstances attending his last hours occurred to her; his emotion on perceiving himself to be in the neighbourhood of Chateau-la-Blanc—his request to be interred in a particular spot in the church of this monastery—and the solemn charge he had delivered her to destroy certain papers, without examining them. She recollected also the mysterious and horrible words in those manuscripts, upon which her eye had involuntarily glanced; and, though they now, and, indeed, whenever she remembered them,

revived an excess of painful curiosity, concerning their full im|port, and the motives for her father's command, it was ever her chief consolation, that she had strictly obeyed him in this particular.

Little more was said by the abbess, who appeared too much affected by the subject she had lately left, to be willing to con|verse, and her companions had been for sometime silent from the same cause, when this general reverie was interrupted by the en|trance of a stranger, Monsieur Bonnac, who had just quitted the chamber of sister Agnes. He appeared much disturbed, but Emily fancied, that his countenance had more the expression of horror, than of grief. Having drawn the abbess to a distant part of the room, he conversed with her for sometime, during which she seemed to listen with earnest attention, and he to speak with caution, and a more than common degree of interest. When he had concluded, he bowed silently to the rest of the company, and quitted the room. The abbess, soon after proposed going to the chamber of sister Agnes, to which Emily consented, though not without some reluctance, and Lady Blanche remained with the boarders below.

At the door of the chamber they met the confessor, whom, as he lifted up his head on their approach, Emily observed to be the same that had attended her dying father; but he passed on without noticing her, and they entered the apartment, where, on a mattress, was laid sister Agnes, with one nun watching in the chair beside her. Her countenance was so much changed, that Emily would scarcely have recollected her, had she not been pre|pared to do so: it was ghastly, and overspread with gloomy horror; her dim and hollow eyes were fixed on a crucifix, which she held upon her bosom: and she was so much engaged in thought, as not to perceive the abbess and Emily, till they stood at the bed side. Then, turning her heavy eyes, she fixed them in wild horror, upon Emily; and, screaming, exclaimed, "Ah! that vision comes upon me in my dying hours!"

Emily started back in terror, and looked for explanation to the abbess, who made her a signal not to be alarmed, and calmly said to Agnes, "Daughter, I have brought Mademoiselle St. Aubert to visit you: I thought you would be glad to see her."

Agnes made no reply; but, still gazing wildly upon Emily, exclaimed, "It is her very self! Oh! there is all that fascina|tion in her look, which proved my destruction! What would you have—what is it you come to demand—Retribution?—It will soon be yours—it is yours already. How many years have passed, since last I saw you! My crime is but as yesterday. Yet I am grown old beneath it; while you are still young and

blooming—blooming as when you forced me to commit that most abhorred deed! O! could I once forget it!—yet what would that avail?—the deed is done!"

Emily, extremely shocked, would now have left the room; but the abbess, taking her hand, tried to support her spirits, and beg|ged she would stay a few moments, when Agnes would probably be calm, whom now she tried to sooth. But the latter seemed to disregard her, while she still fixed her eyes on Emily, and added, "What are years of prayers and repentance? they cannot wash out the foulness of murder!—Yes, murder! Where is he—where is he?—Look there—look there!—see where he stalks along the room! Why do you come to torment me now?" con|tinued Agnes, while her straining eyes were bent on air, "why was not I punished before?—O! do not frown so sternly I Hah I there again! 'tis she herself! Why do you look so piteously upon me—and smile, too? smile on me! What groan was that?"

Agnes, sunk down, apparently lifeless, and Emily, unable to support herself, leaned against the bed, while the abbess and the attendant nun were applying the usual remedies to Agnes. "Peace," said the abbess, when Emily was going to speak, "the delirium is going off, she will soon revive. When was she thus before, daughter?"

"Not for many weeks, madam," replied the nun, "but her spirits have been much agitated by the arrival of the gentleman she wished so much to see."

"Yes," observed the abbess," that has undoubtedly occasion|ed this paroxysm of phrenzy. When she is better, we will leave her to repose."

Emily very readily consented, but, though she could now give little assistance, she was unwilling to quit the chamber, while any might be necessary.

When Agnes recovered her senses, she again fixed her eyes on Emily, but their wild expression was gone, and a gloomy mel|ancholy had succeeded. It was some moments before she re|covered sufficient spirits to speak; she then said feebly—"The likeness is wonderful!—surely it must be something more than fancy. Tell me, I conjure you," she added, addressing Emily, "though your name is St. Aubert, are you not the daughter of the Marchioness?"

"What Marchioness?" said Emily, in extreme surprise; for, she had imagined, from the calmness of Agnes' manner, that her intellects were restored. The abbess gave her a significant glance, but she repeated the question.

"What Marchioness?" exclaimed Agnes, "I know but of one, the Marchioness de Villeroi."

Emily, remembering the emotion of her late father, upon the un|expected mention of this lady, and his request to be laid near the tomb of the Villerois, now felt greatly interested, and she entreat|ed Agnes to explain the reason of her question. The abbess would now have withdrawn Emily from the room, who being however, detained by a strong interest, repeated her intreaties.

"Bring me that casket, sister," said Agnes; "I will shew her to you; yet you need only look in that mirror, and you will be|hold her; you surely are her daughter; such striking resem|blance is never found but among 〈◊〉〈◊〉 relations."

The nun brought the casket, and Agnes, having directed her how to unlock it, she took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the exact resemblance of the picture, which she had found among her late father's papers. Agnes held out her hand to receive it; gazed upon it earnestly for some moments in silence; and then, with a countenance of deep despair, threw up her eyes to heaven, and prayed inwardly. When she had finish|ed, she returned the miniature to Emily. "Keep it, "said she "I bequeath it to you, for I must believe it is your right. I have frequently observed the resemblance between you; but never, till this day, did it strike upon my conscience so power|fully! Stay, sister, do not remove the casket—there is another picture I would shew."

Emily trembled with expectation, and the abbess again would have withdrawn her. "Agnes is still disordered," said she, "you observe how she wanders. In these moods she says any thing, and does not scruple, as you have witnessed, to accuse herself of the most horrible crimes."

Emily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness in the inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Mar|chioness, and production of her picture, had interested her so much, that she determined to obtain further information, if possible, re|specting the subject of it.

The nun returned with the casket, and, Agnes pointing out to her a secret drawer, she took from it another miniature. "Here," said Agnes, as she offered it to Emily, "learn a lesson for your vanity, at least; look well at this picture, and see if you can dis|cover any resemblance between what I was, and what I am."

Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcely glanced upon, before her trembling hands had nearly suf|fered it to fall—it was the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini, which she had formerly seen in the castle of Udolpho,

the lady, who had disappeared in so mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had been suspected of having caused to be murdered.

In silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon the picture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance between them, which no longer existed.

"Why do you look so sternly on me?" said Agnes, mistaking the nature of Emily's emotion.

"I have seen this face before," said Emily, at length; "was it really your resemblance?"

