CHAPTER I

Is all the council that we two have shared,

the hours that we have spent,

When we have chid the hasty-footed time

For parting us—Oh! and is all forgot?

And will you rend our ancient love asunder?

MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

In the evening, when Emily was at length informed, that Count De

Villefort requested to see her, she guessed that Valancourt was below,

and, endeavouring to assume composure and to recollect all her spirits,

she rose and left the apartment; but on reaching the door of the

library, where she imagined him to be, her emotion returned with such

energy, that, fearing to trust herself in the room, she returned into

the hall, where she continued for a considerable time, unable to

command her agitated spirits.

When she could recall them, she found in the library Valancourt, seated

with the Count, who both rose on her entrance; but she did not dare to

look at Valancourt, and the Count, having led her to a chair,

immediately withdrew.

Emily remained with her eyes fixed on the floor, under such oppression

of heart, that she could not speak, and with difficulty breathed; while

Valancourt threw himself into a chair beside her, and, sighing heavily,

continued silent, when, had she raised her eyes, she would have

perceived the violent emotions, with which he was agitated.

At length, in a tremulous voice, he said, “I have solicited to see you

this evening, that I might, at least, be spared the further torture of

suspense, which your altered manner had occasioned me, and which the

hints I have just received from the Count have in part explained. I

perceive I have enemies, Emily, who envied me my late happiness, and

who have been busy in searching out the means to destroy it: I

perceive, too, that time and absence have weakened the affection you

once felt for me, and that you can now easily be taught to forget me.”

His last words faltered, and Emily, less able to speak than before,

continued silent.

“O what a meeting is this!” exclaimed Valancourt, starting from his

seat, and pacing the room with hurried steps, “what a meeting is this,

after our long—long separation!” Again he sat down, and, after the

struggle of a moment, he added in a firm but despairing tone, “This is

too much—I cannot bear it! Emily, will you not speak to me?”

He covered his face with his hand, as if to conceal his emotion, and

took Emily’s, which she did not withdraw. Her tears could no longer be

restrained; and, when he raised his eyes and perceived that she was

weeping, all his tenderness returned, and a gleam of hope appeared to

cross his mind, for he exclaimed, “O! you do pity me, then, you do love

me! Yes, you are still my own Emily—let me believe those tears, that

tell me so!”

Emily now made an effort to recover her firmness, and, hastily drying

them, “Yes,” said she, “I do pity you—I weep for you—but, ought I to

think of you with affection? You may remember, that yester-evening I

said, I had still sufficient confidence in your candour to believe,

that, when I should request an explanation of your words, you would

give it. This explanation is now unnecessary, I understand them too

well; but prove, at least, that your candour is deserving of the

confidence I give it, when I ask you, whether you are conscious of

being the same estimable Valancourt—whom I once loved.”

“Once loved!” cried he,—“the same—the same!” He paused in extreme

emotion, and then added, in a voice at once solemn, and dejected,—“No—I

am not the same!—I am lost—I am no longer worthy of you!”

He again concealed his face. Emily was too much affected by this honest

confession to reply immediately, and, while she struggled to overcome

the pleadings of her heart, and to act with the decisive firmness,

which was necessary for her future peace, she perceived all the danger

of trusting long to her resolution, in the presence of Valancourt, and

was anxious to conclude an interview, that tortured them both; yet,

when she considered, that this was probably their last meeting, her

fortitude sunk at once, and she experienced only emotions of tenderness

and of despondency.

Valancourt, meanwhile, lost in emotions of remorse and grief, which he

had neither the power, nor the will to express, sat insensible almost

of the presence of Emily, his features still concealed, and his breast

agitated by convulsive sighs.

“Spare me the necessity,” said Emily, recollecting her fortitude,

“spare me the necessity of mentioning those circumstances of your

conduct, which oblige me to break our connection for ever.—We must

part, I now see you for the last time.”

“Impossible!” cried Valancourt, roused from his deep silence, “You

cannot mean what you say!—you cannot mean to throw me from you for

ever!”

“We must part,” repeated Emily, with emphasis,—“and that for ever! Your

own conduct has made this necessary.”

“This is the Count’s determination,” said he haughtily, “not yours, and

I shall enquire by what authority he interferes between us.” He now

rose, and walked about the room in great emotion.

“Let me save you from this error,” said Emily, not less agitated—“it is

my determination, and, if you reflect a moment on your late conduct,

you will perceive, that my future peace requires it.”

“Your future peace requires, that we should part—part for ever!” said

Valancourt, “How little did I ever expect to hear you say so!”

“And how little did I expect, that it would be necessary for me to say

so!” rejoined Emily, while her voice softened into tenderness, and her

tears flowed again.—“That you—you, Valancourt, would ever fall from my

esteem!”

