I'm Dr. Monica Bass and I'm practicing at West Long Branch Primary Care. Our practice consists of myself and I have a nurse practitioner with me. We are located in West Long Branch. I do hold late nights as well as early mornings and our nurse practitioner is here with us three days a week. We see everything, sore throats, physical exams I'll do, people come for weight loss, for diabetes management, thyroid, really we see the gamut it's head to toe basically as internal medicine and I'm kind of the gatekeeper so they come to me with the initial problem and then we try to see if we can resolve it if we can't then we send them to somebody that can't. I try to establish a good connection and relationship with my patients so I really get to know what their home environment is, what their work environment is, what their habits are, how you know how they sleep, do their pets in the house so really it is very patient specific. I'm trying to find things that work for them. Regular visits I find are very important because you get to know yourself, you get to know what is normal for you and what is not. You also will start to become more in tune with what an issue is. I think it is very important to come in and know what exactly is bothering you, to know your body and know how you're feeling. So if they come with a list of questions or if they come with you know I saw this article you know can you help me you know we throw it you know I will happily do that. Patients will often ask you know how do you prevent yourself from getting sick and the main thing is washing your hands and not using the antibacterials. Antibacterials have not been found to prevent any disease more than anything else because they're antibacterial not antiviral so soap and water are your friends.


This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Mysteries of Udolfo by Ann Radcliffe. Volume 3, Chapter 10. Oh, the joy of young ideas painted on the mind in the warm glowing colors fancy spreads, on objects not yet known when all is new and all is lovely. Sacred Dramas. We now return to Languedoc and to the mansion of Count D. Vilfor, the nobleman who succeeded to an estate of the Marquis de Vilroy situated near the monastery of St. Clair. It may be recollected that this chateau was uninhabited when Saint Hubert and his daughter were in the neighborhood, and that the former was much affected on discovering himself to be so near Chateau Leblanc, a place concerning which the good old La Voix-Saine afterwards dropped some hints that had alarmed Emily's curiosity. It was in the year 1584, the beginning of that, in which Saint Hubert died, that Francis Bouvier, Count D. Vilfor, came into possession of the mansion an extensive domain called Chateau Leblanc, situated in the province of Languedoc, on the shore of the Mediterranean. This estate, which during some centuries had belonged to his family, now descended to him on the deceased of his relative, the Marquis de Vilroy, who had later been a man of reserved manners and austere character. Circumstances, which together with the duties of his profession, that often called him into the field, had prevented any degree of intimacy with his cousin, the Count de Vilfor. For many years they had known little of each other, and the Count received the first intelligence of his death, which happened in a distant part of France, together with the instruments that gave him possession of the domain Chateau Leblanc. But it was not till the following year that he determined to visit that estate when he designed to pass the autumn there. The scenes of Chateau Leblanc often came to his remembrance, heightened by the touches, which a warm imagination gives to the recollection of early pleasures. For many years before, in the lifetime of the Marchioness, and at that age when the wine is particularly sensible to impressions of gaiety and delight, he had once visited this spot, and though he had passed a long intervening period amidst the vexations and tumults of public affairs, which too frequently corrode the heart and vitiate the taste. The shades of Languedoc and the grandeur of its distant scenery had never been remembered by him with indifference. During many years the Chateau had been abandoned by the late Marquis, and being inhabited only by an old steward and his wife had been suffered to fall much into decay. To superintend the repairs that would be requisite to make it a comfortable residence had been a principal motive of the Count for passing the autumn months in Languedoc, and neither the remonstrantes or the tears of the Countess, for on urgent occasions she would weep, were powerful enough to overcome his determination. She prepared therefore to obey the command which she could not conquer, and to resign the gay assemblies of Paris, where her beauty was generally unrivaled and won the applause to which her wit had but feeble claim, for the twilight canopy of woods, the lonely grandeur of mountains, and the solemnity of gothic halls, and of long, long galleries which echoed only the solitary step of a domestic, or the measured clink that ascended from the gate-clock, the ancient monitor of the hall below. From these melancholy expectations she endeavored to relieve her spirits by recollecting all that she had ever heard concerning the joyous vintage of the plains of Languedoc, but there alas no airy forms would bound to the gay malady of Parisian dances, and a view of the rustic festivities of peasants could afford little pleasure to a heart, in which even the feelings of ordinary benevolence had long since decayed under the corruptions of luxury. The Count had a son and a daughter, the children of a former marriage, who he designed should accompany him to the south of France. Henri, who was in his twentieth year, was in the French service, and Blanche, who was not yet eighteen, had been hitherto confined to a convent where she had been placed immediately on her father's second marriage. The present Countess, who had neither sufficient ability or inclination to superintend the education of her daughter-in-law, had advised this step, and the dread of superior beauty had since urged her to employ every art that might prevail on the Count to prolong the period of Blanche's seclusion. It was therefore with extreme mortification that she now understood he would no longer submit on this subject, yet it afforded her some consolation to consider, that though the Lady Blanche would emerge from her convent, the shades of the country would, for some time, veil her beauty from the public eye. On the morning which commenced the journey, the Pastillion stopped at the convent, by the Count's order, to take up Blanche, whose heart beat with delight at the prospect of novelty and freedom now before her. As the time of her departure grew nigh, her impatience had increased, and the last night, during which she counted every note of every hour, had appeared the most tedious of any she had ever known. The morning light at length dawned. The Métain-Balle rang. She heard the nuns descending from their chambers, and she started from a sleepless pillow to welcome the day, which was to emancipate her from the severities of a cloister, and introduce her to a world where pleasure was ever smiling, and goodness ever blessed, where in short nothing but pleasure and goodness reigned. When the bell of the great gate rang, and the sound was followed by that of carriage-wheels, she ran, with a palpitating heart, to her lattice, and perceiving her father's carriage in the court below, danced with airy steps along the gallery, where she was met by a nun with the summons from the Abbas. In the next moment she was in the parlor, and in the presence of the Countess, who now appeared to her as an angel that was to lead her into happiness. But the emotions of the Countess on beholding her were not in unison with those of Lanch, who had never appeared so lovely as at this moment, when her countenance, animated by the lightning smile of joy, glowed with the beauty of happy innocence. After conversing for a few minutes with the Abbas, the Countess rose to go. This was a moment which Blanche had anticipated with such eager expectation, the summit from which she looked down upon the fairy land of happiness, and surveyed all its enchantment. Was it a moment then for tears of regret? Yet it was so. She turned with an altered and dejected countenance to her young companions, who were come to bid her farewell and wept. Even my Lady Abbas, so stately and so solemn, she saluted with the degree of sorrow, which an hour before she would have believed it impossible to feel, and which may be accounted for by considering how reluctantly we all part, even with unpleasing objects when the separation is consciously forever. Again she kissed the poor nuns, and then followed the Countess from that spot with tears, which she expected to leave only with smiles. But the presence of her father and a variety of objects on the road soon engaged her attention, and dissipated the shade which tender regret had thrown upon her spirits. Inattentive to a conversation which was passing between the Countess, and a Mademoiselle Byrne, her friend, Blanche sat, lost in pleasing reverie, as she watched the clouds floating silently along the blue expanse, now veiling the sun and stretching the shadows along the distant scene, and then disclosing all his brightness. The journey continued to give Blanche inexpressible delight, for new scenes of nature were every instant opening to her view, and her fancy became stored with gay and beautiful imagery. It was on the evening of the seventh day that the travellers came within view of Chateau-le-Blanc, the romantic beauty of whose situation strongly impressed the imagination of Blanche, who observed with sublime astonishment the Pyrenean mountains, which had been seen only at a distance during the day, now rising within a few leagues, with their wild cliffs and immense precipices, which the evening clouds floating around them now disclosed, and again veiled. The setting rays that tinged their snowy summits with a rosette hue touched their lower points with the various colouring, while the bluish tint that pervaded their shadowy recesses gave the strength of contrast to the splendour of light. The plains of Languedoc, blushing with the purple vine and diversified with groves of Mulberry, almond, and olives, spread far to the north and to the east. To the south appeared the Mediterranean, clear as crystal, and blue as the heavens it reflected, bearing on its bosom vessels, whose white sails caught the sunbeams and gave animation to the scene. On a high promontory, washed by the waters of the Mediterranean, Stutterfather's Mansion, almost secluded from the eye by woods of intermingled pine, oak, and chestnut, which crowned the eminence, and sloped towards the plains, on one side, while on the other, they extended to a considerable distance along the seashores. As Blanche drew nearer, the gothic features of the ancient mansion successively appeared, first an embattled turret, rising above the trees, then the broken arch of an immense gateway, retiring beyond them, and she almost fancied herself, approaching a castle, such as often celebrated in an early story, where the knights look out from battlements on some champion below, who clothed in black armor comes with his champions, to rescue the fair lady of his love from the oppression of his rival. A sort of legends to which she had once or twice obtained access in the library of her convent, that, like many others, belonging to the monks, was stored with these relics of romantic fiction. The carriages stopped at a gate, which led into the domain of the chateau, but which was now fastened, and the great bell that had formally served to announce the arrival of strangers, having long since fallen from its station. A servant climbed over the rune part of the adjoining wall, to give notice to those within of the arrival of their lord. As Blanche leaned from the coach window, she resigned herself to the sweet and gentle emotions, which the hour and scenery awakened. The sun had now left the earth, and twilight began to darken the mountains, while the distant waters, reflecting the blush that still glowed in the west, appeared to be in the dark, and the sun had now left the earth, still glowed in the west, appeared like a line of light, skirting the horizon. The low murmur of waves, breaking on the shore, came in the breeze, and now and then the melancholy dashing of oars was feebly heard from a distance. She was suffered to indulge her pensive mood, for the thoughts of the rest of the party were silently engaged upon the subjects of their several interests. Meanwhile, the Countess, reflecting with regret upon the gay party she had left at Paris, surveyed with disgust what she thought the gloomy woods and solitary wildness of the scene, and shrinking from the prospect of being shut up in an old castle was prepared to meet every object with displeasure. The feelings of Henri were somewhat similar to those of the Countess. He gave a mournful sigh to the delights of the capital, and to the remembrance of a lady who he believed had engaged his infactions, and who had certainly fascinated his imagination.  