CHAPTER XI

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!

THOMSON

Blanche’s slumbers continued, till long after the hour, which she had

so impatiently anticipated, for her woman, fatigued with travelling,

did not call her, till breakfast was nearly ready. Her disappointment,

however, was instantly forgotten, when, on opening the casement, she

saw, on one hand, the wide sea sparkling in the morning rays, with its

stealing sails and glancing oars; and, on the other, the fresh woods,

the plains far-stretching and the blue mountains, all glowing with the

splendour of day.

As she inspired the pure breeze, health spread a deeper blush upon her

countenance, and pleasure danced in her eyes.

“Who could first invent convents!” said she, “and who could first

persuade people to go into them? and to make religion a pretence, too,

where all that should inspire it, is so carefully shut out! God is best

pleased with the homage of a grateful heart, and, when we view his

glories, we feel most grateful. I never felt so much devotion, during

the many dull years I was in the convent, as I have done in the few

hours, that I have been here, where I need only look on all around

me—to adore God in my inmost heart!”

Saying this, she left the window, bounded along the gallery, and, in

the next moment, was in the breakfast room, where the Count was already

seated. The cheerfulness of a bright sunshine had dispersed the

melancholy glooms of his reflections, a pleasant smile was on his

countenance, and he spoke in an enlivening voice to Blanche, whose

heart echoed back the tones. Henri and, soon after, the Countess with

Mademoiselle Bearn appeared, and the whole party seemed to acknowledge

the influence of the scene; even the Countess was so much reanimated as

to receive the civilities of her husband with complacency, and but once

forgot her good-humour, which was when she asked whether they had any

neighbours, who were likely to make _this barbarous spot _ more

tolerable, and whether the Count believed it possible for her to exist

here, without some amusement?

Soon after breakfast the party dispersed; the Count, ordering his

steward to attend him in the library, went to survey the condition of

his premises, and to visit some of his tenants; Henri hastened with

alacrity to the shore to examine a boat, that was to bear them on a

little voyage in the evening and to superintend the adjustment of a

silk awning; while the Countess, attended by Mademoiselle Bearn,

retired to an apartment on the modern side of the château, which was

fitted up with airy elegance; and, as the windows opened upon

balconies, that fronted the sea, she was there saved from a view of the

_horrid_ Pyrenees. Here, while she reclined on a sofa, and, casting her

languid eyes over the ocean, which appeared beyond the wood-tops,

indulged in the luxuries of _ennui_, her companion read aloud a

sentimental novel, on some fashionable system of philosophy, for the

Countess was herself somewhat of a _philosopher_, especially as to

_infidelity_, and among a certain circle her opinions were waited for

with impatience, and received as doctrines.

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, hastened to indulge, amidst the wild

wood-walks around the château, her new enthusiasm, where, as she

wandered under the shades, her gay spirits gradually yielded to pensive

complacency. Now, she moved with solemn steps, beneath the gloom of

thickly interwoven branches, where the fresh dew still hung upon every

flower, that peeped from among the grass; and now tripped sportively

along the path, on which the sunbeams darted and the checquered foliage

trembled—where the tender greens of the beech, the acacia and the

mountain-ash, mingling with the solemn tints of the cedar, the pine and

cypress, exhibited as fine a contrast of colouring, as the majestic oak

and oriental plane did of form, to the feathery lightness of the cork

tree and the waving grace of the poplar.

Having reached a rustic seat, within a deep recess of the woods, she

rested awhile, and, as her eyes caught, through a distant opening, a

glimpse of the blue waters of the Mediterranean, with the white sail,

gliding on its bosom, or of the broad mountain, glowing beneath the

mid-day sun, her mind experienced somewhat of that exquisite delight,

which awakens the fancy, and leads to poetry. The hum of bees alone

broke the stillness around her, as, with other insects of various hues,

they sported gaily in the shade, or sipped sweets from the fresh

flowers: and, while Blanche watched a butter-fly, flitting from bud to

bud, she indulged herself in imagining the pleasures of its short day,

till she had composed the following stanzas.

