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 impatientfor the company of her new friend, whom she wished to observe sharing inthe delight she received from the beautiful scenery around. She had nowno person, to whom she could express her admiration and communicateher pleasures, no eye, that sparkled to her smile, or countenance, thatreflected her happiness; and she became spiritless and pensive. TheCount, 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 mighthave arrived from Estuviere, oppressed Emily with severe anxiety, and,rendering her averse to society, she would willingly have deferred heracceptance of this invitation, till her spirits should be relieved.The Count and his family, however, pressed to see her; and, as thecircumstances, that prompted her wish for solitude, could not beexplained, there was an appearance of caprice in her refusal, which shecould not persevere in, without offending the friends, whose esteemshe valued. At length, therefore, she returned upon a second visitto Chateau-le-Blanc. Here the friendly manner of Count De Villefortencouraged Emily to mention to him her situation, respecting the estatesof her late aunt, and to consult him on the means of recovering them. Hehad little doubt, that the law would decide in her favour, and, advisingher to apply to it, offered first to write to an advocate at Avignon,on whose opinion he thought he could rely. His kindness was gratefullyaccepted by Emily, who, soothed by the courtesy she daily experienced,would have been once more happy, could she have been assured ofValancourt's welfare and unaltered affection. She had now been above aweek at the chateau, without receiving intelligence of him, and, thoughshe knew, that, if he was absent from his brother's residence, it wasscarcely probable her letter had yet reached him, she could not forbearto admit doubts and fears, that destroyed her peace. Again she wouldconsider of all, that might have happened in the long period, since herfirst seclusion at Udolpho, and her mind was sometimes so overwhelmedwith an apprehension, that Valancourt was no more, or that he livedno longer for her, that the company even of Blanche became intolerablyoppressive, and she would sit alone in her apartment for hours together,when the engagements of the family allowed her to do so, withoutincivility.
In one of these solitary hours, she unlocked a little box, whichcontained some letters of Valancourt, with some drawings she hadsketched, during her stay in Tuscany, the latter of which were nolonger interesting to her; but, in the letters, she now, with melancholyindulgence, meant to retrace the tenderness, that had so often soothedher, and rendered her, for a moment, insensible of the distance, whichseparated her from the writer. But their effect was now changed; theaffection they expressed appealed so forcibly to her heart, when sheconsidered that it had, perhaps, yielded to the powers of time andabsence, and even the view of the hand-writing recalled so many painfulrecollections, that she found herself unable to go through the first shehad opened, and sat musing, with her cheek resting on her arm, and tearsstealing from her eyes, when old Dorothee entered the room to informher, that dinner would be ready, an hour before the usual time. Emilystarted on perceiving her, and hastily put up the papers, but not beforeDorothee had observed both her agitation and her tears.
'Ah, ma'amselle!' said she, 'you, who are so young,--have you reason forsorrow?'
Emily tried to smile, but was unable to speak.
'Alas! dear young lady, when you come to my age, you will not weep attrifles; and surely you have nothing serious, to grieve you.'
'No, Dorothee, nothing of any consequence,' replied Emily. Dorothee, nowstooping 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 lookinground the room.
'It is herself,' said Dorothee, 'her very self! just as she looked alittle before she died!'
Emily, still more alarmed, began now to fear, that Dorothee was seizedwith sudden phrensy, but entreated her to explain herself.
'That picture!' said she, 'where did you find it, lady? it is my blessedmistress herself!'
She laid on the table the miniature, which Emily had long ago foundamong the papers her father had enjoined her to destroy, and overwhich she had once seen him shed such tender and affecting tears; and,recollecting all the various circumstances of his conduct, that had longperplexed her, her emotions increased to an excess, which deprived herof all power to ask the questions she trembled to have answered, and shecould only enquire, whether Dorothee was certain the picture resembledthe late marchioness.
'O, ma'amselle!' said she, 'how came it to strike me so, the instant Isaw it, if it was not my lady's likeness? Ah!' added she, taking up theminiature, '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 hadsat thinking for a long while, and then, the tears would often stealdown 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 loveher so!'
'Dorothee!' said Emily solemnly, 'I am interested in the cause of thatgrief, more so, perhaps, than you may imagine; and I entreat, that youwill no longer refuse to indulge my curiosity;--it is not a common one.'
