Chapter: CHAPTER V



     While in the rosy vale
 Love breath'd his infant sighs, from anguish free.
     Thomson

St. Aubert, sufficiently restored by a night's repose to pursue his
journey, set out in the morning, with his family and Valancourt, for
Rousillon, which he hoped to reach before night-fall. The scenes,
through which they now passed, were as wild and romantic, as any they
had yet observed, with this difference, that beauty, every now and then,
softened the landscape into smiles. Little woody recesses appeared among
the mountains, covered with bright verdure and flowers; or a pastoral
valley opened its grassy bosom in the shade of the cliffs, with flocks
and herds loitering along the banks of a rivulet, that refreshed it
with perpetual green. St. Aubert could not repent the having taken this
fatiguing road, though he was this day, also, frequently obliged to
alight, to walk along the rugged precipice, and to climb the steep and
flinty mountain. The wonderful sublimity and variety of the prospects
repaid him for all this, and the enthusiasm, with which they were viewed
by his young companions, heightened his own, and awakened a remembrance
of all the delightful emotions of his early days, when the sublime
charms of nature were first unveiled to him. He found great pleasure in
conversing with Valancourt, and in listening to his ingenuous
remarks. The fire and simplicity of his manners seemed to render him
a characteristic figure in the scenes around them; and St. Aubert
discovered in his sentiments the justness and the dignity of an elevated
mind, unbiased by intercourse with the world. He perceived, that his
opinions were formed, rather than imbibed; were more the result of
thought, than of learning. Of the world he seemed to know nothing; for
he believed well of all mankind, and this opinion gave him the reflected
image of his own heart.

St. Aubert, as he sometimes lingered to examine the wild plants in his
path, often looked forward with pleasure to Emily and Valancourt, as
they strolled on together; he, with a countenance of animated delight,
pointing to her attention some grand feature of the scene; and she,
listening and observing with a look of tender seriousness, that spoke
the elevation of her mind. They appeared like two lovers who had
never strayed beyond these their native mountains; whose situation had
secluded them from the frivolities of common life, whose ideas were
simple and grand, like the landscapes among which they moved, and who
knew no other happiness, than in the union of pure and affectionate
hearts. St. Aubert smiled, and sighed at the romantic picture of
felicity his fancy drew; and sighed again to think, that nature and
simplicity were so little known to the world, as that their pleasures
were thought romantic.

'The world,' said he, pursuing this train of thought, 'ridicules a
passion which it seldom feels; its scenes, and its interests, distract
the mind, deprave the taste, corrupt the heart, and love cannot exist
in a heart that has lost the meek dignity of innocence. Virtue and taste
are nearly the same, for virtue is little more than active taste, and
the most delicate affections of each combine in real love. How then are
we to look for love in great cities, where selfishness, dissipation, and
insincerity supply the place of tenderness, simplicity and truth?'

It was near noon, when the travellers, having arrived at a piece of
steep and dangerous road, alighted to walk. The road wound up an ascent,
that was clothed with wood, and, instead of following the carriage, they
entered the refreshing shade. A dewy coolness was diffused upon the air,
which, with the bright verdure of turf, that grew under the trees, the
mingled fragrance of flowers and of balm, thyme, and lavender, that
enriched it, and the grandeur of the pines, beech, and chestnuts, that
overshadowed them, rendered this a most delicious retreat. Sometimes,
the thick foliage excluded all view of the country; at others, it
admitted some partial catches of the distant scenery, which gave
hints to the imagination to picture landscapes more interesting, more
impressive, than any that had been presented to the eye. The wanderers
often lingered to indulge in these reveries of fancy.

The pauses of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the
conversations of Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today than
ever. Valancourt often dropped suddenly from the most animating vivacity
into fits of deep musing, and there was, sometimes, an unaffected
melancholy in his smile, which Emily could not avoid understanding, for
her heart was interested in the sentiment it spoke.

