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Title: The Mysteries of Udolpho

Author: Ann Ward Radcliffe

Release date: June 1, 2002 [eBook #3268]
Most recently updated: December 1, 2022

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3268

Credits: Karalee Coleman and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO ***

The Mysteries of Udolpho

A Romance

Interspersed With Some Pieces of Poetry

By Ann Radcliffe

Contents

VOLUME I
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII

VOLUME II
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII

VOLUME III
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII

VOLUME IV
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX

Fate sits on these dark battlements, and frowns,
And, as the portals open to receive me,
Her voice, in sullen echoes through the courts,
Tells of a nameless deed.

VOLUME 1

CHAPTER I
home is the resort
Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,
Supporting and supported, polish’d friends
And dear relations mingle into bliss.
THOMSON

On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony, stood,
in the year 1584, the château of Monsieur St. Aubert. From its windows
were seen the pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony stretching along
the river, gay with luxuriant woods and vine, and plantations of olives. To
the south, the view was bounded by the majestic Pyrenees, whose summits,
veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awful forms, seen, and lost again, as the
partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through
the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy pine,
that swept downward to their base. These tremendous precipices were
contrasted by the soft green of the pastures and woods that hung upon their
skirts; among whose flocks, and herds, and simple cottages, the eye, after
having scaled the cliffs above, delighted to repose. To the north, and to the
east, the plains of Guienne and Languedoc were lost in the mist of distance;
on the west, Gascony was bounded by the waters of Biscay.
M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the margin
of the Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its waves. He had
known life in other forms than those of pastoral simplicity, having mingled
in the gay and in the busy scenes of the world; but the flattering portrait of
mankind, which his heart had delineated in early youth, his experience had
too sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidst the changing visions of life, his
principles remained unshaken, his benevolence unchilled; and he retired
from the multitude “more in pity than in anger,” to scenes of simple nature,
to the pure delights of literature, and to the exercise of domestic virtues.
He was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family,
and it was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealth should be
supplied either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or by success in the

intrigues of public affairs. But St. Aubert had too nice a sense of honour to
fulfil the latter hope, and too small a portion of ambition to sacrifice what
he called happiness, to the attainment of wealth. After the death of his father
he married a very amiable woman, his equal in birth, and not his superior in
fortune. The late Monsieur St. Aubert’s liberality, or extravagance, had so
much involved his affairs, that his son found it necessary to dispose of a
part of the family domain, and, some years after his marriage, he sold it to
Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, and retired to a small estate in
Gascony, where conjugal felicity, and parental duties, divided his attention
with the treasures of knowledge and the illuminations of genius.
To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often made
excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to his
mind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom it was
intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had not been obliterated
by succeeding circumstances. The green pastures along which he had so
often bounded in the exultation of health, and youthful freedom—the
woods, under whose refreshing shade he had first indulged that pensive
melancholy, which afterwards made a strong feature of his character—the
wild walks of the mountains, the river, on whose waves he had floated, and
the distant plains, which seemed boundless as his early hopes—were never
after remembered by St. Aubert but with enthusiasm and regret. At length
he disengaged himself from the world, and retired hither, to realise the
wishes of many years.
The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, rendered
interesting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of the
surrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to make it a
comfortable family residence. St. Aubert felt a kind of affection for every
part of the fabric, which he remembered in his youth, and would not suffer a
stone of it to be removed, so that the new building, adapted to the style of
the old one, formed with it only a simple and elegant residence. The taste of
Madame St. Aubert was conspicuous in its internal finishing, where the
same chaste simplicity was observable in the furniture, and in the few
ornaments of the apartments, that characterised the manners of its
inhabitants.
The library occupied the west side of the château, and was enriched by a
collection of the best books in the ancient and modern languages. This room

opened upon a grove, which stood on the brow of a gentle declivity, that fell
towards the river, and the tall trees gave it a melancholy and pleasing shade;
while from the windows the eye caught, beneath the spreading branches, the
gay and luxuriant landscape stretching to the west, and overlooked on the
left by the bold precipices of the Pyrenees. Adjoining the library was a
green-house, stored with scarce and beautiful plants; for one of the
amusements of St. Aubert was the study of botany, and among the
neighbouring mountains, which afforded a luxurious feast to the mind of the
naturalist, he often passed the day in the pursuit of his favourite science. He
was sometimes accompanied in these little excursions by Madame St.
Aubert, and frequently by his daughter; when, with a small osier basket to
receive plants, and another filled with cold refreshments, such as the cabin
of the shepherd did not afford, they wandered away among the most
romantic and magnificent scenes, nor suffered the charms of Nature’s lowly
children to abstract them from the observance of her stupendous works.
When weary of sauntering among cliffs that seemed scarcely accessible but
to the steps of the enthusiast, and where no track appeared on the
vegetation, but what the foot of the izard had left; they would seek one of
those green recesses, which so beautifully adorn the bosom of these
mountains, where, under the shade of the lofty larch, or cedar, they enjoyed
their simple repast, made sweeter by the waters of the cool stream, that
crept along the turf, and by the breath of wild flowers and aromatic plants,
that fringed the rocks, and inlaid the grass.
Adjoining the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards the plains
of Languedoc, was a room, which Emily called hers, and which contained
her books, her drawings, her musical instruments, with some favourite birds
and plants. Here she usually exercised herself in elegant arts, cultivated
only because they were congenial to her taste, and in which native genius,
assisted by the instructions of Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, made her
an early proficient. The windows of this room were particularly pleasant;
they descended to the floor, and, opening upon the little lawn that
surrounded the house, the eye was led between groves of almond, palm-
trees, flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the distant landscape, where the
Garonne wandered.
The peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, when the
day’s labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the river. Their
sprightly melodies, debonnaire steps, the fanciful figure of their dances,

with the tasteful and capricious manner in which the girls adjusted their
simple dress, gave a character to the scene entirely French.
The front of the château, which, having a southern aspect, opened upon
the grandeur of the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor by a rustic
hall, and two excellent sitting rooms. The first floor, for the cottage had no
second story, was laid out in bed-chambers, except one apartment that
opened to a balcony, and which was generally used for a breakfast-room.
In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tasteful
improvements; yet, such was his attachment to objects he had remembered
from his boyish days, that he had in some instances sacrificed taste to
sentiment. There were two old larches that shaded the building, and
interrupted the prospect; St. Aubert had sometimes declared that he believed
he should have been weak enough to have wept at their fall. In addition to
these larches he planted a little grove of beech, pine, and mountain-ash. On
a lofty terrace, formed by the swelling bank of the river, rose a plantation of
orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit, in the coolness of evening,
breathed delicious fragrance. With these were mingled a few trees of other
species. Here, under the ample shade of a plane-tree, that spread its majestic
canopy towards the river, St. Aubert loved to sit in the fine evenings of
summer, with his wife and children, watching, beneath its foliage, the
setting sun, the mild splendour of its light fading from the distant landscape,
till the shadows of twilight melted its various features into one tint of sober
grey. Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse with Madame St. Aubert;
or to play with his children, resigning himself to the influence of those
sweet affections, which are ever attendant on simplicity and nature. He has
often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in his eyes, that these were
moments infinitely more delightful than any passed amid the brilliant and
tumultuous scenes that are courted by the world. His heart was occupied; it
had, what can be so rarely said, no wish for a happiness beyond what it
experienced. The consciousness of acting right diffused a serenity over his
manners, which nothing else could impart to a man of moral perceptions
like his, and which refined his sense of every surrounding blessing.
The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite plane-
tree. He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light die away; when
the stars, one by one, tremble through æther, and are reflected on the dark
mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of all others, inspires the mind with

pensive tenderness, and often elevates it to sublime contemplation. When
the moon shed her soft rays among the foliage, he still lingered, and his
pastoral supper of cream and fruits was often spread beneath it. Then, on
the stillness of night, came the song of the nightingale, breathing sweetness,
and awakening melancholy.
The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since his
retirement, were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost them at
that age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and though, in
consideration of Madame St. Aubert’s distress, he restrained the expression
of his own, and endeavoured to bear it, as he meant, with philosophy, he
had, in truth, no philosophy that could render him calm to such losses. One
daughter was now his only surviving child; and, while he watched the
unfolding of her infant character, with anxious fondness, he endeavoured,
with unremitting effort, to counteract those traits in her disposition, which
might hereafter lead her from happiness. She had discovered in her early
years uncommon delicacy of mind, warm affections, and ready
benevolence; but with these was observable a degree of susceptibility too
exquisite to admit of lasting peace. As she advanced in youth, this
sensibility gave a pensive tone to her spirits, and a softness to her manner,
which added grace to beauty, and rendered her a very interesting object to
persons of a congenial disposition. But St. Aubert had too much good sense
to prefer a charm to a virtue; and had penetration enough to see, that this
charm was too dangerous to its possessor to be allowed the character of a
blessing. He endeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to
habits of self-command; to teach her to reject the first impulse of her
feelings, and to look, with cool examination, upon the disappointments he
sometimes threw in her way. While he instructed her to resist first
impressions, and to acquire that steady dignity of mind, that can alone
counterbalance the passions, and bear us, as far as is compatible with our
nature, above the reach of circumstances, he taught himself a lesson of
fortitude; for he was often obliged to witness, with seeming indifference,
the tears and struggles which his caution occasioned her.
In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant
symmetry of form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue eyes,
full of tender sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it was the varied
expression of her countenance, as conversation awakened the nicer
emotions of her mind, that threw such a captivating grace around her:

Those tend’rer tints, that shun the careless eye,
And, in the world’s contagious circle, die.

St. Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous care.
He gave her a general view of the sciences, and an exact acquaintance with
every part of elegant literature. He taught her Latin and English, chiefly that
she might understand the sublimity of their best poets. She discovered in
her early years a taste for works of genius; and it was St. Aubert’s principle,
as well as his inclination, to promote every innocent means of happiness.
“A well-informed mind,” he would say, “is the best security against the
contagion of folly and of vice. The vacant mind is ever on the watch for
relief, and ready to plunge into error, to escape from the languor of idleness.
Store it with ideas, teach it the pleasure of thinking; and the temptations of
the world without, will be counteracted by the gratifications derived from
the world within. Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally to the
happiness of a country and a city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy
sensations of indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste they
create for the beautiful, and the grand; in the latter, they make dissipation
less an object of necessity, and consequently of interest.”
It was one of Emily’s earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenes of
nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that she most delighted;
she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted the mountain; and still
more the mountain’s stupendous recesses, where the silence and grandeur of
solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her heart, and lifted her thoughts to
the GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. In scenes like these she would often
linger along, wrapt in a melancholy charm, till the last gleam of day faded
from the west; till the lonely sound of a sheep-bell, or the distant bark of a
watch-dog, were all that broke on the stillness of the evening. Then, the
gloom of the woods; the trembling of their leaves, at intervals, in the
breeze; the bat, flitting on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and
now lost—were circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led
to enthusiasm and poetry.
Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St. Aubert,
in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended from the
Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks, wound its silent way
beneath the shades it reflected. Above the woods, that screened this glen,
rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which often burst boldly on the eye
through the glades below. Sometimes the shattered face of a rock only was

seen, crowned with wild shrubs; or a shepherd’s cabin seated on a cliff,
overshadowed by dark cypress, or waving ash. Emerging from the deep
recesses of the woods, the glade opened to the distant landscape, where the
rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of Gascony gradually declined to the
plains; and there, on the winding shores of the Garonne, groves, and
hamlets, and villas—their outlines softened by distance, melted from the
eye into one rich harmonious tint.
This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he frequently
withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his daughter, and his
books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome the silent dusk, or to
listen for the music of the nightingale. Sometimes, too, he brought music of
his own, and awakened every fairy echo with the tender accents of his oboe;
and often have the tones of Emily’s voice drawn sweetness from the waves,
over which they trembled.
It was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed the
following lines written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot:
SONNET

Go, pencil! faithful to thy master’s sighs!
Go—tell the Goddess of the fairy scene,
When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green,
Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise;
Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin’d eyes,
The sweet expression of her pensive face,
The light’ning smile, the animated grace—
The portrait well the lover’s voice supplies;
Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say:
Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel!
How oft the flow’ret’s silken leaves conceal
The drug that steals the vital spark away!
And who that gazes on that angel-smile,
Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile!

These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could not
apply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of these
shades. Having glanced round the little circle of her acquaintance without
being detained by a suspicion as to whom they could be addressed, she was
compelled to rest in uncertainty; an uncertainty which would have been
more painful to an idle mind than it was to hers. She had no leisure to suffer
this circumstance, trifling at first, to swell into importance by frequent
remembrance. The little vanity it had excited (for the incertitude which

forbade her to presume upon having inspired the sonnet, forbade her also to
disbelieve it) passed away, and the incident was dismissed from her
thoughts amid her books, her studies, and the exercise of social charities.
Soon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indisposition of
her father, who was attacked with a fever; which, though not thought to be
of a dangerous kind, gave a severe shock to his constitution. Madame St.
Aubert and Emily attended him with unremitting care; but his recovery was
very slow, and, as he advanced towards health, Madame seemed to decline.
The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take the air, was
his favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sent thither, with
books, and Emily’s lute; for fishing-tackle he had no use, for he never could
find amusement in torturing or destroying.
After employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner was
served. It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being again permitted to visit
this spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness once more smiled beneath
these shades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed with unusual cheerfulness;
every object delighted his senses. The refreshing pleasure from the first
view of nature, after the pain of illness, and the confinement of a sick-
chamber, is above the conceptions, as well as the descriptions, of those in
health. The green woods and pastures; the flowery turf; the blue concave of
the heavens; the balmy air; the murmur of the limpid stream; and even the
hum of every little insect of the shade, seem to revivify the soul, and make
mere existence bliss.
Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of her
husband, was no longer sensible of the indisposition which had lately
oppressed her; and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of this romantic
glen, and conversed with him, and with her daughter, she often looked at
them alternately with a degree of tenderness, that filled her eyes with tears.
St. Aubert observed this more than once, and gently reproved her for the
emotion; but she could only smile, clasp his hand, and that of Emily, and
weep the more. He felt the tender enthusiasm stealing upon himself in a
degree that became almost painful; his features assumed a serious air, and
he could not forbear secretly sighing—“Perhaps I shall some time look back
to these moments, as to the summit of my happiness, with hopeless regret.
But let me not misuse them by useless anticipation; let me hope I shall not
live to mourn the loss of those who are dearer to me than life.”

To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, he bade
Emily fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweet pathos. As she
drew near the fishing-house, she was surprised to hear the tones of the
instrument, which were awakened by the hand of taste, and uttered a
plaintive air, whose exquisite melody engaged all her attention. She listened
in profound silence, afraid to move from the spot, lest the sound of her steps
should occasion her to lose a note of the music, or should disturb the
musician. Everything without the building was still, and no person
appeared. She continued to listen, till timidity succeeded to surprise and
delight; a timidity, increased by a remembrance of the pencilled lines she
had formerly seen, and she hesitated whether to proceed, or to return.
While she paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary hesitation,
she recollected courage to advance to the fishing-house, which she entered
with faltering steps, and found unoccupied! Her lute lay on the table;
everything seemed undisturbed, and she began to believe it was another
instrument she had heard, till she remembered, that, when she followed M.
and Madame St. Aubert from this spot, her lute was left on a window seat.
She felt alarmed, yet knew not wherefore; the melancholy gloom of
evening, and the profound stillness of the place, interrupted only by the
light trembling of leaves, heightened her fanciful apprehensions, and she
was desirous of quitting the building, but perceived herself grow faint, and
sat down. As she tried to recover herself, the pencilled lines on the wainscot
met her eye; she started, as if she had seen a stranger; but, endeavouring to
conquer the tremor of her spirits, rose, and went to the window. To the lines
before noticed she now perceived that others were added, in which her
name appeared.
Though no longer suffered to doubt that they were addressed to herself,
she was as ignorant, as before, by whom they could be written. While she
mused, she thought she heard the sound of a step without the building, and
again alarmed, she caught up her lute, and hurried away. Monsieur and
Madame St. Aubert she found in a little path that wound along the sides of
the glen.
Having reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and
overlooking the valleys and plains of Gascony, they seated themselves on
the turf; and while their eyes wandered over the glorious scene, and they
inhaled the sweet breath of flowers and herbs that enriched the grass, Emily

played and sung several of their favourite airs, with the delicacy of
expression in which she so much excelled.
Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till the
sun’s last light slept upon the plains; till the white sails that glided beneath
the mountains, where the Garonne wandered, became dim, and the gloom
of evening stole over the landscape. It was a melancholy but not unpleasing
gloom. St. Aubert and his family rose, and left the place with regret; alas!
Madame St. Aubert knew not that she left it for ever.
When they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet, and
recollected that she had taken it from her arm after dinner, and had left it on
the table when she went to walk. After a long search, in which Emily was
very active, she was compelled to resign herself to the loss of it. What made
this bracelet valuable to her was a miniature of her daughter to which it was
attached, esteemed a striking resemblance, and which had been painted only
a few months before. When Emily was convinced that the bracelet was
really gone, she blushed, and became thoughtful. That some stranger had
been in the fishing-house, during her absence, her lute, and the additional
lines of a pencil, had already informed her: from the purport of these lines it
was not unreasonable to believe, that the poet, the musician, and the thief
were the same person. But though the music she had heard, the written lines
she had seen, and the disappearance of the picture, formed a combination of
circumstances very remarkable, she was irresistibly restrained from
mentioning them; secretly determining, however, never again to visit the
fishing-house without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert.
They returned pensively to the château, Emily musing on the incident
which had just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid gratitude, on the
blessings he possessed; and Madame St. Aubert somewhat disturbed, and
perplexed, by the loss of her daughter’s picture. As they drew near the
house, they observed an unusual bustle about it; the sound of voices was
distinctly heard, servants and horses were seen passing between the trees,
and, at length, the wheels of a carriage rolled along. Having come within
view of the front of the château, a landau, with smoking horses, appeared
on the little lawn before it. St. Aubert perceived the liveries of his brother-
in-law, and in the parlour he found Monsieur and Madame Quesnel already
entered. They had left Paris some days before, and were on the way to their
estate, only ten leagues distant from La Vallée, and which Monsieur

Quesnel had purchased several years before of St. Aubert. This gentleman
was the only brother of Madame St. Aubert; but the ties of relationship
having never been strengthened by congeniality of character, the intercourse
between them had not been frequent. M. Quesnel had lived altogether in the
world; his aim had been consequence; splendour was the object of his taste;
and his address and knowledge of character had carried him forward to the
attainment of almost all that he had courted. By a man of such a disposition,
it is not surprising that the virtues of St. Aubert should be overlooked; or
that his pure taste, simplicity, and moderated wishes, were considered as
marks of a weak intellect, and of confined views. The marriage of his sister
with St. Aubert had been mortifying to his ambition, for he had designed
that the matrimonial connection she formed should assist him to attain the
consequence which he so much desired; and some offers were made her by
persons whose rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope. But his sister,
who was then addressed also by St. Aubert, perceived, or thought she
perceived, that happiness and splendour were not the same, and she did not
hesitate to forego the last for the attainment of the former. Whether
Monsieur Quesnel thought them the same, or not, he would readily have
sacrificed his sister’s peace to the gratification of his own ambition; and, on
her marriage with St. Aubert, expressed in private his contempt of her
spiritless conduct, and of the connection which it permitted. Madame St.
Aubert, though she concealed this insult from her husband, felt, perhaps, for
the first time, resentment lighted in her heart; and, though a regard for her
own dignity, united with considerations of prudence, restrained her
expression of this resentment, there was ever after a mild reserve in her
manner towards M. Quesnel, which he both understood and felt.
In his own marriage he did not follow his sister’s example. His lady was
an Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and education, was a vain
and frivolous woman.
They now determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as the
château was not large enough to accommodate their servants, the latter were
dismissed to the neighbouring village. When the first compliments were
over, and the arrangements for the night made M. Quesnel began the
display of his intelligence and his connections; while St. Aubert, who had
been long enough in retirement to find these topics recommended by their
novelty, listened, with a degree of patience and attention, which his guest
mistook for the humility of wonder. The latter, indeed, described the few

festivities which the turbulence of that period permitted to the court of
Henry the Third, with a minuteness, that somewhat recompensed for his
ostentation; but, when he came to speak of the character of the Duke de
Joyeuse, of a secret treaty, which he knew to be negotiating with the Porte,
and of the light in which Henry of Navarre was received, M. St. Aubert
recollected enough of his former experience to be assured, that his guest
could be only of an inferior class of politicians; and that, from the
importance of the subjects upon which he committed himself, he could not
be of the rank to which he pretended to belong. The opinions delivered by
M. Quesnel, were such as St. Aubert forebore to reply to, for he knew that
his guest had neither humanity to feel, nor discernment to perceive, what is
just.
Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St. Aubert her
astonishment, that she could bear to pass her life in this remote corner of the
world, as she called it, and describing, from a wish, probably, of exciting
envy, the splendour of the balls, banquets, and processions which had just
been given by the court, in honour of the nuptials of the Duke de Joyeuse
with Margaretta of Lorrain, the sister of the Queen. She described with
equal minuteness the magnificence she had seen, and that from which she
had been excluded; while Emily’s vivid fancy, as she listened with the
ardent curiosity of youth, heightened the scenes she heard of; and Madame
St. Aubert, looking on her family, felt, as a tear stole to her eye, that though
splendour may grace happiness, virtue only can bestow it.
“It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,” said M. Quesnel, “since I purchased
your family estate.”—“Somewhere thereabout,” replied St. Aubert,
suppressing a sigh. “It is near five years since I have been there,” resumed
Quesnel; “for Paris and its neighbourhood is the only place in the world to
live in, and I am so immersed in politics, and have so many affairs of
moment on my hands, that I find it difficult to steal away even for a month
or two.” St. Aubert remaining silent, M. Quesnel proceeded: “I have
sometimes wondered how you, who have lived in the capital, and have been
accustomed to company, can exist elsewhere;—especially in so remote a
country as this, where you can neither hear nor see anything, and can in
short be scarcely conscious of life.”
“I live for my family and myself,” said St. Aubert; “I am now contented
to know only happiness;—formerly I knew life.”

“I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,” said
M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert; “for I
design, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de Durefort and
the Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.” To St. Aubert’s
enquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied, that he should take
down the whole east wing of the château, and raise upon the site a set of
stables. “Then I shall build,” said he, “a salle à manger, a salon, a salle au
commune, and a number of rooms for servants; for at present there is not
accommodation for a third part of my own people.”
“It accommodated our father’s household,” said St. Aubert, grieved that
the old mansion was to be thus improved, “and that was not a small one.”
“Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,” said M. Quesnel;
—“what was then thought a decent style of living would not now be
endured.” Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, but his anger
soon yielded to contempt. “The ground about the château is encumbered
with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.”
“Cut down the trees too!” said St. Aubert.
“Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is a
chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of the
château, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of its trunk
will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend that there can
be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as this.”
“Good God!” exclaimed St. Aubert, “you surely will not destroy that
noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the estate! It
was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. How often, in my
youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat embowered amidst
a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered above, and not a rain
drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book in my hand, sometimes
reading, and sometimes looking out between the branches upon the wide
landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight came, and brought the birds
home to their little nests among the leaves! How often—but pardon me,”
added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was speaking to a man who could
neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings, “I am talking of times and
feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare that venerable tree.”
“It will certainly come down,” said M. Quesnel; “I believe I shall plant
some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall leave of

the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me how
much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from Venice.”
“On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,” continued St. Aubert, “where its
spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and where it plays
over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it, unquestionably, adorns
the scene; but among the giants of the forest, and near a heavy gothic
mansion—”
“Well, my good sir,” said M. Quesnel, “I will not dispute with you. You
must return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But à propos of
Venice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer; events may
call me to take possession of that same villa, too, which they tell me is the
most charming that can be imagined. In that case I shall leave the
improvements I mention to another year, and I may, perhaps, be tempted to
stay some time in Italy.”
Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to
remain abroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary at
Paris, that it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month or two; but
St. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too well to wonder at
this trait; and the possibility, that these projected improvements might be
deferred, gave him a hope, that they might never take place.
Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak with St.
Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they remained a
considerable time. The subject of this conversation was not known; but,
whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to the supper-room,
seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow sometimes fell upon his
features that alarmed Madame St. Aubert. When they were alone she was
tempted to enquire the occasion of it, but the delicacy of mind, which had
ever appeared in his conduct, restrained her: she considered that, if St.
Aubert wished her to be acquainted with the subject of his concern, he
would not wait on her enquiries.
On the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a second
conference with St. Aubert.
The guests, after dining at the château, set out in the cool of the day for
Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St. Aubert a pressing
invitation, prompted rather by the vanity of displaying their splendour, than
by a wish to make their friends happy.

Emily returned, with delight, to the liberty which their presence had
restrained, to her books, her walks, and the rational conversation of M. and
Madame St. Aubert, who seemed to rejoice, no less, that they were
delivered from the shackles, which arrogance and frivolity had imposed.
Madame St. Aubert excused herself from sharing their usual evening
walk, complaining that she was not quite well, and St. Aubert and Emily
went out together.
They chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit some old
pensioners of St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate income, he
contrived to support, though it is probable M. Quesnel, with his very large
one, could not have afforded this.
After distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends, listening
patiently to the complaints of some, redressing the grievances of others, and
softening the discontents of all, by the look of sympathy, and the smile of
benevolence, St. Aubert returned home through the woods,
where,
At fall of eve the fairy-people throng,
In various games and revelry to pass
The summer night, as village stories tell.
THOMSON

“The evening gloom of woods was always delightful to me,” said St.
Aubert, whose mind now experienced the sweet calm, which results from
the consciousness of having done a beneficent action, and which disposes it
to receive pleasure from every surrounding object. “I remember that in my
youth this gloom used to call forth to my fancy a thousand fairy visions, and
romantic images; and, I own, I am not yet wholly insensible of that high
enthusiasm, which wakes the poet’s dream: I can linger, with solemn steps,
under the deep shades, send forward a transforming eye into the distant
obscurity, and listen with thrilling delight to the mystic murmuring of the
woods.”
“O my dear father,” said Emily, while a sudden tear started to her eye,
“how exactly you describe what I have felt so often, and which I thought
nobody had ever felt but myself! But hark! here comes the sweeping sound
over the wood-tops;—now it dies away;—how solemn the stillness that
succeeds! Now the breeze swells again. It is like the voice of some
supernatural being—the voice of the spirit of the woods, that watches over

them by night. Ah! what light is yonder? But it is gone. And now it gleams
again, near the root of that large chestnut: look, sir!”
“Are you such an admirer of nature,” said St. Aubert, “and so little
acquainted with her appearances as not to know that for the glow-worm?
But come,” added he gaily, “step a little further, and we shall see fairies,
perhaps; they are often companions. The glow-worm lends his light, and
they in return charm him with music, and the dance. Do you see nothing
tripping yonder?”
Emily laughed. “Well, my dear sir,” said she, “since you allow of this
alliance, I may venture to own I have anticipated you; and almost dare
venture to repeat some verses I made one evening in these very woods.”
“Nay,” replied St. Aubert, “dismiss the almost, and venture quite; let us
hear what vagaries fancy has been playing in your mind. If she has given
you one of her spells, you need not envy those of the fairies.”
“If it is strong enough to enchant your judgment, sir,” said Emily, “while
I disclose her images, I need not envy them. The lines go in a sort of
tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject well enough, but I
fear they are too irregular.”
THE GLOW-WORM.

How pleasant is the green-wood’s deep-matted shade
On a mid-summer’s eve, when the fresh rain is o’er;
When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro’ the glade,
And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!