As Emily said this, she remembered the papers, with which the picturehad been found, and had scarcely a doubt, that they had concerned theMarchioness de Villeroi; but with this supposition came a scruple,whether she ought to enquire further on a subject, which might prove tobe the same, that her father had so carefully endeavoured to conceal.Her curiosity, concerning the Marchioness, powerful as it was, it isprobable she would now have resisted, as she had formerly done, onunwarily observing the few terrible words in the papers, which had neversince been erased from her memory, had she been certain that the historyof that lady was the subject of those papers, or, that such simpleparticulars only as it was probable Dorothee could relate were includedin her father's command. What was known to her could be no secret tomany other persons; and, since it appeared very unlikely, that St.Aubert should attempt to conceal what Emily might learn by ordinarymeans, she at length concluded, that, if the papers had related to thestory of the Marchioness, it was not those circumstances of it, whichDorothee could disclose, that he had thought sufficiently important towish to have concealed. She, therefore, no longer hesitated to make theenquiries, that might lead to the gratification of her curiosity.
'Ah, ma'amselle!' said Dorothee, 'it is a sad story, and cannot be toldnow: 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 asmyself, and he knew many particulars from me, which nobody else did; forI was about the person of my lady in her last illness, and saw and heardas much, or more than my lord himself. Sweet saint! how patient she was!When she died, I thought I could have died with her!'
'Dorothee,' said Emily, interrupting her, 'what you shall tell, you maydepend upon it, shall never be disclosed by me. I have, I repeat it,particular reasons for wishing to be informed on this subject, and amwilling to bind myself, in the most solemn manner, never to mention whatyou shall wish me to conceal.'
Dorothee 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 younot 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 fellinto your hands, and the reasons you say you have for curiosity about mylady?'
'Why, no, Dorothee,' replied Emily, recollecting herself, 'I have alsoparticular reasons for observing silence, on these subjects, at least,till I know further; and, remember, I do not promise ever to speak uponthem; therefore, do not let me induce you to satisfy my curiosity, froman expectation, that I shall gratify yours. What I may judge proper toconceal, does not concern myself alone, or I should have less scruplein revealing it: let a confidence in my honour alone persuade you todisclose what I request.'
'Well, lady!' replied Dorothee, after a long pause, during which hereyes were fixed upon Emily, 'you seem so much interested,--and thispicture and that face of yours make me think you have some reason tobe so,--that I will trust you--and tell some things, that I never toldbefore to any body, but my husband, though there are people, who havesuspected 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 allthe saints'--
Emily, interrupting her, solemnly promised never to reveal what shouldbe confided to her, without Dorothee's consent.
'But there is the horn, ma'amselle, sounding for dinner,' said Dorothee;'I must be gone.'
'When shall I see you again?' enquired Emily.
Dorothee mused, and then replied, 'Why, madam, it may make peoplecurious, if it is known I am so much in your apartment, and thatI should be sorry for; so I will come when I am least likely to beobserved. I have little leisure in the day, and I shall have a good dealto say; so, if you please, ma'am, I will come, when the family are allin bed.'
'That will suit me very well,' replied Emily: 'Remember, then,to-night'--
'Aye, that is well remembered,' said Dorothee, 'I fear I cannot cometo-night, madam, for there will be the dance of the vintage, and it willbe late, before the servants go to rest; for, when they once set in todance, they will keep it up, in the cool of the air, till morning; atleast, 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 thepreceding year, that St. Aubert and herself had arrived in theneighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc. She paused a moment, overcome bythe sudden recollection, and then, recovering herself, added--'But thisdance is in the open woods; you, therefore, will not be wanted, and caneasily come to me.'
Dorothee replied, that she had been accustomed to be present at thedance of the vintage, and she did not wish to be absent now; 'but if Ican get away, madam, I will,' said she.
Emily then hastened to the dining-room, where the Count conductedhimself with the courtesy, which is inseparable from true dignity, andof which the Countess frequently practised little, though her manner toEmily was an exception to her usual habit. But, if she retained few ofthe ornamental virtues, she cherished other qualities, which she seemedto consider invaluable. She had dismissed the grace of modesty, butthen she knew perfectly well how to manage the stare of assurance; hermanners had little of the tempered sweetness, which is necessary torender the female character interesting, but she could occasionallythrow into them an affectation of spirits, which seemed to triumph overevery person, who approached her. In the country, however, she generallyaffected an elegant languor, that persuaded her almost to faint,when her favourite read to her a story of fictitious sorrow; buther countenance suffered no change, when living objects of distresssolicited her charity, and her heart beat with no transport to thethought of giving them instant relief;--she was a stranger to thehighest luxury, of which, perhaps, the human mind can be sensible, forher benevolence had never yet called smiles upon the face of misery.