THE BUTTER-FLY 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 fountain fresh, nor breathing grove,

Nor sunny mead, nor blossom’d tree,

So sweet as lily’s cell shall prove,—

The bower of constant love and me.

When April buds begin to blow,

The prim-rose, and the hare-bell blue,

That on the verdant moss bank grow,

With violet cups, that weep in dew;

When wanton gales breathe through the shade,

And shake the blooms, and steal their sweets,

And swell the song of ev’ry glade,

I range the forest’s green retreats:

There, through the tangled wood-walks play,

Where no rude urchin paces near,

Where sparely peeps the sultry day,

And light dews freshen all the air.

High on a 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 show thee, where the jasmine spreads

Her snowy leaf, where may-flow’rs hide,

And rose-buds rear their peeping heads.

With me the mountain’s summit scale,

And taste the wild-thyme’s honied bloom,

Whose fragrance, floating on the gale,

Oft leads me to the cedar’s gloom.

Yet, yet, no sound comes in the breeze!

What shade thus dares to tempt thy stay?

Once, me alone thou wish’d to please,

And with me only thou wouldst stray.

But, while thy long delay I mourn,

And chide the sweet shades for their guile,

Thou may’st be true, and they forlorn,

And fairy favours court thy smile.

The tiny queen of fairy-land,

Who knows thy speed, hath sent thee far,

To bring, or ere the night-watch stand,

Rich essence for her shadowy car:

Perchance her acorn-cups to fill

With nectar from the Indian rose,

Or gather, near some haunted rill,

May-dews, that lull to sleep Love’s woes:

Or, o’er the mountains, bade thee fly,

To tell her fairy love to speed,

When ev’ning steals upon the sky,

To dance along the twilight mead.

But now I see thee sailing low,

Gay as the brightest flow’rs of spring,

Thy coat of blue and jet I know,

And well thy gold and purple wing.

Borne on the gale, thou com’st to me;

O! welcome, welcome to my home!

In lily’s cell we’ll live in glee,

Together o’er the mountains roam!

When Lady Blanche returned to the château, instead of going to the

apartment of the Countess, she amused herself with wandering over that

part of the edifice, which she had not yet examined, of which the most

ancient first attracted her curiosity; for, though what she had seen of

the modern was gay and elegant, there was something in the former more

interesting to her imagination. Having passed up the great staircase,

and through the oak gallery, she entered upon a long suite of chambers,

whose walls were either hung with tapestry, or wainscoted with cedar,

the furniture of which looked almost as 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 desertion, that it seemed, as if the

venerable persons, whose portraits hung upon the walls, had been the

last to inhabit them.

On leaving these rooms, she found herself in another gallery, one end

of which was terminated by a back staircase, and the other by a door,

that seemed to communicate with the north-side of the château, but

which being fastened, she descended the staircase, and, opening a door

in the wall, a few steps down, found herself in a small square room,

that formed part of the west turret of the castle. Three windows

presented each a separate and beautiful prospect; that to the north,

overlooking Languedoc; another to the west, the hills ascending towards

the Pyrenees, whose awful summits crowned the landscape; and a third,

fronting the south, gave the Mediterranean, and a part of the wild

shores of Rousillon, to the eye.

Having left the turret, and descended the narrow 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 passage, which was opened with caution by some

person, who did not venture beyond it, and whom Blanche observed in

silence, till the door was closing, when she called aloud, and,

hastening towards it, perceived the old housekeeper. “Dear ma’amselle!

is it you?” said Dorothée, “How could you find your way hither?” Had

Blanche been less occupied by her own fears, she would probably have

observed the strong expressions of terror and surprise on Dorothée’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 Dorothée

entreated she would sit down and take refreshment. Blanche accepted the

sweet meats, offered to her, mentioned her discovery of the pleasant

turret, and her wish to appropriate it to her own use. Whether

Dorothée’s taste was not so sensible to the beauties of landscape as

her young lady’s, or that the constant view of lovely scenery had

deadened it, she forbore to praise the subject of Blanche’s enthusiasm,

which, however, her silence did not repress. To Lady Blanche’s enquiry

of whither the door she had found fastened at the end of the gallery

led, she replied, that it opened to a suite of rooms, which had not

been entered, during many years, “For,” added she, “my late lady died

in one of them, and I could never find in my heart to go into them

since.”