But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,
And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay
Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow’rs, unprest,
Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.

To music’s softest sounds they dance away the hour,
Till moonlight steals down among the trembling leaves,
And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow’r,
The long haunted bow’r, where the nightingale grieves.

Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done,
But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend;
And often as her dying notes their pity have won,
They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.

When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev’ning star,
And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere,

How cheerless would they be, tho’ they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, came not near!

Yet cheerless tho’ they’d be, they’re ungrateful to my love!
For, often when the traveller’s benighted on his way,
And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro’ the grove,
They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;

And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out,
While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,
And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout,
Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!

But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn,
And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string;
Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn.

Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen,
Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me,
That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green,
To seek the purple flow’r, whose juice from all her spells can free.

And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute;
If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand,
And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.

O! had I but that purple flow’r whose leaves her charms can foil,
And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind,
I’d be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile,
And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!

But soon the vapour of the woods will wander afar,
And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear,
Then, cheerless will they be, tho’ they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, come not near!

Whatever St. Aubert might think of the stanzas, he would not deny his
daughter the pleasure of believing that he approved them; and, having given
his commendation, he sunk into a reverie, and they walked on in silence.
A faint erroneous ray,
Glanc’d from th’ imperfect surfaces of things,
Flung half an image on the straining eye;
While waving woods, and villages, and streams,
And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain
The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,
Uncertain if beheld.
THOMSON.

St. Aubert continued silent till he reached the château, where his wife had
retired to her chamber. The languor and dejection, that had lately oppressed
her, and which the exertion called forth by the arrival of her guests had
suspended, now returned with increased effect. On the following day,
symptoms of fever appeared, and St. Aubert, having sent for medical
advice, learned, that her disorder was a fever of the same nature as that,
from which he had lately recovered. She had, indeed, taken the infection,
during her attendance upon him, and, her constitution being too weak to
throw out the disease immediately, it had lurked in her veins, and
occasioned the heavy languor of which she had complained. St. Aubert,
whose anxiety for his wife overcame every other consideration, detained the
physician in his house. He remembered the feelings and the reflections that
had called a momentary gloom upon his mind, on the day when he had last
visited the fishing-house, in company with Madame St. Aubert, and he now
admitted a presentiment, that this illness would be a fatal one. But he
effectually concealed this from her, and from his daughter, whom he
endeavoured to reanimate with hopes that her constant assiduities would not
be unavailing. The physician, when asked by St. Aubert for his opinion of
the disorder, replied, that the event of it depended upon circumstances
which he could not ascertain. Madame St. Aubert seemed to have formed a
more decided one; but her eyes only gave hints of this. She frequently fixed
them upon her anxious friends with an expression of pity, and of tenderness,
as if she anticipated the sorrow that awaited them, and that seemed to say, it
was for their sakes only, for their sufferings, that she regretted life. On the
seventh day, the disorder was at its crisis. The physician assumed a graver
manner, which she observed, and took occasion, when her family had once
quitted the chamber, to tell him, that she perceived her death was
approaching. “Do not attempt to deceive me,” said she, “I feel that I cannot
long survive. I am prepared for the event, I have long, I hope, been
preparing for it. Since I have not long to live, do not suffer a mistaken
compassion to induce you to flatter my family with false hopes. If you do,
their affliction will only be the heavier when it arrives: I will endeavour to
teach them resignation by my example.”
The physician was affected; he promised to obey her, and told St. Aubert,
somewhat abruptly, that there was nothing to expect. The latter was not
philosopher enough to restrain his feelings when he received this
information; but a consideration of the increased affliction which the

observance of his grief would occasion his wife, enabled him, after some
time, to command himself in her presence. Emily was at first overwhelmed
with the intelligence; then, deluded by the strength of her wishes, a hope
sprung up in her mind that her mother would yet recover, and to this she
pertinaciously adhered almost to the last hour.
The progress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St.
Aubert, by patient suffering, and subjected wishes. The composure, with
which she awaited her death, could be derived only from the retrospect of a
life governed, as far as human frailty permits, by a consciousness of being
always in the presence of the Deity, and by the hope of a higher world. But
her piety could not entirely subdue the grief of parting from those whom
she so dearly loved. During these her last hours, she conversed much with
St. Aubert and Emily, on the prospect of futurity, and on other religious
topics. The resignation she expressed, with the firm hope of meeting in a
future world the friends she left in this, and the effort which sometimes
appeared to conceal her sorrow at this temporary separation, frequently
affected St. Aubert so much as to oblige him to leave the room. Having
indulged his tears a while, he would dry them and return to the chamber
with a countenance composed by an endeavour which did but increase his
grief.
Never had Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had taught her
to restrain her sensibility, so much as in these moments, and never had she
practised them with a triumph so complete. But when the last was over, she
sunk at once under the pressure of her sorrow, and then perceived that it
was hope, as well as fortitude, which had hitherto supported her. St. Aubert
was for a time too devoid of comfort himself to bestow any on his daughter.

CHAPTER II
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul.
SHAKESPEARE

Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church; her
husband and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a long train of
the peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this excellent woman.
On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his chamber.
When he came forth, it was with a serene countenance, though pale in
sorrow. He gave orders that his family should attend him. Emily only was
absent; who, overcome with the scene she had just witnessed, had retired to
her closet to weep alone. St. Aubert followed her thither: he took her hand
in silence, while she continued to weep; and it was some moments before
he could so far command his voice as to speak. It trembled while he said,
“My Emily, I am going to prayers with my family; you will join us. We
must ask support from above. Where else ought we to seek it—where else
can we find it?”
Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, where,
the servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemn voice,
the evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of the departed. During
this, his voice often faltered, his tears fell upon the book, and at length he
paused. But the sublime emotions of pure devotion gradually elevated his
views above this world, and finally brought comfort to his heart.
When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he
tenderly kissed Emily, and said, “I have endeavoured to teach you, from
your earliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed out to you the
great importance of it through life, not only as it preserves us in the various
and dangerous temptations that call us from rectitude and virtue, but as it
limits the indulgences which are termed virtuous, yet which, extended
beyond a certain boundary, are vicious, for their consequence is evil. All

excess is vicious; even that sorrow, which is amiable in its origin, becomes
a selfish and unjust passion, if indulged at the expence of our duties—by
our duties I mean what we owe to ourselves, as well as to others. The
indulgence of excessive grief enervates the mind, and almost incapacitates
it for again partaking of those various innocent enjoyments which a
benevolent God designed to be the sunshine of our lives. My dear Emily,
recollect and practise the precepts I have so often given you, and which
your own experience has so often shown you to be wise.
“Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplace
remark, but let reason therefore restrain sorrow. I would not annihilate your
feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command them; for whatever
may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible heart, nothing can be
hoped from an insensible one; that, on the other hand, is all vice—vice, of
which the deformity is not softened, or the effect consoled for, by any
semblance or possibility of good. You know my sufferings, and are,
therefore, convinced that mine are not the light words which, on these
occasions, are so often repeated to destroy even the sources of honest
emotion, or which merely display the selfish ostentation of a false
philosophy. I will show my Emily, that I can practise what I advise. I have
said thus much, because I cannot bear to see you wasting in useless sorrow,
for want of that resistance which is due from mind; and I have not said it till
now, because there is a period when all reasoning must yield to nature; that
is past: and another, when excessive indulgence, having sunk into habit,
weighs down the elasticity of the spirits so as to render conquest nearly
impossible; this is to come. You, my Emily, will show that you are willing
to avoid it.”
Emily smiled through her tears upon her father: “Dear sir,” said she, and
her voice trembled; she would have added, “I will show myself worthy of
being your daughter;” but a mingled emotion of gratitude, affection, and
grief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered her to weep without interruption,
and then began to talk on common topics.
The first person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M. Barreaux,
an austere and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botany had introduced
them to each other, for they had frequently met in their wanderings among
the mountains. M. Barreaux had retired from the world, and almost from
society, to live in a pleasant château, on the skirts of the woods, near La

Vallée. He also had been disappointed in his opinion of mankind; but he did
not, like St. Aubert, pity and mourn for them; he felt more indignation at
their vices, than compassion for their weaknesses.
St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had often
pressed him to come to the château, he had never till now accepted the
invitation; and now he came without ceremony or reserve, entering the
parlour as an old friend. The claims of misfortune appeared to have
softened down all the ruggedness and prejudices of his heart. St. Aubert
unhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that occupied his mind. It was in
manners, more than in words, that he appeared to sympathise with his
friends: he spoke little on the subject of their grief; but the minute attention
he gave them, and the modulated voice, and softened look that accompanied
it, came from his heart, and spoke to theirs.
At this melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by Madame
Cheron, his only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow, and
now resided on her own estate near Thoulouse. The intercourse between
them had not been very frequent. In her condolements, words were not
wanting; she understood not the magic of the look that speaks at once to the
soul, or the voice that sinks like balm to the heart: but she assured St.
Aubert that she sincerely sympathised with him, praised the virtues of his
late wife, and then offered what she considered to be consolation. Emily
wept unceasingly while she spoke; St. Aubert was tranquil, listened to what
she said in silence, and then turned the discourse upon another subject.
At parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit.
“Change of place will amuse you,” said she, “and it is wrong to give way to
grief.” St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words of course; but, at
the same time, felt more reluctant than ever to quit the spot which his past
happiness had consecrated. The presence of his wife had sanctified every
surrounding scene, and, each day, as it gradually softened the acuteness of
his suffering, assisted the tender enchantment that bound him to home.
But there were calls which must be complied with, and of this kind was
the visit he paid to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel. An affair of an
interesting nature made it necessary that he should delay this visit no
longer, and, wishing to rouse Emily from her dejection, he took her with
him to Epourville.

As the carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his paternal domain,
his eyes once more caught, between the chesnut avenue, the turreted corners
of the château. He sighed to think of what had passed since he was last
there, and that it was now the property of a man who neither revered nor
valued it. At length he entered the avenue, whose lofty trees had so often
delighted him when a boy, and whose melancholy shade was now so
congenial with the tone of his spirits. Every feature of the edifice,
distinguished by an air of heavy grandeur, appeared successively between
the branches of the trees—the broad turret, the arched gateway that led into
the courts, the drawbridge, and the dry fossé which surrounded the whole.
The sound of carriage wheels brought a troop of servants to the great
gate, where St. Aubert alighted, and from which he led Emily into the
gothic hall, now no longer hung with the arms and ancient banners of the
family. These were displaced, and the oak wainscotting, and beams that
crossed the roof, were painted white. The large table, too, that used to
stretch along the upper end of the hall, where the master of the mansion
loved to display his hospitality, and whence the peal of laughter, and the
song of conviviality had so often resounded, was now removed; even the
benches that had surrounded the hall were no longer there. The heavy walls
were hung with frivolous ornaments, and everything that appeared denoted
the false taste and corrupted sentiments of the present owner.
St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour, where sat Mons.
and Madame Quesnel, who received him with a stately politeness, and, after
a few formal words of condolement, seemed to have forgotten that they
ever had a sister.
Emily felt tears swell into her eyes, and then resentment checked them.
St. Aubert, calm and deliberate, preserved his dignity without assuming
importance, and Quesnel was depressed by his presence without exactly
knowing wherefore.
After some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with him
alone; and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned that a
large party was invited to dine at the château, and was compelled to hear
that nothing which was past and irremediable ought to prevent the festivity
of the present hour.
St. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixed
emotion of disgust and indignation against the insensibility of Quesnel,

which prompted him to return home immediately. But he was informed, that
Madame Cheron had been asked to meet him; and, when he looked at
Emily, and considered that a time might come when the enmity of her uncle
would be prejudicial to her, he determined not to incur it himself, by
conduct which would be resented as indecorous, by the very persons who
now showed so little sense of decorum.
Among the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen, of
whom one was named Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel, a
man about forty, of an uncommonly handsome person, with features manly
and expressive, but whose countenance exhibited, upon the whole, more of
the haughtiness of command, and the quickness of discernment, than of any
other character.
Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about thirty—inferior in
dignity, but equal to him in penetration of countenance, and superior in
insinuation of manner.
Emily was shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron met
her father—“Dear brother,” said she, “I am concerned to see you look so
very ill; do, pray, have advice!” St. Aubert answered, with a melancholy
smile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily’s fears made her now
fancy that her father looked worse than he really did.
Emily would have been amused by the new characters she saw, and the
varied conversation that passed during dinner, which was served in a style
of splendour she had seldom seen before, had her spirits been less
oppressed. Of the guests, Signor Montoni was lately come from Italy, and
he spoke of the commotions which at that period agitated the country;
talked of party differences with warmth, and then lamented the probable
consequences of the tumults. His friend spoke with equal ardour, of the
politics of his country; praised the government and prosperity of Venice,
and boasted of its decided superiority over all the other Italian states. He
then turned to the ladies, and talked with the same eloquence, of Parisian
fashions, the French opera, and French manners; and on the latter subject he
did not fail to mingle what is so particularly agreeable to French taste. The
flattery was not detected by those to whom it was addressed, though its
effect, in producing submissive attention, did not escape his observation.
When he could disengage himself from the assiduities of the other ladies, he
sometimes addressed Emily: but she knew nothing of Parisian fashions, or

Parisian operas; and her modesty, simplicity, and correct manners formed a
decided contrast to those of her female companions.
After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the old
chesnut which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he stood under its shade,
and looked up among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw here and there
the blue sky trembling between them; the pursuits and events of his early
days crowded fast to his mind, with the figures and characters of friends—
long since gone from the earth; and he now felt himself to be almost an
insulated being, with nobody but his Emily for his heart to turn to.
He stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till the
succession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he started away, to
forget it, if possible, at the social board.
St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed, that
he was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; but she
considered this to be the effect of his visit to a place which spoke so
eloquently of former times, nor suspected that he had a cause of grief which
he concealed from her.
On entering the château she felt more depressed than ever, for she more
than ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever she had
been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and fondness;
now, all was silent and forsaken.
But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after week
passed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the harshness of
her affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness which the feeling heart
cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the contrary, visibly declined in health;
though Emily, who had been so constantly with him, was almost the last
person who observed it. His constitution had never recovered from the late
attack of the fever, and the succeeding shock it received from Madame St.
Aubert’s death had produced its present infirmity. His physician now
ordered him to travel; for it was perceptible that sorrow had seized upon his
nerves, weakened as they had been by the preceding illness; and variety of
scene, it was probable, would, by amusing his mind, restore them to their
proper tone.
For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and he,
by endeavours to diminish his expences at home during the journey—a
purpose which determined him at length to dismiss his domestics. Emily

seldom opposed her father’s wishes by questions or remonstrances, or she
would now have asked why he did not take a servant, and have represented
that his infirm health made one almost necessary. But when, on the eve of
their departure, she found that he had dismissed Jacques, Francis, and Mary,
and detained only Theresa the old housekeeper, she was extremely
surprised, and ventured to ask his reason for having done so. “To save
expences, my dear,” he replied—“we are going on an expensive excursion.”
The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and St.
Aubert determined, therefore, to travel leisurely along the shores of the
Mediterranean, towards Provence.
They retired early to their chamber on the night before their departure;
but Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and the clock had
struck twelve before she had finished, or had remembered that some of her
drawing instruments, which she meant to take with her, were in the parlour
below. As she went to fetch these, she passed her father’s room, and,
perceiving the door half open, concluded that he was in his study—for,
since the death of Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequently his custom to
rise from his restless bed, and go thither to compose his mind. When she
was below stairs she looked into this room, but without finding him; and as
she returned to her chamber, she tapped at his door, and receiving no
answer, stepped softly in, to be certain whether he was there.
The room was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of glass
that were placed in the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believed her
father to be in the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so late an hour,
apprehended he was unwell, and was going to enquire; but, considering that
her sudden appearance at this hour might alarm him, she removed her light
to the staircase, and then stepped softly to the closet. On looking through
the panes of glass, she saw him seated at a small table, with papers before
him, some of which he was reading with deep attention and interest, during
which he often wept and sobbed aloud. Emily, who had come to the door to
learn whether her father was ill, was now detained there by a mixture of
curiosity and tenderness. She could not witness his sorrow, without being
anxious to know the subject of; and she therefore continued to observe him
in silence, concluding that those papers were letters of her late mother.
Presently he knelt down, and with a look so solemn as she had seldom seen
him assume, and which was mingled with a certain wild expression, that

partook more of horror than of any other character, he prayed silently for a
considerable time.
When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily was
hastily retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and she stopped.
He took from among them a small case, and from thence a miniature
picture. The rays of light fell strongly upon it, and she perceived it to be that
of a lady, but not of her mother.
St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to his
lips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emily could
scarcely believe what she saw to be real. She never knew till now that he
had a picture of any other lady than her mother, much less that he had one
which he evidently valued so highly; but having looked repeatedly, to be
certain that it was not the resemblance of Madame St. Aubert, she became
entirely convinced that it was designed for that of some other person.
At length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily,
recollecting that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softly
withdrew from the chamber.

CHAPTER III
O how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which nature to her vot’ry yields!
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even;
All that the mountain’s shelt’ring bosom shields,
And all the dread magnificence of heaven;
O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!
.....
These charms shall work thy soul’s eternal health,
And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart.
THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along the feet
of the Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over the heights,
afforded more extensive views and greater variety of romantic scenery. He
turned a little out of his way to take leave of M. Barreaux, whom he found
botanizing in the wood near his château, and who, when he was told the
purpose of St. Aubert’s visit, expressed a degree of concern, such as his
friend had thought it was scarcely possible for him to feel on any similar
occasion. They parted with mutual regret.
“If anything could have tempted me from my retirement,” said M.
Barreaux, “it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on this
little tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore, believe me,
when I say, that I shall look for your return with impatience.”
The travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the heights,
St. Aubert often looked back upon the château, in the plain below; tender
images crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination suggested that he
should return no more; and though he checked this wandering thought, still
he continued to look, till the haziness of distance blended his home with the
general landscape, and St. Aubert seemed to

Drag at each remove a lengthening chain.

He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, from
which melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struck
with the grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to delightful
impressions. The road now descended into glens, confined by stupendous
walls of rock, grey and barren, except where shrubs fringed their summits,
or patches of meagre vegetation tinted their recesses, in which the wild goat
was frequently browsing. And now, the way led to the lofty cliffs, from
whence the landscape was seen extending in all its magnificence.
Emily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pine forests
of the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched with woods, towns,
blushing vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, and olives, stretched
along, till their various colours melted in distance into one harmonious hue,
that seemed to unite earth with heaven. Through the whole of this glorious
scene the majestic Garonne wandered; descending from its source among
the Pyrenees, and winding its blue waves towards the Bay of Biscay.
The ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers to
alight from their little carriage, but they thought themselves amply repaid
for this inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; and, while the
muleteer led his animals slowly over the broken ground, the travellers had
leisure to linger amid these solitudes, and to indulge the sublime reflections,
which soften, while they elevate, the heart, and fill it with the certainty of a
present God! Still the enjoyment of St. Aubert was touched with that
pensive melancholy, which gives to every object a mellower tint, and
breathes a sacred charm over all around.
They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a want
of convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the carriage, so that
they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot, in the open air, and pass
the nights wherever they should happen to meet with a comfortable cottage.
For the mind, also, they had provided, by a work on botany, written by M.
Barreaux, and by several of the Latin and Italian poets; while Emily’s pencil
enabled her to preserve some of those combinations of forms, which
charmed her at every step.
The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was seen
driving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the rocks,
heightened the effect of the scenery. St. Aubert was so much struck with it,

that he determined, if he could hear of a road, to penetrate further among
the mountains, and, bending his way rather more to the south, to emerge
into Rousillon, and coast the Mediterranean along part of that country to
Languedoc.
Soon after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs,
which, bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, the
tremendous walls of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part of
Gascony, and part of Languedoc. Here was shade, and the fresh water of a
spring, that, gliding among the turf, under the trees, thence precipitated
itself from rock to rock, till its dashing murmurs were lost in the abyss,
though its white foam was long seen amid the darkness of the pines below.
This was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted to dine,
while the mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbs that
enriched this summit.
It was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw their
attention from the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their little repast.
Seated in the shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed out to her observation
the course of the rivers, the situation of great towns, and the boundaries of
provinces, which science, rather than the eye, enabled him to describe.
Notwithstanding this occupation, when he had talked awhile he suddenly
became silent, thoughtful, and tears often swelled to his eyes, which Emily
observed, and the sympathy of her own heart told her their cause. The scene
before them bore some resemblance, though it was on a much grander
scale, to a favourite one of the late Madame St. Aubert, within view of the
fishing-house. They both observed this, and thought how delighted she
would have been with the present landscape, while they knew that her eyes
must never, never more open upon this world. St. Aubert remembered the
last time of his visiting that spot in company with her, and also the
mournfully presaging thoughts which had then arisen in his mind, and were
now, even thus soon, realised! The recollections subdued him, and he
abruptly rose from his seat, and walked away to where no eye could
observe his grief.
When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; he
took Emily’s hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and soon
after called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerning a road
among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said, there were several

that way, but he did not know how far they extended, or even whether they
were passable; and St. Aubert, who did not intend to travel after sunset,
asked what village they could reach about that time. The muleteer
calculated that they could easily reach Mateau, which was in their present
road; but that, if they took a road that sloped more to the south, towards
Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he thought they could gain before the
evening shut in.
St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course, and
Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, again set
forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to a
cross, that stood on a rock impending over their way. Having concluded his
devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, and, in spite of the rough road,
and the pain of his poor mules, which he had been lately lamenting, rattled,
in a full gallop, along the edge of a precipice, which it made the eye dizzy
to look down. Emily was terrified almost to fainting; and St. Aubert,
apprehending still greater danger from suddenly stopping the driver, was
compelled to sit quietly, and trust his fate to the strength and discretion of
the mules, who seemed to possess a greater portion of the latter quality than
their master; for they carried the travellers safely into the valley, and there
stopped upon the brink of the rivulet that watered it.
Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this
narrow valley screened by
Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell,
Here scorch’d by lightnings, there with ivy green.

The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreading
branches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the cliff, or
athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No living creature appeared,
except the lizard, scrambling among the rocks, and often hanging upon
points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view of them. This was
such a scene as Salvator would have chosen, had he then existed, for his
canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by the romantic character of the place, almost
expected to see banditti start from behind some projecting rock, and he kept
his hand upon the arms with which he always travelled.
As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features gradually
softened, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains,
stretched in far perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell was heard,

and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to the nightly
fold. His cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the ilex, which St.
Aubert observed to flourish in higher regions of the air than any other trees,
except the fir, was all the human habitation that yet appeared. Along the
bottom of this valley the most vivid verdure was spread; and, in the little
hollow recesses of the mountains, under the shade of the oak and chestnut,
herds of cattle were grazing. Groups of them, too, were often seen reposing
on the banks of the rivulet, or laving their sides in the cool stream, and
sipping its wave.
The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon the
water, and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the heath and
broom, that overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired of Michael the
distance to the hamlet he had mentioned, but the man could not with
certainty tell; and Emily began to fear that he had mistaken the road. Here
was no human being to assist, or direct them; they had left the shepherd and
his cabin far behind, and the scene became so obscured in twilight, that the
eye could not follow the distant perspective of the valley in search of a
cottage, or a hamlet. A glow of the horizon still marked the west, and this
was of some little use to the travellers. Michael seemed endeavouring to
keep up his courage by singing; his music, however, was not of a kind to
disperse melancholy; he sung, in a sort of chant, one of the most dismal
ditties his present auditors had ever heard, and St. Aubert at length
discovered it to be a vesper-hymn to his favourite saint.
They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which
twilight and solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended his ditty,
and nothing was heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze among the
woods, and its light flutter, as it blew freshly into the carriage. They were at
length roused by the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert called to the muleteer to
stop, and they listened. The noise was not repeated; but presently they heard
a rustling among the brakes. St. Aubert drew forth a pistol, and ordered
Michael to proceed as fast as possible; who had not long obeyed, before a
horn sounded, that made the mountains ring. He looked again from the
window, and then saw a young man spring from the bushes into the road,
followed by a couple of dogs. The stranger was in a hunter’s dress. His gun
was slung across his shoulders, the hunter’s horn hung from his belt, and in
his hand was a small pike, which, as he held it, added to the manly grace of
his figure, and assisted the agility of his steps.

After a moment’s hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage, and
waited till he came up, that they might enquire concerning the hamlet they
were in search of. The stranger informed him, that it was only half a league
distant, that he was going thither himself, and would readily show the way.
St. Aubert thanked him for the offer, and, pleased with his chevalier-like air
and open countenance, asked him to take a seat in the carriage; which the
stranger, with an acknowledgment, declined, adding that he would keep
pace with the mules. “But I fear you will be wretchedly accommodated,”
said he: “the inhabitants of these mountains are a simple people, who are
not only without the luxuries of life, but almost destitute of what in other
places are held to be its necessaries.”
“I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,” said St. Aubert.
“No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.”
The carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers very
thankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that now opened
among the mountains, would likewise have added to their perplexity. Emily,
as she looked up one of these, saw something at a great distance like a
bright cloud in the air. “What light is yonder, sir?” said she.
St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of a
mountain, so much higher than any around it, that it still reflected the sun’s
rays, while those below lay in deep shade.
At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk, and,
soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or rather were seen
by reflection in the stream, on whose margin they stood, and which still
gleamed with the evening light.
The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found not
only that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house of public
reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and enquire for a
cottage to accommodate them; for which further civility St. Aubert returned
his thanks, and said, that, as the village was so near, he would alight, and
walk with him. Emily followed slowly in the carriage.
On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had in
the chase. “Not much, sir,” he replied, “nor do I aim at it. I am pleased with
the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among its scenes. My
dogs I take with me more for companionship than for game. This dress, too,
gives me an ostensible business, and procures me that respect from the

people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a lonely stranger, who had no
visible motive for coming among them.”
“I admire your taste,” said St. Aubert, “and, if I was a younger man,
should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am a
wanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours—I go in
search of health, as much as of amusement.” St. Aubert sighed, and paused;
and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: “If I can hear of a
tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, it is my intention to
pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore to Languedoc. You, sir, seem to
be acquainted with the country, and can, perhaps, give me information on
the subject.”
The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely at his
service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which led to a
town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon.
They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a
cottage, that would afford a night’s lodging. In several, which they entered,
ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and the owners
eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity. Nothing like a bed
could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for one, when Emily joined
him, who observed the languor of her father’s countenance, and lamented,
that he had taken a road so ill provided with the comforts necessary for an
invalid. Other cottages, which they examined, seemed somewhat less
savage than the former, consisting of two rooms, if such they could be
called; the first of these occupied by mules and pigs, the second by the
family, which generally consisted of six or eight children, with their
parents, who slept on beds of skins and dried beech leaves, spread upon a
mud floor. Here, light was admitted, and smoke discharged, through an
aperture in the roof; and here the scent of spirits (for the travelling
smugglers, who haunted the Pyrenees, had made this rude people familiar
with the use of liquors) was generally perceptible enough. Emily turned
from such scenes, and looked at her father with anxious tenderness, which
the young stranger seemed to observe; for, drawing St. Aubert aside, he
made him an offer of his own bed. “It is a decent one,” said he, “when
compared with what we have just seen, yet such as in other circumstances I
should be ashamed to offer you.” St. Aubert acknowledged how much he
felt himself obliged by this kindness, but refused to accept it, till the young

stranger would take no denial. “Do not give me the pain of knowing, sir,”
said he, “that an invalid, like you, lies on hard skins, while I sleep in a bed.
Besides, sir, your refusal wounds my pride; I must believe you think my
offer unworthy your acceptance. Let me show you the way. I have no doubt
my landlady can accommodate this young lady also.”
St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he would
accept his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the stranger had
proved himself so deficient in gallantry, as to administer to the repose of an
infirm man, rather than to that of a very lovely young woman, for he had
not once offered the room for Emily. But she thought not of herself, and the
animated smile she gave him, told how much she felt herself obliged for the
preference of her father.
On their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on first
to speak to his hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert into a
cottage, much superior to any he had seen. This good woman seemed very
willing to accommodate the strangers, who were soon compelled to accept
the only two beds in the place. Eggs and milk were the only food the
cottage afforded; but against scarcity of provisions St. Aubert had provided,
and he requested Valancourt to stay, and partake with him of less homely
fare; an invitation, which was readily accepted, and they passed an hour in
intelligent conversation. St. Aubert was much pleased with the manly
frankness, simplicity, and keen susceptibility to the grandeur of nature,
which his new acquaintance discovered; and, indeed, he had often been
heard to say, that, without a certain simplicity of heart, this taste could not
exist in any strong degree.
The conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar without, in which
the voice of the muleteer was heard above every other sound. Valancourt
started from his seat, and went to enquire the occasion; but the dispute
continued so long afterwards, that St. Aubert went himself, and found
Michael quarrelling with the hostess, because she had refused to let his
mules lie in a little room where he and three of her sons were to pass the
night. The place was wretched enough, but there was no other for these
people to sleep in; and, with somewhat more of delicacy than was usual
among the inhabitants of this wild tract of country, she persisted in refusing
to let the animals have the same bed-chamber with her children. This was a
tender point with the muleteer; his honour was wounded when his mules

were treated with disrespect, and he would have received a blow, perhaps,
with more meekness. He declared that his beasts were as honest beasts, and
as good beasts, as any in the whole province; and that they had a right to be
well treated wherever they went. “They are as harmless as lambs,” said he,
“if people don’t affront them. I never knew them behave themselves amiss
above once or twice in my life, and then they had good reason for doing so.
Once, indeed, they kicked at a boy’s leg that lay asleep in the stable, and
broke it; but I told them they were out there, and by St. Anthony! I believe
they understood me, for they never did so again.”
He concluded this eloquent harangue with protesting, that they should
share with him, go where he would.
The dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostess
aside, and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have the place
in question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed of skins
designed for him, for that he would wrap himself in his cloak, and sleep on
the bench by the cottage door. But this she thought it her duty to oppose,
and she felt it to be her inclination to disappoint the muleteer. Valancourt,
however, was positive, and the tedious affair was at length settled.
It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, and
Valancourt to his station at the door, which, at this mild season, he preferred
to a close cabin and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to
find in his room volumes of Homer, Horace, and Petrarch; but the name of
Valancourt, written in them, told him to whom they belonged.

