It was evening when they descended the lower alps, that bind Rousillon,
and form a majestic barrier round that charming country, leaving it
open only on the east to the Mediterranean. The gay tints of
cultivation once more beautified the landscape; for the lowlands were
coloured with the richest hues, which a luxuriant climate, and an
industrious people can awaken into life. Groves of orange and lemon
perfumed the air, their ripe fruit glowing among the foliage; while,
sloping to the plains, extensive vineyards spread their treasures. Beyond these, woods and pastures, and mingled towns and hamlets
stretched towards the sea, on whose bright surface gleamed many a
distant sail; while, over the whole scene, was diffused the purple glow
of evening. This landscape with the surrounding alps did, indeed,
present a perfect picture of the lovely and the sublime, of “beauty
sleeping in the lap of horror.”

The travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedges of
flowering myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, where they
proposed to rest for the night. They met with simple, but neat
accommodation, and would have passed a happy evening, after the toils
and the delights of this day, had not the approaching separation thrown
a gloom over their spirit. It was St. Aubert’s plan to proceed, on the
morrow, to the borders of the Mediterranean, and travel along its
shores into Languedoc; and Valancourt, since he was now nearly
recovered, and had no longer a pretence for continuing with his new
friends, resolved to leave them here. St. Aubert, who was much pleased
with him, invited him to go further, but did not repeat the invitation,
and Valancourt had resolution enough to forego the temptation of
accepting it, that he might prove himself not unworthy of the favour. On the following morning, therefore, they were to part, St. Aubert to
pursue his way to Languedoc, and Valancourt to explore new scenes among
the mountains, on his return home. During this evening he was often
silent and thoughtful; St. Aubert’s manner towards him was
affectionate, though grave, and Emily was serious, though she made
frequent efforts to appear cheerful. After one of the most melancholy
evenings they had yet passed together, they separated for the night. CHAPTER VI

I care not, Fortune! what you me deny;
You cannot rob me of free nature’s grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shows her brightening face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave:
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. THOMSON


In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily,
neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illness
still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily’s fears his disorder appeared
to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxious
affection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in her
own. At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known
his name and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for the
family estates, which were now in the possession of an elder brother of
Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant from La Vallée,
and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on visits in the
neighbourhood. This knowledge had made him more willingly receive his
present companion; for, though his countenance and manners would have
won him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to trust to
the intelligence of his own eyes, with respect to countenances, he
would not have accepted these, as sufficient introductions to that of
his daughter. The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding
night; but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the
carriage wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started from his chair, and went to the window; it was
indeed the carriage, and he returned to his seat without speaking. The
moment was now come when they must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt,
that he hoped he would never pass La Vallée without favouring him with
a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him, assured him that he
never would; as he said which he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to
smile away the seriousness of her spirits. They passed a few minutes in
interesting conversation, and St. Aubert then led the way to the
carriage, Emily and Valancourt following in silence. The latter
lingered at the door several minutes after they were seated, and none
of the party seemed to have courage enough to say—Farewell. At length,
St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy word, which Emily passed to
Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected smile, and the carriage
drove on. The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil
pensiveness, which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by
observing, “This is a very promising young man; it is many years since
I have been so much pleased with any person, on so short an
acquaintance. He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when
every scene was new and delightful!” St. Aubert sighed, and sunk again
into a reverie; and, as Emily looked back upon the road they had
passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of the little inn, following
them with his eyes. Her perceived her, and waved his hand; and she
returned the adieu, till the winding road shut her from his sight. “I remember when I was about his age,” resumed St. Aubert, “and I
thought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon me
then, now—it is closing.”

“My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,” said Emily in a trembling
voice, “I hope you have many, many years to live—for your own sake—for
_my_ sake.”

“Ah, my Emily!” replied St. Aubert, “for thy sake! Well—I hope it is
so.” He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek, threw a
smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, “there is
something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which is
particularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his
feelings have not been entirely corroded by the world. It is cheering
and reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person; his mind
catches somewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are lighted
up with a transient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring to me.”

Emily, who pressed her father’s hand affectionately, had never before
listened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no, not even
when he had bestowed them on herself. They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted with
the romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded, on one side,
by the grandeur of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the ocean; and,
soon after noon, they reached the town of Colioure, situated on the
Mediterranean.