"You may well ask that question," replied the nun,—but it was once esteemed a striking likeness of me. Look at me well, and see what guilt has made me. I then was innocent; the evil passions of my nature slept. Sister!" added she, solemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp hand to Emily, who shuddered at its touch—"Sister! beware of the first indulgence of the passions; beware of the first! Their course, if not checked then, is rapid—their force is uncontroulable—they lead us we know not whither, they lead us perhaps to the commission of crimes, for which whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone!—Such may be the force of even a single passion, that it overcomes every other, and ••ears up every other approach to the heart. Possessing us like a fiend, it leads us on to the acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity and to conscience. And, when its purpose is accomplished, like a fiend, it leaves us ••o the torture of those feelings, which its power had suspended—not annihilated,—to the tortures of com|passion, remorse, and conscience. Then, we awaken as from a dream, and perceive a new world around us—we gaze in astonish|ment, and horror—but the deed is committed; not all the powers of heaven and earth united can undo it—and the spectres of con|science will not fly! What are riches—grandeur—health itself, to the luxury of a pure conscience, the health of the soul; and what the sufferings of poverty, disappointment, despair—to the an|guish of an afflicted one! O! how long is it since I knew that luxury! I believed, that I had suffered the most agonizing pangs of human nature, in love, jealousy and despair; but these pangs were ease, compared with the stings of conscience, which I have since endured. I tasted too, what was called the sweet of revenge, but it was transient, it expired even with the object, that provok|ed it. Remember, sister, that the passions are the seeds of vices as well as of virtues, from which either may spring, accordingly as they are nurtured. Unhappy they who have never been taught the art to govern them!"

"Alas! unhappy!" said the abbess," and ill informed of our holy religion!" Emily listened to Agnes, in silent awe, while

she still examined the miniature, and became confirmed in her opinion of its strong resemblance to the portrait at Udolpho.—"This face is familiar to me," said she, wishing to lead the nun to an explanation, yet fearing to discover too abruptly her know|ledge of Udolpho.

"You are mistaken," replied Agnes, "you certainly never saw that picture before."

"No," replied Emily, "but I have seen one extremely like it." "Impossible," said Agnes, who may now be called the Lady Laurentini.

"It was in the castle of Udolpho," continued Emily, looking stedfastly at her.

"Of Udolpho!" exclaimed Laurentini, "of Udolpho in Italy!" "The same" replied Emily.

"You know me then," said Laurentini, "and you are the daughter of the Marchioness." Emily was somewhat surprised at this abrupt assertion. I am the daughter of the late Mons. St. Au|bert," said she; "and the lady you name is an utter stranger to me."

"At least you believe so," rejoined Laurentini.

Emily asked what reasons there could be to believe otherwise.

"The family likeness, that you bear her," said the nun. "The Marchioness, it is known, was attached to a gentleman of Gas|cony, at the time when she accepted the hand of the Marquis, by the command of her father. Ill fated, unhappy woman!"

Emily remembering the extreme emotion which St. Aubert had betrayed on the mention of the Marchioness, would now have suffered something more than surprise had her confidence in his integrity been less; as it was, she could not, for a moment, believe what the words of Laurentini insinuated; yet she still felt strongly interested, concerning them, and begged, that she would explain them further.

"Do not urge me on that subject," said the nun, "it is to me a terrible one! Would that I could blot it from my memory!" She sighed deeply, and, after the pause of a moment, asked Emily, by what means she had discovered her name?

"By your portrait in the castle of Udolpho, to which this miniature bears a striking resemblance," replied Emily.

"You have been at Udolpho then!" said the nun, with great emotion. "Alas! what scenes does the mention of it revive in my fancy—scenes of happiness, of sufferings, and of horror!"

At this moment, the terrible spectacle, which Emily had wit|nessed in a chamber of that castle, occurred to her, and she shud|dered, while she looked upon the nun—and recollected her

late words—that "years of prayer and penitence could not wash out the foulness of murder." She was now compelled to attribute these to another cause, than that of delirium. With a degree of horror, that almost deprived her of sense, she now be|lieved she looked upon a murderer; all the recollected behaviour of Laurentini seemed to confirm the supposition▪ yet Emily was still lost in a labyrinth of perplexities, and, not knowing how to ask the questions, which might lead to truth, she could only hint them in broken sentences.

"Your sudden departure from Udolpho"—said she.

Laurentini groaned.

"The reports that followed it," continued Emily—"The west chamber—the mourning veil—the object it conceals—when mur|ders are committed—"

The nun shrieked, "What! there again!" said she, endeavour|ing to raise herself, while her starting eyes seemed to follow some object round the room—" Come from the grave! What! Blood—blood too!—There was no blood—thou can'st not say it!—Nay, do not smile,—do not smile so piteously!"

Laurentini fell into convulsions, as she uttered the last words; and Emily, unable any longer to endure the horror of the scene, hurried from the room, and sent some nuns to the assistance of the abbess.

The Lady Blanche, and the boarders, who were in the parlour, now assembled round Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and af|frighted countenance, asked a hundred questions, which she avoid|ed answering further, than by saying, that she believed sister Ag|nes was dying. They received this as a sufficient explanation of her terror, and had then leisure to offer restoratives, which, at length, somewhat revived Emily, whose mind was, however, so much shocked with terrible surmises, and perplexed with doubts by some words from the nun, that she was unable to converse, and would have left the convent immediately, had she not wished to know whether Laurentini would survive the late attack. After waiting sometime, she was informed, that, the convulsions having ceased, Laurentini seemed to be reviving, and Emily and Blanche were departing, when the abbess appeared, who, drawing the former aside, said she had something of consequence to say to her, but, as it was late, she would not detain her then, and requested to see her on the following day.

Emily promised to visit her, and, having taken leave, returned with the Lady Blanche towards the chateau, on the way to which the deep gloom of the woods made Blanche lament, that the even|ing

was so far advanced; for the surrounding stillness and ob|scurity rendered her sensible of fear, though there was a servant to protect her; while Emily was too much engaged by the hor|rors of the scene she had just witnessed, to be affected by the so|lemnity of the shades, otherwise, than as they served to promote her gloomy reverie, from which, however, she was at length re|called by the Lady Blanche, who pointed out, at some distance, in the dusky path they were winding two persons slowly advanc|ing. It was impossible to avoid them without striking into a still more secluded part of the wood, whither the strangers might easily follow; but all apprehension vanished, when Emily distinguished the voice of Mons. Du Pont, and perceived, that his companion was the gentleman, whom she had seen at the monastery, and who was now conversing with so much earnestness as not immediately to perceive their approach. When Du Pont joined the ladies, the stranger took leave, and they proceeded to the chateau, where the Count, when he heard of Mons. Bonnac, claimed him for an acquaintance, and, on learning the melancholy occasion of his visit to Languedoc, and that he was lodged at a small inn in the vil|lage, begged the favour of Mons. Du Pont to invite him to the chateau.

The latter was happy to do so, and the scruples of reserve, which made M. Bonnac hesitate to accept the invitation, being at length overcome, they went to the chateau, where the kindness of the Count and the sprightliness of his son were exerted to dis|sipate the gloom that overhung the spirits of the stranger. M. Bonnac was an officer in the French service, and appeared to be about fifty; his figure was tall and commanding, his manners had received the last polish, and there was something in his coun|tenance uncommonly interesting; for over features, which in youth, must have been remarkably handsome, was spread a mel|ancholy, that seemed the effect of long misfortune, rather than of constitution or temper.

