CHAPTER XIII

As when a wave, that from a cloud impends,

And, swell’d with tempests, on the ship descends,

White are the decks with foam; the winds aloud,

Howl o’er the masts, and sing through ev’ry shroud:

Pale, trembling, tir’d, the sailors freeze with fears,

And instant death on ev’ry wave appears.

POPE’S 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 sparkled 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 Valancourt, which was now prolonged far beyond the period, when a

letter might have arrived from Estuvière, 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

Château-le-Blanc. Here the friendly manner of Count De Villefort

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 favour,

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 Valancourt’s welfare and unaltered affection. She had now

been above a week at the château, 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 doubts 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 Udolpho, and her mind was

sometimes so overwhelmed with an apprehension, that Valancourt 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 Valancourt, with some drawings she had

sketched, during her stay in Tuscany, the latter 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 writer. 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 hand-writing 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 Dorothée 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 Dorothée had observed both her agitation and her

tears.

“Ah, ma’amselle!” said she, “you, who are so young,—have you reason for

sorrow?”

Emily tried to smile, but was unable to speak.

“Alas! dear young lady, when you come to my age, you will not weep at

trifles; and surely you have nothing serious, to grieve you.”

“No, Dorothée, nothing of any consequence,” replied Emily. Dorothée,

now stooping to pick up something, that had dropped from among the

papers, suddenly exclaimed, “Holy Mary! what is it 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

round the room.

“It is herself,” said Dorothée, “her very self! just as she looked a

little before she died!”

Emily, still more alarmed, began now to fear, that Dorothée 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 enquire, whether Dorothée was certain the picture

resembled the late marchioness.

“O, ma’amselle!” said she, “how came it to strike 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 look so meek,

as it were, and resigned, that used to break my heart and make me love

her so!”

“Dorothée!” 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 de Villeroi; but with this supposition came a scruple,

whether she ought to enquire further on a subject, which might prove to

be the same, that her father had so carefully endeavoured to conceal.

Her curiosity, concerning the Marchioness, powerful as it was, it is

probable she would now have resisted, as she had formerly 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 Dorothée 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 St. Aubert 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 Dorothée could disclose, that he had thought sufficiently

important to wish to have concealed. She, therefore, no longer

hesitated to make the enquiries, that might lead to the gratification

of her curiosity.

“Ah, ma’amselle!” said Dorothée, “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 loved 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 from 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 saint! how

patient she was! When she died, I thought I could have died with her!”

“Dorothée,” 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 am

willing to bind myself, in the most solemn manner, never to mention

what you shall wish me to conceal.”

Dorothée seemed 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’s,

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,” said Emily.

“And ought not you first to tell me, ma’amselle, how this picture fell

into your hands, and the reasons you say you have for curiosity about

my lady?”

“Why, no, Dorothée,” 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 yours. 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 honour alone persuade you to

disclose what I request.”

“Well, lady!” replied Dorothée, after a long pause, 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 promised never to reveal what should

be confided to her, without Dorothée’s consent.

“But there is the horn, ma’amselle, sounding for dinner,” said

Dorothée; “I must be gone.”

“When shall I see you again?” enquired Emily.

Dorothée mused, and then replied, “Why, madam, it may make people

curious, if it is known I am so much in your apartment, and that I

should be sorry for; so I will come when I am 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—”

“Aye, that is well remembered,” said Dorothée, “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 in to

dance, they will keep it up, in the cool of the air, till morning; at

least, it used to be so in my time.”

“Ah! is it 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 St. Aubert and herself had arrived in the

neighbourhood of Château-le-Blanc. 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.”

Dorothée 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 practised 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 languor, that persuaded her almost to

faint, when her favourite 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 Bearn, went to the woods to witness the festivity of the

peasants. The scene was in a glade, where the trees, opening, formed a

circle round 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 Count and his family. At a little distance,

were benches for the elder peasants, few of whom, however, could

forbear to join the jocund dance, which began soon after sunset, when

several of sixty tripped it with almost as much glee and airy

lightness, as those of sixteen.

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 tamborine, and dancing a solo, except that, as he

sometimes gaily tossed the instrument, he tripped among the other

dancers, when his antic gestures 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. Du Pont

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 St. Aubert 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 whither, till she perceived the

sounds sinking afar 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

formerly suffered there, she suddenly recollected the figure, that had

been seen 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 banditti. 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, nor their music, she quickened her pace; but

the persons following gained fast upon her, and, at length,

distinguishing the voice of Henri, 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 Valancourt speak! It was,

indeed, he! and the meeting was such as may be 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

Valancourt seemed to have forgotten, that any person but Emily existed;

while Henri was a silent and astonished spectator of the scene.

