Blanche, though she wished to see these chambers, forbore, on observing
that Dorothee'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 humour, except the Countess, 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
Bearn, attempting to be witty, directed her badinage 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 margin of the sea; she gazed with apprehension upon
the immense expanse of waters, which, at a distance, she had 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, an emotion of sublimest 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
refreshment 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 a distant boat, echoed
among the rocks, and died along the waves. Blanche had now subdued her
fears; a delightful tranquillity stole 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 humours, 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 passed.