St. Aubert could not reply: he caught Emily to his bosom, their tears
flowed together, but--they were not tears of sorrow. After this language
of the heart, all other would have been feeble, and they remained silent
for some time. Then, St. Aubert conversed as before; for, if his mind
had not recovered its natural tranquillity, it at least assumed the
appearance of it.
They reached the romantic town of Leucate early in the day, but St.
Aubert was weary, and they determined to pass the night there. In the
evening, he exerted himself so far as to walk with his daughter to view
the environs that overlook the lake of Leucate, the Mediterranean, part
of Rousillon, with the Pyrenees, and a wide extent of the luxuriant
province of Languedoc, now blushing with the ripened vintage, which the
peasants were beginning to gather. St. Aubert and Emily saw the busy
groups, caught the joyous song, that was wafted on the breeze, and
anticipated, with apparent pleasure, their next day's journey over this
gay region. He designed, however, still to wind along the sea-shore.
To return home immediately was partly his wish, but from this he was
withheld by a desire to lengthen the pleasure, which the journey gave
his daughter, and to try the effect of the sea air on his own disorder.
On the following day, therefore, they recommenced their journey through
Languedoc, winding the shores of the Mediterranean; the Pyrenees still
forming the magnificent back-ground of their prospects, while on their
right was the ocean, and, on their left, wide extended plains melting
into the blue horizon. St. Aubert was pleased, and conversed much with
Emily, yet his cheerfulness was sometimes artificial, and sometimes a
shade of melancholy would steal upon his countenance, and betray him.
This was soon chased away by Emily's smile; who smiled, however, with an
aching heart, for she saw that his misfortunes preyed upon his mind, and
upon his enfeebled frame.
It was evening when they reached a small village of Upper Languedoc,
where they meant to pass the night, but the place could not afford
them beds; for here, too, it was the time of the vintage, and they
were obliged to proceed to the next post. The languor of illness and of
fatigue, which returned upon St. Aubert, required immediate repose,
and the evening was now far advanced; but from necessity there was no
appeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed.
The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of the
vintage, with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened St.
Aubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to the
hilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyes
moved over the scene, he considered, that they would soon, perhaps, be
closed for ever on this world. 'Those distant and sublime mountains,'
said he secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretched
towards the west, 'these luxuriant plains, this blue vault, the cheerful
light of day, will be shut from my eyes! The song of the peasant, the
cheering voice of man--will no longer sound for me!'