CHAPTER X

Lull’d in the countless chambers of the brain,

Our thoughts are link’d by many a hidden chain:

Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise!

Each stamps its image as the other flies!

PLEASURES OF MEMORY

Emily pursued her journey, without any accident, along the plains of

Languedoc towards the north-west; and, on this her return to Thoulouse,

which she had last left with Madame Montoni, she thought much on the

melancholy fate of her aunt, who, but for her own imprudence, might now

have been living in happiness there! Montoni, too, often rose to her

fancy, such as she had seen him in his days of triumph, bold, spirited

and commanding; such also as she had since beheld him in his days of

vengeance; and now, only a few short months had passed—and he had no

longer the power, or the will to afflict;—he had become a clod of

earth, and his life was vanished like a shadow! Emily could have wept

at his fate, had she not remembered his crimes; for that of her

unfortunate aunt she did weep, and all sense of her errors was overcome

by the recollection of her misfortunes.

Other thoughts and other emotions succeeded, as Emily drew near the

well-known scenes of her early love, and considered, that Valancourt

was lost to her and to himself, for ever. At length, she came to the

brow of the hill, whence, on her departure for Italy, she had given a

farewell look to this beloved landscape, amongst whose woods and fields

she had so often walked with Valancourt, and where he was then to

inhabit, when she would be far, far away! She saw, once more, that

chain of the Pyrenees, which overlooked La Vallée, rising, like faint

clouds, on the horizon. “There, too, is Gascony, extended at their

feet!” said she, “O my father,—my mother! And there, too, is the

Garonne!” she added, drying the tears, that obscured her sight,—“and

Thoulouse, and my aunt’s mansion—and the groves in her garden!—O my

friends! are ye all lost to me—must I never, never see ye more!” Tears

rushed again to her eyes, and she continued to weep, till an abrupt

turn in the road had nearly occasioned the carriage to overset, when,

looking up, she perceived another part of the well-known scene around

Thoulouse, and all the reflections and anticipations, which she had

suffered, at the moment, when she bade it last adieu, came with

recollected force to her heart. She remembered how anxiously she had

looked forward to the futurity, which was to decide her happiness

concerning Valancourt, and what depressing fears had assailed her; the

very words she had uttered, as she withdrew her last look from the

prospect, came to her memory. “Could I but be certain,” she had then

said, “that I should ever return, and that Valancourt would still live

for me—I should go in peace!”

Now, that futurity, so anxiously anticipated, was arrived, she was

returned—but what a dreary blank appeared!—Valancourt no longer lived

for her! She had no longer even the melancholy satisfaction of

contemplating his image in her heart, for he was no longer the same

Valancourt she had cherished there—the solace of many a mournful hour,

the animating friend, that had enabled her to bear up against the

oppression of Montoni—the distant hope, that had beamed over her gloomy

prospect! On perceiving this beloved idea to be an illusion of her own

creation, Valancourt seemed to be annihilated, and her soul sickened at

the blank, that remained. His marriage with a rival, even his death,

she thought she could have endured with more fortitude, than this

discovery; for then, amidst all her grief, she could have looked in

secret upon the image of goodness, which her fancy had drawn of him,

and comfort would have mingled with her suffering!

Drying her tears, she looked, once more, upon the landscape, which had

excited them, and perceived, that she was passing the very bank, where

she had taken leave of Valancourt, on the morning of her departure from

Thoulouse, and she now saw him, through her returning tears, such as he

had appeared, when she looked from the carriage to give him a last

adieu—saw him leaning mournfully against the high trees, and remembered

the fixed look of mingled tenderness and anguish, with which he had

then regarded her. This recollection was too much for her heart, and

she sunk back in the carriage, nor once looked up, till it stopped at

the gates of what was now her own mansion.