Blanche, though she wished to see these chambers, forbore, on observing

that Dorothée’s eyes were filled with tears, to ask her to unlock them,

and, soon after, went to dress for dinner, at which the whole party met

in good spirits and good humour, except the Countess, whose vacant

mind, overcome by the languor of idleness, would neither suffer her to

be happy herself, nor 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, vanished, on

her reaching the margin of the sea; she gazed with apprehension upon

the immense expanse of waters, which, at a distance, she had beheld

only with delight and astonishment, and it was by a strong effort, that

she so far overcame her fears as to follow her father into the boat.

As she silently surveyed the vast horizon, bending round the distant

verge of the ocean, an emotion of sublimest rapture struggled to

overcome a sense of personal danger. A light breeze played on the

water, and on the silk awning of the boat, and waved the foliage of the

receding woods, that crowned the cliffs, for many miles, and which the

Count surveyed with the pride of conscious property, as well as with

the eye of taste.

At some distance, among these woods, stood a pavilion, which had once

been the scene of social gaiety, and which its situation still made one

of romantic beauty. Thither, the Count had ordered coffee and other

refreshment to be carried, and thither the sailors now steered their

course, following the windings of the shore round many a woody

promontory and circling bay; while the pensive tones of horns and other

wind instruments, played by the attendants in a distant boat, echoed

among the rocks, and died along the waves. Blanche had now subdued her

fears; a delightful tranquillity stole over her mind, and held her in

silence; and she was too happy even to remember the convent, or her

former sorrows, as subjects of comparison with her present felicity.

The Countess felt less unhappy than she had done, since the moment of

her leaving Paris; for her mind was now under some degree of restraint;

she feared to indulge its wayward humours, and even wished to recover

the Count’s good opinion. On his family, and on the surrounding scene,

he looked with tempered pleasure and benevolent satisfaction, while his

son exhibited the gay spirits of youth, anticipating new delights, and

regretless of those, that were passed.

After near an hour’s rowing, the party landed, and ascended a little

path, overgrown with vegetation. At a little distance from the point of

the eminence, within the shadowy recess of the woods, appeared the

pavilion, which Blanche perceived, as she caught a glimpse of its

portico between the trees, to be built of variegated marble. As she

followed the Countess, she often turned her eyes with rapture towards

the ocean, seen beneath the dark foliage, far below, and from thence

upon the deep woods, whose silence and impenetrable gloom awakened

emotions more solemn, but scarcely less delightful.

The pavilion had been prepared, as far as was possible, on a very short

notice, for the reception of its visitors; but the faded colours of its

painted walls and ceiling, and the decayed drapery of its once

magnificent furniture, declared how long it had been neglected, and

abandoned to the empire of the changing seasons. While the party

partook of a collation of fruit and coffee, the horns, placed in a

distant part of the woods, where an echo sweetened and prolonged their

melancholy tones, broke softly on the stillness of the scene. This spot

seemed to attract even the admiration of the Countess, or, perhaps, it

was merely the pleasure of planning furniture and decorations, that

made her dwell so long on the necessity of repairing and adorning it;

while the Count, never happier than when he saw her mind engaged by

natural and simple objects, acquiesced in all her designs, concerning

the pavilion. The paintings on the walls and coved ceiling were to be

renewed, the canopies and sofas were to be of light green damask;

marble statues of wood-nymphs, bearing on their heads baskets of living

flowers, were to adorn the recesses between the windows, which,

descending to the ground, were to admit to every part of the room, and

it was of octagonal form, the various landscape. One window opened upon

a romantic glade, where the eye roved among the woody recesses, and the

scene was bounded only by a lengthened pomp of groves; from another,

the woods receding disclosed the distant summits of the Pyrenees; a

third fronted an avenue, beyond which the grey towers of

Château-le-Blanc, and a picturesque part of its ruin were seen

partially among the foliage; while a fourth gave, between the trees, a

glimpse of the green pastures and villages, that diversify the banks of

the Aude. The Mediterranean, with the bold cliffs, that overlooked its

shores, were the grand objects of a fifth window, and the others gave,

in different points of view, the wild scenery of the woods.

