Dorothée mused, and then replied, “Why, madam, it may make people
curious, if it is known I am so much in your apartment, and that I
should be sorry for; so I will come when I am least likely to be
observed. I have little leisure in the day, and I shall have a good
deal to say; so, if you please, ma’am, I will come, when the family are
all in bed.”

“That will suit me very well,” replied Emily: “Remember, then,
tonight—”

“Aye, that is well remembered,” said Dorothée, “I fear I cannot come
tonight, madam, for there will be the dance of the vintage, and it will
be late, before the servants go to rest; for, when they once set in to
dance, they will keep it up, in the cool of the air, till morning; at
least, it used to be so in my time.”

“Ah! is it the dance of the vintage?” said Emily, with a deep sigh,
remembering, that it was on the evening of this festival, in the
preceding year, that St. Aubert and herself had arrived in the
neighbourhood of Château-le-Blanc. She paused a moment, overcome by the
sudden recollection, and then, recovering herself, added—“But this
dance is in the open woods; you, therefore, will not be wanted, and can
easily come to me.”

Dorothée replied, that she had been accustomed to be present at the
dance of the vintage, and she did not wish to be absent now; “but if I
can get away, madam, I will,” said she. Emily then hastened to the dining-room, where the Count conducted
himself with the courtesy, which is inseparable from true dignity, and
of which the Countess frequently practised little, though her manner to
Emily was an exception to her usual habit. But, if she retained few of
the ornamental virtues, she cherished other qualities, which she seemed
to consider invaluable. She had dismissed the grace of modesty, but
then she knew perfectly well how to manage the stare of assurance; her
manners had little of the tempered sweetness, which is necessary to
render the female character interesting, but she could occasionally
throw into them an affectation of spirits, which seemed to triumph over
every person, who approached her. In the country, however, she
generally affected an elegant languor, that persuaded her almost to
faint, when her favourite read to her a story of fictitious sorrow; but
her countenance suffered no change, when living objects of distress
solicited her charity, and her heart beat with no transport to the
thought of giving them instant relief;—she was a stranger to the
highest luxury, of which, perhaps, the human mind can be sensible, for
her benevolence had never yet called smiles upon the face of misery. In the evening, the Count, with all his family, except the Countess and
Mademoiselle Bearn, went to the woods to witness the festivity of the
peasants. The scene was in a glade, where the trees, opening, formed a
circle round the turf they highly overshadowed; between their branches,
vines, loaded with ripe clusters, were hung in gay festoons; and,
beneath, were tables, with fruit, wine, cheese and other rural
fare,—and seats for the Count and his family. At a little distance,
were benches for the elder peasants, few of whom, however, could
forbear to join the jocund dance, which began soon after sunset, when
several of sixty tripped it with almost as much glee and airy
lightness, as those of sixteen. The musicians, who sat carelessly on the grass, at the foot of a tree,
seemed inspired by the sound of their own instruments, which were
chiefly flutes and a kind of long guitar. Behind, stood a boy,
flourishing a tamborine, and dancing a solo, except that, as he
sometimes gaily tossed the instrument, he tripped among the other
dancers, when his antic gestures called forth a broader laugh, and
heightened the rustic spirit of the scene. The Count was highly delighted with the happiness he witnessed, to
which his bounty had largely contributed, and the Lady Blanche joined
the dance with a young gentleman of her father’s party. Du Pont
requested Emily’s hand, but her spirits were too much depressed, to
permit her to engage in the present festivity, which called to her
remembrance that of the preceding year, when St. Aubert was living, and
of the melancholy scenes, which had immediately followed it. Overcome by these recollections, she, at length, left the spot, and
walked slowly into the woods, where the softened music, floating at a
distance, soothed her melancholy mind. The moon threw a mellow light
among the foliage; the air was balmy and cool, and Emily, lost in
thought, strolled on, without observing whither, till she perceived the
sounds sinking afar off, and an awful stillness round her, except that,
sometimes, the nightingale beguiled the silence with

Liquid notes, that close the eye of day. At length, she found herself near the avenue, which, on the night of
her father’s arrival, Michael had attempted to pass in search of a
house, which was still nearly as wild and desolate as it had then
appeared; for the Count had been so much engaged in directing other
improvements, that he had neglected to give orders, concerning this
extensive approach, and the road was yet broken, and the trees
overloaded with their own luxuriance. As she stood surveying it, and remembering the emotions, which she had
formerly suffered there, she suddenly recollected the figure, that had
been seen stealing among the trees, and which had returned no answer to
Michael’s repeated calls; and she experienced somewhat of the fear,
that had then assailed her, for it did not appear improbable, that
these deep woods were occasionally the haunt of banditti. She,
therefore, turned back, and was hastily pursuing her way to the
dancers, when she heard steps approaching from the avenue; and, being
still beyond the call of the peasants on the green, for she could
neither hear their voices, nor their music, she quickened her pace; but
the persons following gained fast upon her, and, at length,
distinguishing the voice of Henri, she walked leisurely, till he came
up. He expressed some surprise at meeting her so far from the company;
and, on her saying, that the pleasant moonlight had beguiled her to
walk farther than she intended, an exclamation burst from the lips of
his companion, and she thought she heard Valancourt speak! It was,
indeed, he! and the meeting was such as may be imagined, between
persons so affectionate, and so long separated as they had been. In the joy of these moments, Emily forgot all her past sufferings, and
Valancourt seemed to have forgotten, that any person but Emily existed;
while Henri was a silent and astonished spectator of the scene. Valancourt asked a thousand questions, concerning herself and Montoni,
which there was now no time to answer; but she learned, that her letter
had been forwarded to him, at Paris, which he had previously quitted,
and was returning to Gascony, whither the letter also returned, which,
at length, informed him of Emily’s arrival, and on the receipt of which
he had immediately set out for Languedoc.