CHAPTER IV
In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene,
In darkness, and in storm he found delight;
Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene
The southern sun diffus’d his dazzling sheen.
Even sad vicissitude amus’d his soul;
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish’d not to control.
THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous to set
forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and, talking again of
the road, Valancourt said, that, some months past, he had travelled as far as
Beaujeu, which was a town of some consequence on the way to Rousillon.
He recommended it to St. Aubert to take that route, and the latter
determined to do so.
“The road from this hamlet,” said Valancourt, “and that to Beaujeu, part
at the distance of about a league and a half from hence; if you will give me
leave, I will direct your muleteer so far. I must wander somewhere, and
your company would make this a pleasanter ramble than any other I could
take.”
St. Aubert thankfully accepted his offer, and they set out together, the
young stranger on foot, for he refused the invitation of St. Aubert to take a
seat in his little carriage.
The road wound along the feet of the mountains through a pastoral
valley, bright with verdure, and varied with groves of dwarf oak, beech and
sycamore, under whose branches herds of cattle reposed. The mountain-ash
too, and the weeping birch, often threw their pendant foliage over the steeps
above, where the scanty soil scarcely concealed their roots, and where their
light branches waved to every breeze that fluttered from the mountains.

The travellers were frequently met at this early hour, for the sun had not
yet risen upon the valley, by shepherds driving immense flocks from their
folds to feed upon the hills. St. Aubert had set out thus early, not only that
he might enjoy the first appearance of sunrise, but that he might inhale the
first pure breath of morning, which above all things is refreshing to the
spirits of the invalid. In these regions it was particularly so, where an
abundance of wild flowers and aromatic herbs breathed forth their essence
on the air.
The dawn, which softened the scenery with its peculiar grey tint, now
dispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first trembling on the
tops of the highest cliffs, then touching them with splendid light, while their
sides and the vale below were still wrapt in dewy mist. Meanwhile, the
sullen grey of the eastern clouds began to blush, then to redden, and then to
glow with a thousand colours, till the golden light darted over all the air,
touched the lower points of the mountain’s brow, and glanced in long
sloping beams upon the valley and its stream. All nature seemed to have
awakened from death into life; the spirit of St. Aubert was renovated. His
heart was full; he wept, and his thoughts ascended to the Great Creator.
Emily wished to trip along the turf, so green and bright with dew, and to
taste the full delight of that liberty, which the izard seemed to enjoy as he
bounded along the brow of the cliffs; while Valancourt often stopped to
speak with the travellers, and with social feeling to point out to them the
peculiar objects of his admiration. St. Aubert was pleased with him: “Here
is the real ingenuousness and ardour of youth,” said he to himself; “this
young man has never been at Paris.”
He was sorry when they came to the spot where the roads parted, and his
heart took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after so short an
acquaintance. Valancourt talked long by the side of the carriage; seemed
more than once to be going, but still lingered, and appeared to search
anxiously for topics of conversation to account for his delay. At length he
took leave. As he went, St. Aubert observed him look with an earnest and
pensive eye at Emily, who bowed to him with a countenance full of timid
sweetness, while the carriage drove on. St. Aubert, for whatever reason,
soon after looked from the window, and saw Valancourt standing upon the
bank of the road, resting on his pike with folded arms, and following the

carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and Valancourt, seeming to
awake from his reverie, returned the salute, and started away.
The aspect of the country now began to change, and the travellers soon
found themselves among mountains covered from their base nearly to their
summits with forests of gloomy pine, except where a rock of granite shot up
from the vale, and lost its snowy top in the clouds. The rivulet, which had
hitherto accompanied them, now expanded into a river; and, flowing deeply
and silently along, reflected, as in a mirror, the blackness of the impending
shades. Sometimes a cliff was seen lifting its bold head above the woods
and the vapours, that floated mid-way down the mountains; and sometimes
a face of perpendicular marble rose from the water’s edge, over which the
larch threw his gigantic arms, here scathed with lightning, and there floating
in luxuriant foliage.
They continued to travel over a rough and unfrequented road, seeing now
and then at a distance the solitary shepherd, with his dog, stalking along the
valley, and hearing only the dashing of torrents, which the woods concealed
from the eye, the long sullen murmur of the breeze, as it swept over the
pines, or the notes of the eagle and the vulture, which were seen towering
round the beetling cliff.
Often, as the carriage moved slowly over uneven ground, St. Aubert
alighted, and amused himself with examining the curious plants that grew
on the banks of the road, and with which these regions abound; while
Emily, wrapt in high enthusiasm, wandered away under the shades,
listening in deep silence to the lonely murmur of the woods.
Neither village nor hamlet was seen for many leagues; the goat-herd’s or
the hunter’s cabin, perched among the cliffs of the rocks, were the only
human habitations that appeared.
The travellers again took their dinner in the open air, on a pleasant spot in
the valley, under the spreading shade of cedars; and then set forward
towards Beaujeu.
The road now began to descend, and, leaving the pine forests behind,
wound among rocky precipices. The evening twilight again fell over the
scene, and the travellers were ignorant how far they might yet be from
Beaujeu. St. Aubert, however, conjectured that the distance could not be
very great, and comforted himself with the prospect of travelling on a more
frequented road after reaching that town, where he designed to pass the

night. Mingled woods, and rocks, and heathy mountains were now seen
obscurely through the dusk; but soon even these imperfect images faded in
darkness. Michael proceeded with caution, for he could scarcely distinguish
the road; his mules, however, seemed to have more sagacity, and their steps
were sure.
On turning the angle of a mountain, a light appeared at a distance, that
illumined the rocks, and the horizon to a great extent. It was evidently a
large fire, but whether accidental, or otherwise, there were no means of
knowing. St. Aubert thought it was probably kindled by some of the
numerous banditti, that infested the Pyrenees, and he became watchful and
anxious to know whether the road passed near this fire. He had arms with
him, which, on an emergency, might afford some protection, though
certainly a very unequal one, against a band of robbers, so desperate too as
those usually were who haunted these wild regions. While many reflections
rose upon his mind, he heard a voice shouting from the road behind, and
ordering the muleteer to stop. St. Aubert bade him proceed as fast as
possible; but either Michael, or his mules were obstinate, for they did not
quit the old pace. Horses’ feet were now heard; a man rode up to the
carriage, still ordering the driver to stop; and St. Aubert, who could no
longer doubt his purpose, was with difficulty able to prepare a pistol for his
defence, when his hand was upon the door of the chaise. The man staggered
on his horse, the report of the pistol was followed by a groan, and St.
Aubert’s horror may be imagined, when in the next instant he thought he
heard the faint voice of Valancourt. He now himself bade the muleteer stop;
and, pronouncing the name of Valancourt, was answered in a voice, that no
longer suffered him to doubt. St. Aubert, who instantly alighted and went to
his assistance, found him still sitting on his horse, but bleeding profusely,
and appearing to be in great pain, though he endeavoured to soften the
terror of St. Aubert by assurances that he was not materially hurt, the wound
being only in his arm. St. Aubert, with the muleteer, assisted him to
dismount, and he sat down on the bank of the road, where St. Aubert tried
to bind up his arm, but his hands trembled so excessively that he could not
accomplish it; and, Michael being now gone in pursuit of the horse, which,
on being disengaged from his rider, had galloped off, he called Emily to his
assistance. Receiving no answer, he went to the carriage, and found her
sunk on the seat in a fainting fit. Between the distress of this circumstance
and that of leaving Valancourt bleeding, he scarcely knew what he did; he

endeavoured, however, to raise her, and called to Michael to fetch water
from the rivulet that flowed by the road, but Michael was gone beyond the
reach of his voice. Valancourt, who heard these calls, and also the repeated
name of Emily, instantly understood the subject of his distress; and, almost
forgetting his own condition, he hastened to her relief. She was reviving
when he reached the carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him
had occasioned her indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that trembled,
but not from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence. While he said
this St. Aubert turned round, and perceiving that he was still bleeding, the
subject of his alarm changed again, and he hastily formed some
handkerchiefs into a bandage. This stopped the effusion of the blood; but St.
Aubert, dreading the consequence of the wound, enquired repeatedly how
far they were from Beaujeu; when, learning that it was at two leagues’
distance, his distress increased, since he knew not how Valancourt, in his
present state, would bear the motion of the carriage, and perceived that he
was already faint from loss of blood. When he mentioned the subject of his
anxiety, Valancourt entreated that he would not suffer himself to be thus
alarmed on his account, for that he had no doubt he should be able to
support himself very well; and then he talked of the accident as a slight one.
The muleteer being now returned with Valancourt’s horse, assisted him into
the chaise; and, as Emily was now revived, they moved slowly on towards
Beaujeu.
St. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by this
accident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explained his
unexpected appearance by saying, “You, sir, renewed my taste for society;
when you had left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a solitude. I determined,
therefore, since my object was merely amusement, to change the scene; and
I took this road, because I knew it led through a more romantic tract of
mountains than the spot I have left. Besides,” added he, hesitating for an
instant, “I will own, and why should I not? that I had some hope of
overtaking you.”
“And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment,”
said St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had produced the
accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. But Valancourt seemed
anxious only to remove from the minds of his companions every unpleasant
feeling relative to himself; and, for that purpose, still struggled against a
sense of pain, and tried to converse with gaiety. Emily meanwhile was

silent, except when Valancourt particularly addressed her, and there was at
those times a tremulous tone in his voice that spoke much.
They were now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance on
the blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they could
distinguish figures moving about the blaze. The way winding still nearer,
they perceived in the valley one of those numerous bands of gipsies, which
at that period particularly haunted the wilds of the Pyrenees, and lived
partly by plundering the traveller. Emily looked with some degree of terror
on the savage countenances of these people, shown by the fire, which
heightened the romantic effects of the scenery, as it threw a red dusky
gleam upon the rocks and on the foliage of the trees, leaving heavy masses
of shade and regions of obscurity, which the eye feared to penetrate.
They were preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, over
which several figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind of tent,
round which many children and dogs were playing, and the whole formed a
picture highly grotesque. The travellers saw plainly their danger. Valancourt
was silent, but laid his hand on one of St. Aubert’s pistols; St. Aubert drew
forth another, and Michael was ordered to proceed as fast as possible. They
passed the place, however, without being attacked; the rovers being
probably unprepared for the opportunity, and too busy about their supper to
feel much interest, at the moment, in anything besides.
After a league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellers arrived
at Beaujeu, and drove up to the only inn the place afforded; which, though
superior to any they had seen since they entered the mountains, was bad
enough.
The surgeon of the town was immediately sent for, if a surgeon he could
be called, who prescribed for horses as well as for men, and shaved faces at
least as dexterously as he set bones. After examining Valancourt’s arm, and
perceiving that the bullet had passed through the flesh without touching the
bone, he dressed it, and left him with a solemn prescription of quiet, which
his patient was not inclined to obey. The delight of ease had now succeeded
to pain; for ease may be allowed to assume a positive quality when
contrasted with anguish; and, his spirits thus reanimated, he wished to
partake of the conversation of St. Aubert and Emily, who, released from so
many apprehensions, were uncommonly cheerful. Late as it was, however,
St. Aubert was obliged to go out with the landlord to buy meat for supper;

and Emily, who, during this interval, had been absent as long as she could,
upon excuses of looking to their accommodation, which she found rather
better than she expected, was compelled to return, and converse with
Valancourt alone. They talked of the character of the scenes they had
passed, of the natural history of the country, of poetry, and of St. Aubert; a
subject on which Emily always spoke and listened to with peculiar pleasure.
The travellers passed an agreeable evening; but St. Aubert was fatigued
with his journey; and, as Valancourt seemed again sensible of pain, they
separated soon after supper.
In the morning St. Aubert found that Valancourt had passed a restless
night; that he was feverish, and his wound very painful. The surgeon, when
he dressed it, advised him to remain quietly at Beaujeu; advice which was
too reasonable to be rejected. St. Aubert, however, had no favourable
opinion of this practitioner, and was anxious to commit Valancourt into
more skilful hands; but learning, upon enquiry, that there was no town
within several leagues which seemed more likely to afford better advice, he
altered the plan of his journey, and determined to await the recovery of
Valancourt, who, with somewhat more ceremony than sincerity, made many
objections to this delay.
By order of his surgeon, Valancourt did not go out of the house that day;
but St. Aubert and Emily surveyed with delight the environs of the town,
situated at the feet of the Pyrenean Alps, that rose, some in abrupt
precipices, and others swelling with woods of cedar, fir, and cypress, which
stretched nearly to their highest summits. The cheerful green of the beech
and mountain-ash was sometimes seen, like a gleam of light, amidst the
dark verdure of the forest; and sometimes a torrent poured its sparkling
flood, high among the woods.
Valancourt’s indisposition detained the travellers at Beaujeu several days,
during which interval St. Aubert had observed his disposition and his talents
with the philosophic inquiry so natural to him. He saw a frank and generous
nature, full of ardour, highly susceptible of whatever is grand and beautiful,
but impetuous, wild, and somewhat romantic. Valancourt had known little
of the world. His perceptions were clear, and his feelings just; his
indignation of an unworthy, or his admiration of a generous action, were
expressed in terms of equal vehemence. St. Aubert sometimes smiled at his
warmth, but seldom checked it, and often repeated to himself, “This young

man has never been at Paris.” A sigh sometimes followed this silent
ejaculation. He determined not to leave Valancourt till he should be
perfectly recovered; and, as he was now well enough to travel, though not
able to manage his horse, St. Aubert invited him to accompany him for a
few days in the carriage. This he the more readily did, since he had
discovered that Valancourt was of a family of the same name in Gascony,
with whose respectability he was well acquainted. The latter accepted the
offer with great pleasure, and they again set forward among these romantic
wilds about Rousillon.
They travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grand
appeared; frequently alighting to walk to an eminence, whither the mules
could not go, from which the prospect opened in greater magnificence; and
often sauntering over hillocks covered with lavender, wild thyme, juniper,
and tamarisc; and under the shades of woods, between those boles they
caught the long mountain-vista, sublime beyond anything that Emily had
ever imagined.
St. Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valancourt
and Emily strolled on; he pointing out to her notice the objects that
particularly charmed him, and reciting beautiful passages from such of the
Latin and Italian poets as he had heard her admire. In the pauses of
conversation, when he thought himself not observed, he frequently fixed his
eyes pensively on her countenance, which expressed with so much
animation the taste and energy of her mind; and when he spoke again, there
was a peculiar tenderness in the tone of his voice, that defeated any attempt
to conceal his sentiments. By degrees these silent pauses became more
frequent; till Emily, only, betrayed an anxiety to interrupt them; and she;
who had been hitherto reserved, would now talk again, and again, of the
woods and the valleys and the mountains, to avoid the danger of sympathy
and silence.
From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the
travellers into the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers
exhibited their frozen horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits of
the mountains. They often paused to contemplate these stupendous scenes,
and, seated on some wild cliff, where only the ilex or the larch could
flourish, looked over dark forests of fir, and precipices where human foot
had never wandered, into the glen—so deep, that the thunder of the torrent,

which was seen to foam along the bottom, was scarcely heard to murmur.
Over these crags rose others of stupendous height, and fantastic shape;
some shooting into cones; others impending far over their base, in huge
masses of granite, along whose broken ridges was often lodged a weight of
snow, that, trembling even to the vibration of a sound, threatened to bear
destruction in its course to the vale. Around, on every side, far as the eye
could penetrate, were seen only forms of grandeur—the long perspective of
mountain-tops, tinged with ethereal blue, or white with snow; valleys of ice,
and forests of gloomy fir. The serenity and clearness of the air in these high
regions were particularly delightful to the travellers; it seemed to inspire
them with a finer spirit, and diffused an indescribable complacency over
their minds. They had no words to express the sublime emotions they felt. A
solemn expression characterised the feelings of St. Aubert; tears often came
to his eyes, and he frequently walked away from his companions.
Valancourt now and then spoke, to point to Emily’s notice some feature of
the scene. The thinness of the atmosphere, through which every object came
so distinctly to the eye, surprised and deluded her; who could scarcely
believe that objects, which appeared so near, were, in reality, so distant. The
deep silence of these solitudes was broken only at intervals by the scream of
the vultures, seen cowering round some cliff below, or by the cry of the
eagle sailing high in the air; except when the travellers listened to the
hollow thunder that sometimes muttered at their feet. While, above, the
deep blue of the heavens was unobscured by the lightest cloud, half way
down the mountains, long billows of vapour were frequently seen rolling,
now wholly excluding the country below, and now opening, and partially
revealing its features. Emily delighted to observe the grandeur of these
clouds as they changed in shape and tints, and to watch their various effect
on the lower world, whose features, partly veiled, were continually
assuming new forms of sublimity.
After traversing these regions for many leagues, they began to descend
towards Rousillon, and features of beauty then mingled with the scene. Yet
the travellers did not look back without some regret to the sublime objects
they had quitted; though the eye, fatigued with the extension of its powers,
was glad to repose on the verdure of woods and pastures, that now hung on
the margin of the river below; to view again the humble cottage shaded by
cedars, the playful group of mountaineer-children, and the flowery nooks
that appeared among the hills.

As they descended, they saw at a distance, on the right, one of the grand
passes of the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its battlements and towers
to the splendour of the setting rays, yellow tops of woods colouring the
steeps below, while far above aspired the snowy points of the mountains,
still reflecting a rosy hue.
St. Aubert began to look out for the little town he had been directed to by
the people of Beaujeu, and where he meant to pass the night; but no
habitation yet appeared. Of its distance Valancourt could not assist him to
judge, for he had never been so far along this chain of Alps before. There
was, however, a road to guide them; and there could be little doubt that it
was the right one; for, since they had left Beaujeu, there had been no variety
of tracks to perplex or mislead.
The sun now gave his last light, and St. Aubert bade the muleteer proceed
with all possible dispatch. He found, indeed, the lassitude of illness return
upon him, after a day of uncommon fatigue, both of body and mind, and he
longed for repose. His anxiety was not soothed by observing a numerous
train, consisting of men, horses, and loaded mules, winding down the steeps
of an opposite mountain, appearing and disappearing at intervals among the
woods, so that its numbers could not be judged of. Something bright, like
arms, glanced in the setting ray, and the military dress was distinguishable
upon the men who were in the van, and on others scattered among the troop
that followed. As these wound into the vale, the rear of the party emerged
from the woods, and exhibited a band of soldiers. St. Aubert’s
apprehensions now subsided; he had no doubt that the train before him
consisted of smugglers, who, in conveying prohibited goods over the
Pyrenees, had been encountered, and conquered by a party of troops.
The travellers had lingered so long among the sublimer scenes of these
mountains, that they found themselves entirely mistaken in their calculation
that they could reach Montigny at sunset; but, as they wound along the
valley, the saw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that united two lofty crags of the
glen, a group of mountaineer-children, amusing themselves with dropping
pebbles into a torrent below, and watching the stones plunge into the water,
that threw up its white spray high in the air as it received them, and returned
a sullen sound, which the echoes of the mountains prolonged. Under the
bridge was seen a perspective of the valley, with its cataract descending
among the rocks, and a cottage on a cliff, overshadowed with pines. It

appeared, that they could not be far from some small town. St. Aubert bade
the muleteer stop, and then called to the children to enquire if he was near
Montigny; but the distance, and the roaring of the waters, would not suffer
his voice to be heard; and the crags, adjoining the bridge, were of such
tremendous height and steepness, that to have climbed either would have
been scarcely practicable to a person unacquainted with the ascent. St.
Aubert, therefore, did not waste more moments in delay. They continued to
travel long after twilight had obscured the road, which was so broken, that,
now thinking it safer to walk than to ride, they all alighted. The moon was
rising, but her light was yet too feeble to assist them. While they stepped
carefully on, they heard the vesper-bell of a convent. The twilight would not
permit them to distinguish anything like a building, but the sounds seemed
to come from some woods, that overhung an acclivity to the right.
Valancourt proposed to go in search of this convent. “If they will not
accommodate us with a night’s lodging,” said he, “they may certainly
inform us how far we are from Montigny, and direct us towards it.” He was
bounding forward, without waiting St. Aubert’s reply, when the latter
stopped him. “I am very weary,” said St. Aubert, “and wish for nothing so
much as for immediate rest. We will all go to the convent; your good looks
would defeat our purpose; but when they see mine and Emily’s exhausted
countenances, they will scarcely deny us repose.”
As he said this, he took Emily’s arm within his, and, telling Michael to
wait awhile in the road with the carriage, they began to ascend towards the
woods, guided by the bell of the convent. His steps were feeble, and
Valancourt offered him his arm, which he accepted. The moon now threw a
faint light over their path, and, soon after, enabled them to distinguish some
towers rising above the tops of the woods. Still following the note of the
bell, they entered the shade of those woods, lighted only by the
moonbeams, that glided down between the leaves, and threw a tremulous
uncertain gleam upon the steep track they were winding. The gloom and the
silence that prevailed, except when the bell returned upon the air, together
with the wildness of the surrounding scene, struck Emily with a degree of
fear, which, however, the voice and conversation of Valancourt somewhat
repressed. When they had been some time ascending, St. Aubert
complained of weariness, and they stopped to rest upon a little green
summit, where the trees opened, and admitted the moonlight. He sat down
upon the turf, between Emily and Valancourt. The bell had now ceased, and

the deep repose of the scene was undisturbed by any sound, for the low dull
murmur of some distant torrents might be said to sooth, rather than to
interrupt, the silence.
Before them, extended the valley they had quitted; its rocks, and woods
to the left, just silvered by the rays, formed a contrast to the deep shadow,
that involved the opposite cliffs, whose fringed summits only were tipped
with light; while the distant perspective of the valley was lost in the yellow
mist of moonlight. The travellers sat for some time wrapt in the
complacency which such scenes inspire.
“These scenes,” said Valancourt, at length, “soften the heart, like the
notes of sweet music, and inspire that delicious melancholy which no
person, who had felt it once, would resign for the gayest pleasures. They
waken our best and purest feelings, disposing us to benevolence, pity, and
friendship. Those whom I love—I always seem to love more in such an
hour as this.” His voice trembled, and he paused.
St. Aubert was silent; Emily perceived a warm tear fall upon the hand he
held; she knew the object of his thoughts; hers too had, for some time, been
occupied by the remembrance of her mother. He seemed by an effort to
rouse himself. “Yes,” said he, with a half-suppressed sigh, “the memory of
those we love—of times for ever past! in such an hour as this steals upon
the mind, like a strain of distant music in the stillness of night;—all tender
and harmonious as this landscape, sleeping in the mellow moonlight.” After
the pause of a moment, St. Aubert added, “I have always fancied, that I
thought with more clearness, and precision, at such an hour than at any
other, and that heart must be insensible in a great degree, that does not
soften to its influence. But many such there are.”
Valancourt sighed.
“Are there, indeed, many such?” said Emily.
“A few years hence, my Emily,” replied St. Aubert, “and you may smile
at the recollection of that question—if you do not weep to it. But come, I
am somewhat refreshed, let us proceed.”
Having emerged from the woods, they saw, upon a turfy hillock above,
the convent of which they were in search. A high wall, that surrounded it,
led them to an ancient gate, at which they knocked; and the poor monk,
who opened it, conducted them into a small adjoining room, where he
desired they would wait while he informed the superior of their request. In

this interval, several friars came in separately to look at them; and at length
the first monk returned, and they followed him to a room, where the
superior was sitting in an arm-chair, with a large folio volume, printed in
black letter, open on a desk before him. He received them with courtesy,
though he did not rise from his seat; and, having asked them a few
questions, granted their request. After a short conversation, formal and
solemn on the part of the superior, they withdrew to the apartment where
they were to sup, and Valancourt, whom one of the inferior friars civilly
desired to accompany, went to seek Michael and his mules. They had not
descended half way down the cliffs, before they heard the voice of the
muleteer echoing far and wide. Sometimes he called on St. Aubert, and
sometimes on Valancourt; who having, at length, convinced him that he had
nothing to fear either for himself, or his master; and having disposed of
him, for the night, in a cottage on the skirts of the woods, returned to sup
with his friends, on such sober fare as the monks thought it prudent to set
before them. While St. Aubert was too much indisposed to share it, Emily,
in her anxiety for her father, forgot herself; and Valancourt, silent and
thoughtful, yet never inattentive to them, appeared particularly solicitous to
accommodate and relieve St. Aubert, who often observed, while his
daughter was pressing him to eat, or adjusting the pillow she had placed in
the back of his arm-chair, that Valancourt fixed on her a look of pensive
tenderness, which he was not displeased to understand.
They separated at an early hour, and retired to their respective
apartments. Emily was shown to hers by a nun of the convent, whom she
was glad to dismiss, for her heart was melancholy, and her attention so
much abstracted, that conversation with a stranger was painful. She thought
her father daily declining, and attributed his present fatigue more to the
feeble state of his frame, than to the difficulty of the journey. A train of
gloomy ideas haunted her mind, till she fell asleep.
In about two hours after, she was awakened by the chiming of a bell, and
then heard quick steps pass along the gallery, into which her chamber
opened. She was so little accustomed to the manners of a convent, as to be
alarmed by this circumstance; her fears, ever alive for her father, suggested
that he was very ill, and she rose in haste to go to him. Having paused,
however, to let the persons in the gallery pass before she opened her door,
her thoughts, in the mean time, recovered from the confusion of sleep, and
she understood that the bell was the call of the monks to prayers. It had now

ceased, and, all being again still, she forbore to go to St. Aubert’s room. Her
mind was not disposed for immediate sleep, and the moonlight, that shone
into her chamber, invited her to open the casement, and look out upon the
country.
It was a still and beautiful night, the sky was unobscured by any cloud,
and scarce a leaf of the woods beneath trembled in the air. As she listened,
the midnight hymn of the monks rose softly from a chapel, that stood on
one of the lower cliffs, a holy strain, that seemed to ascend through the
silence of night to heaven, and her thoughts ascended with it. From the
consideration of His works, her mind arose to the adoration of the Deity, in
His goodness and power; wherever she turned her view, whether on the
sleeping earth, or to the vast regions of space, glowing with worlds beyond
the reach of human thought, the sublimity of God, and the majesty of His
presence appeared. Her eyes were filled with tears of awful love and
admiration; and she felt that pure devotion, superior to all the distinctions of
human system, which lifts the soul above this world, and seems to expand it
into a nobler nature; such devotion as can, perhaps, only be experienced,
when the mind, rescued, for a moment, from the humbleness of earthly
considerations, aspires to contemplate His power in the sublimity of His
works, and His goodness in the infinity of His blessings.
Is it not now the hour,
The holy hour, when to the cloudless height
Of yon starred concave climbs the full-orbed moon,
And to this nether world in solemn stillness,
Gives sign, that, to the list’ning ear of Heaven
Religion’s voice should plead? The very babe
Knows this, and, chance awak’d, his little hands
Lifts to the gods, and on his innocent couch
Calls down a blessing.
CARACTACUS

The midnight chant of the monks soon after dropped into silence; but
Emily remained at the casement, watching the setting moon, and the valley
sinking into deep shade, and willing to prolong her present state of mind. At
length she retired to her mattress, and sunk into tranquil slumber.