In the evening, the Count, with all his family, except the Countess andMademoiselle Bearn, went to the woods to witness the festivity of thepeasants. The scene was in a glade, where the trees, opening, formed acircle 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 ruralfare,--and seats for the Count and his family. At a little distance,were benches for the elder peasants, few of whom, however, could forbearto join the jocund dance, which began soon after sun-set, when severalof sixty tripped it with almost as much glee and airy lightness, asthose 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 werechiefly flutes and a kind of long guitar. Behind, stood a boy,flourishing a tamborine, and dancing a solo, except that, as hesometimes gaily tossed the instrument, he tripped among the otherdancers, when his antic gestures called forth a broader laugh, andheightened the rustic spirit of the scene.
The Count was highly delighted with the happiness he witnessed, to whichhis bounty had largely contributed, and the Lady Blanche joined thedance with a young gentleman of her father's party. Du Pont requestedEmily's hand, but her spirits were too much depressed, to permit her toengage in the present festivity, which called to her remembrance thatof the preceding year, when St. Aubert was living, and of the melancholyscenes, which had immediately followed it.
Overcome by these recollections, she, at length, left the spot, andwalked slowly into the woods, where the softened music, floating at adistance, soothed her melancholy mind. The moon threw a mellow lightamong the foliage; the air was balmy and cool, and Emily, lost inthought, strolled on, without observing whither, till she perceived thesounds 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 herfather'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; forthe Count had been so much engaged in directing other improvements, thathe had neglected to give orders, concerning this extensive approach,and the road was yet broken, and the trees overloaded with their ownluxuriance.
As she stood surveying it, and remembering the emotions, which she hadformerly suffered there, she suddenly recollected the figure, that hadbeen seen stealing among the trees, and which had returned no answer toMichael's repeated calls; and she experienced somewhat of the fear, thathad then assailed her, for it did not appear improbable, that these deepwoods were occasionally the haunt of banditti. She, therefore, turnedback, and was hastily pursuing her way to the dancers, when she heardsteps approaching from the avenue; and, being still beyond the call ofthe peasants on the green, for she could neither hear their voices, ortheir music, she quickened her pace; but the persons following gainedfast upon her, and, at length, distinguishing the voice of Henri, shewalked leisurely, till he came up. He expressed some surprise at meetingher so far from the company; and, on her saying, that the pleasantmoon-light had beguiled her to walk farther than she intended, anexclamation burst from the lips of his companion, and she thought sheheard Valancourt speak! It was, indeed, he! and the meeting was such asmay be imagined, between persons so affectionate, and so long separatedas they had been.
In the joy of these moments, Emily forgot all her past sufferings, andValancourt 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 letterhad 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 whichhe had immediately set out for Languedoc. On reaching themonastery, whence she had dated her letter, he found, to his extremedisappointment, that the gates were already closed for the night;and believing, that he should not see Emily, till the morrow, he wasreturning to his little inn, with the inte
ntion of writing to her, whenhe was overtaken by Henri, with whom he had been intimate at Paris, andwas 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 thelatter presented Valancourt to the Count, who, she fancied, received himwith less than his usual benignity, though it appeared, that they werenot strangers to each other. He was invited, however, to partake of thediversions of the evening; and, when he had paid his respects to theCount, and while the dancers continued their festivity, he seatedhimself by Emily, and conversed, without restraint. The lights, whichwere hung among the trees, under which they sat, allowed her a moreperfect view of the countenance she had so frequently in absenceendeavoured to recollect, and she perceived, with some regret, thatit was not the same as when last she saw it. There was all its wontedintelligence and fire; but it had lost much of the simplicity, andsomewhat of the open benevolence, that used to characterise it. Still,however, it was an interesting countenance; but Emily thought sheperceived, at intervals, anxiety contract, and melancholy fix thefeatures of Valancourt; sometimes, too, he fell into a momentary musing,and then appeared anxious to dissipate thought; while, at others, as hefixed his eyes on Emily, a kind of sudden distraction seemed tocross his mind. In her he perceived the same goodness and beautifulsimplicity, that had charmed him, on their first acquaintance. The bloomof her countenance was somewhat faded, but all its sweetness remained,and it was rendered more interesting, than ever, by the faint expressionof melancholy, that sometimes mingled with her smile.