The conversation he held, during supper, was evidently an ef|fort of politeness, and there were intervals in which, unable to struggle against the feelings, that depressed him, he relapsed into silence and abstraction, from which, however, the Count, some|times withdrew him in a manner so delicate and benevolent, that Emily, while she observed him, almost fancied she beheld her late father.

The party separated at an early hour, and then, in the solitude of her apartment, the scenes, which Emily had lately witnessed, returned to her fancy, with dreadful energy. That in the dy|ing

nun she should have discovered Signora Laurentini, who, in|stead of having been murdered by Montoni, was, as it now seem|ed, herself guilty of some dreadful crime, excited both horror and surprise in a high degree: nor did the hints, which she had dropped, respecting the marriage of the Marchioness de Villeroi, and the inquiries she had made concerning Emily's birth, occasion her a less degree of interest, though it was of a different nature.

The history, which sister Frances had formerly related, and had said to be that of Agnes, it now appeared, was erroneous; but for what purpose it had been fabricated, unless the more effec|tually to conceal the true story, Emily could not even guess. Above all, her interest was excited as to the relation, which the story of the late Marchioness de Villeroi bore to that of her father; for, that some kind of relation existed between them, the grief of St. Aubert, upon hearing her named, his request to be buried near her, and her picture, which had been found among his papers, certainly proved. Sometimes it occurred to Emily, that he might have been the lover to whom it was said the Marchioness was attached, when she was compelled to marry the Marquis de Villeroi; but that he had afterwards cherished a passion for her, she could not suffer herself to believe, for a moment. The papers, which he had so solemnly enjoined her to destroy, she now fancied had related to this connection, and she wished more earnestly than before to know the reasons, that made him consider the injunction necessary, which, had her faith in his principles been less, would have led to believe, that there was a mystery in her birth dishonourable to her parents, which those manuscripts might have revealed.

Reflections, similar to these, engaged her mind, during the greater part of the night, and when, at length, she fell into a slumber, it was only to behold a vision of the dying nun, and to awaken in horrors, like those she had witnessed.

On the following morning, she was too much indisposed to attend her appointment with the abbess, and, before the day con|cluded, she heard, that sister Agnes was no more. Mons. Bonnac received this intelligence, with concern; but Emily observed, that he did not appear so much affected now, as on the preceding evening, immediately after quitting the apartment, of the nun, whose death was probably less terrible to him, than the confession he had been then called upon to witness. However this might be, he was perhaps consoled, in some degree, by a knowledge of the legacy bequeathed him, since his family was large, and the ex|travagance of some part of it had lately been the means of involv|ing him in great distress, and even in the horrors, of a prison; 〈2 pages missing〉〈2 pages missing〉

dered her beauty more enchanting, if possible, to his fancy, than it had ever yet appeared. Experience had taught him to under|stand the full value of the qualities, which he had before admired, but which the contrasted characters he had seen in the world made him now adore; and these reflections, increasing the pangs of remorse and regret, occasioned the deep dejection, that had accompanied him even into the presence of Emily, of whom he considered himself no longer worthy. To the ignominy of hav|ing received pecuniary obligations from the Marchioness Cham|fort, or any other lady of intrigue, as the Count De Villefort had been informed, or of having been engaged in the depredat|ing schemes of gamesters, Valancourt had never submitted; and these were some of such scandals as often mingle with truth, against the unfortunate. Count De Villefort had received them from authority, which he had no reason to doubt, and which the imprudent conduct he had himself witnessed in Valancourt, had certainly induced him the more readily to believe. Being such as Emily could not name to the Chevalier, he had no opportu|nity of refuting them; and, when ••e confessed himself to be un|worthy of her esteem, he little suspected, that he was confirm|ing to her the most dreadful calumnies. Thus the mistake had been mutual, and had remained so, when Mons. Bonnac explain|ed the conduct of his generous, but imprudent young friend to Du Pont, who, with severe justice, determined not only to un|deceive the Count on this subject, but to resign all hope of Emi|ly. Such a sacrifice as his love rendered this, was deserving of a noble reward, and Mons. Bonnac, if it had been possible for him to forget the benevolent Valancourt, would have wished that Emily might accept the just Du Pont.

When the Count was informed of the error he had committed, he was extremely shocked at the consequence of his credulity, and the account which Mons. Bonnac gave of his friend's situa|tion, while at Paris, convinced him, that Valancourt had been entrapped by the schemes of a set of dissipated young men, with whom his profession had partly obliged him to associate, rather than by an inclination to vice; and, charmed by the humanity, and noble, though rash generosity, which his conduct towards Mons. Bonnac exhibited, he forgave him the transient errors, that had stained his youth, and restored him to the high degree of esteem, with which he had regarded him, during their early ac|quaintance. But, as the least reparation he could now make Valancourt was to afford him an opportunity of explaining to Emily his former conduct, he immediately wrote, to request his

forgiveness of the unintentional injury he had done him, and to invite him to Chateau-le-Blanc. Motives of delicacy withheld the Count from informing Emily of this letter, and of kindness from acquainting her with the discovery respecting Valancourt, till his arrival should save her from the possibility of anxiety, as to its event; and this precaution spared her even severer inqui|etude, than the Count had foreseen, since he was ignorant of the symptoms of despair, which Valancourt's late conduct had be|trayed.

CHAP. LVI.

—"But in these cases, We still have judgment here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return To plague the inventor: thus even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To our own lips." MACBETH.

SOME circumstances of an extraordinary nature now with|drew Emily from her own sorrows, and excited emotions, which partook of both surprise and horror.

A few days following that, on which Signora Laurentini died, her will was opened at the monastery, in the presence of the su|periors and Mons. Bonnac, when it was found, that one third of her personal property was bequeathed to the nearest surviving re|lative of the late Marchioness de Villeroi, and that Emily was the person.

With the secret of Emily's family the abbess had long been acquainted, and it was in observance of the earnest request of St. Aubert, who was known to the friar, that attended him on his death bed, that his daughter had remained in ignorance of her relationship to the Marchioness. But some hints, which had fallen from Signora Laurentini, during her last interview with Emily, and a confession of a very extraordinary nature, given in her dying hours, had made the abbess think it necessary to con|verse with her young friend, on the topic she had not before ventured to introduce; and it was for this purpose, that she had requested to see her on the morning that followed her interview with the nun. Emily's indisposition had then prevented the in|tended conversation; but now, after the will had been examined,

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she received a summons, which she immediately obeyed, and be|came informed of circumstances, that powerfully affected her. As the narrative of the abbess was, however, deficient in many particulars, of which the reader may wish to be informed, and the history of the nun is materially connected with the fate of the Marchioness de Villeroi, we shall omit the conversation, that passed in the parlour of the convent, and mingle with out rela|tion a brief history of LAURENTINI DI UDOLPHO,

Who was the only child of her parents, and heiress of the an|cient house of Udolpho, in the territory of Venice. It was the first misfortune of her life, and that which led to all her suc|ceeding misery, that the friends who ought to have restrained her strong passions, and mildly instructed her in the art of gov|erning them, nurtured them by early indulgence. But they cherished their own failings in her; for their conduct was not the result of rational kindness, and, when they either indulg|ed 〈◊〉〈◊〉 opposed the passions of their child, they gratified their own. Thus they indulged her with weakness, and reprehended her with violence, her spirit was exasperated by their vehe|mence, instead of being corrected by their wisdom; and their oppositions became contests for victory, in which the due tender|ness of the parents, and the affectionate duties of the child, were equally forgotten; but, as returning fondness disarmed the pa|rent's resentment soonest, Laurentini was suffered to believe that she had conquered, and her passions became stronger by every effort, that had been employed to subdue them.

