CHAPTER XII

Light thickens, and the crow

Makes wing to the rooky wood:

Good things of day begin to droop, and drowse;

While night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.

MACBETH

Meanwhile Count De Villefort and Lady Blanche had passed a pleasant

fortnight at the château de St. Foix, with the Baron and Baroness,

during which they made frequent excursions among the mountains, and

were delighted with the romantic wildness 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. Foix, who now attended them into Gascony, should

receive the hand of the Lady Blanche, upon their arrival at

Château-le-Blanc. As the road, from the Baron’s residence to La Vallée,

was over some of the wildest tract of the Pyrenees, and where a

carriage-wheel had never passed, the Count hired mules for himself and

his family, as well as a couple of stout guides, who were well armed,

informed of all the passes 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 valleys, the shallowest part of

every torrent they must cross, and the exact distance of every

goat-herd’s and hunter’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 château 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 Vallée, of which his guides had informed him; and,

though this was frequented chiefly by Spanish muleteers, on their route

into France, and, of course, would afford only sorry accommodation, the

Count had no alternative, 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 side, 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 mountaineers, tripping through a dance. 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 movement, to which two female

peasants danced a Spanish Pavan.

The Count, comparing this with the scenes of such gaiety as 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 natural graces and innocent

pleasures flourished in the wilds of solitude, while they drooped

amidst the concourse of polished society. 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 assumed a more tremendous

appearance, invested with the obscurity 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 chasm, the eye could no longer fathom. A melancholy gleam

still lingered on the summits of the highest Alps, overlooking the deep

repose of evening, and seeming to make the stillness of the hour more

awful.

Blanche viewed the scene in silence, and listened with enthusiasm 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 looked 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, adding, that, when it was darker, it would be safest

to rest, till the moon rose. “It is scarcely safe to proceed now,” said

the Count; but the guides, assuring him that there was no danger, went

on. Blanche, revived by this assurance, again indulged a pensive

pleasure, as she watched the progress of twilight gradually spreading

its tints 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 insect, that had floated

gaily in the sunbeam, was hushed, the sound of many streams, not heard

till now, murmured at a distance.—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,

Thou shroud’st thee in the ruin’s ivy’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 thy 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 show. 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 silence, which the rest of the party seemed by mutual

consent to preserve, remarking and pointing out to Blanche the most

striking 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 tenderness,

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 wreaths 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 cautious 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 inscription; but the

guides knew this to be a cross, raised to the memory of a Count de

Beliard, who had been murdered here by a horde of banditti, that had

infested this part of the Pyrenees, a few years before; and the

uncommon size 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 fate, 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 travellers, now alarmed,

quitted this scene of solitary horror, in search of shelter.

Having regained their former track, the guides, as they passed on,

endeavoured to interest the Count by various stories 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 shot 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,

meanwhile, secretly laughing at the terrible histories and extravagant

boastings of the man, resolved to humour him, and, telling Blanche in a

whisper, his design, began to recount some exploits of his own, which

infinitely exceeded any related by the guide.

To these surprising circumstances he so artfully gave the colouring of

truth, that the courage of the guides was visibly affected 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 thoroughly 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 halt before a tuft of cork

trees, that projected over the road, and drew forth a pistol, before 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 sheltered from

the air, by overhanging cliffs and by a wood of larch, that rose over

the precipice on the left, and the guides being yet ignorant how far

they were from the inn, the travellers determined 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 blaze afforded some degree of

cheerfulness, and no small comfort, for, 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 sulphureous clouds,

that floated along the upper and middle regions of the air, and the

lightnings that flashed from them, sometimes silently, and, at others,

followed by sullen peals of thunder, which the mountains feebly

prolonged, while the whole horizon, and the abyss, on 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 opposite 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 seated 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 showed 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 desert coast,

And view th’enormous waste of vapour, tost

In billows length’ning to th’horizon round!

THE MINSTREL

From this romantic reverie he was awakened by the voices of the guides,

repeating his name, which was reverbed from cliff to cliff, till a

hundred tongues seemed to call him; when he soon quieted the fears of

the Count and the Lady Blanche, by returning 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 tremendous chasms and caverns of the rocks, the

grotesque form of the mountains, and the various phenomena, that seem

to stamp upon the world the history of the deluge. From the natural

history he descended to the mention of 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 celebrated 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 uncertain light, as she moved among broken clouds; and the

travellers, led by the sound, recommenced their journey along the brow

of the precipice, preceded by a single torch, that now contended with

the moonlight; for the guides, believing they should reach the 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

tremendous 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 some time, doubtful of their way, and were now certain only,

that they had lost it.

At a little distance, was discovered a rude and dangerous passage,

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

waters, 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 moonlight. The poor

animals proceeded over this perilous bridge with instinctive caution,

neither frightened by the noise of the cataract, nor deceived by the

gloom, which the impending foliage 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 mountains, 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 admitted its rays. The guides hallooed 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 expectation, the noise of the

explosion was alone heard, echoing among the rocks, and it gradually

sunk into silence, which no friendly 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 pressure 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 accommodation, a ruined watch-tower might afford.

