St. Aubert and Emily saw the busy
groups, caught the joyous song, that was wafted on the breeze, and
anticipated, with apparent pleasure, their next day’s journey over this
gay region. He designed, however, still to wind along the sea-shore. To
return home immediately was partly his wish, but from this he was
withheld by a desire to lengthen the pleasure, which the journey gave
his daughter, and to try the effect of the sea air on his own disorder. On the following day, therefore, they recommenced their journey through
Languedoc, winding the shores of the Mediterranean; the Pyrenees still
forming the magnificent back-ground of their prospects, while on their
right was the ocean, and, on their left, wide extended plains melting
into the blue horizon. St. Aubert was pleased, and conversed much with
Emily, yet his cheerfulness was sometimes artificial, and sometimes a
shade of melancholy would steal upon his countenance, and betray him. This was soon chased away by Emily’s smile; who smiled, however, with
an aching heart, for she saw that his misfortunes preyed upon his mind,
and upon his enfeebled frame. It was evening when they reached a small village of Upper Languedoc,
where they meant to pass the night, but the place could not afford them
beds; for here, too, it was the time of the vintage, and they were
obliged to proceed to the next post. The languor of illness and of
fatigue, which returned upon St. Aubert, required immediate repose, and
the evening was now far advanced; but from necessity there was no
appeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed. The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of the
vintage, with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened St.
Aubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to the
hilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyes
moved over the scene, he considered, that they would soon, perhaps, be
closed for ever on this world. “Those distant and sublime mountains,”
said he secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretched
towards the west, “these luxuriant plains, this blue vault, the
cheerful light of day, will be shut from my eyes! The song of the
peasant, the cheering voice of man—will no longer sound for me!”

The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind of
her father, and she fixed them on his face, with an expression of such
tender pity, as recalled his thoughts from every desultory object of
regret, and he remembered only, that he must leave his daughter without
protection. This reflection changed regret to agony; he sighed deeply,
and remained silent, while she seemed to understand that sigh, for she
pressed his hand affectionately, and then turned to the window to
conceal her tears. The sun now threw a last yellow gleam on the waves
of the Mediterranean, and the gloom of twilight spread fast over the
scene, till only a melancholy ray appeared on the western horizon,
marking the point where the sun had set amid the vapours of an autumnal
evening. A cool breeze now came from the shore, and Emily let down the
glass; but the air, which was refreshing to health, was as chilling to
sickness, and St. Aubert desired, that the window might be drawn up. Increasing illness made him now more anxious than ever to finish the
day’s journey, and he stopped the muleteer to enquire how far they had
yet to go to the next post. He replied, “Nine miles.” “I feel I am
unable to proceed much further,” said St. Aubert; “enquire, as you go,
if there is any house on the road that would accommodate us for the
night.” He sunk back in the carriage, and Michael, cracking his whip in
the air, set off, and continued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert,
almost fainting, called to him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the
window, and saw a peasant walking at some little distance on the road,
for whom they waited, till he came up, when he was asked, if there was
any house in the neighbourhood that accommodated travellers. He
replied, that he knew of none. “There is a château, indeed, among those
woods on the right,” added he, “but I believe it receives nobody, and I
cannot show you the way, for I am almost a stranger here.” St. Aubert
was going to ask him some further question concerning the château, but
the man abruptly passed on. After some consideration, he ordered
Michael to proceed slowly to the woods. Every moment now deepened the
twilight, and increased the difficulty of finding the road. Another
peasant soon after passed. “Which is the way to the château in the
woods?” cried Michael. “The château in the woods!” exclaimed the peasant—“Do you mean that
with the turret, yonder?”

“I don’t know as for the turret, as you call it,” said Michael, “I mean
that white piece of a building, that we see at a distance there, among
the trees.”

“Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, that you are going
thither?” said the man with surprise. St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiar
tone in which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. “We are
travellers,” said he, “who are in search of a house of accommodation
for the night; is there any hereabout?”

“None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder,”
replied the peasant, pointing to the woods, “but I would not advise you
to go there.”

“To whom does the château belong?”

“I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.”

“It is uninhabited, then?”—“No, not uninhabited; the steward and
housekeeper are there, I believe.”

On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the château, and
risk the refusal of being accommodated for the night; he therefore
desired the countryman would show Michael the way, and bade him expect
reward for his trouble. The man was for a moment silent, and then said,
that he was going on other business, but that the road could not be
missed, if they went up an avenue to the right, to which he pointed. St. Aubert was going to speak, but the peasant wished him good night,
and walked on. The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a gate,
and Michael having dismounted to open it, they entered between rows of
ancient oak and chesnut, whose intermingled branches formed a lofty
arch above. There was something so gloomy and desolate in the
appearance of this avenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almost
shuddered as she passed along; and, recollecting the manner in which
the peasant had mentioned the château, she gave a mysterious meaning to
his words, such as she had not suspected when he uttered them. These
apprehensions, however, she tried to check, considering that they were
probably the effect of a melancholy imagination, which her father’s
situation, and a consideration of her own circumstances, had made
sensible to every impression.