CHAPTER X

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 château 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 Château-le-Blanc, a place, concerning which the

good old La Voisin afterwards dropped some hints, that had alarmed

Emily’s curiosity.

It was in the year 1584, the beginning of that, in which St. Aubert

died, that Francis Beauveau, Count De Villefort, came into possession

of the mansion and extensive domain called Château-le-Blanc, situated

in the province of Languedoc, on the shore of the Mediterranean. This

estate, which, during some centuries, had belonged to his family, now

descended to him, on the decease of his relative, the Marquis De

Villeroi, who had been latterly a man of reserved manners and austere

character; circumstances, which, together with the duties of his

profession, that often called him into the field, had prevented any

degree of intimacy with his cousin, the Count De Villefort. For many

years, they had known little of each other, and the Count received the

first intelligence of his death, which happened in a distant part of

France, together with the instruments, that gave him possession of the

domain Château-le-Blanc; but it was not till the following year, that

he determined to visit that estate, when he designed to pass the autumn

there. The scenes of Château-le-Blanc often came to his remembrance,

heightened by the touches, which a warm imagination gives to the

recollection of early pleasures; for, many years before, in the

life-time of the Marchioness, and at that age when the mind is

particularly sensible to impressions of gaiety and delight, he had once

visited this spot, and, though he had passed a long intervening period

amidst the vexations and tumults of public affairs, which too

frequently corrode the heart, and vitiate the taste, the shades of

Languedoc and the grandeur of its distant scenery had never been

remembered by him with indifference.

During many years, the château 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, nor the tears of the

Countess, for, on urgent occasions, she could weep, were powerful

enough to overcome his determination. She prepared, therefore, to obey

the command, which she could not conquer, and to resign the gay

assemblies of Paris,—where her beauty was generally unrivalled and won

the applause, to which her wit had but feeble claim—for the twilight

canopy of woods, the lonely grandeur of mountains and the solemnity of

gothic halls and of long, long galleries, which echoed only the

solitary step of a domestic, or the measured clink, that ascended from

the great clock—the ancient monitor of the hall below. From these

melancholy expectations she endeavoured to relieve her spirits by

recollecting all that she had ever heard, concerning the joyous vintage

of the plains of Languedoc; but there, alas! no airy forms would bound

to the gay melody of Parisian dances, and a view of the rustic

festivities of peasants could afford little pleasure to a heart, in

which even the feelings of ordinary benevolence had long since decayed

under the corruptions of luxury.

The Count had a son and a daughter, the children of a former marriage,

who, he designed, should accompany him to the south of France; Henri,

who was in his twentieth year, was in the French service; and Blanche,

who was not yet eighteen, had been hitherto confined to the convent,

where she had been placed immediately on her father’s second marriage.

The present Countess, who had neither sufficient ability, nor

inclination, to superintend the education of her daughter-in-law, had

advised this step, and the dread of superior beauty had since urged her

to employ every art, that might prevail on the Count to prolong the

period of Blanche’s seclusion; it was, therefore, with extreme

mortification, that she now understood he would no longer submit on

this subject, yet it afforded her some consolation to consider, that,

though the Lady Blanche would emerge from her convent, the shades of

the country would, for some time, veil her beauty from the public eye.

On the morning, which commenced the journey, the postillions stopped at

the convent, by the Count’s order, to take up Blanche, whose heart beat

with delight, at the prospect of novelty and freedom now before her. As

the time of her departure drew nigh, her impatience had increased, and

the last night, during which she counted every note of every hour, had

appeared the most tedious of any she had ever known. The morning light,

at length, dawned; the matin-bell rang; she heard the nuns descending

from their chambers, and she started from a sleepless pillow to welcome

the day, which was to emancipate her from the severities of a cloister,

and introduce her to a world, where pleasure was ever smiling, and

goodness ever blessed—where, in short, nothing but pleasure and

goodness reigned! When the bell of the great gate rang, and the sound

was followed by that of carriage wheels, she ran, with a palpitating

heart, to her lattice, and, perceiving her father’s carriage in the

court below, danced, with airy steps, along the gallery, where she was

met by a nun with a summons from the abbess. In the next moment, she

was in the parlour, and in the presence of the Countess who now

appeared to her as an angel, that was to lead her into happiness. But

the emotions of the Countess, on beholding her, were not in unison with

those of Blanche, who had never appeared so lovely as at this moment,

when her countenance, animated by the lightning smile of joy, glowed

with the beauty of happy innocence.