He was silent a moment, as if overwhelmed by the consciousness of no

longer deserving this esteem, as well as the certainty of having lost

it, and then, with impassioned grief, lamented the criminality of his

late conduct and the misery to which it had reduced him, till, overcome

by a recollection of the past and a conviction of the future, he burst

into tears, and uttered only deep and broken sighs.

The remorse he had expressed, and the distress he suffered could not be

witnessed by Emily with indifference, and, had she not called to her

recollection all the circumstances, of which Count De Villefort had

informed her, and all he had said of the danger of confiding in

repentance, formed under the influence of passion, she might perhaps

have trusted to the assurances of her heart, and have forgotten his

misconduct in the tenderness, which that repentance excited.

Valancourt, returning to the chair beside her, at length, said, in a

calm voice, “’Tis true, I am fallen—fallen from my own esteem! but

could you, Emily, so soon, so suddenly resign, if you had not before

ceased to love me, or, if your conduct was not governed by the designs,

I will say, the selfish designs of another person! Would you not

otherwise be willing to hope for my reformation—and could you bear, by

estranging me from you, to abandon me to misery—to myself!”—Emily wept

aloud.—“No, Emily—no—you would not do this, if you still loved me. You

would find your own happiness in saving mine.”

“There are too many probabilities against that hope,” said Emily, “to

justify me in trusting the comfort of my whole life to it. May I not

also ask, whether you could wish me to do this, if you really loved

me?”

“Really loved you!” exclaimed Valancourt—“is it possible you can doubt

my love! Yet it is reasonable, that you should do so, since you see,

that I am less ready to suffer the horror of parting with you, than

that of involving you in my ruin. Yes, Emily—I am ruined—irreparably

ruined—I am involved in debts, which I can never discharge!”

Valancourt’s look, which was wild, as he spoke this, soon settled into

an expression of gloomy despair; and Emily, while she was compelled to

admire his sincerity, saw, with unutterable anguish, new reasons for

fear in the suddenness of his feelings and the extent of the misery, in

which they might involve him. After some minutes, she seemed to contend

against her grief and to struggle for fortitude to conclude the

interview. “I will not prolong these moments,” said she, “by a

conversation, which can answer no good purpose. Valancourt, farewell!”

“You are not going?” said he, wildly interrupting her—“You will not

leave me thus—you will not abandon me even before my mind has suggested

any possibility of compromise between the last indulgence of my despair

and the endurance of my loss!” Emily was terrified by the sternness of

his look, and said, in a soothing voice, “You have yourself

acknowledged, that it is necessary we should part;—if you wish, that I

should believe you love me, you will repeat the

acknowledgment.”—“Never—never,” cried he—“I was distracted when I made

it. O! Emily—this is too much;—though you are not deceived as to my

faults, you must be deluded into this exasperation against them. The

Count is the barrier between us; but he shall not long remain so.”

“You are, indeed, distracted,” said Emily, “the Count is not your

enemy; on the contrary, he is my friend, and that might, in some

degree, induce you to consider him as yours.”—“Your friend!” said

Valancourt, hastily, “how long has he been your friend, that he can so

easily make you forget your lover? Was it he, who recommended to your

favour the Monsieur Du Pont, who, you say, accompanied you from Italy,

and who, I say, has stolen your affections? But I have no right to

question you;—you are your own mistress. Du Pont, perhaps, may not long

triumph over my fallen fortunes!” Emily, more frightened than before by

the frantic looks of Valancourt, said, in a tone scarcely audible, “For

heaven’s sake be reasonable—be composed. Monsieur Du Pont is not your

rival, nor is the Count his advocate. You have no rival; nor, except

yourself, an enemy. My heart is wrung with anguish, which must increase

while your frantic behaviour shows me, more than ever, that you are no

longer the Valancourt I have been accustomed to love.”

He made no reply, but sat with his arms rested on the table and his

face concealed by his hands; while Emily stood, silent and trembling,

wretched for herself and dreading to leave him in this state of mind.

“O excess of misery!” he suddenly exclaimed, “that I can never lament

my sufferings, without accusing myself, nor remember you, without

recollecting the folly and the vice, by which I have lost you! Why was

I forced to Paris, and why did I yield to allurements, which were to

make me despicable for ever! O! why cannot I look back, without

interruption, to those days of innocence and peace, the days of our

early love!”—The recollection seemed to melt his heart, and the frenzy

of despair yielded to tears. After a long pause, turning towards her

and taking her hand, he said, in a softened voice, “Emily, can you bear

that we should part—can you resolve to give up a heart, that loves you

like mine—a heart, which, though it has erred—widely erred, is not

irretrievable from error, as, you well know, it never can be

retrievable from love?” Emily made no reply, but with her tears. “Can

you,” continued he, “can you forget all our former days of happiness

and confidence—when I had not a thought, that I might wish to conceal

from you—when I had no taste—no pleasures, in which you did not

participate?”

