“I am at a loss, madam,” said the Count, “to conjecture what you mean by savage nature. Do those plains, or those woods, or that fine expanse of water, deserve the name?”
“Those mountains certainly do, my lord,” rejoined the Countess, pointing to the Pyrenees, “and this château, though not a work of rude nature, is, to my taste, at least, one of savage art.” The Count coloured highly. “This place, madam, was the work of my ancestors,” said he, “and you must allow me to say, that your present conversation discovers neither good taste, nor good manners.” Blanche, now shocked at an altercation, which appeared to be increasing to a serious disagreement, rose to leave the room, when her mother’s woman entered it; and the Countess, immediately desiring to be shown to her own apartment, withdrew, attended by Mademoiselle Bearn.
Lady Blanche, it being not yet dark, took this opportunity of exploring new scenes, and, leaving the parlour, she passed from the hall into a wide gallery, whose walls were decorated by marble pilasters, which supported an arched roof, composed of a rich mosaic work. Through a distant window, that seemed to terminate the gallery, were seen the purple clouds of evening and a landscape, whose features, thinly veiled in twilight, no longer appeared distinctly, but, blended into one grand mass, stretched to the horizon, coloured only with a tint of solemn grey.
The gallery terminated in a saloon, to which the window she had seen through an open door, belonged; but the increasing dusk permitted her only an imperfect view of this apartment, which seemed to be magnificent and of modern architecture; though it had been either suffered to fall into decay, or had never been properly finished. The windows, which were numerous and large, descended low, and afforded a very extensive, and what Blanche’s fancy represented to be, a very lovely prospect; and she stood for some time, surveying the grey obscurity and depicturing imaginary woods and mountains, valleys and rivers, on this scene of night; her solemn sensations rather assisted, than interrupted, by the distant bark of a watchdog, and by the breeze, as it trembled upon the light foliage of the shrubs. Now and then, appeared for a moment, among the woods, a cottage light; and, at length, was heard, afar off, the evening bell of a convent, dying on the air. When she withdrew her thoughts from these subjects of fanciful delight, the gloom and silence of the saloon somewhat awed her; and, having sought the door of the gallery, and pursued, for a considerable time, a dark passage, she came to a hall, but one totally different from that she had formerly seen. By the twilight, admitted through an open portico, she could just distinguish this apartment to be of very light and airy architecture, and that it was paved with white marble, pillars of which supported the roof, that rose into arches built in the Moorish style. While Blanche stood on the steps of this portico, the moon rose over the sea, and gradually disclosed, in partial light, the beauties of the eminence, on which she stood, whence a lawn, now rude and overgrown with high grass, sloped to the woods, that, almost surrounding the château, extended in a grand sweep down the southern sides of the promontory to the very margin of the ocean. Beyond the woods, on the north-side, appeared a long tract of the plains of Languedoc; and, to the east, the landscape she had before dimly seen, with the towers of a monastery, illumined by the moon, rising over dark groves.
The soft and shadowy tint, that overspread the scene, the waves, undulating in the moonlight, and their low and measured murmurs on the beach, were circumstances, that united to elevate the unaccustomed mind of Blanche to enthusiasm.
“And have I lived in this glorious world so long,” said she, “and never till now beheld such a prospect—never experienced these delights! Every peasant girl, on my father’s domain, has viewed from her infancy the face of nature; has ranged, at liberty, her romantic wilds, while I have been shut in a cloister from the view of these beautiful appearances, which were designed to enchant all eyes, and awaken all hearts. How can the poor nuns and friars feel the full fervour of devotion, if they never see the sun rise, or set? Never, till this evening, did I know what true devotion is; for, never before did I see the sun sink below the vast earth! Tomorrow, for the first time in my life, I will see it rise. O, who would live in Paris, to look upon black walls and dirty streets, when, in the country, they might gaze on the blue heavens, and all the green earth!”
This enthusiastic soliloquy was interrupted by a rustling noise in the hall; and, while the loneliness of the place made her sensible to fear, she thought she perceived something moving between the pillars. For a moment, she continued silently observing it, till, ashamed of her ridiculous apprehensions, she recollected courage enough to demand who was there. “O my young lady, is it you?” said the old housekeeper, who was come to shut the windows, “I am glad it is you.” The manner, in which she spoke this, with a faint breath, rather surprised Blanche, who said, “You seemed frightened, Dorothée, what is the matter?”
“No, not frightened, ma’amselle,” replied Dorothée, hesitating and trying to appear composed, “but I am old, and—a little matter startles me.” The Lady Blanche smiled at the distinction. “I am glad, that my lord the Count is come to live at the château, ma’amselle,” continued Dorothée, “for it has been many a year deserted, and dreary enough; now, the place will look a little as it used to do, when my poor lady was alive.” Blanche enquired how long it was, since the
