CHAPTER I
Is all the council that we two have shared, the hours that we have spent, When we have chid the hasty-footed time For parting us--Oh! and is all forgot?
And will you rend our ancient love asunder? MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM
In the evening, when Emily was at length informed, that Count DeVillefort requested to see her, she guessed that Valancourt was below,and, endeavouring to assume composure and to recollect all her spirits,she rose and left the apartment; but on reaching the door of thelibrary, where she imagined him to be, her emotion returned with suchenergy, that, fearing to trust herself in the room, she returned intothe hall, where she continued for a considerable time, unable to commandher agitated spirits.
When she could recall them, she found in the library Valancourt, seatedwith the Count, who both rose on her entrance; but she did not dareto look at Valancourt, and the Count, having led her to a chair,immediately withdrew.
Emily remained with her eyes fixed on the floor, under such oppressionof heart, that she could not speak, and with difficulty breathed; whileValancourt threw himself into a chair beside her, and, sighing heavily,continued silent, when, had she raised her eyes, she would haveperceived the violent emotions, with which he was agitated.
At length, in a tremulous voice, he said, 'I have solicited to see youthis evening, that I might, at least, be spared the further torture ofsuspense, which your altered manner had occasioned me, and which thehints I have just received from the Count have in part explained. Iperceive I have enemies, Emily, who envied me my late happiness, andwho have been busy in searching out the means to destroy it: I perceive,too, that time and absence have weakened the affection you once felt forme, and that you can now easily be taught to forget me.'
His last words faltered, and Emily, less able to speak than before,continued silent.
'O what a meeting is this!' exclaimed Valancourt, starting from hisseat, and pacing the room with hurried steps, 'what a meeting is this,after our long--long separation!' Again he sat down, and, after thestruggle of a moment, he added in a firm but despairing tone, 'This istoo much--I cannot bear it! Emily, will you not speak to me?'
He covered his face with his hand, as if to conceal his emotion, andtook Emily's, which she did not withdraw. Her tears could no longerbe restrained; and, when he raised his eyes and perceived that she wasweeping, all his tenderness returned, and a gleam of hope appeared tocross his mind, for he exclaimed, 'O! you do pity me, then, you do loveme! Yes, you are still my own Emily--let me believe those tears, thattell me so!'
Emily now made an effort to recover her firmness, and, hastily dryingthem, 'Yes,' said she, 'I do pity you--I weep for you--but, ought I tothink of you with affection? You may remember, that yester-evening Isaid, I had still sufficient confidence in your candour to believe,that, when I should request an explanation of your words, you would giveit. This explanation is now unnecessary, I understand them too well; butprove, at least, that your candour is deserving of the confidence Igive it, when I ask you, whether you are conscious of being the sameestimable Valancourt--whom I once loved.'
'Once loved!' cried he,--'the same--the same!' He paused inextreme emotion, and then added, in a voice at once solemn, anddejected,--'No--I am not the same!--I am lost--I am no longer worthy ofyou!'
He again concealed his face. Emily was too much affected by this honestconfession to reply immediately, and, while she struggled to overcomethe pleadings of her heart, and to act with the decisive firmness, whichwas necessary for her future peace, she perceived all the danger oftrusting long to her resolution, in the presence of Valancourt, and wasanxious to conclude an interview, that tortured them both; yet, whenshe considered, that this was probably their last meeting, her fortitudesunk at once, and she experienced only emotions of tenderness and ofdespondency.
Valancourt, meanwhile, lost in emotions of remorse and grief, which hehad neither the power, or the will to express, sat insensible almostof the presence of Emily, his features still concealed, and his breastagitated by convulsive sighs.
'Spare me the necessity,' said Emily, recollecting her fortitude, 'spareme the necessity of mentioning those circumstances of your conduct,which oblige me to break our connection forever.--We must part, I nowsee you for the last time.'
'Impossible!' cried Valancourt, roused from his deep silence, 'Youcannot mean what you say!--you cannot mean to throw me from youforever!'
'We must part,' repeated Emily, with emphasis,--'and that forever! Yourown conduct has made this necessary.'
'This is the Count's determination,' said he haughtily, 'not yours,and I shall enquire by what authority he interferes between us.' He nowrose, and walked about the room in great emotion.
'Let me save you from this error,' said Emily, not less agitated--'it ismy determination, and, if you reflect a moment on your late conduct, youwill perceive, that my future peace requires it.'
'Your future peace requires, that we should part--part forever!' saidValancourt, 'How little did I ever expect to hear you say so!'
'And how little did I expect, that it would be necessary for me to sayso!' rejoined Emily, while her voice softened into tenderness, and hertears flowed again.--'That you--you, Valancourt, would ever fall from myesteem!'