CHAPTER V
While in the rosy vale
Love breath’d his infant sighs, from anguish free.
THOMSON

St. Aubert, sufficiently restored by a night’s repose to pursue his journey,
set out in the morning, with his family and Valancourt, for Rousillon, which
he hoped to reach before night-fall. The scenes, through which they now
passed, were as wild and romantic, as any they had yet observed, with this
difference, that beauty, every now and then, softened the landscape into
smiles. Little woody recesses appeared among the mountains, covered with
bright verdure and flowers; or a pastoral valley opened its grassy bosom in
the shade of the cliffs, with flocks and herds loitering along the banks of a
rivulet, that refreshed it with perpetual green. St. Aubert could not repent
the having taken this fatiguing road, though he was this day, also, frequently
obliged to alight, to walk along the rugged precipice, and to climb the steep
and flinty mountain. The wonderful sublimity and variety of the prospects
repaid him for all this, and the enthusiasm, with which they were viewed by
his young companions, heightened his own, and awakened a remembrance
of all the delightful emotions of his early days, when the sublime charms of
nature were first unveiled to him. He found great pleasure in conversing
with Valancourt, and in listening to his ingenuous remarks. The fire and
simplicity of his manners seemed to render him a characteristic figure in the
scenes around them; and St. Aubert discovered in his sentiments the
justness and the dignity of an elevated mind, unbiased by intercourse with
the world. He perceived, that his opinions were formed, rather than
imbibed; were more the result of thought, than of learning. Of the world he
seemed to know nothing; for he believed well of all mankind, and this
opinion gave him the reflected image of his own heart.
St. Aubert, as he sometimes lingered to examine the wild plants in his
path, often looked forward with pleasure to Emily and Valancourt, as they

strolled on together; he, with a countenance of animated delight, pointing to
her attention some grand feature of the scene; and she, listening and
observing with a look of tender seriousness, that spoke the elevation of her
mind. They appeared like two lovers who had never strayed beyond these
their native mountains; whose situation had secluded them from the
frivolities of common life, whose ideas were simple and grand, like the
landscapes among which they moved, and who knew no other happiness,
than in the union of pure and affectionate hearts. St. Aubert smiled, and
sighed at the romantic picture of felicity his fancy drew; and sighed again to
think, that nature and simplicity were so little known to the world, as that
their pleasures were thought romantic.
“The world,” said he, pursuing this train of thought, “ridicules a passion
which it seldom feels; its scenes, and its interests, distract the mind, deprave
the taste, corrupt the heart, and love cannot exist in a heart that has lost the
meek dignity of innocence. Virtue and taste are nearly the same, for virtue
is little more than active taste, and the most delicate affections of each
combine in real love. How then are we to look for love in great cities, where
selfishness, dissipation, and insincerity supply the place of tenderness,
simplicity and truth?”
It was near noon, when the travellers, having arrived at a piece of steep
and dangerous road, alighted to walk. The road wound up an ascent, that
was clothed with wood, and, instead of following the carriage, they entered
the refreshing shade. A dewy coolness was diffused upon the air, which,
with the bright verdure of turf, that grew under the trees, the mingled
fragrance of flowers and of balm, thyme, and lavender, that enriched it, and
the grandeur of the pines, beech, and chestnuts, that overshadowed them,
rendered this a most delicious retreat. Sometimes, the thick foliage
excluded all view of the country; at others, it admitted some partial catches
of the distant scenery, which gave hints to the imagination to picture
landscapes more interesting, more impressive, than any that had been
presented to the eye. The wanderers often lingered to indulge in these
reveries of fancy.
The pauses of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the conversations
of Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today than ever. Valancourt
often dropped suddenly from the most animating vivacity into fits of deep
musing, and there was, sometimes, an unaffected melancholy in his smile,

which Emily could not avoid understanding, for her heart was interested in
the sentiment it spoke.
St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter
under them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction of the
road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They had continued
near the brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery it exhibited, while the
road wound far away over the cliff above. Valancourt called loudly to
Michael, but heard no voice, except his own, echoing among the rocks, and
his various efforts to regain the road were equally unsuccessful. While they
were thus circumstanced, they perceived a shepherd’s cabin, between the
boles of the trees at some distance, and Valancourt bounded on first to ask
assistance. When he reached it, he saw only two little children, at play, on
the turf before the door. He looked into the hut, but no person was there,
and the eldest of the boys told him that their father was with his flocks, and
their mother was gone down into the vale, but would be back presently. As
he stood, considering what was further to be done, on a sudden he heard
Michael’s voice roaring forth most manfully among the cliffs above, till he
made their echoes ring. Valancourt immediately answered the call, and
endeavoured to make his way through the thicket that clothed the steeps,
following the direction of the sound. After much struggle over brambles and
precipices, he reached Michael, and at length prevailed with him to be
silent, and to listen to him. The road was at a considerable distance from the
spot where St. Aubert and Emily were; the carriage could not easily return
to the entrance of the wood, and, since it would be very fatiguing for St.
Aubert to climb the long and steep road to the place where it now stood,
Valancourt was anxious to find a more easy ascent, by the way he had
himself passed.
Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested
themselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which
overshadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, should
return.
The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to
observe the strangers, while the younger continued his little gambols, and
teased his brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked with pleasure upon this
picture of infantine simplicity, till it brought to his remembrance his own
boys, whom he had lost about the age of these, and their lamented mother;

and he sunk into a thoughtfulness, which Emily observing, she immediately
began to sing one of those simple and lively airs he was so fond of, and
which she knew how to give with the most captivating sweetness. St.
Aubert smiled on her through his tears, took her hand and pressed it
affectionately, and then tried to dissipate the melancholy reflections that
lingered in his mind.
While she sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupt
her, and paused at a little distance to listen. When she had concluded, he
joined the party, and told them, that he had found Michael, as well as a way,
by which he thought they could ascend the cliff to the carriage. He pointed
to the woody steeps above, which St. Aubert surveyed with an anxious eye.
He was already wearied by his walk, and this ascent was formidable to him.
He thought, however, it would be less toilsome than the long and broken
road, and he determined to attempt it; but Emily, ever watchful of his ease,
proposing that he should rest, and dine before they proceeded further,
Valancourt went to the carriage for the refreshments deposited there.
On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain, to
where the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; and thither
they were preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join the children,
and caress and weep over them.
The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her. She took
the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving the strangers,
hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage. St. Aubert, on
enquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her husband, who was a
shepherd, and lived here in the summer months to watch over the flocks he
led to feed upon these mountains, had lost, on the preceding night, his little
all. A gang of gipsies, who had for some time infested the neighbourhood,
had driven away several of his master’s sheep. “Jacques,” added the
shepherd’s wife, “had saved a little money, and had bought a few sheep
with it, and now they must go to his master for those that are stolen; and
what is worse than all, his master, when he comes to know how it is, will
trust him no longer with the care of his flocks, for he is a hard man! and
then what is to become of our children!”
The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her
manner in relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her story;
and Valancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what was the

value of the stolen sheep; on hearing which he turned away with a look of
disappointment. St. Aubert put some money into her hand, Emily too gave
something from her little purse, and they walked towards the cliff; but
Valancourt lingered behind, and spoke to the shepherd’s wife, who was now
weeping with gratitude and surprise. He enquired how much money was yet
wanting to replace the stolen sheep, and found, that it was a sum very little
short of all he had about him. He was perplexed and distressed. “This sum
then,” said he to himself, “would make this poor family completely happy
—it is in my power to give it—to make them completely happy! But what
is to become of me?—how shall I contrive to reach home with the little
money that will remain?” For a moment he stood, unwilling to forego the
luxury of raising a family from ruin to happiness, yet considering the
difficulties of pursuing his journey with so small a sum as would be left.
While he was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself appeared:
his children ran to meet him; he took one of them in his arms, and, with the
other clinging to his coat, came forward with a loitering step. His forlorn
and melancholy look determined Valancourt at once; he threw down all the
money he had, except a very few louis, and bounded away after St. Aubert
and Emily, who were proceeding slowly up the steep. Valancourt had
seldom felt his heart so light as at this moment; his gay spirits danced with
pleasure; every object around him appeared more interesting, or beautiful,
than before. St. Aubert observed the uncommon vivacity of his
countenance: “What has pleased you so much?” said he. “O what a lovely
day,” replied Valancourt, “how brightly the sun shines, how pure is this air,
what enchanting scenery!” “It is indeed enchanting,” said St. Aubert, whom
early experience had taught to understand the nature of Valancourt’s present
feelings. “What pity that the wealthy, who can command such sunshine,
should ever pass their days in gloom—in the cold shade of selfishness! For
you, my young friend, may the sun always shine as brightly as at this
moment; may your own conduct always give you the sunshine of
benevolence and reason united!”
Valancourt, highly flattered by this compliment, could make no reply but
by a smile of gratitude.
They continued to wind under the woods, between the grassy knolls of
the mountain, and, as they reached the shady summit, which he had pointed
out, the whole party burst into an exclamation. Behind the spot where they

stood, the rock rose perpendicularly in a massy wall to a considerable
height, and then branched out into overhanging crags. Their grey tints were
well contrasted by the bright hues of the plants and wild flowers, that grew
in their fractured sides, and were deepened by the gloom of the pines and
cedars, that waved above. The steeps below, over which the eye passed
abruptly to the valley, were fringed with thickets of alpine shrubs; and,
lower still, appeared the tufted tops of the chesnut woods, that clothed their
base, among which peeped forth the shepherd’s cottage, just left by the
travellers, with its bluish smoke curling high in the air. On every side
appeared the majestic summits of the Pyrenees, some exhibiting
tremendous crags of marble, whose appearance was changing every instant,
as the varying lights fell upon their surface; others, still higher, displaying
only snowy points, while their lower steeps were covered almost invariably
with forests of pine, larch, and oak, that stretched down to the vale. This
was one of the narrow valleys, that open from the Pyrenees into the country
of Rousillon, and whose green pastures, and cultivated beauty, form a
decided and wonderful contrast to the romantic grandeur that environs it.
Through a vista of the mountains appeared the lowlands of Rousillon, tinted
with the blue haze of distance, as they united with the waters of the
Mediterranean; where, on a promontory, which marked the boundary of the
shore, stood a lonely beacon, over which were seen circling flights of sea-
fowl. Beyond, appeared, now and then, a stealing sail, white with the
sunbeam, and whose progress was perceivable by its approach to the light-
house. Sometimes, too, was seen a sail so distant, that it served only to
mark the line of separation between the sky and the waves.
On the other side of the valley, immediately opposite to the spot where
the travellers rested, a rocky pass opened toward Gascony. Here no sign of
cultivation appeared. The rocks of granite, that screened the glen, rose
abruptly from their base, and stretched their barren points to the clouds,
unvaried with woods, and uncheered even by a hunter’s cabin. Sometimes,
indeed, a gigantic larch threw its long shade over the precipice, and here
and there a cliff reared on its brow a monumental cross, to tell the traveller
the fate of him who had ventured thither before. This spot seemed the very
haunt of banditti; and Emily, as she looked down upon it, almost expected
to see them stealing out from some hollow cave to look for their prey. Soon
after an object not less terrific struck her,—a gibbet standing on a point of
rock near the entrance of the pass, and immediately over one of the crosses

she had before observed. These were hieroglyphics that told a plain and
dreadful story. She forbore to point it out to St. Aubert, but it threw a gloom
over her spirits, and made her anxious to hasten forward, that they might
with certainty reach Rousillon before night-fall. It was necessary, however,
that St. Aubert should take some refreshment, and, seating themselves on
the short dry turf, they opened the basket of provisions, while
by breezy murmurs cool’d,
Broad o’er their heads the verdant cedars wave,
And high palmetos lift their graceful shade.
———they draw
Ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales
Profusely breathing from the piney groves,
And vales of fragrance; there at a distance hear
The roaring floods, and cataracts.
THOMSON

St. Aubert was revived by rest, and by the serene air of this summit; and
Valancourt was so charmed with all around, and with the conversation of
his companions, that he seemed to have forgotten he had any further to go.
Having concluded their simple repast, they gave a long farewell look to the
scene, and again began to ascend. St. Aubert rejoiced when he reached the
carriage, which Emily entered with him; but Valancourt, willing to take a
more extensive view of the enchanting country, into which they were about
to descend, than he could do from a carriage, loosened his dogs, and once
more bounded with them along the banks of the road. He often quitted it for
points that promised a wider prospect, and the slow pace, at which the
mules travelled, allowed him to overtake them with ease. Whenever a scene
of uncommon magnificence appeared, he hastened to inform St. Aubert,
who, though he was too much tired to walk himself, sometimes made the
chaise wait, while Emily went to the neighbouring cliff.
It was evening when they descended the lower alps, that bind Rousillon,
and form a majestic barrier round that charming country, leaving it open
only on the east to the Mediterranean. The gay tints of cultivation once
more beautified the landscape; for the lowlands were coloured with the
richest hues, which a luxuriant climate, and an industrious people can
awaken into life. Groves of orange and lemon perfumed the air, their ripe
fruit glowing among the foliage; while, sloping to the plains, extensive
vineyards spread their treasures. Beyond these, woods and pastures, and
mingled towns and hamlets stretched towards the sea, on whose bright

surface gleamed many a distant sail; while, over the whole scene, was
diffused the purple glow of evening. This landscape with the surrounding
alps did, indeed, present a perfect picture of the lovely and the sublime, of
“beauty sleeping in the lap of horror.”
The travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedges of
flowering myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, where they
proposed to rest for the night. They met with simple, but neat
accommodation, and would have passed a happy evening, after the toils and
the delights of this day, had not the approaching separation thrown a gloom
over their spirit. It was St. Aubert’s plan to proceed, on the morrow, to the
borders of the Mediterranean, and travel along its shores into Languedoc;
and Valancourt, since he was now nearly recovered, and had no longer a
pretence for continuing with his new friends, resolved to leave them here.
St. Aubert, who was much pleased with him, invited him to go further, but
did not repeat the invitation, and Valancourt had resolution enough to
forego the temptation of accepting it, that he might prove himself not
unworthy of the favour. On the following morning, therefore, they were to
part, St. Aubert to pursue his way to Languedoc, and Valancourt to explore
new scenes among the mountains, on his return home. During this evening
he was often silent and thoughtful; St. Aubert’s manner towards him was
affectionate, though grave, and Emily was serious, though she made
frequent efforts to appear cheerful. After one of the most melancholy
evenings they had yet passed together, they separated for the night.

CHAPTER VI
I care not, Fortune! what you me deny;
You cannot rob me of free nature’s grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shows her brightening face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave:
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
THOMSON

In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily,
neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illness
still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily’s fears his disorder appeared to be
increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxious affection, and
their expression was always faithfully reflected in her own.
At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made
known his name and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for the
family estates, which were now in the possession of an elder brother of
Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant from La Vallée, and
he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on visits in the neighbourhood.
This knowledge had made him more willingly receive his present
companion; for, though his countenance and manners would have won him
the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to trust to the intelligence
of his own eyes, with respect to countenances, he would not have accepted
these, as sufficient introductions to that of his daughter.
The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night;
but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriage
wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started
from his chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and he
returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when
they must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would never

pass La Vallée without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly
thanking him, assured him that he never would; as he said which he looked
timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of her spirits.
They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation, and St. Aubert then
led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt following in silence. The
latter lingered at the door several minutes after they were seated, and none
of the party seemed to have courage enough to say—Farewell. At length, St.
Aubert pronounced the melancholy word, which Emily passed to
Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected smile, and the carriage drove
on.
The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil pensiveness,
which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by observing, “This is a
very promising young man; it is many years since I have been so much
pleased with any person, on so short an acquaintance. He brings back to my
memory the days of my youth, when every scene was new and delightful!”
St. Aubert sighed, and sunk again into a reverie; and, as Emily looked back
upon the road they had passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of the little
inn, following them with his eyes. Her perceived her, and waved his hand;
and she returned the adieu, till the winding road shut her from his sight.
“I remember when I was about his age,” resumed St. Aubert, “and I
thought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon me then,
now—it is closing.”
“My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,” said Emily in a trembling voice,
“I hope you have many, many years to live—for your own sake—for my
sake.”
“Ah, my Emily!” replied St. Aubert, “for thy sake! Well—I hope it is so.”
He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek, threw a smile upon
his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, “there is something in the
ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which is particularly pleasing to the
contemplation of an old man, if his feelings have not been entirely corroded
by the world. It is cheering and reviving, like the view of spring to a sick
person; his mind catches somewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes
are lighted up with a transient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring to me.”
Emily, who pressed her father’s hand affectionately, had never before
listened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no, not even
when he had bestowed them on herself.

They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted with
the romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded, on one side, by
the grandeur of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the ocean; and, soon
after noon, they reached the town of Colioure, situated on the
Mediterranean. Here they dined, and rested till towards the cool of day,
when they pursued their way along the shores—those enchanting shores!—
which extend to Languedoc. Emily gazed with enthusiasm on the vastness
of the sea, its surface varying, as the lights and shadows fell, and on its
woody banks, mellowed with autumnal tints.
St. Aubert was impatient to reach Perpignan, where he expected letters
from M. Quesnel; and it was the expectation of these letters, that had
induced him to leave Colioure, for his feeble frame had required immediate
rest. After travelling a few miles, he fell asleep; and Emily, who had put two
or three books into the carriage, on leaving La Vallée, had now the leisure
for looking into them. She sought for one, in which Valancourt had been
reading the day before, and hoped for the pleasure of retracing a page, over
which the eyes of a beloved friend had lately passed, of dwelling on the
passages, which he had admired, and of permitting them to speak to her in
the language of his own mind, and to bring himself to her presence. On
searching for the book, she could find it nowhere, but in its stead perceived
a volume of Petrarch’s poems, that had belonged to Valancourt, whose
name was written in it, and from which he had frequently read passages to
her, with all the pathetic expression, that characterised the feelings of the
author. She hesitated in believing, what would have been sufficiently
apparent to almost any other person, that he had purposely left this book,
instead of the one she had lost, and that love had prompted the exchange;
but, having opened it with impatient pleasure, and observed the lines of his
pencil drawn along the various passages he had read aloud, and under
others more descriptive of delicate tenderness than he had dared to trust his
voice with, the conviction came, at length, to her mind. For some moments
she was conscious only of being beloved; then, a recollection of all the
variations of tone and countenance, with which he had recited these
sonnets, and of the soul, which spoke in their expression, pressed to her
memory, and she wept over the memorial of his affection.
They arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset, where St. Aubert found, as
he had expected, letters from M. Quesnel, the contents of which so
evidently and grievously affected him, that Emily was alarmed, and pressed

him, as far as her delicacy would permit, to disclose the occasion of his
concern; but he answered her only by tears, and immediately began to talk
on other topics. Emily, though she forbore to press the one most interesting
to her, was greatly affected by her father’s manner, and passed a night of
sleepless solicitude.
In the morning they pursued their journey along the coast towards
Leucate, another town on the Mediterranean, situated on the borders of
Languedoc and Rousillon. On the way, Emily renewed the subject of the
preceding night, and appeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert’s silence and
dejection, that he relaxed from his reserve. “I was unwilling, my dear
Emily,” said he, “to throw a cloud over the pleasure you receive from these
scenes, and meant, therefore, to conceal, for the present, some
circumstances, with which, however, you must at length have been made
acquainted. But your anxiety has defeated my purpose; you suffer as much
from this, perhaps, as you will do from a knowledge of the facts I have to
relate. M. Quesnel’s visit proved an unhappy one to me; he came to tell me
part of the news he has now confirmed. You may have heard me mention a
M. Motteville, of Paris, but you did not know that the chief of my personal
property was invested in his hands. I had great confidence in him, and I am
yet willing to believe, that he is not wholly unworthy of my esteem. A
variety of circumstances have concurred to ruin him, and—I am ruined with
him.”
St. Aubert paused to conceal his emotion.
“The letters I have just received from M. Quesnel,” resumed he,
struggling to speak with firmness, “enclosed others from Motteville, which
confirmed all I dreaded.”
“Must we then quit La Vallée?” said Emily, after a long pause of silence.
“That is yet uncertain,” replied St. Aubert, “it will depend upon the
compromise Motteville is able to make with his creditors. My income, you
know, was never large, and now it will be reduced to little indeed! It is for
you, Emily, for you, my child, that I am most afflicted.” His last words
faltered; Emily smiled tenderly upon him through her tears, and then,
endeavouring to overcome her emotion, “My dear father,” said she, “do not
grieve for me, or for yourself; we may yet be happy;—if La Vallée remains
for us, we must be happy. We will retain only one servant, and you shall
scarcely perceive the change in your income. Be comforted, my dear sir; we

shall not feel the want of those luxuries, which others value so highly, since
we never had a taste for them; and poverty cannot deprive us of many
consolations. It cannot rob us of the affection we have for each other, or
degrade us in our own opinion, or in that of any person, whose opinion we
ought to value.”
St. Aubert concealed his face with his handkerchief, and was unable to
speak; but Emily continued to urge to her father the truths, which himself
had impressed upon her mind.
“Besides, my dear sir, poverty cannot deprive us of intellectual delights.
It cannot deprive you of the comfort of affording me examples of fortitude
and benevolence; nor me of the delight of consoling a beloved parent. It
cannot deaden our taste for the grand, and the beautiful, or deny us the
means of indulging it; for the scenes of nature—those sublime spectacles,
so infinitely superior to all artificial luxuries! are open for the enjoyment of
the poor, as well as of the rich. Of what, then, have we to complain, so long
as we are not in want of necessaries? Pleasures, such as wealth cannot buy,
will still be ours. We retain, then, the sublime luxuries of nature, and lose
only the frivolous ones of art.”
St. Aubert could not reply: he caught Emily to his bosom, their tears
flowed together, but—they were not tears of sorrow. After this language of
the heart, all other would have been feeble, and they remained silent for
some time. Then, St. Aubert conversed as before; for, if his mind had not
recovered its natural tranquillity, it at least assumed the appearance of it.
They reached the romantic town of Leucate early in the day, but St.
Aubert was weary, and they determined to pass the night there. In the
evening, he exerted himself so far as to walk with his daughter to view the
environs that overlook the lake of Leucate, the Mediterranean, part of
Rousillon, with the Pyrenees, and a wide extent of the luxuriant province of
Languedoc, now blushing with the ripened vintage, which the peasants
were beginning to gather. St. Aubert and Emily saw the busy groups, caught
the joyous song, that was wafted on the breeze, and anticipated, with
apparent pleasure, their next day’s journey over this gay region. He
designed, however, still to wind along the sea-shore. To return home
immediately was partly his wish, but from this he was withheld by a desire
to lengthen the pleasure, which the journey gave his daughter, and to try the
effect of the sea air on his own disorder.

On the following day, therefore, they recommenced their journey through
Languedoc, winding the shores of the Mediterranean; the Pyrenees still
forming the magnificent back-ground of their prospects, while on their right
was the ocean, and, on their left, wide extended plains melting into the blue
horizon. St. Aubert was pleased, and conversed much with Emily, yet his
cheerfulness was sometimes artificial, and sometimes a shade of
melancholy would steal upon his countenance, and betray him. This was
soon chased away by Emily’s smile; who smiled, however, with an aching
heart, for she saw that his misfortunes preyed upon his mind, and upon his
enfeebled frame.
It was evening when they reached a small village of Upper Languedoc,
where they meant to pass the night, but the place could not afford them
beds; for here, too, it was the time of the vintage, and they were obliged to
proceed to the next post. The languor of illness and of fatigue, which
returned upon St. Aubert, required immediate repose, and the evening was
now far advanced; but from necessity there was no appeal, and he ordered
Michael to proceed.
The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of the
vintage, with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened St.
Aubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to the
hilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyes
moved over the scene, he considered, that they would soon, perhaps, be
closed for ever on this world. “Those distant and sublime mountains,” said
he secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretched towards
the west, “these luxuriant plains, this blue vault, the cheerful light of day,
will be shut from my eyes! The song of the peasant, the cheering voice of
man—will no longer sound for me!”
The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind of
her father, and she fixed them on his face, with an expression of such tender
pity, as recalled his thoughts from every desultory object of regret, and he
remembered only, that he must leave his daughter without protection. This
reflection changed regret to agony; he sighed deeply, and remained silent,
while she seemed to understand that sigh, for she pressed his hand
affectionately, and then turned to the window to conceal her tears. The sun
now threw a last yellow gleam on the waves of the Mediterranean, and the
gloom of twilight spread fast over the scene, till only a melancholy ray

appeared on the western horizon, marking the point where the sun had set
amid the vapours of an autumnal evening. A cool breeze now came from the
shore, and Emily let down the glass; but the air, which was refreshing to
health, was as chilling to sickness, and St. Aubert desired, that the window
might be drawn up. Increasing illness made him now more anxious than
ever to finish the day’s journey, and he stopped the muleteer to enquire how
far they had yet to go to the next post. He replied, “Nine miles.” “I feel I am
unable to proceed much further,” said St. Aubert; “enquire, as you go, if
there is any house on the road that would accommodate us for the night.”
He sunk back in the carriage, and Michael, cracking his whip in the air, set
off, and continued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert, almost fainting, called
to him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the window, and saw a peasant
walking at some little distance on the road, for whom they waited, till he
came up, when he was asked, if there was any house in the neighbourhood
that accommodated travellers. He replied, that he knew of none. “There is a
château, indeed, among those woods on the right,” added he, “but I believe
it receives nobody, and I cannot show you the way, for I am almost a
stranger here.” St. Aubert was going to ask him some further question
concerning the château, but the man abruptly passed on. After some
consideration, he ordered Michael to proceed slowly to the woods. Every
moment now deepened the twilight, and increased the difficulty of finding
the road. Another peasant soon after passed. “Which is the way to the
château in the woods?” cried Michael.
“The château in the woods!” exclaimed the peasant—“Do you mean that
with the turret, yonder?”
“I don’t know as for the turret, as you call it,” said Michael, “I mean that
white piece of a building, that we see at a distance there, among the trees.”
“Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, that you are going thither?”
said the man with surprise.
St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiar tone
in which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. “We are travellers,”
said he, “who are in search of a house of accommodation for the night; is
there any hereabout?”
“None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder,”
replied the peasant, pointing to the woods, “but I would not advise you to
go there.”