These being opened, and by the servant, to whose care the château had

been entrusted, the carriage drove into the court, where, alighting,

she hastily passed through the great hall, now silent and solitary, to

a large oak parlour, the common sitting room of the late Madame

Montoni, where, instead of being received by M. Quesnel, she found a

letter from him, informing her that business of consequence had obliged

him to leave Thoulouse two days before. Emily was, upon the whole, not

sorry to be spared his presence, since his abrupt departure appeared to

indicate the same indifference, with which he had formerly regarded

her. This letter informed her, also, of the progress he had made in the

settlement of her affairs, and concluded with directions, concerning

the forms of some business, which remained for her to transact. But M.

Quesnel’s unkindness did not long occupy her thoughts, which returned

the remembrance of the persons she had been accustomed to see in this

mansion, and chiefly of the ill-guided and unfortunate Madame Montoni.

In the room, where she now sat, she had breakfasted with her on the

morning of their departure for Italy; and the view of it brought most

forcibly to her recollection all she had herself suffered, at that

time, and the many gay expectations, which her aunt had formed,

respecting the journey before her. While Emily’s mind was thus engaged,

her eyes wandered unconsciously to a large window, that looked upon the

garden, and here new memorials of the past spoke to her heart, for she

saw extended before her the very avenue, in which she had parted with

Valancourt, on the eve of her journey; and all the anxiety, the tender

interest he had shown, concerning her future happiness, his earnest

remonstrances against her committing herself to the power of Montoni,

and the truth of his affection, came afresh to her memory. At this

moment, it appeared almost impossible, that Valancourt could have

become unworthy of her regard, and she doubted all that she had lately

heard to his disadvantage, and even his own words, which had confirmed

Count De Villefort’s report of him. Overcome by the recollections,

which the view of this avenue occasioned, she turned abruptly from the

window, and sunk into a chair beside it, where she sat, given up to

grief, till the entrance of Annette, with coffee, aroused her.

“Dear madam, how melancholy this place looks now,” said Annette, “to

what it used to do! It is dismal coming home, when there is nobody to

welcome one!”

This was not the moment, in which Emily could bear the remark; her

tears fell again, and, as soon as she had taken the coffee, she retired

to her apartment, where she endeavoured to repose her fatigued spirits.

But busy memory would still supply her with the visions of former

times: she saw Valancourt interesting and benevolent, as he had been

wont to appear in the days of their early love, and, amidst the scenes,

where she had believed that they should sometimes pass their years

together!—but, at length, sleep closed these afflicting scenes from her

view.

On the following morning, serious occupation recovered her from such

melancholy reflections; for, being desirous of quitting Thoulouse, and

of hastening on to La Vallée, she made some enquiries into the

condition of the estate, and immediately dispatched a part of the

necessary business concerning it, according to the directions of Mons.

Quesnel. It required a strong effort to abstract her thoughts from

other interests sufficiently to attend to this, but she was rewarded

for her exertions by again experiencing, that employment is the surest

antidote to sorrow.

This day was devoted entirely to business; and, among other concerns,

she employed means to learn the situation of all her poor tenants, that

she might relieve their wants, or confirm their comforts.

In the evening, her spirits were so much strengthened, that she thought

she could bear to visit the gardens, where she had so often walked with

Valancourt; and, knowing, that, if she delayed to do so, their scenes

would only affect her the more, whenever they should be viewed, she

took advantage of the present state of her mind, and entered them.

Passing hastily the gate leading from the court into the gardens, she

hurried up the great avenue, scarcely permitting her memory to dwell

for a moment on the circumstance of her having here parted with

Valancourt, and soon quitted this for other walks less interesting to

her heart. These brought her, at length, to the flight of steps, that

led from the lower garden to the terrace, on seeing which, she became

agitated, and hesitated whether to ascend, but, her resolution

returning, she proceeded.

