Meanwhile, some of the Count’s
servants, having gone by land to the château for carriages, returned
soon after vespers had concluded, when, the storm being somewhat
abated, the Count and his family returned home. Blanche was surprised
to discover how much the windings of the shore had deceived her,
concerning the distance of the château from the monastery, whose vesper
bell she had heard, on the preceding evening, from the windows of the
west saloon, and whose towers she would also have seen from thence, had
not twilight veiled them. On their arrival at the château, the Countess, affecting more fatigue,
than she really felt, withdrew to her apartment, and the Count, with
his daughter and Henri, went to the supper-room, where they had not
been long, when they heard, in a pause of the gust, a firing of guns,
which the Count understanding to be signals of distress from some
vessel in the storm, went to a window, that opened towards the
Mediterranean, to observe further; but the sea was now involved in
utter darkness, and the loud howlings of the tempest had again overcome
every other sound. Blanche, remembering the bark, which she had before
seen, now joined her father, with trembling anxiety. In a few moments,
the report of guns was again borne along the wind, and as suddenly
wafted away; a tremendous burst of thunder followed, and, in the flash,
that had preceded it, and which seemed to quiver over the whole surface
of the waters, a vessel was discovered, tossing amidst the white foam
of the waves at some distance from the shore. Impenetrable darkness
again involved the scene, but soon a second flash showed the bark, with
one sail unfurled, driving towards the coast. Blanche hung upon her
father’s arm, with looks full of the agony of united terror and pity,
which were unnecessary to awaken the heart of the Count, who gazed upon
the sea with a piteous expression, and, perceiving, that no boat could
live in the storm, forbore to send one; but he gave orders to his
people to carry torches out upon the cliffs, hoping they might prove a
kind of beacon to the vessel, or, at least, warn the crew of the rocks
they were approaching. While Henri went out to direct on what part of
the cliffs the lights should appear, Blanche remained with her father,
at the window, catching, every now and then, as the lightnings flashed,
a glimpse of the vessel; and she soon saw, with reviving hope, the
torches flaming on the blackness of night, and, as they waved over the
cliffs, casting a red gleam on the gasping billows. When the firing of
guns was repeated, the torches were tossed high in the air, as if
answering the signal, and the firing was then redoubled; but, though
the wind bore the sound away, she fancied, as the lightnings glanced,
that the vessel was much nearer the shore. The Count’s servants were now seen, running to and fro, on the rocks;
some venturing almost to the point of the crags, and bending over, held
out their torches fastened to long poles; while others, whose steps
could be traced only by the course of the lights, descended the steep
and dangerous path, that wound to the margin of the sea, and, with loud
halloos, hailed the mariners, whose shrill whistle, and then feeble
voices, were heard, at intervals, mingling with the storm. Sudden
shouts from the people on the rocks increased the anxiety of Blanche to
an almost intolerable degree: but her suspense, concerning the fate of
the mariners, was soon over, when Henri, running breathless into the
room, told that the vessel was anchored in the bay below, but in so
shattered a condition, that it was feared she would part before the
crew could disembark. The Count immediately gave orders for his own
boats to assist in bringing them to shore, and that such of these
unfortunate strangers as could not be accommodated in the adjacent
hamlet should be entertained at the château. Among the latter, were
Emily St. Aubert, Monsieur Du Pont, Ludovico and Annette, who, having
embarked at Leghorn and reached Marseilles, were from thence crossing
the Gulf of Lyons, when this storm overtook them. They were received by
the Count with his usual benignity, who, though Emily wished to have
proceeded immediately to the monastery of St. Claire, would not allow
her to leave the château, that night; and, indeed, the terror and
fatigue she had suffered would scarcely have permitted her to go
farther. In Monsieur Du Pont the Count discovered an old acquaintance, and much
joy and congratulation passed between them, after which Emily was
introduced by name to the Count’s family, whose hospitable benevolence
dissipated the little embarrassment, which her situation had occasioned
her, and the party were soon seated at the supper-table. The unaffected
kindness of Blanche and the lively joy she expressed on the escape of
the strangers, for whom her pity had been so much interested, gradually
revived Emily’s languid spirits; and Du Pont, relieved from his terrors
for her and for himself, felt the full contrast, between his late
situation on a dark and tremendous ocean, and his present one, in a
cheerful mansion, where he was surrounded with plenty, elegance and
smiles of welcome. Annette, meanwhile, in the servants’ hall, was telling of all the
dangers she had encountered, and congratulating herself so heartily
upon her own and Ludovico’s escape, and on her present comforts, that
she often made all that part of the château ring with merriment and
laughter. Ludovico’s spirits were as gay as her own, but he had
discretion enough to restrain them, and tried to check hers, though in
vain, till her laughter, at length, ascended to _my Lady’s_ chamber,
who sent to enquire what occasioned so much uproar in the château, and
to command silence. Emily withdrew early to seek the repose she so much required, but her
pillow was long a sleepless one. On this her return to her native
country, many interesting remembrances were awakened; all the events
and sufferings she had experienced, since she quitted it, came in long
succession to her fancy, and were chased only by the image of
Valancourt, with whom to believe herself once more in the same land,
after they had been so long, and so distantly separated, gave her
emotions of indescribable joy, but which afterwards yielded to anxiety
and apprehension, when she considered the long period, that had
elapsed, since any letter had passed between them, and how much might
have happened in this interval to affect her future peace. But the
thought that Valancourt might be now no more, or, if living, might have
forgotten her, was so very terrible to her heart, that she would
scarcely suffer herself to pause upon the possibility. She determined
to inform him, on the following day, of her arrival in France, which it
was scarcely possible he could know but by a letter from herself, and,
after soothing her spirits with the hope of soon hearing, that he was
well, and unchanged in his affections, she, at length, sunk to repose.