The gates being at length unbarred, the carriage moved slowly on, under spreading chestnuts that almost excluded the remains of day, following what had been formally a road but which now, overgrown with luxuriant vegetation, could be traced only by the boundary, formed by the trees on either side, and which wound for near half a mile among the woods, before it reached the chateau. This was the very avenue that Saint Hubert and Emily had formally entered on their first arrival in the neighborhood, with the hope of finding a house that would receive them for the night, and had so abruptly quitted on perceiving the wildness of the place, and a figure which the pastillion had fancied was a robber. What a dismal place is this, exclaimed the Countess, as the carriage penetrated the deeper recesses of the woods. Surely, my lord, you do not mean to pass all the autumn in this barbarous spot. Why not to bring hither a cup of waters of leaf, but the remembrance of pleasanter scenes may not heighten at least the natural dreariness of these. I shall be governed by circumstances, madame, said the Count. This barbarous spot was inhabited by my ancestors. The carriage now stopped at the chateau, where, at the door of the great hall, appeared the old steward and the Parisian servants who had been sent to prepare the chateau waiting to receive their lord. Lady Blanche now perceived that the edifice was not built entirely in the Gothic style, but that it had additions of a more modern date. The large and gloomy hall, however, into which she now entered, was entirely Gothic, and sumptuous tapestry, which it was now too dark to distinguish, hung upon the walls, and depicted scenes from some of the ancient provincial romances, a vast Gothic window, embroidered with climatis and eglentine that ascended to the south, led the eye, now that the casements were thrown open, through this verdant shade over a sloping lawn to the tops of dark woods that hung upon the brow of the promontary. Beyond appeared the waters of the Mediterranean, stretching far to the south and to the east, where they were lost in the horizon, while to the northeast they were bounded by the luxuriant shores of Languedoc and Provence, enriched with wood and gay with vines and sloping pastures, and of the southwest by the majestic Pyrenees, now fading from the eye beneath the gradual gloom. Blanche, as she crossed the hall, stopped a moment to observe this lovely prospect, which the evening twilight obscured yet did not conceal, but she was quickly awakened from the complacent delight which this scene had diffused upon her mind by the Countess, who discontented with every object around and impatient for refreshment and repose, hastened forward to a large parlor, whose cedar wane scot, narrow pointed casements, and dark ceiling of carved cypress wood gave it an aspect of peculiar gloom, which the dingy green velvet of the chairs and couches, fringe with tarnished gold, had once been designed to enliven. All the Countess inquired for refreshment, the Count, attended by his son, went to look over some part of the chateau, and Lady Blanche reluctantly remained to witness the discontent and ill-humour of her stepmother. How long have you lived in this desolate place, said her ladyship, to the old housekeeper who came to pay her duty? Above twenty years, your ladyship, on the next feast of Saint Jerome. How happened it that you have lived here so long, and almost alone, too?  Yes, madame, it was for many years after my late lord. The Count went to the wars, but it is above twenty years. Since I and my husband came into his service, the place is so large, and has of late been so lonely that we were lost in it, and after some time we went to live in a cottage at the end of the woods, near some of the tenants, and came to look after the chateau every now and then. When my lord returned to France from the wars, he took a dislike to the place, and never came to live here again, and so he was satisfied with our remaining of the cottage. Alas, alas, how the chateau has changed from what it once was! What delight my late lady used to take in it! I will remember when she came here abroad, and how fine it was. Now it has been neglected so long, and has gone into such decay. I shall never see those days again. The Count disappeared to be somewhat offended by the thoughtless simplicity with which the old women regretted former times. Dorothy added, but the chateau will now be inhabited, and cheerful again. Not all the world would tempt me to live in it alone. Well, the experiment will not be made, I believe, said the Countess, displeased that her own silence had been unable to awe the loquacity of this rustic old housekeeper, now spared from further attendance by the entrance of the Count, who said he had been viewing part of the chateau, and found that it would require considerable repairs and some alterations before it would be perfectly comfortable as a place of residence. I am sorry to hear it, my lord, replied the Countess. And why sorry, madame? Because the place will ill repay your trouble, and were it even a paradise, it would be insufferable at such a distance from Paris. The Count made no reply, but walked abruptly to a window. There are windows, my lord, but they neither admit entertainment or light. They show only a scene of savage nature. I am at a loss, madame, said the Count, to conjecture what you mean by savage nature. Do those plains, or those woods, or that fine expanse of water deserve the name? Those mountains certainly do, my lord, enjoying the Countess, pointing to the Pyrenees. And this chateau, though not a work of rude nature, is, to my taste at least, one of savage art. The Count colored highly. This place, madame, was the work of my ancestors, said he. And you must allow me to say that your present conversation discovers neither good taste or good manners. Blanche, now shocked at an altercation which appeared to be increasing to a serious disagreement, rose to leave the room, when her mother's woman entered it, and the Countess immediately desiring to be shown to her apartment with Drew, attended by madame Aswell Byrne. Lady Blanche, it being not yet dark, took this opportunity of exploring new scenes, and leaving the parlor, she passed from the hall into a wide gallery, whose walls were decorated by marble pilasters, which supported an arched roof composed of a rich mosaic work. Through a distant window that seemed to terminate the gallery, were seen the purple clouds of evening, and a landscape whose features thinly veiled in twilight, no longer appeared distinctly, but blended into one grand mass, stretched to the horizon, colored only with a tint of solemn gray. The gallery terminated in a saloon, to which the window she had seen through an open door belonged, but the increasing dusk permitted her only an imperfect view of this apartment, which seemed to be magnificent and of modern architecture, though it had been either suffered to fall into decay, or had never been properly finished. The windows, which were numerous and large, descended low, and afforded a very extensive, and what Blanche's fancy represented to be, a very lovely prospect, and she stood for some time, surveying the gray obscurity, and depicting imaginary woods and mountains, valleys and rivers, on this scene of night. Her solemn sensations, rather assisted than interrupted by the distant bark of a watchdog, and by the breeze as it trembled upon the light foliage of the shrubs. Now and then appeared for a moment among the woods a cottage light, and at length was heard afar off, the evening bell of a convent, dying on the air. When she withdrew her thoughts from these subjects of fanciful delight, the gloom and silence of the saloon somewhat awed her, and having sought the door of the gallery and pursued, for a considerable time, a dark passage she came to a hall, but one totally different from that she had formally seen. By twilight, admitted through an open portico, she could just distinguish this apartment to be a very light and airy architecture, and then it was paved with white marble, pillars of which supported the roof, that rose into arches built in the Moorish style. While Blanche stood on the steps of this portico, the moon rose over the sea, and gradually disclosed in partial light the beauties of the eminence on which she stood. Wentzalon now rude and overgrown with high grass, sloped to the woods, that, almost surrounding the chateau, extended in a grand sweep down the southern sides of the promontary to the very margin of the ocean. Beyond the woods on the north side appeared a long tract of plains of Languedoc, and to the east the landscape she had before dimly seen, with the towers of a monastery, illumined by the moon, rising over dark groves. The soft and shadowy tint that overspread the scene, the waves undulating in the moonlight, and their low measured murmurs on the beach, were circumstances that united to elevate the unaccustomed mind of Blanche to enthusiasm, and have I lived in this glorious world so long, said she, and never till now be held such a prospect, never experience these delights? Every peasant girl on my father's domain has viewed from her infancy the face of nature, has ranged at liberty her romantic wilds, while I have been shut in a cloister from the view of these beautiful appearances, which were designed to enchant all eyes and awaken all hearts. How can the poor nuns and friars feel the full fervor of devotion, if they never see the sunrise or set? Never till this evening did I know what true devotion is, for never before did I see the sun sink below the vast earth. Tomorrow, for the first time in my life, I will see it rise.  