The death of her father and mother in the same year left her to her own discretion, under the dangerous circumstances attend|ant on youth and beauty. She was fond of company, delight|ed with admiration, yet disdainful of the opinion of the world, when it happened to contradict her inclinations; had a gay and brilliant wit, and was mistress of all the arts of fascination. Her conduct was such as might have been expected, from the weak|ness of her principles and the strength of her passions.

Among her numerous admirers was the late Marquis de Vil|leroi, who, on his tour through Italy, saw Laurentini at Venice, where she usually resided, and became her passionate adorer. Equally captivated by the figure and accomplishments of the Marquis, who was at that period one of the most distinguished noblemen of the French court, she had art so effectually to

conceal from him the dangerous traits of her character and the blemishes of her late conduct, that he solicited her hand in marriage.

Before the nuptials were concluded, she retired to the castle of Udolpho, whither the Marquis followed, and, where her conduct relaxing from the propriety, which she had lately assumed, dis|covered to him the precipice, on which he stood. A minuter, in|quiry than he had before thought it necessary to make, con|vinced him, that he had been deceived in her character, and she, whom he had designed for his wife, afterwards became his mistress.

Having passed some weeks at Udolpho, he was called abruptly to France, whither he returned with extreme reluctance, for his heart was still fascinated by the arts of Laurentini, with whom, however, he had, on various pretences, delayed his marriage; but, to reconcile her to this separation, he now gave repeated promises of returning to conclude the nuptials, as soon as the affair, which thus suddenly called him to France, should permit.

Soothed, in some degree, by these assurances, she suffered him to depart; and, soon after, her relative, Montoni, arriving at Udolpho, renewed the addresses, which she had before refused, and which she now again rejected. Meanwhile, her thoughts were constantly with the Marquis de Villeroi, for whom she suf|fered all the delirium of Italian love, cherished by the solitude, to which she confined herself; for she had now lost all taste for the pleasures of society and the gaiety of amusement. Her only indulgences were to sigh and weep over a miniature of the Mar|quis; to visit the scenes, that had witnessed their happiness, to pour forth her heart to him in writing, and to count the weeks, the days, which must intervene before the period that he had mentioned as probable for his return. But this period p••ssed without bringing him; and week after week followed in heavy and almost intolerable expectation. During this interval, Lau|rentini's fancy, occupied incessantly by one idea, became disor|dered; and, her whole heart being devoted to one object, life became hateful to her, when she believed that object lost.

Several months passed, during which she heard nothing from the Marquis de Villeroi, and her days were marked, at intervals, with the phrensy of passion and the sullenness of despair. She secluded herself from all visitors, and, sometimes, remained in her apartment, for weeks together, refusing to speak to every person, except her favourite female attendant, writing scraps of letters, reading, again and again, those she had received from the Mar|quis, weeping over his picture, and speaking to it, for many hours, upbraiding, reproaching and caressing it alternately.

At length, a report reached her, that the Marquis had married in France, and, after suffering all the extremes of love, jealousy and indignation, she formed the desperate resolution of going secretly to that country, and, if the report proved true, of at|tempting a deep revenge. To her favourite woman only she confided the plan of her journey, and she engaged her to partake of it. Having collected her jewels, which, descending to her from many branches of her family, were of immense value, and all her cash, to a very large amount, they were packed in a trunk, which was privately conveyed to a neighbouring town, whither Laurentini, with this only servant, followed, and thence proceed|ed secretly to Leghorn, where they embarked for France.

When, on her arrival in Languedoc, she found, that the Mar|quis de Villeroi had been married for some months, her despair almost deprived her of reason, and she alternately projected and abandoned the horrible design of murdering the Marquis, his wife and herself. At length she contrived to throw herself in his way, with an intention of reproaching him, for his conduct, and of slabbing herself in his presence; but, when she again saw him, who so long had been the constant object of her thoughts and affections, resentment yielded to love; her resolution failed; she trembled with the conflict of emotions, that assailed her heart, and fainted away.

The Marquis was not proof against her beauty and sensibility; all the energy, with which he had first loved, returned, for his passion had been resisted by prudence, rather than overcome by indifference; and, since the honour of his family would not per|mit 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to marry her, he had endeavoured to subdue his love, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 so far succeeded, as to select the then Marchioness for his wife, whom he loved at first with a tempered and rational af|fection. But the mild virtues of that amiable lady did not re|compense him for her indifference, which appeared, notwith|standing her efforts to conceal it; and he had, for sometime, suspected that her affections were engaged by another person, when Laurentini arrived in Languedoc. This artful Italian soon perceived, that she had regained her influence over him, and, sooth|ed by the discovery, she determined to live, and to employ all her enchantments to win his consent to the diabolical deed, which she believed was necessary to the security of her happi|ness. ••he conducted her scheme with deep dissimulation and patient 〈◊〉〈◊〉, and, having completely estranged the af|fections of the Marquis from his wife, whose gentle goodness and unimpassioned manners had ceased to please, when contrasted

with the captivations of the Italian, she proceeded to awaken in his mind the jealousy of pride, for it was no longer that of love, and even pointed out to him the person, to whom she affirmed the Marchioness had sacrificed her honour; but Laurentini had first extorted from him a solemn promise to forbear avenging himself upon his rival. This was an important part of her plan, for she knew, that, if his desire of vengeance was restrained to|wards one party, it would burn more fiercely towards the other, and he might then, perhaps, be prevailed on to assist in the hor|rible act, which would release him from the only barrier, that withheld him from making her his wife.

The innocent Marchioness, meanwhile, observed, with ex|treme grief, the alteration in her husband's manners. He be|came reserved and thoughtful in her presence; his conduct was austere, and sometimes even rude; and he left her, for many hours together, to weep for his unkindness, and to form plans for the recovery of his affection. His conduct afflicted her the more, because, in obedience to the command of her father, she had ac|cepted his hand, though her affections were engaged to another, whose amiable disposition, she had reason to believe, would have ensured her happiness. This circumstance Laurentini had dis|covered, soon after her arrival in France, and had made ample use of it in assisting her designs upon the Marquis, to whom she adduced such seeming proof of his wife's infidelity, that, in the frantic rage of wounded honour, he consented to destroy his wife. A slow poison was administered, and she fell a victim to the jealousy and subtlety of Laurentini and to the guilty weak|ness of her husband.

