CHAPTER IX

Give thy thoughts no tongue.

SHAKESPEARE

The Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for his friend had kept awake, rose

early to enquire the event of the night, when, as he passed the Count’s

closet, hearing steps within, he knocked at the door, and it was opened

by his friend himself. Rejoicing to see him in safety, and curious to

learn the occurrences of the night, he had not immediately leisure to

observe the unusual gravity, that overspread the features of the Count,

whose reserved answers first occasioned him to notice it. The Count,

then smiling, endeavoured to treat the subject of his curiosity with

levity, but the Baron was serious, and pursued his enquiries so

closely, that the Count, at length, resuming his gravity, said, “Well,

my friend, press the subject no further, I entreat you; and let me

request also, that you will hereafter be silent upon anything you may

think extraordinary in my future conduct. I do not scruple to tell you,

that I am unhappy, and that the watch of the last night has not

assisted me to discover Ludovico; upon every occurrence of the night

you must excuse my reserve.”

“But where is Henri?” said the Baron, with surprise and disappointment

at this denial.

“He is well in his own apartment,” replied the Count. “You will not

question him on this topic, my friend, since you know my wish.”

“Certainly not,” said the Baron, somewhat chagrined, “since it would be

displeasing to you; but methinks, my friend, you might rely on my

discretion, and drop this unusual reserve. However, you must allow me

to suspect, that you have seen reason to become a convert to my system,

and are no longer the incredulous knight you lately appeared to be.”

“Let us talk no more upon this subject,” said the Count; “you may be

assured, that no ordinary circumstance has imposed this silence upon me

towards a friend, whom I have called so for near thirty years; and my

present reserve cannot make you question either my esteem, or the

sincerity of my friendship.”

“I will not doubt either,” said the Baron, “though you must allow me to

express my surprise, at this silence.”

“To me I will allow it,” replied the Count, “but I earnestly entreat

that you will forbear to notice it to my family, as well as everything

remarkable you may observe in my conduct towards them.”

The Baron readily promised this, and, after conversing for some time on

general topics, they descended to the breakfast-room, where the Count

met his family with a cheerful countenance, and evaded their enquiries

by employing light ridicule, and assuming an air of uncommon gaiety,

while he assured them, that they need not apprehend any evil from the

north chambers, since Henri and himself had been permitted to return

from them in safety.

Henri, however, was less successful in disguising his feelings. From

his countenance an expression of terror was not entirely faded; he was

often silent and thoughtful, and when he attempted to laugh at the

eager enquiries of Mademoiselle Bearn, it was evidently only an

attempt.

In the evening, the Count called, as he had promised, at the convent,

and Emily was surprised to perceive a mixture of playful ridicule and

of reserve in his mention of the north apartment. Of what had occurred

there, however, he said nothing, and, when she ventured to remind him

of his promise to tell her the result of his enquiries, and to ask if

he had received any proof, that those chambers were haunted, his look

became solemn, for a moment, then, seeming to recollect himself, he

smiled, and said, “My dear Emily, do not suffer my lady abbess to

infect your good understanding with these fancies; she will teach you

to expect a ghost in every dark room. But believe me,” added he, with a

profound sigh, “the apparition of the dead comes not on light, or

sportive errands, to terrify, or to surprise the timid.” He paused, and

fell into a momentary thoughtfulness, and then added, “We will say no

more on this subject.”

Soon after, he took leave, and, when Emily joined some of the nuns, she

was surprised to find them acquainted with a circumstance, which she

had carefully avoided to mention, and expressing their admiration of

his intrepidity in having dared to pass a night in the apartment,

whence Ludovico had disappeared; for she had not considered with what

rapidity a tale of wonder circulates. The nuns had acquired their

information from peasants, who brought fruit to the monastery, and

whose whole attention had been fixed, since the disappearance of

Ludovico, on what was passing in the castle.

Emily listened in silence to the various opinions of the nuns,

concerning the conduct of the Count, most of whom condemned it as rash

and presumptuous, affirming, that it was provoking the vengeance of an

evil spirit, thus to intrude upon its haunts.