After conversing for a few minutes with the abbess, the Countess rose

to go. This was the moment, which Blanche had anticipated with such

eager expectation, the summit from which she looked down upon the

fairy-land of happiness, and surveyed all its enchantment; was it a

moment, then, for tears of regret? Yet it was so. She turned, with an

altered and dejected countenance, to her young companions, who were

come to bid her farewell, and wept! Even my lady abbess, so stately and

so solemn, she saluted with a degree of sorrow, which, an hour before,

she would have believed it impossible to feel, and which may be

accounted for by considering how reluctantly we all part, even with

unpleasing objects, when the separation is consciously for ever. Again,

she kissed the poor nuns and then followed the Countess from that spot

with tears, which she expected to leave only with smiles.

But the presence of her father and the variety of objects, on the road,

soon engaged her attention, and dissipated the shade, which tender

regret had thrown upon her spirits. Inattentive to a conversation,

which was passing between the Countess and a Mademoiselle Bearn, her

friend, Blanche sat, lost in pleasing reverie, as she watched the

clouds floating silently along the blue expanse, now veiling the sun

and stretching their shadows along the distant scene, and then

disclosing all his brightness. The journey continued to give Blanche

inexpressible delight, for new scenes of nature were every instant

opening to her view, and her fancy became stored with gay and beautiful

imagery.

It was on the evening of the seventh day, that the travellers came

within view of Château-le-Blanc, the romantic beauty of whose situation

strongly impressed the imagination of Blanche, who observed, with

sublime astonishment, the Pyrenean mountains, which had been seen only

at a distance during the day, now rising within a few leagues, with

their wild cliffs and immense precipices, which the evening clouds,

floating round them, now disclosed, and again veiled. The setting rays,

that tinged their snowy summits with a roseate hue, touched their lower

points with various colouring, while the bluish tint, that pervaded

their shadowy recesses, gave the strength of contrast to the splendour

of light. The plains of Languedoc, blushing with the purple vine and

diversified with groves of mulberry, almond and olives, spread far to

the north and the east; to the south, appeared the Mediterranean, clear

as crystal, and blue as the heavens it reflected, bearing on its bosom

vessels, whose white sails caught the 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

eminence, and sloped towards the plains, on one side; while, on the

other, they extended to a considerable distance along the sea-shores.

As Blanche drew nearer, the gothic features of this 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 approaching a castle, such as is often

celebrated in early story, where the knights look out from the

battlements on some champion below, who, clothed in black armour,

comes, with his companions, to rescue the fair lady of his love from

the oppression of his rival; a sort of legends, to which she had once

or twice obtained access in the library of her convent, that, like many

others, belonging to the monks, was stored with these reliques of

romantic fiction.

The carriages stopped at a gate, which led into the domain of the

château, but which was now fastened; and the great bell, that had

formerly served to announce the arrival of strangers, having long since

fallen from its station, a servant climbed over a ruined part of the

adjoining wall, to give notice to those within of the arrival of their

lord.

As Blanche leaned from the coach window, she resigned herself to the

sweet and gentle emotions, which the hour and the scenery awakened. The

sun had now left the earth, and twilight began to darken the mountains;