“O do not lead me to the remembrance of those days,” said Emily,

“unless you can teach me to forget the present; I do not mean to

reproach you; if I did, I should be spared these tears; but why will

you render your present sufferings more conspicuous, by contrasting

them with your former virtues?”

“Those virtues,” said Valancourt, “might, perhaps, again be mine, if

your affection, which nurtured them, was unchanged;—but I fear, indeed,

I see, that you can no longer love me; else the happy hours, which we

have passed together, would plead for me, and you could not look back

upon them unmoved. Yet, why should I torture myself with the

remembrance—why do I linger here? Am I not ruined—would it not be

madness to involve you in my misfortunes, even if your heart was still

my own? I will not distress you further. Yet, before I go,” added he,

in a solemn voice, “let me repeat, that, whatever may be my

destiny—whatever I may be doomed to suffer, I must always love you—most

fondly love you! I am going, Emily, I am going to leave you—to leave

you, for ever!” As he spoke the last words, his voice trembled, and he

threw himself again into the chair, from which he had risen. Emily was

utterly unable to leave the room, or to say farewell. All impression of

his criminal conduct and almost of his follies was obliterated from her

mind, and she was sensible only of pity and grief.

“My fortitude is gone,” said Valancourt at length; “I can no longer

even struggle to recall it. I cannot now leave you—I cannot bid you an

eternal farewell; say, at least, that you will see me once again.”

Emily’s heart was somewhat relieved by the request, and she endeavoured

to believe, that she ought not to refuse it. Yet she was embarrassed by

recollecting, that she was a visitor in the house of the Count, who

could not be pleased by the return of Valancourt. Other considerations,

however, soon overcame this, and she granted his request, on the

condition, that he would neither think of the Count, as his enemy, nor

Du Pont as his rival. He then left her, with a heart, so much lightened

by this short respite, that he almost lost every former sense of

misfortune.

Emily withdrew to her own room, that she might compose her spirits and

remove the traces of her tears, which would encourage the censorious

remarks of the Countess and her favourite, as well as excite the

curiosity of the rest of the family. She found it, however, impossible

to tranquillize her mind, from which she could not expel the

remembrance of the late scene with Valancourt, or the consciousness,

that she was to see him again, on the morrow. This meeting now appeared

more terrible to her than the last, for the ingenuous confession he had

made of his ill conduct and his embarrassed circumstances, with the

strength and tenderness of affection, which this confession discovered,

had deeply impressed her, and, in spite of all she had heard and

believed to his disadvantage, her esteem began to return. It frequently

appeared to her impossible, that he could have been guilty of the

depravities, reported of him, which, if not inconsistent with his

warmth and impetuosity, were entirely so with his candour and

sensibility. Whatever was the criminality, which had given rise to the

reports, she could not now believe them to be wholly true, nor that his

heart was finally closed against the charms of virtue. The deep

consciousness, which he felt as well as expressed of his errors, seemed

to justify the opinion; and, as she understood not the instability of

youthful dispositions, when opposed by habit, and that professions

frequently deceive those, who make, as well as those, who hear them,

she might have yielded to the flattering persuasions of her own heart

and the pleadings of Valancourt, had she not been guided by the

superior prudence of the Count. He represented to her, in a clear

light, the danger of her present situation, that of listening to

promises of amendment, made under the influence of strong passion, and

the slight hope, which could attach to a connection, whose chance of

happiness rested upon the retrieval of ruined circumstances and the

reform of corrupted habits. On these accounts, he lamented, that Emily

had consented to a second interview, for he saw how much it would shake

her resolution and increase the difficulty of her conquest.

Her mind was now so entirely occupied by nearer interests, that she

forgot the old housekeeper and the promised history, which so lately

had excited her curiosity, but which Dorothée was probably not very

anxious to disclose, for night came; the hours passed; and she did not

appear in Emily’s chamber. With the latter it was a sleepless and

dismal night; the more she suffered her memory to dwell on the late

scenes with Valancourt, the more her resolution declined, and she was

obliged to recollect all the arguments, which the Count had made use of

to strengthen it, and all the precepts, which she had received from her

deceased father, on the subject of self-command, to enable her to act,

with prudence and dignity, on this the most severe occasion of her

life. There were moments, when all her fortitude forsook her, and when,

remembering the confidence of former times, she thought it impossible,

that she could renounce Valancourt. His reformation then appeared

certain; the arguments of Count De Villefort were forgotten; she

readily believed all she wished, and was willing to encounter any evil,

rather than that of an immediate separation.

Thus passed the night in ineffectual struggles between affection and

reason, and she rose, in the morning, with a mind, weakened and

irresolute, and a frame, trembling with illness.