What would life be without its varieties?

I forget where I have met with it—whether in the works of Kant and his disciples, or in the thoughts and imaginations attributed to Zoroaster, or in some of the lucubrations of Plato, or in the fragments of Epicurus, whose doubtful philosophy has left the world at war as to his tendency towards good or evil, virtue or vice: certainly it was not in Pyrrho, who had nothing good in him, or in Confucius, the great teacher of the tea-growing nation—I forget where I have met with it; but among the many speculations, wise and foolish, learned and ignorant, fanciful and earthly, with which we children of the lower sphere from time to time have amused ourselves, sometimes reverently, sometimes impiously, sometimes with humility, sometimes audaciously, there is to be found a theory—perhaps it merely deserves the name of an hypothesis—which attributes to the Deity, almost as an attribute, but, at all events, as a necessity, the endless variety of creations, and a satisfaction, if we may use the term, in viewing the infinite multiplicity of his own works.

Without presuming, however, to raise our eyes to scan things that are hidden from us, or to reason upon any attributes of God except such as he has deigned to reveal to us; without daring to lay down limits to infinity, or, like the stupid idolaters of ancient times, the Greek and Roman inventors of the most barbarous worship that ever, perhaps, was devised, who, after making to themselves gods, and clothing those gods with all the most infamous of human passions, ended by enchaining their very deities themselves, under the law of a necessity which bound all things, and left Godhead as impotent as humanity; without such audacity or such foolishness, we may well look round upon the universe exposed to our eyes, and, seeing that God has been pleased to render his creations infinite, we may at least feel certain that the varieties which he has displayed are in themselves excellent and beautiful, each deriving propriety from the other, and all forming a grand scheme in which the diversity of the parts is only one admirable feature. Our own eyes and our own senses, our own hearts and our own feelings, convince us of it every moment; and, from the glorious mountain to the minute blade of grass which grows by its side, from the boundless ocean to the small, bright, glistening drop that dashes in spray upon the rocks that bound it, every variety contributes visibly to our delight, and to the beauty of the wonderful scene in which we dwell.

Variety, then, forms a part of enjoyment; but let it not be supposed that the admission of this fact—derived, as we derive it, from the works of God himself—can ever have a tendency to produce evil, to generate the licentious desire of multiplying and changing pleasures, or to create the fickle and fluttering inconstancy which ranges dissatisfied from object to object. In the works of God, though the varieties be infinite, and the contrasts sometimes immense, there is still a general and beautiful harmony, a fine and exact adaptation of every part to the other. Each change and each variation has its end and object, each step has its purpose, and each contrast ends in some grand result.

By the same rules, however, must the search for variety be guided, as the condition of producing happiness. Means of varying our pleasures, almost to infinity, have been given us by the Almighty, within the limits which he has himself assigned to us. The enjoyment of His own works, the contemplation of His goodness, the devotion to His service, were alone sufficient, were man rightly wise, to afford more varied exercise to the human mind than would fill many a long life, even if the Almighty had not loaded our pathway with opportunities of a thousand other gratifications, innocent in themselves, and endless in their combinations. In fact, the variety which we seek in our way through life must be framed, not partially, but entirely, upon the model of that which we see in creation. Each new endeavour, each alteration of pursuit, must have its high object, and in itself be good; and, as we and our existence are but parts of a great system, so must each change be part of the great system of our life.

In an humbler and in a lesser way, he who sits down to tell a tale—intended not alone to while away an idle hour for himself or for others, but also to do some good while it amuses—may well indulge in following every work of nature, and every page in the book of human life, and change the scene continually, varying the characters, the personages, the events which he depicts; but he must also bear in mind that each is a part of one general scheme, each tends to one particular and distinct object.

From the court of France and the gay scenes of the capital we must once more travel back to the rugged mountain passes among which our tale began, and to those in whose fate, to say sooth, we are the most interested. Although we are ourselves somewhat anxious to discover what has become of the fair Isabel of Brienne—how her escape has been effected—where she is now wandering—how she is guided, guarded, and protected—we must, nevertheless—though we suspect that her path was dangerous, thorny, and sorrowful—return to Baron de Rohan, and leave him no longer upon the side of the mountain.

The young cavalier rode on, accompanied by Corse de Leon, with as much speed as the rough and tortuous nature of the road would admit. The men who brought the horses followed quickly after; and, in about twenty minutes, they reached the spot in the valley where the two roads divided, which we have already mentioned more than once. Here Corse de Leon was about to proceed at the same pace up the shorter road, leaving upon the left hand that by which, upon a former night, he had brought back Isabel de Brienne to the castle of Masseran. One of his followers, however, instantly shouted to him: "Ho! signior, ho! you cannot go by that road except on foot. It was that which kept us so long. The stream is swelled, and the bridge is gone again, and we were obliged to come round the other way."