He was silent a moment, as if overwhelmed by the consciousness of nolonger deserving this esteem, as well as the certainty of having lostit, and then, with impassioned grief, lamented the criminality of hislate conduct and the misery to which it had reduced him, till, overcomeby a recollection of the past and a conviction of the future, he burstinto tears, and uttered only deep and broken sighs.
The remorse he had expressed, and the distress he suffered could notbe witnessed by Emily with indifference, and, had she not called toher recollection all the circumstances, of which Count De Villeforthad informed her, and all he had said of the danger of confiding inrepentance, formed under the influence of passion, she might perhapshave trusted to the assurances of her heart, and have forgotten hismisconduct in the tenderness, which that repentance excited.
Valancourt, returning to the chair beside her, at length, said, in acalm voice, ''Tis true, I am fallen--fallen from my own esteem! butcould you, Emily, so soon, so suddenly resign, if you had not beforeceased to love me, or, if your conduct was not governed by the designs,I will say, the selfish designs of another person! Would you nototherwise be willing to hope for my reformation--and could you bear, byestranging me from you, to abandon me to misery--to myself!'--Emily weptaloud.--'No, Emily--no--you would not do this, if you still loved me.You would find your own happiness in saving mine.'
'There are too many probabilities against that hope,' said Emily, 'tojustify me in trusting the comfort of my whole life to it. May I notalso ask, whether you could wish me to do this, if you really loved me?'
'Really loved you!' exclaimed Valancourt--'is it possible you can doubtmy love! Yet it is reasonable, that you should do so, since you see,that I am less ready to suffer the horror of parting with you, thanthat of involving you in my ruin. Yes, Emily--I am ruined--irreparablyruined--I am involved in debts, which I can never discharge!'Valancourt's look, which was wild, as he spoke this, soon settled intoan expression of gloomy despair; and Emily, while she was compelled toadmire his sincerity, saw, with unutterable anguish, new reasons forfear in the suddenness of his feelings and the extent of the misery, inwhich they might involve him. After some minutes, she seemed tocontend against her grief and to struggle for fortitude to concludethe interview. 'I will not prolong these moments,' said she, 'by aconversation, which can answer no good purpose. Valancourt, farewell!'
'You are not going?' said he, wildly interrupting her--'You will notleave me thus--you will not abandon me even before my mind has suggestedany possibility of compromise between the last indulgence of my despairand the endurance of my loss!' Emily was terrified by the sternnessof his look, and said, in a soothing voice, 'You have yourselfacknowledged, that it is necessary we should part;--if youwish, that I s
hould believe you love me, you will repeat theacknowledgment.'--'Never--never,' cried he--'I was distracted when Imade it. O! Emily--this is too much;--though you are not deceived as tomy faults, you must be deluded into this exasperation against them. TheCount is the barrier between us; but he shall not long remain so.'
'You are, indeed, distracted,' said Emily, 'the Count is not your enemy;on the contrary, he is my friend, and that might, in some degree, induceyou to consider him as yours.'--'Your friend!' said Valancourt, hastily,'how long has he been your friend, that he can so easily make you forgetyour lover? Was it he, who recommended to your favour the Monsieur DuPont, who, you say, accompanied you from Italy, and who, I say, hasstolen your affections? But I have no right to question you;--you areyour own mistress. Du Pont, perhaps, may not long triumph over my fallenfortunes!' Emily, more frightened than before by the frantic looks ofValancourt, said, in a tone scarcely audible, 'For heaven's sake bereasonable--be composed. Monsieur Du Pont is not your rival, nor is theCount his advocate. You have no rival; nor, except yourself, an enemy.My heart is wrung with anguish, which must increase while yourfrantic behaviour shews me, more than ever, that you are no longer theValancourt I have been accustomed to love.'
He made no reply, but sat with his arms rested on the table and hisface concealed by his hands; while Emily stood, silent and trembling,wretched for herself and dreading to leave him in this state of mind.
'O excess of misery!' he suddenly exclaimed, 'that I can never lamentmy sufferings, without accusing myself, nor remember you, withoutrecollecting the folly and the vice, by which I have lost you! Why was Iforced to Paris, and why did I yield to allurements, which were to makeme despicable for ever! O! why cannot I look back, without interruption,to those days of innocence and peace, the days of our early love!'--Therecollection seemed to melt his heart, and the frenzy of despair yieldedto tears. After a long pause, turning towards her and taking her hand,he said, in a softened voice, 'Emily, can you bear that we shouldpart--can you resolve to give up an heart, that loves you like mine--anheart, which, though it has erred--widely erred, is not irretrievablefrom error, as, you well know, it never can be retrievable from love?'Emily made no reply, but with her tears. 'Can you,' continued he, 'canyou forget all our former days of happiness and confidence--when I hadnot a thought, that I might wish to conceal from you--when I had notaste--no pleasures, in which you did not participate?'
