The Mysteries of Udolpho
fire. He had arms with him, which, on an emergency, might afford some
protection, though certainly a very unequal one, against a band of
robbers, so desperate too as those usually were who haunted these wild
regions. While many reflections rose upon his mind, he heard a voice
shouting from the road behind, and ordering the muleteer to stop. St.
Aubert bade him proceed as fast as possible; but either Michael, or his
mules were obstinate, for they did not quit the old pace. Horses’ feet
were now heard; a man rode up to the carriage, still ordering the
driver to stop; and St. Aubert, who could no longer doubt his purpose,
was with difficulty able to prepare a pistol for his defence, when his
hand was upon the door of the chaise. The man staggered on his horse,
the report of the pistol was followed by a groan, and St. Aubert’s
horror may be imagined, when in the next instant he thought he heard
the faint voice of Valancourt. He now himself bade the muleteer stop;
and, pronouncing the name of Valancourt, was answered in a voice, that
no longer suffered him to doubt. St. Aubert, who instantly alighted and
went to his assistance, found him still sitting on his horse, but
bleeding profusely, and appearing to be in great pain, though he
endeavoured to soften the terror of St. Aubert by assurances that he
was not materially hurt, the wound being only in his arm. St. Aubert,
with the muleteer, assisted him to dismount, and he sat down on the
bank of the road, where St. Aubert tried to bind up his arm, but his
hands trembled so excessively that he could not accomplish it; and,
Michael being now gone in pursuit of the horse, which, on being
disengaged from his rider, had galloped off, he called Emily to his
assistance. Receiving no answer, he went to the carriage, and found her
sunk on the seat in a fainting fit. Between the distress of this
circumstance and that of leaving Valancourt bleeding, he scarcely knew
what he did; he endeavoured, however, to raise her, and called to
Michael to fetch water from the rivulet that flowed by the road, but
Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice. Valancourt, who heard
these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily, instantly understood
the subject of his distress; and, almost forgetting his own condition,
he hastened to her relief. She was reviving when he reached the
carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him had occasioned
her indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that trembled, but not
from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence. While he said this
St. Aubert turned round, and perceiving that he was still bleeding, the
subject of his alarm changed again, and he hastily formed some
handkerchiefs into a bandage. This stopped the effusion of the blood;
but St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of the wound, enquired
repeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when, learning that it was
at two leagues’ distance, his distress increased, since he knew not how
Valancourt, in his present state, would bear the motion of the
carriage, and perceived that he was already faint from loss of blood.
When he mentioned the subject of his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that
he would not suffer himself to be thus alarmed on his account, for that
he had no doubt he should be able to support himself very well; and
then he talked of the accident as a slight one. The muleteer being now
returned with Valancourt’s horse, assisted him into the chaise; and, as
Emily was now revived, they moved slowly on towards Beaujeu.
St. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by
this accident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explained
his unexpected appearance by saying, “You, sir, renewed my taste for
society; when you had left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a solitude.
I determined, therefore, since my object was merely amusement, to
change the scene; and I took this road, because I knew it led through a
more romantic tract of mountains than the spot I have left. Besides,”
added he, hesitating for an instant, “I will own, and why should I not?
that I had some hope of overtaking you.”
“And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment,” said
St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had produced the
accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. But Valancourt
seemed anxious only to remove from the minds of his companions every
unpleasant feeling relative to himself; and, for that purpose, still
struggled against a sense of pain, and tried to converse with gaiety.
Emily meanwhile was silent, except when Valancourt particularly
addressed her, and there was at those times a tremulous tone in his
voice that spoke much.
They were now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance on
the blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they could
distinguish figures moving about the blaze. The way winding still
nearer, they perceived in the valley one of those numerous bands of
gipsies, which at that period particularly haunted the wilds of the
Pyrenees, and lived partly by plundering the traveller. Emily looked
with some degree of terror on the savage countenances of these people,
shown by the fire, which heightened the romantic effects of the
scenery, as it threw a red dusky gleam upon the rocks and on the
foliage of the trees, leaving heavy masses of shade and regions of
obscurity, which the eye feared to penetrate.
They were preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, over
which several figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind of
tent, round which many children and dogs were playing, and the whole
formed a picture highly grotesque. The travellers saw plainly their
danger. Valancourt was silent, but laid his hand on one of St. Aubert’s
pistols; St. Aubert drew forth another, and Michael was ordered to
proceed as fast as possible. They passed the place, however, without
being attacked; the rovers being probably unprepared for the
opportunity, and too busy about their supper to feel much interest, at
the moment, in anything besides.
