CHAPTER IX
Give thy thoughts no tongue. SHAKESPEARE
The Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for his friend had kept awake, roseearly to enquire the event of the night, when, as he passed the Count'scloset, hearing steps within, he knocked at the door, and it was openedby his friend himself. Rejoicing to see him in safety, and curious tolearn the occurrences of the night, he had not immediately leisure toobserve 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 withlevity, 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 requestalso, that you will hereafter be silent upon any thing you may thinkextraordinary in my future conduct. I do not scruple to tell you, that Iam unhappy, and that the watch of the last night has not assisted me todiscover Ludovico; upon every occurrence of the night you must excuse myreserve.'
'But where is Henri?' said the Baron, with surprise and disappointmentat this denial.
'He is well in his own apartment,' replied the Count. 'You will notquestion him on this topic, my friend, since you know my wish.'
'Certainly not,' said the Baron, somewhat chagrined, 'since it wouldbe displeasing to you; but methinks, my friend, you might rely on mydiscretion, and drop this unusual reserve. However, you must allow me tosuspect, that you have seen reason to become a convert to my system, andare no longer the incredulous knight you lately appeared to be.'
'Let us talk no more upon this subject,' said the Count; 'you may beassured, that no ordinary circumstance has imposed this silence upon metowards a friend, whom I have called so for near thirty years; andmy present reserve cannot make you question either my esteem, or thesincerity of my friendship.'
'I will not doubt either,' said the Baron, 'though you must allow me toexpress my surprise, at this silence.'
'To me I will allow it,' replied the Count, 'but I earnestly entreatthat you will forbear to notice it to my family, as well as every thingremarkable you may observe in my conduct towards them.'
The Baron readily promised this, and, after conversing for some time ongeneral topics, they descended to the breakfast-room, where the Countmet his family with a cheerful countenance, and evaded their enquiriesby employing light ridicule, and assuming an air of uncommon gaiety,while he assured them, that they need not apprehend any evil from thenorth chambers, since Henri and himself had been permitted to returnfrom them in safety.
Henri, however, was less successful in disguising his feelings. From hiscountenance an expression of terror was not entirely faded; he wasoften silent and thoughtful, and when he attempted to laugh at the eagerenquiries 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 andof reserve in his mention of the north apartment. Of what had occurredthere, however, he said nothing, and, when she ventured to remind himof his promise to tell her the result of his enquiries, and to ask ifhe had received any proof, that those chambers were haunted, his lookbecame solemn, for a moment, then, seeming to recollect himself, hesmiled, and said, 'My dear Emily, do not suffer my lady abbess to infectyour good understanding with these fancies; she will teach you to expecta ghost in every dark room. But believe me,' added he, with a profoundsigh, 'the apparition of the dead comes not on light, or sportiveerrands, to terrify, or to surprise the timid.' He paused, and fell intoa momentary thoughtfulness, and then added, 'We will say no more on thissubject.'
Soon after, he took leave, and, when Emily joined some of the nuns, shewas surprised to find them acquainted with a circumstance, which shehad carefully avoided to mention, and expressing their admiration ofhis intrepidity in having dared to pass a night in the apartment, whenceLudovico had disappeared; for she had not considered with what rapiditya tale of wonder circulates. The nuns had acquired their informationfrom peasants, who brought fruit to the monastery, and whose wholeattention had been fixed, since the disappearance of Ludovico, on whatwas 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 rashand presumptuous, affirming, that it was provoking the vengeance of anevil spirit, thus to intrude upon its haunts.
Sister Frances contended, that the Count had acted with the bravery of avirtuous mind. He knew himself guiltless of aught, that should provoke agood spirit, and did not fear the spells of an evil one, since he couldclaim the protection of an higher Power, of Him, who can command thewicked, and will protect the innocent.
'The guilty cannot claim that protection!' said sister Agnes, 'let theCount look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim! Yet who ishe, that shall dare to call himself innocent!--all earthly innocence isbut comparative. Yet still how wide asunder are the extremes of guilt,and to what an horrible depth may we fall! Oh!'--
The nun, as she concluded, uttered a shuddering sigh, that startledEmily, who, looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixed on hers,after which the sister rose, took her hand, gazed earnestly upon hercountenance, for some moments, in silence, and then said,
'You are young--you are innocent! I mean you are yet innocent of anygreat crime!--But you have passions in your heart,--scorpions; theysleep now--beware how you awaken them!--they will sting you, even untodeath!'
Emily, affected by these words and by the solemnity, with which theywere delivered, could not suppress her tears.
'Ah! is it so?' exclaimed Agnes, her countenance softening from itssternness--'so young, and so unfortunate! We are sisters, then indeed.Yet, there is no bond of kindness among the guilty,' she added, whileher eyes resumed their wild expression, 'no gentleness,--no peace, nohope! I knew them all once--my eyes could weep--but now they burn, fornow, my soul is fixed, and fearless!--I lament no more!'
