CHAPTER XVI
Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine, than the physician. MACBETH
On the following evening, the view of the convent towers, rising amongthe shadowy woods, reminded Emily of the nun, whose condition had somuch affected her; and, anxious to know how she was, as well as to seesome of her former friends, she and the Lady Blanche extended their walkto the monastery. At the gate stood a carriage, which, from the heatof the horses, appeared to have just arrived; but a more than commonstillness pervaded the court and the cloisters, through which Emilyand Blanche passed in their way to the great hall, where a nun, who wascrossing to the stair-case, replied to the enquiries of the former, thatsister Agnes was still living, and sensible, but that it was thought shecould not survive the night. In the parlour, they found several ofthe boarders, who rejoiced to see Emily, and told her many littlecircumstances that had happened in the convent since her departure, andwhich were interesting to her only because they related to persons, whomshe had regarded with affection. While they thus conversed the abbessentered the room, and expressed much satisfaction at seeing Emily, buther manner was unusually solemn, and her countenance dejected. 'Ourhouse,' said she, after the first salutations were over, 'is truly ahouse of mourning--a daughter is now paying the debt of nature.--Youhave heard, perhaps, that our daughter Agnes is dying?'
Emily expressed her sincere concern.
'Her death presents to us a great and awful lesson,' continued theabbess; 'let us read it, and profit by it; let it teach us to prepareourselves for the change, that awaits us all! You are young, and haveit yet in your power to secure "the peace that passeth allunderstanding"--the peace of conscience. Preserve it in your youth, thatit may comfort you in age; for vain, alas! and imperfect are the gooddeeds of our latter years, if those of our early life have been evil!'
Emily would have said, that good deeds, she hoped, were never vain;but she considered that it was the abbess who spoke, and she remainedsilent.
'The latter days of Agnes,' resumed the abbess, 'have been exemplary;would they might atone for the errors of her former ones! Her sufferingsnow, alas! are great; let us believe, that they will make her peacehereafter! I have left her with her confessor, and a gentleman, whom shehas long been anxious to see, and who is just arrived from Paris.They, I hope, will be able to administer the repose, which her mind hashitherto wanted.'
Emily fervently joined in the wish.
'During her illness, she has sometimes named you,' resumed the abbess;'perhaps, it would comfort her to see you; when her present visitorshave left her, we will go to her chamber, if the scene will not betoo melancholy for your spirits. But, indeed, to such scenes, howeverpainful, we ought to accustom ourselves, for they are salutary to thesoul, and prepare us for what we are ourselves to suffer.'
Emily became grave and thoughtful; for this conversation brought to herrecollection the dying moments of her beloved father, and she wishedonce more to weep over the spot, where his remains were buried.During the silence, which followed the abbess' speech, many minutecircumstances attending his last hours occurred to her--his emotion onperceiving himself to be in the neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc--hisrequest to be interred in a particular spot in the church of thismonastery--and the solemn charge he had delivered to her to destroycertain papers, without examining them.--She recollected also themysterious and horrible words in those manuscripts, upon which her eyehad involuntarily glanced; and, though they now, and, indeed, whenevershe remembered them, revived an excess of painful curiosity, concerningtheir full import, and the motives for her father's command, it wasever her chief consolation, that she had strictly obeyed him in thisparticular.
Little more was said by the abbess, who appeared too much affected bythe subject she had lately left, to be willing to converse, and hercompanions had been for some time silent from the same cause, when thisgeneral reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, MonsieurBonnac, who had just quitted the chamber of sister Agnes. He appearedmuch disturbed, but Emily fancied, that his countenance had more theexpression of horror, than of grief. Having drawn the abbess to adistant part of the room, he conversed with her for some time, duringwhich she seemed to listen with earnest attention, and he to speakwith caution, and a more than common degree of interest. When he hadconcluded, he bowed silently to the rest of the company, and quitted theroom. The abbess, soon after, proposed going to the chamber of sisterAgnes, to which Emily consented, though not without some reluctance, andLady Blanche remained with the boarders below.