After a league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellers
arrived at Beaujeu, and drove up to the only inn the place afforded;
which, though superior to any they had seen since they entered the
mountains, was bad enough.
The surgeon of the town was immediately sent for, if a surgeon he could
be called, who prescribed for horses as well as for men, and shaved
faces at least as dexterously as he set bones. After examining
Valancourt’s arm, and perceiving that the bullet had passed through the
flesh without touching the bone, he dressed it, and left him with a
solemn prescription of quiet, which his patient was not inclined to
obey. The delight of ease had now succeeded to pain; for ease may be
allowed to assume a positive quality when contrasted with anguish; and,
his spirits thus reanimated, he wished to partake of the conversation
of St. Aubert and Emily, who, released from so many apprehensions, were
uncommonly cheerful. Late as it was, however, St. Aubert was obliged to
go out with the landlord to buy meat for supper; and Emily, who, during
this interval, had been absent as long as she could, upon excuses of
looking to their accommodation, which she found rather better than she
expected, was compelled to return, and converse with Valancourt alone.
They talked of the character of the scenes they had passed, of the
natural history of the country, of poetry, and of St. Aubert; a subject
on which Emily always spoke and listened to with peculiar pleasure.
The travellers passed an agreeable evening; but St. Aubert was fatigued
with his journey; and, as Valancourt seemed again sensible of pain,
they separated soon after supper.
In the morning St. Aubert found that Valancourt had passed a restless
night; that he was feverish, and his wound very painful. The surgeon,
when he dressed it, advised him to remain quietly at Beaujeu; advice
which was too reasonable to be rejected. St. Aubert, however, had no
favourable opinion of this practitioner, and was anxious to commit
Valancourt into more skilful hands; but learning, upon enquiry, that
there was no town within several leagues which seemed more likely to
afford better advice, he altered the plan of his journey, and
determined to await the recovery of Valancourt, who, with somewhat more
ceremony than sincerity, made many objections to this delay.
By order of his surgeon, Valancourt did not go out of the house that
day; but St. Aubert and Emily surveyed with delight the environs of the
town, situated at the feet of the Pyrenean Alps, that rose, some in
abrupt precipices, and others swelling with woods of cedar, fir, and
cypress, which stretched nearly to their highest summits. The cheerful
green of the beech and mountain-ash was sometimes seen, like a gleam of
light, amidst the dark verdure of the forest; and sometimes a torrent
poured its sparkling flood, high among the woods.
Valancourt’s indisposition detained the travellers at Beaujeu several
days, during which interval St. Aubert had observed his disposition and
his talents with the philosophic inquiry so natural to him. He saw a
frank and generous nature, full of ardour, highly susceptible of
whatever is grand and beautiful, but impetuous, wild, and somewhat
romantic. Valancourt had known little of the world. His perceptions
were clear, and his feelings just; his indignation of an unworthy, or
his admiration of a generous action, were expressed in terms of equal
vehemence. St. Aubert sometimes smiled at his warmth, but seldom
checked it, and often repeated to himself, “This young man has never
been at Paris.” A sigh sometimes followed this silent ejaculation. He
determined not to leave Valancourt till he should be perfectly
recovered; and, as he was now well enough to travel, though not able to
manage his horse, St. Aubert invited him to accompany him for a few
days in the carriage. This he the more readily did, since he had
discovered that Valancourt was of a family of the same name in Gascony,
with whose respectability he was well acquainted. The latter accepted
the offer with great pleasure, and they again set forward among these
romantic wilds about Rousillon.
They travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grand
appeared; frequently alighting to walk to an eminence, whither the
mules could not go, from which the prospect opened in greater
magnificence; and often sauntering over hillocks covered with lavender,
wild thyme, juniper, and tamarisc; and under the shades of woods,
between those boles they caught the long mountain-vista, sublime beyond
anything that Emily had ever imagined.
St. Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valancourt
and Emily strolled on; he pointing out to her notice the objects that
particularly charmed him, and reciting beautiful passages from such of
the Latin and Italian poets as he had heard her admire. In the pauses
of conversation, when he thought himself not observed, he frequently
fixed his eyes pensively on her countenance, which expressed with so
much animation the taste and energy of her mind; and when he spoke
again, there was a peculiar tenderness in the tone of his voice, that
defeated any attempt to conceal his sentiments. By degrees these silent
pauses became more frequent; till Emily, only, betrayed an anxiety to
interrupt them; and she; who had been hitherto reserved, would now talk
again, and again, of the woods and the valleys and the mountains, to
avoid the danger of sympathy and silence.
From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the
travellers into the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers
exhibited their frozen horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits