CHAPTER XII
Light thickens, and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop, and drowze; While night's black agents to their preys do rouze. MACBETH
Meanwhile Count De Villefort and Lady Blanche had passed a pleasantfortnight at the chateau de St. Foix, with the Baron and Baroness,during which they made frequent excursions among the mountains, and weredelighted with the romantic wildness of Pyrenean scenery. It was withregret, that the Count bade adieu to his old friends, although with thehope of being soon united with them in one family; for it was settledthat M. St. Foix, who now attended them into Gascony, should receive thehand of the Lady Blanche, upon their arrival at Chateau-le-Blanc. Asthe road, from the Baron's residence to La Vallee, was over some ofthe wildest tract of the Pyrenees, and where a carriage-wheel had neverpassed, the Count hired mules for himself and his family, as well as acouple of stout guides, who were well armed, informed of all the passesof the mountains, and who boasted, too, that they were acquainted withevery brake and dingle in the way, could tell the names of all thehighest points of this chain of Alps, knew every forest, that spreadalong their narrow vallies, the shallowest part of every torrent theymust cross, and the exact distance of every goat-herd's and hunter'scabin they should have occasion to pass,--which last article of learningrequired no very capacious memory, for even such simple inhabitants werebut thinly scattered over these wilds.
The Count left the chateau de St. Foix, early in the morning, with anintention of passing the night at a little inn upon the mountains, abouthalf way to La Vallee, of which his guides had informed him; and, thoughthis was frequented chiefly by Spanish muleteers, on their route intoFrance, and, of course, would afford only sorry accommodation, the Counthad no alternative, for it was the only place like an inn, on the road.
After a day of admiration and fatigue, the travellers found themselves,about sun-set, in a woody valley, overlooked, on every side, by abruptheights. They had proceeded for many leagues, without seeing a humanhabitation, and had only heard, now and then, at a distance, themelancholy tinkling of a sheep-bell; but now they caught the notes ofmerry music, and presently saw, within a little green recess among therocks, a group of mountaineers, tripping through a dance. The Count,who could not look upon the happiness, any more than on the miseryof others, with indifference, halted to enjoy this scene of simplepleasure. The group before him consisted of French and Spanish peasants,the inhabitants of a neighbouring hamlet, some of whom were performing asprightly dance, the women with castanets in their hands, to the soundsof a lute and a tamborine, till, from the brisk melody of France, themusic softened into a slow movement, to which two female peasants danceda Spanish Pavan.
The Count, comparing this with the scenes of such gaiety as he hadwitnessed at Paris, where false taste painted the features, and, whileit vainly tried to supply the glow of nature, concealed the charmsof animation--where affectation so often distorted the air, and viceperverted the manners--sighed to think, that natural graces and innocentpleasures flourished in the wilds of solitude, while they drooped amidstthe concourse of polished society. But the lengthening shadows remindedthe travellers, that they had no time to lose; and, leaving this joyousgroup, they pursued their way towards the little inn, which was toshelter them from the night.
The rays of the setting sun now threw a yellow gleam upon the forests ofpine and chesnut, that swept down the lower region of the mountains, andgave resplendent tints to the snowy points above. But soon, even thislight faded fast, and the scenery assumed a more tremendous appearance,invested with the obscurity of twilight. Where the torrent had beenseen, it was now only heard; where the wild cliffs had displayedevery variety of form and attitude, a dark mass of mountains now aloneappeared; and the vale, which far, far below had opened its dreadfulchasm, the eye could no longer fathom. A melancholy gleam still lingeredon the summits of the highest Alps, overlooking the deep repose ofevening, and seeming to make the stillness of the hour more awful.
Blanche viewed the scene in silence, and listened with enthusiasm to themurmur of the pines, that extended in dark lines along the mountains,and to the faint voice of the izard, among the rocks, that came atintervals on the air. But her enthusiasm sunk into apprehension, when,as the shadows deepened, she looked upon the doubtful precipice, thatbordered the road, as well as on the various fantastic forms of danger,that glimmered through the obscurity beyond it; and she asked herfather, how far they were from the inn, and whether he did not considerthe road to be dangerous at this late hour. The Count repeated the firstquestion to the guides, who returned a doubtful answer, adding, that,when it was darker, it would be safest to rest, till the moon rose.'It is scarcely safe to proceed now,' said the Count; but the guides,assuring him that there was no danger, went on. Blanche, revived bythis assurance, again indulged a pensive pleasure, as she watched theprogress of twilight gradually spreading its tints over the woods andmountains, and stealing from the eye every minuter feature of the scene,till the grand outlines of nature alone remained. Then fell the silentdews, and every wild flower, and aromatic plant, that bloomed among thecliffs, breathed forth its sweetness; then, too, when the mountain-beehad crept into its blossomed bed, and the hum of every little insect,that had floated gaily in the sun-beam, was hushed, the sound of manystreams, not heard till now, murmured at a distance.--The bats alone,of all the animals inhabiting this region, seemed awake; and, whilethey flitted across the silent path, which Blanche was pursuing, sheremembered the following lines, which Emily had given her:
TO THE BAT
From haunt of man, from day's obtrusive glare, Thou shroud'st thee in the ruin's ivy'd tow'r. Or in some shadowy glen's romantic bow'r, Where wizard forms their mystic charms prepare, Where Horror lurks, and ever-boding Care! But, at the sweet and silent ev'ning hour, When clos'd in sleep is ev'ry languid flow'r, Thou lov'st to sport upon the twilight air, Mocking the eye, that would thy course pursue, In many a wanton-round, elastic, gay, Thou flit'st athwart the pensive wand'rer's way, As his lone footsteps print the mountain-dew. From Indian isles thou com'st, with Summer's car, Twilight thy love--thy guide her beaming star!
To a warm imagination, the dubious forms, that float, half veiled indarkness, afford a higher delight, than the most distinct scenery, thatthe sun can shew. While the fancy thus wanders over landscapes partly ofits own creation, a sweet complacency steals upon the mind, and
Refines it all to subtlest feeling, Bids the tear of rapture roll.