"The stream swelled!" said Corse de Leon, in a thoughtful tone. "There must be something going on farther up in the mountains. The snows must be melting, or some glacier breaking up! However, let us go on by this other road. One of you remain here and see if we are followed," he continued, turning to the men behind him; "let the other go down to the cross, and tell Pinchesne and the rest to come over the hill. Let them leave one or two in the valley in case they should be wanted. Now let us on!" and he rode forward more slowly than before, though the left-hand road which he pursued was the longer of the two. He seemed, however, in one of those moody fits during which bitter memories continually mingled with a natural current of powerful abstract thoughts, changing their character from the calm reasoning of a man of acute and high-toned mind and intelligence, to morose and misanthropical ponderings, wherein all the images were gloomy and harsh. At such times his whole conduct and demeanour varied according to the mood of the moment: even his corporeal gestures, the quickness or slowness of his pace, as well as his look and his tone of voice, were all affected by what passed in his mind. When on his guard, indeed, no one was more deliberate, thoughtful, and measured, in every look, word, and gesture; but that was a matter of habit and acquired self-command. By nature he was one of those whose whole corporeal frame is, as it were unconsciously, the quick and ready slave of the spirit.

A change had come over him since they had mounted their horses, and such was, in reality, the secret of his riding more slowly. He might be actuated, indeed, in some degree, by consideration for the animal on which he was mounted; for the way, as we have before said, was nearly two leagues longer, and the night was excessively hot and oppressive, so that the white foam was already about the horse's neck and bridle. The sky was clear of all clouds, however, and the stars were shining bright, though they seemed smaller and farther off than usual. As they turned, the distant pointed summit of an icy mountain was seen towering over one of the passes, white and glittering in the starlight, while around it, without any visible clouds, there played occasionally bright coruscations as of faint summer lightning. For some way Corse de Leon did not speak; but at length he said, putting his hand to his brow, "Were there any clouds in the sky, I should think there would be a storm to-night. It seldom happens that the elements, as is the case with human life, give us storms without clouds. We have generally some warning of the tempest."

"There is a moaning sound in the hills," said Bernard de Rohan, "and yet I feel no wind. But do you not think," he continued, reverting to what his companion had said, "do you not think that it generally happens in human life we have some forewarning of the storms that befall us?"

"Not from external things," replied Corse de Leon, "not from external things. Often, often without the slightest cause to fear a change, suddenly a thousand adverse circumstances combine to overwhelm us. It is true, indeed it is true, that there may be other indications of a different kind."

"Ay," answered Bernard de Rohan, "that is what I mean. Do you not think that when we have no external omens of what is coming—when no cloud blackens the sky—when no red sun announces the tempest of the following day—do you not think that even then, within us, there may be a warning voice which tells us of the storm that we see not, and bids us seek some shelter from its fury?"

"Like that low murmuring that we hear even now," said Corse de Leon.

"I remember," continued Bernard de Rohan, without marking his words particularly, "that, not many days ago, as I was crossing the mountains to come hither, a fit of gloom fell upon me: I knew not why; for all was bright and cheerful in the prospect before me. I could not shake it off for some time; and in vain I tried to scoff at my own feelings. They would have way: I felt as if some misfortunes were about to befall me; and, though not one of all the things which have since occurred could by any chance have been divined at the time, yet you see that misfortunes did assail me even within a few days."

"Do you call these misfortunes?" demanded Corse de Leon. "You are younger in heart than I even thought you were. But what you say is worthy of memory; if what you felt were really a presentiment of coming evils, take my word for it, they are scarcely yet begun: you will want watching and assistance," he added, thoughtfully; "you will need aid and help with a strong hand; I have not forgotten my promise, and I will keep it. But quick, let us ride on! Our horses feel that there is something coming, and I would fain reach Gandelot's inn before it comes."

"I should suppose," replied Bernard de Rohan, "that it offers very inefficient shelter. It is built so completely at the foot of the mountain, that I wonder the snows in winter do not overwhelm it."

"It has twice been crushed under an avalanche," replied his companion, "and they still build it up again on the same spot; but what the house has to fear is as much the water as the snow; and it is because it is no place of shelter that I would fain be there."

Bernard de Rohan understood him in a moment; and the thought of Isabel de Brienne was quite sufficient to make him spur on eagerly. About half a league farther, the road turned a projection of the mountain, and, shortly after they had passed the angle of the rock, the spray of a cataract dashed in their faces, while an immense volume of water rushed furiously down from a spot some hundred yards above them, looking in that dim hour like some vast giant robed in white and leaning against the mountain. The torrent itself gushed across the road, and Bernard de Rohan turned his eyes upon his companion, not recollecting such an obstruction in their way.

