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Chapter: VOLUME 1 CHAPTER I

      home is the resort
 Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,
 Supporting and supported, polish'd friends
 And dear relations mingle into bliss.*
      *Thomson

On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony, stood,
in the year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. Aubert. From its windows
were seen the pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony stretching
along the river, gay with luxuriant woods and vine, and plantations of
olives. To the south, the view was bounded by the majestic Pyrenees,
whose summits, veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awful forms, seen, and
lost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren,
and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned
with forests of gloomy pine, that swept downward to their base. These
tremendous precipices were contrasted by the soft green of the pastures
and woods that hung upon their skirts; among whose flocks, and herds,
and simple cottages, the eye, after having scaled the cliffs above,
delighted to repose. To the north, and to the east, the plains of
Guienne and Languedoc were lost in the mist of distance; on the west,
Gascony was bounded by the waters of Biscay.

M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the margin
of the Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its waves. He
had known life in other forms than those of pastoral simplicity,
having mingled in the gay and in the busy scenes of the world; but the
flattering portrait of mankind, which his heart had delineated in early
youth, his experience had too sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidst
the changing visions of life, his principles remained unshaken, his
benevolence unchilled; and he retired from the multitude 'more in PITY
than in anger,' to scenes of simple nature, to the pure delights of
literature, and to the exercise of domestic virtues.

He was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family,
and it was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealth
should be supplied either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or by
success in the intrigues of public affairs. But St. Aubert had too nice
a sense of honour to fulfil the latter hope, and too small a portion
of ambition to sacrifice what he called happiness, to the attainment of
wealth. After the death of his father he married a very amiable woman,
his equal in birth, and not his superior in fortune. The late Monsieur
St. Aubert's liberality, or extravagance, had so much involved his
affairs, that his son found it necessary to dispose of a part of
the family domain, and, some years after his marriage, he sold it to
Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, and retired to a small estate
in Gascony, where conjugal felicity, and parental duties, divided his
attention with the treasures of knowledge and the illuminations of
genius.

To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often made
excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to his
mind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom it
was intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had not been
obliterated by succeeding circumstances. The green pastures along
which he had so often bounded in the exultation of health, and youthful
freedom--the woods, under whose refreshing shade he had first indulged
that pensive melancholy, which afterwards made a strong feature of his
character--the wild walks of the mountains, the river, on whose waves he
had floated, and the distant plains, which seemed boundless as his early
hopes--were never after remembered by St. Aubert but with enthusiasm
and regret. At length he disengaged himself from the world, and retired
hither, to realize the wishes of many years.

The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, rendered
interesting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of the
surrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to make it
a comfortable family residence. St. Aubert felt a kind of affection for
every part of the fabric, which he remembered in his youth, and would
not suffer a stone of it to be removed, so that the new building,
adapted to the style of the old one, formed with it only a simple and
elegant residence. The taste of Madame St. Aubert was conspicuous in its
internal finishing, where the same chaste simplicity was observable
in the furniture, and in the few ornaments of the apartments, that
characterized the manners of its inhabitants.

The library occupied the west side of the chateau, and was enriched by
a collection of the best books in the ancient and modern languages. This
room opened upon a grove, which stood on the brow of a gentle declivity,
that fell towards the river, and the tall trees gave it a melancholy
and pleasing shade; while from the windows the eye caught, beneath the
spreading branches, the gay and luxuriant landscape stretching to the
west, and overlooked on the left by the bold precipices of the Pyrenees.
Adjoining the library was a green-house, stored with scarce and
beautiful plants; for one of the amusements of St. Aubert was the
study of botany, and among the neighbouring mountains, which afforded a
luxurious feast to the mind of the naturalist, he often passed the day
in the pursuit of his favourite science. He was sometimes accompanied
in these little excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and frequently by his
daughter; when, with a small osier basket to receive plants, and another
filled with cold refreshments, such as the cabin of the shepherd did
not afford, they wandered away among the most romantic and magnificent
scenes, nor suffered the charms of Nature's lowly children to abstract
them from the observance of her stupendous works. When weary of
sauntering among cliffs that seemed scarcely accessible but to the steps
of the enthusiast, and where no track appeared on the vegetation, but
what the foot of the izard had left; they would seek one of those green
recesses, which so beautifully adorn the bosom of these mountains,
where, under the shade of the lofty larch, or cedar, they enjoyed their
simple repast, made sweeter by the waters of the cool stream, that crept
along the turf, and by the breath of wild flowers and aromatic plants,
that fringed the rocks, and inlaid the grass.

Adjoining the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards the
plains of Languedoc, was a room, which Emily called hers, and which
contained her books, her drawings, her musical instruments, with some
favourite birds and plants. Here she usually exercised herself in
elegant arts, cultivated only because they were congenial to her taste,
and in which native genius, assisted by the instructions of Monsieur
and Madame St. Aubert, made her an early proficient. The windows of
this room were particularly pleasant; they descended to the floor, and,
opening upon the little lawn that surrounded the house, the eye was led
between groves of almond, palm-trees, flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the
distant landscape, where the Garonne wandered.

The peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, when
the day's labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the river.
Their sprightly melodies, debonnaire steps, the fanciful figure of
their dances, with the tasteful and capricious manner in which the girls
adjusted their simple dress, gave a character to the scene entirely
French.

The front of the chateau, which, having a southern aspect, opened upon
the grandeur of the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor by a
rustic hall, and two excellent sitting rooms. The first floor, for the
cottage had no second story, was laid out in bed-chambers, except one
apartment that opened to a balcony, and which was generally used for a
breakfast-room.

In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tasteful
improvements; yet, such was his attachment to objects he had remembered
from his boyish days, that he had in some instances sacrificed taste
to sentiment. There were two old larches that shaded the building, and
interrupted the prospect; St. Aubert had sometimes declared that he
believed he should have been weak enough to have wept at their fall. In
addition to these larches he planted a little grove of beech, pine, and
mountain-ash. On a lofty terrace, formed by the swelling bank of the
river, rose a plantation of orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit,
in the coolness of evening, breathed delicious fragrance. With these
were mingled a few trees of other species. Here, under the ample shade
of a plane-tree, that spread its majestic canopy towards the river, St.
Aubert loved to sit in the fine evenings of summer, with his wife and
children, watching, beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mild
splendour of its light fading from the distant landscape, till the
shadows of twilight melted its various features into one tint of sober
grey. Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse with Madame St.
Aubert; or to play with his children, resigning himself to the influence
of those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on simplicity and
nature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in his eyes,
that these were moments infinitely more delightful than any passed amid
the brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by the world. His
heart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely said, no wish for a
happiness beyond what it experienced. The consciousness of acting right
diffused a serenity over his manners, which nothing else could impart
to a man of moral perceptions like his, and which refined his sense of
every surrounding blessing.

The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite
plane-tree. He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light
die away; when the stars, one by one, tremble through aether, and are
reflected on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of all
others, inspires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevates
it to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed her soft rays among the
foliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of cream and fruits
was often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night, came the
song of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening melancholy.