'O do not lead me to the remembrance of those days,' said Emily, 'unlessyou can teach me to forget the present; I do not mean to reproach you;if I did, I should be spared these tears; but why will you render yourpresent sufferings more conspicuous, by contrasting them with yourformer virtues?'
'Those virtues,' said Valancourt, 'might, perhaps, again be mine, ifyour affection, which nurtured them, was unchanged;--but I fear, indeed,I see, that you can no longer love me; else the happy hours, which wehave passed together, would plead for me, and you could not lookback upon them unmoved. Yet, why should I torture myself with theremembrance--why do I linger here? Am I not ruined--would it not bemadness to involve you in my misfortunes, even if your heart was stillmy own? I will not distress you further. Yet, before I go,' added he,in a solemn voice, 'let me repeat, that, whatever may be mydestiny--whatever I may be doomed to suffer, I must always loveyou--most fondly love you! I am going, Emily, I am going to leaveyou--to leave you, forever!' As he spoke the last words, his voicetrembled, and he threw himself again into the chair, from which he hadrisen. Emily was utterly unable to leave the room, or to say farewell.All impression of his criminal conduct and almost of his follies wasobliterated from her mind, and she was sensible only of pity and grief.
'My fortitude is gone,' said Valancourt at length; 'I can no longereven struggle to recall it. I cannot now leave you--I cannot bid youan eternal farewell; say, at least, that you will see me once again.'Emily's heart was somewhat relieved by the request, and she endeavouredto believe, that she ought not to refuse it. Yet she was embarrassedby recollecting, that she was a visitor in the house of the Count, whocould not be pleased by the return of Valancourt. Other considerations,however, soon overcame this, and she granted his request, on thecondition, that he would neither think of the Count, as his enemy, norDu Pont as his rival. He then left her, with a heart, so much lightenedby this short respite, that he almost lost every former sense ofmisfortune.
Emily withdrew to her own room, that she might compose her spirits andremove the traces of her tears, which would encourage the censoriousremarks of the Countess and her favourite, as well as excite thecuriosity of the rest of the family. She found it, however, impossibleto tranquillize her mind, from which she could not expel the remembranceof the late scene with Valancourt, or the consciousness, that she was tosee him again, on the morrow. This meeting now appeared more terrible toher than the last, for the ingenuous confession he had made of hisill conduct and his embarrassed circumstances, with the strength andtenderness of affection, which this confession discovered, had deeplyimpressed her, and, in spite of all she had heard and believed to hisdisadvantage, her esteem began to return. It frequently appeared to herimpossible, that he could have been guilty of the depravities, reportedof him, which, if not inconsistent with his warmth and impetuosity,were entirely so with his candour and sensibility. Whatever was thecriminality, which had given rise to the reports, she could not nowbelieve them to be wholly true, nor that his heart was finally closedagainst the charms of virtue. The deep consciousness, which he felt aswell as expressed of his errors, seemed to justify the opinion; and,as she understood not the instability of youthful dispositions, whenopposed by habit, and that professions frequently deceive those, whomake, as well as those, who hear them, she might have yielded to theflattering persuasions of her own heart and the pleadings of Valancourt,had she not been guided by the superior prudence of the Count. Herepresented to her, in a clear light, the danger of her presentsituation, that of listening to promises of amendment, made under theinfluence of strong passion, and the slight hope, which could attachto a connection, whose chance of happiness rested upon the retrievalof ruined circumstances and the reform of corrupted habits. On theseaccounts, he lamented, that Emily had consented to a second interview,for he saw how much it would shake her resolution and increase thedifficulty of her conquest.
Her mind was now so entirely occupied by nearer interests, that sheforgot the old housekeeper and the promised history, which so lately hadexcited her curiosity, but which Dorothee was probably not very anxiousto disclose, for night came; the hours passed; and she did not appearin Emily's chamber. With the latter it was a sleepless and dismalnight; the more she suffered her memory to dwell on the late scenes withValancourt, the more her resolution declined, and she was obligedto recollect all the arguments, which the Count had made use of tostrengthen it, and all the precepts, which she had received from herdeceased father, on the subject of self-command, to enable her to act,with prudence and dignity, on this the most severe occasion of herlife. There were moments, when all her fortitude forsook her, and when,remembering the confidence of former times, she thought it impossible,that she could renounce Valancourt. His reformation then appearedcertain; the arguments of Count De Villefort were forgotten; she readilybelieved all she wished, and was willing to encounter any evil, ratherthan that of an immediate separation.
Thus passed the night in ineffectual struggles between affectionand reason, and she rose, in the morning, with a mind, weakened andirresolute, and a frame, trembling with illness.