St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter
under them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction of
the road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They had
continued near the brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery
it exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above.
Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice, except his own,
echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain the road were
equally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced, they perceived
a shepherd's cabin, between the boles of the trees at some distance, and
Valancourt bounded on first to ask assistance. When he reached it, he
saw only two little children, at play, on the turf before the door. He
looked into the hut, but no person was there, and the eldest of the boys
told him that their father was with his flocks, and their mother was
gone down into the vale, but would be back presently. As he stood,
considering what was further to be done, on a sudden he heard Michael's
voice roaring forth most manfully among the cliffs above, till he
made their echoes ring. Valancourt immediately answered the call, and
endeavoured to make his way through the thicket that clothed the steeps,
following the direction of the sound. After much struggle over brambles
and precipices, he reached Michael, and at length prevailed with him to
be silent, and to listen to him. The road was at a considerable distance
from the spot where St. Aubert and Emily were; the carriage could not
easily return to the entrance of the wood, and, since it would be very
fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep road to the place
where it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find a more easy ascent,
by the way he had himself passed.

Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested
themselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which
overshadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, should
return.

The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to
observe the strangers, while the younger continued his little gambols,
and teased his brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked with pleasure
upon this picture of infantine simplicity, till it brought to his
remembrance his own boys, whom he had lost about the age of these, and
their lamented mother; and he sunk into a thoughtfulness, which Emily
observing, she immediately began to sing one of those simple and lively
airs he was so fond of, and which she knew how to give with the most
captivating sweetness. St. Aubert smiled on her through his tears, took
her hand and pressed it affectionately, and then tried to dissipate the
melancholy reflections that lingered in his mind.

While she sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupt
her, and paused at a little distance to listen. When she had concluded,
he joined the party, and told them, that he had found Michael, as
well as a way, by which he thought they could ascend the cliff to
the carriage. He pointed to the woody steeps above, which St. Aubert
surveyed with an anxious eye. He was already wearied by his walk, and
this ascent was formidable to him. He thought, however, it would be less
toilsome than the long and broken road, and he determined to attempt it;
but Emily, ever watchful of his ease, proposing that he should rest, and
dine before they proceeded further, Valancourt went to the carriage for
the refreshments deposited there.

On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain, to
where the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; and
thither they were preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join the
children, and caress and weep over them.

The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her.
She took the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving the
strangers, hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage.
St. Aubert, on enquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her
husband, who was a shepherd, and lived here in the summer months to
watch over the flocks he led to feed upon these mountains, had lost, on
the preceding night, his little all. A gang of gipsies, who had for some
time infested the neighbourhood, had driven away several of his master's
sheep. 'Jacques,' added the shepherd's wife, 'had saved a little money,
and had bought a few sheep with it, and now they must go to his master
for those that are stolen; and what is worse than all, his master, when
he comes to know how it is, will trust him no longer with the care of
his flocks, for he is a hard man! and then what is to become of our
children!'

The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her manner
in relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her story; and
Valancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what was the value
of the stolen sheep; on hearing which he turned away with a look of
disappointment. St. Aubert put some money into her hand, Emily too gave
something from her little purse, and they walked towards the cliff; but
Valancourt lingered behind, and spoke to the shepherd's wife, who was
now weeping with gratitude and surprise. He enquired how much money was
yet wanting to replace the stolen sheep, and found, that it was a
sum very little short of all he had about him. He was perplexed and
distressed. 'This sum then,' said he to himself, 'would make this poor
family completely happy--it is in my power to give it--to make them
completely happy! But what is to become of me?--how shall I contrive
to reach home with the little money that will remain?' For a moment he
stood, unwilling to forego the luxury of raising a family from ruin to
happiness, yet considering the difficulties of pursuing his journey with
so small a sum as would be left.