At the door of the chamber they met the confessor, whom, as he liftedup his head on their approach, Emily observed to be the same that hadattended her dying father; but he passed on, without noticing her, andthey entered the apartment, where, on a mattress, was laid sister Agnes,with one nun watching in the chair beside her. Her countenance was somuch changed, that Emily would scarcely have recollected her, had shenot been prepared to do so: it was ghastly, and overspread with gloomyhorror; her dim and hollow eyes were fixed on a crucifix, which sheheld upon her bosom; and she was so much engaged in thought, as not toperceive the abbess and Emily, till they stood at the bed-side. Then,turning her heavy eyes, she fixed them, in wild horror, upon Emily, and,screaming, exclaimed, 'Ah! that vision comes upon me in my dying hours!'
Emily started back in terror, and looked for explanation to the abbess,who made her a signal not to be alarmed, and calmly said to Agnes,'Daughter, I have brought Mademoiselle St. Aubert to visit you: Ithought you would be glad to see her.'
Agnes made no reply; but, still gazing wildly upon Emily, exclaimed, 'Itis her very self! Oh! there is all that fascination in her look, whichproved my destruction! What would you have--what is it you came todemand--Retribution?--It will soon be yours--it is yours already.How many years have passed, since last I saw you! My crime is but asyesterday.--Yet I am grown old beneath it; while you are still young andblooming--blooming as when you forced me to commit that most abhorreddeed! O! could I once forget it!--yet what would that avail?--the deedis done!'
Emily, extremely shocked, would now have left the room; but the abbess,taking her hand, tried to support her spirits, and begged she would staya few moments, when Agnes would probably be calm, whom now she tried tosooth. But the latter seemed to disregard her, while she still fixedher eyes on Emily, and added, 'What are years of prayers and repentance?they cannot wash out the foulness of murder!--Yes, murder! Where ishe--where is he?--Look there--look there!--see where he stalks alongthe room! Why do you come to torment me now?' continued Agnes, while herstraining eyes were bent on air, 'why was not I punished before?--O!do not frown so sternly! Hah! there again! 'til she herself! Why do youlook so piteously upon me--and smile, too? smile on me! What groan wasthat?'
Agnes sunk down, apparently lifeless, and Emily, unable to supportherself, leaned against the bed, while the abbess and the attendant nunwere applying the usual remedies to Agnes. 'Peace,' said the abbess,when Emily was going to speak, 'the delirium is going off, she will soonrevive. When was she thus before, daughter?'
'Not of many weeks, madam,' replied the nun, 'but her spirits have beenmuch agitated by the arrival of the gentleman she wished so much tosee.'
'Yes,' observed the abbess, 'that has undoubtedly occasioned thisparoxysm of frenzy. When she is better, we will leave her to repose.'
Emily very readily consented, but, though she could now give littleassistance, she was unwilling to quit the chamber, while any might benecessary.
When Agnes recovered her senses, she again fixed her eyes on Emily, buttheir wild expression was gone, and a gloomy melancholy had succeeded.It was some moments before she recovered sufficient spirits to speak;she then said feebly--'The likeness is wonderful!--surely it mustbe something more than fancy. Tell me, I conjure you,' she added,addressing Emily, 'though your name is St. Aubert, are you not thedaughter of the Marchioness?'
'What Mar
chioness?' said Emily, in extreme surprise; for she hadimagined, from the calmness of Agnes's manner, that her intellects wererestored. The abbess gave her a significant glance, but she repeated thequestion.
'What Marchioness?' exclaimed Agnes, 'I know but of one--the Marchionessde Villeroi.'
Emily, remembering the emotion of her late father, upon the unexpectedmention of this lady, and his request to be laid near to the tomb ofthe Villerois, now felt greatly interested, and she entreated Agnes toexplain the reason of her question. The abbess would now have withdrawnEmily from the room, who being, however, detained by a strong interest,repeated her entreaties.
'Bring me that casket, sister,' said Agnes; 'I will shew her to you; yetyou need only look in that mirror, and you will behold her; you surelyare her daughter: such striking resemblance is never found but amongnear relations.'
The nun brought the casket, and Agnes, having directed her how to unlockit, she took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the exactresemblance of the picture, which she had found among her late father'spapers. Agnes held out her hand to receive it; gazed upon it earnestlyfor some moments in silence; and then, with a countenance of deepdespair, threw up her eyes to Heaven, and prayed inwardly. When she hadfinished, she returned the miniature to Emily. 'Keep it,' said she,'I bequeath it to you, for I must believe it is your right. I havefrequently observed the resemblance between you; but never, till thisday, did it strike upon my conscience so powerfully! Stay, sister, donot remove the casket--there is another picture I would shew.'
Emily trembled with expectation, and the abbess again would havewithdrawn her. 'Agnes is still disordered,' said she, 'you observe howshe wanders. In these moods she says any thing, and does not scruple, asyou have witnessed, to accuse herself of the most horrible crimes.'
Emily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness inthe inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Marchioness,and production of her picture, had interested her so much, that shedetermined to obtain further information, if possible, respecting thesubject of it.
The nun returned with the casket, and, Agnes pointing out to her asecret drawer, she took from it another miniature. 'Here,' said Agnes,as she offered it to Emily, 'learn a lesson for your vanity, at least;look well at this picture, and see if you can discover any resemblancebetween what I was, and what I am.'
Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcelyglanced upon, before her trembling hands had nearly suffered it tofall--it was the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini,which she had formerly seen in the castle of Udolpho--the lady, whohad disappeared in so mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had beensuspected of having caused to be murdered.
In silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon thepicture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance betweenthem, which no longer existed.
'Why do you look so sternly on me?' said Agnes, mistaking the nature ofEmily's emotion.
'I have seen this face before,' said Emily, at length; 'was it reallyyour resemblance?'
'You may well ask that question,' replied the nun,--'but it was onceesteemed a striking likeness of me. Look at me well, and see what guilthas made me. I then was innocent; the evil passions of my nature slept.Sister!' added she solemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp handto Emily, who shuddered at its touch--'Sister! beware of the firstindulgence of the passions; beware of the first! Their course, if notchecked then, is rapid--their force is uncontroulable--they lead us weknow not whither--they lead us perhaps to the commission of crimes, forwhich whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone!--Such may be theforce of even a single passion, that it overcomes every other, and searsup every other approach to the heart. Possessing us like a fiend, itleads us on to the acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity andto conscience. And, when its purpose is accomplished, like a fiend,it leaves us to the torture of those feelings, which its power hadsuspended--not annihilated,--to the tortures of compassion, remorse, andconscience. Then, we awaken as from a dream, and perceive a newworld around us--we gaze in astonishment, and horror--but the deedis committed; not all the powers of heaven and earth united canundo it--and the spectres of conscience will not fly! What areriches--grandeur--health itself, to the luxury of a pure conscience, thehealth of the soul;--and what the sufferings of poverty, disappointment,despair--to the anguish of an afflicted one! O! how long is it sinceI knew that luxury! I believed, that I had suffered the most agonizingpangs of human nature, in love, jealousy, and despair--but these pangswere ease, compared with the stings of conscience, which I have sinceendured. I tasted too what was called the sweet of revenge--but it wastransient, it expired even with the object, that provoked it. Remember,sister, that the passions are the seeds of vices as well as of virtues,from which either may spring, accordingly as they are nurtured. Unhappythey who have never been taught the art to govern them!'
'Alas! unhappy!' said the abbess, 'and ill-informed of our holyreligion!' Emily listened to Agnes, in silent awe, while she stillexamined the miniature, and became confirmed in her opinion of itsstrong resemblance to the portrait at Udolpho. 'This face is familiar tome,' said she, wishing to lead the nun to an explanation, yet fearing todiscover too abruptly her knowledge of Udolpho.