The distant note of a torrent, the weak trembling of the breeze amongthe woods, or the far-off sound of a human voice, now lost and heardagain, are circumstances, which wonderfully heighten the enthusiastictone of the mind. The young St. Foix, who saw the presentations of afervid fancy, and felt whatever enthusiasm could suggest, sometimesinterrupted the silence, which the rest of the party seemed by mutualconsent to preserve, remarking and pointing out to Blanche the moststriking effect of the hour upon the scenery; while Blanche, whoseapprehensions were beguiled by the conversation of her lover, yieldedto the taste so congenial to his, and they conversed in a low restrainedvoice, the effect of the pensive tranquillity, which twilight and thescene inspired, rather than of any fear, that they should be heard.But, while the heart was thus soothed to tenderness, St. Foix graduallymingled, with his admiration of the country, a mention of his affection;and he continued to speak, and Blanche to listen, till the mountains,the woods, and the magical illusions of twilight, were remembered nomore.
The shadows of evening soon shifted to the gloom of night, which wassomewhat anticipated by the vapours, that, gathering fast round themountains, rolled in dark wreaths along their sides; and the guidesproposed to rest, till the moon should rise, adding, that they thought astorm was coming on. As they looked round for a spot, that might affordsome kind of shelter, an object was perceived obscurely through thedusk, on a point of rock, a little way down the mountain, which theyimagined to be a hunter's or a shepherd's cabin, and the party, withcautiou
s steps, proceeded towards it. Their labour, however, was notrewarded, or their apprehensions soothed; for, on reaching the object oftheir search, they discovered a monumental cross, which marked the spotto have been polluted by murder.
The darkness would not permit them to read the inscription; but theguides knew this to be a cross, raised to the memory of a Count deBeliard, who had been murdered here by a horde of banditti, that hadinfested this part of the Pyrenees, a few years before; and the uncommonsize of the monument seemed to justify the supposition, that it waserected for a person of some distinction. Blanche shuddered, as shelistened to some horrid particulars of the Count's fate, which one ofthe guides related in a low, restrained tone, as if the sound of his ownvoice frightened him; but, while they lingered at the cross, attendingto his narrative, a flash of lightning glanced upon the rocks, thundermuttered at a distance, and the travellers, now alarmed, quitted thisscene of solitary horror, in search of shelter.
Having regained their former track, the guides, as they passed on,endeavoured to interest the Count by various stories of robbery, andeven of murder, which had been perpetrated in the very places theymust unavoidably pass, with accounts of their own dauntless courageand wonderful escapes. The chief guide, or rather he, who was the mostcompletely armed, drawing forth one of the four pistols, that weretucked into his belt, swore, that it had shot three robbers within theyear. He then brandished a clasp-knife of enormous length, and wasgoing to recount the wonderful execution it had done, when St. Foix,perceiving, that Blanche was terrified, interrupted him. The Count,meanwhile, secretly laughing at the terrible histories and extravagantboastings of the man, resolved to humour him, and, telling Blanche ina whisper, his design, began to recount some exploits of his own, whichinfinitely exceeded any related by the guide.
To these surprising circumstances he so artfully gave the colouring oftruth, that the courage of the guides was visibly affected by them,who continued silent, long after the Count had ceased to speak. Theloquacity of the chief hero thus laid asleep, the vigilance of his eyesand ears seemed more thoroughly awakened, for he listened, with muchappearance of anxiety, to the deep thunder, which murmured at intervals,and often paused, as the breeze, that was now rising, rushed among thepines. But, when he made a sudden halt before a tuft of cork trees,that projected over the road, and drew forth a pistol, before he wouldventure to brave the banditti which might lurk behind it, the Countcould no longer refrain from laughter.
Having now, however, arrived at a level spot, somewhat sheltered fromthe air, by overhanging cliffs and by a wood of larch, that rose overthe precipice on the left, and the guides being yet ignorant how farthey were from the inn, the travellers determined to rest, till the moonshould rise, or the storm disperse. Blanche, recalled to a sense of thepresent moment, looked on the surrounding gloom, with terror; but givingher hand to St. Foix, she alighted, and the whole party entered a kindof cave, if such it could be called, which was only a shallow cavity,formed by the curve of impending rocks. A light being struck, a fire waskindled, whose blaze afforded some degree of cheerfulness, and nosmall comfort, for, though the day had been hot, the night air of thismountainous region was chilling; a fire was partly necessary also tokeep off the wolves, with which those wilds were infested.
Provisions being spread upon a projection of the rock, the Count and hisfamily partook of a supper, which, in a scene less rude, would certainlyhave been thought less excellent. When the repast was finished, St.Foix, impatient for the moon, sauntered along the precipice, to a point,that fronted the east; but all was yet wrapt in gloom, and the silenceof night was broken only by the murmuring of woods, that waved farbelow, or by distant thunder, and, now and then, by the faint voices ofthe party he had quitted. He viewed, with emotions of awful sublimity,the long volumes of sulphureous clouds, that floated along the upper andmiddle regions of the air, and the lightnings that flashed from them,sometimes silently, and, at others, followed by sullen peals of thunder,which the mountains feebly prolonged, while the whole horizon, and theabyss, on which he stood, were discovered in the momentary light. Uponthe succeeding darkness, the fire, which had been kindled in the cave,threw a partial gleam, illumining some points of the opposite rocks, andthe summits of pine-woods, that hung beetling on the cliffs below, whiletheir recesses seemed to frown in deeper shade.
St. Foix stopped to observe the picture, which the party in the cavepresented, where the elegant form of Blanche was finely contrasted bythe majestic figure of the Count, who was seated by her on a rude stone,and each was rendered more impressive by the grotesque habits and strongfeatures of the guides and other attendants, who were in the back groundof the piece. The effect of the light, too, was interesting; on thesurrounding figures it threw a strong, though pale gleam, and glitteredon their bright arms; while upon the foliage of a gigantic larch, thatimpended its shade over the cliff above, appeared a red, dusky tint,deepening almost imperceptibly into the blackness of night.