But the moment of Laurentini's triumph, the moment, to which she had looked forward for the completion of all her wishes, proved only the commencement of a suffering, that never left her to her dying hour.

The passion of revenge, which had in part stimulated her to the commission of this atrocious deed, died, even at the moment when it was gratified, and left her to the horrors of unavailing pity and remorse, which would probably have empoisoned all the years she had promised herself with the Marquis de Villeroi, had her expectations of an alliance with him been realized. But he, too, had found the moment of his revenge to be that of re|morse, as to himself, and detestation, as to the partner of his crime; the feeling, which he had mistaken for conviction, was no more; and he stood astonished, and aghast, that no proof re|mained of his wife's infidelity now that she had suffered the

punishment of guilt. Even when he was informed, that she was dying, he had ••••lt suddenly and unaccountably reassured of her innocence, nor was the solemn assurance she made him in her last-hour, capable of affording him a stronger conviction of her blameless conduct.

In the first horrors of remorse and despair, he felt inclined to deliver up himself and the woman, who had plunged him into this abyss of guilt, into the hands of justice; but, when the par|oxysm of his suffering was ever, his intention changed. Lau|rentini, however, he saw only once afterwards, and that was, to curse her as the instigator of his crime, and to say, that he spared her life only on condition, that she passed the rest of her days in prayer and penance. Overwhelmed with disappointment, on re|ceiving contempt and abhorrence from the man, for whose sake she had not scrupled to stain her conscience with human blood, and touched with horror of the unavailing crime she had com|mitted, she renounced the world, and retired to the monastery of St. Claire, a dreadful 〈…〉〈…〉 passion.

The Marquis, immediately after th•• death 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his wife, quitted Chateau-le-Blanc, to which he never returned, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 endeavoured to lose the sense of his crime amidst the tumult 〈◊〉〈◊〉 war, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the dissipations of a capital; but his efforts were 〈◊〉〈◊〉; a deep dejection hung over him ever after, for which his ••ost intimate friends could not account, and he, at length, died, with a degree of horror nearly equal to that, which Laurentini had suffered. The physician, who had observed the singular appearance of the unfortunate Marchioness, after death, had been bribed to silence; and, as the surmises of a few of the servants had proceeded no further than a whisper, the affair had never been investigated. Whether this whisper ever reached the father of the Marchioness, and, if it did, whether the difficulty of obtaining proof deterred him from prosecuting the Marquis de Villeroi, is uncertain; but her death was deeply lamented by some part of her family, and particularly by her brother, M. St. Aubert; for that was the de|gree of relationship, which had existed between Emily's father and the Marchioness; and there is no doubt, that he suspected the man|ner of her death. Many letters passed between the Marquis and him, soon after the decease of his beloved sister, the subject of which was not known, but there is reason to believe, that they related to the cause of her death; and these were the papers, together with some letters of the Marchioness, who had confided to her brother the occasion of her unhappiness, which St. Aubert had so solemnly enjoined his daughter to destroy: and anxiety

for her peace had probably made him forbid her to inquire into the melancholy story, to which they alluded. Such, indeed, had been his affliction, on the premature death of this his favourite sist|er, whose unhappy marriage had from the first excited his tenderest pity, that he never could hear her named, or mention her himself after her death, except to Madame St. Aubert. From Emily, whose sensibility he feared to awaken, he had so carefully con|cealed her history and name, that she was ignorant, till now, that she ever had such a relative as the Marchioness de Villeroi; and from this motive he had enjoined silence to his only surviving sister, Madame Cheron, who had scrupulously observed his request.

It was over some of the last pathetic letters of the Marchioness, that St. Aubert was weeping, when he was observed by Emily, on the eve of her departure from La Vallee, and it was her pic|ture which he had so tenderly caressed. Her disastrous death may account for the emotion he had betrayed, on hearing her named by La Voisin, and for his request to be interred near the monu|ment of the Villerois, where her remains were deposited, but not those of her husband, who was buried, where he died, in the north of France.

The confessor, who attended St. Aubert in his last moments, recollected him to be the brother of the late Marchioness, when St. Aubert, from tenderness to Emily, had conjured him to conceal the circumstance, and to request that the abbess, to whose care he particularly recommended her would do the same; a request, which had been exactly observed.

Laurentini, on her arrival in France, had carefully concealed her name and family, and, the better to disguise her real history, had, on entering the convent, caused the story to be circulated, which had imposed on sister Frances, and it is probable, that the abbess, who did not preside in the convent, at the time of her noviciation, was also entirely ignorant of the truth. The deep remorse, that seized on the mind of Laurentini, together with the sufferings of disappointed passion, for she still loved the Mar|quis, again unsettled her intellects, and, after the first paroxysms of despair were passed, a heavy and silent melancholy had settled upon her spirits, which suffered few interruptions from fits of phrensy, till the time of her death. During many years it had been her only amusement to walk in the woods near the monast|ery, in the solitary hours of night, and to play on a favourite in|strument, to which she sometimes joined the delightful melody of her voice, in the most solemn and melancholy airs of her na|tive country, modulated by all the energetic feeling, that dwel••

in her heart. The physician, who had attended her, recommend|ed it to the superior to indulge her in this whim, as the only means of soothing her distempered fancy; and she was suffered to walk in the lonely hours of night, attended by the servant, who had accompanied her from Italy; but, as the indulgence transgressed against the rules of the convent, it was kept as secret as possible; and thus the mysterious music of Laurentini had combined with other circumstances, to produce a report, that not only the chateau, but its neighbourhood, was haunted.

Soon after her entrance into this holy community, and before she had shewn any symptoms of insanity there, she made a will, in which, after bequeathing a considerable legacy to the con|vent, she divided the remainder of her personal property, which her jewels made very valuable, between the wife of Mons. Bon|nac, who was an Italian lady and her relation, and the nearest surviving relative of the late Marchioness de Villeroi. As Emi|ly St. Aubert was not only the nearest, but the sole relative, this legacy descended to her, and thus explained to her the whole mystery of her father's conduct.

The resemblance between Emily and her unfortunate aunt had frequently been observed by Laurentini, and had occasion|ed the singular behaviour, which had formerly alarmed her; but it was in the nun's dying hour, when her conscience gave her perpetually the idea of the Marchioness, that she became more sensible, than ever, of this likeness, and, in her phrensy, deemed it no resemblance of the person she had injured, but the original herself. The bold assertion, that had followed, on the recove|ry of her senses, that Emily was the daughter of the Marchio|ness de Villeroi, arose from a suspicion that she was so; for, knowing that her rival, when she married the Marquis, was at|tached to another lover, she had scarcely scrupled to believe, that her honour had been sacrificed, like her own, to an unre|sisted passion.

Of a crime, however, to which Emily had suspected, from her phrensied confession of murder, that she had been instrumental in the castle of Udolpho, Laurentini was innocent; and she had herself been deceived, concerning the spectacle, that formerly oc|casioned her so much terror, and had since compelled her, for a while, to attribute the horrors of the nun to a consciousness of a murder committed in that castle.