Sister Frances contended, that the Count had acted with the bravery of

a virtuous mind. He knew himself guiltless of aught, that should

provoke a good spirit, and did not fear the spells of an evil one,

since he could claim the protection of a higher Power, of Him, who can

command the wicked, and will protect the innocent.

“The guilty cannot claim that protection!” said sister Agnes, “let the

Count look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim! Yet who is

he, that shall dare to call himself innocent!—all earthly innocence is

but comparative. Yet still how wide asunder are the extremes of guilt,

and to what a horrible depth may we fall! Oh!—”

The nun, as she concluded, uttered a shuddering sigh, that startled

Emily, who, looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixed on hers,

after which the sister rose, took her hand, gazed earnestly upon her

countenance, for some moments, in silence, and then said,

“You are young—you are innocent! I mean you are yet innocent of any

great crime!—But you have passions in your heart,—scorpions; they sleep

now—beware how you awaken them!—they will sting you, even unto death!”

Emily, affected by these words and by the solemnity, with which they

were delivered, could not suppress her tears.

“Ah! is it so?” exclaimed Agnes, her countenance softening from its

sternness—“so young, and so unfortunate! We are sisters, then indeed.

Yet, there is no bond of kindness among the guilty,” she added, while

her eyes resumed their wild expression, “no gentleness,—no peace, no

hope! I knew them all once—my eyes could weep—but now they burn, for

now, my soul is fixed, and fearless!—I lament no more!”

“Rather let us repent, and pray,” said another nun. “We are taught to

hope, that prayer and penitence will work our salvation. There is hope

for all who repent!”

“Who repent and turn to the true faith,” observed sister Frances.

“For all but me!” replied Agnes solemnly, who paused, and then abruptly

added, “My head burns, I believe I am not well. O! could I strike from

my memory all former scenes—the figures, that rise up, like furies, to

torment me!—I see them, when I sleep, and, when I am awake, they are

still before my eyes! I see them now—now!”

She stood in a fixed attitude of horror, her straining eyes moving

slowly round the room, as if they followed something. One of the nuns

gently took her hand, to lead her from the parlour. Agnes became calm,

drew her other hand across her eyes, looked again, and, sighing deeply,

said, “They are gone—they are gone! I am feverish, I know not what I

say. I am thus, sometimes, but it will go off again, I shall soon be

better. Was not that the vesper-bell?”

“No,” replied Frances, “the evening service is passed. Let Margaret

lead you to your cell.”

“You are right,” replied sister Agnes, “I shall be better there. Good

night, my sisters, remember me in your orisons.”

When they had withdrawn, Frances, observing Emily’s emotion, said, “Do

not be alarmed, our sister is often thus deranged, though I have not

lately seen her so frantic; her usual mood is melancholy. This fit has

been coming on, for several days; seclusion and the customary treatment

will restore her.”

“But how rationally she conversed, at first!” observed Emily, “her

ideas followed each other in perfect order.”

“Yes,” replied the nun, “this is nothing new; nay, I have sometimes

known her argue not only with method, but with acuteness, and then, in

a moment, start off into madness.”

“Her conscience seems afflicted,” said Emily, “did you ever hear what

circumstance reduced her to this deplorable condition?”

“I have,” replied the nun, who said no more till Emily repeated the

question, when she added in a low voice, and looking significantly

towards the other boarders, “I cannot tell you now, but, if you think

it worth your while, come to my cell, tonight, when our sisterhood are

at rest, and you shall hear more; but remember we rise to midnight

prayers, and come either before, or after midnight.”

Emily promised to remember, and, the abbess soon after appearing, they

spoke no more of the unhappy nun.

The Count meanwhile, on his return home, had found M. Du Pont in one of

those fits of despondency, which his attachment to Emily frequently

occasioned him, an attachment, that had subsisted too long to be easily

subdued, and which had already outlived the opposition of his friends.

M. Du Pont had first seen Emily in Gascony, during the lifetime of his

parent, who, on discovering his son’s partiality for Mademoiselle St.

