Then, fresh tears
Stood on her cheek, as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd
SHAKESPEARE
After the late discoveries, Emily was distinguished at the chateau by
the Count and his family, as a relative of the house of Villeroi, and
received, if possible, more friendly attention, than had yet been shewn
her. Count De Villefort's surprise at the delay of an answer to his letter,
which had been directed to Valancourt, at Estuviere, was mingled with
satisfaction for the prudence, which had saved Emily from a share of the
anxiety he now suffered, though, when he saw her still drooping under
the effect of his former error, all his resolution was necessary to
restrain him from relating the truth, that would afford her a momentary
relief.
The approaching nuptials of the Lady Blanche now divided his
attention with this subject of his anxiety, for the inhabitants of the
chateau were already busied in preparations for that event, and the
arrival of Mons. St. Foix was daily expected. In the gaiety, which
surrounded her, Emily vainly tried to participate, her spirits being
depressed by the late discoveries, and by the anxiety concerning the
fate of Valancourt, that had been occasioned by the description of his
manner, when he had delivered the ring. She seemed to perceive in it
the gloomy wildness of despair; and, when she considered to what that
despair might have urged him, her heart sunk with terror and grief.
The state of suspense, as to his safety, to which she believed herself
condemned, till she should return to La Vallee, appeared insupportable,
and, in such moments, she could not even struggle to assume the
composure, that had left her mind, but would often abruptly quit the
company she was with, and endeavour to sooth her spirits in the deep
solitudes of the woods, that overbrowed the shore. Here, the faint roar
of foaming waves, that beat below, and the sullen murmur of the wind
among the branches around, were circumstances in unison with the temper
of her mind; and she would sit on a cliff, or on the broken steps of
her favourite watch-tower, observing the changing colours of the evening
clouds, and the gloom of twilight draw over the sea, till the white tops
of billows, riding towards the shore, could scarcely be discerned amidst
the darkened waters.
The lines, engraved by Valancourt on this tower,
she frequently repeated with melancholy enthusiasm, and then would
endeavour to check the recollections and the grief they occasioned, and
to turn her thoughts to indifferent subjects.
One evening, having wandered with her lute to this her favourite spot,
she entered the ruined tower, and ascended a winding staircase, that
led to a small chamber, which was less decayed than the rest of the
building, and whence she had often gazed, with admiration, on the wide
prospect of sea and land, that extended below. The sun was now setting
on that tract of the Pyrenees, which divided Languedoc from Rousillon,
and, placing herself opposite to a small grated window, which, like the
wood-tops beneath, and the waves lower still, gleamed with the red glow
of the west, she touched the chords of her lute in solemn symphony, and
then accompanied it with her voice, in one of the simple and affecting
airs, to which, in happier days, Valancourt had often listened in
rapture, and which she now adapted to the following lines.