It may be remembered, that, in a chamber of Udolpho, hung a black veil, whose singular situation had excited Emily's curiosi|ty, and which afterwards disclosed an object, that had overwhelm|ed

her with horror; for, on lifting it, there appeared, instead of the picture she had expected, within a recess of the wall, a hu|man figure of ghastly paleness stretched at its length, and dressed in the habiliments of the grave. What added to the horror of the spectacle, was, that the face appeared partly decayed and disfigured by worms, which were visible on the features and hands. On such an object, it will be readily believed, that no person could endure to look twice. Emily, it may be recol|lected, had, after the first glance, let the veil drop, and her ter|ror had prevented her from ever after provoking a renewal of such suffering, as she had then experienced. Had she dared to look again, her delusion and her fears would have vanished to|gether, and she would have perceived, that the figure before her was not human, but formed of wax. The history of it is some what extraordinary, though not without example in the records of that fierce severity, which monkish superstition has some|times inflicted on mankind. A member of the house of Udol|pho, having committed some offence against the prerogative of the church, had been condemned to the penance of contemplating, during certain hours of the day, a waxen image, made to resem|ble a human body in the state, to which it is reduced after death. This penance, serving as a memento of the condition at which he must himself arrive, had been designed to reprove the pride of the Marquis of Udolpho, which had formerly so much ex|asperated that of the Romish church; and he had not only su|perstitiously observed this penance himself, which he had believ|ed, was to obtain a pardon for all his sins, but had made it a condition in his will, that his descendants should preserve the image, on pain of forfeiting to the church a certain part of his domain, that they also might profit by the humiliating moral it conveyed. The figure therefore, had been suffered to retain its station in the wall of the chamber, but his descendants excus|ed themselves from observing the penance, to which he had been enjoined.

This image was so horribly natural, that it is not surprising Emily should have mistaken it for the object it resembled, nor, since she had heard such an extraordinary account, concerning the disappearing of the late lady of the castle, and had such ex|perience of the character of Montoni, that she should have be|lieved this to be the murdered body of the lady Laurentini, and that he had been the contriver of her death.

The situation, in which she had discovered it, occasioned her, at first, much surprise and perplexity; but the vigilance, with

which the doors of the chamber, where it was deposited, were afterwards secured, had compelled her to believe, that Montoni, not daring to confide the secret of her death to any person, had suffered her remains to decay in this obscure chamber. The cer|emony of the veil, however, and the circumstance of the doors having been left open, even for a moment, had occasioned her much wonder and some doubts; but these were not sufficient to overcome her suspicion of Montoni; and it was the dread of his terrible, vengeance, that had sealed her lips in silence, con|cerning what she had seen in the west chamber.

Emily, in discovering the Marchioness de Villeroi to have been the sister of Mons. St. Aubert, was variously affected; but, amidst the sorrow, which she suffered for her untimely death, she was released from an anxious and painful conjecture, occa|sioned by the rash assertion of Signora Laurentini, concerning her birth and the honour of her parents. Her faith in St. Aubert's principles would scarcely allow her to suspect that he had acted dishonourably, and she felt such reluctance to believe herself the daughter of any other, than her, whom she had always consider|ed and loved as a mother, that she would hardly admit such a circumstance to be possible; yet the likeness, which it had fre|quently been affirmed she bore to the late Marchioness, the former behaviour of Dorothee the old housekeeper, the assertion of Laurentini, and the mysterious attachment, which St. Aubert had discovered, awakened doubts, as to his connection with the Marchioness, which her reason could neither vanquish, or confirm. From these, however, she was now relieved, and all the circum|stances of her father's conduct were fully explained; but her heart was oppressed by the melancholy catastrophe of her amia|ble relative, and by the awful lesson, which the history of the nun exhibited, the in ulgence of whose passions had been the means of leading her gradually to the commission of a crime, from the prophecy of which in her early years she would have recoiled in horror, and exclaimed—that it could not be!—a crime, which whole years of repentance and of the severest pen|ance had not been able to obliterate from her conscience.

CHAP. LVII.

—"Then fresh tears Stood on her cheek, as doth the honey-dew Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd." SHAKESPEARE.

AFTER the late discoveries, Emily was distinguished at the chateau by the Count and his family, as a relative of the house of Villeroi, and received, if possible, more friendly attention, than had yet been shewn her.

Count De Villefort's surprise at the delay of an answer to his letter which had been directed to Valancourt, at Estuviere, was mingled with satisfaction for the prudence, which had saved Emi|ly from a share of the anxiety he now suffered, though, when 〈◊〉〈◊〉 saw her still drooping under the effect of his former error, all his resolution was necessary to restrain him from relating the truth, that would afford her a momentary relief. The ap|proaching nuptials of the Lady Blanche now divided his atten|tion with this subject of his anxiety, for the inhabitants of the chateau were already busied in preparations for that event, and the arrival of Mons. St. Foix, was daily expected. In the gai|ety, which surrounded her, Emily vainly tried to participate, her spirits being depressed by the late discoveries, and by the anxiety concerning the fate of Valancourt, that had been occasioned by the description of his manner, when he had delivered the ring. She seemed to perceive in it the gloomy wildness of despair; and, when she considered to what that despair might have urged him, her heart sunk with terror and grief. The state of sus|pense, as to his safety, to which she believed herself condemned, ••••ill she should return to La Vallee, appeared insupportable, and, in such moments, she could not even struggle to assume the com|posure, that had left her mind, but would often abruptly quit the company she was with, and endeavour to sooth her spirits in the deep solitude of the woods, that overbrowed the shore. Here, the faint roar of foaming waves, that beat below, and the sullen murmur of the wind among the branches around, were circumstances in unison with the temper of her mind; and she would sit on a cliff, or on the broken steps of her favourite watch tower, observing the changing colours of the evening clouds, and the gloom of twilight draw over the sea, till the white ••ops of billows, riding towards the shore, could scarcely be discerned amidst the darkened waters. The lines, engraved by Valancourt on this tower, she frequently repeated with melan|choly enthusiasm, and then would endeavour to check the recol|lections

and the grief they occasioned, and to turn her thoughts to indifferent subjects.

One evening, having wandered with her lute to this her fa|vourite spot, she entered the ruined tower, and ascended a winding staircase, that led to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 small chamber, which was less decayed than the rest of the building, and whence she had often gazed, with admiration, on the wide prospect of sea and land, that extended below. The sun was now setting on that tract of the Pyrenees, which divides Languedoc from Rousillon, and, placing herself opposite to a small grated window, which, like the wood tops beneath, and the waves lower still, gleamed with the red glow of the west, she touched the chords of her lute in solemn symphony, and then accompanied it with her voice, in one of the simple and affecting airs, to which, in hap|pier days, Valancourt had often listened in rapture, and which she now adapted to the following lines.

TO MELANCHOLY.

Spirit of love and sorrow—hail! Thy solemn voice from far I hear, Mingling with ev'ning's dying gale: Hail, with this sadly-pleasing ••ear!