At his request, she related the most important circumstances, thathad occurred to her, since she left France, and emotions of pity andindignation alternately prevailed in his mind, when he heard how muchshe had suffered from the villany of Montoni. More than once, when shewas 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 byresentment. Her sufferings alone were mentioned in the few words, whichhe could address to her, and he listened not to the account, which shewas careful to give as distinctly as possible, of the present loss ofMadame Montoni's estates, and of the little reason there was to expecttheir restoration. At length, Valancourt remained lost in thought, andthen some secret cause seemed to overcome him with anguish. Again heabruptly left her. When he returned, she perceived, that he had beenweeping, and tenderly begged, that he would compose himself. 'Mysufferings are all passed now,' said she, 'for I have escaped from thetyranny 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 ofuttering which Emily was then more shocked than by their import. Shefixed on him a mournful and enquiring eye. 'Do not look thus on me,'said he, turning away and pressing her hand; 'I cannot bear thoselooks.'
'I would ask,' said Emily, in a gentle, but agitated voice, 'the meaningof your words; but I perceive, that the question would distress younow. Let us talk on other subjects. To-morrow, perhaps, you may be morecomposed. Observe those moon light woods, and the towers, whichappear obscurely in the perspective. You used to be a great admirerof landscape, and I have heard you say, that the faculty of derivingconsolation, under misfortune, from the sublime prospects, which neitheroppression, or poverty with-hold from us, was the peculiar blessing ofthe innocent.' Valancourt was deeply affected. 'Yes,' replied he, 'Ihad once a taste for innocent and elegant delights--I had once anuncorrupted heart.' Then, checking himself, he added, 'Do you rememberour journey together in the Pyrenees?'
'Can I forget it?' said Emily.--'Would that I could!' he replied;--'thatwas the happiest period of my life. I then loved, with enthusiasm,whatever was truly great, or good.' It was some time before Emily couldrepress her tears, and try to command her emotions. 'If you wish toforget that journey,' said she, 'it must certainly be my wish to forgetit also.' She paused, and then added, 'You make me very uneasy; but thisis 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,' saidValancourt, 'yes, Emily: I have not yet lost my candour: if I had, Icould better have disguised my emotions, on learning what were yoursufferings--your virtues, while I--I--but I will say no more. I didnot mean to have said even so much--I have been surprised intothe self-accusation. Tell me, Emily, that you will not forget thatjourney--will not wish to forget it, and I will be calm. I would notlose the remembrance of it for the whole earth.'
'How contradictory is this!' said Emily;--'but we may be overheard. Myrecollection of it shall depend upon yours; I will endeavour to forget,or to recollect it, as you may do. Let us join the Count.'--'Tellme first,' said Valancourt, 'that you forgive the uneasiness I haveoccasioned you, this evening, and that you will still love me.'--'Isincerely forgive you,' replied Emily. 'You best know whether I shallcontinue to love you, for you know whether you deserve my esteem. Atpresent, I will believe that you do. It is unnecessary to say,' addedshe, observing his dejection, 'how much pain it would give me to believeotherwise.--The young lady, who approaches, is the Count's daughter.'
Valancourt and Emily now joined the Lady Blanche; and the party, soonafter, sat down with the Count, his son, and the Chevalier Du Pont, at abanquet, spread under a gay awning, beneath the trees. At the table alsowere seated several of the most venerable of the Count's tenants, andit was a festive repast to all but Valancourt and Emily. When the Countretired to the chateau, he did not invite Valancourt to accompany him,who, therefore, took leave of Emily, and retired to his solitary inn forthe night: meanwhile, she soon withdrew to her own apartment, whereshe mused, with deep anxiety and concern, on his behaviour, and on theCount's reception of him. Her attention was thus so wholly engaged, thatshe forgot Dorothee and her appointment, till morning was far advanced,when, knowing that the good old woman would not come, she retired, for afew hours, to repose.