'You are mistaken,' replied Agnes, 'you certainly never saw that picturebefore.'
'No,' replied Emily, 'but I have seen one extremely like it.''Impossible,' said Agnes, who may now be called the Lady Laurentini.
'It was in the castle of Udolpho,' continued Emily, looking stedfastlyat her.
'Of Udolpho!' exclaimed Laurentini, 'of Udolpho in Italy!' 'The same,'replied Emily.
'You know me then,' said Laurentini, 'and you are the daughter of theMarchioness.' Emily was somewhat surprised at this abrupt assertion. 'Iam the daughter of the late Mons. St. Aubert,' said she; 'and the ladyyou name is an utter stranger to me.'
'At least you believe so,' rejoined Laurentini.
Emily asked what reasons there could be to believe otherwise.
'The family likeness, that you bear her,' said the nun. 'TheMarchioness, it is known, was attached to a gentleman of Gascony, at thetime when she accepted the hand of the Marquis, by the command of herfather. Ill-fated, unhappy woman!'
Emily, remembering the extreme emotion which St. Aubert had betrayed onthe mention of the Marchioness, would now have suffered something morethan surprise, had her confidence in his integrity been less; as itwas, she could not, for a moment, believe what the words of Laurentiniinsinuated; yet she still felt strongly interested, concerning them, andbegged, that she would explain them further.
'Do not urge me on that subject,' said the nun, 'it is to me a terribleone! Would that I could blot it from my memory!' She sighed deeply,and, after the pause of a moment, asked Emily, by what means she haddiscovered her name?
'By your portrait in the castle of Udolpho, to which this miniaturebears a striking resemblance,' replied Emily.
'You have been at Udolpho then!' said the nun, with great emotion.'Alas! what scenes does the mention of it revive in my fancy--scenes ofhappiness--of suffering--and of horror!'
At this moment, the terrible spectacle, which Emily had witnessed in achamber of that castle, occurred to her, and she shuddered, while shelooked upon the nun--and recollected her late words--that 'years ofprayer and penitence could not wash out the foulness of murder.' Shewas now compelled to attribute these to another cause, than that ofdelirium. With a degree of horror, that almost deprived her of sense,she now believed she looked upon a murderer; all the recollectedbehaviour of Laurentini seemed to confirm the supposition, yet Emily wasstill lost in a labyrinth of perplexities, and, not knowing how to askthe questions, which might lead to truth, she could only hint them inbroken sentences.
'Your sudden departure from Udolpho'--said she.
Laurentini groaned.
'The reports that followed it,' continued Emily--'The west chamber--themournful veil--the object it conceals!--when
murders are committed--'
The nun shrieked. 'What! there again!' said she, endeavouring to raiseherself, while her starting eyes seemed to follow some object roundthe room--'Come from the grave! What! Blood--blood too!--There wasno blood--thou canst not say it!--Nay, do not smile,--do not smile sopiteously!'
Laurentini fell into convulsions, as she uttered the last words; andEmily, unable any longer to endure the horror of the scene, hurried fromthe room, and sent some nuns to the assistance of the abbess.
The Lady Blanche, and the boarders, who were in the parlour, nowassembled round Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and affrightedcountenance, asked a hundred questions, which she avoided answeringfurther, than by saying, that she believed sister Agnes was dying. Theyreceived this as a sufficient explanation of her terror, and had thenleisure to offer restoratives, which, at length, somewhat revived Emily,whose mind was, however, so much shocked with the terrible surmises, andperplexed with doubts by some words from the nun, that she was unableto converse, and would have left the convent immediately, had she notwished to know whether Laurentini would survive the late attack. Afterwaiting some time, she was informed, that, the convulsions havingceased, Laurentini seemed to be reviving, and Emily and Blanche weredeparting, when the abbess appeared, who, drawing the former aside, saidshe had something of consequence to say to her, but, as it was late,she would not detain her then, and requested to see her on the followingday.