Valancourt 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, whither 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 Languedoc. On reaching the monastery,

whence 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 Henri, 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 Valancourt and Henri, now returned to the green, where the

latter presented Valancourt to the Count, who, she fancied, received

him with less than his usual benignity, 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

endeavoured to recollect, and she perceived, with some regret, that it

was not the same as when last she saw it. There was all its wonted

intelligence and fire; but it had lost much of the simplicity, and

somewhat of the open benevolence, that used to characterise it. Still,

however, it was an interesting countenance; but Emily thought she

perceived, at intervals, anxiety contract, and melancholy fix the

features of Valancourt; 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 villany 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

Madame Montoni’s estates, and of the little reason there was to expect

their restoration. At length, Valancourt remained 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 passed now,” said she, “for I have escaped from the

tyranny of Montoni, and I see you well—let me also see you happy.”

Valancourt 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 enquiring 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 words; 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 have heard you say, that the faculty of deriving

consolation, under misfortune, from the sublime prospects, which

neither oppression, nor poverty withhold from us, was the peculiar

blessing of the innocent.” Valancourt was deeply affected. “Yes,”

replied he, “I had once a taste for innocent and elegant delights—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 enquiry;—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 candour, to

believe, that, when I shall ask for an explanation, you will give it

me.”—“Yes,” said Valancourt, “yes, Emily: I have not yet lost my

candour: if I had, I could better have disguised my emotions, on

learning what were your sufferings—your virtues, while I—I—but I will

say no more. I did not mean to have said even so much—I have 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 endeavour to forget,

or to recollect it, as you may do. Let us join the Count.”—“Tell me

first,” said Valancourt, “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 young lady, who approaches, is the Count’s

daughter.”

Valancourt and Emily now joined the Lady Blanche; and the party, soon

after, sat down with the Count, his son, and the Chevalier Du Pont, at

a banquet, spread under a gay awning, beneath the trees. At the table

also were seated several of the most venerable of the Count’s tenants,

and it was a festive repast to all but Valancourt and Emily. When the

Count retired to the château, he did not invite Valancourt to accompany

him, who, therefore, took leave of Emily, and retired to his solitary

inn for the night: meanwhile, she soon withdrew to her own apartment,

where she mused, with deep anxiety and concern, on his behaviour, and

on the Count’s reception of him. Her attention was thus so wholly

engaged, that she forgot Dorothée 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.

On the following day, when the Count had accidentally joined Emily in

one of the walks, they talked of the festival of the preceding evening,

and this led him to a mention of Valancourt. “That is a young man of

talents,” said he; “you were formerly acquainted with him, I perceive.”

Emily said, that she was. “He was introduced to me, at Paris,” said the

Count, “and I was much pleased with him, on our first acquaintance.” He

paused, and Emily trembled, between the desire of hearing more and the

fear of showing the Count, that she felt an interest on the subject.

“May I ask,” said he, at length, “how long you have known Monsieur

Valancourt?”—“Will you allow me to ask your reason for the question,

sir?” said she; “and I will answer it immediately.”—“Certainly,” said

the Count, “that is but just. I will tell you my reason. I cannot but

perceive, that Monsieur Valancourt admires you; in that, however, there

is nothing extraordinary; every person, who sees you, must do the same.

I am above using common-place compliments; I speak with sincerity. What

I fear, is, that he is a favoured admirer.”—“Why do you fear it, sir?”

said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion.—“Because,” replied the

Count, “I think him not worthy of your favour.” Emily, greatly

agitated, entreated further explanation. “I will give it,” said he, “if

you will believe, that nothing but a strong interest in your welfare

could induce me to hazard that assertion.”—“I must believe so, sir,”

replied Emily.