'Rather let us repent, and pray,' said another nun. 'We are taught tohope, that prayer and penitence will work our salvation. There is hopefor 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 abruptlyadded, 'My head burns, I believe I am not well. O! could I strike frommy memory all former scenes--the figures, that rise up, like furies, totorment me!--I see them, when I sleep, and, when I am awake, they arestill before my eyes! I see them now--now!'
She stood in a fixed attitude of horror, her straining eyes movingslowly round the room, as if they followed something. One of the nunsgently 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 Isay. I am thus, sometimes, but it will go off again, I shall soon bebetter. Was not that the vesper-bell?'
'No,' replied Frances, 'the evening service is passed. Let Margaret leadyou to your cell.'
'You are right,' replied sister Agnes, 'I shall be better there. Goodnight, my sisters, remember me in your orisons.'
When they had withdrawn, Frances, observing Emily's emotion, said, 'Donot be alarmed, our sister is often thus deranged, though I have notlately seen her so frantic; her usual mood is melancholy. This fit hasbeen coming on, for several days; seclusion and the customary treatmentwill restore her.'
'But how rationally she conversed, at first!' observed Emily, 'her ideasfollowed each other in perfect order.'
'Yes,' replied the nun, 'this is nothing new; nay, I have sometimesknown her argue not only with method, but with acuteness, and then, in amoment, start off into madness.'
'Her conscience seems afflicted,' said Emily, 'did you ever hear whatcircumstance reduced her to this deplorable condition?'
'I have,' replied the nun, who said no more till Emily repeated thequestion, when she added in a low voice, and
looking significantlytowards the other boarders, 'I cannot tell you now, but, if you think itworth your while, come to my cell, to-night, when our sisterhood are atrest, 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, theyspoke no more of the unhappy nun.
The Count meanwhile, on his return home, had found M. Du Pont in oneof those fits of despondency, which his attachment to Emily frequentlyoccasioned him, an attachment, that had subsisted too long to be easilysubdued, and which had already outlived the opposition of his friends.M. Du Pont had first seen Emily in Gascony, during the lifetime of hisparent, who, on discovering his son's partiality for Mademoiselle St.Aubert, his inferior in point of fortune, forbade him to declare it toher family, or to think of her more. During the life of his father, hehad observed the first command, but had found it impracticable to obeythe second, and had, sometimes, soothed his passion by visiting herfavourite haunts, among which was the fishing-house, where, once ortwice, he addressed her in verse, concealing his name, in obedience tothe promise he had given his father. There too he played the patheticair, to which she had listened with such surprise and admiration; andthere he found the miniature, that had since cherished a passion fatalto his repose. During his expedition into Italy, his father died; buthe received his liberty at a moment, when he was the least enabled toprofit by it, since the object, that rendered it most valuable, wasno longer within the reach of his vows. By what accident he discoveredEmily, and assisted to release her from a terrible imprisonment, hasalready appeared, and also the unavailing hope, with which he thenencouraged his love, and the fruitless efforts, that he had since madeto overcome it.
The Count still endeavoured, with friendly zeal, to sooth him with abelief, that patience, perseverance and prudence would finally obtainfor him happiness and Emily: 'Time,' said he, 'will wear away themelancholy impression, which disappointment has left on her mind, andshe will be sensible of your merit. Your services have already awakenedher gratitude, and your sufferings her pity; and trust me, my friend, ina heart so sensible as hers, gratitude and pity lead to love. Whenher imagination is rescued from its present delusion, she will readilyaccept the homage of a mind like yours.'
Du Pont sighed, while he listened to these words; and, endeavouring tohope what his friend believed, he willingly yielded to an invitation toprolong his visit at the chateau, which we now leave for the monasteryof St. Claire.
When the nuns had retired to rest, Emily stole to her appointment withsister Frances, whom she found in her cell, engaged in prayer, before alittle table, where appeared the image she was addressing, and, above,the dim lamp that gave light to the place. Turning her eyes, as the dooropened, she beckoned to Emily to come in, who, having done so, seatedherself in silence beside the nun's little mattress of straw, tillher orisons should conclude. The latter soon rose from her knees, and,taking down the lamp and placing it on the table, Emily perceivedthere a human scull 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 nothingremarkable to hear in the history of poor Agnes, of whom I avoidedto speak in the presence of my lay-sisters, only because I would notpublish her crime to them.'
'I shall consider your confidence in me as a favour,' said Emily, 'andwill not misuse it.'