The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since his
retirement, were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost them
at that age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and though,
in consideration of Madame St. Aubert's distress, he restrained the
expression of his own, and endeavoured to bear it, as he meant, with
philosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy that could render him calm
to such losses. One daughter was now his only surviving child; and,
while he watched the unfolding of her infant character, with anxious
fondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting effort, to counteract
those traits in her disposition, which might hereafter lead her from
happiness. She had discovered in her early years uncommon delicacy
of mind, warm affections, and ready benevolence; but with these was
observable a degree of susceptibility too exquisite to admit of lasting
peace. As she advanced in youth, this sensibility gave a pensive tone to
her spirits, and a softness to her manner, which added grace to beauty,
and rendered her a very interesting object to persons of a congenial
disposition. But St. Aubert had too much good sense to prefer a charm
to a virtue; and had penetration enough to see, that this charm was too
dangerous to its possessor to be allowed the character of a blessing. He
endeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to habits
of self-command; to teach her to reject the first impulse of her
feelings, and to look, with cool examination, upon the disappointments
he sometimes threw in her way. While he instructed her to resist first
impressions, and to acquire that steady dignity of mind, that can alone
counterbalance the passions, and bear us, as far as is compatible with
our nature, above the reach of circumstances, he taught himself a
lesson of fortitude; for he was often obliged to witness, with seeming
indifference, the tears and struggles which his caution occasioned her.

In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant symmetry
of form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue eyes, full
of tender sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it was the varied
expression of her countenance, as conversation awakened the nicer
emotions of her mind, that threw such a captivating grace around her:

 Those tend'rer tints, that shun the careless eye,
 And, in the world's contagious circle, die.

St. Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous care.
He gave her a general view of the sciences, and an exact acquaintance
with every part of elegant literature. He taught her Latin and English,
chiefly that she might understand the sublimity of their best poets. She
discovered in her early years a taste for works of genius; and it was
St. Aubert's principle, as well as his inclination, to promote every
innocent means of happiness. 'A well-informed mind,' he would say, 'is
the best security against the contagion of folly and of vice. The vacant
mind is ever on the watch for relief, and ready to plunge into error, to
escape from the languor of idleness. Store it with ideas, teach it the
pleasure of thinking; and the temptations of the world without, will
be counteracted by the gratifications derived from the world within.
Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness of a
country and a city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy sensations
of indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste they create for
the beautiful, and the grand; in the latter, they make dissipation less
an object of necessity, and consequently of interest.'

It was one of Emily's earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenes
of nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that she
most delighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted the
mountain; and still more the mountain's stupendous recesses, where the
silence and grandeur of solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her heart,
and lifted her thoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. In scenes like
these she would often linger along, wrapt in a melancholy charm, till
the last gleam of day faded from the west; till the lonely sound of a
sheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog, were all that broke
on the stillness of the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods; the
trembling of their leaves, at intervals, in the breeze; the bat,
flitting on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and now
lost--were circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led to
enthusiasm and poetry.

Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St.
Aubert, in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended from
the Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks, wound its silent
way beneath the shades it reflected. Above the woods, that screened this
glen, rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which often burst boldly
on the eye through the glades below. Sometimes the shattered face of
a rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs; or a shepherd's cabin
seated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark cypress, or waving ash. Emerging
from the deep recesses of the woods, the glade opened to the distant
landscape, where the rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of Gascony
gradually declined to the plains; and there, on the winding shores of
the Garonne, groves, and hamlets, and villas--their outlines softened by
distance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious tint.

This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he
frequently withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his
daughter, and his books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome
the silent dusk, or to listen for the music of the nightingale.
Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and awakened every fairy
echo with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have the tones of
Emily's voice drawn sweetness from the waves, over which they trembled.

It was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed the
following lines written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot:

 SONNET

 Go, pencil! faithful to thy master's sighs!
 Go--tell the Goddess of the fairy scene,
 When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green,
 Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise;
 Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin'd eyes,
 The sweet expression of her pensive face,
 The light'ning smile, the animated grace--
 The portrait well the lover's voice supplies;
 Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say:
 Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel!
 How oft the flow'ret's silken leaves conceal
 The drug that steals the vital spark away!
 And who that gazes on that angel-smile,
 Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile!

These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could not
apply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of these
shades. Having glanced round the little circle of her acquaintance
without being detained by a suspicion as to whom they could be
addressed, she was compelled to rest in uncertainty; an uncertainty
which would have been more painful to an idle mind than it was to hers.
She had no leisure to suffer this circumstance, trifling at first, to
swell into importance by frequent remembrance. The little vanity it had
excited (for the incertitude which forbade her to presume upon having
inspired the sonnet, forbade her also to disbelieve it) passed away,
and the incident was dismissed from her thoughts amid her books, her
studies, and the exercise of social charities.

Soon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indisposition of
her father, who was attacked with a fever; which, though not thought to
be of a dangerous kind, gave a severe shock to his constitution.
Madame St. Aubert and Emily attended him with unremitting care; but
his recovery was very slow, and, as he advanced towards health, Madame
seemed to decline.

The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take the
air, was his favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sent
thither, with books, and Emily's lute; for fishing-tackle he had no use,
for he never could find amusement in torturing or destroying.

After employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner was
served. It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being again permitted
to visit this spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness once more
smiled beneath these shades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed with unusual
cheerfulness; every object delighted his senses. The refreshing pleasure
from the first view of nature, after the pain of illness, and the
confinement of a sick-chamber, is above the conceptions, as well as
the descriptions, of those in health. The green woods and pastures; the
flowery turf; the blue concave of the heavens; the balmy air; the murmur
of the limpid stream; and even the hum of every little insect of the
shade, seem to revivify the soul, and make mere existence bliss.

Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of her
husband, was no longer sensible of the indisposition which had lately
oppressed her; and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of this
romantic glen, and conversed with him, and with her daughter, she often
looked at them alternately with a degree of tenderness, that filled her
eyes with tears. St. Aubert observed this more than once, and gently
reproved her for the emotion; but she could only smile, clasp his hand,
and that of Emily, and weep the more. He felt the tender enthusiasm
stealing upon himself in a degree that became almost painful; his
features assumed a serious air, and he could not forbear secretly
sighing--'Perhaps I shall some time look back to these moments, as to
the summit of my happiness, with hopeless regret. But let me not misuse
them by useless anticipation; let me hope I shall not live to mourn the
loss of those who are dearer to me than life.'

To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, he
bade Emily fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweet pathos.
As she drew near the fishing-house, she was surprised to hear the tones
of the instrument, which were awakened by the hand of taste, and uttered
a plaintive air, whose exquisite melody engaged all her attention. She
listened in profound silence, afraid to move from the spot, lest the
sound of her steps should occasion her to lose a note of the music, or
should disturb the musician. Every thing without the building was still,
and no person appeared. She continued to listen, till timidity succeeded
to surprise and delight; a timidity, increased by a remembrance of the
pencilled lines she had formerly seen, and she hesitated whether to
proceed, or to return.

While she paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary hesitation,
she re-collected courage to advance to the fishing-house, which she
entered with faltering steps, and found unoccupied! Her lute lay on the
table; every thing seemed undisturbed, and she began to believe it was
another instrument she had heard, till she remembered, that, when she
followed M. and Madame St. Aubert from this spot, her lute was left on
a window seat. She felt alarmed, yet knew not wherefore; the melancholy
gloom of evening, and the profound stillness of the place, interrupted
only by the light trembling of leaves, heightened her fanciful
apprehensions, and she was desirous of quitting the building, but
perceived herself grow faint, and sat down. As she tried to recover
herself, the pencilled lines on the wainscot met her eye; she started,
as if she had seen a stranger; but, endeavouring to conquer the tremor
of her spirits, rose, and went to the window. To the lines before
noticed she now perceived that others were added, in which her name
appeared.

Though no longer suffered to doubt that they were addressed to herself,
she was as ignorant, as before, by whom they could be written. While she
mused, she thought she heard the sound of a step without the building,
and again alarmed, she caught up her lute, and hurried away. Monsieur
and Madame St. Aubert she found in a little path that wound along the
sides of the glen.

