Meanwhile, the Countess,
reflecting, with regret, upon the gay parties she had left at Paris,
surveyed, with disgust, what she thought the gloomy woods and solitary
wildness of the scene; and, shrinking from the prospect of being shut
up in an old castle, was prepared to meet every object with
displeasure. The feelings of Henri were somewhat similar to those of
the Countess; he gave a mournful sigh to the delights of the capital,
and to the remembrance of a lady, who, he believed, had engaged his
affections, and who had certainly fascinated his imagination; but the
surrounding country, and the mode of life, on which he was entering,
had, for him, at least, the charm of novelty, and his regret was
softened by the gay expectations of youth. The gates being at length
unbarred, the carriage moved slowly on, under spreading chesnuts, that
almost excluded the remains of day, following what had been formerly a
road, but which now, overgrown with luxuriant vegetation, could be
traced only by the boundary, formed by trees, on either side, and which
wound for near half a mile among the woods, before it reached the
château. This was the very avenue that St. Aubert and Emily had
formerly entered, on their first arrival in the neighbourhood, with the
hope of finding a house, that would receive them, for the night, and
had so abruptly quitted, on perceiving the wildness of the place, and a
figure, which the postillion had fancied was a robber. “What a dismal place is this!” exclaimed the Countess, as the carriage
penetrated the deeper recesses of the woods. “Surely, my lord, you do
not mean to pass all the autumn in this barbarous spot! One ought to
bring hither a cup of the waters of Lethe, that the remembrance of
pleasanter scenes may not heighten, at least, the natural dreariness of
these.”

“I shall be governed by circumstances, madam,” said the Count, “this
barbarous spot was inhabited by my ancestors.”

The carriage now stopped at the château, where, at the door of the
great hall, appeared the old steward and the Parisian servants, who had
been sent to prepare the château, waiting to receive their lord. Lady
Blanche now perceived, that the edifice was not built entirely in the
gothic style, but that it had additions of a more modern date; the
large and gloomy hall, however, into which she now entered, was
entirely gothic, and sumptuous tapestry, which it was now too dark to
distinguish, hung upon the walls, and depictured scenes from some of
the ancient Provençal romances. A vast gothic window, embroidered with
_clematis_ and eglantine, that ascended to the south, led the eye, now
that the casements were thrown open, through this verdant shade, over a
sloping lawn, to the tops of dark woods, that hung upon the brow of the
promontory. Beyond, appeared the waters of the Mediterranean,
stretching far to the south, and to the east, where they were lost in
the horizon; while, to the north-east, they were bounded by the
luxuriant shores of Languedoc and Provence, enriched with wood, and gay
with vines and sloping pastures; and, to the south-west, by the
majestic Pyrenees, now fading from the eye, beneath the gradual gloom. Blanche, as she crossed the hall, stopped a moment to observe this
lovely prospect, which the evening twilight obscured, yet did not
conceal. But she was quickly awakened from the complacent delight,
which this scene had diffused upon her mind, by the Countess, who,
discontented with every object around, and impatient for refreshment
and repose, hastened forward to a large parlour, whose cedar wainscot,
narrow, pointed casements, and dark ceiling of carved cypress wood,
gave it an aspect of peculiar gloom, which the dingy green velvet of
the chairs and couches, fringed with tarnished gold, had once been
designed to enliven. While the Countess enquired for refreshment, the Count, attended by his
son, went to look over some part of the château, and Lady Blanche
reluctantly remained to witness the discontent and ill-humour of her
step-mother. “How long have you lived in this desolate place?” said her ladyship, to
the old housekeeper, who came to pay her duty. “Above twenty years, your ladyship, on the next feast of St. Jerome.”

“How happened it, that you have lived here so long, and almost alone,
too? I understood, that the château had been shut up for some years?”

“Yes, madam, it was for many years after my late lord, the Count, went
to the wars; but it is above twenty years, since I and my husband came
into his service. The place is so large, and has of late been so
lonely, that we were lost in it, and, after some time, we went to live
in a cottage at the end of the woods, near some of the tenants, and
came to look after the château, every now and then. When my lord
returned to France from the wars, he took a dislike to the place, and
never came to live here again, and so he was satisfied with our
remaining at the cottage. Alas—alas! how the château is changed from
what it once was! What delight my late lady used to take in it! I well
remember when she came here a bride, and how fine it was. Now, it has
been neglected so long, and is gone into such decay! I shall never see
those days again!”

The Countess appearing to be somewhat offended by the thoughtless
simplicity, with which the old woman regretted former times, Dorothée
added—“But the château will now be inhabited, and cheerful again; not
all the world could tempt me to live in it alone.”

“Well, the experiment will not be made, I believe,” said the Countess,
displeased that her own silence had been unable to awe the loquacity of
this rustic old housekeeper, now spared from further attendance by the
entrance of the Count, who said he had been viewing part of the
château, and found, that it would require considerable repairs and some
alterations, before it would be perfectly comfortable, as a place of
residence. “I am sorry to hear it, my lord,” replied the Countess. “And
why sorry, madam?” “Because the place will ill repay your trouble; and
were it even a paradise, it would be insufferable at such a distance
from Paris.”

The Count made no reply, but walked abruptly to a window. “There are
windows, my lord, but they neither admit entertainment, nor light; they
show only a scene of savage nature.”

“I am at a loss, madam,” said the Count, “to conjecture what you mean
by savage nature. Do those plains, or those woods, or that fine expanse
of water, deserve the name?”

“Those mountains certainly do, my lord,” rejoined the Countess,
pointing to the Pyrenees, “and this château, though not a work of rude
nature, is, to my taste, at least, one of savage art.” The Count
coloured highly.