The thunder-clouds
being dispersed, had left the sky perfectly serene, and Blanche was
revived by the fresh breeze, and by the view of verdure, which the late
rain had brightened. Soon after, the sun arose, when the dripping
rocks, with the shrubs that fringed their summits, and many a turfy
slope below, sparkled in his rays. A wreath of mist was seen, floating
along the extremity of the valley, but the gale bore it before the
travellers, and the sunbeams gradually drew it up towards the summit of
the mountains. They had proceeded about a league, when, St. Foix having
complained of extreme faintness, they stopped to give him refreshment,
and, that the men, who bore him, might rest. Ludovico had brought from
the fort some flasks of rich Spanish wine, which now proved a reviving
cordial not only to St. Foix but to the whole party, though to him it
gave only temporary relief, for it fed the fever, that burned in his
veins, and he could neither disguise in his countenance the anguish he
suffered, nor suppress the wish, that he was arrived at the inn, where
they had designed to pass the preceding night. While they thus reposed themselves under the shade of the dark green
pines, the Count desired Ludovico to explain shortly, by what means he
had disappeared from the north apartment, how he came into the hands of
the banditti, and how he had contributed so essentially to serve him
and his family, for to him he justly attributed their present
deliverance. Ludovico was going to obey him, when suddenly they heard
the echo of a pistol-shot, from the way they had passed, and they rose
in alarm, hastily to pursue their route. CHAPTER XIII

Ah why did Fate his steps decoy
In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy! BEATTIE


Emily, meanwhile, was still suffering anxiety as to the fate of
Valancourt; but Theresa, having, at length, found a person, whom she
could entrust on her errand to the steward, informed her, that the
messenger would return on the following day; and Emily promised to be
at the cottage, Theresa being too lame to attend her. In the evening, therefore, Emily set out alone for the cottage, with a
melancholy foreboding, concerning Valancourt, while, perhaps, the gloom
of the hour might contribute to depress her spirits. It was a grey
autumnal evening towards the close of the season; heavy mists partially
obscured the mountains, and a chilling breeze, that sighed among the
beech woods, strewed her path with some of their last yellow leaves. These, circling in the blast and foretelling the death of the year,
gave an image of desolation to her mind, and, in her fancy, seemed to
announce the death of Valancourt. Of this she had, indeed, more than
once so strong a presentiment, that she was on the point of returning
home, feeling herself unequal to an encounter with the certainty she
anticipated, but, contending with her emotions, she so far commanded
them, as to be able to proceed. While she walked mournfully on, gazing on the long volumes of vapour,
that poured upon the sky, and watching the swallows, tossed along the
wind, now disappearing among tempestuous clouds, and then emerging, for
a moment, in circles upon the calmer air, the afflictions and
vicissitudes of her late life seemed portrayed in these fleeting
images;—thus had she been tossed upon the stormy sea of misfortune for
the last year, with but short intervals of peace, if peace that could
be called, which was only the delay of evils. And now, when she had
escaped from so many dangers, was become independent of the will of
those, who had oppressed her, and found herself mistress of a large
fortune, now, when she might reasonably have expected happiness, she
perceived that she was as distant from it as ever. She would have
accused herself of weakness and ingratitude in thus suffering a sense
of the various blessings she possessed to be overcome by that of a
single misfortune, had this misfortune affected herself alone; but,
when she had wept for Valancourt even as living, tears of compassion
had mingled with those of regret, and while she lamented a human being
degraded to vice, and consequently to misery, reason and humanity
claimed these tears, and fortitude had not yet taught her to separate
them from those of love; in the present moments, however, it was not
the certainty of his guilt, but the apprehension of his death (of a
death also, to which she herself, however innocently, appeared to have
been in some degree instrumental) that oppressed her. This fear
increased, as the means of certainty concerning it approached; and,
when she came within view of Theresa’s cottage, she was so much
disordered, and her resolution failed her so entirely, that, unable to
proceed, she rested on a bank, beside her path; where, as she sat, the
wind that groaned sullenly among the lofty branches above, seemed to
her melancholy imagination to bear the sounds of distant lamentation,
and, in the pauses of the gust, she still fancied she heard the feeble
and far-off notes of distress. Attention convinced her, that this was
no more than fancy; but the increasing gloom, which seemed the sudden
close of day, soon warned her to depart, and, with faltering steps, she
again moved toward the cottage. Through the casement appeared the
cheerful blaze of a wood fire, and Theresa, who had observed Emily
approaching, was already at the door to receive her. “It is a cold evening, madam,” said she, “storms are coming on, and I
thought you would like a fire. Do take this chair by the hearth.”

Emily, thanking her for this consideration, sat down, and then, looking
in her face, on which the wood fire threw a gleam, she was struck with
its expression, and, unable to speak, sunk back in her chair with a
countenance so full of woe, that Theresa instantly comprehended the
occasion of it, but she remained silent. “Ah!” said Emily, at length,
“it is unnecessary for me to ask the result of your enquiry, your
silence, and that look, sufficiently explain it;—he is dead!”

“Alas! my dear young lady,” replied Theresa, while tears filled her
eyes, “this world is made up of trouble! the rich have their share as
well as the poor! But we must all endeavour to bear what Heaven
pleases.”

“He is dead, then!”—interrupted Emily—“Valancourt is dead!”

“A-well-a-day! I fear he is,” replied Theresa. “You fear!” said Emily, “do you only fear?”

“Alas! yes, madam, I fear he is! neither the steward, nor any of the
Epourville family, have heard of him since he left Languedoc, and the
Count is in great affliction about him, for he says he was always
punctual in writing, but that now he has not received a line from him,
since he left Languedoc; he appointed to be at home, three weeks ago,
but he has neither come, nor written, and they fear some accident has
befallen him. Alas! that ever I should live to cry for his death!