Her sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to the
strain, that had so often charmed her to tranquillity, and she withdrew
from the casement to a remote part of the chamber. But she was not yet
beyond the reach of the music; she heard the measure change, and the
succeeding air called her again to the window, for she immediately
recollected it to be the same she had formerly heard in the
fishing-house in Gascony. Assisted, perhaps, by the mystery, which had
then accompanied this strain, it had made so deep an impression on her
memory, that she had never since entirely forgotten it; and the manner,
in which it was now sung, convinced her, however unaccountable the
circumstances appeared, that this was the same voice she had then
heard.
Surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a thought darted,
like lightning, upon her mind, which discovered a train of hopes, that
revived all her spirits. Yet these hopes were so new, so unexpected,
so astonishing, that she did not dare to trust, though she could not
resolve to discourage them. She sat down by the casement, breathless,
and overcome with the alternate emotions of hope and fear; then rose
again, leaned from the window, that she might catch a nearer sound,
listened, now doubting and then believing, softly exclaimed the name of
Valancourt, and then sunk again into the chair. Yes, it was possible,
that Valancourt was near her, and she recollected circumstances,
which induced her to believe it was his voice she had just heard. She
remembered he had more than once said that the fishing-house, where
she had formerly listened to this voice and air, and where she had seen
pencilled sonnets, addressed to herself, had been his favourite haunt,
before he had been made known to her; there, too, she had herself
unexpectedly met him.
It appeared, from these circumstances, more
than probable, that he was the musician, who had formerly charmed her
attention, and the author of the lines, which had expressed such tender
admiration;--who else, indeed, could it be? She was unable, at
that time, to form a conjecture, as to the writer, but, since
her acquaintance with Valancourt, whenever he had mentioned the
fishing-house to have been known to him, she had not scrupled to believe
that he was the author of the sonnets.
As these considerations passed over her mind, joy, fear and tenderness
contended at her heart; she leaned again from the casement to catch the
sounds, which might confirm, or destroy her hope, though she did
not recollect to have ever heard him sing; but the voice, and the
instrument, now ceased.