After wandering, for some time, in these, the party returned to the

shore and embarked; and, the beauty of the evening tempting them to

extend their excursion, they proceeded further up the bay. A dead calm

had succeeded the light breeze, that wafted them hither, and the men

took to their oars. Around, the waters were spread into one vast

expanse of polished mirror, reflecting the grey cliffs and feathery

woods, that over-hung its surface, the glow of the western horizon and

the dark clouds, that came slowly from the east. Blanche loved to see

the dipping oars imprint the water, and to watch the spreading circles

they left, which gave a tremulous motion to the reflected landscape,

without destroying the harmony of its features.

Above the darkness of the woods, her eye now caught a cluster of high

towers, touched with the splendour of the setting rays; and, soon

after, the horns being then silent, she heard the faint swell of choral

voices from a distance.

“What voices are those, upon the air?” said the Count, looking round,

and listening; but the strain had ceased. “It seemed to be a

vesper-hymn, which I have often heard in my convent,” said Blanche.

“We are near the monastery, then,” observed the Count; and, the boat

soon after doubling a lofty head-land, the monastery of St. Claire

appeared, seated near the margin of the sea, where the cliffs, suddenly

sinking, formed a low shore within a small bay, almost encircled with

woods, among which partial features of the edifice were seen;—the great

gate and gothic window of the hall, the cloisters and the side of a

chapel more remote; while a venerable arch, which had once led to a

part of the fabric, now demolished, stood a majestic ruin detached from

the main building, beyond which appeared a grand perspective of the

woods. On the grey walls, the moss had fastened, and, round the pointed

windows of the chapel, the ivy and the briony hung in many a fantastic

wreath.

All without was silent and forsaken; but, while Blanche gazed with

admiration on this venerable pile, whose effect was heightened by the

strong lights and shadows thrown athwart it by a cloudy 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 the high organ and the choral sounds swelled into full and solemn

harmony. The strain, soon after, dropped into sudden silence, and was

renewed in a low and still more solemn key, till, at length, the holy

chorus died away, and was heard no more.—Blanche sighed, tears trembled

in her eyes, and her thoughts seemed wafted with the sounds to heaven.

While a rapt stillness prevailed in the boat, a train of friars, and

then of nuns, veiled in white, issued from the cloisters, and passed,

under the shade of the woods, to the main body of the edifice.

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

silence.

“These dismal hymns and friars make one quite melancholy,” said she;

“twilight is coming on; pray let us return, or it will be dark before

we get home.”

The count, looking up, now perceived, that the twilight of evening was

anticipated by an approaching storm. In the east a tempest was

collecting; a heavy gloom came on, opposing and contrasting the glowing

splendour of the setting sun. The clamorous sea-fowl skimmed in fleet

circles upon the surface of the sea, dipping their light pinions in the

wave, as they fled away in search of shelter. The boatmen pulled hard

at their oars; but the thunder, that now muttered at a distance, and

the heavy drops, that began to dimple the water, made the Count

determine to put back to the monastery for shelter, and the course of

the boat was immediately changed. As the clouds approached the west,

their lurid darkness changed to a deep ruddy glow, which, by

reflection, seemed to fire the tops of the woods and the shattered

towers of the monastery.

The appearance of the heavens alarmed the Countess and Mademoiselle

Bearn, whose expressions of apprehension distressed the Count, and

perplexed his men; while Blanche continued silent, now agitated with

fear, and now with admiration, as she viewed the grandeur of the

clouds, and their effect on the scenery, and listened to the long, long

peals of thunder, that rolled through the air.

The boat having reached the lawn before the monastery, the Count sent a

servant to announce his arrival, and to entreat shelter of the

Superior, who, soon after, appeared at the great gate, attended by

several monks, while the servant returned with a message, expressive at

once of hospitality and pride, but of pride disguised in submission.