While St. Foix contemplated the scene, the moon, broad and yellow, roseover the eastern summits, from among embattled clouds, and shewed dimlythe grandeur of the heavens, the mass of vapours, that rolled half waydown the precipice beneath, and the doubtful mountains.
What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime, Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast, And view th'enormous waste of vapour, tost In billows length'ning to th'horizon round! THE MINSTREL
From this romantic reverie he was awakened by the voices of the guides,repeating his name, which was reverbed from cliff to cliff, till anhundred tongues seemed to call him; when he soon quieted the fears ofthe Count and the Lady Blanche, by returning to the cave. As the storm,however, seemed approaching, they did not quit their place of shelter;and the Count, seated between his daughter and St. Foix, endeavoured todivert the fears of the former, and conversed on subjects, relating tothe natural history of the scene, among which they wandered. He spokeof the mineral and fossile substances, found in the depths of thesemountains,--the veins of marble and granite, with which they abounded,the strata of shells, discovered near their summits, many thousandfathom above the level of the sea, and at a vast distance from itspresent shore;--of the tremendous chasms and caverns of the rocks, thegrotesque form of the mountains, and the various phaenomena, that seemto stamp upon the world the history of the deluge. From the naturalhistory he descended to the mention of events and circumstances,connected with the civil story of the Pyrenees; named some of the mostremarkable fortresses, which France and Spain had erected in the passesof these mountains; and gave a brief account of some celebrated siegesand encounters in early times, when Ambition first frightened Solitudefrom these her deep recesses, made her mountains, which before hadechoed only to the torrent's roar, tremble with the clang of arms, and,when man's first footsteps in her sacred haunts had left the print ofblood!
As Blanche sat, attentive to the narrative, that rendered thescenes doubly interesting, and resigned to solemn emotion, while sheconsidered, that she was on the very ground, once polluted by theseevents, her reverie was suddenly interrupted by a sound, that camein the wind.--It was the distant bark of a watch-dog. The travellerslistened with eager hope, and, as the wind blew stronger, fancied, thatthe sound came from no great distance; and, the guides having littledoubt, that it proceeded from the inn they were in search of, the Countdetermined to pursue his way. The moon now afforded a stronger, thoughstill an uncertain light, as she moved among broken clouds; and thetravellers, led by the sound, recommenced their journey along the browof the precipice, preceded by a single torch, that now contended withthe moon-light; for the guides, believing they should reach the inn soonafter sun-set, had neglected to provide more. In silent caution theyfollowed the sound, which was heard but at intervals, and which, aftersome time entirely ceased. The guides endeavoured, however, to pointtheir course to the quarter, whence it had issued, but the deep roaringof a torrent soon seized their attention, and presently they came toa tremendous chasm of the mountain, which seemed to forbid all f
urtherprogress. Blanche alighted from her mule, as did the Count and St.Foix, while the guides traversed the edge in search of a bridge, which,however rude, might convey them to the opposite side, and they, atlength, confessed, what the Count had begun to suspect, that they hadbeen, for some time, doubtful of their way, and were now certain only,that they had lost it.
At a little distance, was discovered a rude and dangerous passage,formed by an enormous pine, which, thrown across the chasm, united theopposite precipices, and which had been felled probably by the hunter,to facilitate his chace of the izard, or the wolf. The whole party,the guides excepted, shuddered at the prospect of crossing this alpinebridge, whose sides afforded no kind of defence, and from which to fallwas to die. The guides, however, prepared to lead over the mules, whileBlanche stood trembling on the brink, and listening to the roar of thewaters, which were seen descending from rocks above, overhung with loftypines, and thence precipitating themselves into the deep abyss, wheretheir white surges gleamed faintly in the moon-light. The poor animalsproceeded over this perilous bridge with instinctive caution, neitherfrightened by the noise of the cataract, or deceived by the gloom, whichthe impending foliage threw athwart their way. It was now, that thesolitary torch, which had been hitherto of little service, was foundto be an inestimable treasure; and Blanche, terrified, shrinking,but endeavouring to re-collect all her firmness and presence of mind,preceded by her lover and supported by her father, followed the redgleam of the torch, in safety, to the opposite cliff.
As they went on, the heights contracted, and formed a narrow pass, atthe bottom of which, the torrent they had just crossed, was heard tothunder. But they were again cheered by the bark of a dog, keepingwatch, perhaps, over the flocks of the mountains, to protect themfrom the nightly descent of the wolves. The sound was much nearer thanbefore, and, while they rejoiced in the hope of soon reaching a placeof repose, a light was seen to glimmer at a distance. It appeared at aheight considerably above the level of their path, and was lost and seenagain, as if the waving branches of trees sometimes excluded and thenadmitted its rays. The guides hallooed with all their strength, but thesound of no human voice was heard in return, and, at length, as a moreeffectual means of making themselves known, they fired a pistol. But,while they listened in anxious expectation, the noise of the explosionwas alone heard, echoing among the rocks, and it gradually sunk intosilence, which no friendly hint of man disturbed. The light, however,that had been seen before, now became plainer, and, soon after, voiceswere heard indistinctly on the wind; but, upon the guides repeating thecall, the voices suddenly ceased, and the light disappeared.
The Lady Blanche was now almost sinking beneath the pressure of anxiety,fatigue and apprehension, and the united efforts of the Count and St.Foix could scarcely support her spirits. As they continued to advance,an object was perceived on a point of rock above, which, the strong raysof the moon then falling on it, appeared to be a watch-tower. The Count,from its situation and some other circumstances, had little doubt, thatit was such, and believing, that the light had proceeded from thence, heendeavoured to re-animate his daughter's spirits by the near prospectof shelter and repose, which, however rude the accommodation, a ruinedwatch-tower might afford.