“But let us rest under these trees,” said the Count, observing the

paleness of her countenance; “here is a seat—you are fatigued.” They

sat down, and the Count proceeded. “Many young ladies, circumstanced as

you are, would think my conduct, on this occasion, and on so short an

acquaintance, impertinent, instead of friendly; from what I have

observed of your temper and understanding, I do not fear such a return

from you. Our acquaintance has been short, but long enough to make me

esteem you, and feel a lively interest in your happiness. You deserve

to be very happy, and I trust that you will be so.” Emily sighed

softly, and bowed her thanks. The Count paused again. “I am

unpleasantly circumstanced,” said he; “but an opportunity of rendering

you important service shall overcome inferior considerations. Will you

inform me of the manner of your first acquaintance with the Chevalier

Valancourt, if the subject is not too painful?”

Emily briefly related the accident of their meeting in the presence of

her father, and then so earnestly entreated the Count not to hesitate

in declaring what he knew, that he perceived the violent emotion,

against which she was contending, and, regarding her with a look of

tender compassion, considered how he might communicate his information

with least pain to his anxious auditor.

“The Chevalier and my son,” said he, “were introduced to each other, at

the table of a brother officer, at whose house I also met him, and

invited him to my own, whenever he should be disengaged. I did not then

know, that he had formed an acquaintance with a set of men, a disgrace

to their species, who live by plunder and pass their lives in continual

debauchery. I knew several of the Chevalier’s family, resident at

Paris, and considered them as sufficient pledges for his introduction

to my own. But you are ill; I will leave the subject.”—“No, sir,” said

Emily, “I beg you will proceed: I am only distressed.”—“_Only!_” said

the Count, with emphasis; “however, I will proceed. I soon learned,

that these, his associates, had drawn him into a course of dissipation,

from which he appeared to have neither the power, nor the inclination,

to extricate himself. He lost large sums at the gaming-table; he became

infatuated with play; and was ruined. I spoke tenderly of this to his

friends, who assured me, that they had remonstrated with him, till they

were weary. I afterwards learned, that, in consideration of his talents

for play, which were generally successful, when unopposed by the tricks

of villany,—that in consideration of these, the party had initiated him

into the secrets of their trade, and allotted him a share of their

profits.” “Impossible!” said Emily suddenly; “but—pardon me, sir, I

scarcely know what I say; allow for the distress of my mind. I must,

indeed, I must believe, that you have not been truly informed. The

Chevalier had, doubtless, enemies, who misrepresented him.”—“I should

be most happy to believe so,” replied the Count, “but I cannot. Nothing

short of conviction, and a regard for your happiness, could have urged

me to repeat these unpleasant reports.”

Emily was silent. She recollected Valancourt’s sayings, on the

preceding evening, which discovered the pangs of self-reproach, and

seemed to confirm all that the Count had related. Yet she had not

fortitude enough to dare conviction. Her heart was overwhelmed with

anguish at the mere suspicion of his guilt, and she could not endure a

belief of it. After a silence, the Count said, “I perceive, and can

allow for, your want of conviction. It is necessary I should give some

proof of what I have asserted; but this I cannot do, without subjecting

one, who is very dear to me, to danger.”—“What is the danger you

apprehend, sir?” said Emily; “if I can prevent it, you may safely

confide in my honour.”—“On your honour I am certain I can rely,” said

the Count; “but can I trust your fortitude? Do you think you can resist

the solicitation of a favoured admirer, when he pleads, in affliction,

for the name of one, who has robbed him of a blessing?”—“I shall not be

exposed to such a temptation, sir,” said Emily, with modest pride, “for

I cannot favour one, whom I must no longer esteem. I, however, readily

give my word.” Tears, in the mean time, contradicted her first

assertion; and she felt, that time and effort only could eradicate an

affection, which had been formed on virtuous esteem, and cherished by

habit and difficulty.

“I will trust you then,” said the Count, “for conviction is necessary

to your peace, and cannot, I perceive, be obtained, without this

confidence. My son has too often been an eye-witness of the Chevalier’s

ill conduct; he was very near being drawn in by it; he was, indeed,

drawn in to the commission of many follies, but I rescued him from

guilt and destruction. Judge then, Mademoiselle St. Aubert, whether a

father, who had nearly lost his only son by the example of the

Chevalier, has not, from conviction, reason to warn those, whom he

esteems, against trusting their happiness in such hands. I have myself

seen the Chevalier engaged in deep play with men, whom I almost

shuddered to look upon. If you still doubt, I will refer you to my

son.”

“I must not doubt what you have yourself witnessed,” replied Emily,

sinking with grief, “or what you assert. But the Chevalier has,

perhaps, been drawn only into a transient folly, which he may never

repeat. If you had known the justness of his former principles, you

would allow for my present incredulity.”