“Ah!” said Emily, as she ascended, “these are the same high trees, that

used to wave over the terrace, and these the same flowery thickets—the

liburnum, the wild rose, and the cerinthe—which were wont to grow

beneath them! Ah! and there, too, on that bank, are the very plants,

which Valancourt so carefully reared!—O, when last I saw them!”—she

checked the thought, but could not restrain her tears, and, after

walking slowly on for a few moments, her agitation, upon the view of

this well-known scene, increased so much, that she was obliged to stop,

and lean upon the wall of the terrace. It was a mild, and beautiful

evening. The sun was setting over the extensive landscape, to which his

beams, sloping from beneath a dark cloud, that overhung the west, gave

rich and partial colouring, and touched the tufted summits of the

groves, that rose from the garden below, with a yellow gleam. Emily and

Valancourt had often admired together this scene, at the same hour; and

it was exactly on this spot, that, on the night preceding her departure

for Italy, she had listened to his remonstrances against the journey,

and to the pleadings of passionate affection. Some observations, which

she made on the landscape, brought this to her remembrance, and with it

all the minute particulars of that conversation;—the alarming doubts he

had expressed concerning Montoni, doubts, which had since been fatally

confirmed; the reasons and entreaties he had employed to prevail with

her to consent to an immediate marriage; the tenderness of his love,

the paroxysms of this grief, and the conviction that he had repeatedly

expressed, that they should never meet again in happiness! All these

circumstances rose afresh to her mind, and awakened the various

emotions she had then suffered. Her tenderness for Valancourt became as

powerful as in the moments, when she thought, that she was parting with

him and happiness together, and when the strength of her mind had

enabled her to triumph over present suffering, rather than to deserve

the reproach of her conscience by engaging in a clandestine

marriage.—“Alas!” said Emily, as these recollections came to her mind,

“and what have I gained by the fortitude I then practised?—am I happy

now?—He said, we should meet no more in happiness; but, O! he little

thought his own misconduct would separate us, and lead to the very evil

he then dreaded!”

Her reflections increased her anguish, while she was compelled to

acknowledge, that the fortitude she had formerly exerted, if it had not

conducted her to happiness, had saved her from irretrievable

misfortune—from Valancourt himself! But in these moments she could not

congratulate herself on the prudence, that had saved her; she could

only lament, with bitterest anguish, the circumstances, which had

conspired to betray Valancourt into a course of life so different from

that, which the virtues, the tastes, and the pursuits of his early

years had promised; but she still loved him too well to believe, that

his heart was even now depraved, though his conduct had been criminal.

An observation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubert more than once, now

occurred to her. “This young man,” said he, speaking of Valancourt,

“has never been at Paris;” a remark, that had surprised her at the time

it was uttered, but which she now understood, and she exclaimed

sorrowfully, “O Valancourt! if such a friend as my father had been with

you at Paris—your noble, ingenuous nature would not have fallen!”

The sun was now set, and, recalling her thoughts from their melancholy

subject, she continued her walk; for the pensive shade of twilight was

pleasing to her, and the nightingales from the surrounding groves began

to answer each other in the long-drawn, plaintive note, which always

touched her heart; while all the fragrance of the flowery thickets,

that bounded the terrace, was awakened by the cool evening air, which

floated so lightly among their leaves, that they scarcely trembled as

it passed.

Emily came, at length, to the steps of the pavilion, that terminated

the terrace, and where her last interview with Valancourt, before her

departure from Thoulouse, had so unexpectedly taken place. The door was

now shut, and she trembled, while she hesitated whether to open it; but

her wish to see again a place, which had been the chief scene of her

former happiness, at length overcoming her reluctance to encounter the

painful regret it would renew, she entered. The room was obscured by a

melancholy shade; but through the open lattices, darkened by the

hanging foliage of the vines, appeared the dusky landscape, the Garonne

reflecting the evening light, and the west still glowing. A chair was

placed near one of the balconies, as if some person had been sitting

there, but the other furniture of the pavilion remained exactly as

usual, and Emily thought it looked as if it had not once been moved

since she set out for Italy. The silent and deserted air of the place

added solemnity to her emotions, for she heard only the low whisper of

the breeze, as it shook the leaves of the vines, and the very faint

murmur of the Garonne.