While he was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself appeared:
his children ran to meet him; he took one of them in his arms, and, with
the other clinging to his coat, came forward with a loitering step. His
forlorn and melancholy look determined Valancourt at once; he threw down
all the money he had, except a very few louis, and bounded away
after St. Aubert and Emily, who were proceeding slowly up the steep.
Valancourt had seldom felt his heart so light as at this moment; his
gay spirits danced with pleasure; every object around him appeared more
interesting, or beautiful, than before. St. Aubert observed the uncommon
vivacity of his countenance: 'What has pleased you so much?' said he.
'O what a lovely day,' replied Valancourt, 'how brightly the sun
shines, how pure is this air, what enchanting scenery!' 'It is indeed
enchanting,' said St. Aubert, whom early experience had taught to
understand the nature of Valancourt's present feelings. 'What pity that
the wealthy, who can command such sunshine, should ever pass their days
in gloom--in the cold shade of selfishness! For you, my young friend,
may the sun always shine as brightly as at this moment; may your own
conduct always give you the sunshine of benevolence and reason united!'

Valancourt, highly flattered by this compliment, could make no reply but
by a smile of gratitude.

They continued to wind under the woods, between the grassy knolls of the
mountain, and, as they reached the shady summit, which he had pointed
out, the whole party burst into an exclamation. Behind the spot
where they stood, the rock rose perpendicularly in a massy wall to a
considerable height, and then branched out into overhanging crags. Their
grey tints were well contrasted by the bright hues of the plants and
wild flowers, that grew in their fractured sides, and were deepened by
the gloom of the pines and cedars, that waved above. The steeps below,
over which the eye passed abruptly to the valley, were fringed with
thickets of alpine shrubs; and, lower still, appeared the tufted tops of
the chesnut woods, that clothed their base, among which peeped forth the
shepherd's cottage, just left by the travellers, with its blueish smoke
curling high in the air. On every side appeared the majestic summits
of the Pyrenees, some exhibiting tremendous crags of marble, whose
appearance was changing every instant, as the varying lights fell upon
their surface; others, still higher, displaying only snowy points, while
their lower steeps were covered almost invariably with forests of pine,
larch, and oak, that stretched down to the vale. This was one of
the narrow vallies, that open from the Pyrenees into the country of
Rousillon, and whose green pastures, and cultivated beauty, form a
decided and wonderful contrast to the romantic grandeur that environs
it. Through a vista of the mountains appeared the lowlands of Rousillon,
tinted with the blue haze of distance, as they united with the waters of
the Mediterranean; where, on a promontory, which marked the boundary of
the shore, stood a lonely beacon, over which were seen circling flights
of sea-fowl. Beyond, appeared, now and then, a stealing sail, white with
the sun-beam, and whose progress was perceivable by its approach to the
light-house. Sometimes, too, was seen a sail so distant, that it served
only to mark the line of separation between the sky and the waves.

On the other side of the valley, immediately opposite to the spot where
the travellers rested, a rocky pass opened toward Gascony. Here no sign
of cultivation appeared. The rocks of granite, that screened the glen,
rose abruptly from their base, and stretched their barren points to the
clouds, unvaried with woods, and uncheered even by a hunter's cabin.
Sometimes, indeed, a gigantic larch threw its long shade over the
precipice, and here and there a cliff reared on its brow a monumental
cross, to tell the traveller the fate of him who had ventured thither
before. This spot seemed the very haunt of banditti; and Emily, as she
looked down upon it, almost expected to see them stealing out from
some hollow cave to look for their prey. Soon after an object not less
terrific struck her,--a gibbet standing on a point of rock near the
entrance of the pass, and immediately over one of the crosses she had
before observed. These were hieroglyphics that told a plain and dreadful
story. She forbore to point it out to St. Aubert, but it threw a gloom
over her spirits, and made her anxious to hasten forward, that
they might with certainty reach Rousillon before night-fall. It was
necessary, however, that St. Aubert should take some refreshment, and,
seating themselves on the short dry turf, they opened the basket of
provisions, while

     by breezy murmurs cool'd,
 Broad o'er THEIR heads the verdant cedars wave,
 And high palmetos lift their graceful shade.
 -----THEY draw
 Ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales
 Profusely breathing from the piney groves,
 And vales of fragrance; there at a distance hear
 The roaring floods, and cataracts.*
     *Thomson