Having reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and overlooking
the vallies and plains of Gascony, they seated themselves on the turf;
and while their eyes wandered over the glorious scene, and they inhaled
the sweet breath of flowers and herbs that enriched the grass, Emily
played and sung several of their favourite airs, with the delicacy of
expression in which she so much excelled.

Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till the
sun's last light slept upon the plains; till the white sails that glided
beneath the mountains, where the Garonne wandered, became dim, and the
gloom of evening stole over the landscape. It was a melancholy but not
unpleasing gloom. St. Aubert and his family rose, and left the place
with regret; alas! Madame St. Aubert knew not that she left it for ever.

When they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet, and
recollected that she had taken it from her arm after dinner, and had
left it on the table when she went to walk. After a long search, in
which Emily was very active, she was compelled to resign herself to the
loss of it. What made this bracelet valuable to her was a miniature of
her daughter to which it was attached, esteemed a striking resemblance,
and which had been painted only a few months before. When Emily was
convinced that the bracelet was really gone, she blushed, and became
thoughtful. That some stranger had been in the fishing-house, during
her absence, her lute, and the additional lines of a pencil, had already
informed her: from the purport of these lines it was not unreasonable
to believe, that the poet, the musician, and the thief were the same
person. But though the music she had heard, the written lines she had
seen, and the disappearance of the picture, formed a combination of
circumstances very remarkable, she was irresistibly restrained from
mentioning them; secretly determining, however, never again to visit the
fishing-house without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert.

They returned pensively to the chateau, Emily musing on the incident
which had just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid gratitude,
on the blessings he possessed; and Madame St. Aubert somewhat disturbed,
and perplexed, by the loss of her daughter's picture. As they drew near
the house, they observed an unusual bustle about it; the sound of voices
was distinctly heard, servants and horses were seen passing between the
trees, and, at length, the wheels of a carriage rolled along. Having
come within view of the front of the chateau, a landau, with smoking
horses, appeared on the little lawn before it. St. Aubert perceived the
liveries of his brother-in-law, and in the parlour he found Monsieur and
Madame Quesnel already entered. They had left Paris some days before,
and were on the way to their estate, only ten leagues distant from La
Vallee, and which Monsieur Quesnel had purchased several years before
of St. Aubert. This gentleman was the only brother of Madame St.
Aubert; but the ties of relationship having never been strengthened by
congeniality of character, the intercourse between them had not been
frequent. M. Quesnel had lived altogether in the world; his aim had been
consequence; splendour was the object of his taste; and his address
and knowledge of character had carried him forward to the attainment of
almost all that he had courted. By a man of such a disposition, it is
not surprising that the virtues of St. Aubert should be overlooked; or
that his pure taste, simplicity, and moderated wishes, were considered
as marks of a weak intellect, and of confined views. The marriage of his
sister with St. Aubert had been mortifying to his ambition, for he had
designed that the matrimonial connection she formed should assist him
to attain the consequence which he so much desired; and some offers were
made her by persons whose rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope.
But his sister, who was then addressed also by St. Aubert, perceived, or
thought she perceived, that happiness and splendour were not the same,
and she did not hesitate to forego the last for the attainment of the
former. Whether Monsieur Quesnel thought them the same, or not, he would
readily have sacrificed his sister's peace to the gratification of his
own ambition; and, on her marriage with St. Aubert, expressed in private
his contempt of her spiritless conduct, and of the connection which it
permitted. Madame St. Aubert, though she concealed this insult from her
husband, felt, perhaps, for the first time, resentment lighted in
her heart; and, though a regard for her own dignity, united with
considerations of prudence, restrained her expression of this
resentment, there was ever after a mild reserve in her manner towards M.
Quesnel, which he both understood and felt.

In his own marriage he did not follow his sister's example. His lady was
an Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and education, was a
vain and frivolous woman.

They now determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as the
chateau was not large enough to accommodate their servants, the latter
were dismissed to the neighbouring village. When the first compliments
were over, and the arrangements for the night made M. Quesnel began the
display of his intelligence and his connections; while St. Aubert, who
had been long enough in retirement to find these topics recommended by
their novelty, listened, with a degree of patience and attention,
which his guest mistook for the humility of wonder. The latter, indeed,
described the few festivities which the turbulence of that period
permitted to the court of Henry the Third, with a minuteness, that
somewhat recompensed for his ostentation; but, when he came to speak of
the character of the Duke de Joyeuse, of a secret treaty, which he knew
to be negotiating with the Porte, and of the light in which Henry of
Navarre was received, M. St. Aubert recollected enough of his former
experience to be assured, that his guest could be only of an inferior
class of politicians; and that, from the importance of the subjects
upon which he committed himself, he could not be of the rank to which he
pretended to belong. The opinions delivered by M. Quesnel, were such as
St. Aubert forebore to reply to, for he knew that his guest had neither
humanity to feel, nor discernment to perceive, what is just.

Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St. Aubert her
astonishment, that she could bear to pass her life in this remote corner
of the world, as she called it, and describing, from a wish, probably,
of exciting envy, the splendour of the balls, banquets, and processions
which had just been given by the court, in honour of the nuptials of the
Duke de Joyeuse with Margaretta of Lorrain, the sister of the Queen. She
described with equal minuteness the magnificence she had seen, and that
from which she had been excluded; while Emily's vivid fancy, as she
listened with the ardent curiosity of youth, heightened the scenes she
heard of; and Madame St. Aubert, looking on her family, felt, as a tear
stole to her eye, that though splendour may grace happiness, virtue only
can bestow it.

'It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,' said M. Quesnel, 'since I
purchased your family estate.'--'Somewhere thereabout,' replied St.
Aubert, suppressing a sigh. 'It is near five years since I have been
there,' resumed Quesnel; 'for Paris and its neighbourhood is the only
place in the world to live in, and I am so immersed in politics, and
have so many affairs of moment on my hands, that I find it difficult
to steal away even for a month or two.' St. Aubert remaining silent, M.
Quesnel proceeded: 'I have sometimes wondered how you, who have lived
in the capital, and have been accustomed to company, can exist
elsewhere;--especially in so remote a country as this, where you can
neither hear nor see any thing, and can in short be scarcely conscious
of life.'

'I live for my family and myself,' said St. Aubert; 'I am now contented
to know only happiness;--formerly I knew life.'

'I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,' said
M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert; 'for I
design, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de Durefort and
the Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.' To St. Aubert's
enquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied, that he should
take down the whole east wing of the chateau, and raise upon the site
a set of stables. 'Then I shall build,' said he, 'a SALLE A MANGER, a
SALON, a SALLE AU COMMUNE, and a number of rooms for servants; for at
present there is not accommodation for a third part of my own people.'

'It accommodated our father's household,' said St. Aubert, grieved that
the old mansion was to be thus improved, 'and that was not a small one.'

'Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,' said M.
Quesnel;--'what was then thought a decent style of living would not now
be endured.' Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, but
his anger soon yielded to contempt. 'The ground about the chateau is
encumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.'

'Cut down the trees too!' said St. Aubert.

'Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is a
chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of the
chateau, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of its
trunk will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend that
there can be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as this.'

'Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not destroy that
noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the
estate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. How
often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat
embowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered
above, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book
in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out between the
branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight
came, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the leaves!
How often--but pardon me,' added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was
speaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings,
'I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that
would spare that venerable tree.'

'It will certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I shall plant
some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall leave
of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me how
much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from Venice.'

'On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,' continued St. Aubert, 'where its
spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and where
it plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it,
unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest,
and near a heavy gothic mansion--'

'Well, my good sir,' said M. Quesnel, 'I will not dispute with you. You
must return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But A-PROPOS of
Venice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer; events may
call me to take possession of that same villa, too, which they tell me
is the most charming that can be imagined. In that case I shall leave
the improvements I mention to another year, and I may, perhaps, be
tempted to stay some time in Italy.'

Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to remain
abroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary at Paris,
that it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month or two; but
St. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too well to wonder
at this trait; and the possibility, that these projected improvements
might be deferred, gave him a hope, that they might never take place.

Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak with
St. Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they remained
a considerable time. The subject of this conversation was not known;
but, whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to the
supper-room, seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow sometimes fell
upon his features that alarmed Madame St. Aubert. When they were alone
she was tempted to enquire the occasion of it, but the delicacy of mind,
which had ever appeared in his conduct, restrained her: she considered
that, if St. Aubert wished her to be acquainted with the subject of his
concern, he would not wait on her enquiries.

On the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a second
conference with St. Aubert.

The guests, after dining at the chateau, set out in the cool of the day
for Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St. Aubert a pressing
invitation, prompted rather by the vanity of displaying their splendour,
than by a wish to make their friends happy.

Emily returned, with delight, to the liberty which their presence had
restrained, to her books, her walks, and the rational conversation of
M. and Madame St. Aubert, who seemed to rejoice, no less, that they were
delivered from the shackles, which arrogance and frivolity had imposed.

Madame St. Aubert excused herself from sharing their usual evening walk,
complaining that she was not quite well, and St. Aubert and Emily went
out together.

They chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit some old
pensioners of St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate income, he
contrived to support, though it is probable M. Quesnel, with his very
large one, could not have afforded this.

After distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends, listening
patiently to the complaints of some, redressing the grievances of
others, and softening the discontents of all, by the look of sympathy,
and the smile of benevolence, St. Aubert returned home through the
woods,

     where
 At fall of eve the fairy-people throng,
 In various games and revelry to pass
 The summer night, as village stories tell.*
     *Thomson

'The evening gloom of woods was always delightful to me,' said St.
Aubert, whose mind now experienced the sweet calm, which results from
the consciousness of having done a beneficent action, and which disposes
it to receive pleasure from every surrounding object. 'I remember that
in my youth this gloom used to call forth to my fancy a thousand fairy
visions, and romantic images; and, I own, I am not yet wholly insensible
of that high enthusiasm, which wakes the poet's dream: I can linger,
with solemn steps, under the deep shades, send forward a transforming
eye into the distant obscurity, and listen with thrilling delight to the
mystic murmuring of the woods.'

'O my dear father,' said Emily, while a sudden tear started to her eye,
'how exactly you describe what I have felt so often, and which I thought
nobody had ever felt but myself! But hark! here comes the sweeping sound
over the wood-tops;--now it dies away;--how solemn the stillness that
succeeds! Now the breeze swells again. It is like the voice of some
supernatural being--the voice of the spirit of the woods, that watches
over them by night. Ah! what light is yonder? But it is gone. And now it
gleams again, near the root of that large chestnut: look, sir!'

'Are you such an admirer of nature,' said St. Aubert, 'and so little
acquainted with her appearances as not to know that for the glow-worm?
But come,' added he gaily, 'step a little further, and we shall see
fairies, perhaps; they are often companions. The glow-worm lends his
light, and they in return charm him with music, and the dance. Do you
see nothing tripping yonder?'

Emily laughed. 'Well, my dear sir,' said she, 'since you allow of this
alliance, I may venture to own I have anticipated you; and almost dare
venture to repeat some verses I made one evening in these very woods.'

'Nay,' replied St. Aubert, 'dismiss the ALMOST, and venture quite; let
us hear what vagaries fancy has been playing in your mind. If she has
given you one of her spells, you need not envy those of the fairies.'

'If it is strong enough to enchant your judgment, sir,' said Emily,
'while I disclose her images, I need NOT envy them. The lines go in a
sort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject well
enough, but I fear they are too irregular.'

  THE GLOW-WORM

 How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade
  On a mid-summer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er;
 When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro' the glade,
  And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!

 But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,
  And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay
 Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow'rs, unprest,
  Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.

 To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour,
  Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves,
 And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow'r,
  The long haunted bow'r, where the nightingale grieves.

 Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done,
  But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend;
 And often as her dying notes their pity have won,
  They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.

 When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev'ning star,
  And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere,
 How cheerless would they be, tho' they fairies are,
  If I, with my pale light, came not near!

 Yet cheerless tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to my love!
  For, often when the traveller's benighted on his way,
 And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro' the grove,
  They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;

 And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out,
  While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,
 And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout,
  Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!

 But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring,
  With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn,
 And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string;
  Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn.

 Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen,
  Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me,
 That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green,
  To seek the purple flow'r, whose juice from all her spells can
free.

 And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band,
  With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute;
 If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand,
  And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.

 O! had I but that purple flow'r whose leaves her charms can foil,
  And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind,
 I'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile,
  And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!

 But soon the VAPOUR OF THE WOODS will wander afar,
  And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear,
 Then, cheerless will they be, tho' they fairies are,
  If I, with my pale light, come not near!

Whatever St. Aubert might think of the stanzas, he would not deny his
daughter the pleasure of believing that he approved them; and, having
given his commendation, he sunk into a reverie, and they walked on in
silence.

     A faint erroneous ray
 Glanc'd from th' imperfect surfaces of things,
 Flung half an image on the straining eye;
 While waving woods, and villages, and streams,
 And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain
 The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,
 Uncertain if beheld.*
     *Thomson.

St. Aubert continued silent till he reached the chateau, where his wife
had retired to her chamber. The languor and dejection, that had lately
oppressed her, and which the exertion called forth by the arrival of
her guests had suspended, now returned with increased effect. On the
following day, symptoms of fever appeared, and St. Aubert, having sent
for medical advice, learned, that her disorder was a fever of the same
nature as that, from which he had lately recovered. She had, indeed,
taken the infection, during her attendance upon him, and, her
constitution being too weak to throw out the disease immediately, it had
lurked in her veins, and occasioned the heavy languor of which she had
complained. St. Aubert, whose anxiety for his wife overcame every other
consideration, detained the physician in his house. He remembered the
feelings and the reflections that had called a momentary gloom upon his
mind, on the day when he had last visited the fishing-house, in company
with Madame St. Aubert, and he now admitted a presentiment, that this
illness would be a fatal one. But he effectually concealed this from
her, and from his daughter, whom he endeavoured to re-animate with hopes
that her constant assiduities would not be unavailing. The physician,
when asked by St. Aubert for his opinion of the disorder, replied,
that the event of it depended upon circumstances which he could not
ascertain. Madame St. Aubert seemed to have formed a more decided one;
but her eyes only gave hints of this. She frequently fixed them upon her
anxious friends with an expression of pity, and of tenderness, as if she
anticipated the sorrow that awaited them, and that seemed to say, it was
for their sakes only, for their sufferings, that she regretted life. On
the seventh day, the disorder was at its crisis. The physician assumed
a graver manner, which she observed, and took occasion, when her family
had once quitted the chamber, to tell him, that she perceived her death
was approaching. 'Do not attempt to deceive me,' said she, 'I feel that
I cannot long survive. I am prepared for the event, I have long, I hope,
been preparing for it. Since I have not long to live, do not suffer a
mistaken compassion to induce you to flatter my family with false hopes.
If you do, their affliction will only be the heavier when it arrives: I
will endeavour to teach them resignation by my example.'

The physician was affected; he promised to obey her, and told St.
Aubert, somewhat abruptly, that there was nothing to expect. The latter
was not philosopher enough to restrain his feelings when he received
this information; but a consideration of the increased affliction which
the observance of his grief would occasion his wife, enabled him,
after some time, to command himself in her presence. Emily was at first
overwhelmed with the intelligence; then, deluded by the strength of her
wishes, a hope sprung up in her mind that her mother would yet recover,
and to this she pertinaciously adhered almost to the last hour.