She seated herself in a chair, near the lattice, and yielded to the

sadness of her heart, while she recollected the circumstances of her

parting interview with Valancourt, on this spot. It was here too, that

she had passed some of the happiest hours of her life with him, when

her aunt favoured the connection, for here she had often sat and

worked, while he conversed, or read; and she now well remembered with

what discriminating judgment, with what tempered energy, he used to

repeat some of the sublimest passages of their favourite authors; how

often he would pause to admire with her their excellence, and with what

tender delight he would listen to her remarks, and correct her taste.

“And is it possible,” said Emily, as these recollections returned—“is

it possible, that a mind, so susceptible of whatever is grand and

beautiful, could stoop to low pursuits, and be subdued by frivolous

temptations?”

She remembered how often she had seen the sudden tear start in his eye,

and had heard his voice tremble with emotion, while he related any

great or benevolent action, or repeated a sentiment of the same

character. “And such a mind,” said she, “such a heart, were to be

sacrificed to the habits of a great city!”

These recollections becoming too painful to be endured, she abruptly

left the pavilion, and, anxious to escape from the memorials of her

departed happiness, returned towards the château. As she passed along

the terrace, she perceived a person, walking, with a slow step, and a

dejected air, under the trees, at some distance. The twilight, which

was now deep, would not allow her to distinguish who it was, and she

imagined it to be one of the servants, till, the sound of her steps

seeming to reach him, he turned half round, and she thought she saw

Valancourt!

Whoever it was, he instantly struck among the thickets on the left, and

disappeared, while Emily, her eyes fixed on the place, whence he had

vanished, and her frame trembling so excessively, that she could

scarcely support herself, remained, for some moments, unable to quit

the spot, and scarcely conscious of existence. With her recollection,

her strength returned, and she hurried toward the house, where she did

not venture to enquire who had been in the gardens, lest she should

betray her emotion; and she sat down alone, endeavouring to recollect

the figure, air and features of the person she had just seen. Her view

of him, however, had been so transient, and the gloom had rendered it

so imperfect, that she could remember nothing with exactness; yet the

general appearance of his figure, and his abrupt departure, made her

still believe, that this person was Valancourt. Sometimes, indeed, she

thought, that her fancy, which had been occupied by the idea of him,

had suggested his image to her uncertain sight: but this conjecture was

fleeting. If it was himself whom she had seen, she wondered much, that

he should be at Thoulouse, and more, how he had gained admittance into

the garden; but as often as her impatience prompted her to enquire

whether any stranger had been admitted, she was restrained by an

unwillingness to betray her doubts; and the evening was passed in

anxious conjecture, and in efforts to dismiss the subject from her

thoughts. But, these endeavours were ineffectual, and a thousand

inconsistent emotions assailed her, whenever she fancied that

Valancourt might be near her; now, she dreaded it to be true, and now

she feared it to be false; and, while she constantly tried to persuade

herself, that she wished the person, whom she had seen, might not be

Valancourt, her heart as constantly contradicted her reason.

The following day was occupied by the visits of several neighbouring

families, formerly intimate with Madame Montoni, who came to condole

with Emily on her death, to congratulate her upon the acquisition of

these estates, and to enquire about Montoni, and concerning the strange

reports they had heard of her own situation; all which was done with

the utmost decorum, and the visitors departed with as much composure as

they had arrived.

Emily was wearied by these formalities, and disgusted by the

subservient manners of many persons, who had thought her scarcely

worthy of common attention, while she was believed to be a dependant on

Madame Montoni.

“Surely,” said she, “there is some magic in wealth, which can thus make

persons pay their court to it, when it does not even benefit

themselves. How strange it is, that a fool or a knave, with riches,

should be treated with more respect by the world, than a good man, or a

wise man in poverty!”

It was evening, before she was left alone, and she then wished to have

refreshed her spirits in the free air of her garden; but she feared to

go thither, lest she should meet again the person, whom she had seen on

the preceding night, and he should prove to be Valancourt. The suspense

and anxiety she suffered, on this subject, she found all her efforts

unable to control, and her secret wish to see Valancourt once more,

though unseen by him, powerfully prompted her to go, but prudence and a

delicate pride restrained her, and she determined to avoid the

possibility of throwing herself in his way, by forbearing to visit the

gardens, for several days.