'Numerous watch-towers have been erected among the Pyrenees,' said theCount, anxious only to call Blanche's attention from the subject of herfears; 'and the method, by which they give intelligence of the approachof the enemy, is, you know, by fires, kindled on the summits of theseedifices. Signals have thus, sometimes, been communicated from post topost, along a frontier line of several hundred miles in length. Then,as occasion may require, the lurking armies emerge from their fortressesand the forests, and march forth, to defend, perhaps, the entrance ofsome grand pass, where, planting themselves on the heights, they assailtheir astonished enemies, who wind along the glen below, with fragmentsof the shattered cliff, and pour death and defeat upon them. The ancientforts, and watch-towers, overlooking the grand passes of the Pyrenees,are carefully preserved; but some of those in inferior stations havebeen suffered to fall into decay, and are now frequently converted intothe more peaceful habitation of the hunter, or the shepherd, who, aftera day of toil, retires hither, and, with his faithful dogs, forgets,near a cheerful blaze, the labour of the chace, or the anxiety ofcollecting his wandering flocks, while he is sheltered from the nightlystorm.'
'But are they always thus peacefully inhabited?' said the Lady Blanche.
'No,' replied the Count, 'they are sometimes the asylum of French andSpanish smugglers, who cross the mountains with contraband goods fromtheir respective countries, and the latter are particularly numerous,against whom strong parties of the king's troops are sometimes sent. Butthe desperate resolution of these adventurers, who, knowing, that, ifthey are taken, they must expiate the breach of the law by the mostcruel death, travel in large parties, well armed, often daunts thecourage of the soldiers. The smugglers, who seek only safety, neverengage, when they can possibly avoid it; the military, also, whoknow, that in these encounters, danger is certain, and glory almostunattainable, are equally reluctant to fight; an engagement, therefore,very seldom happens, but, when it does, it never concludes till afterthe most desperate and bloody conflict. You are inattentive, Blanche,'added the Count: 'I have wearied you with a dull subject; but see,yonder, in the moon-light, is the edifice we have been in search of, andwe are fortunate to be so near it, before the storm bursts.'
Blanche, looking up, perceived, that they were at the foot of the cliff,on whose summit the building stood, but no light now issued from it; thebarking of the dog too had, for some time, ceased, and the guides beganto doubt, whether this was really the object of their search. From thedistance, at which they surveyed it, shewn imperfectly by a cloudy moon,it appeared to be of more extent than a single watch-tower; but thedifficulty was how to ascend the height, whose abrupt declivities seemedto afford no kind of pathway.
While the guides carried forward the torch to examine the cliff, theCount, remaining with Blanche and St. Foix at its foot, under the shadowof the woods, endeavoured again to beguile the time by conversation,but again anxiety abstracted the mind of Blanche; and he then consulted,apart with St. Foix, whether it would be advisable, should a path befound, to venture to an edifice, which might possibly harbour banditti.They considered, that their own party was not small, and that several ofthem were well armed; and, after enumerating the dangers, to be incurredby passing the night in the open wild, exposed, perhaps, to the effectsof a thunder-storm, there remained not a doubt, that they ought toendeavour to obtain admittance to the edifice above, at any hazardrespecting the inhabitants it might harbour; but the darkness, and thedead silence, that surrounded it, appeared to contradict the probabilityof its being inhabited at all.
A shout from the guides aroused their attention, after which, in a fewminutes, one of the Count's servants returned with intelligence, that apath was found, and they immediately hastened to join the guides, whenthey all ascended a little winding way cut in the rock among thicketsof dwarf wood, and, after much toil and some danger, reached the summit,where several ruined towers, surrounded by a massy wall, rose to theirview, partially illumined by the moon-light. The space around thebuilding was silent, and apparently forsaken, but the Count wascautious; 'Step softly,' said he, in a low voice, 'while we reconnoitrethe edifice.'
Having proceeded silently along for some paces, they stopped at agate, whose portals were terrible even in ruins, and, after a moment'shesitation, passed on to the court of entrance, but paused again at thehead of a terrace, which, branching from it, ran along the brow of aprecipice. Over this, rose the main body of the edifice, which was nowseen to be, not a watch-tower, but one of those ancient fortresses,that, from age and neglect, had fallen to decay. Many parts of it,however, appeared to be still entire; it was built of grey stone, inthe heavy Saxon-gothic style, with enormous round towers, buttresses ofproportionable strength, and the arch of the large gate, which seemedto open into the hall of the f
abric, was round, as was that of a windowabove. The air of solemnity, which must so strongly have characterizedthe pile even in the days of its early strength, was now considerablyheightened by its shattered battlements and half-demolished walls, andby the huge masses of ruin, scattered in its wide area, now silent andgrass grown. In this court of entrance stood the gigantic remains of anoak, that seemed to have flourished and decayed with the building, whichit still appeared frowningly to protect by the few remaining branches,leafless and moss-grown, that crowned its trunk, and whose wide extenttold how enormous the tree had been in a former age. This fortress wasevidently once of great strength, and, from its situation on a point ofrock, impending over a deep glen, had been of great power to annoy, aswell as to resist; the Count, therefore, as he stood surveying it, wassomewhat surprised, that it had been suffered, ancient as it was, tosink into ruins, and its present lonely and deserted air excited inhis breast emotions of melancholy awe. While he indulged, for a moment,these emotions, he thought he heard a sound of remote voices steal uponthe stillness, from within the building, the front of which he againsurveyed with scrutinizing eyes, but yet no light was visible. He nowdetermined to walk round the fort, to that remote part of it, whence hethought the voices had arisen, that he might examine whether any lightcould be discerned there, before he ventured to knock at the gate; forthis purpose, he entered upon the terrace, where the remains of cannonwere yet apparent in the thick walls, but he had not proceeded manypaces, when his steps were suddenly arrested by the loud barking of adog within, and which he fancied to be the same, whose voice had beenthe means of bringing the travellers thither. It now appeared certain,that the place was inhabited, and the Count returned to consult againwith St. Foix, whether he should try to obtain admittance, for its wildaspect had somewhat shaken his former resolution; but, after asecond consultation, he submitted to the considerations, which beforedetermined him, and which were strengthened by the discovery