St. Aubert was revived by rest, and by the serene air of this summit;
and Valancourt was so charmed with all around, and with the conversation
of his companions, that he seemed to have forgotten he had any further
to go. Having concluded their simple repast, they gave a long farewell
look to the scene, and again began to ascend. St. Aubert rejoiced when
he reached the carriage, which Emily entered with him; but Valancourt,
willing to take a more extensive view of the enchanting country, into
which they were about to descend, than he could do from a carriage,
loosened his dogs, and once more bounded with them along the banks of
the road. He often quitted it for points that promised a wider prospect,
and the slow pace, at which the mules travelled, allowed him to overtake
them with ease. Whenever a scene of uncommon magnificence appeared, he
hastened to inform St. Aubert, who, though he was too much tired to
walk himself, sometimes made the chaise wait, while Emily went to the
neighbouring cliff.

It was evening when they descended the lower alps, that bind Rousillon,
and form a majestic barrier round that charming country, leaving it open
only on the east to the Mediterranean. The gay tints of cultivation once
more beautified the landscape; for the lowlands were coloured with the
richest hues, which a luxuriant climate, and an industrious people can
awaken into life. Groves of orange and lemon perfumed the air, their
ripe fruit glowing among the foliage; while, sloping to the plains,
extensive vineyards spread their treasures. Beyond these, woods and
pastures, and mingled towns and hamlets stretched towards the sea, on
whose bright surface gleamed many a distant sail; while, over the whole
scene, was diffused the purple glow of evening. This landscape with the
surrounding alps did, indeed, present a perfect picture of the lovely
and the sublime, of 'beauty sleeping in the lap of horror.'

The travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedges
of flowering myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, where
they proposed to rest for the night. They met with simple, but neat
accommodation, and would have passed a happy evening, after the toils
and the delights of this day, had not the approaching separation thrown
a gloom over their spirit. It was St. Aubert's plan to proceed, on the
morrow, to the borders of the Mediterranean, and travel along its shores
into Languedoc; and Valancourt, since he was now nearly recovered, and
had no longer a pretence for continuing with his new friends, resolved
to leave them here. St. Aubert, who was much pleased with him, invited
him to go further, but did not repeat the invitation, and Valancourt
had resolution enough to forego the temptation of accepting it, that
he might prove himself not unworthy of the favour. On the following
morning, therefore, they were to part, St. Aubert to pursue his way to
Languedoc, and Valancourt to explore new scenes among the mountains, on
his return home. During this evening he was often silent and thoughtful;
St. Aubert's manner towards him was affectionate, though grave, and
Emily was serious, though she made frequent efforts to appear cheerful.
After one of the most melancholy evenings they had yet passed together,
they separated for the night.

 St. Aubert wakes up and is super-jazzed to finally get to Rousillon. The group starts to travel once more. Man, St. Aubert really likes Valancourt. He's also no dummy: he sees Valancourt and Emily acting all lovey-dovey toward each other. This makes St. Aubert think about how rarely nature and simplicity are appreciated in this world. The group comes across a shepherd's cabin with a couple of little kids playing around it. No parents, though. Then the mom of the kids arrives. She's looking pretty down in the dumps, so the travelers ask her what's wrong. Apparently, a gang of gypsies drove away some sheep belonging to her husband's master. The husband is now on the hook for paying for the lost sheep. Oopsie-daisies! Valancourt's a good guy. Even though he's not exactly Mr. Money-Bags, he throws down his remaining money to replace the lost sheep. St. Aubert is impressed. He praises Valancourt for doing the right thing. The group continues on to Rousillon, but Emily's imagination is running a little wild. She sees hieroglyphics on a rock that tell a dreadful story, but she keeps mum because she doesn't want to scare anyone else. Emily likes to tease the reader a little bit. Valancourt and the St. Auberts plan to split up again, as the St. Auberts continue on to Languedoc and Valancourt heads home. It's kind of a bummer for both Emily and St. Aubert that their companion is going to leave, but they try to stay cheerful.