Aubert, his inferior in point of fortune, forbade him to declare it to

her family, or to think of her more. During the life of his father, he

had observed the first command, but had found it impracticable to obey

the second, and had, sometimes, soothed his passion by visiting her

favourite haunts, among which was the fishing-house, where, once or

twice, he addressed her in verse, concealing his name, in obedience to

the promise he had given his father. There too he played the pathetic

air, to which she had listened with such surprise and admiration; and

there he found the miniature, that had since cherished a passion fatal

to his repose. During his expedition into Italy, his father died; but

he received his liberty at a moment, when he was the least enabled to

profit by it, since the object, that rendered it most valuable, was no

longer within the reach of his vows. By what accident he discovered

Emily, and assisted to release her from a terrible imprisonment, has

already appeared, and also the unavailing hope, with which he then

encouraged his love, and the fruitless efforts, that he had since made

to overcome it.

The Count still endeavoured, with friendly zeal, to sooth him with a

belief, that patience, perseverance and prudence would finally obtain

for him happiness and Emily: “Time,” said he, “will wear away the

melancholy impression, which disappointment has left on her mind, and

she will be sensible of your merit. Your services have already awakened

her gratitude, and your sufferings her pity; and trust me, my friend,

in a heart so sensible as hers, gratitude and pity lead to love. When

her imagination is rescued from its present delusion, she will readily

accept the homage of a mind like yours.”

Du Pont sighed, while he listened to these words; and, endeavouring to

hope what his friend believed, he willingly yielded to an invitation to

prolong his visit at the château, which we now leave for the monastery

of St. Claire.

When the nuns had retired to rest, Emily stole to her appointment with

sister Frances, whom she found in her cell, engaged in prayer, before a

little table, where appeared the image she was addressing, and, above,

the dim lamp that gave light to the place. Turning her eyes, as the

door opened, she beckoned to Emily to come in, who, having done so,

seated herself in silence beside the nun’s little mattress of straw,

till her orisons should conclude. The latter soon rose from her knees,

and, taking down the lamp and placing it on the table, Emily perceived

there a human skull and bones, lying beside an hour-glass; but the nun,

without observing her emotion, sat down on the mattress by her, saying,

“Your curiosity, sister, has made you punctual, but you have nothing

remarkable to hear in the history of poor Agnes, of whom I avoided to

speak in the presence of my lay-sisters, only because I would not

publish her crime to them.”

“I shall consider your confidence in me as a favour,” said Emily, “and

will not misuse it.”

“Sister Agnes,” resumed the nun, “is of a noble family, as the dignity

of her air must already have informed you, but I will not dishonour

their name so much as to reveal it. Love was the occasion of her crime

and of her madness. She was beloved by a gentleman of inferior fortune,

and her father, as I have heard, bestowing her on a nobleman, whom she

disliked, an ill-governed passion proved her destruction.—Every

obligation of virtue and of duty was forgotten, and she prophaned her

marriage vows; but her guilt was soon detected, and she would have

fallen a sacrifice to the vengeance of her husband, had not her father

contrived to convey her from his power. By what means he did this, I

never could learn; but he secreted her in this convent, where he

afterwards prevailed with her to take the veil, while a report was

circulated in the world, that she was dead, and the father, to save his

daughter, assisted the rumour, and employed such means as induced her

husband to believe she had become a victim to his jealousy. You look

surprised,” added the nun, observing Emily’s countenance; “I allow the

story is uncommon, but not, I believe, without a parallel.”

“Pray proceed,” said Emily, “I am interested.”

“The story is already told,” resumed the nun, “I have only to mention,

that the long struggle, which Agnes suffered, between love, remorse and

a sense of the duties she had taken upon herself in becoming of our

order, at length unsettled her reason. At first, she was frantic and

melancholy by quick alternatives; then, she sunk into a deep and

settled melancholy, which still, however, has, at times, been

interrupted by fits of wildness, and, of late, these have again been

frequent.”