of the dog,that guarded the fort, as well as by the stillness that pervaded it.He, therefore, ordered one of his servants to knock at the gate, who wasadvancing to obey him, when a light appeared through the loop-holeof one of the towers, and the Count called loudly, but, receiving noanswer, he went up to the gate himself, and struck upon it with aniron-pointed pole, which had assisted him to climb the steep. Whenthe echoes had ceased, that this blow had awakened, the renewedbarking,--and there were now more than one dog,--was the only sound,that was heard. The Count stepped back, a few paces, to observe whetherthe light was in the tower, and, perceiving, that it was gone, hereturned to the portal, and had lifted the pole to strike again, whenagain he fancied he heard the murmur of voices within, and paused tolisten. He was confirmed in the supposition, but they were too remote,to be heard otherwise than in a murmur, and the Count now let the polefall heavily upon the gate; when almost immediately a profound silencefollowed. It was apparent, that the people within had heard the sound,and their caution in admitting strangers gave him a favourable opinionof them. 'They are either hunters or shepherds,' said he, 'who, likeourselves, have probably sought shelter from the night within thesewalls, and are fearful of admitting strangers, lest they should proverobbers. I will endeavour to remove their fears.' So saying, he calledaloud, 'We are friends, who ask shelter from the night.' In a fewmoments, steps were heard within, which approached, and a voice thenenquired--'Who calls?' 'Friends,' repeated the Count; 'open the gates,and you shall know more.'--Strong bolts were now heard to be undrawn,and a man, armed with a hunting spear, appeared. 'What is it you wantat this hour?' said he. The Count beckoned his attendants, and thenanswered, that he wished to enquire the way to the nearest cabin. 'Areyou so little acquainted with these mountains,' said the man, 'as not toknow, that there is none, within several leagues? I cannot shew you theway; you must seek it--there's a moon.' Saying this, he was closing thegate, and the Count was turning away, half disappointed and half afraid,when another voice was heard from above, and, on looking up, he saw alight, and a man's face, at the grate of the portal. 'Stay, friend, youhave lost your way?' said the voice. 'You are hunters, I suppose, likeourselves: I will be with you presently.' The voice ceased, and thelight disappeared. Blanche had been alarmed by the appearance of theman, who had opened the gate, and she now entreated her father to quitthe place; but the Count had observed the hunter's spear, which hecarried; and the words from the tower encouraged him to await the event.The gate was soon opened, and several men in hunters' habits, who hadheard above what had passed below, appeared, and, having listened sometime to the Count, told him he was welcome to rest there for the night.They then pressed him, with much courtesy, to enter, and to partake ofsuch fare as they were about to sit down to. The Count, who hadobserved them attentively while they spoke, was cautious, and somewhatsuspicious; but he was also weary, fearful of the approaching storm, andof encountering alpine heights in the obscurity of night; being likewisesomewhat confident in the strength and number of his attendants, he,after some further consideration, determined to accept the invitation.With this resolution he called his servants, who, advancing roundthe tower, behind which some of them had silently listened to thisconference, followed their Lord, the Lady Blanche, and St. Foix into thefortress. The strangers led them on to a large and rude hall, partiallyseen by a fire that blazed at its extremity, round which four men, inthe hunter's dress, were seated, and on the hearth were several dogsstretched in sleep. In the middle of the hall stood a large table,and over the fire some part of an animal was boiling. As the Countapproached, the men arose, and the dogs, half raising themselves, lookedfiercely at the strangers, but, on hearing their masters' voices, kepttheir postures on the hearth.
Blanche looked round this gloomy and spacious hall; then at the men, andto her father, who, smiling cheerfully at her, addressed himself to thehunters. 'This is an hospitable hearth,' said he, 'the blaze of a fireis reviving after having wandered so long in these dreary wilds. Yourdogs are tired; what success have you had?' 'Such as we usually have,'replied one of the men, who had been seated in the hall, 'we kill ourgame with tolerable certainty.' 'These are fellow hunters,' said one ofthe men who had brought the Count hither, 'that have lost their way,and I have told them there is room enough in the fort for us all.' 'Verytrue, very true,' replied his companion, 'What luck have you had in thechace, brothers? We have killed two izards, and that, you will say,is pretty well.' 'You mistake, friend,' said the Count, 'we are nothunters, but travellers; but, if you will admit us to hunters' fare, weshall be well contented, and will repay your kindness.' 'Sit down then,brother,' said one of the men: 'Jacques, lay more fuel on the fire, thekid will soon be ready; bring a seat for the lady too. Ma'amselle, willyou taste our brandy? it is true Barcelona, and as bright as ever flowedfrom a keg.' Blanche timidly smiled, and was going to refuse, when herfather prevented her, by taking, with a good humoured air, the glassoffered to his daughter; and Mons. St. Foix, who was seated next her,pressed her hand, and gave her an encouraging look, but her attentionwas engaged by a man, who sat silently by the fire, observing St. Foix,with a steady and earnest eye.
'You lead a jolly life here,' said the Count. 'The life of a hunter isa pleasant and a healthy one; and the repose is sweet, which succeeds toyour labour.'
'Yes,' replied one of his hosts, 'our life is pleasant enough. We livehere only during the summer, and autumnal months; in winter, the placeis dreary, and the swoln torrents, that descend from the heights, put astop to the chace.'
''Tis a life of liberty and enjoyment,' said the Count: 'I should liketo pass a month in your way very well.'
'We find employment for our guns too,' said a man who stood behind theCount: 'here are plenty of birds, of delicious flavour, that feed uponthe wild thyme and herbs, that grow in the vallies. Now I think of it,there is a brace of birds hung up in the stone gallery; go fetch them,Jacques, we will have them dressed.'
The Count now made enquiry, concerning the method of pursuing thechace among the rocks and precipices of these romantic regions, andwas listeni
ng to a curious detail, when a horn was sounded at the gate.Blanche looked timidly at her father, who continued to converse on thesubject of the chace, but whose countenance was somewhat expressive ofanxiety, and who often turned his eyes towards that part of the hallnearest the gate. The horn sounded again, and a loud halloo succeeded.'These are some of our companions, returned from their day's labour,'said a man, going lazily from his seat towards the gate; and in afew minutes, two men appeared, each with a gun over his shoulder, andpistols in his belt. 'What cheer, my lads? what cheer?' said they,as they approached. 'What luck?' returned their companions: 'have youbrought home your supper? You shall have none else.'