O! at this still, this lonely hour, Thine own sweet hour of closing day, Awake thy lute, whose charmful pow'r Shall call up fancy to obey:

To paint the wild romantic dream, That meets the poet's musing eye, As, on the bank of shadowy stream, He breaths to her the ••ervid sigh.

O lonely spirit! let thy song Lead me through all thy sacred haunt; The minster's moonlight aisles along, Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt.

I hear their dirges faintly swell! Then, sink at once in silence drear, While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell, Dimly their gliding forms appear!

Lead where the pine-woods wave on high, Whose pathless sod is darkly seen, At the cold moon, with trembling eye, Darts her long beams the leaves between.

Lead to the mountain's dusky head, Where, for below, in shade profound, Wide forests, plains and hamlets spread And sad the chimes of vesper sound,

Or guide me, where the dashing oar Just breaks the stillness of the vale, As slow it tracks the winding shore, To meet the ocean's distant sail:

To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves, With measur'd surges, loud and deep, Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves, And wild the winds of autumn sweep.

There pause at midnight's spectred hour, And list the long-resounding gale; And catch the fleeting moonlight's pow'r O'er foaming seas and distant sail.

The soft tranquillity of the scene below, where the evening breeze scarcely curled the water, or swelled the passing sail, that caught the last gleam of the sun, and where, now and then, a dipping oar was all that disturbed the trembling radiance, con|spired with the tender melody of her lute to lull her mind into a state of gentle sadness, and she sung the mournful songs of past times, till the remembrances they awakened were too powerful for her heart, her tears fell upon the lute, over which she droop|ed, and her voice trembled, and was unable to proceed.

Though the sun had now sunk behind the mountains, and even his reflected light was fading from their highest points, Emily did not leave the watch tower, but continued to indulge her melancholy reverie, till a footstep, at a little distance, startled her, and, on looking through the grate, she observed a person walking below, whom however, soon perceiving to be Mons. Bonnac, she returned to the quiet thoughtfulness his step had interrupted. After sometime, she again struck her lute, and sung her favourite air; but again a step disturbed her, and, as she paused to listen, she heard it ascending the staircase of the tower. The gloom of the hour, perhaps, made her sensible to some de|gree of fe•••• which she might not otherwise have felt; for, only a few minutes before, she had seen Mons. Bonnac pass. The steps were quick and bounding, and, in the next moment, the door of the chamber opened, and a person entered, whose fea|tures were veiled in the obscurity of twilight; but his voice could not be concealed, for it was the voice of Valancourt!

At the sound, never heard by Emily without emotion, she started, in terror, astonishment and doubtful pleasure, and had scarcely beheld him at her feet, when she sunk into a seat, over|come by the various emotions, that contended at her heart, and almost insensible to that voice, whose earnest and trembling calls seemed as if endeavouring to save her. Valancourt, as he hung over Emily, deplored his own rash impatience, in having thus

surprised: her for when he had arrived at the chateau, too anx|ious to await the return of the Count, who, he understood, was in the grounds, he went himself to seek him, when, as he passed the tower, he was struck by the sound of Emily's voice, and im|mediately ascended.

It was a considerable time before she revived, but, when her recollection returned, she repulsed his attentions, with an air of reserve, and inquired, with as much displeasure as it was possi|ble she could feel in these first moments of his appearance, the occasion of his visit.

"Ah Emily!" said Valancourt, "that air, those words—alas! I have, then, little to hope—when you ceased to esteem me, you ceased also to love me!"

"Most true, sir," replied Emily, endeavouring to command her trembling voice; "and if you had valued my esteem, you would not have given me this new occasion for uneasiness."

Valancourt's countenance changed suddenly from the anxie|ties of doubt to an expression of surprise and dismay: he was silent a moment, and then said, "I had been taught to hope for a very different reception! Is it, then, true, Emily, that I have lost your regard, for ever? am I to believe, that, though your esteem for me may return—your affection never can? Can she Count have meditated the cruelty, which now tortures me with a se|cond death?"

The voice in which he spoke this, alarmed Emily as much as his words surprised her, and, with trembling impatience, she begged that he would explain them.

"Can any explanation be necessary?" said Valancourt, "do you not know how cruelly my conduct has been misrepresented? that the actions of which you once believed me guilty (and, O Emily! how could you so degrade me in your opinion, even for a moment!) those actions—I hold in as much contempt and ab|horrence as yourself? Are you, indeed, ignorant, that Count De Villefort has detected the slanders, that have robbed me of all I hold dear on earth, and has invited me hither to justify to you my former conduct? It is surely impossible you can be uninformed of these circumstances, and I am again torturing myself with a false hope!"

The silence of Emily confirmed this supposition; for the deep twilight would not allow Valancourt to distinguish the astonish|ment and doubting joy, that fixed her features. For a moment, she continued unable to speak; then a profound sigh seemed to give some relief to her spirits, and she said,

"Valancourt! I was, till this moment, ignorant of all the circumstances you have mentioned; the emotion I now suffer may assure you the truth of this, and, that, though I had ceased to esteem, I had not taught myself entirely to forger you."

"This moment," said Valancourt, in a low voice, and lean|ing for support against the window—"this moment brings with it a conviction that overpowers me! I am dear to you then—still dear to you, my Emily!"

"Is it necessary that I should tell you so?" she replied, "is it necessary that I should say—these are the first moments of joy I have known since your departure, and that they repay me for all those of pain I have suffered in the interval?"

Valancourt sighed deeply, and was unable to reply; but, as he pressed her hand to his lips, the tears, that fell over it spoke a language which could not be mistaken, and to which words were inadequate.

Emily, somewhat tranquillized, proposed returning to the cha|teau, and then, for the first time, recollected that the Count had invited Valancourt thither to explain his conduct, and that no explanation had yet been given. But, while she acknowledged this, her heart would not allow her to dwell, for a moment, on the possibility of his unworthiness; his look, his voice, his man|ner, all spoke the noble sincerity, which had formerly distin|guished him; and she again permitted heself to indulge the emotions of a joy, more surprising and powerful, than she had ever before experienced.

Neither Emily, or Valancourt, were conscious how they reach|ed the chateau, whither they might have been transferred by the spell of a fairy, for any thing they could remember; and it was not, till they had reached the great hall, that either of them recollected there were other persons in the world besides them|selves. The Count then came forth with surprise, and with the joyfulness of pure benevolence, to welcome Valancourt, and to entreat his forgiveness of the injustice he had done him; soon after which, Mons. Bonnac joined this happy group, in which he and Valancourt were mutually rejoiced to meet.

When the first congratulations were over, and the general joy became somewhat more tranquil, the Count withdrew with Val|ancourt to the library, where a long conversation passed between them, in which the latter so clearly justified himself of the crim|inal parts of the conduct, imputed to him, and so candidly con|fessed and so feelingly lamented the follies, which he had com|mitted, that the Count was confirmed in the belief of all he had hoped; and, while he perceived so many noble virtues in Valan|court,

and that experience had taught him to detest the follies, which before he had only not admired, he did not scruple to believe, that be would pass through life with the dignity of a wise and good man, or to entrust to his care the future happiness of Emily St. Aubert, for whom he felt the solicitude of a parent. Of this he soon informed 〈◊〉〈◊〉, in a short conversation, when Valancourt had left him. While Emily listened to a relation of the services, that Valancourt had ren|dered Mons. Bonnac. her eyes overflowed with tears of pleasure, and the further conversation of Count De Villefort perfectly dissipated every doubt, as to the past and future conduct of him, to whom she now restored, without fear, the esteem and affection, with which she had formerly received him.

