St. Aubert sometimes smiled at his warmth, but seldom
checked it, and often repeated to himself, “This young man has never
been at Paris.” A sigh sometimes followed this silent ejaculation. He
determined not to leave Valancourt till he should be perfectly
recovered; and, as he was now well enough to travel, though not able to
manage his horse, St. Aubert invited him to accompany him for a few
days in the carriage. This he the more readily did, since he had
discovered that Valancourt was of a family of the same name in Gascony,
with whose respectability he was well acquainted. The latter accepted
the offer with great pleasure, and they again set forward among these
romantic wilds about Rousillon. They travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grand
appeared; frequently alighting to walk to an eminence, whither the
mules could not go, from which the prospect opened in greater
magnificence; and often sauntering over hillocks covered with lavender,
wild thyme, juniper, and tamarisc; and under the shades of woods,
between those boles they caught the long mountain-vista, sublime beyond
anything that Emily had ever imagined. St. Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valancourt
and Emily strolled on; he pointing out to her notice the objects that
particularly charmed him, and reciting beautiful passages from such of
the Latin and Italian poets as he had heard her admire. In the pauses
of conversation, when he thought himself not observed, he frequently
fixed his eyes pensively on her countenance, which expressed with so
much animation the taste and energy of her mind; and when he spoke
again, there was a peculiar tenderness in the tone of his voice, that
defeated any attempt to conceal his sentiments. By degrees these silent
pauses became more frequent; till Emily, only, betrayed an anxiety to
interrupt them; and she; who had been hitherto reserved, would now talk
again, and again, of the woods and the valleys and the mountains, to
avoid the danger of sympathy and silence. From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the
travellers into the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers
exhibited their frozen horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits
of the mountains. They often paused to contemplate these stupendous
scenes, and, seated on some wild cliff, where only the ilex or the
larch could flourish, looked over dark forests of fir, and precipices
where human foot had never wandered, into the glen—so deep, that the
thunder of the torrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom, was
scarcely heard to murmur. Over these crags rose others of stupendous
height, and fantastic shape; some shooting into cones; others impending
far over their base, in huge masses of granite, along whose broken
ridges was often lodged a weight of snow, that, trembling even to the
vibration of a sound, threatened to bear destruction in its course to
the vale. Around, on every side, far as the eye could penetrate, were
seen only forms of grandeur—the long perspective of mountain-tops,
tinged with ethereal blue, or white with snow; valleys of ice, and
forests of gloomy fir. The serenity and clearness of the air in these
high regions were particularly delightful to the travellers; it seemed
to inspire them with a finer spirit, and diffused an indescribable
complacency over their minds. They had no words to express the sublime
emotions they felt. A solemn expression characterised the feelings of
St. Aubert; tears often came to his eyes, and he frequently walked away
from his companions. Valancourt now and then spoke, to point to Emily’s
notice some feature of the scene. The thinness of the atmosphere,
through which every object came so distinctly to the eye, surprised and
deluded her; who could scarcely believe that objects, which appeared so
near, were, in reality, so distant. The deep silence of these solitudes
was broken only at intervals by the scream of the vultures, seen
cowering round some cliff below, or by the cry of the eagle sailing
high in the air; except when the travellers listened to the hollow
thunder that sometimes muttered at their feet. While, above, the deep
blue of the heavens was unobscured by the lightest cloud, half way down
the mountains, long billows of vapour were frequently seen rolling, now
wholly excluding the country below, and now opening, and partially
revealing its features. Emily delighted to observe the grandeur of
these clouds as they changed in shape and tints, and to watch their
various effect on the lower world, whose features, partly veiled, were
continually assuming new forms of sublimity. After traversing these regions for many leagues, they began to descend
towards Rousillon, and features of beauty then mingled with the scene. Yet the travellers did not look back without some regret to the sublime
objects they had quitted; though the eye, fatigued with the extension
of its powers, was glad to repose on the verdure of woods and pastures,
that now hung on the margin of the river below; to view again the
humble cottage shaded by cedars, the playful group of
mountaineer-children, and the flowery nooks that appeared among the
hills. As they descended, they saw at a distance, on the right, one of the
grand passes of the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its battlements
and towers to the splendour of the setting rays, yellow tops of woods
colouring the steeps below, while far above aspired the snowy points of
the mountains, still reflecting a rosy hue. St. Aubert began to look out for the little town he had been directed
to by the people of Beaujeu, and where he meant to pass the night; but
no habitation yet appeared. Of its distance Valancourt could not assist
him to judge, for he had never been so far along this chain of Alps
before. There was, however, a road to guide them; and there could be
little doubt that it was the right one; for, since they had left
Beaujeu, there had been no variety of tracks to perplex or mislead. The sun now gave his last light, and St. Aubert bade the muleteer
proceed with all possible dispatch. He found, indeed, the lassitude of
illness return upon him, after a day of uncommon fatigue, both of body
and mind, and he longed for repose. His anxiety was not soothed by
observing a numerous train, consisting of men, horses, and loaded
mules, winding down the steeps of an opposite mountain, appearing and
disappearing at intervals among the woods, so that its numbers could
not be judged of. Something bright, like arms, glanced in the setting
ray, and the military dress was distinguishable upon the men who were
in the van, and on others scattered among the troop that followed. As
these wound into the vale, the rear of the party emerged from the
woods, and exhibited a band of soldiers.