while the distant waters, reflecting the blush that still glowed in the

west, appeared like a line of light, skirting the horizon. The low

murmur of waves, breaking on the shore, came in the breeze, and, now

and then, the melancholy dashing of oars was feebly heard from a

distance. She was suffered to indulge her pensive mood, for the

thoughts of the rest of the party were silently engaged upon the

subjects of their several interests. Meanwhile, the Countess,

reflecting, with regret, upon the gay parties she had left at Paris,

surveyed, with disgust, what she thought the gloomy woods and solitary

wildness of the scene; and, shrinking from the prospect of being shut

up in an old castle, was prepared to meet every object with

displeasure. The feelings of Henri were somewhat similar to those of

the Countess; he gave a mournful sigh to the delights of the capital,

and to the remembrance of a lady, who, he believed, had engaged his

affections, and who had certainly fascinated his imagination; but the

surrounding country, and the mode of life, on which he was entering,

had, for him, at least, the charm of novelty, and his regret was

softened by the gay expectations of youth. The gates being at length

unbarred, the carriage moved slowly on, under spreading chesnuts, that

almost excluded the remains of day, following what had been formerly a

road, but which now, overgrown with luxuriant vegetation, could be

traced only by the boundary, formed by trees, on either side, and which

wound for near half a mile among the woods, before it reached the

château. This was the very avenue that St. Aubert and Emily had

formerly entered, on their first arrival in the neighbourhood, with the

hope of finding a house, that would receive them, for the night, and

had so abruptly quitted, on perceiving the wildness of the place, and a

figure, which the postillion had fancied was a robber.

“What a dismal place is this!” exclaimed the Countess, as the carriage

penetrated the deeper recesses of the woods. “Surely, my lord, you do

not mean to pass all the autumn in this barbarous spot! One ought to

bring hither a cup of the waters of Lethe, that the remembrance of

pleasanter scenes may not heighten, at least, the natural dreariness of

these.”

“I shall be governed by circumstances, madam,” said the Count, “this

barbarous spot was inhabited by my ancestors.”

The carriage now stopped at the château, where, at the door of the

great hall, appeared the old steward and the Parisian servants, who had

been sent to prepare the château, waiting to receive their lord. Lady

Blanche now perceived, that the edifice was not built entirely in the

gothic style, but that it had additions of a more modern date; the

large and gloomy hall, however, into which she now entered, was

entirely gothic, and sumptuous tapestry, which it was now too dark to

distinguish, hung upon the walls, and depictured scenes from some of

the ancient Provençal romances. A vast gothic window, embroidered with

_clematis_ and eglantine, that ascended to the south, led the eye, now

that the casements were thrown open, through this verdant shade, over a

sloping lawn, to the tops of dark woods, that hung upon the brow of the

promontory. Beyond, appeared the waters of the Mediterranean,

stretching far to the south, and to the east, where they were lost in

the horizon; while, to the north-east, they were bounded by the

luxuriant shores of Languedoc and Provence, enriched with wood, and gay

with vines and sloping pastures; and, to the south-west, by the

majestic Pyrenees, now fading from the eye, beneath the gradual gloom.

Blanche, as she crossed the hall, stopped a moment to observe this

lovely prospect, which the evening twilight obscured, yet did not

conceal. But she was quickly awakened from the complacent delight,

which this scene had diffused upon her mind, by the Countess, who,

discontented with every object around, and impatient for refreshment

and repose, hastened forward to a large parlour, whose cedar wainscot,

narrow, pointed casements, and dark ceiling of carved cypress wood,

gave it an aspect of peculiar gloom, which the dingy green velvet of

the chairs and couches, fringed with tarnished gold, had once been

designed to enliven.

While the Countess enquired for refreshment, the Count, attended by his

son, went to look over some part of the château, and Lady Blanche

reluctantly remained to witness the discontent and ill-humour of her

step-mother.

“How long have you lived in this desolate place?” said her ladyship, to

the old housekeeper, who came to pay her duty.

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

“How happened it, that you have lived here so long, and almost alone,

too? I understood, that the château 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 I and my husband came

into his service. The place is so large, and has of late been so

lonely, that we were lost in it, and, after some time, we went to live

in a cottage at the end of the woods, near some of the tenants, and

came to look after the château, every now and then. When my lord

returned to France from the wars, he took a dislike to the place, and

never came to live here again, and so he was satisfied with our

remaining at the cottage. Alas—alas! how the château is changed from

what it once was! What delight my late lady used to take in it! I well

remember when she came here a bride, and how fine it was. Now, it has

been neglected so long, and is gone into such decay! I shall never see

those days again!”

The Countess appearing to be somewhat offended by the thoughtless

simplicity, with which the old woman regretted former times, Dorothée

added—“But the château will now be inhabited, and cheerful again; not

all the world could tempt me to live in it alone.”