The progress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St.
Aubert, by patient suffering, and subjected wishes. The composure, with
which she awaited her death, could be derived only from the retrospect
of a life governed, as far as human frailty permits, by a consciousness
of being always in the presence of the Deity, and by the hope of a
higher world. But her piety could not entirely subdue the grief of
parting from those whom she so dearly loved. During these her last
hours, she conversed much with St. Aubert and Emily, on the prospect of
futurity, and on other religious topics. The resignation she expressed,
with the firm hope of meeting in a future world the friends she left in
this, and the effort which sometimes appeared to conceal her sorrow at
this temporary separation, frequently affected St. Aubert so much as to
oblige him to leave the room. Having indulged his tears awhile, he would
dry them and return to the chamber with a countenance composed by an
endeavour which did but increase his grief.

Never had Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had taught her
to restrain her sensibility, so much as in these moments, and never had
she practised them with a triumph so complete. But when the last was
over, she sunk at once under the pressure of her sorrow, and then
perceived that it was hope, as well as fortitude, which had hitherto
supported her. St. Aubert was for a time too devoid of comfort himself
to bestow any on his daughter.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Meet the St. Auberts. They're no Brady Bunch: Monsieur St. Aubert, Madame St. Aubert, and their beloved daughter Emily live at a chateau called La Vallee on the banks of the Garonne. Life is rough. Well, actually, it gets pretty rough after M. St. Aubert comes down with a bad fever. He's still weak but recovering when the whole family takes a walk out to their favorite fishing-house . Everyone walks back after having a good old time at the fishing-house, but it seems that Emily's forgotten her lute. She runs back to grab it and hears some mysterious music--someone is apparently playing her lute! Emily waits until the music stops and finds her lute in a different place than where she put it last. Creepy-town. Foreshadowing time: Madame St. Aubert is happy and all, but little does she know that she's about to die. She's also a little upset because she forgot her favorite bracelet with Emily's picture inside at the fishing-house. Our bet's on the same creeper who was playing the lute. Hallelujah, the Quesnels have come to visit. Except not really, because Monsieur and Madame Quesnel are the worst kind of relatives you can possibly have. Okay, fine, they bailed out M. St. Aubert and bought La Vallee from him a couple of years back when he couldn't afford it. But now Quesnel has all sorts of plans to make La Vallee fashionable, most of which involve taking down ancient trees and parts of the chateau. Never a good sign. St. Aubert is definitely not happy about Quesnel being all up in his business, but it's not like he can do anything. So he goes on a walk in the woods with his beloved Emily, who commemorates the occasion with a poem on glow-worms. Did we mention that Emily really like nature and writing poetry? She's like the ultimate hippie. And uh-oh, Madame St. Aubert is really sick. We saw this coming, but it's still really sad when she dies. Emily is pretty devastated, but her dad has taught her to keep her in emotions in check. She's definitely not going to go off the rails or anything.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER II

 I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
 Would harrow up thy soul.
     SHAKESPEARE

Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church; her
husband and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a long train
of the peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this excellent woman.

On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his chamber.
When he came forth, it was with a serene countenance, though pale in
sorrow. He gave orders that his family should attend him. Emily only was
absent; who, overcome with the scene she had just witnessed, had retired
to her closet to weep alone. St. Aubert followed her thither: he took
her hand in silence, while she continued to weep; and it was some
moments before he could so far command his voice as to speak. It
trembled while he said, 'My Emily, I am going to prayers with my family;
you will join us. We must ask support from above. Where else ought we to
seek it--where else can we find it?'

Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, where,
the servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemn
voice, the evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of the
departed. During this, his voice often faltered, his tears fell upon the
book, and at length he paused. But the sublime emotions of pure devotion
gradually elevated his views above this world, and finally brought
comfort to his heart.

When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he tenderly
kissed Emily, and said, 'I have endeavoured to teach you, from your
earliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed out to you the
great importance of it through life, not only as it preserves us in
the various and dangerous temptations that call us from rectitude and
virtue, but as it limits the indulgences which are termed virtuous,
yet which, extended beyond a certain boundary, are vicious, for their
consequence is evil. All excess is vicious; even that sorrow, which is
amiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and unjust passion, if indulged
at the expence of our duties--by our duties I mean what we owe to
ourselves, as well as to others. The indulgence of excessive grief
enervates the mind, and almost incapacitates it for again partaking of
those various innocent enjoyments which a benevolent God designed to be
the sun-shine of our lives. My dear Emily, recollect and practise the
precepts I have so often given you, and which your own experience has so
often shewn you to be wise.

'Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplace
remark, but let reason THEREFORE restrain sorrow. I would not annihilate
your feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command them; for
whatever may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible heart,
nothing can be hoped from an insensible one; that, on the other hand,
is all vice--vice, of which the deformity is not softened, or the effect
consoled for, by any semblance or possibility of good. You know my
sufferings, and are, therefore, convinced that mine are not the light
words which, on these occasions, are so often repeated to destroy even
the sources of honest emotion, or which merely display the selfish
ostentation of a false philosophy. I will shew my Emily, that I can
practise what I advise. I have said thus much, because I cannot bear to
see you wasting in useless sorrow, for want of that resistance which
is due from mind; and I have not said it till now, because there is
a period when all reasoning must yield to nature; that is past: and
another, when excessive indulgence, having sunk into habit, weighs
down the elasticity of the spirits so as to render conquest nearly
impossible; this is to come. You, my Emily, will shew that you are
willing to avoid it.'

Emily smiled through her tears upon her father: 'Dear sir,' said she,
and her voice trembled; she would have added, 'I will shew myself worthy
of being your daughter;' but a mingled emotion of gratitude, affection,
and grief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered her to weep without
interruption, and then began to talk on common topics.

The first person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M. Barreaux,
an austere and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botany had
introduced them to each other, for they had frequently met in their
wanderings among the mountains. M. Barreaux had retired from the world,
and almost from society, to live in a pleasant chateau, on the skirts of
the woods, near La Vallee. He also had been disappointed in his opinion
of mankind; but he did not, like St. Aubert, pity and mourn for them;
he felt more indignation at their vices, than compassion for their
weaknesses.

St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had often
pressed him to come to the chateau, he had never till now accepted the
invitation; and now he came without ceremony or reserve, entering the
parlour as an old friend. The claims of misfortune appeared to have
softened down all the ruggedness and prejudices of his heart. St. Aubert
unhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that occupied his mind. It was in
manners, more than in words, that he appeared to sympathize with his
friends: he spoke little on the subject of their grief; but the minute
attention he gave them, and the modulated voice, and softened look that
accompanied it, came from his heart, and spoke to theirs.

At this melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by Madame
Cheron, his only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow, and
now resided on her own estate near Tholouse. The intercourse between
them had not been very frequent. In her condolements, words were not
wanting; she understood not the magic of the look that speaks at once
to the soul, or the voice that sinks like balm to the heart: but she
assured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathized with him, praised the
virtues of his late wife, and then offered what she considered to be
consolation. Emily wept unceasingly while she spoke; St. Aubert was
tranquil, listened to what she said in silence, and then turned the
discourse upon another subject.

At parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit.
'Change of place will amuse you,' said she, 'and it is wrong to give way
to grief.' St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words of course;
but, at the same time, felt more reluctant than ever to quit the spot
which his past happiness had consecrated. The presence of his wife
had sanctified every surrounding scene, and, each day, as it gradually
softened the acuteness of his suffering, assisted the tender enchantment
that bound him to home.