“To whom does the château belong?”
“I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.”
“It is uninhabited, then?”—“No, not uninhabited; the steward and
housekeeper are there, I believe.”
On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the château, and risk
the refusal of being accommodated for the night; he therefore desired the
countryman would show Michael the way, and bade him expect reward for
his trouble. The man was for a moment silent, and then said, that he was
going on other business, but that the road could not be missed, if they went
up an avenue to the right, to which he pointed. St. Aubert was going to
speak, but the peasant wished him good night, and walked on.
The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a
gate, and Michael having dismounted to open it, they entered between rows
of ancient oak and chesnut, whose intermingled branches formed a lofty
arch above. There was something so gloomy and desolate in the appearance
of this avenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almost shuddered as she
passed along; and, recollecting the manner in which the peasant had
mentioned the château, she gave a mysterious meaning to his words, such
as she had not suspected when he uttered them. These apprehensions,
however, she tried to check, considering that they were probably the effect
of a melancholy imagination, which her father’s situation, and a
consideration of her own circumstances, had made sensible to every
impression.
They passed slowly on, for they were now almost in darkness, which,
together with the unevenness of the ground, and the frequent roots of old
trees, that shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceed with caution.
On a sudden Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St. Aubert looked from
the window to enquire the cause, he perceived a figure at some distance
moving up the avenue. The dusk would not permit him to distinguish what
it was, but he bade Michael go on.
“This seems a wild place,” said Michael; “there is no house hereabout,
don’t your honour think we had better turn back?”
“Go a little farther, and if we see no house then, we will return to the
road,” replied St. Aubert.

Michael proceeded with reluctance, and the extreme slowness of his pace
made St. Aubert look again from the window to hasten him, when again he
saw the same figure. He was somewhat startled: probably the gloominess of
the spot made him more liable to alarm than usual; however this might be,
he now stopped Michael, and bade him call to the person in the avenue.
“Please your honour, he may be a robber,” said Michael. “It does not
please me,” replied St. Aubert, who could not forbear smiling at the
simplicity of his phrase, “and we will, therefore, return to the road, for I see
no probability of meeting here with what we seek.”
Michael turned about immediately, and was retracing his way with
alacrity, when a voice was heard from among the trees on the left. It was not
the voice of command, or distress, but a deep hollow tone, which seemed to
be scarcely human. The man whipped his mules till they went as fast as
possible, regardless of the darkness, the broken ground, and the necks of the
whole party, nor once stopped till he reached the gate, which opened from
the avenue into the high-road, where he went into a more moderate pace.
“I am very ill,” said St. Aubert, taking his daughter’s hand. “You are
worse, then, sir!” said Emily, extremely alarmed by his manner, “you are
worse, and here is no assistance. Good God! what is to be done!” He leaned
his head on her shoulder, while she endeavoured to support him with her
arm, and Michael was again ordered to stop. When the rattling of the
wheels had ceased, music was heard on their air; it was to Emily the voice
of Hope. “Oh! we are near some human habitation!” said she, “help may
soon be had.”
She listened anxiously; the sounds were distant, and seemed to come
from a remote part of the woods that bordered the road; and, as she looked
towards the spot whence they issued, she perceived in the faint moonlight
something like a château. It was difficult, however, to reach this; St. Aubert
was now too ill to bear the motion of the carriage; Michael could not quit
his mules; and Emily, who still supported her father, feared to leave him,
and also feared to venture alone to such a distance, she knew not whither, or
to whom. Something, however, it was necessary to determine upon
immediately; St. Aubert, therefore, told Michael to proceed slowly; but they
had not gone far, when he fainted, and the carriage was again stopped. He
lay quite senseless.—“My dear, dear father!” cried Emily in great agony,
who began to fear that he was dying, “speak, if it is only one word to let me

hear the sound of your voice!” But no voice spoke in reply. In the agony of
terror she bade Michael bring water from the rivulet, that flowed along the
road; and, having received some in the man’s hat, with trembling hands she
sprinkled it over her father’s face, which, as the moon’s rays now fell upon
it, seemed to bear the impression of death. Every emotion of selfish fear
now gave way to a stronger influence, and, committing St. Aubert to the
care of Michael, who refused to go far from his mules, she stepped from the
carriage in search of the château she had seen at a distance. It was a still
moonlight night, and the music, which yet sounded on the air, directed her
steps from the high road, up a shadowy lane, that led to the woods. Her
mind was for some time so entirely occupied by anxiety and terror for her
father, that she felt none for herself, till the deepening gloom of the
overhanging foliage, which now wholly excluded the moonlight, and the
wildness of the place, recalled her to a sense of her adventurous situation.
The music had ceased, and she had no guide but chance. For a moment she
paused in terrified perplexity, till a sense of her father’s condition again
overcoming every consideration for herself, she proceeded. The lane
terminated in the woods, but she looked round in vain for a house, or a
human being, and as vainly listened for a sound to guide her. She hurried
on, however, not knowing whither, avoiding the recesses of the woods, and
endeavouring to keep along their margin, till a rude kind of avenue, which
opened upon a moonlight spot, arrested her attention. The wildness of this
avenue brought to her recollection the one leading to the turreted château,
and she was inclined to believe, that this was a part of the same domain, and
probably led to the same point. While she hesitated, whether to follow it or
not, a sound of many voices in loud merriment burst upon her ear. It seemed
not the laugh of cheerfulness, but of riot, and she stood appalled. While she
paused, she heard a distant voice, calling from the way she had come, and
not doubting but it was that of Michael, her first impulse was to hasten
back; but a second thought changed her purpose; she believed that nothing
less than the last extremity could have prevailed with Michael to quit his
mules, and fearing that her father was now dying, she rushed forward, with
a feeble hope of obtaining assistance from the people in the woods. Her
heart beat with fearful expectation, as she drew near the spot whence the
voices issued, and she often startled when her steps disturbed the fallen
leaves. The sounds led her towards the moonlight glade she had before
noticed; at a little distance from which she stopped, and saw, between the

boles of the trees, a small circular level of green turf, surrounded by the
woods, on which appeared a group of figures. On drawing nearer, she
distinguished these, by their dress, to be peasants, and perceived several
cottages scattered round the edge of the woods, which waved loftily over
this spot. While she gazed, and endeavoured to overcome the apprehensions
that withheld her steps, several peasant girls came out of a cottage; music
instantly struck up, and the dance began. It was the joyous music of the
vintage—the same she had before heard upon the air. Her heart, occupied
with terror for her father, could not feel the contrast, which this gay scene
offered to her own distress; she stepped hastily forward towards a group of
elder peasants, who were seated at the door of a cottage, and, having
explained her situation, entreated their assistance. Several of them rose with
alacrity, and, offering any service in their power, followed Emily, who
seemed to move on the wind, as fast as they could towards the road.
When she reached the carriage she found St. Aubert restored to
animation. On the recovery of his senses, having heard from Michael
whither his daughter was gone, anxiety for her overcame every regard for
himself, and he had sent him in search of her. He was, however, still
languid, and, perceiving himself unable to travel much farther, he renewed
his enquiries for an inn, and concerning the château in the woods. “The
château cannot accommodate you, sir,” said a venerable peasant who had
followed Emily from the woods, “it is scarcely inhabited; but, if you will do
me the honour to visit my cottage, you shall be welcome to the best bed it
affords.”
St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman; he therefore was not surprised at
French courtesy; but, ill as he was, he felt the value of the offer enhanced
by the manner which accompanied it. He had too much delicacy to
apologise, or to appear to hesitate about availing himself of the peasant’s
hospitality, but immediately accepted it with the same frankness with which
it was offered.
The carriage again moved slowly on; Michael following the peasants up
the lane, which Emily had just quitted, till they came to the moonlight
glade. St. Aubert’s spirits were so far restored by the courtesy of his host,
and the near prospect of repose, that he looked with a sweet complacency
upon the moonlight scene, surrounded by the shadowy woods, through
which, here and there, an opening admitted the streaming splendour,

discovering a cottage, or a sparkling rivulet. He listened, with no painful
emotion, to the merry notes of the guitar and tamborine; and, though tears
came to his eyes, when he saw the debonnaire dance of the peasants, they
were not merely tears of mournful regret. With Emily it was otherwise;
immediate terror for her father had now subsided into a gentle melancholy,
which every note of joy, by awakening comparison, served to heighten.
The dance ceased on the approach of the carriage, which was a
phenomenon in these sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked round it
with eager curiosity. On learning that it brought a sick stranger, several girls
ran across the turf, and returned with wine and baskets of grapes, which
they presented to the travellers, each with kind contention pressing for a
preference. At length, the carriage stopped at a neat cottage, and his
venerable conductor, having assisted St. Aubert to alight, led him and Emily
to a small inner room, illuminated only by moonbeams, which the open
casement admitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing in rest, seated himself in an arm-
chair, and his senses were refreshed by the cool and balmy air, that lightly
waved the embowering honeysuckles, and wafted their sweet breath into the
apartment. His host, who was called La Voisin, quitted the room, but soon
returned with fruits, cream, and all the pastoral luxury his cottage afforded;
having set down which, with a smile of unfeigned welcome, he retired
behind the chair of his guest. St. Aubert insisted on his taking a seat at the
table, and, when the fruit had allayed the fever of his palate, and he found
himself somewhat revived, he began to converse with his host, who
communicated several particulars concerning himself and his family, which
were interesting, because they were spoken from the heart, and delineated a
picture of the sweet courtesies of family kindness. Emily sat by her father,
holding his hand, and, while she listened to the old man, her heart swelled
with the affectionate sympathy he described, and her tears fell to the
mournful consideration, that death would probably soon deprive her of the
dearest blessing she then possessed. The soft moonlight of an autumnal
evening, and the distant music, which now sounded a plaintive strain, aided
the melancholy of her mind. The old man continued to talk of his family,
and St. Aubert remained silent. “I have only one daughter living,” said La
Voisin, “but she is happily married, and is everything to me. When I lost my
wife,” he added with a sigh, “I came to live with Agnes, and her family; she
has several children, who are all dancing on the green yonder, as merry as
grasshoppers—and long may they be so! I hope to die among them,

monsieur. I am old now, and cannot expect to live long, but there is some
comfort in dying surrounded by one’s children.”
“My good friend,” said St. Aubert, while his voice trembled, “I hope you
will long live surrounded by them.”
“Ah, sir! at my age I must not expect that!” replied the old man, and he
paused: “I can scarcely wish it,” he resumed, “for I trust that whenever I die
I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone before me. I can
sometimes almost fancy I see her of a still moonlight night, walking among
these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur, that we shall be
permitted to revisit the earth, after we have quitted the body?”
Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart; her tears fell fast
upon her father’s hand, which she yet held. He made an effort to speak, and
at length said in a low voice, “I hope we shall be permitted to look down on
those we have left on the earth, but I can only hope it. Futurity is much
veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our only guides concerning it.
We are not enjoined to believe, that disembodied spirits watch over the
friends they have loved, but we may innocently hope it. It is a hope which I
will never resign,” continued he, while he wiped the tears from his
daughter’s eyes, “it will sweeten the bitter moments of death!” Tears fell
slowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too, and there was a pause of silence.
Then, La Voisin, renewing the subject, said, “But you believe, sir, that we
shall meet in another world the relations we have loved in this; I must
believe this.” “Then do believe it,” replied St. Aubert, “severe, indeed,
would be the pangs of separation, if we believed it to be eternal. Look up,
my dear Emily, we shall meet again!” He lifted his eyes towards heaven,
and a gleam of moonlight, which fell upon his countenance, discovered
peace and resignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow.
La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too far, and he dropped it,
saying, “We are in darkness, I forgot to bring a light.”
“No,” said St. Aubert, “this is a light I love. Sit down, my good friend.
Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all day; this air
refreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music, which floats so
sweetly at a distance. Let me see you smile. Who touches that guitar so
tastefully? are there two instruments, or is it an echo I hear?”
“It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That guitar is often heard at night, when
all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and it is sometimes

accompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, one would almost think the
woods were haunted.” “They certainly are haunted,” said St. Aubert with a
smile, “but I believe it is by mortals.” “I have sometimes heard it at
midnight, when I could not sleep,” rejoined La Voisin, not seeming to
notice this remark, “almost under my window, and I never heard any music
like it. It has often made me think of my poor wife till I cried. I have
sometimes got up to the window to look if I could see anybody, but as soon
as I opened the casement all was hushed, and nobody to be seen; and I have
listened, and listened till I have been so timorous, that even the trembling of
the leaves in the breeze has made me start. They say it often comes to warn
people of their death, but I have heard it these many years, and outlived the
warning.”
Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridiculous superstition,
could not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly resist its contagion.
“Well, but, my good friend,” said St. Aubert, “has nobody had courage to
follow the sounds? If they had, they would probably have discovered who is
the musician.” “Yes, sir, they have followed them some way into the woods,
but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as ever, and the
people have at last been afraid of being led into harm, and would go no
further. It is very seldom that I have heard these sounds so early in the
evening. They usually come about midnight, when that bright planet, which
is rising above the turret yonder, sets below the woods on the left.”
“What turret?” asked St. Aubert with quickness, “I see none.”
“Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for the moon shines full
upon it;—up the avenue yonder, a long way off; the château it belongs to is
hid among the trees.”
“Yes, my dear sir,” said Emily, pointing, “don’t you see something glitter
above the dark woods? It is a fane, I fancy, which the rays fall upon.”
“O yes, I see what you mean; and who does the château belong to?”
“The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner,” replied La Voisin, emphatically.
“Ah!” said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, “are we then so near Le-Blanc!”
He appeared much agitated.
“It used to be the Marquis’s favourite residence,” resumed La Voisin,
“but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there for many years.
We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen into other hands.”

St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was roused by the last words.
“Dead!” he exclaimed, “Good God! when did he die?”
“He is reported to have died about five weeks since,” replied La Voisin.
“Did you know the Marquis, sir?”
“This is very extraordinary!” said St. Aubert without attending to the
question. “Why is it so, my dear sir?” said Emily, in a voice of timid
curiosity. He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie; and in a few
moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked who had
succeeded to the estates. “I have forgot his title, monsieur,” said La Voisin;
“but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of his coming hither.”
“The château is shut up then, still?”
“Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her husband the steward,
have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage hard by.”
“The château is spacious, I suppose,” said Emily, “and must be desolate
for the residence of only two persons.”
“Desolate enough, mademoiselle,” replied La Voisin, “I would not pass
one night in the château, for the value of the whole domain.”
“What is that?” said St. Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness. As his
host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St. Aubert, and then,
as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastily asked La Voisin
how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. “Almost from my childhood,
sir,” replied his host.
“You remember the late marchioness, then?” said St. Aubert in an altered
voice.
“Ah, monsieur!—that I do well. There are many besides me who
remember her.”
“Yes—” said St. Aubert, “and I am one of those.”
“Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady. She
deserved a better fate.”
Tears stood in St. Aubert’s eyes; “Enough,” said he, in a voice almost
stifled by the violence of his emotions,—“it is enough, my friend.”
Emily, though extremely surprised by her father’s manner, forbore to
express her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologise, but St.

Aubert interrupted him; “Apology is quite unnecessary,” said he, “let us
change the topic. You were speaking of the music we just now heard.”
“I was, monsieur—but hark!—it comes again; listen to that voice!” They
were all silent;
At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound
Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,
And stole upon the air, that even Silence
Was took ere she was ’ware, and wished she might
Deny her nature, and be never more
Still, to be so displaced.
MILTON.

In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which had
been heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert now observed, that
it produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of a guitar, and
still more melancholy and soft than the lute. They continued to listen, but
the sounds returned no more. “This is strange!” said St. Aubert, at length
interrupting the silence. “Very strange!” said Emily. “It is so,” rejoined La
Voisin, and they were again silent.
After a long pause, “It is now about eighteen years since I first heard that
music,” said La Voisin; “I remember it was on a fine summer’s night, much
like this, but later, that I was walking in the woods, and alone. I remember,
too, that my spirits were very low, for one of my boys was ill, and we feared
we should lose him. I had been watching at his bedside all the evening
while his mother slept; for she had sat up with him the night before. I had
been watching, and went out for a little fresh air, the day had been very
sultry. As I walked under the shades and mused, I heard music at a distance,
and thought it was Claude playing upon his flute, as he often did of a fine
evening, at the cottage door. But, when I came to a place where the trees
opened, (I shall never forget it!) and stood looking up at the north-lights,
which shot up the heaven to a great height, I heard all of a sudden such
sounds!—they came so as I cannot describe. It was like the music of angels,
and I looked up again almost expecting to see them in the sky. When I came
home, I told what I had heard, but they laughed at me, and said it must be
some of the shepherds playing on their pipes, and I could not persuade them
to the contrary. A few nights after, however, my wife herself heard the same
sounds, and was as much surprised as I was, and Father Denis frightened

her sadly by saying, that it was music come to warn her of her child’s death,
and that music often came to houses where there was a dying person.”
Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious dread entirely new to
her, and could scarcely conceal her agitation from St. Aubert.
“But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of Father Denis.”
“Father Denis!” said St. Aubert, who had listened to ‘narrative old age’
with patient attention, “are we near a convent, then?”
“Yes, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at no great distance, on the sea
shore yonder.”
“Ah!” said St. Aubert, as if struck with some sudden remembrance, “the
convent of St. Clair!” Emily observed the clouds of grief, mingled with a
faint expression of horror, gathering on his brow; his countenance became
fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver whiteness of the moonlight,
he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument, which seem to
bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of the dead, shown
by the blunted light
That the dim moon through painted casements lends.
THE EMIGRANTS.

“But, my dear sir,” said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts, “you
forget that repose is necessary to you. If our kind host will give me leave, I
will prepare your bed, for I know how you like it to be made.” St. Aubert,
recollecting himself, and smiling affectionately, desired she would not add
to her fatigue by that attention; and La Voisin, whose consideration for his
guest had been suspended by the interests which his own narrative had
recalled, now started from his seat, and, apologising for not having called
Agnes from the green, hurried out of the room.
In a few moments he returned with his daughter, a young woman of
pleasing countenance, and Emily learned from her, what she had not before
suspected, that, for their accommodation, it was necessary part of La
Voisin’s family should leave their beds; she lamented this circumstance, but
Agnes, by her reply, fully proved that she inherited, at least, a share of her
father’s courteous hospitality. It was settled, that some of her children and
Michael should sleep in the neighbouring cottage.
“If I am better, tomorrow, my dear,” said St. Aubert when Emily returned
to him, “I mean to set out at an early hour, that we may rest, during the heat

of the day, and will travel towards home. In the present state of my health
and spirits I cannot look on a longer journey with pleasure, and I am also
very anxious to reach La Vallée.” Emily, though she also desired to return,
was grieved at her father’s sudden wish to do so, which she thought
indicated a greater degree of indisposition than he would acknowledge. St.
Aubert now retired to rest, and Emily to her little chamber, but not to
immediate repose. Her thoughts returned to the late conversation,
concerning the state of departed spirits; a subject, at this time, particularly
affecting to her, when she had every reason to believe that her dear father
would ere long be numbered with them. She leaned pensively on the little
open casement, and in deep thought fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose
blue unclouded concave was studded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps,
of spirits, unsphered of mortal mould. As her eyes wandered along the
boundless æther, her thoughts rose, as before, towards the sublimity of the
Deity, and to the contemplation of futurity. No busy note of this world
interrupted the course of her mind; the merry dance had ceased, and every
cottager had retired to his home. The still air seemed scarcely to breathe
upon the woods, and, now and then, the distant sound of a solitary sheep-
bell, or of a closing casement, was all that broke on silence. At length, even
this hint of human being was heard no more. Elevated and enwrapt, while
her eyes were often wet with tears of sublime devotion and solemn awe, she
continued at the casement, till the gloom of midnight hung over the earth,
and the planet, which La Voisin had pointed out, sunk below the woods. She
then recollected what he had said concerning this planet, and the mysterious
music; and, as she lingered at the window, half hoping and half fearing that
it would return, her mind was led to the remembrance of the extreme
emotion her father had shown on mention of the Marquis La Villeroi’s
death, and of the fate of the Marchioness, and she felt strongly interested
concerning the remote cause of this emotion. Her surprise and curiosity
were indeed the greater, because she did not recollect ever to have heard
him mention the name of Villeroi.
No music, however, stole on the silence of the night, and Emily,
perceiving the lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of fatigue,
remembered that she was to rise early in the morning, and withdrew from
the window to repose.

CHAPTER VII
Let those deplore their doom,
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn.
But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,
Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.
Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?
Is yonder wave the sun’s eternal bed?—
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead!
BEATTIE

Emily, called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, little
refreshed by sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred the
kindest blessing of the unhappy. But, when she opened her casement,
looked out upon the woods, bright with the morning sun, and inspired the
pure air, her mind was soothed. The scene was filled with that cheering
freshness, which seems to breathe the very spirit of health, and she heard
only sweet and picturesque sounds, if such an expression may be allowed—
the matin-bell of a distant convent, the faint murmur of the sea-waves, the
song of birds, and the far-off low of cattle, which she saw coming slowly on
between the trunks of trees. Struck with the circumstances of imagery
around her, she indulged the pensive tranquillity which they inspired; and
while she leaned on her window, waiting till St. Aubert should descend to
breakfast, her ideas arranged themselves in the following lines:
THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING

How sweet to wind the forest’s tangled shade,
When early twilight, from the eastern bound,
Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,
And fades as morning spreads her blush around!

When ev’ry infant flower, that wept in night,
Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,
Expands its tender blossom to the light,

And gives its incense to the genial air.

How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume,
And swells the melody of waking birds;
The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,
And woodman’s song, and low of distant herds!

Then, doubtful gleams the mountain’s hoary head,
Seen through the parting foliage from afar;
And, farther still, the ocean’s misty bed,
With flitting sails, that partial sunbeams share.

But, vain the sylvan shade—the breath of May,
The voice of music floating on the gale,
And forms, that beam through morning’s dewy veil,
If health no longer bid the heart be gay!

O balmy hour! ’tis thine her wealth to give,
Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!

Emily now heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently the
voice of Michael, who was talking to his mules, as he led them forth from a
hut adjoining. As she left her room, St. Aubert, who was now risen, met her
at the door, apparently as little restored by sleep as herself. She led him
down stairs to the little parlour, in which they had supped on the preceding
night, where they found a neat breakfast set out, while the host and his
daughter waited to bid them good-morrow.
“I envy you this cottage, my good friends,” said St. Aubert, as he met
them, “it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air, that one breathes
—if anything could restore lost health, it would surely be this air.”
La Voisin bowed gratefully, and replied, with the gallantry of a
Frenchman, “Our cottage may be envied, sir, since you and Mademoiselle
have honoured it with your presence.” St. Aubert gave him a friendly smile
for his compliment, and sat down to a table, spread with cream, fruit, new
cheese, butter, and coffee. Emily, who had observed her father with
attention and thought he looked very ill, endeavoured to persuade him to
defer travelling till the afternoon; but he seemed very anxious to be at
home, and his anxiety he expressed repeatedly, and with an earnestness that
was unusual with him. He now said, he found himself as well as he had
been of late, and that he could bear travelling better in the cool hour of the
morning, than at any other time. But, while he was talking with his
venerable host, and thanking him for his kind attentions, Emily observed his

countenance change, and, before she could reach him, he fell back in his
chair. In a few moments he recovered from the sudden faintness that had
come over him, but felt so ill, that he perceived himself unable to set out,
and, having remained a little while, struggling against the pressure of
indisposition, he begged he might be helped up stairs to bed. This request
renewed all the terror which Emily had suffered on the preceding evening;
but, though scarcely able to support herself, under the sudden shock it gave
her, she tried to conceal her apprehensions from St. Aubert, and gave her
trembling arm to assist him to the door of his chamber.
When he was once more in bed, he desired that Emily, who was then
weeping in her own room, might be called; and, as she came, he waved his
hand for every other person to quit the apartment. When they were alone, he
held out his hand to her, and fixed his eyes upon her countenance, with an
expression so full of tenderness and grief, that all her fortitude forsook her,
and she burst into an agony of tears. St. Aubert seemed struggling to acquire
firmness, but was still unable to speak; he could only press her hand, and
check the tears that stood trembling in his eyes. At length he commanded
his voice, “My dear child,” said he, trying to smile through his anguish,
“my dear Emily!”—and paused again. He raised his eyes to heaven, as if in
prayer, and then, in a firmer tone, and with a look, in which the tenderness
of the father was dignified by the pious solemnity of the saint, he said, “My
dear child, I would soften the painful truth I have to tell you, but I find
myself quite unequal to the art. Alas! I would, at this moment, conceal it
from you, but that it would be most cruel to deceive you. It cannot be long
before we must part; let us talk of it, that our thoughts and our prayers may
prepare us to bear it.” His voice faltered, while Emily, still weeping, pressed
his hand close to her heart, which swelled with a convulsive sigh, but she
could not look up.
“Let me not waste these moments,” said St. Aubert, recovering himself,
“I have much to say. There is a circumstance of solemn consequence, which
I have to mention, and a solemn promise to obtain from you; when this is
done I shall be easier. You have observed, my dear, how anxious I am to
reach home, but know not all my reasons for this. Listen to what I am going
to say.—Yet stay—before I say more give me this promise, a promise made
to your dying father!”—St. Aubert was interrupted; Emily, struck by his last
words, as if for the first time, with a conviction of his immediate danger,
raised her head; her tears stopped, and, gazing at him for a moment with an

expression of unutterable anguish, a slight convulsion seized her, and she
sunk senseless in her chair. St. Aubert’s cries brought La Voisin and his
daughter to the room, and they administered every means in their power to
restore her, but, for a considerable time, without effect. When she
recovered, St. Aubert was so exhausted by the scene he had witnessed, that
it was many minutes before he had strength to speak; he was, however,
somewhat revived by a cordial, which Emily gave him; and, being again
alone with her, he exerted himself to tranquilize her spirits, and to offer her
all the comfort of which her situation admitted. She threw herself into his
arms, wept on his neck, and grief made her so insensible to all he said, that
he ceased to offer the alleviations, which he himself could not, at this
moment, feel, and mingled his silent tears with hers. Recalled, at length, to
a sense of duty, she tried to spare her father from a farther view of her
suffering; and, quitting his embrace, dried her tears, and said something,
which she meant for consolation. “My dear Emily,” replied St. Aubert, “my
dear child, we must look up with humble confidence to that Being, who has
protected and comforted us in every danger, and in every affliction we have
known; to whose eye every moment of our lives has been exposed; he will
not, he does not, forsake us now; I feel his consolations in my heart. I shall
leave you, my child, still in his care; and, though I depart from this world, I
shall be still in his presence. Nay, weep not again, my Emily. In death there
is nothing new, or surprising, since we all know, that we are born to die; and
nothing terrible to those, who can confide in an all-powerful God. Had my
life been spared now, after a very few years, in the course of nature, I must
have resigned it; old age, with all its train of infirmity, its privations and its
sorrows, would have been mine; and then, at last, death would have come,
and called forth the tears you now shed. Rather, my child, rejoice, that I am
saved from such suffering, and that I am permitted to die with a mind
unimpaired, and sensible of the comforts of faith and resignation.” St.
Aubert paused, fatigued with speaking. Emily again endeavoured to assume
an air of composure; and, in replying to what he had said, tried to sooth him
with a belief, that he had not spoken in vain.
When he had reposed a while, he resumed the conversation. “Let me
return,” said he, “to a subject, which is very near my heart. I said I had a
solemn promise to receive from you; let me receive it now, before I explain
the chief circumstance which it concerns; there are others, of which your