This enthusiastic soliloquy was interrupted by a rustling noise in the hall, and while the loneliness of the place made her sensible to fear, she thought she perceived something moving between the pillars. For a moment she continued silently observing it, till ashamed of her ridiculous apprehensions. She recollected courage enough to demand who was there. Oh, my young lady, is it you? said the old housekeeper, who has come to shut the windows. I am glad it is you. The manner in which she spoke this, with a faint breath, rather a surprised blanch, who said, You seem frightened, Dorothy. What is the matter? No, not frightened, Memzell, replied Dorothy, hesitating and trying to appear composed. But I am old, and a little matter startles me. The lady, Blanche, smiled at the distinction. I am glad that my Lord Count has come to live at the Chateau Memzell, continued Dorothy, for it has been many a year deserted and dreary enough now. The place will look a little as it used to, when my poor lady was alive. Blanche inquired how long it was since the Marchienas died. Alas, my lady, replied Dorothy, so long that I have ceased to count the years. The place, to my mind, has mourned ever since, and I am sure my Lord's vassals have. But you have lost yourself, Memzell. Shall I show you to the other side of the Chateau? Blanche inquired how long this part of the edifice had been built. Soon after my Lord's marriage, Mem, replied Dorothy, the place was large enough without this addition, for many rooms of the old building were even then never made use of, and my Lord had a princely household, too, but he thought the ancient mansion glue me, and glue me enough it is. Lady Blanche now desired to be shown to the inhabited part of the Chateau, and as the passages were entirely dark, Dorothy conducted her along the edge of the lawn to the opposite side of the edifice, where, a door opening into the great hall, she was met by Memzell Byrne. Where have you been so long, said she? I have begun to think some wonderful adventure had befallen you, and that the giant of this enchanted castle, or a ghost which no doubt haunts it, had conveyed you through a trapped door into some subterranean vault whence you was never to return. No, replied Blanche, laughingly. You seem to love adventures so well that I leave them for you to achieve. Well, I am willing to achieve them provided I am loud to describe them. My dear mademoiselle Byrne, said, as you met her at the door of the parlor, no ghost of these days would be so savage as to impose silence on you. Our ghosts are more civilized than to condemn a lady to a purgatory severe even than their own, be it what it may. Mademoiselle Byrne replied only by a laugh, and the count now entering the room supper was served, during which she spoke little, frequently appeared to be abstracted from the company, and more than once remarked that the place was greatly altered since you had last seen it. Many years have intervened since that period, said he. And though the grand features of the scenery admit of no change, they impressed me with sensations very different from those I formerly experienced. Did these scenes serve, said Blanche? Ever appear more lovely than they do now? To me this seems hardly possible. The count, regarding her with a melancholy smile, said, They once were as delightful to me as they are now to you. The landscape has not changed, but time has changed me. From my mind the illusion which gave spirit to the coloring of nature is fading fast. If you live, my dear Blanche, to revisit this spot, at the distance of many years you will perhaps remember and understand the feelings of your father. Lady Blanche, affected by these words, remained silent. She looked forward to that period, which the count anticipated, and considering that he, who now spoke, would then probably be no more, her eyes bent to the ground, were filled with tears. She gave her hand to her father, who smiling affectionately, rose from his chair, and went to a window to conceal her's emotion. The fatigues of the day made the party separate at an early hour, when Blanche retired through a long oak gallery to her chamber, whose spacious and lofty walls, high antiquated casements, and what was the effect of these its gloomy air did not reconcile her to its remote situation in this ancient building. The furniture also was of ancient date. The bed was of blue damask, trimmed with tarnished gold lace, and its lofty tester rose in a form of a canopy. Once the curtains descended, like those of such tents, as are sometimes represented in old pictures, and indeed much resembling those exhibited on the folded tapestry with which the chamber was hung. To Blanche, every object here was a matter of curiosity. And taking the light from her woman to examine the tapestry, she perceived that it represented scenes from the Wars of Troy. Though the almost colorless horse did now mock the glowing actions, they once had painted. She laughed at the ludicrous absurdity she observed till, recollecting that the hands which wove it were like the poet, whose thoughts of fire they had attempted to express long since moldered into dust, a train of melancholia ideas passed over her mind, and she almost wept. Having given her woman a strict injunction to awaken her before sunrise, she dismissed her, and then to dissipate the gloom which reflection had cast upon her spirits, opened one of the high casements, and was again cheered by the face of living nature. The shadowy earth, the air, and ocean, all was still. Along the deep serene of the heavens, a few light clouds floated slowly, through whose skirts the stars seemed now to tremble, and now to emerge with pure splendor. Blanche's thoughts arose involuntarily to the great author of the sublime objects she contemplated, and she breathed the prayer of finer devotion than any she had ever uttered beneath the vaulted roof of the cloister. At this casement she remained till the glooms of midnight were stretched over the prospect. She then retired to her pillow, and with gay visions of tomorrow, to those sweet slumbers which health and happy innocence only know, tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new. Volume 3 Chapter 11 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mysteries of Udalfo by Ann Radcliffe. Volume 3 Chapter 11 What transport to retrace our early plays are easy blizz when each thing joy supplied. The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze of the wild brooks. Thompson. Blanche's slumbers continued till long after the hour which she had so impatiently anticipated, for her woman, fatigued with traveling, did not call her till breakfast was nearly ready. Her disappointment, however, was instantly forgotten when, on opening the casement, she saw on one hand the wide sea sparkling in the morning rays with its stealing sails and glancing oars, and on the other the fresh woods, the plains, far stretching, and the blue mountains, all glowing with the splendors of day. As she inspired the pure breeze, health spread a deeper blush upon her countenance and pleasure danced in her eyes. Who could first invent convent, she said, and who could first persuade people to go into them, and to make religion a pretense, too, where all that should inspire it is so carefully shut out? God is best pleased with the homage of a grateful heart, and when we view His glories, we feel most grateful. I never felt so much devotion during the many dull years I was in the convent as I have done in the few hours that I have been here, where I need only look on all around me to adore God in my inmost heart. Saying this, she left the window, bounded along the gallery, and in the next moment was in the breakfast room, where the count was already seated. The cheerfulness of a bright sunshine had dispersed the melancholy glooms of his reflections. A pleasant smile was on his countenance, and he spoke in an enlivening voice to blanche, whose heart echoed back the tones. Henri, and soon after the countess with Mademoiselle Byrne appeared, and the whole party seemed to acknowledge the influence of the scene. Even the countess was so much reanimated as to receive the civilities of her husband with complacency, and but once forgot her good humor, which was when she asked whether they had any neighbors who were likely to make this barbarous spot more tolerable, and whether the count believed it possible for her to exist here without some amusement. Soon after breakfast the party dispersed, the count ordering his steward to attend to him in the library went to survey the conditions of his premises, and to visit some of his tenants. Henri hastened with alacrity to the shore to examine a boat that was to bear them on a little voyage in the evening, and to superintend the adjustment of a silk awning, while the countess, attended by Mademoiselle Byrne, retired to an apartment on the modern side of the chateau, which was fitted up with airy elegance, and, as the windows opened upon the balconies that fronted the sea, she was there safe from the view of the horrid Pyrenees, here, while she reclined on a sofa and casting her languid eyes over the ocean, which appeared beyond the wood tops, indulged in the luxuries of ennui. Her companion read aloud a sentimental novel on some fashionable system of philosophy, for the countess was herself somewhat of a philosopher, especially as to infidelity, and among a certain circle her opinions were waited for with impatience and received as doctrines. The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, hastened to indulge amidst the wild wood walks around the chateau, her new enthusiasm, where, as she wandered under the shades, her gay spirits gradually yielded to pensive complacency. Now she moved with solemn steps beneath the gloom of thickly interwoven branches, where the fresh dew still hung upon every flower that peeped from among the grass, and now tripped sportively along the path on which the sunbeam started and the checkered foliage trembled, where the tendered greens of the beach, the acacia, and the mountain ash, mingling with the solemn tents of the cedar, the pine and cypress exhibited as fine a contrast of coloring as the majestic oak and oriental plain did a form to the feathery lightness of the cork tree and the waving grace of the poplar. Having reached a rustic seat within a deep recess of the woods, she rested awhile, and, as her eyes caught through the distant opening, a glimpse of the blue waters of the Mediterranean while the white sail gliding on its bosom or the broad mountain glowing beneath the midday sun, her mind experienced somewhat of that exquisite delight which awakens the fancy and leads to poetry. The hum of bees alone broke the stillness around her, as with other insect of various hues, they sported gaily in the shade or sip sweets from the fresh flowers. And while Blanche watched a butterfly flitting from bud to bud, she indulged herself in imagining the pleasures of its short day till she had composed the following stanzas. The butterfly to his love.  Long I've watched the lilies bell, whose whiteness stole the morning's beam, no fluttering sound by coming tell, no waving wings at distance gleam. But fountains fresh, nor breathing grove, nor sunny mead nor blossom tree, so sweet as lilies sell shall prove the bower of constant love and me. When April buds begin to blow, the primrose and the hair bell blew that on the verdant moss bank grow with violent cups and weep and dew. When wanton gales breath through the shade and shake the blooms and steal their sweets and swell the song of every glade, I range the forest green retreats. There through the tangled wood walks play, where no rude urchin paces near, where sparely peeps the sultry day and light deuce fresh in all the air.  But these I'll leave to be thy guide, and shoe thee where the jasmine spreads, her snowing leaf where mayflowers hide and rosebud's rear their peeping heads. With me the mountain summits scale and taste the wild time's honey bloom, whose fragrance floating on the gale off leads me to the cedars gloom. Yet, yet, no sound comes in the breeze, what shade thus dares to tempt thy stay. Once me alone thy wish to please, and with me only thou would stray. But while thy long delay I mourn, and chide the sweet shades for their guile, thou mayst be true, and they forlorn, and fairy favors court thy smile. The tiny queen of fairy land, who knows thy speed, have sent thee far, to bring or air the night watch stand, rich essence for her shadowy car. For chance her acorns cups to fill, with nectar from the Indian rose, or rather near some haunted rill, may do's that lull to sleep loves woe. O, o'er the mountains bade thee fly, to tell her fairy love to speed, when evening steals upon the sky to dance along the twilight need. But now I see thee sailing low, gay as the brightest flowers of spring, thy coat of blue and jet I know, and well thy gold and purple wing. Born on the glade thou comes to me, a welcome, welcome to my home. In Lily's cell we'll live in glee, together, or the mountains roam. When Lady Blanche returned to the chateau, instead of going to the apartment of the Countess, she amused herself with wandering over that part of the edifice, which she had not yet examined, of which the most agent first attracted her curiosity. For though what she had seen of the modern was gay and elegant, there was something in the former more interesting to her imagination. Having passed up the great staircase, and through the oak gallery, she entered upon a long suite of chambers, whose walls were either hung with tapestry, or wainscoted with cedar, the furniture of which looked almost as ancient as the rooms themselves, the spacious fireplaces, where no mark of social cheer remained, presented an image of cold desolation, and the whole suite had so much the air of neglect and desertion, that it seemed as if the venerable persons whose portraits hung upon the