But there were calls which must be complied with, and of this kind was
the visit he paid to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel. An affair of an
interesting nature made it necessary that he should delay this visit no
longer, and, wishing to rouse Emily from her dejection, he took her with
him to Epourville.

As the carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his paternal
domain, his eyes once more caught, between the chesnut avenue, the
turreted corners of the chateau. He sighed to think of what had passed
since he was last there, and that it was now the property of a man who
neither revered nor valued it. At length he entered the avenue, whose
lofty trees had so often delighted him when a boy, and whose melancholy
shade was now so congenial with the tone of his spirits. Every feature
of the edifice, distinguished by an air of heavy grandeur, appeared
successively between the branches of the trees--the broad turret, the
arched gate-way that led into the courts, the drawbridge, and the dry
fosse which surrounded the whole.

The sound of carriage wheels brought a troop of servants to the great
gate, where St. Aubert alighted, and from which he led Emily into the
gothic hall, now no longer hung with the arms and ancient banners of the
family. These were displaced, and the oak wainscotting, and beams that
crossed the roof, were painted white. The large table, too, that used to
stretch along the upper end of the hall, where the master of the mansion
loved to display his hospitality, and whence the peal of laughter, and
the song of conviviality, had so often resounded, was now removed; even
the benches that had surrounded the hall were no longer there. The heavy
walls were hung with frivolous ornaments, and every thing that appeared
denoted the false taste and corrupted sentiments of the present owner.

St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour, where sat Mons.
and Madame Quesnel, who received him with a stately politeness, and,
after a few formal words of condolement, seemed to have forgotten that
they ever had a sister.

Emily felt tears swell into her eyes, and then resentment checked them.
St. Aubert, calm and deliberate, preserved his dignity without assuming
importance, and Quesnel was depressed by his presence without exactly
knowing wherefore.

After some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with him
alone; and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned that a
large party was invited to dine at the chateau, and was compelled to
hear that nothing which was past and irremediable ought to prevent the
festivity of the present hour.

St. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixed
emotion of disgust and indignation against the insensibility of Quesnel,
which prompted him to return home immediately. But he was informed, that
Madame Cheron had been asked to meet him; and, when he looked at Emily,
and considered that a time might come when the enmity of her uncle would
be prejudicial to her, he determined not to incur it himself, by conduct
which would be resented as indecorous, by the very persons who now
showed so little sense of decorum.

Among the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen, of
whom one was named Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel, a man
about forty, of an uncommonly handsome person, with features manly and
expressive, but whose countenance exhibited, upon the whole, more of the
haughtiness of command, and the quickness of discernment, than of any
other character.

Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about thirty--inferior in
dignity, but equal to him in penetration of countenance, and superior in
insinuation of manner.

Emily was shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron met her
father--'Dear brother,' said she, 'I am concerned to see you look so
very ill; do, pray, have advice!' St. Aubert answered, with a melancholy
smile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily's fears made her
now fancy that her father looked worse than he really did.

Emily would have been amused by the new characters she saw, and the
varied conversation that passed during dinner, which was served in a
style of splendour she had seldom seen before, had her spirits been less
oppressed. Of the guests, Signor Montoni was lately come from Italy, and
he spoke of the commotions which at that period agitated the country;
talked of party differences with warmth, and then lamented the probable
consequences of the tumults. His friend spoke with equal ardour, of
the politics of his country; praised the government and prosperity
of Venice, and boasted of its decided superiority over all the other
Italian states. He then turned to the ladies, and talked with the same
eloquence, of Parisian fashions, the French opera, and French manners;
and on the latter subject he did not fail to mingle what is so
particularly agreeable to French taste. The flattery was not detected
by those to whom it was addressed, though its effect, in producing
submissive attention, did not escape his observation. When he could
disengage himself from the assiduities of the other ladies, he sometimes
addressed Emily: but she knew nothing of Parisian fashions, or Parisian
operas; and her modesty, simplicity, and correct manners formed a
decided contrast to those of her female companions.

After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the old
chesnut which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he stood under its
shade, and looked up among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw here
and there the blue sky trembling between them; the pursuits and events
of his early days crowded fast to his mind, with the figures and
characters of friends--long since gone from the earth; and he now felt
himself to be almost an insulated being, with nobody but his Emily for
his heart to turn to.

He stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till the
succession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he started
away, to forget it, if possible, at the social board.

St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed,
that he was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; but
she considered this to be the effect of his visit to a place which spoke
so eloquently of former times, nor suspected that he had a cause of
grief which he concealed from her.

On entering the chateau she felt more depressed than ever, for she more
than ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever she
had been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and fondness;
now, all was silent and forsaken.

But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after week
passed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the harshness
of her affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness which the
feeling heart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the contrary, visibly
declined in health; though Emily, who had been so constantly with him,
was almost the last person who observed it. His constitution had never
recovered from the late attack of the fever, and the succeeding shock
it received from Madame St. Aubert's death had produced its present
infirmity. His physician now ordered him to travel; for it was
perceptible that sorrow had seized upon his nerves, weakened as they had
been by the preceding illness; and variety of scene, it was probable,
would, by amusing his mind, restore them to their proper tone.

For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and he,
by endeavours to diminish his expences at home during the journey--a
purpose which determined him at length to dismiss his domestics. Emily
seldom opposed her father's wishes by questions or remonstrances, or she
would now have asked why he did not take a servant, and have represented
that his infirm health made one almost necessary. But when, on the eve
of their departure, she found that he had dismissed Jacques, Francis,
and Mary, and detained only Theresa the old housekeeper, she was
extremely surprised, and ventured to ask his reason for having done so.
'To save expences, my dear,' he replied--'we are going on an expensive
excursion.'

The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and St.
Aubert determined, therefore, to travel leisurely along the shores of
the Mediterranean, towards Provence.

They retired early to their chamber on the night before their departure;
but Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and the clock had
struck twelve before she had finished, or had remembered that some of
her drawing instruments, which she meant to take with her, were in the
parlour below. As she went to fetch these, she passed her father's
room, and, perceiving the door half open, concluded that he was in his
study--for, since the death of Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequently
his custom to rise from his restless bed, and go thither to compose his
mind. When she was below stairs she looked into this room, but without
finding him; and as she returned to her chamber, she tapped at his door,
and receiving no answer, stepped softly in, to be certain whether he was
there.

The room was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of glass
that were placed in the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believed her
father to be in the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so late
an hour, apprehended he was unwell, and was going to enquire; but,
considering that her sudden appearance at this hour might alarm him,
she removed her light to the stair-case, and then stepped softly to the
closet. On looking through the panes of glass, she saw him seated at a
small table, with papers before him, some of which he was reading with
deep attention and interest, during which he often wept and sobbed
aloud. Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether her father was
ill, was now detained there by a mixture of curiosity and tenderness.
She could not witness his sorrow, without being anxious to know the
subject of; and she therefore continued to observe him in silence,
concluding that those papers were letters of her late mother. Presently
he knelt down, and with a look so solemn as she had seldom seen him
assume, and which was mingled with a certain wild expression, that
partook more of horror than of any other character, he prayed silently
for a considerable time.

When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily was
hastily retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and she
stopped. He took from among them a small case, and from thence a
miniature picture. The rays of light fell strongly upon it, and she
perceived it to be that of a lady, but not of her mother.

St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to his
lips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emily
could scarcely believe what she saw to be real. She never knew till now
that he had a picture of any other lady than her mother, much less
that he had one which he evidently valued so highly; but having looked
repeatedly, to be certain that it was not the resemblance of Madame St.
Aubert, she became entirely convinced that it was designed for that of
some other person.