Emily promised to visit her, and, having taken leave, returned with theLady Blanche towards the chateau, on the way to which the deep gloom ofthe woods made Blanche lament, that the evening was so far advanced; forthe surrounding stillness and obscurity rendered her sensible of fear,though there was a servant to protect her; while Emily was too muchengaged by the horrors of the scene she had just witnessed, to beaffected by the solemnity of the shades, otherwise than as they servedto promote her gloomy reverie, from which, however, she was at lengthrecalled by the Lady Blanche, who pointed out, at some distance, inthe dusky path they were winding, two persons slowly advancing. It wasimpossible to avoid them without striking into a still more secludedpart of the wood, whither the strangers might easily follow; but allapprehension vanished, when Emily distinguished the voice of Mons. DuPont, and perceived, that his companion was the gentleman, whom shehad seen at the monastery, and who was now conversing with so muchearnestness as not immediately to perceive their approach. When Du Pontjoined the ladies, the stranger took leave, and they proceeded to thechateau, where the Count, when he heard of Mons. Bonnac, claimed him foran acquaintance, and, on learning the melancholy occasion of his visitto Languedoc, and that he was lodged at a small inn in the village,begged the favour of Mons. Du Pont to invite him to the chateau.
The latter was happy to do so, and the scruples of reserve, which madeM. Bonnac hesitate to accept the invitation, being at length overcome,they went to the chateau, where the kindness of the Count and thesprightliness of his son were exerted to dissipate the gloom, thatoverhung the spirits of the stranger. M. Bonnac was an officer in theFrench service, and appeared to be about fifty; his figure was talland commanding, his manners had received the last polish, and there wassomething in his countenance uncommonly interesting; for over features,which, in youth, must have been remarkably handsome, was spread amelancholy, that seemed the effect of long misfortune, rather than ofconstitution, or temper.
The conversation he held, during supper, was evidently an effort ofpoliteness, and there were intervals in which, unable to struggleagainst the feelings, that depressed him, he relapsed into silence andabstraction, from which, however, the Count, sometimes, withdrew him ina manner so delicate and benevolent, that Emily, while she observed him,almost fancied she beheld her late father.
The party separated, at an early hour, and then, in the solitude of herapartment, the scenes, which Emily had lately witnessed, returned toher fancy, with dreadful energy. That in the dying nun she should havediscovered Signora Laurentini, who, instead of having been murdered byMontoni, was, as it now seemed, herself guilty of some dreadful crime,excited both horror and surprise in a high degree; nor did the hints,which she had dropped, respecting the marriage of the Marchioness deVilleroi, and the enquiries she had made concerning Emily's birth,occasion her a less degree of interest, though it was of a differentnature.
The history, which sister Frances had formerly related, and had said tobe that of Agnes, it now appeared, was erroneous; but for what purposeit had been fabricated, unless the more effectually to conceal the truestory, Emily could not even guess. Above all, her interest was excitedas to the relation, which the story of the late Marchioness de Villeroibore to that of her father; for, that some kind of relation existedbetween them, the grief of St. Aubert, upon hearing her named, hisrequest to be buried near her, and her picture, which had been foundamong his papers, certainly proved. Sometimes it occurred to Emily, thathe might have been the lover, to whom it was said the Marchioness wasattached, when she was compelled to marry the Marquis de Villeroi; butthat he had afterwards cherished a passion for her, she could not sufferherself to believe, for a moment. The papers, which he had so solemnlyenjoined her to destroy, she now fancied had related to this connection,and she wished more earnestly than before to know the reasons, thatmade him consider the injunction necessary, which, had her faith inhis principles been less, would have led to believe, that there wasa mystery in her birth dishonourable to her parents, which thosemanuscripts might have revealed.
