The storm was
passed, but the waves were yet violently agitated, and their course was
traced by long lines of foam, while not a breeze fluttered in the sails
of the vessels, near the shore, that were weighing anchor to depart. The still gloom of the hour was pleasing to the Count, and he pursued
his way through the woods, sunk in deep thought. Emily also rose at an early hour, and took her customary walk along the
brow of the promontory, that overhung the Mediterranean. Her mind was
now not occupied with the occurrences of the château, and Valancourt
was the subject of her mournful thoughts; whom she had not yet taught
herself to consider with indifference, though her judgment constantly
reproached her for the affection, that lingered in her heart, after her
esteem for him was departed. Remembrance frequently gave her his
parting look and the tones of his voice, when he had bade her a last
farewell; and, some accidental associations now recalling these
circumstances to her fancy, with peculiar energy, she shed bitter tears
to the recollection. Having reached the watch-tower, she seated herself on the broken steps,
and, in melancholy dejection, watched the waves, half hid in vapour, as
they came rolling towards the shore, and threw up their light spray
round the rocks below. Their hollow murmur and the obscuring mists,
that came in wreaths up the cliffs, gave a solemnity to the scene,
which was in harmony with the temper of her mind, and she sat, given up
to the remembrance of past times, till this became too painful, and she
abruptly quitted the place. On passing the little gate of the
watch-tower, she observed letters, engraved on the stone postern, which
she paused to examine, and, though they appeared to have been rudely
cut with a pen-knife, the characters were familiar to her; at length,
recognising the hand-writing of Valancourt, she read, with trembling
anxiety the following lines, entitled

SHIPWRECK

’Til solemn midnight! On this lonely steep,
Beneath this watch-tow’r’s desolated wall,
Where mystic shapes the wonderer appall,
I rest; and view below the desert deep,
As through tempestuous clouds the moon’s cold light
Gleams on the wave. Viewless, the winds of night
With loud mysterious force the billows sweep,
And sullen roar the surges, far below. In the still pauses of the gust I hear
The voice of spirits, rising sweet and slow,
And oft among the clouds their forms appear. But hark! what shriek of death comes in the gale,
And in the distant ray what glimmering sail
Bends to the storm?—Now sinks the note of fear! Ah! wretched mariners!—no more shall day
Unclose his cheering eye to light ye on your way! From these lines it appeared, that Valancourt had visited the tower;
that he had probably been here on the preceding night, for it was such
a one as they described, and that he had left the building very lately,
since it had not long been light, and without light it was impossible
these letters could have been cut. It was thus even probable, that he
might be yet in the gardens. As these reflections passed rapidly over the mind of Emily, they called
up a variety of contending emotions, that almost overcame her spirits;
but her first impulse was to avoid him, and, immediately leaving the
tower, she returned, with hasty steps, towards the château. As she
passed along, she remembered the music she had lately heard near the
tower, with the figure, which had appeared, and, in this moment of
agitation, she was inclined to believe, that she had then heard and
seen Valancourt; but other recollections soon convinced her of her
error. On turning into a thicker part of the woods, she perceived a
person, walking slowly in the gloom at some little distance, and, her
mind engaged by the idea of him, she started and paused, imagining this
to be Valancourt. The person advanced with quicker steps, and, before
she could recover recollection enough to avoid him, he spoke, and she
then knew the voice of the Count, who expressed some surprise, on
finding her walking at so early an hour, and made a feeble effort to
rally her on her love of solitude. But he soon perceived this to be
more a subject of concern than of light laughter, and, changing his
manner, affectionately expostulated with Emily, on thus indulging
unavailing regret; who, though she acknowledged the justness of all he
said, could not restrain her tears, while she did so, and he presently
quitted the topic. Expressing surprise at not having yet heard from his
friend, the Advocate at Avignon, in answer to the questions proposed to
him, respecting the estates of the late Madame Montoni, he, with
friendly zeal, endeavoured to cheer Emily with hopes of establishing
her claim to them; while she felt, that the estates could now
contribute little to the happiness of a life, in which Valancourt had
no longer an interest. When they returned to the château, Emily retired to her apartment, and
Count De Villefort to the door of the north chambers. This was still
fastened, but, being now determined to arouse Ludovico, he renewed his
calls more loudly than before, after which a total silence ensued, and
the Count, finding all his efforts to be heard ineffectual, at length
began to fear, that some accident had befallen Ludovico, whom terror of
an imaginary being might have deprived of his senses. He, therefore,
left the door with an intention of summoning his servants to force it
open, some of whom he now heard moving in the lower part of the
château. To the Count’s enquiries, whether they had seen or heard Ludovico, they
replied in affright, that not one of them had ventured on the north
side of the château, since the preceding night. “He sleeps soundly then,” said the Count, “and is at such a distance
from the outer door, which is fastened, that to gain admittance to the
chambers it will be necessary to force it. Bring an instrument, and
follow me.”

The servants stood mute and dejected, and it was not till nearly all
the household were assembled, that the Count’s orders were obeyed. In
the mean time, Dorothée was telling of a door, that opened from a
gallery, leading from the great staircase into the last ante-room of
the saloon, and, this being much nearer to the bed-chamber, it appeared
probable, that Ludovico might be easily awakened by an attempt to open
it. Thither, therefore, the Count went, but his voice was as
ineffectual at this door as it had proved at the remoter one; and now,
seriously interested for Ludovico, he was himself going to strike upon
the door with the instrument, when he observed its singular beauty, and
withheld the blow. It appeared, on the first glance, to be of ebony, so
dark and close was its grain and so high its polish; but it proved to
be only of larch wood, of the growth of Provence, then famous for its
forests of larch.