“Numerous watch-towers have been erected among the Pyrenees,” said the

Count, anxious only to call Blanche’s attention 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. Signals 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 themselves on the heights,

they assail their astonished enemies, who wind along the glen below,

with fragments of the shattered cliff, and pour death and defeat upon

them. The ancient forts, and watch-towers, overlooking the grand passes

of the Pyrenees, are carefully preserved; but some of those in inferior

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 toil, retires hither, and, 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, travel 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

unattainable, are equally reluctant to fight; an engagement, therefore,

very seldom happens, but, when it does, it never concludes till after

the most desperate and bloody conflict. You are inattentive, 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 some time, ceased, and the

guides began to doubt, whether this was really the object of their

search. From the distance, at which they surveyed it, shown 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 pathway.

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, whether it would be advisable,

should a path be found, to venture to an edifice, which might possibly

harbour banditti. They considered, 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,

perhaps, to the effects of a thunder-storm, there remained not a doubt,

that they ought to endeavour to obtain admittance to the edifice above,

at any hazard respecting the inhabitants it might harbour; but the

darkness, and the dead silence, that surrounded it, appeared to

contradict the probability of its being inhabited at all.

A shout from the guides aroused their attention, after which, in a few

minutes, one of the Count’s servants returned with intelligence, that a

path was found, and they immediately hastened 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 characterised

the pile even in the days of its early strength, was now considerably

heightened by its shattered battlements and half-demolished 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 frowningly 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 determined to walk round the fort, to that

remote part of it, whence he thought the voices had arisen, that he

might examine whether any light could be discerned there, before he

ventured to knock at the gate; for this purpose, he entered upon the

terrace, 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 within, 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 advancing to obey him, when a light appeared through the

loop-hole of one of the towers, and the Count called loudly, but,

receiving no answer, he went up to the gate himself, and struck upon 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 portal, and had lifted the pole to strike again, when again he

fancied 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 probably 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 enquired—“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

enquire 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 cannot show you the way; you must seek

it—there’s 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, like 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 observed 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 some time

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 alpine 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 strangers, 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, addressed himself to

the hunters. “This is a 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 success have you had?” “Such as we usually

have,” replied one of the men, who had been seated in the hall, “we

kill our game with 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 travellers; 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 fire, 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 keg.” 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 Mons. 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 steady 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 place

is dreary, and the swoln torrents, that descend from the heights, put 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 delicious flavour, that feed upon

the wild thyme and herbs, that grow in the valleys. 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 enquiry, concerning the method of pursuing 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 sounded 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 shoulder, and

pistols in his belt. “What cheer, my lads? what cheer?” said they, as

they approached. “What luck?” returned 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 fell to the ground, and the

glitter of some bright metal within glanced on the eye of the Count,

who now surveyed, with a more enquiring look, the man, that held the

knapsack. He was a tall robust figure, of a hard countenance, 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, somewhat resembling in shape an ancient Roman helmet; but

the brows that scowled beneath it, would have characterised 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 attentively at himself. He withdrew 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 features

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 stone 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 distressed, 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 betraying his doubts, consented to go.

The long and ruinous passages, 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 provoke

his conductors by showing 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 familiarity, 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 neither of whom observed the circumstance, followed their

conductor 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 proceeded 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

paces 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 distinguished the features of

him, whom she had observed, gazing at St. Foix, with such deep

attention; and who was now speaking in an earnest, though restrained

voice, till, one of his companions seeming to oppose him, they spoke

together in a loud and harsher tone. Blanche, alarmed by perceiving

that neither her father, nor St. Foix were there, and terrified at the

fierce countenances 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 moment, 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 tremendous

oath—“What! to tell how we have disposed of their masters, and to send

the king’s troops to drag us to the wheel! You were 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 compelled 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 comrade. “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 gallows!” 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 impatiently,

“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 tonight, 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 silently, 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 barons 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 the 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 it signify whether he is or not?—shall we let all

this booty go out of our hands? It is not often we have such luck at

this. While we run the chance of the wheel for smuggling a few pounds

of tobacco, to cheat the king’s manufactory, and of breaking our necks

down the precipices in the chace of our food; and, now and then, rob a

brother smuggler, or a straggling pilgrim, of what scarcely repays us

the powder 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 robber, “let

us make the most of them: only, if this is the Baron, I should like to

have a flash the more at him, for the sake of our brave comrades, that

he brought to the gallows.”

“Aye, aye, flash 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 be 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 a 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 consider 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 ten 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 distinguish 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 reanimated her spirits, and lent her strength

enough to turn her steps in search of the gallery. Terror, however, and

darkness conspired 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 person 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 had 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 pretty 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 attention 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 the voices of loud contention and with heavy

groans, were distinguished in the avenue leading to the chamber. While

the ruffians prepared their arms, they heard themselves called by some

of their comrades afar off, and then a shrill horn was sounded without

the fortress, a signal, 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 supplicating 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, nor 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 neither the Count, St.

Foix, nor any other person appeared, and she continued, for some time,

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

moment, may be easily imagined. He was speechless; his eyes were half

closed, and, on the hand, which she grasped in the agony of despair,

cold damps had settled. While she vainly repeated 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, supplicating him to give his assistance to St.

Foix, she discovered Ludovico! He scarcely paused to recognise her, but

immediately 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 affrighted 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, pressed her to his bosom in a transport of gratitude and joy,

and then hastily enquired 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

enquire 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 expected home, an hour ago, and they will certainly

find us, if we delay. 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 anybody 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 fort, were secured in the dungeon, Blanche observed 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 will serve the

Chevalier,” he added, showing 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

however 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 found 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 themselves in

a narrow valley 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 perfectly 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 below, 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

cordial 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, nor 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 shortly, 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 essentially 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 alarm, hastily to pursue their route.