When, after near a week, she again ventured thither, she made Annette

her companion, and confined her walk to the lower grounds, but often

started as the leaves rustled in the breeze, imagining, that some

person was among the thickets; and, at the turn of every alley, she

looked forward with apprehensive expectation. She pursued her walk

thoughtfully and silently, for her agitation would not suffer her to

converse with Annette, to whom, however, thought and silence were so

intolerable, that she did not scruple at length to talk to her

mistress.

“Dear madam,” said she, “why do you start so? one would think you knew

what has happened.”

“What has happened?” said Emily, in a faltering voice, and trying to

command her emotion.

“The night before last, you know, madam—”

“I know nothing, Annette,” replied her lady in a more hurried voice.

“The night before last, madam, there was a robber in the garden.”

“A robber!” said Emily, in an eager, yet doubting tone.

“I suppose he was a robber, madam. What else could he be?”

“Where did you see him, Annette?” rejoined Emily, looking round her,

and turning back towards the château.

“It was not I that saw him, madam, it was Jean the gardener. It was

twelve o’clock at night, and, as he was coming across the court to go

the back way into the house, what should he see—but somebody walking in

the avenue, that fronts the garden gate! So, with that, Jean guessed

how it was, and he went into the house for his gun.”

“His gun!” exclaimed Emily.

“Yes, madam, his gun; and then he came out into the court to watch him.

Presently, he sees him come slowly down the avenue, and lean over the

garden gate, and look up at the house for a long time; and I warrant he

examined it well, and settled what window he should break in at.”

“But the gun,” said Emily—“the gun!”

“Yes, madam, all in good time. Presently, Jean says, the robber opened

the gate, and was coming into the court, and then he thought proper to

ask him his business: so he called out again, and bade him say who he

was, and what he wanted. But the man would do neither; but turned upon

his heel, and passed into the garden again. Jean knew then well enough

how it was, and so he fired after him.”

“Fired!” exclaimed Emily.

“Yes, madam, fired off his gun; but, Holy Virgin! what makes you look

so pale, madam? The man was not killed,—I dare say; but if he was, his

comrades carried him off: for, when Jean went in the morning, to look

for the body, it was gone, and nothing to be seen but a track of blood

on the ground. Jean followed it, that he might find out where the man

got into the garden, but it was lost in the grass, and—”

Annette was interrupted: for Emily’s spirits died away, and she would

have fallen to the ground, if the girl had not caught her, and

supported her to a bench, close to them.

When, after a long absence, her senses returned, Emily desired to be

led to her apartment; and, though she trembled with anxiety to enquire

further on the subject of her alarm, she found herself too ill at

present, to dare the intelligence which it was possible she might

receive of Valancourt. Having dismissed Annette, that she might weep

and think at liberty, she endeavoured to recollect the exact air of the

person, whom she had seen on the terrace, and still her fancy gave her

the figure of Valancourt. She had, indeed, scarcely a doubt, that it

was he whom she had seen, and at whom the gardener had fired: for the

manner of the latter person, as described by Annette, was not that of a

robber; nor did it appear probable, that a robber would have come

alone, to break into a house so spacious as this.

When Emily thought herself sufficiently recovered, to listen to what

Jean might have to relate, she sent for him; but he could inform her of

no circumstance, that might lead to a knowledge of the person, who had

been shot, or of the consequence of the wound; and, after severely

reprimanding him, for having fired with bullets, and ordering diligent

enquiry to be made in the neighbourhood for the discovery of the

wounded person, she dismissed him, and herself remained in the same

state of terrible suspense. All the tenderness she had ever felt for

Valancourt, was recalled by the sense of his danger; and the more she

considered the subject, the more her conviction strengthened, that it

was he, who had visited the gardens, for the purpose of soothing the

misery of disappointed affection, amidst the scenes of his former

happiness.

“Dear madam,” said Annette, when she returned, “I never saw you so

affected before! I dare say the man is not killed.”