On the following day, when the Count had accidentally joined Emily inone 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 oftalents,' said he; 'you were formerly acquainted with him, I perceive.'Emily said, that she was. 'He was introduced to me, at Paris,' said theCount, 'and I was much pleased with him, on our first acquaintance.' Hepaused, and Emily trembled, between the desire of hearing more and thefear of shewing the Count, that she felt an interest on the subject.'May I ask,' said he, at length, 'how long you have known MonsieurValancourt?'--'Will you allow me to ask your reason for the question,sir?' said she; 'and I will answer it immediately.'--'Certainly,' saidthe Count, 'that is but just. I will tell you my reason. I cannot butperceive, that Monsieur Valancourt admires you; in that, however, thereis nothing extraordinary; every person, who sees you, must do the same.I am above using common-place compliments; I speak with sincerity. WhatI fear, is, that he is a favoured admirer.'--'Why do you fear it, sir?'said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion.--'Because,' replied theCount, 'I think him not worthy of your favour.' Emily, greatly agitated,entreated further explanation. 'I will give it,' said he, 'if you willbelieve, that nothing but a strong interest in your welfare could induceme to hazard that assertion.'--'I must believe so, sir,' replied Emily.
'But let us rest under these trees,' said the Count, observing thepaleness of her countenance; 'here is a seat--you are fatigued.' Theysat down, and the Count proceeded. 'Many young ladies, circumstanced asyou are, would think my conduct, on this occasion, and on so shortan acquaintance, impertinent, instead of friendly; from what I haveobserved of your temper and understanding, I do not fear such a returnfrom you. Our acquaintance has been short, but long enough to make meesteem you, and feel a lively interest in your happiness. You deserveto be very happy, and I trust that you will be so.' Emil
y sighedsoftly, and bowed her thanks. The Count paused again. 'I am unpleasantlycircumstanced,' said he; 'but an opportunity of rendering you importantservice shall overcome inferior considerations. Will you inform me ofthe manner of your first acquaintance with the Chevalier Valancourt, ifthe subject is not too painful?'
Emily briefly related the accident of their meeting in the presence ofher father, and then so earnestly entreated the Count not to hesitate indeclaring what he knew, that he perceived the violent emotion, againstwhich she was contending, and, regarding her with a look of tendercompassion, considered how he might communicate his information withleast 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, andinvited him to my own, whenever he should be disengaged. I did not thenknow, that he had formed an acquaintance with a set of men, a disgraceto their species, who live by plunder and pass their lives in continualdebauchery. I knew several of the Chevalier's family, resident at Paris,and considered them as sufficient pledges for his introduction to myown. 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, hisassociates, had drawn him into a course of dissipation, from which heappeared to have neither the power, nor the inclination, to extricatehimself. He lost large sums at the gaming-table; he became infatuatedwith play; and was ruined. I spoke tenderly of this to his friends, whoassured 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 ofvillany,--that in consideration of these, the party had initiated himinto the secrets of their trade, and allotted him a share of theirprofits.' 'Impossible!' said Emily suddenly; 'but--pardon me, sir, Iscarcely know what I say; allow for the distress of my mind. I must,indeed, I must believe, that you have not been truly informed. TheChevalier had, doubtless, enemies, who misrepresented him.'--'I shouldbe most happy to believe so,' replied the Count, 'but I cannot. Nothingshort of conviction, and a regard for your happiness, could have urgedme to repeat these unpleasant reports.'
Emily was silent. She recollected Valancourt's sayings, on the precedingevening, which discovered the pangs of self-reproach, and seemed toconfirm all that the Count had related. Yet she had not fortitude enoughto dare conviction. Her heart was overwhelmed with anguish at the meresuspicion of his guilt, and she could not endure a belief of it. Aftera silence, the Count said, 'I perceive, and can allow for, your wantof conviction. It is necessary I should give some proof of what I haveasserted; but this I cannot do, without subjecting one, who is very dearto 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 yourhonour I am certain I can rely,' said the Count; 'but can I trust yourfortitude? Do you think you can resist the solicitation of a favouredadmirer, when he pleads, in affliction, for the name of one, whohas robbed him of a blessing?'--'I shall not be exposed to such atemptation, sir,' said Emily, with modest pride, 'for I cannot favourone, 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 beenformed on virtuous esteem, and cherished by habit and difficulty.