“Alas!” observed the Count, “it is difficult to believe that, which

will make us wretched. But I will not sooth you by flattering and false

hopes. We all know how fascinating the vice of gaming is, and how

difficult it is, also, to conquer habits; the Chevalier might, perhaps,

reform for a while, but he would soon relapse into dissipation—for I

fear, not only the bonds of habit would be powerful, but that his

morals are corrupted. And—why should I conceal from you, that play is

not his only vice? he appears to have a taste for every vicious

pleasure.”

The Count hesitated and paused; while Emily endeavoured to support

herself, as, with increasing perturbation, she expected what he might

further say. A long pause of silence ensued, during which he was

visibly agitated; at length, he said, “It would be a cruel delicacy,

that could prevail with me to be silent—and I will inform you, that the

Chevalier’s extravagance has brought him twice into the prisons of

Paris, from whence he was last extricated, as I was told upon

authority, which I cannot doubt, by a well-known Parisian Countess,

with whom he continued to reside, when I left Paris.”

He paused again; and, looking at Emily, perceived her countenance

change, and that she was falling from the seat; he caught her, but she

had fainted, and he called loudly for assistance. They were, however,

beyond the hearing of his servants at the château, and he feared to

leave her while he went thither for assistance, yet knew not how

otherwise to obtain it; till a fountain at no great distance caught his

eye, and he endeavoured to support Emily against the tree, under which

she had been sitting, while he went thither for water. But again he was

perplexed, for he had nothing near him, in which water could be

brought; but while, with increased anxiety, he watched her, he thought

he perceived in her countenance symptoms of returning life.

It was long, however, before she revived, and then she found herself

supported—not by the Count, but by Valancourt, who was observing her

with looks of earnest apprehension, and who now spoke to her in a tone,

tremulous with his anxiety. At the sound of his well-known voice, she

raised her eyes, but presently closed them, and a faintness again came

over her.

The Count, with a look somewhat stern, waved him to withdraw; but he

only sighed heavily, and called on the name of Emily, as he again held

the water, that had been brought, to her lips. On the Count’s repeating

his action, and accompanying it with words, Valancourt answered him

with a look of deep resentment, and refused to leave the place, till

she should revive, or to resign her for a moment to the care of any

person. In the next instant, his conscience seemed to inform him of

what had been the subject of the Count’s conversation with Emily, and

indignation flashed in his eyes; but it was quickly repressed, and

succeeded by an expression of serious anguish, that induced the Count

to regard him with more pity than resentment, and the view of which so

much affected Emily, when she again revived, that she yielded to the

weakness of tears. But she soon restrained them, and, exerting her

resolution to appear recovered, she rose, thanked the Count and Henri,

with whom Valancourt had entered the garden, for their care, and moved

towards the château, without noticing Valancourt, who, heart-struck by

her manner, exclaimed in a low voice—“Good God! how have I deserved

this?—what has been said, to occasion this change?”

Emily, without replying, but with increased emotion, quickened her

steps. “What has thus disordered you, Emily?” said he, as he still

walked by her side: “give me a few moments’ conversation, I entreat

you;—I am very miserable!”

Though this was spoken in a low voice, it was overheard by the Count,

who immediately replied, that Mademoiselle St. Aubert was then too much

indisposed, to attend to any conversation, but that he would venture to

promise she would see Monsieur Valancourt on the morrow, if she was

better.

Valancourt’s cheek was crimsoned: he looked haughtily at the Count, and

then at Emily, with successive expressions of surprise, grief and

supplication, which she could neither misunderstand, nor resist, and

she said languidly—“I shall be better tomorrow, and if you wish to

accept the Count’s permission, I will see you then.”

“See me!” exclaimed Valancourt, as he threw a glance of mingled pride

and resentment upon the Count; and then, seeming to recollect himself,

he added—“But I will come, madam; I will accept the Count’s

_permission_.”

When they reached the door of the château, he lingered a moment, for

his resentment was now fled; and then, with a look so expressive of

tenderness and grief, that Emily’s heart was not proof against it, he

bade her good morning, and, bowing slightly to the Count, disappeared.