Emily shuddered, and lamented bitterly the rashness of the gardener in

having fired.

“I knew you would be angry enough about that, madam, or I should have

told you before; and he knew so too; for, says he, ‘Annette, say

nothing about this to my lady. She lies on the other side of the house,

so did not hear the gun, perhaps; but she would be angry with me, if

she knew, seeing there is blood. But then,’ says he, ‘how is one to

keep the garden clear, if one is afraid to fire at a robber, when one

sees him?’”

“No more of this,” said Emily, “pray leave me.”

Annette obeyed, and Emily returned to the agonizing considerations,

that had assailed her before, but which she, at length, endeavoured to

sooth by a new remark. If the stranger was Valancourt, it was certain

he had come alone, and it appeared, therefore, that he had been able to

quit the gardens, without assistance; a circumstance which did not seem

probable, had his wound been dangerous. With this consideration, she

endeavoured to support herself, during the enquiries, that were making

by her servants in the neighbourhood; but day after day came, and still

closed in uncertainty, concerning this affair: and Emily, suffering in

silence, at length, drooped, and sunk under the pressure of her

anxiety. She was attacked by a slow fever, and when she yielded to the

persuasion of Annette to send for medical advice, the physicians

prescribed little beside air, gentle exercise and amusement: but how

was this last to be obtained? She, however, endeavoured to abstract her

thoughts from the subject of her anxiety, by employing them in

promoting that happiness in others, which she had lost herself; and,

when the evening was fine, she usually took an airing, including in her

ride the cottages of some of her tenants, on whose condition she made

such observations, as often enabled her, unasked, to fulfil their

wishes.

Her indisposition and the business she engaged in, relative to this

estate, had already protracted her stay at Thoulouse, beyond the period

she had formerly fixed for her departure to La Vallée; and now she was

unwilling to leave the only place, where it seemed possible, that

certainty could be obtained on the subject of her distress. But the

time was come, when her presence was necessary at La Vallée, a letter

from the Lady Blanche now informing her, that the Count and herself,

being then at the château of the Baron St. Foix, purposed to visit her

at La Vallée, on their way home, as soon as they should be informed of

her arrival there. Blanche added, that they made this visit, with the

hope of inducing her to return with them to Château-le-Blanc.

Emily, having replied to the letter of her friend, and said that she

should be at La Vallée in a few days, made hasty preparations for the

journey; and, in thus leaving Thoulouse, endeavoured to support herself

with a belief, that, if any fatal accident had happened to Valancourt,

she must in this interval have heard of it.

On the evening before her departure, she went to take leave of the

terrace and the pavilion. The day had been sultry, but a light shower,

that fell just before sunset, had cooled the air, and given that soft

verdure to the woods and pastures, which is so refreshing to the eye;

while the rain drops, still trembling on the shrubs, glittered in the

last yellow gleam, that lighted up the scene, and the air was filled

with fragrance, exhaled by the late shower, from herbs and flowers and

from the earth itself. But the lovely prospect, which Emily beheld from

the terrace, was no longer viewed by her with delight; she sighed

deeply as her eye wandered over it, and her spirits were in a state of

such dejection, that she could not think of her approaching return to

La Vallée, without tears, and seemed to mourn again the death of her

father, as if it had been an event of yesterday. Having reached the

pavilion, she seated herself at the open lattice, and, while her eyes

settled on the distant mountains, that overlooked Gascony, still

gleaming on the horizon, though the sun had now left the plains below,

“Alas!” said she, “I return to your long-lost scenes, but shall meet no

more the parents, that were wont to render them delightful!—no more

shall see the smile of welcome, or hear the well-known voice of

fondness:—all will now be cold and silent in what was once my happy

home.”

Tears stole down her cheek, as the remembrance of what that home had

been, returned to her; but, after indulging her sorrow for some time,

she checked it, accusing herself of ingratitude in forgetting the

friends, that she possessed, while she lamented those that were

departed; and she, at length, left the pavilion and the terrace,

without having observed a shadow of Valancourt or of any other person.