walls had been the last to inhabit them. On leaving these rooms, she found herself in another gallery, one end of which was terminated by a back staircase, and the other by a door that seemed to communicate with the north side of the chateau, but which being fastened, she descended the staircase, and opening a door in the wall, a few steps down, found herself in a small square room that formed part of the west toward of the castle. Three windows presented each a separate and beautiful prospect, that to the north overlooking the Languedo, another to the west, the hills ascending toward the Pyrenees, whose awful summits crowned the landscape, and a third, fronting the south, gave the Mediterranean, and a part of the wild shores of the Rusulong to the eye. Having left the turret and descended the narrow staircase, she found herself in a dusky passage where she wandered, unable to find her way, till impatient she yielded to apprehension, and she called for assistance. Presently, steps approached, and light glimmered through a door at the other extremity of the passage, which was opened with caution by some person who did not venture beyond it, and whom Blanche observed in silence till the door was closing, when she called aloud and hastening toward it, perceived the old housekeeper. Dear Mamzell, is it you, said Dorothy? How could you find your way hither? Had Blanche been less occupied by her own fears, she would probably have observed the strong expression of terror and surprise on Dorothy's countenance, who now led her through a long succession of passages and rooms that looked as if they had been uninhabited for a century till they reached that appropriated to the housekeeper, where Dorothy entreated she would sit down and take refreshment. Blanche accepted the sweet-meats offered to her, mentioned her discovery of the pleasant turret, and her wish to appropriate it to her own use, where the Dorothy's taste was not so sensible to the beauties of the landscape as her young ladies, or that the constant view of lovely scenery had deadened it she forbore to praise the subject of Blanche's enthusiasm, which, however, her silence did not repress. To Lady Blanche's inquiry of whether the doors she had found fastened at the end of the gallery led, she replied that it opened to a suite of rooms which had not been entered during many years. For, added she, my late lady died in one of them, and I could never find in my heart to go into them since. Blanche, though she wished to see these chambers, forebore on observing that Dorothy's eyes were filled with tears, to ask her to unlock them, and, soon after, went to dress for dinner, at which the whole party met in good spirits and good humor, except the canvas whose vacant mind, overcome by the languor of idleness, would neither suffer her to be happy herself, or to contribute to the happiness of others. Mademoiselle Byrne, attempting to be witty, directed her bandinage against Henri, who answered, because he could not well avoid it, rather than from any inclination to notice her, whose liveliness sometimes amused, but whose conceit and insensibility often disgusted him. The cheerfulness with which Blanche rejoined the party vanished on her reaching the margins of the sea. She gazed with apprehension upon the immense expanse of waters, which, at a distance, she beheld only with delight and astonishment, and it was by a strong effort that she so far overcame her fears as to follow her father into the boat. As she silently surveyed the vast horizon, bending round the distant verge of the ocean, and a motion of sublimus rapture struggled to overcome a sense of personal danger. A light breeze played on the water and on the silk awning of the boat, and waved the foliage of the receding woods that crowned the cliffs for many miles, and which the count surveyed with the pride of conscious property as well as with the eye of taste. At some distance among these woods stood a pavilion which had once been the scene of social gaiety, and which its situation still made one of romantic beauty. Thither the count had ordered coffee and other refreshments to be carried, and thither the sailors now steered their course, following the windings of the shore round many a woody promontory and circling bay, while the pensive tones of horns and other wind instruments played by the attendants in the distant boat echoed among the rocks and died along the waves. Blanche had now subdued her fears, a delightful tranquility stowed over her mind and held her in silence, and she was too happy even to remember the convent, or her former sorrows as subjects of comparison with her present felicity. The countess felt less unhappy than she had done since the moment of her leaving Paris, for her mind was now under some degree of restraint. She feared to indulge its wayward humors and even wished to recover the count's good opinion. On his family and on the surrounding scene, he looked with tempered pleasure and benevolent satisfaction while his son exhibited the gay spirits of youth anticipating new delights and regretless of those that were past. After near an hour's rowing, the party landed and ascended a little path overgrown with vegetation. At a little distance from the point of the eminence, within the shadowy recess of the woods, appeared the pavilion which Blanche perceived as she caught a glimpse of its portico between the trees to be built of a variegated marble. As she followed the countess, she often turned her eyes with rapture toward the ocean, seen beneath the dark foliage far below and from thence upon the deep woods whose silence and impenetrable gloom awakened emotions more solemn but scarcely less delightful. The pavilion had been prepared as far as was possible on a very short notice for the reception of its visitors but the faded color of its painted walls and ceiling and the decayed drapery of its once magnificent furniture declared how long it had been neglected and abandoned to the empire of the changing seasons. While the party protook of a collation of fruit and coffee, the horns placed in the distant part of the woods where an echo sweetened and prolonged their melancholy tones broke softly on the stillness of the scene. This spot seemed to attract the admiration of the countess or perhaps it was merely the pleasure of planning furniture and decorations that made her dwell so long on the necessity of repairing and adorning it while the count never happier than when he saw her mind engaged by natural and simple objects acquiesced in all her design concerning the pavilion, the paintings on the walls and coved ceilings were to be renewed, the canopies and sofas were to be of a light green damask, marble statues of wood nymphs bearing on their heads baskets of living flowers that were to adorn the recesses of the windows. Descending to the ground were to admit to every part of the room and it was of vaginal form the various landscape. One window opened upon a romantic glade where the eye roved among the woody recesses and the scene was bounded only by a lengthened pomp of groves. From another the woods receding disclosed the distant summit of the Pyrenees, a third fronted an avenue beyond which the gray towers of the Chateau Leblanc and a picturesque part of its ruin were seen partially among the foliage while a fourth gave between the trees a glimpse of the green pastures and villages that dispersify the banks of the Ode. The Mediterranean with bold cliffs that overlooked its shores were the grand objects of a fifth window and the others gave in different points of view the wild scenery of the woods. After wandering for some time in these the party returned to the shore and embarked and the beauty of the evening tempted them to extend their excursion. They proceeded further up the bay. A dead calm had succeeded the light breeze that wafted them hither and the men took to their oars. Around the waters were spread into one vast expanse of polished mirror reflecting the gray cliffs and feathery woods that overhung its surface the glow of the western horizon and the dark clouds that came slowly from the east. Blanche loved to see the dipping oars imprint the water and to watch the spreading circles they left which gave a tremulous motion to the reflected landscape without destroying the harmony of its features. Above the darkness of the woods Hurai now caught a cluster of high towers touched with the splendor of the setting rays and, soon after, the horns being then silent, she heard the faint swell of choral voices from a distance. What voices are those? Upon the air said the count, looking round and listening, but the strain had ceased. It seemed to be a vespers' hymn which I have often heard in my convent, said Blanche. We are near the monastery, then, observed the count and the boat, soon after, doubling a lofty headland the monastery of St. Clair appeared seated near the margin of the sea where the cliffs, suddenly sinking, formed a low shore within a small bay almost encircling the woods, among which partial features of the edifice were seen. The great gate and gothic windows of the hall, the cloisters and the side of a chapel, more remote while a venerable arch, which had once led to a part of the fabric, now demolished, stood a majestic ruin detached from the main building, beyond which appeared a grand perspective of the woods. On the gray walls the moss had fastened and round the pointed windows of the chapel, the ivy and the briny hung and at many a fantastic wreath, all with out with silent and forsaken butt, while Blanche gazed with admiration on this venerable pile, whose effect was heightened by the strong lights and shadows, thrown a thwarted by a cloudy sunset, a sound of many voices slowly chanting arose from within. The count baited his men to rest on their oars. The monks were singing the hymns of the vespers and some female voices mingled with the strain, which rose by soft degrees till the high organ and the choral sound swelled into full and solemn harmony. The strain soon after dropped into sudden silence and was renewed in a low and still more solemn key till at length the holy chorus died away and was heard no more. Blanche sighed, tears trembled in her eyes and her thought seemed wafted with the sounds to heaven, while a rapt stillness prevailed in the boat, a train of friars and then of nuns veiled in white, issued from the coisters and passed under the shade of the woods to the main body of the edifice. The countess was the first of the party to awaken from this pause of silence. These dismal hymns and friars makes one quite melancholy, said she. Twilight is coming on, pray, let us return, or it will be dark before we get home. The count, looking up, now perceived that the twilight of evening was anticipated by an approaching storm. In the east a tempest was collecting, a heavy gloom came on, opposing and contrasting the glowing splendor of the setting sun. The clamorous sea fowl skimmed in fleet circles upon the surface of the sea, dipping their light opinions in the wave as they fled away in search of shelter. The boatmen pulled hard on their oars, but the thunder that now muttered at a distance and the heavy drops that began to dimple the water made the count determined to put back to the monastery for shelter, and the course of the boat was immediately changed. As the clouds approached the west, their lurid darkness changed to a deep, ready glow which by the reflection seemed to fire the tops of the woods and the shattered towers of the monastery. The appearance of the heavens alarmed the countess and mademoiselle Byrne, whose expressions of apprehension distressed the count and perplexed his men, while Blanche continued silent, now agitated with fear and now with admiration as she viewed the grandeur of the clouds and their effect on the scenery and listened to the long, long peals of thunder that rolled through the air. The boat, having reached the lawn of the monastery, the count sent a servant to announce his arrival and to entreat shelter of the superior, who soon after appeared at the great gate attended by several monks, while the servant returned with a message, expressive at once of hospitality and pride, but of pride disguised in submission. The party immediately disembarked and having hastily crossed the