At length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily,
recollecting that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softly
withdrew from the chamber.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Madame St. Aubert gets a funeral and M. St. Aubert is taking it pretty hard. He shuts himself up in his room for a little bit, but emerges in time to tell Emily to cheer up, Charlie. M. Barreaux comes to offer his condolences to the family, like a good neighbor. St. Aubert's sister, Madame Cheron, also makes a brief visit, but she doesn't really get why everyone is so devastated. St. Aubert has some business to take care of with the Quesnels, so he pays the lovely couple a visit in Epourville. Emily tags along for the ride and meets two Italian gentlemen: Montoni, a distant relative of Madame Quesnel, and Signor Cavigni, a buddy of Montoni's. Montoni is super into politics and French fashion, but Emily's a total noob who knows nothing about culture. She keeps quiet at the dinner table. Back to La Vallee, but only for a little bit. St. Aubert's doc sees that he's unwell and orders him to travel around the countryside to get better. St. Aubert, who's your doc and what's his number? While Emily's getting ready to go traveling with her dad, she spots him crying over some papers in his office. And we mean really sobbing. Emily's about to stop spying on her dad, but not before she notices him gazing at a picture of a woman who is definitely not her mom. Hoo-boy.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER III

 O how canst thou renounce the boundless store
 Of charms which nature to her vot'ry yields!
 The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
 The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
 All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
 And all that echoes to the song of even;
 All that the mountain's shelt'ring bosom shields,
 And all the dread magnificence of heaven;
 O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!
..... These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health,
 And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart.
     THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along the
feet of the Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over the
heights, afforded more extensive views and greater variety of romantic
scenery. He turned a little out of his way to take leave of M. Barreaux,
whom he found botanizing in the wood near his chateau, and who, when
he was told the purpose of St. Aubert's visit, expressed a degree of
concern, such as his friend had thought it was scarcely possible for him
to feel on any similar occasion. They parted with mutual regret.

'If any thing could have tempted me from my retirement,' said M.
Barreaux, 'it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on this
little tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore,
believe me, when I say, that I shall look for your return with
impatience.'

The travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the heights,
St. Aubert often looked back upon the chateau, in the plain below;
tender images crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination suggested
that he should return no more; and though he checked this wandering
thought, still he continued to look, till the haziness of distance
blended his home with the general landscape, and St. Aubert seemed to

 Drag at each remove a lengthening chain.

He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, from
which melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struck
with the grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to delightful
impressions. The road now descended into glens, confined by stupendous
walls of rock, grey and barren, except where shrubs fringed their
summits, or patches of meagre vegetation tinted their recesses, in which
the wild goat was frequently browsing. And now, the way led to the
lofty cliffs, from whence the landscape was seen extending in all its
magnificence.

Emily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pine
forests of the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched with
woods, towns, blushing vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, and
olives, stretched along, till their various colours melted in distance
into one harmonious hue, that seemed to unite earth with heaven.
Through the whole of this glorious scene the majestic Garonne wandered;
descending from its source among the Pyrenees, and winding its blue
waves towards the Bay of Biscay.

The ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers to
alight from their little carriage, but they thought themselves amply
repaid for this inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; and,
while the muleteer led his animals slowly over the broken ground, the
travellers had leisure to linger amid these solitudes, and to indulge
the sublime reflections, which soften, while they elevate, the heart,
and fill it with the certainty of a present God! Still the enjoyment
of St. Aubert was touched with that pensive melancholy, which gives
to every object a mellower tint, and breathes a sacred charm over all
around.

They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a want
of convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the carriage,
so that they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot, in the open
air, and pass the nights wherever they should happen to meet with a
comfortable cottage. For the mind, also, they had provided, by a work on
botany, written by M. Barreaux, and by several of the Latin and Italian
poets; while Emily's pencil enabled her to preserve some of those
combinations of forms, which charmed her at every step.

The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was seen
driving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the rocks,
heightened the effect of the scenery. St. Aubert was so much struck with
it, that he determined, if he could hear of a road, to penetrate further
among the mountains, and, bending his way rather more to the south, to
emerge into Rousillon, and coast the Mediterranean along part of that
country to Languedoc.

Soon after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs,
which, bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, the
tremendous walls of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part of
Gascony, and part of Languedoc. Here was shade, and the fresh water of
a spring, that, gliding among the turf, under the trees, thence
precipitated itself from rock to rock, till its dashing murmurs were
lost in the abyss, though its white foam was long seen amid the darkness
of the pines below.

This was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted to
dine, while the mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbs
that enriched this summit.

It was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw their
attention from the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their little
repast. Seated in the shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed out to her
observation the course of the rivers, the situation of great towns, and
the boundaries of provinces, which science, rather than the eye, enabled
him to describe. Notwithstanding this occupation, when he had talked
awhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful, and tears often swelled to
his eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of her own heart told
her their cause. The scene before them bore some resemblance, though it
was on a much grander scale, to a favourite one of the late Madame St.
Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They both observed this, and
thought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape,
while they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon this
world. St. Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot in
company with her, and also the mournfully presaging thoughts which had
then arisen in his mind, and were now, even thus soon, realized! The
recollections subdued him, and he abruptly rose from his seat, and
walked away to where no eye could observe his grief.

When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; he
took Emily's hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and soon
after called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerning
a road among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said, there were
several that way, but he did not know how far they extended, or even
whether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did not intend to travel
after sun-set, asked what village they could reach about that time. The
muleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau, which was in
their present road; but that, if they took a road that sloped more to
the south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he thought they
could gain before the evening shut in.

St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course,
and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, again
set forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to a
cross, that stood on a rock impending over their way. Having concluded
his devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, and, in spite of the
rough road, and the pain of his poor mules, which he had been lately
lamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge of a precipice,
which it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was terrified almost
to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending still greater danger from
suddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and trust
his fate to the strength and discretion of the mules, who seemed to
possess a greater portion of the latter quality than their master; for
they carried the travellers safely into the valley, and there stopped
upon the brink of the rivulet that watered it.

Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this
narrow valley screened by

 Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell,
 Here scorch'd by lightnings, there with ivy green.

The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreading
branches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the cliff,
or athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No living creature
appeared, except the izard, scrambling among the rocks, and often
hanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view of
them. This was such a scene as SALVATOR would have chosen, had he then
existed, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by the romantic character
of the place, almost expected to see banditti start from behind some
projecting rock, and he kept his hand upon the arms with which he always
travelled.

As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features gradually
softened, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains,
stretched in far perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell was
heard, and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to the
nightly fold. His cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the ilex,
which St. Aubert observed to flourish in higher regions of the air than
any other trees, except the fir, was all the human habitation that yet
appeared. Along the bottom of this valley the most vivid verdure was
spread; and, in the little hollow recesses of the mountains, under the
shade of the oak and chestnut, herds of cattle were grazing. Groups
of them, too, were often seen reposing on the banks of the rivulet, or
laving their sides in the cool stream, and sipping its wave.

The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon the
water, and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the heath and
broom, that overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired of Michael
the distance to the hamlet he had mentioned, but the man could not with
certainty tell; and Emily began to fear that he had mistaken the road.
Here was no human being to assist, or direct them; they had left the
shepherd and his cabin far behind, and the scene became so obscured in
twilight, that the eye could not follow the distant perspective of the
valley in search of a cottage, or a hamlet. A glow of the horizon still
marked the west, and this was of some little use to the travellers.
Michael seemed endeavouring to keep up his courage by singing; his
music, however, was not of a kind to disperse melancholy; he sung, in a
sort of chant, one of the most dismal ditties his present auditors had
ever heard, and St. Aubert at length discovered it to be a vesper-hymn
to his favourite saint.