peace requires that you should rest in ignorance. Promise, then, that you
will perform exactly what I shall enjoin.”
Emily, awed by the earnest solemnity of his manner, dried her tears, that
had begun again to flow, in spite of her efforts to suppress them; and,
looking eloquently at St. Aubert, bound herself to do whatever he should
require by a vow, at which she shuddered, yet knew not why.
He proceeded: “I know you too well, my Emily, to believe, that you
would break any promise, much less one thus solemnly given; your
assurance gives me peace, and the observance of it is of the utmost
importance to your tranquillity. Hear, then, what I am going to tell you. The
closet, which adjoins my chamber at La Vallée, has a sliding board in the
floor. You will know it by a remarkable knot in the wood, and by its being
the next board, except one, to the wainscot, which fronts the door. At the
distance of about a yard from that end, nearer the window, you will perceive
a line across it, as if the plank had been joined;—the way to open it is this:
—Press your foot upon the line; the end of the board will then sink, and you
may slide it with ease beneath the other. Below, you will see a hollow
place.” St. Aubert paused for breath, and Emily sat fixed in deep attention.
“Do you understand these directions, my dear?” said he. Emily, though
scarcely able to speak, assured him that she did.
“When you return home, then,” he added with a deep sigh—
At the mention of her return home, all the melancholy circumstances, that
must attend this return, rushed upon her fancy; she burst into convulsive
grief, and St. Aubert himself, affected beyond the resistance of the fortitude
which he had, at first, summoned, wept with her. After some moments, he
composed himself. “My dear child,” said he, “be comforted. When I am
gone, you will not be forsaken—I leave you only in the more immediate
care of that Providence, which has never yet forsaken me. Do not afflict me
with this excess of grief; rather teach me by your example to bear my own.”
He stopped again, and Emily, the more she endeavoured to restrain her
emotion, found it the less possible to do so.
St. Aubert, who now spoke with pain, resumed the subject. “That closet,
my dear,—when you return home, go to it; and, beneath the board I have
described, you will find a packet of written papers. Attend to me now, for
the promise you have given particularly relates to what I shall direct. These

papers you must burn—and, solemnly I command you, without examining
them.”
Emily’s surprise, for a moment, overcame her grief, and she ventured to
ask, why this must be? St. Aubert replied, that, if it had been right for him
to explain his reasons, her late promise would have been unnecessarily
exacted. “It is sufficient for you, my love, to have a deep sense of the
importance of observing me in this instance.” St. Aubert proceeded. “Under
that board you will also find about two hundred louis d’ors, wrapped in a
silk purse; indeed, it was to secure whatever money might be in the château,
that this secret place was contrived, at a time when the province was over-
run by troops of men, who took advantage of the tumults, and became
plunderers.
“But I have yet another promise to receive from you, which is—that you
will never, whatever may be your future circumstances, sell the château.”
St. Aubert even enjoined her, whenever she might marry, to make it an
article in the contract, that the château should always be hers. He then gave
her a more minute account of his present circumstances than he had yet
done, adding, “The two hundred louis, with what money you will now find
in my purse, is all the ready money I have to leave you. I have told you how
I am circumstanced with M. Motteville, at Paris. Ah, my child! I leave you
poor—but not destitute,” he added, after a long pause. Emily could make no
reply to anything he now said, but knelt at the bedside, with her face upon
the quilt, weeping over the hand she held there.
After this conversation, the mind of St. Aubert appeared to be much more
at ease; but, exhausted by the effort of speaking, he sunk into a kind of
doze, and Emily continued to watch and weep beside him, till a gentle tap at
the chamber-door roused her. It was La Voisin, come to say, that a confessor
from the neighbouring convent was below, ready to attend St. Aubert.
Emily would not suffer her father to be disturbed, but desired, that the priest
might not leave the cottage. When St. Aubert awoke from this doze, his
senses were confused, and it was some moments before he recovered them
sufficiently to know, that it was Emily who sat beside him. He then moved
his lips, and stretched forth his hand to her; as she received which, she sunk
back in her chair, overcome by the impression of death on his countenance.
In a few minutes he recovered his voice, and Emily then asked, if he wished
to see the confessor; he replied, that he did; and, when the holy father

appeared, she withdrew. They remained alone together above half an hour;
when Emily was called in, she found St. Aubert more agitated than when
she had left him, and she gazed, with a slight degree of resentment, at the
friar, as the cause of this; who, however, looked mildly and mournfully at
her, and turned away. St. Aubert, in a tremulous voice, said, he wished her
to join in prayer with him, and asked if La Voisin would do so too. The old
man and his daughter came; they both wept, and knelt with Emily round the
bed, while the holy father read in a solemn voice the service for the dying.
St. Aubert lay with a serene countenance, and seemed to join fervently in
the devotion, while tears often stole from beneath his closed eyelids, and
Emily’s sobs more than once interrupted the service.
When it was concluded, and extreme unction had been administered, the
friar withdrew. St. Aubert then made a sign for La Voisin to come nearer. He
gave him his hand, and was, for a moment, silent. At length, he said, in a
trembling voice, “My good friend, our acquaintance has been short, but
long enough to give you an opportunity of showing me much kind attention.
I cannot doubt, that you will extend this kindness to my daughter, when I
am gone; she will have need of it. I entrust her to your care during the few
days she will remain here. I need say no more—you know the feelings of a
father, for you have children; mine would be, indeed, severe if I had less
confidence in you.” He paused. La Voisin assured him, and his tears bore
testimony to his sincerity, that he would do all he could to soften her
affliction, and that, if St. Aubert wished it, he would even attend her into
Gascony; an offer so pleasing to St. Aubert, that he had scarcely words to
acknowledge his sense of the old man’s kindness, or to tell him, that he
accepted it. The scene, that followed between St. Aubert and Emily, affected
La Voisin so much, that he quitted the chamber, and she was again left alone
with her father, whose spirits seemed fainting fast, but neither his senses,
nor his voice, yet failed him; and, at intervals, he employed much of these
last awful moments in advising his daughter, as to her future conduct.
Perhaps, he never had thought more justly, or expressed himself more
clearly, than he did now.
“Above all, my dear Emily,” said he, “do not indulge in the pride of fine
feeling, the romantic error of amiable minds. Those, who really possess
sensibility, ought early to be taught, that it is a dangerous quality, which is
continually extracting the excess of misery, or delight, from every
surrounding circumstance. And, since, in our passage through this world,

painful circumstances occur more frequently than pleasing ones, and since
our sense of evil is, I fear, more acute than our sense of good, we become
the victims of our feelings, unless we can in some degree command them. I
know you will say, (for you are young, my Emily) I know you will say, that
you are contented sometimes to suffer, rather than to give up your refined
sense of happiness, at others; but, when your mind has been long harassed
by vicissitude, you will be content to rest, and you will then recover from
your delusion. You will perceive, that the phantom of happiness is
exchanged for the substance; for happiness arises in a state of peace, not of
tumult. It is of a temperate and uniform nature, and can no more exist in a
heart, that is continually alive to minute circumstances, than in one that is
dead to feeling. You see, my dear, that, though I would guard you against
the dangers of sensibility, I am not an advocate for apathy. At your age I
should have said that is a vice more hateful than all the errors of sensibility,
and I say so still. I call it a vice, because it leads to positive evil; in this,
however, it does no more than an ill-governed sensibility, which, by such a
rule, might also be called a vice; but the evil of the former is of more
general consequence. I have exhausted myself,” said St. Aubert, feebly,
“and have wearied you, my Emily; but, on a subject so important to your
future comfort, I am anxious to be perfectly understood.”
Emily assured him, that his advice was most precious to her, and that she
would never forget it, or cease from endeavouring to profit by it. St. Aubert
smiled affectionately and sorrowfully upon her. “I repeat it,” said he, “I
would not teach you to become insensible, if I could; I would only warn
you of the evils of susceptibility, and point out how you may avoid them.
Beware, my love, I conjure you, of that self-delusion, which has been fatal
to the peace of so many persons; beware of priding yourself on the
gracefulness of sensibility; if you yield to this vanity, your happiness is lost
for ever. Always remember how much more valuable is the strength of
fortitude, than the grace of sensibility. Do not, however, confound fortitude
with apathy; apathy cannot know the virtue. Remember, too, that one act of
beneficence, one act of real usefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment in
the world. Sentiment is a disgrace, instead of an ornament, unless it lead us
to good actions. The miser, who thinks himself respectable, merely because
he possesses wealth, and thus mistakes the means of doing good, for the
actual accomplishment of it, is not more blameable than the man of
sentiment, without active virtue. You may have observed persons, who

delight so much in this sort of sensibility to sentiment, which excludes that
to the calls of any practical virtue, that they turn from the distressed, and,
because their sufferings are painful to be contemplated, do not endeavour to
relieve them. How despicable is that humanity, which can be contented to
pity, where it might assuage!”
St. Aubert, some time after, spoke of Madame Cheron, his sister. “Let me
inform you of a circumstance, that nearly affects your welfare,” he added.
“We have, you know, had little intercourse for some years, but, as she is
now your only female relation, I have thought it proper to consign you to
her care, as you will see in my will, till you are of age, and to recommend
you to her protection afterwards. She is not exactly the person, to whom I
would have committed my Emily, but I had no alternative, and I believe her
to be upon the whole—a good kind of woman. I need not recommend it to
your prudence, my love, to endeavour to conciliate her kindness; you will
do this for his sake, who has often wished to do so for yours.”
Emily assured him, that, whatever he requested she would religiously
perform to the utmost of her ability. “Alas!” added she, in a voice
interrupted by sighs, “that will soon be all which remains for me; it will be
almost my only consolation to fulfil your wishes.”
St. Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken, but his
spirit sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull. She felt that look at
her heart. “My dear father!” she exclaimed; and then, checking herself,
pressed his hand closer, and hid her face with her handkerchief. Her tears
were concealed, but St. Aubert heard her convulsive sobs. His spirits
returned. “O my child!” said he, faintly, “let my consolations be yours. I die
in peace; for I know, that I am about to return to the bosom of my Father,
who will still be your Father, when I am gone. Always trust in him, my
love, and he will support you in these moments, as he supports me.”
Emily could only listen, and weep; but the extreme composure of his
manner, and the faith and hope he expressed, somewhat soothed her
anguish. Yet, whenever she looked upon his emaciated countenance, and
saw the lines of death beginning to prevail over it—saw his sunk eyes, still
bent on her, and their heavy lids pressing to a close, there was a pang in her
heart, such as defied expression, though it required filial virtue, like hers, to
forbear the attempt.

He desired once more to bless her; “Where are you, my dear?” said he, as
he stretched forth his hands. Emily had turned to the window, that he might
not perceive her anguish; she now understood, that his sight had failed him.
When he had given her his blessing, and it seemed to be the last effort of
expiring life, he sunk back on his pillow. She kissed his forehead; the
damps of death had settled there, and, forgetting her fortitude for a moment,
her tears mingled with them. St. Aubert lifted up his eyes; the spirit of a
father returned to them, but it quickly vanished, and he spoke no more.
St. Aubert lingered till about three o’clock in the afternoon, and, thus
gradually sinking into death, he expired without a struggle, or a sigh.
Emily was led from the chamber by La Voisin and his daughter, who did
what they could to comfort her. The old man sat and wept with her. Agnes
was more erroneously officious.

CHAPTER VIII
O’er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms shall sit at eve,
and bend the pensive head.
COLLINS

The monk, who had before appeared, returned in the evening to offer
consolation to Emily, and brought a kind message from the lady abbess,
inviting her to the convent. Emily, though she did not accept the offer,
returned an answer expressive of her gratitude. The holy conversation of the
friar, whose mild benevolence of manners bore some resemblance to those
of St. Aubert, soothed the violence of her grief, and lifted her heart to the
Being, who, extending through all place and all eternity, looks on the events
of this little world as on the shadows of a moment, and beholds equally, and
in the same instant, the soul that has passed the gates of death, and that,
which still lingers in the body. “In the sight of God,” said Emily, “my dear
father now exists, as truly as he yesterday existed to me; it is to me only that
he is dead; to God and to himself he yet lives!”
The good monk left her more tranquil than she had been since St. Aubert
died; and, before she retired to her little cabin for the night, she trusted
herself so far as to visit the corpse. Silent, and without weeping, she stood
by its side. The features, placid and serene, told the nature of the last
sensations, that had lingered in the now deserted frame. For a moment she
turned away, in horror of the stillness in which death had fixed that
countenance, never till now seen otherwise than animated; then gazed on it
with a mixture of doubt and awful astonishment. Her reason could scarcely
overcome an involuntary and unaccountable expectation of seeing that
beloved countenance still susceptible. She continued to gaze wildly; took up
the cold hand; spoke; still gazed, and then burst into a transport of grief. La
Voisin, hearing her sobs, came into the room to lead her away, but she heard
nothing, and only begged that he would leave her.

Again alone, she indulged her tears, and, when the gloom of evening
obscured the chamber, and almost veiled from her eyes the object of her
distress, she still hung over the body; till her spirits, at length, were
exhausted, and she became tranquil. La Voisin again knocked at the door,
and entreated that she would come to the common apartment. Before she
went, she kissed the lips of St. Aubert, as she was wont to do when she bade
him good night. Again she kissed them; her heart felt as if it would break, a
few tears of agony started to her eyes, she looked up to heaven, then at St.
Aubert, and left the room.
Retired to her lonely cabin, her melancholy thoughts still hovered round
the body of her deceased parent; and, when she sunk into a kind of slumber,
the images of her waking mind still haunted her fancy. She thought she saw
her father approaching her with a benign countenance; then, smiling
mournfully and pointing upwards, his lips moved, but, instead of words, she
heard sweet music borne on the distant air, and presently saw his features
glow with the mild rapture of a superior being. The strain seemed to swell
louder, and she awoke. The vision was gone, but music yet came to her ear
in strains such as angels might breathe. She doubted, listened, raised herself
in the bed, and again listened. It was music, and not an illusion of her
imagination. After a solemn steady harmony, it paused; then rose again, in
mournful sweetness, and then died, in a cadence, that seemed to bear away
the listening soul to heaven. She instantly remembered the music of the
preceding night, with the strange circumstances, related by La Voisin, and
the affecting conversation it had led to, concerning the state of departed
spirits. All that St. Aubert had said, on that subject, now pressed upon her
heart, and overwhelmed it. What a change in a few hours! He, who then
could only conjecture, was now made acquainted with truth; was himself
become one of the departed! As she listened, she was chilled with
superstitious awe, her tears stopped; and she rose, and went to the window.
All without was obscured in shade; but Emily, turning her eyes from the
massy darkness of the woods, whose waving outline appeared on the
horizon, saw, on the left, that effulgent planet, which the old man had
pointed out, setting over the woods. She remembered what he had said
concerning it, and, the music now coming at intervals on the air, she
unclosed the casement to listen to the strains, that soon gradually sunk to a
greater distance, and tried to discover whence they came. The obscurity
prevented her from distinguishing any object on the green platform below;

and the sounds became fainter and fainter, till they softened into silence.
She listened, but they returned no more. Soon after, she observed the planet
trembling between the fringed tops of the woods, and, in the next moment,
sink behind them. Chilled with a melancholy awe, she retired once more to
her bed, and, at length, forgot for a while her sorrows in sleep.
On the following morning, she was visited by a sister of the convent, who
came, with kind offices and a second invitation from the lady abbess; and
Emily, though she could not forsake the cottage, while the remains of her
father were in it, consented, however painful such a visit must be, in the
present state of her spirits, to pay her respects to the abbess, in the evening.
About an hour before sunset, La Voisin showed her the way through the
woods to the convent, which stood in a small bay of the Mediterranean,
crowned by a woody amphitheatre; and Emily, had she been less unhappy,
would have admired the extensive sea view, that appeared from the green
slope, in front of the edifice, and the rich shores, hung with woods and
pastures, that extended on either hand. But her thoughts were now occupied
by one sad idea, and the features of nature were to her colourless and
without form. The bell for vespers struck, as she passed the ancient gate of
the convent, and seemed the funereal note for St. Aubert. Little incidents
affect a mind, enervated by sorrow; Emily struggled against the sickening
faintness, that came over her, and was led into the presence of the abbess,
who received her with an air of maternal tenderness; an air of such gentle
solicitude and consideration, as touched her with an instantaneous gratitude;
her eyes were filled with tears, and the words she would have spoken
faltered on her lips. The abbess led her to a seat, and sat down beside her,
still holding her hand and regarding her in silence, as Emily dried her tears
and attempted to speak. “Be composed, my daughter,” said the abbess in a
soothing voice, “do not speak yet; I know all you would say. Your spirits
must be soothed. We are going to prayers;—will you attend our evening
service? It is comfortable, my child, to look up in our afflictions to a father,
who sees and pities us, and who chastens in his mercy.”
Emily’s tears flowed again, but a thousand sweet emotions mingled with
them. The abbess suffered her to weep without interruption, and watched
over her with a look of benignity, that might have characterised the
countenance of a guardian angel. Emily, when she became tranquil, was
encouraged to speak without reserve, and to mention the motive, that made

her unwilling to quit the cottage, which the abbess did not oppose even by a
hint; but praised the filial piety of her conduct, and added a hope, that she
would pass a few days at the convent, before she returned to La Vallée.
“You must allow yourself a little time to recover from your first shock, my
daughter, before you encounter a second; I will not affect to conceal from
you how much I know your heart must suffer, on returning to the scene of
your former happiness. Here, you will have all, that quiet and sympathy and
religion can give, to restore your spirits. But come,” added she, observing
the tears swell in Emily’s eyes, “we will go to the chapel.”
Emily followed to the parlour, where the nuns were assembled, to whom
the abbess committed her, saying, “This is a daughter, for whom I have
much esteem; be sisters to her.”
They passed on in a train to the chapel, where the solemn devotion, with
which the service was performed, elevated her mind, and brought to it the
comforts of faith and resignation.
Twilight came on, before the abbess’s kindness would suffer Emily to
depart, when she left the convent, with a heart much lighter than she had
entered it, and was reconducted by La Voisin through the woods, the
pensive gloom of which was in unison with the temper of her mind; and she
pursued the little wild path, in musing silence, till her guide suddenly
stopped, looked round, and then struck out of the path into the high grass,
saying he had mistaken the road. He now walked on quickly, and Emily,
proceeding with difficulty over the obscured and uneven ground, was left at
some distance, till her voice arrested him, who seemed unwilling to stop,
and still hurried on. “If you are in doubt about the way,” said Emily, “had
we not better enquire it at the château yonder, between the trees?”
“No,” replied La Voisin, “there is no occasion. When we reach that
brook, ma’amselle, (you see the light upon the water there, beyond the
woods) when we reach that brook, we shall be at home presently. I don’t
know how I happened to mistake the path; I seldom come this way after
sunset.”
“It is solitary enough,” said Emily, “but you have no banditti here.”
“No, ma’amselle—no banditti.”
“What are you afraid of then, my good friend? you are not superstitious?”
“No, not superstitious; but, to tell you the truth, lady, nobody likes to go
near that château, after dusk.” “By whom is it inhabited,” said Emily, “that

it is so formidable?” “Why, ma’amselle, it is scarcely inhabited, for our lord
the Marquis, and the lord of all these find woods, too, is dead. He had not
once been in it, for these many years, and his people, who have the care of
it, live in a cottage close by.” Emily now understood this to be the château,
which La Voisin had formerly pointed out, as having belonged to the
Marquis Villeroi, on the mention of which her father had appeared so much
affected.
“Ah! it is a desolate place now,” continued La Voisin, “and such a grand,
fine place, as I remember it!” Emily enquired what had occasioned this
lamentable change; but the old man was silent, and Emily, whose interest
was awakened by the fear he had expressed, and above all by a recollection
of her father’s agitation, repeated the question, and added, “If you are
neither afraid of the inhabitants, my good friend, nor are superstitious, how
happens it, that you dread to pass near that château in the dark?”
“Perhaps, then, I am a little superstitious, ma’amselle; and, if you knew
what I do, you might be so too. Strange things have happened there.
Monsieur, your good father, appeared to have known the late Marchioness.”
“Pray inform me what did happen?” said Emily, with much emotion.
“Alas! ma’amselle,” answered La Voisin, “enquire no further; it is not for
me to lay open the domestic secrets of my lord.”—Emily, surprised by the
old man’s words, and his manner of delivering them, forbore to repeat her
question; a nearer interest, the remembrance of St. Aubert, occupied her
thoughts, and she was led to recollect the music she heard on the preceding
night, which she mentioned to La Voisin. “You were not alone, ma’amselle,
in this,” he replied, “I heard it too; but I have so often heard it, at the same
hour, that I was scarcely surprised.”
“You doubtless believe this music to have some connection with the
château,” said Emily suddenly, “and are, therefore, superstitious.” “It may
be so, ma’amselle, but there are other circumstances, belonging to that
château, which I remember, and sadly too.” A heavy sigh followed: but
Emily’s delicacy restrained the curiosity these words revived, and she
enquired no further.
On reaching the cottage, all the violence of her grief returned; it seemed
as if she had escaped its heavy pressure only while she was removed from
the object of it. She passed immediately to the chamber, where the remains
of her father were laid, and yielded to all the anguish of hopeless grief. La

Voisin, at length, persuaded her to leave the room, and she returned to her
own, where, exhausted by the sufferings of the day, she soon fell into deep
sleep, and awoke considerably refreshed.
When the dreadful hour arrived, in which the remains of St. Aubert were
to be taken from her for ever, she went alone to the chamber to look upon
his countenance yet once again, and La Voisin, who had waited patiently
below stairs, till her despair should subside, with the respect due to grief,
forbore to interrupt the indulgence of it, till surprise, at the length of her
stay, and then apprehension overcame his delicacy, and he went to lead her
from the chamber. Having tapped gently at the door, without receiving an
answer, he listened attentively, but all was still; no sigh, no sob of anguish
was heard. Yet more alarmed by this silence, he opened the door, and found
Emily lying senseless across the foot of the bed, near which stood the
coffin. His calls procured assistance, and she was carried to her room,
where proper applications, at length, restored her.
During her state of insensibility, La Voisin had given directions for the
coffin to be closed, and he succeeded in persuading Emily to forbear
revisiting the chamber. She, indeed, felt herself unequal to this, and also
perceived the necessity of sparing her spirits, and recollecting fortitude
sufficient to bear her through the approaching scene. St. Aubert had given a
particular injunction, that his remains should be interred in the church of the
convent of St. Clair, and, in mentioning the north chancel, near the ancient
tomb of the Villerois, had pointed out the exact spot, where he wished to be
laid. The superior had granted this place for the interment, and thither,
therefore, the sad procession now moved, which was met, at the gates, by
the venerable priest, followed by a train of friars. Every person, who heard
the solemn chant of the anthem, and the peal of the organ, that struck up,
when the body entered the church, and saw also the feeble steps, and the
assumed tranquillity of Emily, gave her involuntary tears. She shed none,
but walked, her face partly shaded by a thin black veil, between two
persons, who supported her, preceded by the abbess, and followed by nuns,
whose plaintive voices mellowed the swelling harmony of the dirge. When
the procession came to the grave the music ceased. Emily drew the veil
entirely over her face, and, in a momentary pause, between the anthem and
the rest of the service, her sobs were distinctly audible. The holy father
began the service, and Emily again commanded her feelings, till the coffin
was let down, and she heard the earth rattle on its lid. Then, as she

shuddered, a groan burst from her heart, and she leaned for support on the
person who stood next to her. In a few moments she recovered; and, when
she heard those affecting and sublime words: “His body is buried in peace,
and his soul returns to Him that gave it,” her anguish softened into tears.
The abbess led her from the church into her own parlour, and there
administered all the consolations, that religion and gentle sympathy can
give. Emily struggled against the pressure of grief; but the abbess,
observing her attentively, ordered a bed to be prepared, and recommended
her to retire to repose. She also kindly claimed her promise to remain a few
days at the convent; and Emily, who had no wish to return to the cottage,
the scene of all her sufferings, had leisure, now that no immediate care
pressed upon her attention, to feel the indisposition, which disabled her
from immediately travelling.
Meanwhile, the maternal kindness of the abbess, and the gentle attentions
of the nuns did all, that was possible, towards soothing her spirits and
restoring her health. But the latter was too deeply wounded, through the
medium of her mind, to be quickly revived. She lingered for some weeks at
the convent, under the influence of a slow fever, wishing to return home,
yet unable to go thither; often even reluctant to leave the spot where her
father’s relics were deposited, and sometimes soothing herself with the
consideration, that, if she died here, her remains would repose beside those
of St. Aubert. In the meanwhile, she sent letters to Madame Cheron and to
the old housekeeper, informing them of the sad event, that had taken place,
and of her own situation. From her aunt she received an answer, abounding
more in common-place condolement, than in traits of real sorrow, which
assured her, that a servant should be sent to conduct her to La Vallée, for
that her own time was so much occupied by company, that she had no
leisure to undertake so long a journey. However Emily might prefer La
Vallée to Thoulouse, she could not be insensible to the indecorous and
unkind conduct of her aunt, in suffering her to return thither, where she had
no longer a relation to console and protect her; a conduct, which was the
more culpable, since St. Aubert had appointed Madame Cheron the
guardian of his orphan daughter.
Madame Cheron’s servant made the attendance of the good La Voisin
unnecessary; and Emily, who felt sensibly her obligations to him, for all his

kind attention to her late father, as well as to herself, was glad to spare him
a long, and what, at his time of life, must have been a troublesome journey.
During her stay at the convent, the peace and sanctity that reigned within,
the tranquil beauty of the scenery without, and the delicate attentions of the
abbess and the nuns, were circumstances so soothing to her mind, that they
almost tempted her to leave a world, where she had lost her dearest friends,
and devote herself to the cloister, in a spot, rendered sacred to her by
containing the tomb of St. Aubert. The pensive enthusiasm, too, so natural
to her temper, had spread a beautiful illusion over the sanctified retirement
of a nun, that almost hid from her view the selfishness of its security. But
the touches, which a melancholy fancy, slightly tinctured with superstition,
gave to the monastic scene, began to fade, as her spirits revived, and
brought once more to her heart an image, which had only transiently been
banished thence. By this she was silently awakened to hope and comfort
and sweet affections; visions of happiness gleamed faintly at a distance,
and, though she knew them to be illusions, she could not resolve to shut
them out for ever. It was the remembrance of Valancourt, of his taste, his
genius, and of the countenance which glowed with both, that, perhaps,
alone determined her to return to the world. The grandeur and sublimity of
the scenes, amidst which they had first met, had fascinated her fancy, and
had imperceptibly contributed to render Valancourt more interesting by
seeming to communicate to him somewhat of their own character. The
esteem, too, which St. Aubert had repeatedly expressed for him, sanctioned
this kindness; but, though his countenance and manner had continually
expressed his admiration of her, he had not otherwise declared it; and even
the hope of seeing him again was so distant, that she was scarcely conscious
of it, still less that it influenced her conduct on this occasion.
It was several days after the arrival of Madame Cheron’s servant before
Emily was sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey to La Vallée. On
the evening preceding her departure, she went to the cottage to take leave of
La Voisin and his family, and to make them a return for their kindness. The
old man she found sitting on a bench at his door, between his daughter, and
his son-in-law, who was just returned from his daily labour, and who was
playing upon a pipe, that, in tone, resembled an oboe. A flask of wine stood
beside the old man, and, before him, a small table with fruit and bread,
round which stood several of his grandsons, fine rosy children, who were
taking their supper, as their mother distributed it. On the edge of the little