lawn for the shower was now heavy, were received at the gate by the superior, who as they entered, stretched forth his hand and gave his blessing as they passed into the great hall, where the Lady Abbas waited, attended by several nuns, clothed like herself in black and veiled in white. The veil of the Abbas was, however, thrown half-back and discovered a countess whose chastity was sweetened by the smile of welcome, with which she addressed the countess, whom she led with Blanche and Mademoiselle Byrne, into the convent parlor, while the count and ennui were conducted by the superior to the refectory. The countess, fatigued and discontented, received the politeness of the Abbas with careless haughtiness and had followed her with indolent steps to the parlor over which the painted casements and wainscote of larch wood threw, at all times, a melancholy shade and where the gloom of evening now lured almost to darkness. While the Lady Abbas ordered refreshments and conversed with the countess, Blanche withdrew to a window, the lower panes of which, being without painting, allowed her to observe the progress of the storm over the Mediterranean, whose dark waves that had so lately slept now came boldly swelling in long succession to the shore, where they burst in white foam and threw up a high spray over the rocks. A red sulfurous tent overspread the long line of clouds that hung over the western horizon, beneath whose dark skirts the sun looking out illumined the distant shores of Languedo, as well as the tufted summits of the nearer woods and shed a partial gleam on the western waves. The rest of the scene was in deep gloom, except where a sunbeam darting between the clouds glanced on the white wings of the seafow that circled high among them or touched the swelling sail of a vessel which was seen laboring in the storm. Blanche for some time anxiously watched the progress of the bark as it threw the waves in foam around it, and as the lightning flashed, looked to the opening heavens with many a sigh for the fate of the poor mariners. The sun, at length set, and the heavy clouds, which had long impended, dropped over the splendor of his course. The vessel, however, was yet dimly seen, and Blanche continued to observe it till the quick succession of flashes, lighting up the gloom of the whole horizon, warned her to retire from the window, and she joined the abyss, who, having exhausted all her topics of conversation with the Countess, had now leisure to notice her. But their discourse was interrupted by tremendous peals of thunder, and the bell of the monastery, soon after ringing out, summoned the inhabitants to prayer. As Blanche passed the window, she gave another look to the ocean, where, by the momentary flash that illumined the vast body of waters, she distinguished the vessel she had observed before amidst a sea of foam, breaking the billows, the mass now bowing to the waves, and then rising high in the air. She sighed fervently as she gazed, and then followed the Lady Abyss and the Countess to the chapel. Meanwhile, some of the Count's servants, having gone by land to the Chateau for carriages, returned soon after Vespers had concluded, when, the storm being somewhat abated, the Count and his family returned home. Blanche was surprised to discover how much the windings of the shore had deceived her, concerning the distance of the Chateau from the monastery, whose Vesper bell she had heard on the preceding evening from the window of the West Saloon, and whose towers she would also have seen from thence had not twilight veiled them. On their arrival at the Chateau, the Countess, affecting more fatigue than she really felt, withdrew to her apartment, and the Count, with his daughter and Henri, went to the supper room, where they had not been long when they heard, in a pause of the gust, a firing of guns, which the Count, understanding to be a signal of distress from some vessel in the storm, went to a window that opened towards the Mediterranean to observe further. But the sea was now involved in utter darkness, and the loud howlings of the tempest had again overcome every other sound. Blanche, remembering the bark which she had seen before, now joined her father with trembling anxiety. In a few moments the report of guns was again born along the wind, and, as suddenly, wafted away. A tremendous burst of thunder followed, and, in the flash that preceded it, and which seemed to quiver over the whole surface of the waters, a vessel was discovered, tossing amidst the white foam of the waves at some distance from the shore. Impenetrable darkness again involved the sea, but soon a second flash shoot the bark, with one sail unfurled, driving towards the coast. Blanche hung upon her father's arm, and looks full of agony of united terror and pity, which were unnecessary to awaken the heart of the Count, who gazed upon the sea with a piteous expression, and perceiving that no boat could live in the storm for a bore to send one, but he gave orders to his people to carry torches out upon the cliffs, hoping they might prove a kind of beacon to the vessel, or at least warn the crew of the rocks they were approaching. While Henri went out to direct on what part of the cliffs the light should appear, Blanche remained with her father at the window, catching, every now and then, as the lightnings flashed, a glimpse of the vessel, and she soon saw, with reviving hope, the torches flaming on the blackness of night, and as they waved over the cliffs, casting a red gleam on the gasping billows. When the firing gun was repeated, the torches were tossed high in the air as if answering the signal, and the firing was then redoubled, but, though the wind bore the sound away, she fancied, as the lightnings glanced that the vessel was much nearer the shore. The Count's servants were now seen running to and fro on the rocks, some venturing almost to the point of the crags and bending over, held out their torches, fastened to long poles, while others whose steps could be traced only by the course of the lights, descended the steep and dangerous path that wound to the margins of the sea, and, with loud hallows, hailed the mariners who shrill whistle, and then feeble voices were heard at intervals, mingling with the storm. Sudden shouts from the people on the rocks increased the anxiety of Blanche to an almost intolerable degree, but her suspense concerning the fate of the mariners was soon over, when Henri, running breathless into the room, told that the vessel was anchored in the bay below, but in so shattered a condition that it was feared she would part before the crew could disembark. The Count immediately gave orders for his own boats to assist in bringing them to shore, and of such of these unfortunate strangers, as could not be accommodated in the adjacent hamlet, should be entertained at the chateau. Among the latter were Emily St. Albert, Monsieur Dupont, Ludovico, and Annette, who, having embarked at Leghorn and reached Marseille, were from thence crossing the Gulf of Lyon when the storm overtook them. They were received by the Count with his usual benignity, who, though Emily wished to have proceeded immediately to the monastery of St. Clair, would not allow her to leave the chateau that night, and indeed, the terror and fatigue she had suffered would scarcely have permitted her to go farther. In Monsieur Dupont, the Count discovered an old acquaintance, and much joy and congratulations passed between them, after which Emily was introduced by name to the Count's family, whose suspittable benevolence dissipated the little embarrassment which her situation had occasioned her, and the party were soon seated at the supper table. The unaffected kindness of Blanche and the lively joy she expressed on the escape of the strangers for whom her pity had been so much interested, gradually revived Emily's languid spirits, and Dupont, relieved from his terrors for her and for himself, felt the full contrast between his late situation on a dark and tremendous ocean and his present one in a cheerful mansion where he was surrounded with plenty, elegance, and smiles of welcome. Annette, meanwhile, in the servants' hall was telling all of the dangers she had encountered and congratulating herself so heartily upon her own and Ludovico's escape that on her present comforts that she often made all that part of the chateau ring with merry men and laughter. Ludovico's spirits were as gay as her own, but he had discretion enough to restrain them and tried to check hers though in vain, till her laughter at length ascended to my lady's chamber who sent to inquire what occasion so much uproar in the chateau and to command silence. Emily withdrew early to seek the repose she had so much required, but her pillow was long a sleepless one. On this her return to her native country many interesting remembrances were awakened. All the events and sufferings she had experienced since she had quitted it came in long succession to her fancy and were chased only by the image of Valancourt with whom to believe herself once more in the same land after they had been so long and so distantly separated gave her emotions of indescribable joy but which afterwards yielded to anxiety and apprehension when she considered the long period that had elapsed since any letter had passed between them and how much might have happened in this interval to affect her future peace. But the thought that Valancourt might be now no more or if living might have forgotten her was so very terrible to her heart that she would scarcely suffer herself to pause upon the possibility. She determined to inform him on the following day of her arrival in France which it was scarcely possible he could know but by a letter from herself. And after soothing her spirits with the hope of soon hearing that he was well and unchanged in his affections she at length sunk to repose. End of Chapter 11 Reading by Belinda Brown of Indianapolis, Indiana. In Cloyster's Dim far from the haunts of Bali with freedom by my side and soft-eyed melancholy, gray. The Lady Blanche was so much interested for Emily that upon hearing that she was going to reside in the neighboring convent she requested the count would invite her to lengthen her stay at the chateau. And you know, my dear sir, added Blanche, how delighted I shall be with such a companion for at present I have no friend to walk or to read with since Madam Wazel Byrne is my momma's friend only. The count smiled at the youthful simplicity with which his daughter yielded to first impressions. And though he chose to warn her of their danger he silently applauded the benevolence that could thus readily expand in confidence to a stranger. He had observed Emily with attention on the preceding evening and was as much pleased with her as it was possible he could be with any person on so short an acquaintance. The mention made of her by Montseer Dupont had also given him a favorable impression of Emily but extremely cautious as to those whom he introduced to the intimacy of his daughter he determined on hearing that the former was no stranger at the convent of St. Clair to visit the Abbas and if her account corresponded with his wish to invite Emily to pass some time at the chateau. On this subject he was influenced by a consideration of the Lady Blanche's welfare still more than by either a wish to oblige her or to befriend the orphan Emily for whom however he felt considerably interested. On the following morning Emily was too much fatigued to appear but Montseer Dupont was at the breakfast table when the Count entered the room who pressed him as his former acquaintance and the son of a very old friend to prolong his stay at the chateau. An invitation which Dupont willingly accepted since it would allow him to be near Emily and though he was not conscious of encouraging a hope that she would ever return his affection he had not fortitude enough to attempt at present to overcome it. Emily when she was somewhat recovered wandered with her new friend over the grounds belonging to the chateau as much delighted with the surrounding views as Blanche in the benevolence of her heart had wished. From thence she perceived beyond the woods the towers of the monastery and remarked that it was to this convent she designed to go. Ah! said Blanche