Emily withdrew to her own apartment, under such oppression of heart as

she had seldom known, when she endeavoured to recollect all that the

Count had told, to examine the probability of the circumstances he

himself believed, and to consider of her future conduct towards

Valancourt. But, when she attempted to think, her mind refused control,

and she could only feel that she was miserable. One moment, she sunk

under the conviction, that Valancourt was no longer the same, whom she

had so tenderly loved, the idea of whom had hitherto supported her

under affliction, and cheered her with the hope of happier days,—but a

fallen, a worthless character, whom she must teach herself to

despise—if she could not forget. Then, unable to endure this terrible

supposition, she rejected it, and disdained to believe him capable of

conduct, such as the Count had described, to whom she believed he had

been misrepresented by some artful enemy; and there were moments, when

she even ventured to doubt the integrity of the Count himself, and to

suspect, that he was influenced by some selfish motive, to break her

connection with Valancourt. But this was the error of an instant, only;

the Count’s character, which she had heard spoken of by Du Pont and

many other persons, and had herself observed, enabled her to judge, and

forbade the supposition; had her confidence, indeed, been less, there

appeared to be no temptation to betray him into conduct so treacherous,

and so cruel. Nor did reflection suffer her to preserve the hope, that

Valancourt had been mis-represented to the Count, who had said, that he

spoke chiefly from his own observation, and from his son’s experience.

She must part from Valancourt, therefore, for ever—for what of either

happiness or tranquillity could she expect with a man, whose tastes

were degenerated into low inclinations, and to whom vice was become

habitual? whom she must no longer esteem, though the remembrance of

what he once was, and the long habit of loving him, would render it

very difficult for her to despise him. “O Valancourt!” she would

exclaim, “having been separated so long—do we meet, only to be

miserable—only to part for ever?”

Amidst all the tumult of her mind, she remembered pertinaciously the

seeming candour and simplicity of his conduct, on the preceding night;

and, had she dared to trust her own heart, it would have led her to

hope much from this. Still she could not resolve to dismiss him for

ever, without obtaining further proof of his ill conduct; yet she saw

no probability of procuring it, if, indeed, proof more positive was

possible. Something, however, it was necessary to decide upon, and she

almost determined to be guided in her opinion solely by the manner,

with which Valancourt should receive her hints concerning his late

conduct.

Thus passed the hours till dinner-time, when Emily, struggling against

the pressure of her grief, dried her tears, and joined the family at

table, where the Count preserved towards her the most delicate

attention; but the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, having looked, for

a moment, with surprise, on her dejected countenance, began, as usual,

to talk of trifles, while the eyes of Lady Blanche asked much of her

friend, who could only reply by a mournful smile.

Emily withdrew as soon after dinner as possible, and was followed by

the Lady Blanche, whose anxious enquiries, however, she found herself

quite unequal to answer, and whom she entreated to spare her on the

subject of her distress. To converse on any topic, was now, indeed, so

extremely painful to her, that she soon gave up the attempt, and

Blanche left her, with pity of the sorrow, which she perceived she had

no power to assuage.

Emily secretly determined to go to her convent in a day or two; for

company, especially that of the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, was

intolerable to her, in the present state of her spirits; and, in the

retirement of the convent, as well as the kindness of the abbess, she

hoped to recover the command of her mind, and to teach it resignation

to the event, which, she too plainly perceived, was approaching.

To have lost Valancourt by death, or to have seen him married to a

rival, would, she thought, have given her less anguish, than a

conviction of his unworthiness, which must terminate in misery to

himself, and which robbed her even of the solitary image her heart so

long had cherished. These painful reflections were interrupted, for a

moment, by a note from Valancourt, written in evident distraction of

mind, entreating, that she would permit him to see her on the

approaching evening, instead of the following morning; a request, which

occasioned her so much agitation, that she was unable to answer it. She

wished to see him, and to terminate her present state of suspense, yet

shrunk from the interview, and, incapable of deciding for herself, she,

at length, sent to beg a few moments’ conversation with the Count in

his library, where she delivered to him the note, and requested his

advice. After reading it, he said, that, if she believed herself well

enough to support the interview, his opinion was, that, for the relief

of both parties, it ought to take place, that evening.

“His affection for you is, undoubtedly, a very sincere one,” added the

Count; “and he appears so much distressed, and you, my amiable friend,

are so ill at ease—that the sooner the affair is decided, the better.”

Emily replied, therefore, to Valancourt, that she would see him, and

then exerted herself in endeavours to attain fortitude and composure,

to bear her through the approaching scene—a scene so afflictingly the

reverse of any, to which she had looked forward!