“Desolate enough, mademoiselle,” replied La Voisin, “I would not pass one night in the château, for the value of the whole domain.”
“What is that?” said St. Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness. As his host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St. Aubert, and then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastily asked La Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. “Almost from my childhood, sir,” replied his host.
“You remember the late marchioness, then?” said St. Aubert in an altered voice.
“Ah, monsieur!—that I do well. There are many besides me who remember her.”
“Yes—” said St. Aubert, “and I am one of those.”
“Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady. She deserved a better fate.”
Tears stood in St. Aubert’s eyes; “Enough,” said he, in a voice almost stifled by the violence of his emotions,—“it is enough, my friend.”
Emily, though extremely surprised by her father’s manner, forbore to express her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologise, but St. Aubert interrupted him; “Apology is quite unnecessary,” said he, “let us change the topic. You were speaking of the music we just now heard.”
“I was, monsieur—but hark!—it comes again; listen to that voice!” They were all silent;
At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound
Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,
And stole upon the air, that even Silence
Was took ere she was ’ware, and wished she might
Deny her nature, and be never more
Still, to be so displaced.
MILTON.