with surprise. I am but just released from a convent and would you go into one? If you could know what pleasure I feel in wandering here at liberty and in seeing the sky in the fields and the woods all around me I think you would not. Emily smiling at the warmth with which the lady Blanche spoke observed that she did not mean to confine herself to a convent for life. No you may not intended now said Blanche but you do not know to what the nuns may persuade you to consent. I know how kind they will appear and how happy for I have seen too much of their art. When they returned to the chateau Lady Blanche conducted Emily to her favorite turret and from thence they rambled through the ancient chambers which Blanche had visited before. Emily was amused by observing the structure of these apartments and the fashion of their old but still magnificent furniture and by comparing them with those of the castle of Udolfo which were yet more antique and grotesque. She was also interested by Dorothy the housekeeper who attended them whose appearance was almost as antique as the objects around her and who seemed no less interested by Emily on whom she frequently gazed with so much deep attention as scarcely to hear what was said to her. While Emily looked from one of the casements she perceived with surprise some objects that were familiar to her memory the fields and woods with the gleaming brook which she had passed with Lavoisin one evening soon after the death of Monsieur Seynalbert on her way from the monastery to her cottage and she now knew this to be the chateau which he had then avoided and concerning which he had dropped some remarkable hints. Shocked by this discovery yet scarcely knowing why she mused for some time in silence and remembered the emotion which her father had betrayed on finding himself so near this mansion and some other circumstances of his conduct that now greatly interested her. The music too which she had formerly heard and respecting which Lavoisin had given such an odd account occurred to her and desirous of knowing more concerning it she asked Dorothy whether it returned at midnight as usual and whether the musician had yet been discovered. Yes ma'am Zell replied Dorothy that music is still heard but the musician has never been found out nor ever will I believe though there are some people who can guess. Indeed said Emily then why do they not pursue the inquiry? Ah young lady inquiry enough has been made but who can pursue a spirit? Emily smiled and remembering how lately she had suffered herself to be led away by superstition determined now to resist its contagion yet in spite of her efforts she felt ah mingle with her curiosity on this subject and Blanche who had hitherto listened in silence now inquired what this music was and how long it had been heard. Ever since the death of my lady madam replied Dorothy why the place is not haunted surely said Blanche between jesting and seriousness I have heard that music almost ever since my dear lady died continued Dorothy and never before then but that is nothing to some things I could tell of. Do pray tell them then said lady Blanche now more in earnest than in jest I am much interested for I have heard sister Henriette and sister Sophie in the convent tell of such strange appearances which they themselves had witnessed you never heard my lady I suppose what made us leave the chateau and go and live in a cottage said Dorothy never replied Blanche with impatience nor the reason that my lord the Marquis Dorothy checked herself hesitated and then endeavored to change the topic but the curiosity of Blanche was too much awakened to suffer the subject thus easily to escape her and she pressed the old housekeeper to proceed with her account upon whom however no entreaties could prevail and it was evident that she was alarmed for the imprudence into which she had already betrayed herself I perceive said Emily smiling that all old mansions are haunted I am lately come from a place of wonders but unluckily since I left it I have heard almost all of them explained Blanche was silent Dorothy looked grave inside and Emily felt herself still inclined to believe more of the wonderful than she chose to acknowledge just then she remembered the spectacle she had witnessed in a chamber of Udolfo and by an odd kind of coincidence the alarming words that had accidentally met her eye in the manuscript papers which she had destroyed in obedience to the command of her father and she shuddered at the meaning they seemed to impart almost as much as at the horrible appearance disclosed by the black veil the lady Blanche meanwhile unable to prevail with Dorothy to explain the subject of her late hints had desired on reaching the door that terminated the gallery and which she found fastened on the preceding day to see the suite of rooms beyond Dear young lady said the housekeeper I have told you my reason for not opening them I have never seen them since my dear lady died and it would go hard with me to see them now Pray madame do not ask me again Certainly I will not replied Blanche if that is really your objection Alas it is said the old woman we loved her well and I will always grieve for her time runs round it is now many years since she died but I remember everything that happened then as if it was but yesterday many things that have passed of late years are gone quite from my memory while those so long ago I can see as if in a glass she paused but afterwards as they walked up the gallery added to Emily this young lady sometimes brings the late Marchionnés to my mind I can remember when she looked just as blooming and very like her when she smiles poor lady how gay she was when she first came to the chateau and she was not gay afterwards said Blanche Dorothy shook her head and Emily observed her with eyes strongly expressive of the interest she now felt let us sit down in this window said the lady Blanche on reaching the opposite end of the gallery and pray Dorothy if it is not painful to you tell us something more about the Marchionnés I should like to look into the glass you spoke of just now and see a few of the circumstances which you say often pass over it no my lady replied Dorothy if you knew as much as I do you would not for you would find there a dismal train of them I often wish I could shut them out but they will rise to my mind I see my dear lady on her deathbed her very look and remember all she said it was a terrible scene why was it so terrible said Emily with emotion ah dear young lady is not death always terrible replied Dorothy to some further inquiries of Blanche Dorothy was silent and Emily observing the tears in her eyes for bore to urge the subject and endeavored to withdraw the attention of her young friend to some object in the gardens where the Count with the Countess and Montseer du Pont appearing they went down to join them when he perceived Emily he advanced to meet her and presented her to the Countess in a manner so benign that it recalled most powerfully to her mind the idea of her late father and she felt more gratitude to him than embarrassment towards the Countess who however received her with one of those fascinating smiles which her Caprice sometimes allowed her to assume and which was now the result of a conversation the Count had held with her concerning Emily whatever this might be or whatever had passed in his conversation with the Lady Abbas whom he had just visited esteem and kindness were strongly apparent in his manner when he addressed Emily who experienced that sweet emotion which arises from the consciousness of possessing the approbation of the good for to the Count's worth she had been inclined to yield her confidence almost from the first moment in which she had seen him before she could finish her acknowledgements for the hospitality she had received and mention of her design of going immediately to the convent she was interrupted by an invitation to lengthen her stay at the Chateau which was pressed by the Count and the Countess with an appearance of such friendly sincerity that though she much wished to see her old friends at the monastery and to sigh once more over her father's grave she consented to remain a few days at the Chateau to the Abbas however she immediately wrote mentioning her arrival in Languedoc and her wish to be received into the convent as a border she also sent letters to Moisir Quinnell and to Valencourt whom she merely informed of her arrival in France and as she knew not where the latter might be stationed she directed her letter to his brother's seat in Gascony in the evening Lady Blanche and Moisir Dupont walked with Emily to the cottage of Lavoisin which she had now a melancholy pleasure in approaching for time had softened her grief for the loss of St. Albert though it could not annihilate it and she felt a soothing sadness in indulging the recollections which this scene recalled Lavoisin was still living and seemed to enjoy as much as formerly the tranquil evening of a blameless life he was sitting at the door of his cottage watching some of his grandchildren playing on the grass before him and now and then with a laugh or a commendation encouraging their sports he immediately recollected Emily whom he was much pleased to see and she was as rejoiced to hear that he had not lost one of his family since her departure yes memzel said the old man we all live merrily together still thank god and i believe there is not a happier family to be found in Languedoc than ours Emily did not trust herself in the chamber where Saint Albert died and after half an hour's conversation with Lavoisin and his family she left the cottage during these the first days of her stay at Chateau Leblanc she was often affected by observing the deep but silent melancholy which at times stole over Dupont and Emily pitying the self-delusion which disarmed him of the will to depart determined to withdraw herself as soon as the respect she owed the count and countess de Villefort would permit the dejection of his friend soon alarmed the anxiety of the count to whom Dupont at length confided the secret of his hopeless affection which however the former could only commiserate though he secretly determined to befriend his suit if an opportunity of doing so should ever occur considering the dangerous situation of Dupont he but briefly opposed his intention of leaving Chateau Leblanc on the following day but drew from him a promise of a longer visit when he could return with safety to his peace Emily herself though she could not encourage his affection esteemed him both for the many virtues he possessed and for the services she had received from him and it was not without tender emotions of gratitude and pity that she now saw him depart for his family seat in Gascony while he took leave of her with the countenance so expressive of love and grief as to interest the count more warmly in his cause than before in a few days Emily also left the Chateau but not before the count and countess had received her promise to repeat her visit very soon and she was welcomed by the abyss with the same maternal kindness she had formerly experienced and by the nuns with much expression of regard the well-known scenes of the convent occasioned her many melancholy recollections but with these were mingled others that inspired gratitude for having escaped the various dangers that had pursued her since she quitted it and for the good which she yet possessed and though she once more wept over her father's grave with tears of tender affection her grief was softened from its former acuteness some time after her return to the monastery she received a letter from her uncle Monsieur Quenelle in answer to information that she had arrived in France and to her inquiries concerning such of her affairs as he had undertaken to conduct during her absence especially as to the period for which Lavalais had been let whether it was her wish to return if it should appear that her income would permit her to do so the reply of Monsieur Quenelle was cold and formal as she expected expressing neither concern for the evils she suffered nor pleasure that she was now removed from them nor did he allow the opportunity to pass of reproving her for her rejection of Count Morano whom he affected still to believe a man of honor and fortune