'I will trust you then,' said the Count, 'for conviction is necessaryto your peace, and cannot, I perceive, be obtained, without thisconfidence. My son has too often been an eye-witness of the Chevalier'sill 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 guiltand destruction. Judge then, Mademoiselle St. Aubert, whether a father,who had nearly lost his only son by the example of the Chevalier, hasnot, from conviction, reason to warn those, whom he esteems, againsttrusting their happiness in such hands. I have myself seen the Chevalierengaged in deep play with men, whom I almost shuddered to look upon. Ifyou 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. Ifyou had known the justness of his former principles, you would allow formy present incredulity.'
'Alas!' observed the Count, 'it is difficult to believe that, whichwill make us wretched. But I will not sooth you by flattering andfalse hopes. We all know how fascinating the vice of gaming is, and howdifficult it is, also, to conquer habits; the Chevalier might, perhaps,reform for a while, but he would soon relapse into dissipation--for Ifear, not only the bonds of habit would be powerful, but that his moralsare corrupted. And--why should I conceal from you, that play is not hisonly vice? he appears to have a taste for every vicious pleasure.'
The Count hesitated and paused; while Emily endeavoured to supportherself, as, with increasing perturbation, she expected what he mightfurther say. A long pause of silence ensued, during which he was visiblyagitated; at length, he said, 'It would be a cruel delicacy, thatcould prevail with me to be silent--and I will inform you, that theChevalier's extravagance has brought him twice into the prisons ofParis, from whence he was last extricated, as I was told upon authority,which I cannot doubt, by a well-known Parisian Countess, with whom hecontinued to reside, when I left Paris.'
He paused again; and, looking at Emily, perceived her countenancechange, and that she was falling from the seat; he caught her, but shehad fainted, and he called loudly for assistance. They were, however,beyond the hearing of his servants at the chateau, and he fearedto leave her while he went thither for assistance, yet knew not howotherwise to obtain it; till a fountain at no great distance caught hiseye, and he endeavoured to support Emily against the tree, under whichshe had been sitting, while he went thither for water. But again he wasperplexed, for he had nothing near him, in which water could be brought;but while, with increased anxiety, he watched her, he thought heperceived in her countenance symptoms of returning life.
It was long, however, before she revived, and then she found herselfsupported--not by the Count, but by Valancourt, who was observing herwith 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, sheraised her eyes, but presently closed them, and a faintness again cameover her.
The Count, with a look somewhat stern, waved him to withdraw; but heonly sighed heavily, and called on the name of Emily, as he again heldthe water, that had been brought, to her lips. On the Count's repeatinghis action, and accompanying it with words, Valancourt answered himwith a look of deep resentment, and refused to leave the place, till sheshould 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 hadbeen the subject of the Count's conversation with Emily, and indignationflashed in his eyes; but it was quickly repressed, and succeeded by anexpression of serious anguish, that induced the Count to regard him withmore 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 appearrecovered, she rose, thanked the Count and Henri, with whom Valancourthad entered the garden, for their care, and moved towards the chateau,without noticing Valancourt, who, heart-struck by her manner, exclaimedin a low voice--'Good God! how have I deserved this?--what has beensaid, to occasion this change?'
Emily, without replying, but with increased emotion, quickened hersteps. 'What has thus disordered you, Emily?' said he, as he stillwalked by her side: 'give me a few moments' conversation, I entreatyou;--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 muchindisposed, to attend to any conversation, but that he would ventureto promise she would see Monsieur Valancour
t on the morrow, if she wasbetter.
Valancourt's cheek was crimsoned: he looked haughtily at the Count,and then at Emily, with successive expressions of surprise, grief andsupplication, which she could neither misunderstand, or resist, and shesaid languidly--'I shall be better tomorrow, and if you wish to acceptthe Count's permission, I will see you then.'
'See me!' exclaimed Valancourt, as he threw a glance of mingled prideand resentment upon the Count; and then, seeming to recollecthimself, he added--'But I will come, madam; I will accept the Count'sPERMISSION.'
When they reached the door of the chateau, he lingered a moment, forhis resentment was now fled; and then, with a look so expressive oftenderness and grief, that Emily's heart was not proof against it, hebade her good morning, and, bowing slightly to the Count, disappeared.