Reflections, similar to these, engaged her mind, during the greater partof the night, and when, at length, she fell into a slumber, it was onlyto behold a vision of the dying nun, and to awaken in horrors, likethose she had witnessed.
On the following morning, she was too much indisposed to attend herappointment with the abbess, and, before the day concluded, she heard,that sister Agnes was no more. Mons. Bonnac received this intelligence,with concern; but Emily observed, that he did not appear so muchaffected now, as on the preceding evening, immediately after quittingthe apartment of the nun, whose death was probably less terrible to him,than the confession he had been then called upon to witness. Howeverthis might be, he was perhaps consoled, in some degree, by a knowledgeof the legacy bequeathed him, since his family was large, and theextravagance of some part of it had lately been the means of involvinghim in great distress, and even in the horrors of a prison; and it wasthe grief he had suffered from the wild career of a favourite son, withthe pecuniary anxieties and misfortunes consequent upon it, thathad given to his countenance the air of dejection, which had so muchinterested Emily.
To his friend Mons. Du Pont he recited some particulars of his latesufferings, when it appeared, that he had been confined for severalmonths in one of the prisons of Paris, with little hope of release,and without the comfort of seeing his wife, who had been absent in thecountry, endeavouring, though in vain, to procure assistance from hisfriends. When, at length, she had obtained an order for admittance, shewas so much shocked at the change, which long confinement and sorrow hadmade in his appearance, that she was seized with fits, which, by theirlong continuance, threatened her life.
'Our situation affected those, who happened to witness it,' continuedMons. Bonnac, 'and one generous friend, who was in confinement at thesame time, afterwards employed the first moments of his liberty inefforts to obtain mine. He succeeded; the heavy debt, that oppressedme, was discharged; and, when I would have expressed my sense of theobligation I had received, my benefactor was fled from my search. I havereason to believe he was the victim of his own generosity, and that hereturned to the state of confinement, from which he had released me;but every enquiry after him was unsuccessful. Amiable and unfortunateValancourt!'
'Valancourt!' exclaimed Mons. Du Pont. 'Of what family?'
'The Valancourts, Counts Duvarney,' replied Mons. Bonnac.
The emotion of Mons. Du Pont, when he discovered the generous benefactorof his friend to be the rival of his love, can only be imagined; but,having overcome his first surp
rise, he dissipated the apprehensions ofMons. Bonnac by acquainting him, that Valancourt was at liberty, and hadlately been in Languedoc; after which his affection for Emily promptedhim to make some enquiries, respecting the conduct of his rival, duringhis stay at Paris, of which M. Bonnac appeared to be well informed. Theanswers he received were such as convinced him, that Valancourt had beenmuch misrepresented, and, painful as was the sacrifice, he formed thejust design of relinquishing his pursuit of Emily to a lover, who, itnow appeared, was not unworthy of the regard, with which she honouredhim.
The conversation of Mons. Bonnac discovered, that Valancourt, sometime after his arrival at Paris, had been drawn into the snares, whichdetermined vice had spread for him, and that his hours had been chieflydivided between the parties of the captivating Marchioness and thosegaming assemblies, to which the envy, or the avarice, of his brotherofficers had spared no art to seduce him. In these parties he had lostlarge sums, in efforts to recover small ones, and to such losses theCount De Villefort and Mons. Henri had been frequent witnesses. Hisresources were, at length, exhausted; and the Count, his brother,exasperated by his conduct, refused to continue the supplies necessaryto his present mode of life, when Valancourt, in consequence ofaccumulated debts, was thrown into confinement, where his brothersuffered him to remain, in the hope, that punishment might effect areform of conduct, which had not yet been confirmed by long habit.