“Well, the experiment will not be made, I believe,” said the Countess,

displeased that her own silence had been unable to awe the loquacity of

this rustic old housekeeper, now spared from further attendance by the

entrance of the Count, who said he had been viewing part of the

château, and found, that it would require considerable repairs and some

alterations, before it would be perfectly comfortable, as a place of

residence. “I am sorry to hear it, my lord,” replied the Countess. “And

why sorry, madam?” “Because the place will ill repay your trouble; and

were it even a paradise, it would be insufferable at such a distance

from Paris.”

The Count made no reply, but walked abruptly to a window. “There are

windows, my lord, but they neither admit entertainment, nor light; they

show only a scene of savage nature.”

“I am at a loss, madam,” said the Count, “to conjecture what you mean

by savage nature. Do those plains, or those woods, or that fine expanse

of water, deserve the name?”

“Those mountains certainly do, my lord,” rejoined the Countess,

pointing to the Pyrenees, “and this château, though not a work of rude

nature, is, to my taste, at least, one of savage art.” The Count

coloured highly. “This place, madam, was the work of my ancestors,”

said he, “and you must allow me to say, that your present conversation

discovers neither good taste, nor good manners.” Blanche, now shocked

at an altercation, which appeared to be increasing to a serious

disagreement, rose to leave the room, when her mother’s woman entered

it; and the Countess, immediately desiring to be shown 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 mosaic work. Through a

distant window, that seemed to terminate the gallery, were seen the

purple clouds of evening and a landscape, whose features, thinly veiled

in twilight, no longer appeared distinctly, but, blended into one grand

mass, stretched to the horizon, coloured only with a tint of solemn

grey.

The gallery terminated in a saloon, to which the window she had seen

through an open door, belonged; but the increasing dusk permitted her

only an imperfect view of this apartment, which seemed to be

magnificent and of modern architecture; though it had been either

suffered to fall into decay, or had never been properly finished. The

windows, which were numerous and large, descended low, and afforded a

very extensive, and what Blanche’s fancy represented to be, a very

lovely prospect; and she stood for some time, surveying the grey

obscurity and depicturing imaginary woods and mountains, valleys and

rivers, on this scene of night; her solemn sensations rather assisted,

than interrupted, by the distant bark of a watch-dog, and by the

breeze, as it trembled upon the light foliage of the shrubs. Now and

then, appeared for a moment, among the woods, a cottage light; and, at

length, was heard, afar off, the evening bell of a convent, dying on

the air. When she withdrew her thoughts from these subjects of fanciful

delight, the gloom and silence of the saloon somewhat awed her; and,

having sought the door of the gallery, and pursued, for a considerable

time, a dark passage, she came to a hall, but one totally different

from that she had formerly seen. By the twilight, admitted through an

open portico, she could just distinguish this apartment to be of very

light and airy architecture, and that it was paved with white marble,

pillars of which supported the roof, that rose into arches built in the

Moorish style. While Blanche stood on the steps of this portico, the

moon rose over the sea, and gradually disclosed, in partial light, the

beauties of the eminence, on which she stood, whence a lawn, now rude

and overgrown with high grass, sloped to the woods, that, almost

surrounding the château, extended in a grand sweep down the southern

sides of the promontory to the very margin of the ocean. Beyond the

woods, on the north-side, appeared a long tract of the plains of

Languedoc; and, to the east, the landscape she had before dimly seen,

with the towers of a monastery, illumined by the moon, rising over dark

groves.

The soft and shadowy tint, that overspread the scene, the waves,

undulating in the moonlight, and their low and measured murmurs on the

beach, were circumstances, that united to elevate the unaccustomed mind

of Blanche to enthusiasm.