Emily withdrew to her own apartment, under such oppression of heart asshe had seldom known, when she endeavoured to recollect all that theCount had told, to examine the probability of the circumstanceshe himself believed, and to consider of her future conduct towardsValancourt. But, when she attempted to think, her mind refused controul,and she could only feel that she was miserable. One moment, she sunkunder the conviction, that Valancourt was no longer the same, whom shehad so tenderly loved, the idea of whom had hitherto supported herunder affliction, and cheered her with the hope of happier days,--buta fallen, a worthless character, whom she must teach herself todespise--if she could not forget. Then, unable to endure this terriblesupposition, she rejected it, and disdained to believe him capable ofconduct, such as the Count had described, to whom she believed he hadbeen misrepresented by some artful enemy; and there were moments, whenshe even ventured to doubt the integrity of the Count himself, and tosuspect, that he was influenced by some selfish motive, to break herconnection with Valancourt. But this was the error of an instant, only;the Count's character, which she had heard spoken of by Du Pont andmany other persons, and had herself observed, enabled her to judge, andforbade the supposition; had her confidence, indeed, been less, thereappeared to be no temptation to betray him into conduct so treacherous,and so cruel. Nor did reflection suffer her to preserve the hope, thatValancourt had been mis-represented to the Count, who had said, that hespoke chiefly from his own observation, and from his son's experience.She must part from Valancourt, therefore, for ever--for what of eitherhappiness or tranquillity could she expect with a man, whose tastes weredegenerated into low inclinations, and to whom vice was become habitual?whom she must no longer esteem, though the remembrance of what he oncewas, and the long habit of loving him, would render it very difficultfor her to despise him. 'O Valancourt!' she would exclaim, 'having beenseparated so long--do we meet, only to be miserable--only to part forever?'
Amidst all the tumult of her mind, she remembered pertinaciously theseeming 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 hopemuch from this. Still she could not resolve to dismiss him for ever,without obtaining further proof of his ill conduct; yet she saw noprobability of procuring it, if, indeed, proof more positive waspossible. Something, however, it was necessary to decide upon, and shealmost determined to be guided in her opinion solely by the manner, withwhich Valancourt should receive her hints concerning his late conduct.
Thus passed the hours till dinner-time, when Emily, struggling againstthe pressure of her grief, dried her tears, and joined the familyat table, where the Count preserved towards her the most delicateattention; but the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, having looked, for amoment, with surprise, on her dejected countenance, began, as usual,to talk of trifles, while the eyes of Lady Blanche asked much of herfriend, who could only reply by a mournful smile.
Emily withdrew as soon after dinner as possible, and was followed by theLady Blanche, whose anxious enquiries, however, she found herself quiteunequal to answer, and whom she entreated to spare her on the subjectof her distress. To converse on any topic, was now, indeed, so extremelypainful to her, that she soon gave up the attempt, and Blanche lefther, with pity of the sorrow, which she perceived she had no power toassuage.
Emily secretly determined to go to her convent in a day or two; forcompany, especially that of the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, wasintolerable to her, in the present state of her spirits; and, in theretirement of the convent, as well as the kindness of the abbess, shehoped to recover the command of her mind, and to teach it resignation tothe event, which, she too plainly perceived, was approaching.
To have lost Valancourt by death, or to have seen him married toa rival, would, she thought, have given her less anguish, than aconviction of his unworthiness, which must terminate in misery tohimself, and which robbed her even of the solitary image her heart solong had cherished. These painful reflections were interrupted, for amoment, by a note from Valancourt, written in evident distractionof mind, entreating, that she would permit him to see her on theapproaching evening, instead of the following morning; a request, whichoccasioned her so much agitation, that she was unable to answer it. Shewished to see him, and to terminate her present state of suspense, yetshrunk from the interview, and, incapable of deciding for herself, she,at length, sent to beg a few moments' conversation with the Count in hislibrary, where she delivered to him the note, and requested his advice.After reading it, he said, that, if she believed herself well enoughto support the interview, his opinion was, that, for the relief of bothparties, it ought to take place, that evening.
'His affection for you is, undoubtedly, a very sincere one,' added theCount; '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, andthen exerted herself in endeavours to attain fortitude and composure,to bear her through the approaching scene--a scene so afflictingly thereverse of any, to which she had looked forward!
VOLUME 4