The party immediately disembarked, and, having hastily crossed the

lawn—for the shower was now heavy—were received at the gate by the

Superior, who, as they entered, stretched forth his hands and gave his

blessing; and they passed into the great hall, where the lady abbess

waited, attended by several nuns, clothed, like herself, in black, and

veiled in white. The veil of the abbess was, however, thrown half back,

and discovered a countenance, whose chaste dignity was sweetened by the

smile of welcome, with which she addressed the Countess, whom she led,

with Blanche and Mademoiselle Bearn, into the convent parlour, while

the Count and Henri were conducted by the Superior to the refectory.

The Countess, fatigued and discontented, received the politeness of the

abbess with careless haughtiness, and had followed her, with indolent

steps, to the parlour, over which the painted casements and wainscot of

larch-wood threw, at all times, a melancholy shade, and where the gloom

of evening now loured almost to darkness.

While the lady abbess ordered refreshment, and conversed with the

Countess, Blanche withdrew to a window, the lower panes of which, being

without painting, allowed her to observe the progress of the storm over

the Mediterranean, whose dark waves, that had so lately slept, now came

boldly swelling, in long succession, to the shore, where they burst in

white foam, and threw up a high spray over the rocks. A red sulphureous

tint overspread the long line of clouds, that hung above the western

horizon, beneath whose dark skirts the sun looking out, illumined the

distant shores of Languedoc, as well as the tufted summits of the

nearer woods, and shed a partial gleam on the western waves. The rest

of the scene was in deep gloom, except where a sunbeam, darting between

the clouds, glanced on the white wings of the sea-fowl, that circled

high among them, or touched the swelling sail of a vessel, which was

seen labouring in the storm. Blanche, for some time, anxiously watched

the progress of the bark, as it threw the waves in foam around it, and,

as the lightnings flashed, looked to the opening heavens, with many a

sigh for the fate of the poor mariners.

The sun, at length, set, and the heavy clouds, which had long impended,

dropped over the splendour of his course; the vessel, however, was yet

dimly seen, and Blanche continued to observe it, till the quick

succession of flashes, lighting up the gloom of the whole horizon,

warned her to retire from the window, and she joined the Abbess, who,

having exhausted all her topics of conversation with the Countess, had

now leisure to notice her.

But their discourse was interrupted by tremendous peals of thunder; and

the bell of the monastery soon after ringing out, summoned the

inhabitants to prayer. As Blanche passed the window, she gave another

look to the ocean, where, by the momentary flash, that illumined the

vast body of the waters, she distinguished the vessel she had observed

before, amidst a sea of foam, breaking the billows, the mast now bowing

to the waves, and then rising high in air.

She sighed fervently as she gazed, and then followed the Lady Abbess

and the Countess to the chapel. Meanwhile, some of the Count’s

servants, having gone by land to the château for carriages, returned

soon after vespers had concluded, when, the storm being somewhat

abated, the Count and his family returned home. Blanche was surprised

to discover how much the windings of the shore had deceived her,

concerning the distance of the château 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 château, the Countess, affecting more fatigue,