'Sister Agnes,' resumed the nun, 'is of a noble family, as the dignityof her air must already have informed you, but I will not dishonourtheir name so much as to reveal it. Love was the occasion of her crimeand of her madness. She was beloved by a gentleman of inferior fortune,and her father, as I have heard, bestowing her on a nobleman, whomshe disliked, an ill-governed passion proved her destruction.--Everyobligation of virtue and of duty was forgotten, and she prophaned hermarriage vows; but her guilt was soon detected, and she would havefallen a sacrifice to the vengeance of her husband, had not her fathercontrived to convey her from his power. By what means he did this,I never could learn; but he secreted her in this convent, where heafterwards prevailed with her to take the veil, while a report wascirculated in the world, that she was dead, and the father, to save hisdaughter, assisted the rumour, and employed such means as induced herhusband to believe she had become a victim to his jealousy. You looksurprised,' added the nun, observing Emily's countenance; 'I allow thestory 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, remorseand a sense of the duties she had taken upon herself in becoming of ourorder, at length unsettled her reason. At first, she was frantic andmelancholy by quick alternatives; then, she sunk into a deep and settledmelancholy, which still, however, has, at times, been interrupted byfits of wildness, and, of late, these have again been frequent.'
Emily was affected by the history of the sister, some parts of whosestory brought to her remembrance that of the Marchioness de Villeroi,who had also been compelled by her father to forsake the object of heraffections, for a nobleman of his choice; but, from what Dorothee hadrelated, there appeared no reason to suppose, that she had escaped thevengeance of a jealous husband, or to doubt for a moment the innocenceof her conduct. But Emily, while she sighed over the misery of thenun, could not forbear shedding a few tears to the misfortunes of theMarchioness; and, when she returned to the mention of sister Agnes, sheasked Frances if she remembered her in her youth, and whether she wasthen 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 thenpreside over the convent: but I can remember, when sister Agnes was avery beautiful woman. She retains that air of high rank, which alwaysdistinguished her, but her beauty, you must perceive, is fled; I canscarcely discover even a vestige of the loveliness, that once animatedher features.'
'It is strange,' said Emily, 'but there are moments, when hercountenance has appeared familiar to my memory! You will think mefanciful, and I think myself so, for I certainly never saw sister Agnes,before I came to this convent, and I must, therefore, have seensome person, whom she strongly resembles, though of this I have norecollection.'
'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 andAgnes, as you, that you have seen her any where but in this convent,since this has been her place of refuge, for nearly as many years asmake your age.'
'Indeed!' said Emily.
'Yes,' rejoined Frances, 'and why does that circumstance excite yoursurprise?'
Emily did not appear to notice this question, but remained thoughtful,for a few moments, and then said, 'It was about that same period thatthe Marchioness de Villeroi expired.'
'That is an odd remark,' said Frances.
Emily, recalled from her reverie, smiled, and gave the conversationanother turn, but it soon came back to the subject of the unhappy nun,and Emily remained in the cell of sister Frances, till the mid-nightbell aroused her; when, apologizing for having interrupted the sister'srepose, till this late hour, they quitted the cell together. Emilyreturned to her chamber, and the nun, bearing a glimmering taper, wentto her devotion in the chapel.
Several days followed, during which Emily saw neither the Count, or anyof his family; and, when, at length, he appeared, she remarked, withconcern, 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. Mydaughter and myself will accompany the Baron St. Foix to his chateau. Itlies in a valley of the Pyrenees, that opens towards
Gascony, and I havebeen thinking, Emily, that, when you set out for La Vallee, we may gopart of the way together; it would be a satisfaction to me to guard youtowards your home.'
She thanked the Count for his friendly consideration, and lamented, thatthe necessity for her going first to Tholouse would render this planimpracticable. 'But, when you are at the Baron's residence,' she added,'you will be only a short journey from La Vallee, and I think, sir, youwill not leave the country without visiting me; it is unnecessary to saywith what pleasure I should receive you and the Lady Blanche.'
'I do not doubt it,' replied the Count, 'and I will not deny myself andBlanche the pleasure of visiting you, if your affairs should allow youto be at La Vallee, about the time when we can meet you there.'
When Emily said that she should hope to see the Countess also, she wasnot sorry to learn that this lady was going, accompanied by MademoiselleBearn, to pay a visit, for a few weeks, to a family in lower Languedoc.
The Count, after some further conversation on his intended journey andon the arrangement of Emily's, took leave; and many days did not succeedthis visit, before a second letter from M. Quesnel informed her, that hewas then at Tholouse, that La Vallee was at liberty, and that he wishedher to set off for the former place, where he awaited her arrival, withall possible dispatch, since his own affairs pressed him to returnto Gascony. Emily did not hesitate to obey him, and, having taken anaffecting leave of the Count's family, in which M. Du Pont was stillincluded, and of her friends at the convent, she set out for Tholouse,attended by the unhappy Annette, and guarded by a steady servant of theCount.