'Hah! who the devil have you brought home?' said they in bad Spanish,on perceiving the Count's party, 'are they from France, or Spain?--wheredid you meet with them?'
'They met with us, and a merry meeting too,' replied his companion aloudin good French. 'This chevalier, and his party, had lost their way,and asked a night's lodging in the fort.' The others made no reply, butthrew down a kind of knapsack, and drew forth several brace of birds.The bag sounded heavily as it fell to the ground, and the glitterof some bright metal within glanced on the eye of the Count, who nowsurveyed, with a more enquiring look, the man, that held the knapsack.He was a tall robust figure, of a hard countenance, and had short blackhair, curling in his neck. Instead of the hunter's dress, he wore afaded military uniform; sandals were laced on his broad legs, and a kindof short trowsers hung from his waist. On his head he wore a leatherncap, somewhat resembling in shape an ancient Roman helmet; but thebrows that scowled beneath it, would have characterized those of thebarbarians, who conquered Rome, rather than those of a Roman soldier.The Count, at length, turned away his eyes, and remained silent andthoughtful, till, again raising them, he perceived a figure standing inan obscure part of the hall, fixed in attentive gaze on St. Foix, whowas conversing with Blanche, and did not observe this; but the Count,soon after, saw the same man looking over the shoulder of the soldier asattentively at himself. He withdrew his eye, when that of the Count metit, who felt mistrust gathering fast upon his mind, but feared to betrayit in his countenance, and, forcing his features to assume a smile,addressed Blanche on some indifferent subject. When he again lookedround, he perceived, that the soldier and his companion were gone.
The man, who was called Jacques, now returned from the stone gallery. 'Afire is lighted there,' said he, 'and the birds are dressing; the tabletoo is spread there, for that place is warmer than this.'
His companions approved of the removal, and invited their guests tofollow to the gallery, of whom Blanche appeared distressed, and remainedseated, and St. Foix looked at the Count, who said, he preferred thecomfortable blaze of the fire he was then near. The hunters, however,commended the warmth of the other apartment, and pressed his removalwith such seeming courtesy, that the Count, half doubting, and halffearful of betraying his doubts, consented to go. The long and ruinouspassages, through which they went, somewhat daunted him, but thethunder, which now burst in loud peals above, made it dangerous toquit this place of shelter, and he forbore to provoke his conductors byshewing that he distrusted them. The hunters led the way, with alamp; the Count and St. Foix, who wished to please their hosts by someinstances of familiarity, carried each a seat, and Blanche followed,with faltering steps. As she passed on, part of her dress caught on anail in the wall, and, while she stopped, somewhat too scrupulously,to disengage it, the Count, who was talking to St. Foix, and neither ofwhom observed the circumstance, followed their conductor round an abruptangle of the passage, and Blanche was left behind in darkness. Thethunder prevented them from hearing her call but, having disengaged herdress, she quickly followed, as she thought, the way they had taken.A light, that glimmered at a distance, confirmed this belief, and sheproceeded towards an open door, whence it issued, conjecturing the roombeyond to be the stone gallery the men had spoken of. Hearing voicesas she advanced, she paused within a few paces of the chamber, that shemight be certain whether she was right, and from thence, by the lightof a lamp, that hung from the ceiling, observed four men, seated rounda table, over which they leaned in apparent consultation. In one of themshe distinguished the features of him, whom she had observed, gazingat St. Foix, with such deep attention; and who was now speaking in anearnest, though restrained voice, till, one of his companions seemingto oppose him, they spoke together in a loud and harsher tone. Blanche,alarmed by perceiving that neither her father, or St. Foix were there,and terrified at the fierce countenances and manners of these men, wasturning hastily from the chamber, to pursue her search of the gallery,when she heard one of the men say:
'Let all dispute end here. Who talks of danger? Follow my advice,and there will be none--secure THEM, and the rest are an easy prey.'Blanche, struck with these words, paused a moment, to hear more. 'Thereis nothing to be got by the rest,' said one of his companions, 'I amnever for blood when I can help it--dispatch the two others, and ourbusiness is done; the rest may go.'
'May they so?' exclaimed the first ruffian, with a tremendousoath--'What! to tell how we have disposed of their masters, and tosend the king's troops to drag us to the wheel! You was always a choiceadviser--I warrant we have not yet forgot St. Thomas's eve last year.'
Blanche's heart now sunk with horror. Her first impulse was to retreatfrom the door, but, when she would have gone, her trembling framerefused to support her, and, having tottered a few paces, to a moreobscure part of the passage, she was compelled to listen to the dreadfulcouncils of those, who, she was no longer suffered to doubt, werebanditti. In the next moment, she heard the following words, 'Why youwould not murder the whole GANG?'
'I warrant our lives are as good as theirs,' replied his comrade. 'Ifwe don't kill them, they will hang us: better they should die than we behanged.'
'Better, better,' cried his comrades.
'To commit murder, is a hopeful way of escaping the gallows!' said thefirst ruffian--'many an honest fellow has run his head into the noosethat way, though.' There was a pause of some moments, during which theyappeared to be considering.
'Confound those fellows,' exclaimed one of the robbers impatiently,'they ought to have been here by this time; they will come backpresently with the old story, and no booty: if they were here, ourbusiness would be plain and easy. I see we shall not be able to do thebusiness to-night, for our numbers are not equal to the enemy, and inthe morning they will be for marching off, and how can we detain themwithout force?'
'I have been thinking of a scheme, that will do,' said one of hiscomrades: 'if we can dispatch the two chevaliers silently, it will beeasy to master the rest.'
'That's a plausible scheme, in good faith,' said another with a smileof scorn--'If I can eat my way through the prison wall, I shall be atliberty!--How can we dispatch them SILENTLY?'
'By poison,' replied his companions.
'Well said! that will do,' said the second ruffian, 'that will give alingering death too, and satisfy my revenge. These barons shall takecare how they again tempt our vengeance.'