than she really felt, withdrew to her apartment, and the Count, with

his daughter and Henri, went to the supper-room, where they had not

been long, when they heard, in a pause of the gust, a firing of guns,

which the Count understanding to be signals of distress from some

vessel in the storm, went to a window, that opened towards the

Mediterranean, to observe further; but the sea was now involved in

utter darkness, and the loud howlings of the tempest had again overcome

every other sound. Blanche, remembering the bark, which she had before

seen, now joined her father, with trembling anxiety. In a few moments,

the report of guns was again borne along the wind, and as suddenly

wafted away; a tremendous burst of thunder followed, and, in the flash,

that had preceded it, and which seemed to quiver over the whole surface

of the waters, a vessel was discovered, tossing amidst the white foam

of the waves at some distance from the shore. Impenetrable darkness

again involved the scene, but soon a second flash showed the bark, with

one sail unfurled, driving towards the coast. Blanche hung upon her

father’s arm, with looks full of the agony of united terror and pity,

which were unnecessary to awaken the heart of the Count, who gazed upon

the sea with a piteous expression, and, perceiving, that no boat could

live in the storm, forbore to send one; but he gave orders to his

people to carry torches out upon the cliffs, hoping they might prove a

kind of beacon to the vessel, or, at least, warn the crew of the rocks

they were approaching. While Henri went out to direct on what part of

the cliffs the lights should appear, Blanche remained with her father,

at the window, catching, every now and then, as the lightnings flashed,

a glimpse of the vessel; and she soon saw, with reviving hope, the

torches flaming on the blackness of night, and, as they waved over the

cliffs, casting a red gleam on the gasping billows. When the firing of

guns was repeated, the torches were tossed high in the air, as if

answering the signal, and the firing was then redoubled; but, though

the wind bore the sound away, she fancied, as the lightnings glanced,

that the vessel was much nearer the shore.

The Count’s servants were now seen, running to and fro, on the rocks;

some venturing almost to the point of the crags, and bending over, held

out their torches fastened to long poles; while others, whose steps

could be traced only by the course of the lights, descended the steep

and dangerous path, that wound to the margin of the sea, and, with loud

halloos, hailed the mariners, whose shrill whistle, and then feeble

voices, were heard, at intervals, mingling with the storm. Sudden

shouts from the people on the rocks increased the anxiety of Blanche to

an almost intolerable degree: but her suspense, concerning the fate of

the mariners, was soon over, when Henri, running breathless into the

room, told that the vessel was anchored in the bay below, but in so

shattered a condition, that it was feared she would part before the

crew could disembark. The Count immediately gave orders for his own

boats to assist in bringing them to shore, and that such of these

unfortunate strangers as could not be accommodated in the adjacent

hamlet should be entertained at the château. Among the latter, were

Emily St. Aubert, Monsieur Du Pont, Ludovico and Annette, who, having

embarked at Leghorn and reached Marseilles, were from thence crossing

the Gulf of Lyons, when this storm overtook them. They were received by

the Count with his usual benignity, who, though Emily wished to have

proceeded immediately to the monastery of St. Claire, would not allow

her to leave the château, that night; and, indeed, the terror and

fatigue she had suffered would scarcely have permitted her to go

farther.

In Monsieur Du Pont the Count discovered an old acquaintance, and much

joy and congratulation passed between them, after which Emily was

introduced by name to the Count’s family, whose hospitable benevolence

dissipated the little embarrassment, which her situation had occasioned

her, and the party were soon seated at the supper-table. The unaffected

kindness of Blanche and the lively joy she expressed on the escape of

the strangers, for whom her pity had been so much interested, gradually

revived Emily’s languid spirits; and Du Pont, relieved from his terrors

for her and for himself, felt the full contrast, between his late

situation on a dark and tremendous ocean, and his present one, in a

cheerful mansion, where he was surrounded with plenty, elegance and

smiles of welcome.

Annette, meanwhile, in the servants’ hall, was telling of all the

dangers she had encountered, and congratulating herself so heartily

upon her own and Ludovico’s escape, and on her present comforts, that

she often made all that part of the château ring with merriment and

laughter. Ludovico’s spirits were as gay as her own, but he had

discretion enough to restrain them, and tried to check hers, though in

vain, till her laughter, at length, ascended to _my Lady’s_ chamber,

who sent to enquire what occasioned so much uproar in the château, and

to command silence.

Emily withdrew early to seek the repose she so much required, but her

pillow was long a sleepless one. On this her return to her native

country, many interesting remembrances were awakened; all the events

and sufferings she had experienced, since she quitted it, came in long

succession to her fancy, and were chased only by the image of

Valancourt, with whom to believe herself once more in the same land,

after they had been so long, and so distantly separated, gave her

emotions of indescribable joy, but which afterwards yielded to anxiety

and apprehension, when she considered the long period, that had

elapsed, since any letter had passed between them, and how much might

have happened in this interval to affect her future peace. But the

thought that Valancourt might be now no more, or, if living, might have

forgotten her, was so very terrible to her heart, that she would

scarcely suffer herself to pause upon the possibility. She determined

to inform him, on the following day, of her arrival in France, which it

was scarcely possible he could know but by a letter from herself, and,

after soothing her spirits with the hope of soon hearing, that he was

well, and unchanged in his affections, she, at length, sunk to repose.