“And have I lived in this glorious world so long,” said she, “and never

till now beheld such a prospect—never experienced these delights! Every

peasant girl, on my father’s domain, has viewed from her infancy the

face of nature; has ranged, at liberty, her romantic wilds, while I

have been shut in a cloister from the view of these beautiful

appearances, which were designed to enchant all eyes, and awaken all

hearts. How can the poor nuns and friars feel the full fervour of

devotion, if they never see the sun rise, or set? Never, till this

evening, did I know what true devotion is; for, never before did I see

the sun sink below the vast earth! Tomorrow, 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 sensible to fear,

she thought she perceived something moving between the pillars. For a

moment, she continued silently observing it, till, ashamed of her

ridiculous apprehensions, she recollected courage enough to demand who

was there. “O my young lady, is it you?” said the old housekeeper, who

was come to shut the windows, “I am glad it is you.” The manner, in

which she spoke this, with a faint breath, rather surprised Blanche,

who said, “You seemed frightened, Dorothée, what is the matter?”

“No, not frightened, ma’amselle,” replied Dorothée, hesitating and

trying to appear composed, “but I am old, and—a little matter startles

me.” The Lady Blanche smiled at the distinction. “I am glad, that my

lord the Count is come to live at the château, ma’amselle,” continued

Dorothée, “for it has been many a year deserted, and dreary enough;

now, the place will look a little as it used to do, when my poor lady

was alive.” Blanche enquired how long it was, since the Marchioness

died? “Alas! my lady,” replied Dorothée, “so long—that I have ceased to

count the years! The place, to my mind, has mourned ever since, and I

am sure my lord’s vassals have! But you have lost yourself,

ma’amselle,—shall I show you to the other side of the château?”

Blanche enquired how long this part of the edifice had been built.

“Soon after my lord’s marriage, ma’am,” replied Dorothée. “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 shown to the inhabited

part of the château; and, as the passages were entirely dark, Dorothée

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 were never to return.”

“No,” replied Blanche, laughingly, “you seem to love adventures so

well, that I leave them for you to achieve.”

“Well, I am willing to achieve them, provided I am allowed to describe

them.”

“My dear Mademoiselle Bearn,” said Henri, as he met her at the door of

the parlour, “no ghost of these days would be so savage as to impose

silence on you. Our ghosts are more civilized than to condemn a lady to

a purgatory severer even, than their own, be it what it 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 company, and more than once

remarked, that the place was greatly altered, since he had last seen

it. “Many years have intervened since that period,” said he; “and,

though the grand features of the scenery admit of no change, they

impress me with sensations very different from those I formerly

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,

remember and understand the feelings of your father.”

Lady Blanche, affected by these words, remained silent; she looked

forward to the period, which the Count anticipated, and considering,

that he, who now spoke, would then probably be no more, her eyes, bent

to the ground, were filed with tears. She gave her hand to her father,

who, smiling affectionately, rose from his chair, and went to a window

to conceal his emotion.

The fatigues of the day made the party separate at an early hour, when

Blanche retired through a long oak gallery to her chamber, whose

spacious and lofty walls, high antiquated casements, and, what was the

effect of these, its gloomy air, did not reconcile her to its remote

situation, in this 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, indeed, much resembling those,

exhibited on the faded tapestry, with which the chamber was hung. To

Blanche, every object here was matter of curiosity; and, taking the

light from her woman to examine the tapestry, she perceived, that it

represented scenes from the wars of Troy, though the almost colourless

worsted now mocked the glowing actions they once had painted. She

laughed at the ludicrous absurdity she observed, till, recollecting,

that the hands, which had wove it, were, like the poet, whose thoughts

of fire they had attempted to express, long since mouldered into dust,

a train of melancholy ideas passed over her mind, and she almost wept.

Having given her woman a strict injunction to awaken her, before

sunrise, she dismissed her; and then, to dissipate the gloom, which

reflection had cast upon her spirits, opened one of the high casements,

and was again cheered by the face of living nature. The shadowy earth,

the air, and ocean—all was still. Along the deep serene of the heavens,

a few light clouds floated slowly, through whose skirts the stars now

seemed to tremble, and now to emerge with purer splendour. Blanche’s

thoughts arose involuntarily to the Great Author of the sublime objects

she contemplated, and she breathed a prayer of finer devotion, than any

she had ever uttered beneath the vaulted roof of a cloister. At this

casement, she remained till the glooms of midnight were stretched over

the prospect. She then retired to her pillow, and, “with gay visions of

tomorrow,” to those sweet slumbers, which health and happy innocence

only know.

Tomorrow, to fresh woods and pastures new.