'I knew the son, the moment I saw him,' said the man, whom Blanche hadobserved gazing on St. Foix, 'though he does not know me; the father Ihad almost forgotten.'
'Well, you may say what you will,' said the third ruffian, 'but I don'tbelieve he is the Baron, and I am as likely to know as any of you, for Iwas one of them, that attacked him, with our brave lads, that suffered.'
'And was not I another?' said the first ruffian, 'I tell you he is theBaron; but what does it signify whether he is or not?--shall we let allthis booty go out of our hands? It is not often we have such luck atthis. While we run the chance of the wheel for smuggling a few pounds oftobacco, to cheat the king's manufactory, and of breaking our necksdown the precipices in the chace of our food; and, now and then, rob abrother smuggler, or a straggling pilgrim, of what scarcely repays usthe powder we fire at them, shall we let such a prize as this go? Whythey have enough about them to keep us for--'
'I am not for that, I am not for
that,' replied the third robber, 'letus make the most of them: only, if this is the Baron, I should like tohave a flash the more at him, for the sake of our brave comrades, thathe brought to the gallows.'
'Aye, aye, flash as much as you will,' rejoined the first man, 'but Itell you the Baron is a taller man.'
'Confound your quibbling,' said the second ruffian, 'shall we let themgo or not? If we stay here much longer, they will take the hint, andmarch off without our leave. Let them be who they will, they are rich,or why all those servants? Did you see the ring, he, you call the Baron,had on his finger?--it was a diamond; but he has not got it on now: hesaw me looking at it, I warrant, and took it off.'
'Aye, and then there is the picture; did you see that? She has not takenthat off,' observed the first ruffian, 'it hangs at her neck; if it hadnot sparkled so, I should not have found it out, for it was almost hidby her dress; those are diamonds too, and a rare many of them there mustbe, to go round such a large picture.'
'But how are we to manage this business?' said the second ruffian: 'letus talk of that, there is no fear of there being booty enough, but howare we to secure it?'
'Aye, aye,' said his comrades, 'let us talk of that, and remember notime is to be lost.'
'I am still for poison,' observed the third, 'but consider their number;why there are nine or ten of them, and armed too; when I saw so many atthe gate, I was not for letting them in, you know, nor you either.'
'I thought they might be some of our enemies,' replied the second, 'Idid not so much mind numbers.'
'But you must mind them now,' rejoined his comrade, 'or it will be worsefor you. We are not more than six, and how can we master ten by openforce? I tell you we must give some of them a dose, and the rest maythen be managed.'
'I'll tell you a better way,' rejoined the other impatiently, 'drawcloser.'
Blanche, who had listened to this conversation, in an agony, which itwould be impossible to describe, could no longer distinguish what wassaid, for the ruffians now spoke in lowered voices; but the hope, thatshe might save her friends from the plot, if she could find her wayquickly to them, suddenly re-animated her spirits, and lent her strengthenough to turn her steps in search of the gallery. Terror, however,and darkness conspired against her, and, having moved a few yards, thefeeble light, that issued from the chamber, no longer even contendedwith the gloom, and, her foot stumbling over a step that crossed thepassage, she fell to the ground.
The noise startled the banditti, who became suddenly silent, and thenall rushed to the passage, to examine whether any person was there, whomight have overheard their councils. Blanche saw them approaching, andperceived their fierce and eager looks: but, before she could raiseherself, they discovered and seized her, and, as they dragged hertowards the chamber they had quitted, her screams drew from themhorrible threatenings.
Having reached the room, they began to consult what they should do withher. 'Let us first know what she had heard,' said the chief robber. 'Howlong have you been in the passage, lady, and what brought you there?'
'Let us first secure that picture,' said one of his comrades,approaching the trembling Blanche. 'Fair lady, by your leave thatpicture is mine; come, surrender it, or I shall seize it.'
Blanche, entreating their mercy, immediately gave up the miniature,while another of the ruffians fiercely interrogated her, concerning whatshe had overheard of their conversation, when, her confusion and terrortoo plainly telling what her tongue feared to confess, the ruffianslooked expressively upon one another, and two of them withdrew to aremote part of the room, as if to consult further.
'These are diamonds, by St. Peter!' exclaimed the fellow, who had beenexamining the miniature, 'and here is a very pretty picture too, 'faith;as handsome a young chevalier, as you would wish to see by a summer'ssun. Lady, this is your spouse, I warrant, for it is the spark, that wasin your company just now.'
Blanche, sinking with terror, conjured him to have pity on her, and,delivering him her purse, promised to say nothing of what had passed, ifhe would suffer her to return to her friends.
He smiled ironically, and was going to reply, when his attention wascalled off by a distant noise; and, while he listened, he grasped thearm of Blanche more firmly, as if he feared she would escape from him,and she again shrieked for help.
The approaching sounds called the ruffians from the other part of thechamber. 'We are betrayed,' said they; 'but let us listen a moment,perhaps it is only our comrades come in from the mountains, and if so,our work is sure; listen!'
A distant discharge of shot confirmed this supposition for a moment,but, in the next, the former sounds drawing nearer, the clashing ofswords, mingled with the voices of loud contention and with heavygroans, were distinguished in the avenue leading to the chamber. Whilethe ruffians prepared their arms, they heard themselves called by someof their comrades afar off, and then a shrill horn was sounded withoutthe fortress, a signal, it appeared, they too well understood; for threeof them, leaving the Lady Blanche to the care of the fourth, instantlyrushed from the chamber.
While Blanche, trembling, and nearly fainting, was supplicating forrelease, she heard amid the tumult, that approached, the voice of St.Foix, and she had scarcely renewed her shriek, when the door of theroom was thrown open, and he appeared, much disfigured with blood, andpursued by several ruffians. Blanche neither saw, or heard any more; herhead swam, her sight failed, and she became senseless in the arms of therobber, who had detained her.