They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which
twilight and solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended his ditty,
and nothing was heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze among the
woods, and its light flutter, as it blew freshly into the carriage. They
were at length roused by the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert called to
the muleteer to stop, and they listened. The noise was not repeated; but
presently they heard a rustling among the brakes. St. Aubert drew forth
a pistol, and ordered Michael to proceed as fast as possible; who had
not long obeyed, before a horn sounded, that made the mountains ring. He
looked again from the window, and then saw a young man spring from the
bushes into the road, followed by a couple of dogs. The stranger was in
a hunter's dress. His gun was slung across his shoulders, the hunter's
horn hung from his belt, and in his hand was a small pike, which, as
he held it, added to the manly grace of his figure, and assisted the
agility of his steps.

After a moment's hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage, and
waited till he came up, that they might enquire concerning the hamlet
they were in search of. The stranger informed him, that it was only half
a league distant, that he was going thither himself, and would readily
shew the way. St. Aubert thanked him for the offer, and, pleased with
his chevalier-like air and open countenance, asked him to take a seat
in the carriage; which the stranger, with an acknowledgment, declined,
adding that he would keep pace with the mules. 'But I fear you will be
wretchedly accommodated,' said he: 'the inhabitants of these mountains
are a simple people, who are not only without the luxuries of life,
but almost destitute of what in other places are held to be its
necessaries.'

'I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,' said St. Aubert.

'No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.'

The carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers very
thankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that now opened
among the mountains, would likewise have added to their perplexity.
Emily, as she looked up one of these, saw something at a great distance
like a bright cloud in the air. 'What light is yonder, sir?' said she.

St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of a
mountain, so much higher than any around it, that it still reflected the
sun's rays, while those below lay in deep shade.

At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk,
and, soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or rather
were seen by reflection in the stream, on whose margin they stood, and
which still gleamed with the evening light.

The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found not
only that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house of
public reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and enquire
for a cottage to accommodate them; for which further civility St. Aubert
returned his thanks, and said, that, as the village was so near, he
would alight, and walk with him. Emily followed slowly in the carriage.

On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had
in the chase. 'Not much, sir,' he replied, 'nor do I aim at it. I am
pleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among
its scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for game.
This dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures me that
respect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a lonely
stranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them.'

'I admire your taste,' said St. Aubert, 'and, if I was a younger man,
should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am a
wanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours--I go
in search of health, as much as of amusement.' St. Aubert sighed, and
paused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: 'If I can
hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, it
is my intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore to
Languedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can,
perhaps, give me information on the subject.'

The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely at
his service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which
led to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon.

They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a
cottage, that would afford a night's lodging. In several, which they
entered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and
the owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity.
Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for
one, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor of her father's
countenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill provided
with the comforts necessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which they
examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former, consisting of
two rooms, if such they could be called; the first of these occupied by
mules and pigs, the second by the family, which generally consisted of
six or eight children, with their parents, who slept on beds of skins
and dried beech leaves, spread upon a mud floor. Here, light was
admitted, and smoke discharged, through an aperture in the roof; and
here the scent of spirits (for the travelling smugglers, who haunted the
Pyrenees, had made this rude people familiar with the use of liquors)
was generally perceptible enough. Emily turned from such scenes, and
looked at her father with anxious tenderness, which the young stranger
seemed to observe; for, drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offer
of his own bed. 'It is a decent one,' said he, 'when compared with
what we have just seen, yet such as in other circumstances I should be
ashamed to offer you.' St. Aubert acknowledged how much he felt himself
obliged by this kindness, but refused to accept it, till the young
stranger would take no denial. 'Do not give me the pain of knowing,
sir,' said he, 'that an invalid, like you, lies on hard skins, while
I sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your refusal wounds my pride; I must
believe you think my offer unworthy your acceptance. Let me shew you the
way. I have no doubt my landlady can accommodate this young lady also.'

St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he would
accept his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the stranger
had proved himself so deficient in gallantry, as to administer to the
repose of an infirm man, rather than to that of a very lovely young
woman, for he had not once offered the room for Emily. But she thought
not of herself, and the animated smile she gave him, told how much she
felt herself obliged for the preference of her father.

On their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on first
to speak to his hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert into a
cottage, much superior to any he had seen. This good woman seemed very
willing to accommodate the strangers, who were soon compelled to accept
the only two beds in the place. Eggs and milk were the only food the
cottage afforded; but against scarcity of provisions St. Aubert had
provided, and he requested Valancourt to stay, and partake with him of
less homely fare; an invitation, which was readily accepted, and they
passed an hour in intelligent conversation. St. Aubert was much pleased
with the manly frankness, simplicity, and keen susceptibility to the
grandeur of nature, which his new acquaintance discovered; and, indeed,
he had often been heard to say, that, without a certain simplicity of
heart, this taste could not exist in any strong degree.

The conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar without, in which
the voice of the muleteer was heard above every other sound. Valancourt
started from his seat, and went to enquire the occasion; but the dispute
continued so long afterwards, that St. Aubert went himself, and found
Michael quarrelling with the hostess, because she had refused to let his
mules lie in a little room where he and three of her sons were to pass
the night. The place was wretched enough, but there was no other for
these people to sleep in; and, with somewhat more of delicacy than was
usual among the inhabitants of this wild tract of country, she persisted
in refusing to let the animals have the same BED-CHAMBER with her
children. This was a tender point with the muleteer; his honour was
wounded when his mules were treated with disrespect, and he would have
received a blow, perhaps, with more meekness. He declared that his
beasts were as honest beasts, and as good beasts, as any in the whole
province; and that they had a right to be well treated wherever they
went. 'They are as harmless as lambs,' said he, 'if people don't affront
them. I never knew them behave themselves amiss above once or twice in
my life, and then they had good reason for doing so. Once, indeed, they
kicked at a boy's leg that lay asleep in the stable, and broke it; but
I told them they were out there, and by St. Anthony! I believe they
understood me, for they never did so again.'

He concluded this eloquent harangue with protesting, that they should
share with him, go where he would.

The dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostess
aside, and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have the
place in question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed of
skins designed for him, for that he would wrap himself in his cloak, and
sleep on the bench by the cottage door. But this she thought it her
duty to oppose, and she felt it to be her inclination to disappoint the
muleteer. Valancourt, however, was positive, and the tedious affair was
at length settled.

It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, and
Valancourt to his station at the door, which, at this mild season, he
preferred to a close cabin and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was somewhat
surprised to find in his room volumes of Homer, Horace, and Petrarch;
but the name of Valancourt, written in them, told him to whom they
belonged.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: St. Aubert and Emily take off on a winding road to Languedoc after saying goodbye to their good buddy Barreaux. Alrighty, get ready for some detailed descriptions of the landscape. Emily can't get over how pretty the forest and mountains are, and everything is glorious, and did we mention she's a major hippie-child? But St. Aubert is really into nature scenery, too. As they enter a valley, St. Aubert is impressed by how gorgeous and romantic everything is. He almost expects to see a bandit pop out from behind some rocks. As Michael the muleteer is driving along, the group hears a gunshot. St. Aubert gets his pistol ready, because it's probably that bandit he was dreaming about earlier. But no, it's a well-intentioned young man named Valancourt! Turns out he's a fellow traveler. Emily and St. Aubert give Valancourt a ride into the nearest town, where they all spend the night at the nearest inn. It's a nice inn and everything, but Michael the muleteer gets mad when he thinks his mules are being slighted. The innkeeper doesn't want them to sleep in a bedchamber--fancy that! Valancourt solves the problem by persuading the innkeeper to let the mules sleep wherever they darn please. He's a problem-solver, that one.