nor a vehemently disclaiming against Montoni to whom he had always till now felt himself to be inferior on Emily's pecuniary concerns he was not very explicit he informed her however that the term for which Lavalais had been engaged was nearly expired but without inviting her to his own house added that her circumstances would by no means allow her to reside there and earnestly advised her to remain for the present in the convent of Saint Clair to her enquiries respecting poor old Teresa her late father's servant he gave no answer in the post script to his letter Monsieur Quenelle mentioned Monsieur Maudville in whose hands the late Saint Aubert had placed the chief of his personal property as being likely to arrange his affairs nearly to the satisfaction of his creditors and that Emily would recover much more of her fortune than she had formerly reasoned to expect the letter also enclosed to Emily in order upon a merchant in Narbonne for a small sum of money the tranquility of the monastery and the liberty she was suffered to enjoy in wandering among the woods and shores of this delightful province gradually restored her spirits to their natural tone except that anxiety would sometimes intrude concerning Balancourt as the time approached when it was possible that she might receive an answer to her letter end of volume three chapter twelve volume three chapter thirteen a of the mysteries of Adolfo this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Missy Guangzhou China the mysteries of Adolfo by Ann Radcliffe volume three chapter thirteen as when a wave that from a cloud impen and swelled with tempest on the ship descends white are the decks with foam the winds allowed howl or the mass and sing through every shroud pale trembling tired the sailors freeze with fears and instant death on every wave appears popes Homer the lady Blanche meanwhile who was left much alone became impatient for the company of her new friend whom she wished to observe sharing in the delight she received from the beautiful scenery around she had now no person to whom she could express her admiration and communicate her pleasures no eye that sparkle to her smile or countenance that reflected her happiness and she became spiritless and pensive the count observing her dissatisfaction readily yielded to her entreaties and reminded Emily of her promised visit but the silence of Balancourt which was now prolonged far beyond the period when a letter might have arrived from estuviere oppressed Emily with severe anxiety and rendering her averse to society she would willingly have deferred her acceptance of this invitation till her spirits should be relieved the count and his family however pressed to see her and as the circumstances that prompted her wish for solitude could not be explained there was an appearance of caprice in her refusal which she could not persevere in without offending the friends whose esteem she valued at length therefore she returned upon a second visit to Chateau Le Blanc here the friendly manner of Count de Villeport encouraged Emily to mention to him her situation respecting the estates of her late aunt and to consult him on the means of recovering them he had little doubt that the law would decide in her favor and advising her to apply to it offered first to write to an advocate at Avignon on whose opinion he thought he could rely his kindness was gratefully accepted by Emily who soothed by the courtesy she daily experienced would have been once more happy could she have been assured of Valencor's welfare and unaltered affection she had now been above a week at the Chateau without receiving intelligence of him and though she knew that if he was absent from his brother's residence it was scarcely probable her letter had yet reached him she could not forbear to admit doubt and fears that destroyed her peace again she would consider of all that might have happened in the long period since her first seclusion at Adolfo and her mind was sometimes so overwhelmed with an apprehension that Valencor was no more or that he lived no longer for her that the company even of Blanche became intolerably oppressive and she would sit alone in her apartment for hours together when the engagements of the family allowed her to do so without incivility in one of these solitary hours she unlocked a little box which contained some letters of Valencor with some drawings she had sketched during her stay in Tuscany the letter of which were no longer interesting to her but in the letters she now with melancholy indulgence meant to retrace the tenderness that had so often soothed her and rendered her for a moment insensible of the distance which separated her from the rider but their effect was now changed the affection they expressed appealed so forcibly to her heart when she considered that it had perhaps yielded to the powers of time and absence and even the view of the handwriting recalled so many painful recollections that she found herself unable to go through the first she had opened and sat musing with her cheek resting on her arm and tears stealing from her eyes when old Dorothy entered the room to inform her that dinner would be ready an hour before the usual time Emily started on perceiving her and hastily put up the papers but not before Dorothy had observed both her agitation and her tears ah ma'am's elves said she you who are so young have you reasoned for sorrow Emily tried to smile but was unable to speak a last dear young lady when you come to my age you will not weep at trifles and surely you have nothing serious to grieve you now old Dorothy nothing of any consequence replied Emily Dorothy now stooping to pick up something that had dropped from among the papers suddenly exclaimed holy Mary what is it that I see and then trembling sat down in a chair that stood by the table what is it you do see said Emily alarmed by her manner and looking around the room it is herself said Dorothy her very self just as she looked a little before she died Emily still more alarmed began now to fear that Dorothy was seized with sudden frenzy but entreated her to explain herself that picture said she where did you find it lady it is my blessed mistress herself she laid on the table the miniature which Emily had long ago found among the papers her father had enjoined her to destroy and over which she had once seen him shed such tender and affecting tears and recollecting all the various circumstances of his conduct that had long perplexed her her emotions increased to an excess which deprived her of all power to ask the questions she trembled to have answered and she could only inquire whether Dorothy was certain the picture resembled the late Marchion asked oh ma'am Zell said she how come it just dragged me so the instant I saw it if it was not my lady's likeness ah added she taking up the miniature these are her own blue eyes looking so sweet and so mild and there is her very look such as I have often seen it when she had sat thinking for a long while and then the tears would often steal down her cheeks but she never would complain it was that looks so meek as it were and resigned that used to break my heart and make me love herself Dorothy said Emily solemnly I am interested in the cause of that grief more so perhaps than you may imagine and I entreat that you will no longer refuse to indulge my curiosity it is not a common one as Emily said this she remembered the papers with which the picture had been found and had scarcely a doubt that they had concerned the Marchioness to Villaroy but with this supposition came a scruple whether she ought to inquire further on a subject which might prove to be the same that her father had so carefully endeavored to conceal her curiosity concerning the Marchioness powerful as it was it is probable she would now have resisted as she had formally done on unwarily observing the few terrible words in the papers which had never since been erased from her memory had she been certain that the history of that lady was the subject of those papers or that such simple particulars only as it was probable Dorothy could relate were included in her father's command what was known to her could be no secret to many other persons and since it appeared very unlikely that Saint-Obera should attempt to conceal what Emily might learn by ordinary means she at length concluded that if the papers had related to the story of the Marchioness it was not those circumstances of it which Dorothy could disclose that he had thought sufficiently important to wish to have concealed she therefore no longer hesitated to make the inquiries that might lead to the gratification of her curiosity on themselves the Dorothy it is a sad story and cannot be told now but what am I saying I never will tell it many years have passed since it happened and I never love to talk of the Marchioness to anybody but my husband he lived in the family at that time as well as myself and he knew many particulars for me which nobody else did for I was about the person of my lady in her last illness and saw and heard as much or more than my Lord himself sweet faint how patient she was when she died I thought I could have died with her Dorothy said Emily interrupting her what you shall tell you may depend upon it shall never be disclosed by me I have I repeat it particular reasons for wishing to be informed on this subject and I'm willing to buy myself in the most solemn manner never to mention what you shall wish me to conceal Dorothy seems surprised at the earnestness of Emily's manner and after regarding her for some moments in silence said young lady that look of yours pleads for you it is so like my dear mistress says that I can almost fancy I see her before me if you were her daughter you could not remind me of her more but dinner will be ready had you not better go down you will first promise to grant my request but Emily and ought not you first to tell me ma'am's well how this picture fell into your hand and the reason you say you have for curiosity about my lady why no Dorothy replied Emily recollecting herself I have also particular reasons for observing silence on these subjects at least till I know further and remember I do not promise ever to speak upon them therefore do not let me induce you to satisfy my curiosity from an expectation that I shall gratify your what I may judge proper to conceal does not concern myself alone or I should have less scruple in revealing it let a confidence in my honor alone persuade you to disclose what I request well lady replied Dorothy after a long cause during which her eyes were fixed upon Emily you seem so much interested and this picture and that face of yours make me think you have some reason to be so that I will trust you and tell some things that I never told before to anybody but my husband though there are people who have suspected as much I will tell you the particulars of my lady's death too and some of my own suspicions but you must first promise me by all the saints Emily interrupting her solemnly promise never to reveal what should be confided to her without Dorothy's consent but there is the hormone cell sounding for dinner said Dorothy I must be gone when shall I see you again inquired Emily Dorothy mused and then replied my madam it may make people curious if it is no I am so much in your apartment and that I should be sorry for so I will come when I'm least likely to be observed I have little leisure in the day and I shall have a good deal to say so if you please ma'am I will come when the family are all in bed that will suit me very well replied Emily remember then tonight I that is well remembered said Dorothy I fear I cannot come tonight madam for there will be the dance of the vintage and it will be late before the servants go to rest for when they once set into dance they will keep it up in the cool of the air till morning at least it used to be so in my time eyes at the dance of the vintage said Emily with a deep sigh remembering that it was on the evening of this festival in the preceding year that Saint Aubert and herself had arrived in the neighborhood of Chateau Leblanc she paused a moment overcome by the sudden recollection and then recovering herself added but this dance is in the open woods you therefore will not be wanted and can easily come to