That guitar is often heard at night,
when all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and it is sometimes
accompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, one would almost think the
woods were haunted.” “They certainly are haunted,” said St. Aubert with
a smile, “but I believe it is by mortals.” “I have sometimes heard it
at midnight, when I could not sleep,” rejoined La Voisin, not seeming
to notice this remark, “almost under my window, and I never heard any
music like it. It has often made me think of my poor wife till I cried. I have sometimes got up to the window to look if I could see anybody,
but as soon as I opened the casement all was hushed, and nobody to be
seen; and I have listened, and listened till I have been so timorous,
that even the trembling of the leaves in the breeze has made me start. They say it often comes to warn people of their death, but I have heard
it these many years, and outlived the warning.”

Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridiculous
superstition, could not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly
resist its contagion. “Well, but, my good friend,” said St. Aubert, “has nobody had courage
to follow the sounds? If they had, they would probably have discovered
who is the musician.” “Yes, sir, they have followed them some way into
the woods, but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as
ever, and the people have at last been afraid of being led into harm,
and would go no further. It is very seldom that I have heard these
sounds so early in the evening. They usually come about midnight, when
that bright planet, which is rising above the turret yonder, sets below
the woods on the left.”

“What turret?” asked St. Aubert with quickness, “I see none.”

“Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for the moon shines full
upon it;—up the avenue yonder, a long way off; the château it belongs
to is hid among the trees.”

“Yes, my dear sir,” said Emily, pointing, “don’t you see something
glitter above the dark woods? It is a fane, I fancy, which the rays
fall upon.”

“O yes, I see what you mean; and who does the château belong to?”

“The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner,” replied La Voisin,
emphatically. “Ah!” said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, “are we then so near
Le-Blanc!” He appeared much agitated. “It used to be the Marquis’s favourite residence,” resumed La Voisin,
“but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there for many
years. We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen into
other hands.” St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was roused by the
last words. “Dead!” he exclaimed, “Good God! when did he die?”

“He is reported to have died about five weeks since,” replied La
Voisin. “Did you know the Marquis, sir?”

“This is very extraordinary!” said St. Aubert without attending to the
question. “Why is it so, my dear sir?” said Emily, in a voice of timid
curiosity. He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie; and in a
few moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked who had
succeeded to the estates. “I have forgot his title, monsieur,” said La
Voisin; “but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of his
coming hither.”

“The château is shut up then, still?”

“Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her husband the
steward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage hard
by.”

“The château is spacious, I suppose,” said Emily, “and must be desolate
for the residence of only two persons.”

“Desolate enough, mademoiselle,” replied La Voisin, “I would not pass
one night in the château, for the value of the whole domain.”

“What is that?” said St. Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness. As
his host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St. Aubert,
and then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastily
asked La Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. “Almost
from my childhood, sir,” replied his host. “You remember the late marchioness, then?” said St. Aubert in an
altered voice. “Ah, monsieur!—that I do well. There are many besides me who remember
her.”

“Yes—” said St. Aubert, “and I am one of those.”

“Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady. She deserved a better fate.”

Tears stood in St. Aubert’s eyes; “Enough,” said he, in a voice almost
stifled by the violence of his emotions,—“it is enough, my friend.”

Emily, though extremely surprised by her father’s manner, forbore to
express her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologise, but
St. Aubert interrupted him; “Apology is quite unnecessary,” said he,
“let us change the topic. You were speaking of the music we just now
heard.”

“I was, monsieur—but hark!—it comes again; listen to that voice!” They
were all silent;

At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound
Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,
And stole upon the air, that even Silence
Was took ere she was ’ware, and wished she might
Deny her nature, and be never more
Still, to be so displaced. MILTON. In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which had
been heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert now observed,
that it produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of a
guitar, and still more melancholy and soft than the lute. They
continued to listen, but the sounds returned no more. “This is
strange!” said St. Aubert, at length interrupting the silence. “Very
strange!” said Emily. “It is so,” rejoined La Voisin, and they were
again silent. After a long pause, “It is now about eighteen years since I first heard
that music,” said La Voisin; “I remember it was on a fine summer’s
night, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the woods, and
alone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, for one of my
boys was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had been watching at
his bedside all the evening while his mother slept; for she had sat up
with him the night before. I had been watching, and went out for a
little fresh air, the day had been very sultry. As I walked under the
shades and mused, I heard music at a distance, and thought it was
Claude playing upon his flute, as he often did of a fine evening, at
the cottage door. But, when I came to a place where the trees opened,
(I shall never forget it!) and stood looking up at the north-lights,
which shot up the heaven to a great height, I heard all of a sudden
such sounds!—they came so as I cannot describe. It was like the music
of angels, and I looked up again almost expecting to see them in the
sky. When I came home, I told what I had heard, but they laughed at me,
and said it must be some of the shepherds playing on their pipes, and I
could not persuade them to the contrary.