When she recovered, she perceived, by the gloomy light, that trembledround her, that she was in the same chamber, but neither the Count, St.Foix, or any other person appeared, and she continued, for some time,entirely still, and nearly in a state of stupefaction. But, the dreadfulimages of the past returning, she endeavoured to raise herself, thatshe might seek her friends, when a sullen groan, at a little distance,reminded her of St. Foix, and of the condition, in which she had seenhim enter this room; then, starting from the floor, by a sudden effortof horror, she advanced to the place whence the sound had proceeded,where a body was lying stretched upon the pavement, and where, by theglimmering light of a lamp, she discovered the pale and disfiguredcountenance of St. Foix. Her horrors, at that moment, may be easilyimagined. He was speechless; his eyes were half closed, and, on thehand, which she grasped in the agony of despair, cold damps had settled.While she vainly repeated his name, and called for assistance, stepsapproached, and a person entered the chamber, who, she soon perceived,was not the Count, her father; but, what was her astonishment, when,supplicating him to give his assistance to St. Foix, she discoveredLudovico! He scarcely paused to recognise her, but immediately boundup the wounds of the Chevalier, and, perceiving, that he had faintedprobably from loss of blood, ran for water; but he had been absent onlya few moments, when Blanche heard other steps approaching, and, whileshe was almost frantic with apprehension of the ruffians, the light of atorch flashed upon the walls, and then Count De Villefort appeared, withan affrighted countenance, and breathless with impatience, calling uponhis daughter. At the sound of his voice, she rose, and ran to his arms,while he, letting fall the bloody sword he held, pressed her to hisbosom in a transport of gratitude and joy, and then hastily enquired forSt. Foix, who now gave some signs of life. Ludovico soon after returningwith water and brandy, the former was applied to his lips, and thelatter to his temples and hands, and Blanche, at length, saw him unclosehis eyes, and then heard him enquire for her; but the joy she felt,on this occasion, was interrupted by new alarms, when Ludovico said itwould be necessary to remove Mons. St. Foix immediately, and added, 'Thebanditti, that are out, my Lord, were expected home, an hour ago, andthey will certainly find us, if we delay. That shrill horn, they know,is never sounded by their comrades but on most desperate occasions, andit echoes among the mountains for many leagues round. I have known thembrought home by its sound even from the Pied de Melicant. Is any bodystanding watch at the great gate, my Lord?'
'Nobody,' replied the Count; 'the rest of my people are no
w scatteredabout, I scarcely know where. Go, Ludovico, collect them together, andlook out yourself, and listen if you hear the feet of mules.'
Ludovico then hurried away, and the Count consulted as to the means ofremoving St. Foix, who could not have borne the motion of a mule, evenif his strength would have supported him in the saddle.
While the Count was telling, that the banditti, whom they had foundin the fort, were secured in the dungeon, Blanche observed that he washimself wounded, and that his left arm was entirely useless; but hesmiled at her anxiety, assuring her the wound was trifling.
The Count's servants, except two who kept watch at the gate, nowappeared, and, soon after, Ludovico. 'I think I hear mules coming alongthe glen, my Lord,' said he, 'but the roaring of the torrent belowwill not let me be certain; however, I have brought what will serve theChevalier,' he added, shewing a bear's skin, fastened to a couple oflong poles, which had been adapted for the purpose of bringing home suchof the banditti as happened to be wounded in their encounters. Ludovicospread it on the ground, and, placing the skins of several goats uponit, made a kind of bed, into which the Chevalier, who was however nowmuch revived, was gently lifted; and, the poles being raised upon theshoulders of the guides, whose footing among these steeps could bestbe depended upon, he was borne along with an easy motion. Some of theCount's servants were also wounded--but not materially, and, theirwounds being bound up, they now followed to the great gate. As theypassed along the hall, a loud tumult was heard at some distance, andBlanche was terrified. 'It is only those villains in the dungeon, myLady,' said Ludovico. 'They seem to be bursting it open,' said theCount. 'No, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'it has an iron door; we havenothing to fear from them; but let me go first, and look out from therampart.'
They quickly followed him, and found their mules browsing before thegates, where the party listened anxiously, but heard no sound, exceptthat of the torrent below and of the early breeze, sighing among thebranches of the old oak, that grew in the court; and they were now gladto perceive the first tints of dawn over the mountain-tops. When theyhad mounted their mules, Ludovico, undertaking to be their guide, ledthem by an easier path, than that by which they had formerly ascended,into the glen. 'We must avoid that valley to the east, my Lord,'said he, 'or we may meet the banditti; they went out that way in themorning.'
The travellers, soon after, quitted this glen, and found themselves ina narrow valley that stretched towards the north-west. The morning lightupon the mountains now strengthened fast, and gradually discovered thegreen hillocks, that skirted the winding feet of the cliffs, tufted withcork tree, and ever-green oak. The thunder-clouds being dispersed, hadleft the sky perfectly serene, and Blanche was revived by the freshbreeze, and by the view of verdure, which the late rain had brightened.Soon after, the sun arose, when the dripping rocks, with the shrubs thatfringed their summits, and many a turfy slope below, sparkled in hisrays. A wreath of mist was seen, floating along the extremity of thevalley, but the gale bore it before the travellers, and the sun-beamsgradually drew it up towards the summit of the mountains. They hadproceeded about a league, when, St. Foix having complained of extremefaintness, they stopped to give him refreshment, and, that the men, whobore him, might rest. Ludovico had brought from the fort some flasks ofrich Spanish wine, which now proved a reviving cordial not only toSt. Foix but to the whole party, though to him it gave only temporaryrelief, for it fed the fever, that burned in his veins, and he couldneither disguise in his countenance the anguish he suffered, or suppressthe wish, that he was arrived at the inn, where they had designed topass the preceding night.
While they thus reposed themselves under the shade of the dark greenpines, the Count desired Ludovico to explain shortly, by what means hehad disappeared from the north apartment, how he came into the hands ofthe banditti, and how he had contributed so essentially to serve him andhis family, for to him he justly attributed their present deliverance.Ludovico was going to obey him, when suddenly they heard the echo ofa pistol-shot, from the way they had passed, and they rose in alarm,hastily to pursue their route.