When they returned to the supper room, the Countess and Lady Blanche met Valancourt with sincere congratulations; and Blanche, indeed, was so much rejoiced to see Emily returned to happiness, as to forget for a while, that Mons. St. Foix was not yet arrived at the chateau, though he had been expected for some hours; but her gen|erous sympathy was, soon after, rewarded by his appearance. He was now perfectly recovered from the wounds, received, during his perilous adventure among the Pyrenees, the mention of which serv|ed to heighten to the parties, who had been involved in it, the sense of their present happiness. New congratulations passed between them, and round the supper table appeared a group of faces, smiling with felicity, but with a felicity, which had in each a different char|acter. The smile of Blanche was frank and gay, that of Emily ten|der and pensive; Valancourt's was rapturous, tender and gay alter|nately; Mons. St. Foix's was joyous, and that of the Count, as he looked on the surrounding party, expressed the tempered complacen|cy of benevolence; while the features of the Countess. He••••••, and Mons. Bonnac, discovered fainter traces of animation. Poor Mons. Du Pont did not, by his pesence, throw a shade of regret over the company; for, when he had discovered, that Valancourt was not un|worthy of the esteem of Emily, he determined seriously to endeavour at the conquest of his own hopeless affection, and had immediately withdrawn from Chateau-la-Blanc—a conduct, which Emily now un|derstood, and rewarded with her admiration and pity.

The Count and his guests continued together till a late hour, yield|ing to the delights of social gaiety, and to the sweets of friendship. When Annette heard of the arrival of Valancourt, Ludovico had some difficulty to prevent her going into the supper room, to express her joy, for she declared, that she had never been so rejoiced at any accident as this, since she had found Ludovico himself.

CHAP. LVIII.

"Now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end; Wh•••••• the ••ow'd welkin low doth bend, And from thence, can soar as soon To the corner's of the moon." MILTON.

THE marriages of the Lady Blanche and Emily St. Aubert were celebrated, on the same day, and with the ancient baronial magnifi|cence, at Chateau-le-Blanc. The feasts were held in the great hall of the castle, which, on this occasion, was hung with superb new ta|pestry; representing the exploits of Charlemagne and his twelve peers; here, were seen the Saracens, with their horrible visors, advancing to battle; and there, were displayed the wild solemnities of incantation, and the necromantic feats, exhibited by the magician Jarl before the Emperor. The sumptuous banners of the family of Villeroi, which had long slept in dust, were once more unfurled, to wave over the goth|ic points of painted casements; and music echoed, in many a lin|gering close, through every winding gallery and colonnade of that vast edifice.

As Annette looked down from the corridor upon the hall, whose arches and windows were illuminated with brilliant festoons of lamps, and gazed on the splendid dresses of the dancers, the costly liveries of the attendants, the canopies of purple velvet and gold, and listen|ed to the gay strains that floated along the vaulted roof, she almost fan|cied herself in an inchanted palace, and declared, that she had not met with any place, which charmed her so much, since she read the fairy tales; nay, that the fairies themselves, at their nightly revels in this old hall, could display nothing finer; while old Dorothee, as she sur|veyed the scene, sighed, and said, the castle looked as it was wont to do in the time of her youth.

After gracing the festivities of Chateau-le-Blanc, for some days Val|ancourt and Emily took leave of their kind friends, and returned to La Vallee, where the faithful Theresa received them with unfeigned joy, and the pleasant shades welcomed them with a thousand tender and affecting remembrances; and, while they wandered together over the scenes, so long inhabited by the late Mons. and Madame St. Aubert, and Emily pointed out, with pensive affection, their favourite haunts, her present happiness was heightened, by considering, that it would have been worthy of their approbation, could they have witnessed it.

Valancourt led her to the plane tree on the terrace, where he had first ventured to declare his love, and where now the remembrance of the anxiety he had then suffered, and the retrospect of all the dangers and misfortunes they had each encountered, since last they sat together be|neath its broad branches, exalted the sense of their present felicity, which, on this spot, sacred to she memory of St. Aubert, they sol|emnly vowed to deserv••, as far as possible, by endeavouring to imitate his benevolence,—by remembering, that superior attainments of every

fort bring with them duties of superior exertion, and by affording to their fellow beings, together with that portion of ordinary comforts, which prosperity always owes to misfortune, the example of lives passed in happy thankfulness to GOD, and, therefore, in careful ten|derness to his creatures.

Soon after their return to La Vallee, the brother of Valancourt came to congratulate him on his marriage, and to pay his respects to Emily▪ with whom he was so much pleased, as well as with the pros|pect of rational happiness, which these nuptials offered to Valancourt, that he immediately resigned to him a part of the rich domain, the whole of which, as he had no family, would of course descend to his brother, on his decease.

The estates, at Tholouse, were disposed of, and Emily purchased of Mons. Quesnel the ancient domain of her late father, where, hav|ing given Annette a marriage portion, she settled her as the housekeep|er, and Ludovico as the steward; but, since both Valancourt and her|self preferred the pleasant and long loved shades of La Vallee to the magnificence of Epourville, they continued to reside there, passing, however, a few months in the year at the birth place of St. Aubert, in tender respect to his memory.

The legacy, which had been bequeathed to Emily by Signora Lau|rentini, she begged Valancourt would allow her to resign to Mons. Bonnac; and Valancourt, when she made the request, felt all the value of the compliment it conveyed. The castle of Udolpho also, descended to the wife of Mons. Bonnac, who was the nearest surviv|ing relation of the house of that name, and thus affluence restored his long oppressed spirits to peace, and his family to comfort.

O! how joyful it is to tell of happiness, such as that of Valan|court and Emily; to relate, that, after suffering under the oppression of the vicious and the disdain of the weak, they were, at length, re|stored to each other—to the beloved landscapes of their native coun|try—to the securest felicity of this life that of aspiring to moral and labouring for intellectual improvement—to the pleasures of enlight|ened society, and to the exercise of the benevolence which had always animated their hearts; while the bowers of La Vallee become, once more, the retreat of goodness, wisdom and domestic blessedness!

O! useful may it be to have shewn, that, though the vicious can sometimes pour affliction upon the good, their power is transient and their punishment certain; and that innocence, though oppressed by injustice, shall, supported by patience, finally triumph over misfortune.

And if the weak hand, that has recorded this tale, has, by its scenes, beguiled the mourner of one hour of sorrow, or, by its moral, taught him to sustain it—the effort, however humble, has not been vain, nor is the writer unrewarded.

FINIS.

Notes

• * 1.1

  A kind of Blunderbuss.
• * 1.2

  Collins.
• * 2.1

  The Minstrel.