"Some four or five hours ago," said Corse de Leon, "when I passed by that spot, there was scarcely water enough to quench the thirst of a wolf, and now it is a torrent. There is some great commotion above there. But perhaps it is all past, and these may be the results. We must try and force our horses through, however; keep as close to the face of the rock as possible."

So saying, he spurred on; but it was with the greatest difficulty that either he or his companion compelled their horses to make the attempt to pass the torrent. The pattering of the spray and the roaring of the stream terrified and bewildered them; and when, at length, urged forward, partly by chiding, partly by gentleness, they did dash on, the animals bore their riders through the midst of the current, where the ground was rough and insecure. Twice the charger which bore Bernard de Rohan stumbled, and nearly fell, and twice, though drenched with the pouring of the water on his head, and gasping for breath under the rushing weight upon him, he aided the horse up with heel and hand till he reached the other side and stood on firm ground.

Wellnigh stunned and bewildered, he turned to look for Corse de Leon. The brigand was standing beside him dismounted from the horse, and holding the animal by the rein with one hand, while he raised the other towards the sky with a look of eager, yet solemn attention. The next instant he grasped the young cavalier's hand, exclaiming, "Stir not a step! It is coming, it is coming! Now, as ever, we stand in God's good will to live or die; but death is very near us."

At the same moment there came a roar as of distant cannon; many shot off at once; then a murmuring pause; then a roar again; and, as it came on, the deafening sound of the thunder itself would have been as nothing to the terrific rushing noise that echoed through the hollow valleys. It seemed as if a thousand sounds were mingled; for the howling of the wind still continued, as if imitating the screams and wailing of people in pain; while the crash of rocks falling upon rocks, and of the stout trees of the forest rent into shivers, and of rolling masses of earth and snow, crags and cliffs, with one half the mountain itself, was alone overpowering by the very sound that beat upon the ear, even had it not been accompanied by an awful pressure of the air which took away the breath, and a sense of coming annihilation which seemed to check the beating of the heart even before death had stilled it with his icy hand.

There was time for but one short prayer to Him on high, and one thought of her he loved, before the crumbling ruin came down into the valley, sweeping close, past the very place where Bernard de Rohan stood. Rocks and stones rushed on before it, and one immense mass struck his horse on the knees and chest, threw him backward on his haunches, and beast and rider rolled over the edge into the stream. For an instant he lost his consciousness; and then, waking to life, found himself in the valley below, dashed by the torrent against the rocky banks.

He had been thrown free, however, from the horse; and, though to swim was impossible, from the crags, the trees, the projecting stones, and the fierce struggling of the torrent, yet he contrived to grasp a rugged branch that hung over the water, swung himself to the bank, and sprang upon the land. It was all impulse, for he hardly knew how he found the bough or reached the firm ground. Even when there, he was fain to cast himself down, and press his hands upon his forehead, for everything swam round with him: the earth seemed to shake beneath his feet; and the roar of falling rocks and crags still mingled with the loud voice of the turbulent waters from which he had just escaped. The mightier sound, however, had passed away—that awful rushing noise, unlike anything else on earth—and gradually, the others ceased also, till at length nothing was heard but the flowing of the river, as it foamed and struggled with the obstacles in its course.

When Bernard de Rohan could rise and look around him everything was dark, except where in the sky appeared the twinkling myriads of the night, beginning, he fancied, to look pale at the approach of morning. He listened in the hopes of hearing some voice; but, if there was any, it was drowned in the noise of the waters.

With a thousand painful apprehensions in his heart, with no way of relieving his anxiety, with nothing left but to wait for the return of daylight, he cast himself down again, after having called once or twice aloud upon Corse de Leon without receiving any answer. He could not distinguish whither he had been borne. He could see some large trees still standing near him, and some enormous black masses of rock lifting their heads around. The shadow of the giant mountain, too, rose up before him; but its form seemed changed, and he gazed as if to ascertain in what features it was altered.

Gradually the summit of the hill, warmed into a dusky brown, caught some of the rays of the rising sun, and—while every moment it assumed a brighter hue, till it crowned itself, and decorated the mists which surrounded it with gold—a sober twilight crept into the valley; and Bernard de Rohan found himself standing in the gray morning with a world of ruin and desolation around him, without a trace of road or human habitation, and with the narrow pass along which his way had been bent completely blocked up by the huge masses of the fallen mountain.