Emily was affected by the history of the sister, some parts of whose

story brought to her remembrance that of the Marchioness de Villeroi,

who had also been compelled by her father to forsake the object of her

affections, for a nobleman of his choice; but, from what Dorothée had

related, there appeared no reason to suppose, that she had escaped the

vengeance of a jealous husband, or to doubt for a moment the innocence

of her conduct. But Emily, while she sighed over the misery of the nun,

could not forbear shedding a few tears to the misfortunes of the

Marchioness; and, when she returned to the mention of sister Agnes, she

asked Frances if she remembered her in her youth, and whether she was

then beautiful.

“I was not here at the time, when she took the vows,” replied Frances,

“which is so long ago, that few of the present sisterhood, I believe,

were witnesses of the ceremony; nay, ever our lady mother did not then

preside over the convent: but I can remember, when sister Agnes was a

very beautiful woman. She retains that air of high rank, which always

distinguished her, but her beauty, you must perceive, is fled; I can

scarcely discover even a vestige of the loveliness, that once animated

her features.”

“It is strange,” said Emily, “but there are moments, when her

countenance has appeared familiar to my memory! You will think me

fanciful, and I think myself so, for I certainly never saw sister

Agnes, before I came to this convent, and I must, therefore, have seen

some person, whom she strongly resembles, though of this I have no

recollection.”

“You have been interested by the deep melancholy of her countenance,”

said Frances, “and its impression has probably deluded your

imagination; for I might as reasonably think I perceive a likeness

between you and Agnes, as you, that you have seen her anywhere but in

this convent, since this has been her place of refuge, for nearly as

many years as make your age.”

“Indeed!” said Emily.

“Yes,” rejoined Frances, “and why does that circumstance excite your

surprise?”

Emily did not appear to notice this question, but remained thoughtful,

for a few moments, and then said, “It was about that same period that

the Marchioness de Villeroi expired.”

“That is an odd remark,” said Frances.

Emily, recalled from her reverie, smiled, and gave the conversation

another turn, but it soon came back to the subject of the unhappy nun,

and Emily remained in the cell of sister Frances, till the midnight

bell aroused her; when, apologising for having interrupted the sister’s

repose, till this late hour, they quitted the cell together. Emily

returned to her chamber, and the nun, bearing a glimmering taper, went

to her devotion in the chapel.

Several days followed, during which Emily saw neither the Count, nor

any of his family; and, when, at length, he appeared, she remarked,

with concern, that his air was unusually disturbed.

“My spirits are harassed,” said he, in answer to her anxious enquiries,

“and I mean to change my residence, for a little while, an experiment,

which, I hope, will restore my mind to its usual tranquillity. My

daughter and myself will accompany the Baron St. Foix to his château.

It lies in a valley of the Pyrenees, that opens towards Gascony, and I

have been thinking, Emily, that, when you set out for La Vallée, we may

go part of the way together; it would be a satisfaction to me to guard

you towards your home.”

She thanked the Count for his friendly consideration, and lamented,

that the necessity for her going first to Thoulouse would render this

plan impracticable. “But, when you are at the Baron’s residence,” she

added, “you will be only a short journey from La Vallée, and I think,

sir, you will not leave the country without visiting me; it is

unnecessary to say with what pleasure I should receive you and the Lady

Blanche.”

“I do not doubt it,” replied the Count, “and I will not deny myself and

Blanche the pleasure of visiting you, if your affairs should allow you

to be at La Vallée, about the time when we can meet you there.”

When Emily said that she should hope to see the Countess also, she was

not sorry to learn that this lady was going, accompanied by

Mademoiselle Bearn, to pay a visit, for a few weeks, to a family in

lower Languedoc.

The Count, after some further conversation on his intended journey and

on the arrangement of Emily’s, took leave; and many days did not

succeed this visit, before a second letter from M. Quesnel informed

her, that he was then at Thoulouse, that La Vallée was at liberty, and

that he wished her to set off for the former place, where he awaited

her arrival, with all possible dispatch, since his own affairs pressed

him to return to Gascony. Emily did not hesitate to obey him, and,

having taken an affecting leave of the Count’s family, in which M. Du

Pont was still included, and of her friends at the convent, she set out

for Thoulouse, attended by the unhappy Annette, and guarded by a steady

servant of the Count.