green, that spread before the cottage, were cattle and a few sheep reposing
under the trees. The landscape was touched with the mellow light of the
evening sun, whose long slanting beams played through a vista of the
woods, and lighted up the distant turrets of the château. She paused a
moment, before she emerged from the shade, to gaze upon the happy group
before her—on the complacency and ease of healthy age, depictured on the
countenance of La Voisin; the maternal tenderness of Agnes, as she looked
upon her children, and the innocency of infantine pleasures, reflected in
their smiles. Emily looked again at the venerable old man, and at the
cottage; the memory of her father rose with full force upon her mind, and
she hastily stepped forward, afraid to trust herself with a longer pause. She
took an affectionate and affecting leave of La Voisin and his family; he
seemed to love her as his daughter, and shed tears; Emily shed many. She
avoided going into the cottage, since she knew it would revive emotions,
such as she could not now endure.
One painful scene yet awaited her, for she determined to visit again her
father’s grave; and that she might not be interrupted, or observed in the
indulgence of her melancholy tenderness, she deferred her visit, till every
inhabitant of the convent, except the nun who promised to bring her the key
of the church, should be retired to rest. Emily remained in her chamber, till
she heard the convent bell strike twelve, when the nun came, as she had
appointed, with the key of a private door, that opened into the church, and
they descended together the narrow winding staircase, that led thither. The
nun offered to accompany Emily to the grave, adding, “It is melancholy to
go alone at this hour;” but the former, thanking her for the consideration,
could not consent to have any witness of her sorrow; and the sister, having
unlocked the door, gave her the lamp. “You will remember, sister,” said she,
“that in the east aisle, which you must pass, is a newly opened grave; hold
the light to the ground, that you may not stumble over the loose earth.”
Emily, thanking her again, took the lamp, and, stepping into the church,
sister Mariette departed. But Emily paused a moment at the door; a sudden
fear came over her, and she returned to the foot of the staircase, where, as
she heard the steps of the nun ascending, and, while she held up the lamp,
saw her black veil waving over the spiral balusters, she was tempted to call
her back. While she hesitated, the veil disappeared, and, in the next
moment, ashamed of her fears, she returned to the church. The cold air of
the aisles chilled her, and their deep silence and extent, feebly shone upon

by the moonlight, that streamed through a distant gothic window, would at
any other time have awed her into superstition; now, grief occupied all her
attention. She scarcely heard the whispering echoes of her own steps, or
thought of the open grave, till she found herself almost on its brink. A friar
of the convent had been buried there on the preceding evening, and, as she
had sat alone in her chamber at twilight, she heard, at distance, the monks
chanting the requiem for his soul. This brought freshly to her memory the
circumstances of her father’s death; and, as the voices, mingling with a low
querulous peal of the organ, swelled faintly, gloomy and affecting visions
had arisen upon her mind. Now she remembered them, and, turning aside to
avoid the broken ground, these recollections made her pass on with quicker
steps to the grave of St. Aubert, when in the moonlight, that fell athwart a
remote part of the aisle, she thought she saw a shadow gliding between the
pillars. She stopped to listen, and, not hearing any footstep, believed that
her fancy had deceived her, and, no longer apprehensive of being observed,
proceeded. St. Aubert was buried beneath a plain marble, bearing little more
than his name and the date of his birth and death, near the foot of the stately
monument of the Villerois. Emily remained at his grave, till a chime, that
called the monks to early prayers, warned her to retire; then, she wept over
it a last farewell, and forced herself from the spot. After this hour of
melancholy indulgence, she was refreshed by a deeper sleep, than she had
experienced for a long time, and, on awakening, her mind was more
tranquil and resigned, than it had been since St. Aubert’s death.
But, when the moment of her departure from the convent arrived, all her
grief returned; the memory of the dead, and the kindness of the living
attached her to the place; and for the sacred spot, where her father’s remains
were interred, she seemed to feel all those tender affections which we
conceive for home. The abbess repeated many kind assurances of regard at
their parting, and pressed her to return, if ever she should find her condition
elsewhere unpleasant; many of the nuns also expressed unaffected regret at
her departure, and Emily left the convent with many tears, and followed by
sincere wishes for her happiness.
She had travelled several leagues, before the scenes of the country,
through which she passed, had power to rouse her for a moment from the
deep melancholy, into which she was sunk, and, when they did, it was only
to remind her, that, on her last view of them, St. Aubert was at her side, and
to call up to her remembrance the remarks he had delivered on similar

scenery. Thus, without any particular occurrence, passed the day in languor
and dejection. She slept that night in a town on the skirts of Languedoc,
and, on the following morning, entered Gascony.
Towards the close of this day, Emily came within view of the plains in
the neighbourhood of La Vallée, and the well-known objects of former
times began to press upon her notice, and with them recollections, that
awakened all her tenderness and grief. Often, while she looked through her
tears upon the wild grandeur of the Pyrenees, now varied with the rich
lights and shadows of evening, she remembered, that, when last she saw
them, her father partook with her of the pleasure they inspired. Suddenly
some scene, which he had particularly pointed out to her, would present
itself, and the sick languor of despair would steal upon her heart. “There!”
she would exclaim, “there are the very cliffs, there the wood of pines, which
he looked at with such delight, as we passed this road together for the last
time. There, too, under the crag of that mountain, is the cottage, peeping
from among the cedars, which he bade me remember, and copy with my
pencil. O my father, shall I never see you more!”
As she drew near the château, these melancholy memorials of past times
multiplied. At length, the château itself appeared, amid the glowing beauty
of St. Aubert’s favourite landscape. This was an object, which called for
fortitude, not for tears; Emily dried hers, and prepared to meet with
calmness the trying moment of her return to that home, where there was no
longer a parent to welcome her. “Yes,” said she, “let me not forget the
lessons he has taught me! How often he has pointed out the necessity of
resisting even virtuous sorrow; how often we have admired together the
greatness of a mind, that can at once suffer and reason! O my father! if you
are permitted to look down upon your child, it will please you to see, that
she remembers, and endeavours to practise, the precepts you have given
her.”
A turn on the road now allowed a nearer view of the château, the
chimneys, tipped with light, rising from behind St. Aubert’s favourite oaks,
whose foliage partly concealed the lower part of the building. Emily could
not suppress a heavy sigh. “This, too, was his favourite hour,” said she, as
she gazed upon the long evening shadows, stretched athwart the landscape.
“How deep the repose, how lovely the scene! lovely and tranquil as in
former days!”

Again she resisted the pressure of sorrow, till her ear caught the gay
melody of the dance, which she had so often listened to, as she walked with
St. Aubert, on the margin of the Garonne, when all her fortitude forsook her,
and she continued to weep, till the carriage stopped at the little gate, that
opened upon what was now her own territory. She raised her eyes on the
sudden stopping of the carriage, and saw her father’s old housekeeper
coming to open the gate. Manchon also came running, and barking before
her; and when his young mistress alighted, fawned, and played round her,
gasping with joy.
“Dear ma’amselle!” said Theresa, and paused, and looked as if she would
have offered something of condolement to Emily, whose tears now
prevented reply. The dog still fawned and ran round her, and then flew
towards the carriage, with a short quick bark. “Ah, ma’amselle!—my poor
master!” said Theresa, whose feelings were more awakened than her
delicacy, “Manchon’s gone to look for him.” Emily sobbed aloud; and, on
looking towards the carriage, which still stood with the door open, saw the
animal spring into it, and instantly leap out, and then with his nose on the
ground run round the horses.
“Don’t cry so, ma’amselle,” said Theresa, “it breaks my heart to see
you.” The dog now came running to Emily, then returned to the carriage,
and then back again to her, whining and discontented. “Poor rogue!” said
Theresa, “thou hast lost thy master, thou mayst well cry! But come, my dear
young lady, be comforted. What shall I get to refresh you?” Emily gave her
hand to the old servant, and tried to restrain her grief, while she made some
kind enquiries concerning her health. But she still lingered in the walk
which led to the château, for within was no person to meet her with the kiss
of affection; her own heart no longer palpitated with impatient joy to meet
again the well-known smile, and she dreaded to see objects, which would
recall the full remembrance of her former happiness. She moved slowly
towards the door, paused, went on, and paused again. How silent, how
forsaken, how forlorn did the château appear! Trembling to enter it, yet
blaming herself for delaying what she could not avoid, she, at length,
passed into the hall; crossed it with a hurried step, as if afraid to look round,
and opened the door of that room, which she was wont to call her own. The
gloom of evening gave solemnity to its silent and deserted air. The chairs,
the tables, every article of furniture, so familiar to her in happier times,
spoke eloquently to her heart. She seated herself, without immediately

observing it, in a window, which opened upon the garden, and where St.
Aubert had often sat with her, watching the sun retire from the rich and
extensive prospect, that appeared beyond the groves.
Having indulged her tears for some time, she became more composed;
and, when Theresa, after seeing the baggage deposited in her lady’s room,
again appeared, she had so far recovered her spirits, as to be able to
converse with her.
“I have made up the green bed for you, ma’amselle,” said Theresa, as she
set the coffee upon the table. “I thought you would like it better than your
own now; but I little thought this day month, that you would come back
alone. A-well-a-day! the news almost broke my heart, when it did come.
Who would have believed, that my poor master, when he went from home,
would never return again!” Emily hid her face with her handkerchief, and
waved her hand.
“Do taste the coffee,” said Theresa. “My dear young lady, be comforted
—we must all die. My dear master is a saint above.” Emily took the
handkerchief from her face, and raised her eyes full of tears towards
heaven; soon after she dried them, and, in a calm, but tremulous voice,
began to enquire concerning some of her late father’s pensioners.
“Alas-a-day!” said Theresa, as she poured out the coffee, and handed it to
her mistress, “all that could come, have been here every day to enquire after
you and my master.” She then proceeded to tell, that some were dead whom
they had left well; and others, who were ill, had recovered. “And see,
ma’amselle,” added Theresa, “there is old Mary coming up the garden now;
she has looked every day these three years as if she would die, yet she is
alive still. She has seen the chaise at the door, and knows you are come
home.”
The sight of this poor old woman would have been too much for Emily,
and she begged Theresa would go and tell her, that she was too ill to see any
person that night. “Tomorrow I shall be better, perhaps; but give her this
token of my remembrance.”
Emily sat for some time, given up to sorrow. Not an object, on which her
eye glanced, but awakened some remembrance, that led immediately to the
subject of her grief. Her favourite plants, which St. Aubert had taught her to
nurse; the little drawings, that adorned the room, which his taste had
instructed her to execute; the books, that he had selected for her use, and

which they had read together; her musical instruments, whose sounds he
loved so well, and which he sometimes awakened himself—every object
gave new force to sorrow. At length, she roused herself from this
melancholy indulgence, and, summoning all her resolution, stepped forward
to go into those forlorn rooms, which, though she dreaded to enter, she
knew would yet more powerfully affect her, if she delayed to visit them.
Having passed through the green-house, her courage for a moment
forsook her, when she opened the door of the library; and, perhaps, the
shade, which evening and the foliage of the trees near the windows threw
across the room, heightened the solemnity of her feelings on entering that
apartment, where everything spoke of her father. There was an arm chair, in
which he used to sit; she shrunk when she observed it, for she had so often
seen him seated there, and the idea of him rose so distinctly to her mind,
that she almost fancied she saw him before her. But she checked the
illusions of a distempered imagination, though she could not subdue a
certain degree of awe, which now mingled with her emotions. She walked
slowly to the chair, and seated herself in it; there was a reading-desk before
it, on which lay a book open, as it had been left by her father. It was some
moments before she recovered courage enough to examine it; and, when
she looked at the open page, she immediately recollected, that St. Aubert,
on the evening before his departure from the château, had read to her some
passages from this his favourite author. The circumstance now affected her
extremely; she looked at the page, wept, and looked again. To her the book
appeared sacred and invaluable, and she would not have moved it, or closed
the page, which he had left open, for the treasures of the Indies. Still she sat
before the desk, and could not resolve to quit it, though the increasing
gloom, and the profound silence of the apartment, revived a degree of
painful awe. Her thoughts dwelt on the probable state of departed spirits,
and she remembered the affecting conversation, which had passed between
St. Aubert and La Voisin, on the night preceding his death.
As she mused she saw the door slowly open, and a rustling sound in a
remote part of the room startled her. Through the dusk she thought she
perceived something move. The subject she had been considering, and the
present tone of her spirits, which made her imagination respond to every
impression of her senses, gave her a sudden terror of something
supernatural. She sat for a moment motionless, and then, her dissipated

reason returning, “What should I fear?” said she. “If the spirits of those we
love ever return to us, it is in kindness.”
The silence, which again reigned, made her ashamed of her late fears,
and she believed, that her imagination had deluded her, or that she had
heard one of those unaccountable noises, which sometimes occur in old
houses. The same sound, however, returned; and, distinguishing something
moving towards her, and in the next instant press beside her into the chair,
she shrieked; but her fleeting senses were instantly recalled, on perceiving
that it was Manchon who sat by her, and who now licked her hands
affectionately.
Perceiving her spirits unequal to the task she had assigned herself of
visiting the deserted rooms of the château this night, when she left the
library, she walked into the garden, and down to the terrace, that overhung
the river. The sun was now set; but, under the dark branches of the almond
trees, was seen the saffron glow of the west, spreading beyond the twilight
of middle air. The bat flitted silently by; and, now and then, the mourning
note of the nightingale was heard. The circumstances of the hour brought to
her recollection some lines, which she had once heard St. Aubert recite on
this very spot, and she had now a melancholy pleasure in repeating them.
SONNET

Now the bat circles on the breeze of eve,
That creeps, in shudd’ring fits, along the wave,
And trembles ’mid the woods, and through the cave
Whose lonely sighs the wanderer deceive;

For oft, when melancholy charms his mind,
He thinks the Spirit of the rock he hears,
Nor listens, but with sweetly-thrilling fears,
To the low, mystic murmurs of the wind!

Now the bat circles, and the twilight-dew
Falls silent round, and, o’er the mountain-cliff,
The gleaming wave, and far-discover’d skiff,
Spreads the grey veil of soft, harmonious hue.

So falls o’er Grief the dew of pity’s tear
Dimming her lonely visions of despair.

Emily, wandering on, came to St. Aubert’s favourite plane-tree, where so
often, at this hour, they had sat beneath the shade together, and with her

dear mother so often had conversed on the subject of a future state. How
often, too, had her father expressed the comfort he derived from believing,
that they should meet in another world! Emily, overcome by these
recollections, left the plane-tree, and, as she leaned pensively on the wall of
the terrace, she observed a group of peasants dancing gaily on the banks of
the Garonne, which spread in broad expanse below, and reflected the
evening light. What a contrast they formed to the desolate, unhappy Emily!
They were gay and debonnaire, as they were wont to be when she, too, was
gay—when St. Aubert used to listen to their merry music, with a
countenance beaming pleasure and benevolence. Emily, having looked for a
moment on this sprightly band, turned away, unable to bear the
remembrances it excited; but where, alas! could she turn, and not meet new
objects to give acuteness to grief?
As she walked slowly towards the house, she was met by Theresa. “Dear
ma’amselle,” said she, “I have been seeking you up and down this half
hour, and was afraid some accident had happened to you. How can you like
to wander about so in this night air! Do come into the house. Think what
my poor master would have said, if he could see you. I am sure, when my
dear lady died, no gentleman could take it more to heart than he did, yet you
know he seldom shed a tear.”
“Pray, Theresa, cease,” said Emily, wishing to interrupt this ill-judged,
but well-meaning harangue; Theresa’s loquacity, however, was not to be
silenced so easily. “And when you used to grieve so,” she added, “he often
told you how wrong it was—for that my mistress was happy. And, if she
was happy, I am sure he is so too; for the prayers of the poor, they say,
reach heaven.” During this speech, Emily had walked silently into the
château, and Theresa lighted her across the hall into the common sitting
parlour, where she had laid the cloth, with one solitary knife and fork, for
supper. Emily was in the room before she perceived that it was not her own
apartment, but she checked the emotion which inclined her to leave it, and
seated herself quietly by the little supper table. Her father’s hat hung upon
the opposite wall; while she gazed at it, a faintness came over her. Theresa
looked at her, and then at the object, on which her eyes were settled, and
went to remove it; but Emily waved her hand—“No,” said she, “let it
remain. I am going to my chamber.” “Nay, ma’amselle, supper is ready.” “I
cannot take it,” replied Emily, “I will go to my room, and try to sleep.
Tomorrow I shall be better.”

“This is poor doings!” said Theresa. “Dear lady! do take some food! I
have dressed a pheasant, and a fine one it is. Old Monsieur Barreaux sent it
this morning, for I saw him yesterday, and told him you were coming. And I
know nobody that seemed more concerned, when he heard the sad news,
then he.”
“Did he?” said Emily, in a tender voice, while she felt her poor heart
warmed for a moment by a ray of sympathy.
At length, her spirits were entirely overcome, and she retired to her room.

CHAPTER IX
Can Music’s voice, can Beauty’s eye,
Can Painting’s glowing hand supply
A charm so suited to my mind,
As blows this hollow gust of wind?
As drops this little weeping rill,
Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill;
While, through the west, where sinks the crimson day,
Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners grey?
MASON

Emily, some time after her return to La Vallée, received letters from her
aunt, Madame Cheron, in which, after some common-place condolement
and advice, she invited her to Thoulouse, and added, that, as her late brother
had entrusted Emily’s education to her, she should consider herself bound
to overlook her conduct. Emily, at this time, wished only to remain at La
Vallée, in the scenes of her early happiness, now rendered infinitely dear to
her, as the late residence of those, whom she had lost for ever, where she
could weep unobserved, retrace their steps, and remember each minute
particular of their manners. But she was equally anxious to avoid the
displeasure of Madame Cheron.
Though her affection would not suffer her to question, even a moment,
the propriety of St. Aubert’s conduct in appointing Madame Cheron for her
guardian, she was sensible, that this step had made her happiness depend, in
a great degree, on the humour of her aunt. In her reply, she begged
permission to remain, at present, at La Vallée, mentioning the extreme
dejection of her spirits, and the necessity she felt for quiet and retirement to
restore them. These she knew were not to be found at Madame Cheron’s,
whose inclinations led her into a life of dissipation, which her ample fortune
encouraged; and, having given her answer, she felt somewhat more at ease.
In the first days of her affliction, she was visited by Monsieur Barreaux, a
sincere mourner for St. Aubert. “I may well lament my friend,” said he, “for

I shall never meet with his resemblance. If I could have found such a man
in what is called society, I should not have left it.”
M. Barreaux’s admiration of her father endeared him extremely to Emily,
whose heart found almost its first relief in conversing of her parents, with a
man, whom she so much revered, and who, though with such an ungracious
appearance, possessed to much goodness of heart and delicacy of mind.
Several weeks passed away in quiet retirement, and Emily’s affliction
began to soften into melancholy. She could bear to read the books she had
before read with her father; to sit in his chair in the library—to watch the
flowers his hand had planted—to awaken the tones of that instrument his
fingers had pressed, and sometimes even to play his favourite air.
When her mind had recovered from the first shock of affliction,
perceiving the danger of yielding to indolence, and that activity alone could
restore its tone, she scrupulously endeavoured to pass all her hours in
employment. And it was now that she understood the full value of the
education she had received from St. Aubert, for in cultivating her
understanding he had secured her an asylum from indolence, without
recourse to dissipation, and rich and varied amusement and information,
independent of the society, from which her situation secluded her. Nor were
the good effects of this education confined to selfish advantages, since, St.
Aubert having nourished every amiable quality of her heart, it now
expanded in benevolence to all around her, and taught her, when she could
not remove the misfortunes of others, at least to soften them by sympathy
and tenderness;—a benevolence that taught her to feel for all, that could
suffer.
Madame Cheron returned no answer to Emily’s letter, who began to
hope, that she should be permitted to remain some time longer in her
retirement, and her mind had now so far recovered its strength, that she
ventured to view the scenes, which most powerfully recalled the images of
past times. Among these was the fishing-house; and, to indulge still more
the affectionate melancholy of the visit, she took thither her lute, that she
might again hear there the tones, to which St. Aubert and her mother had so
often delighted to listen. She went alone, and at that still hour of the
evening which is so soothing to fancy and to grief. The last time she had
been here she was in company with Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, a
few days preceding that, on which the latter was seized with a fatal illness.

Now, when Emily again entered the woods, that surrounded the building,
they awakened so forcibly the memory of former times, that her resolution
yielded for a moment to excess of grief. She stopped, leaned for support
against a tree, and wept for some minutes, before she had recovered herself
sufficiently to proceed. The little path, that led to the building, was
overgrown with grass and the flowers which St. Aubert had scattered
carelessly along the border were almost choked with weeds—the tall thistle
—the fox-glove, and the nettle. She often paused to look on the desolate
spot, now so silent and forsaken, and when, with a trembling hand, she
opened the door of the fishing-house, “Ah!” said she, “everything—
everything remains as when I left it last—left it with those who never must
return!” She went to a window, that overhung the rivulet, and, leaning over
it, with her eyes fixed on the current, was soon lost in melancholy reverie.
The lute she had brought lay forgotten beside her; the mournful sighing of
the breeze, as it waved the high pines above, and its softer whispers among
the osiers, that bowed upon the banks below, was a kind of music more in
unison with her feelings. It did not vibrate on the chords of unhappy
memory, but was soothing to the heart as the voice of Pity. She continued to
muse, unconscious of the gloom of evening, and that the sun’s last light
trembled on the heights above, and would probably have remained so much
longer, if a sudden footstep, without the building, had not alarmed her
attention, and first made her recollect that she was unprotected. In the next
moment, a door opened, and a stranger appeared, who stopped on
perceiving Emily, and then began to apologise for his intrusion. But Emily,
at the sound of his voice, lost her fear in a stronger emotion: its tones were
familiar to her ear, and, though she could not readily distinguish through the
dusk the features of the person who spoke, she felt a remembrance too
strong to be distrusted.
He repeated his apology, and Emily then said something in reply, when
the stranger eagerly advancing, exclaimed, “Good God! can it be—surely I
am not mistaken—ma’amselle St. Aubert?—is it not?”
“It is indeed,” said Emily, who was confirmed in her first conjecture, for
she now distinguished the countenance of Valancourt, lighted up with still
more than its usual animation. A thousand painful recollections crowded to
her mind, and the effort, which she made to support herself, only served to
increase her agitation. Valancourt, meanwhile, having enquired anxiously
after her health, and expressed his hopes, that M. St. Aubert had found

benefit from travelling, learned from the flood of tears, which she could no
longer repress, the fatal truth. He led her to a seat, and sat down by her,
while Emily continued to weep, and Valancourt to hold the hand, which she
was unconscious he had taken, till it was wet with the tears, which grief for
St. Aubert and sympathy for herself had called forth.
“I feel,” said he at length, “I feel how insufficient all attempt at
consolation must be on this subject. I can only mourn with you, for I cannot
doubt the source of your tears. Would to God I were mistaken!”
Emily could still answer only by tears, till she rose, and begged they
might leave the melancholy spot, when Valancourt, though he saw her
feebleness, could not offer to detain her, but took her arm within his, and
led her from the fishing-house. They walked silently through the woods,
Valancourt anxious to know, yet fearing to ask any particulars concerning
St. Aubert; and Emily too much distressed to converse. After some time,
however, she acquired fortitude enough to speak of her father, and to give a
brief account of the manner of his death; during which recital Valancourt’s
countenance betrayed strong emotion, and, when he heard that St. Aubert
had died on the road, and that Emily had been left among strangers, he
pressed her hand between his, and involuntarily exclaimed, “Why was I not
there!” but in the next moment recollected himself, for he immediately
returned to the mention of her father; till, perceiving that her spirits were
exhausted, he gradually changed the subject, and spoke of himself. Emily
thus learned that, after they had parted, he had wandered, for some time,
along the shores of the Mediterranean, and had then returned through
Languedoc into Gascony, which was his native province, and where he
usually resided.
When he had concluded his little narrative, he sunk into a silence, which
Emily was not disposed to interrupt, and it continued, till they reached the
gate of the château, when he stopped, as if he had known this to be the limit
of his walk. Here, saying, that it was his intention to return to Estuvière on
the following day, he asked her if she would permit him to take leave of her
in the morning; and Emily, perceiving that she could not reject an ordinary
civility, without expressing by her refusal an expectation of something
more, was compelled to answer, that she should be at home.
She passed a melancholy evening, during which the retrospect of all that
had happened, since she had seen Valancourt, would rise to her imagination;

and the scene of her father’s death appeared in tints as fresh, as if it had
passed on the preceding day. She remembered particularly the earnest and
solemn manner, in which he had required her to destroy the manuscript
papers, and, awakening from the lethargy, in which sorrow had held her, she
was shocked to think she had not yet obeyed him, and determined, that
another day should not reproach her with the neglect.

