CHAPTER II

Come, weep with me;—past hope, past cure, past help!

ROMEO AND JULIET

Valancourt, meanwhile, suffered the tortures of remorse and despair.

The sight of Emily had renewed all the ardour, with which he first

loved her, and which had suffered a temporary abatement from absence

and the passing scenes of busy life. When, on the receipt of her

letter, he set out for Languedoc, he then knew, that his own folly had

involved him in ruin, and it was no part of his design to conceal this

from her. But he lamented only the delay which his ill-conduct must

give to their marriage, and did not foresee, that the information could

induce her to break their connection for ever. While the prospect of

this separation overwhelmed his mind, before stung with self-reproach,

he awaited their second interview, in a state little short of

distraction, yet was still inclined to hope, that his pleadings might

prevail upon her not to exact it. In the morning, he sent to know at

what hour she would see him; and his note arrived, when she was with

the Count, who had sought an opportunity of again conversing with her

of Valancourt; for he perceived the extreme distress of her mind, and

feared, more than ever, that her fortitude would desert her. Emily

having dismissed the messenger, the Count returned to the subject of

their late conversation, urging his fear of Valancourt’s entreaties,

and again pointing out to her the lengthened misery, that must ensue,

if she should refuse to encounter some present uneasiness. His repeated

arguments could, indeed, alone have protected her from the affection

she still felt for Valancourt, and she resolved to be governed by them.

The hour of interview, at length, arrived. Emily went to it, at least,

with composure of manner, but Valancourt was so much agitated, that he

could not speak, for several minutes, and his first words were

alternately those of lamentation, entreaty, and self-reproach.

Afterward, he said, “Emily, I have loved you—I do love you, better than

my life; but I am ruined by my own conduct. Yet I would seek to

entangle you in a connection, that must be miserable for you, rather

than subject myself to the punishment, which is my due, the loss of

you. I am a wretch, but I will be a villain no longer.—I will not

endeavour to shake your resolution by the pleadings of a selfish

passion. I resign you, Emily, and will endeavour to find consolation in

considering, that, though I am miserable, you, at least, may be happy.

The merit of the sacrifice is, indeed, not my own, for I should never

have attained strength of mind to surrender you, if your prudence had

not demanded it.”

He paused a moment, while Emily attempted to conceal the tears, which

came to her eyes. She would have said, “You speak now, as you were wont

to do,” but she checked herself.—“Forgive me, Emily,” said he, “all the

sufferings I have occasioned you, and, sometimes, when you think of the

wretched Valancourt, remember, that his only consolation would be to

believe, that you are no longer unhappy by his folly.” The tears now

fell fast upon her cheek, and he was relapsing into the frenzy of

despair, when Emily endeavoured to recall her fortitude and to

terminate an interview, which only seemed to increase the distress of

both. Perceiving her tears and that she was rising to go, Valancourt

struggled, once more, to overcome his own feelings and to sooth hers.

“The remembrance of this sorrow,” said he, “shall in future be my

protection. O! never again will example, or temptation have power to

seduce me to evil, exalted as I shall be by the recollection of your

grief for me.”

Emily was somewhat comforted by this assurance. “We are now parting for

ever,” said she; “but, if my happiness is dear to you, you will always

remember, that nothing can contribute to it more, than to believe, that

you have recovered your own esteem.” Valancourt took her hand;—his eyes

were covered with tears, and the farewell he would have spoken was lost

in sighs. After a few moments, Emily said, with difficulty and emotion,

“Farewell, Valancourt, may you be happy!” She repeated her “farewell,”

and attempted to withdraw her hand, but he still held it and bathed it

with his tears. “Why prolong these moments?” said Emily, in a voice

scarcely audible, “they are too painful to us both.” “This is too—too

much,” exclaimed Valancourt, resigning her hand and throwing himself

into a chair, where he covered his face with his hands and was

overcome, for some moments, by convulsive sighs. After a long pause,

during which Emily wept in silence, and Valancourt seemed struggling

with his grief, she again rose to take leave of him. Then, endeavouring

to recover his composure, “I am again afflicting you,” said he, “but

let the anguish I suffer plead for me.” He then added, in a solemn

voice, which frequently trembled with the agitation of his heart,

“Farewell, Emily, you will always be the only object of my tenderness.

Sometimes you will think of the unhappy Valancourt, and it will be with

pity, though it may not be with esteem. O! what is the whole world to

me, without you—without your esteem!” He checked himself—“I am falling

again into the error I have just lamented. I must not intrude longer

upon your patience, or I shall relapse into despair.”

He once more bade Emily adieu, pressed her hand to his lips, looked at

her, for the last time, and hurried out of the room.

Emily remained in the chair, where he had left her, oppressed with a

pain at her heart, which scarcely permitted her to breathe, and

listening to his departing steps, sinking fainter and fainter, as he

crossed the hall. She was, at length, roused by the voice of the

Countess in the garden, and, her attention being then awakened, the

first object, which struck her sight, was the vacant chair, where

Valancourt had sat. The tears, which had been, for some time, repressed

by the kind of astonishment, that followed his departure, now came to

her relief, and she was, at length, sufficiently composed to return to

her own room.