me Dorothy replied that she had been accustomed to be present at the dance of the vintage and she did not wish to be absent now but if I can get away madam I will said she Emily then hastened to the dining room where the count conducted himself with the courtesy which is inseparable from true dignity and of which the countess frequently practiced little though her manner to Emily was an exception to her usual habit but if she retained few of the ornamental virtues she cherished other qualities which she seemed to consider invaluable she had dismissed the grace of modesty but then she knew perfectly well how to manage the stare of assurance her manners had little of the tempered sweetness which is necessary to render the female character interesting but she could occasionally throw into them an affectation of spirits which seemed to triumph over every person who approached her in the country however she generally affected an elegant langer that persuaded her almost to faint when her favorite read to her a story of fictitious sorrow but her countenance suffered no change when living objects of distress solicited her charity and her heart beat with no transport to the thought of giving them instant relief she was a stranger to the highest luxury of which perhaps the human mind can be sensible for her benevolence had never yet called smiles upon the face of misery in the evening the count with all his family except the countess and mademoiselle baron went to the woods to witness the festivity of the peasant the scene was in a glade where the trees opening formed a circle around the turf they highly overshadowed between their branches vines loaded with ripe clusters were hung in gay festoons and beneath were tables with fruit wine cheese and other rural fare and seats for the counten his family at a little distance were benches for the elder peasants few of whom however could forbear to join the jocun dance which began soon after sunset when several of 60 tripped it with almost as much glee and airy lightness as those of 16 the musicians who sat carelessly on the grass at the foot of a tree seemed inspired by the sound of their own instruments which were chiefly flutes and a kind of long guitar behind stood a boy flourishing a tambourine and dancing a solo except that is he sometimes gaily tossed the instrument he tripped among the other dancers when his antichesters called forth a broader laugh and heightened the rustic spirit of the scene the count was highly delighted with the happiness he witnessed to which his bounty had largely contributed and the lady blanche joined the dance with a young gentleman of her father's party dupont requested emily's hand but her spirits were too much depressed to permit her to engage in the present festivity which called to her remembrance that of the preceding year when sanno bear was living and of the melancholy scenes which had immediately followed it overcome by these recollections she at length left the spot and walked slowly into the woods where the softened music floating at a distance soothed her melancholy mind the moon threw a mellow light among the foliage the air was balmy and cool and emily lost in thought strolled on without observing with her till she perceived the sound sinking a far off and an awful stillness round her except that sometimes the nightingale beguiled the silence with liquid notes that close the eye of day at length she found herself near the avenue which on the night of her father's arrival michael had attempted to pass in search of a house which was still nearly as wild and desolate as it had then appeared for the count had been so much engaged in directing other improvements that he had neglected to give orders concerning this extensive approach and the road was yet broken and the trees overloaded with their own luxuriance as she stood surveying it and remembering the emotions which she had formally suffered there she suddenly recollected the figure that had been stealing among the trees and which had returned no answer to michael's repeated calls and she experienced somewhat of the fear that had then assailed her for it did not appear improbable that these deep woods were occasionally the haunt of benditty she therefore turned back and was hastily pursuing her way to the dancers when she heard steps approaching from the avenue and being still beyond the call of the peasants on the green for she could neither hear their voices or their music she quickened her pace but the persons following gained fast upon her and at length distinguishing the voice of henry she walked leisurely till he came up he expressed some surprise at meeting her so far from the company and on her saying that the pleasant moonlight had beguiled her to walk farther than she intended an exclamation burst from the lips of his companion and she thought she heard valencor speak it was indeed he and the meeting was such as maybe imagined between persons so affectionate and so long separated as they had been in the joy of these moments emily forgot all her past sufferings and valencor seemed to have forgotten that any person but emily existed while henry was silent and astonished spectator of the scene valencor asked a thousand questions concerning herself and montoni which there was now no time to answer but she learned that her letter had been forwarded to him at paris which he had previously quitted and was returning to gascony whether the letter also returned which at length informed him of emily's arrival and on the receipt of which he had immediately set out for lengua doc on reaching the monastery when she had dated her letter he found to his extreme disappointment that the gates were already closed for the night and believing that he should not see emily till the morrow he was returning to his little inn with the intention of writing to her when he was overtaken by henry with whom he had been intimate at paris and was led to her whom he was secretly lamenting that he should not see till the following day emily with valencor and henry now returned to the green where the latter presented valencor to the count who she fancied received him with less than his usual big dignity though it appeared that they were not strangers to each other he was invited however to partake of the diversions of the evening and when he had paid his respects to the count and while the dancers continued their festivity he seated himself by emily and conversed without restraint the lights which were hung among the trees under which they sat allowed her a more perfect view of the countenance she had so frequently in absence endeavored to recollect and she perceived with some regret that it was not the same as when last she saw it there was all its wanted intelligence and fire but it had lost much of the simplicity and somewhat of the open benevolence that used to characterize it still however it was an interesting countenance but emily thought that she perceived at intervals anxiety contract and melancholy fix the features of valencor sometimes too he fell into a momentary musing and then appeared anxious to dissipate thought while at others as he fixed his eyes on emily a kind of sudden distraction seemed to cross his mind in her he perceived the same goodness and beautiful simplicity that had charmed him on their first acquaintance the bloom of her countenance was somewhat faded but all its sweetness remained and it was rendered more interesting than ever by the faint expression of melancholy that sometimes mingled with her smile at his request she related the most important circumstances that had occurred to her since she left france and emotions of pity and indignation alternately prevailed in his mind when he heard how much she had suffered from the villainy of montoni more than once when she was speaking of his conduct of which the guilt was rather softened than exaggerated by her representation he started from his seat and walked away apparently overcome as much by self accusation as by resentment her sufferings alone were mentioned in the few words which he could address to her and he listened not to the account which she was careful to give as distinctly as possible of the present loss of madam montoni's estate and of the little reason there was to expect their restoration at length valencor seemed lost in thought and then some secret cause seemed to overcome him with anguish again he abruptly left her when he returned she perceived that he had been weeping and tenderly begged that he would compose himself my sufferings are all past now said she for I've escaped from the tyranny of montoni and I see you well let me also see you happy valencor was more agitated than before I am unworthy of you Emily said he I am unworthy of you words by his manner of uttering which Emily was then more shocked than by their import she fixed on him a mournful and inquiring eye do not look thus on me said he turning away and pressing her hand I cannot bear those looks I would ask said Emily in a gentle but agitated voice the meaning of your word but I perceive that the question would distress you now let us talk on other subjects tomorrow perhaps you may be more composed observe those moonlight woods and the towers which appear obscurely in the perspective you used to be a great admirer of landscape and I've heard you say that the faculty of deriving consolation under misfortune from the sublime prospects which neither oppression or poverty withhold from us was the peculiar blessing of the innocent valencor was deeply affected yes replied he I had once a taste for innocent and elegant delight I had once an uncorrupted heart then checking himself he added do you remember our journey together in the Pyrenees can I forget it said Emily would that I could he replied that was the happiest period of my life I then loved with enthusiasm whatever was truly great or good it was some time before Emily could repress her tears and try to command her emotions if you wish to forget that journey said she it must certainly be my wish to forget it also she paused and then added you make me very uneasy but this is not the time for further inquiry yet how can I bear to believe even for a moment that you are less worthy of my esteem than formerly I have still sufficient confidence in your candor to believe that when I shall ask for an explanation you will give it to me yes said valencor yes Emily I have not yet lost my candor if I had I could better have disguised my emotions on learning what were your suffering your virtues will I but I will say no more I did not mean to have said even so much I've been surprised into the self accusation tell me Emily that you will not forget that journey will not wish to forget it and I will be calm I would not lose the remembrance of it for the whole earth how contradictory is this said Emily but we may be overheard my recollection of it shall depend upon yours I will endeavor to forget or to recollect it as you may do let us join the count tell me first said valencor that you forgive the uneasiness I have occasioned you this evening and that you will still love me I sincerely forgive you replied Emily you best know whether I shall continue to love you for you know whether you deserve my esteem at present I will believe that you do it is unnecessary to say added she observing his dejection how much pain it would give me to believe otherwise the only who approaches is the count's daughter valencor and Emily now join the lady blanche and the party soon after sat down with the count his son and the shoveled out of pond at a banquet spread under a gay awning beneath the tree at the table also receded several of the most venerable of the count's tenants and it was a festive repasse to all but valencor and Emily when the count retired to the chateau he did not invite valencor to accompany him who therefore took leave of Emily and retired to his solitary in for the night meanwhile she soon withdrew to her own apartment where she news with deep anxiety and concern on his behavior and on the count's reception of him her attention was thus so wholly engaged that she forgot dorthy and her appointment till morning was far advanced when knowing that the good old woman would not come she retired for a few hours to repose end of volume three chapter thirteen part eight