In the solitude of his prison, Valancourt had leisure for reflection,and cause for repentance; here, too, the image of Emily, which, amidstthe dissipation of the city had been obscured, but never obliteratedfrom his heart, revived with all the charms of innocence and beauty, toreproach him for having sacrificed his happiness and debased his talentsby pursuits, which his nobler faculties would formerly have taught himto consider were as tasteless as they were degrading. But, though hispassions had been seduced, his heart was not depraved, nor had habitriveted the chains, that hung heavily on his conscience; and, as heretained that energy of will, which was necessary to burst them, he, atlength, emancipated himself from the bondage of vice, but not till aftermuch effort and severe suffering.
Being released by his brother from the prison, where he had witnessedthe affecting meeting between Mons. Bonnac and his wife, with whom hehad been for some time acquainted, the first use of his liberty formed astriking instance of his humanity and his rashness; for with nearly allthe money, just received from his brother, he went to a gaming-house,and gave it as a last stake for the chance of restoring his friend tofreedom, and to his afflicted family. The event was fortunate, and,while he had awaited the issue of this momentous stake, he made a solemnvow never again to yield to the destructive and fascinating vice ofgaming.
Having restored the venerable Mons. Bonnac to his rejoicing family, hehurried from Paris to Estuviere; and, in the delight of having made thewretched happy, forgot, for a while, his own misfortunes. Soon, however,he remembered, that he had thrown away the fortune, without which hecould never hope to marry Emily; and life, unless passed with her,now scarcely appeared supportable; for her goodness, refinement, andsimplicity of heart, rendered her beauty more enchanting, if possible,to his fancy, than it had ever yet appeared. Experience had taughthim to understand the full value of the qualities, which he had beforeadmired, but which the contrasted characters he had seen in the worldmade him now adore; and these reflections, increasing the pangs ofremorse and regret, occasioned the deep dejection, that had accompaniedhim even into the presence of Emily, of whom he considered himself nolonger worthy. To the ignominy of having received pecuniary obligationsfrom the Marchioness Chamfort, or any other lady of intrigue, as theCount De Villefort had been informed, or of having been engaged in thedepredating schemes of gamesters, Valancourt had never submitted; andthese were some of such scandals as often mingle with truth, against theunfortunate. Count De Villefort had received them from authority whichhe had no reason to doubt, and which the imprudent conduct he hadhimself witnessed in Valancourt, had certainly induced him the morereadily to believe. Being such as Emily could not name to the Chevalier,he had no opportunity of refuting them; and, when he confessedhimself to be unworthy of her esteem, he little suspected, that he wasconfirming to her the most dreadful calumnies. Thus the mistake had beenmutual, and had remained so, when Mons. Bonnac explained the conduct ofhis generous, but imprudent young friend to Du Pont, who, with severejustice, determined not only to undeceive the Count on this subject, butto resign all hope of Emily. Such a sacrifice as his love renderedthis, was deserving of a noble reward, and Mons. Bonnac, if it had beenpossible for him to forget the benevolent Valancourt, would have wishedthat Emily might accept the just Du Pont.
When the Count was informed of the error he had committed, he wasextremely shocked at the consequence of his credulity, and the accountwhich Mons. Bonnac gave of his friend's situation, while at Paris,convinced him, that Valancourt had been entrapped by the schemes of aset of dissipated young men, with whom his profession had partly obligedhim to associate, rather than by an inclination to vice; and, charmedby the humanity, and noble, though rash generosity, which his conducttowards Mons. Bonnac exhibited, he forgave him the transient errors,that had stained his youth, and restored him to the high degree ofesteem, with which he had regarded him, during their early acquaintance.But, as the least reparation he could now make Valancourt was toafford him an opportunity of explaining to Emily his former conduct,he immediately wrote, to request his forgiveness of the unintentionalinjury he had done him, and to invite him to Chateau-le-Blanc. Motivesof delicacy with-held the Count from informing Emily of this letter,and of kindness from acquainting her with the discovery respectingValancourt, till his arrival should save her from the possibility ofanxiety, as to its event; and this precaution spared her even severerinquietude, than the Count had foreseen, since he was ignorant of thesymptoms of despair, which Valancourt's late conduct had betrayed.