CHAPTER X
Can such things be,
And overcome us like a summer’s cloud,
Without our special wonder?
MACBETH

On the next morning, Emily ordered a fire to be lighted in the stove of
the chamber, where St. Aubert used to sleep; and, as soon as she had
breakfasted, went thither to burn the papers. Having fastened the door to
prevent interruption, she opened the closet where they were concealed, as
she entered which, she felt an emotion of unusual awe, and stood for some
moments surveying it, trembling, and almost afraid to remove the board.
There was a great chair in one corner of the closet, and, opposite to it, stood
the table, at which she had seen her father sit, on the evening that preceded
his departure, looking over, with so much emotion, what she believed to be
these very papers.
The solitary life, which Emily had led of late, and the melancholy
subjects, on which she had suffered her thoughts to dwell, had rendered her
at times sensible to the ‘thick-coming fancies’ of a mind greatly enervated.
It was lamentable, that her excellent understanding should have yielded,
even for a moment, to the reveries of superstition, or rather to those starts of
imagination, which deceive the senses into what can be called nothing less
than momentary madness. Instances of this temporary failure of mind had
more than once occurred since her return home; particularly when,
wandering through this lonely mansion in the evening twilight, she had
been alarmed by appearances, which would have been unseen in her more
cheerful days. To this infirm state of her nerves may be attributed what she
imagined, when, her eyes glancing a second time on the arm-chair, which
stood in an obscure part of the closet, the countenance of her dead father
appeared there. Emily stood fixed for a moment to the floor, after which she
left the closet. Her spirits, however, soon returned; she reproached herself

with the weakness of thus suffering interruption in an act of serious
importance, and again opened the door. By the directions which St. Aubert
had given her, she readily found the board he had described in an opposite
corner of the closet, near the window; she distinguished also the line he had
mentioned, and, pressing it as he had bade her, it slid down, and disclosed
the bundle of papers, together with some scattered ones, and the purse of
louis. With a trembling hand she removed them, replaced the board, paused
a moment, and was rising from the floor, when, on looking up, there
appeared to her alarmed fancy the same countenance in the chair. The
illusion, another instance of the unhappy effect which solitude and grief had
gradually produced upon her mind, subdued her spirits; she rushed forward
into the chamber, and sunk almost senseless into a chair. Returning reason
soon overcame the dreadful, but pitiable attack of imagination, and she
turned to the papers, though still with so little recollection, that her eyes
involuntarily settled on the writing of some loose sheets, which lay open;
and she was unconscious, that she was transgressing her father’s strict
injunction, till a sentence of dreadful import awakened her attention and her
memory together. She hastily put the papers from her; but the words, which
had roused equally her curiosity and terror, she could not dismiss from her
thoughts. So powerfully had they affected her, that she even could not
resolve to destroy the papers immediately; and the more she dwelt on the
circumstance, the more it inflamed her imagination. Urged by the most
forcible, and apparently the most necessary, curiosity to enquire farther,
concerning the terrible and mysterious subject, to which she had seen an
allusion, she began to lament her promise to destroy the papers. For a
moment, she even doubted, whether it could justly be obeyed, in
contradiction to such reasons as there appeared to be for further
information. But the delusion was momentary.
“I have given a solemn promise,” said she, “to observe a solemn
injunction, and it is not my business to argue, but to obey. Let me hasten to
remove the temptation, that would destroy my innocence, and embitter my
life with the consciousness of irremediable guilt, while I have strength to
reject it.”
Thus reanimated with a sense of her duty, she completed the triumph of
her integrity over temptation, more forcible than any she had ever known,
and consigned the papers to the flames. Her eyes watched them as they
slowly consumed, she shuddered at the recollection of the sentence she had

just seen, and at the certainty, that the only opportunity of explaining it was
then passing away for ever.
It was long after this, that she recollected the purse; and as she was
depositing it, unopened, in a cabinet, perceiving that it contained something
of a size larger than coin, she examined it. “His hand deposited them here,”
said she, as she kissed some pieces of the coin, and wetted them with her
tears, “his hand—which is now dust!” At the bottom of the purse was a
small packet, having taken out which, and unfolded paper after paper, she
found to be an ivory case, containing the miniature of a—lady! She started
—“The same,” said she, “my father wept over!” On examining the
countenance she could recollect no person that it resembled. It was of
uncommon beauty, and was characterised by an expression of sweetness,
shaded with sorrow, and tempered by resignation.
St. Aubert had given no directions concerning this picture, nor had even
named it; she, therefore, thought herself justified in preserving it. More than
once remembering his manner, when he had spoken of the Marchioness of
Villeroi, she felt inclined to believe that this was her resemblance; yet there
appeared no reason why he should have preserved a picture of that lady, or,
having preserved it, why he should lament over it in a manner so striking
and affecting as she had witnessed on the night preceding his departure.
Emily still gazed on the countenance, examining its features, but she
knew not where to detect the charm that captivated her attention, and
inspired sentiments of such love and pity. Dark brown hair played
carelessly along the open forehead; the nose was rather inclined to aquiline;
the lips spoke in a smile, but it was a melancholy one; the eyes were blue,
and were directed upwards with an expression of peculiar meekness, while
the soft cloud of the brow spoke of the fine sensibility of the temper.
Emily was roused from the musing mood into which the picture had
thrown her, by the closing of the garden gate; and, on turning her eyes to the
window, she saw Valancourt coming towards the château. Her spirits
agitated by the subjects that had lately occupied her mind, she felt
unprepared to see him, and remained a few moments in the chamber to
recover herself.
When she met him in the parlour, she was struck with the change that
appeared in his air and countenance since they had parted in Rousillon,
which twilight and the distress she suffered on the preceding evening had

prevented her from observing. But dejection and languor disappeared, for a
moment, in the smile that now enlightened his countenance, on perceiving
her. “You see,” said he, “I have availed myself of the permission with which
you honoured me—of bidding you farewell, whom I had the happiness of
meeting only yesterday.”
Emily smiled faintly, and, anxious to say something, asked if he had been
long in Gascony. “A few days only,” replied Valancourt, while a blush
passed over his cheek. “I engaged in a long ramble after I had the
misfortune of parting with the friends who had made my wanderings among
the Pyrenees so delightful.”
A tear came to Emily’s eye, as Valancourt said this, which he observed;
and, anxious to draw off her attention from the remembrance that had
occasioned it, as well as shocked at his own thoughtlessness, he began to
speak on other subjects, expressing his admiration of the château, and its
prospects. Emily, who felt somewhat embarrassed how to support a
conversation, was glad of such an opportunity to continue it on indifferent
topics. They walked down to the terrace, where Valancourt was charmed
with the river scenery, and the views over the opposite shores of Guienne.
As he leaned on the wall of the terrace, watching the rapid current of the
Garonne, “I was a few weeks ago,” said he, “at the source of this noble
river; I had not then the happiness of knowing you, or I should have
regretted your absence—it was a scene so exactly suited to your taste. It
rises in a part of the Pyrenees, still wilder and more sublime, I think, than
any we passed in the way to Rousillon.” He then described its fall among
the precipices of the mountains, where its waters, augmented by the streams
that descend from the snowy summits around, rush into the Vallée d’Aran,
between whose romantic heights it foams along, pursuing its way to the
north west till it emerges upon the plains of Languedoc. Then, washing the
walls of Thoulouse, and turning again to the north west, it assumes a milder
character, as it fertilizes the pastures of Gascony and Guienne, in its
progress to the Bay of Biscay.
Emily and Valancourt talked of the scenes they had passed among the
Pyrenean Alps; as he spoke of which there was often a tremulous tenderness
in his voice, and sometimes he expatiated on them with all the fire of
genius, sometimes would appear scarcely conscious of the topic, though he
continued to speak. This subject recalled forcibly to Emily the idea of her

father, whose image appeared in every landscape, which Valancourt
particularized, whose remarks dwelt upon her memory, and whose
enthusiasm still glowed in her heart. Her silence, at length, reminded
Valancourt how nearly his conversation approached to the occasion of her
grief, and he changed the subject, though for one scarcely less affecting to
Emily. When he admired the grandeur of the plane-tree, that spread its wide
branches over the terrace, and under whose shade they now sat, she
remembered how often she had sat thus with St. Aubert, and heard him
express the same admiration.
“This was a favourite tree with my dear father,” said she; “he used to love
to sit under its foliage with his family about him, in the fine evenings of
summer.”
Valancourt understood her feelings, and was silent; had she raised her
eyes from the ground she would have seen tears in his. He rose, and leaned
on the wall of the terrace, from which, in a few moments, he returned to his
seat, then rose again, and appeared to be greatly agitated; while Emily
found her spirits so much depressed, that several of her attempts to renew
the conversation were ineffectual. Valancourt again sat down, but was still
silent, and trembled. At length he said, with a hesitating voice, “This lovely
scene!—I am going to leave—to leave you—perhaps for ever! These
moments may never return; I cannot resolve to neglect, though I scarcely
dare to avail myself of them. Let me, however, without offending the
delicacy of your sorrow, venture to declare the admiration I must always
feel of your goodness—O! that at some future period I might be permitted
to call it love!”
Emily’s emotion would not suffer her to reply; and Valancourt, who now
ventured to look up, observing her countenance change, expected to see her
faint, and made an involuntary effort to support her, which recalled Emily
to a sense of her situation, and to an exertion of her spirits. Valancourt did
not appear to notice her indisposition, but, when he spoke again, his voice
told the tenderest love. “I will not presume,” he added, “to intrude this
subject longer upon your attention at this time, but I may, perhaps, be
permitted to mention, that these parting moments would lose much of their
bitterness if I might be allowed to hope the declaration I have made would
not exclude me from your presence in future.”

Emily made another effort to overcome the confusion of her thoughts,
and to speak. She feared to trust the preference her heart acknowledged
towards Valancourt, and to give him any encouragement for hope, on so
short an acquaintance. For though in this narrow period she had observed
much that was admirable in his taste and disposition, and though these
observations had been sanctioned by the opinion of her father, they were not
sufficient testimonies of his general worth to determine her upon a subject
so infinitely important to her future happiness as that, which now solicited
her attention. Yet, though the thought of dismissing Valancourt was so very
painful to her, that she could scarcely endure to pause upon it, the
consciousness of this made her fear the partiality of her judgment, and
hesitate still more to encourage that suit, for which her own heart too
tenderly pleaded. The family of Valancourt, if not his circumstances, had
been known to her father, and known to be unexceptionable. Of his
circumstances, Valancourt himself hinted as far as delicacy would permit,
when he said he had at present little else to offer but a heart, that adored her.
He had solicited only for a distant hope, and she could not resolve to forbid,
though she scarcely dared to permit it; at length, she acquired courage to
say, that she must think herself honoured by the good opinion of any
person, whom her father had esteemed.
“And was I, then, thought worthy of his esteem?” said Valancourt, in a
voice trembling with anxiety; then checking himself, he added, “But pardon
the question; I scarcely know what I say. If I might dare to hope, that you
think me not unworthy such honour, and might be permitted sometimes to
enquire after your health, I should now leave you with comparative
tranquillity.”
Emily, after a moment’s silence, said, “I will be ingenuous with you, for I
know you will understand, and allow for my situation; you will consider it
as a proof of my—my esteem that I am so. Though I live here in what was
my father’s house, I live here alone. I have, alas! no longer a parent—a
parent, whose presence might sanction your visits. It is unnecessary for me
to point out the impropriety of my receiving them.”
“Nor will I affect to be insensible of this,” replied Valancourt, adding
mournfully—“but what is to console me for my candour? I distress you, and
would now leave the subject, if I might carry with me a hope of being some

time permitted to renew it, of being allowed to make myself known to your
family.”
Emily was again confused, and again hesitated what to reply; she felt
most acutely the difficulty—the forlornness of her situation, which did not
allow her a single relative, or friend, to whom she could turn for even a
look, that might support and guide her in the present embarrassing
circumstances. Madame Cheron, who was her only relative, and ought to
have been this friend, was either occupied by her own amusements, or so
resentful of the reluctance her niece had shown to quit La Vallée, that she
seemed totally to have abandoned her.
“Ah! I see,” said Valancourt, after a long pause, during which Emily had
begun, and left unfinished two or three sentences, “I see that I have nothing
to hope; my fears were too just, you think me unworthy of your esteem.
That fatal journey! which I considered as the happiest period of my life—
those delightful days were to embitter all my future ones. How often I have
looked back to them with hope and fear—yet never till this moment could I
prevail with myself to regret their enchanting influence.”
His voice faltered, and he abruptly quitted his seat and walked on the
terrace. There was an expression of despair on his countenance, that
affected Emily. The pleadings of her heart overcame, in some degree, her
extreme timidity, and, when he resumed his seat, she said, in an accent that
betrayed her tenderness, “You do both yourself and me injustice when you
say I think you unworthy of my esteem; I will acknowledge that you have
long possessed it, and—and—”
Valancourt waited impatiently for the conclusion of the sentence, but the
words died on her lips. Her eyes, however, reflected all the emotions of her
heart. Valancourt passed, in an instant, from the impatience of despair, to
that of joy and tenderness. “O Emily!” he exclaimed, “my own Emily—
teach me to sustain this moment! Let me seal it as the most sacred of my
life!”
He pressed her hand to his lips, it was cold and trembling; and, raising
her eyes, he saw the paleness of her countenance. Tears came to her relief,
and Valancourt watched in anxious silence over her. In a few moments, she
recovered herself, and smiling faintly through her tears, said, “Can you
excuse this weakness? My spirits have not yet, I believe, recovered from the
shock they lately received.”

“I cannot excuse myself,” said Valancourt, “but I will forbear to renew
the subject, which may have contributed to agitate them, now that I can
leave you with the sweet certainty of possessing your esteem.”
Then, forgetting his resolution, he again spoke of himself. “You know
not,” said he, “the many anxious hours I have passed near you lately, when
you believed me, if indeed you honoured me with a thought, far away. I
have wandered, near the château, in the still hours of the night, when no eye
could observe me. It was delightful to know I was so near you, and there
was something particularly soothing in the thought, that I watched round
your habitation, while you slept. These grounds are not entirely new to me.
Once I ventured within the fence, and spent one of the happiest, and yet
most melancholy hours of my life in walking under what I believed to be
your window.”
Emily enquired how long Valancourt had been in the neighbourhood.
“Several days,” he replied. “It was my design to avail myself of the
permission M. St. Aubert had given me. I scarcely know how to account for
it; but, though I anxiously wished to do this, my resolution always failed,
when the moment approached, and I constantly deferred my visit. I lodged
in a village at some distance, and wandered with my dogs, among the
scenes of this charming country, wishing continually to meet you, yet not
daring to visit you.”
Having thus continued to converse, without perceiving the flight of time,
Valancourt, at length, seemed to recollect himself. “I must go,” said he
mournfully, “but it is with the hope of seeing you again, of being permitted
to pay my respects to your family; let me hear this hope confirmed by your
voice.” “My family will be happy to see any friend of my dear father,” said
Emily. Valancourt kissed her hand, and still lingered, unable to depart,
while Emily sat silently, with her eyes bent on the ground; and Valancourt,
as he gazed on her, considered that it would soon be impossible for him to
recall, even to his memory, the exact resemblance of the beautiful
countenance he then beheld; at this moment a hasty footstep approached
from behind the plane-tree, and, turning her eyes, Emily saw Madame
Cheron. She felt a blush steal upon her cheek, and her frame trembled with
the emotion of her mind; but she instantly rose to meet her visitor. “So,
niece!” said Madame Cheron, casting a look of surprise and enquiry on

Valancourt, “so niece, how do you do? But I need not ask, your looks tell
me you have already recovered your loss.”
“My looks do me injustice then, Madame, my loss I know can never be
recovered.”
“Well—well! I will not argue with you; I see you have exactly your
father’s disposition; and let me tell you it would have been much happier
for him, poor man! if it had been a different one.”
A look of dignified displeasure, with which Emily regarded Madame
Cheron, while she spoke, would have touched almost any other heart; she
made no other reply, but introduced Valancourt, who could scarcely stifle
the resentment he felt, and whose bow Madame Cheron returned with a
slight curtsy, and a look of supercilious examination. After a few moments
he took leave of Emily, in a manner, that hastily expressed his pain both at
his own departure, and at leaving her to the society of Madame Cheron.
“Who is that young man?” said her aunt, in an accent which equally
implied inquisitiveness and censure. “Some idle admirer of yours I suppose;
but I believed niece you had a greater sense of propriety, than to have
received the visits of any young man in your present unfriended situation.
Let me tell you the world will observe those things, and it will talk, aye and
very freely too.”
Emily, extremely shocked at this coarse speech, attempted to interrupt it;
but Madame Cheron would proceed, with all the self-importance of a
person, to whom power is new.
“It is very necessary you should be under the eye of some person more
able to guide you than yourself. I, indeed, have not much leisure for such a
task; however, since your poor father made it his last request, that I should
overlook your conduct—I must even take you under my care. But this let
me tell you niece, that, unless you will determine to be very conformable to
my direction, I shall not trouble myself longer about you.”
Emily made no attempt to interrupt Madame Cheron a second time, grief
and the pride of conscious innocence kept her silent, till her aunt said, “I am
now come to take you with me to Thoulouse; I am sorry to find, that your
poor father died, after all, in such indifferent circumstances; however, I
shall take you home with me. Ah! poor man, he was always more generous
than provident, or he would not have left his daughter dependent on his
relations.”

“Nor has he done so, I hope, madam,” said Emily calmly, “nor did his
pecuniary misfortunes arise from that noble generosity, which always
distinguished him. The affairs of M. de Motteville may, I trust, yet be
settled without deeply injuring his creditors, and in the meantime I should
be very happy to remain at La Vallée.”
“No doubt you would,” replied Madame Cheron, with a smile of irony,
“and I shall no doubt consent to this, since I see how necessary tranquillity
and retirement are to restore your spirits. I did not think you capable of so
much duplicity, niece; when you pleaded this excuse for remaining here, I
foolishly believed it to be a just one, nor expected to have found with you
so agreeable a companion as this M. La Val—, I forget his name.”
Emily could no longer endure these cruel indignities. “It was a just one,
madam,” said she; “and now, indeed, I feel more than ever the value of the
retirement I then solicited; and, if the purport of your visit is only to add
insult to the sorrows of your brother’s child, she could well have spared it.”
“I see that I have undertaken a very troublesome task,” said Madame
Cheron, colouring highly. “I am sure, madam,” said Emily mildly, and
endeavouring to restrain her tears, “I am sure my father did not mean it
should be such. I have the happiness to reflect, that my conduct under his
eye was such as he often delighted to approve. It would be very painful to
me to disobey the sister of such a parent, and, if you believe the task will
really be so troublesome, I must lament, that it is yours.”
“Well! niece, fine speaking signifies little. I am willing, in consideration
of my poor brother, to overlook the impropriety of your late conduct, and to
try what your future will be.”
Emily interrupted her, to beg she would explain what was the impropriety
she alluded to.
“What impropriety! why that of receiving the visits of a lover unknown
to your family,” replied Madame Cheron, not considering the impropriety
of which she had herself been guilty, in exposing her niece to the possibility
of conduct so erroneous.
A faint blush passed over Emily’s countenance; pride and anxiety
struggled in her breast; and, till she recollected, that appearances did, in
some degree, justify her aunt’s suspicions, she could not resolve to humble
herself so far as to enter into the defence of a conduct, which had been so
innocent and undesigning on her part. She mentioned the manner of

Valancourt’s introduction to her father; the circumstances of his receiving
the pistol-shot, and of their afterwards travelling together; with the
accidental way, in which she had met him, on the preceding evening. She
owned he had declared a partiality for her, and that he had asked permission
to address her family.
“And who is this young adventurer, pray?” said Madame Cheron, “and
what are his pretensions?” “These he must himself explain, madam,”
replied Emily. “Of his family my father was not ignorant, and I believe it is
unexceptionable.” She then proceeded to mention what she knew
concerning it.
“Oh, then, this it seems is a younger brother,” exclaimed her aunt, “and
of course a beggar. A very fine tale indeed! And so my brother took a fancy
to this young man after only a few days acquaintance!—but that was so like
him! In his youth he was always taking these likes and dislikes, when no
other person saw any reason for them at all; nay, indeed, I have often
thought the people he disapproved were much more agreeable than those he
admired;—but there is no accounting for tastes. He was always so much
influenced by people’s countenances; now I, for my part, have no notion of
this, it is all ridiculous enthusiasm. What has a man’s face to do with his
character? Can a man of good character help having a disagreeable
face?”—which last sentence Madame Cheron delivered with the decisive
air of a person who congratulates herself on having made a grand discovery,
and believes the question to be unanswerably settled.
Emily, desirous of concluding the conversation, enquired if her aunt
would accept some refreshment, and Madame Cheron accompanied her to
the château, but without desisting from a topic, which she discussed with so
much complacency to herself, and severity to her niece.
“I am sorry to perceive, niece,” said she, in allusion to somewhat that
Emily had said, concerning physiognomy, “that you have a great many of
your father’s prejudices, and among them those sudden predilections for
people from their looks. I can perceive, that you imagine yourself to be
violently in love with this young adventurer, after an acquaintance of only a
few days. There was something, too, so charmingly romantic in the manner
of your meeting!”
Emily checked the tears, that trembled in her eyes, while she said, “When
my conduct shall deserve this severity, madam, you will do well to exercise

it; till then justice, if not tenderness, should surely restrain it. I have never
willingly offended you; now I have lost my parents, you are the only person
to whom I can look for kindness. Let me not lament more than ever the loss
of such parents.” The last words were almost stifled by her emotions, and
she burst into tears. Remembering the delicacy and the tenderness of St.
Aubert, the happy, happy days she had passed in these scenes, and
contrasting them with the coarse and unfeeling behaviour of Madame
Cheron, and from the future hours of mortification she must submit to in
her presence—a degree of grief seized her, that almost reached despair.
Madame Cheron, more offended by the reproof which Emily’s words
conveyed, than touched by the sorrow they expressed, said nothing, that
might soften her grief; but, notwithstanding an apparent reluctance to
receive her niece, she desired her company. The love of sway was her ruling
passion, and she knew it would be highly gratified by taking into her house
a young orphan, who had no appeal from her decisions, and on whom she
could exercise without control the capricious humour of the moment.
On entering the château, Madame Cheron expressed a desire, that she
would put up what she thought necessary to take to Thoulouse, as she meant
to set off immediately. Emily now tried to persuade her to defer the journey,
at least till the next day, and, at length, with much difficulty, prevailed.
The day passed in the exercise of petty tyranny on the part of Madame
Cheron, and in mournful regret and melancholy anticipation on that of
Emily, who, when her aunt retired to her apartment for the night, went to
take leave of every other room in this her dear native home, which she was
now quitting for she knew not how long, and for a world, to which she was
wholly a stranger. She could not conquer a presentiment, which frequently
occurred to her, this night—that she should never more return to La Vallée.
Having passed a considerable time in what had been her father’s study,
having selected some of his favourite authors, to put up with her clothes,
and shed many tears, as she wiped the dust from their covers, she seated
herself in his chair before the reading desk, and sat lost in melancholy
reflection, till Theresa opened the door to examine, as was her custom
before she went to bed, it was all safe. She started, on observing her young
lady, who bade her come in, and then gave her some directions for keeping
the château in readiness for her reception at all times.

“Alas-a-day! that you should leave it!” said Theresa, “I think you would
be happier here than where you are going, if one may judge.” Emily made
no reply to this remark; the sorrow Theresa proceeded to express at her
departure affected her, but she found some comfort in the simple affection
of this poor old servant, to whom she gave such directions as might best
conduce to her comfort during her own absence.
Having dismissed Theresa to bed, Emily wandered through every lonely
apartment of the château, lingering long in what had been her father’s
bedroom, indulging melancholy, yet not unpleasing, emotions, and, having
often returned within the door to take another look at it, she withdrew to her
own chamber. From her window she gazed upon the garden below, shown
faintly by the moon, rising over the tops of the palm-trees, and, at length,
the calm beauty of the night increased a desire of indulging the mournful
sweetness of bidding farewell to the beloved shades of her childhood, till
she was tempted to descend. Throwing over her the light veil, in which she
usually walked, she silently passed into the garden, and, hastening towards
the distant groves, was glad to breathe once more the air of liberty, and to
sigh unobserved. The deep repose of the scene, the rich scents, that floated
on the breeze, the grandeur of the wide horizon and of the clear blue arch,
soothed and gradually elevated her mind to that sublime complacency,
which renders the vexations of this world so insignificant and mean in our
eyes, that we wonder they have had power for a moment to disturb us.
Emily forgot Madame Cheron and all the circumstances of her conduct,
while her thoughts ascended to the contemplation of those unnumbered
worlds, that lie scattered in the depths of æther, thousands of them hid from
human eyes, and almost beyond the flight of human fancy. As her
imagination soared through the regions of space, and aspired to that Great
First Cause, which pervades and governs all being, the idea of her father
scarcely ever left her; but it was a pleasing idea, since she resigned him to
God in the full confidence of a pure and holy faith. She pursued her way
through the groves to the terrace, often pausing as memory awakened the
pang of affection, and as reason anticipated the exile, into which she was
going.
And now the moon was high over the woods, touching their summits
with yellow light, and darting between the foliage long level beams; while
on the rapid Garonne below the trembling radiance was faintly obscured by
the lightest vapour. Emily long watched the playing lustre, listened to the

soothing murmur of the current, and the yet lighter sounds of the air, as it
stirred, at intervals, the lofty palm-trees. “How delightful is the sweet breath
of these groves,” said she. “This lovely scene!—how often shall I remember
and regret it, when I am far away. Alas! what events may occur before I see
it again! O, peaceful, happy shades!—scenes of my infant delights, of
parental tenderness now lost for ever!—why must I leave ye!—In your
retreats I should still find safety and repose. Sweet hours of my childhood—
I am now to leave even your last memorials! No objects, that would revive
your impressions, will remain for me!”
Then drying her tears and looking up, her thoughts rose again to the
sublime subject she had contemplated; the same divine complacency stole
over her heart, and, hushing its throbs, inspired hope and confidence and
resignation to the will of the Deity, whose works filled her mind with
adoration.
Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and then seated herself, for the last
time, on the bench under its shade, where she had so often sat with her
parents, and where, only a few hours before, she had conversed with
Valancourt, at the remembrance of whom, thus revived, a mingled sensation
of esteem, tenderness and anxiety rose in her breast. With this remembrance
occurred a recollection of his late confession—that he had often wandered
near her habitation in the night, having even passed the boundary of the
garden, and it immediately occurred to her, that he might be at this moment
in the grounds. The fear of meeting him, particularly after the declaration he
had made, and of incurring a censure, which her aunt might so reasonably
bestow, if it was known, that she was met by her lover, at this hour, made
her instantly leave her beloved plane-tree, and walk towards the château.
She cast an anxious eye around, and often stopped for a moment to examine
the shadowy scene before she ventured to proceed, but she passed on
without perceiving any person, till, having reached a clump of almond trees,
not far from the house, she rested to take a retrospect of the garden, and to
sigh forth another adieu. As her eyes wandered over the landscape she
thought she perceived a person emerge from the groves, and pass slowly
along a moonlight alley that led between them; but the distance, and the
imperfect light would not suffer her to judge with any degree of certainty
whether this was fancy or reality. She continued to gaze for some time on
the spot, till on the dead stillness of the air she heard a sudden sound, and in
the next instant fancied she distinguished footsteps near her. Wasting not

another moment in conjecture, she hurried to the château, and, having
reached it, retired to her chamber, where, as she closed her window she
looked upon the garden, and then again thought she distinguished a figure,
gliding between the almond trees she had just left. She immediately
withdrew from the casement, and, though much agitated, sought in sleep the
refreshment of a short oblivion.

CHAPTER XI
I leave that flowery path for eye
Of childhood, where I sported many a day,
Warbling and sauntering carelessly along;
Where every face was innocent and gay,
Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue—
Sweet, wild, and artless, all.
THE MINSTREL

At an early hour, the carriage, which was to take Emily and Madame
Cheron to Thoulouse, appeared at the door of the château, and Madame was
already in the breakfast-room, when her niece entered it. The repast was
silent and melancholy on the part of Emily; and Madame Cheron, whose
vanity was piqued on observing her dejection, reproved her in a manner that
did not contribute to remove it. It was with much reluctance, that Emily’s
request to take with her the dog, which had been a favourite of her father,
was granted. Her aunt, impatient to be gone, ordered the carriage to draw
up; and, while she passed to the hall door, Emily gave another look into the
library, and another farewell glance over the garden, and then followed. Old
Theresa stood at the door to take leave of her young lady. “God for ever
keep you, ma’amselle!” said she, while Emily gave her hand in silence, and
could answer only with a pressure of her hand, and a forced smile.
At the gate, which led out of the grounds, several of her father’s
pensioners were assembled to bid her farewell, to whom she would have
spoken, if her aunt would have suffered the driver to stop; and, having
distributed to them almost all the money she had about her, she sunk back
in the carriage, yielding to the melancholy of her heart. Soon after, she
caught, between the steep banks of the road, another view of the château,
peeping from among the high trees, and surrounded by green slopes and
tufted groves, the Garonne winding its way beneath their shades, sometimes
lost among the vineyards, and then rising in greater majesty in the distant
pastures. The towering precipices of the Pyrenees, that rose to the south,

gave Emily a thousand interesting recollections of her late journey; and
these objects of her former enthusiastic admiration, now excited only
sorrow and regret. Having gazed on the château and its lovely scenery, till
the banks again closed upon them, her mind became too much occupied by
mournful reflections, to permit her to attend to the conversation, which
Madame Cheron had begun on some trivial topic, so that they soon
travelled in profound silence.
Valancourt, meanwhile, was returned to Estuvière, his heart occupied
with the image of Emily; sometimes indulging in reveries of future
happiness, but more frequently shrinking with dread of the opposition he
might encounter from her family. He was the younger son of an ancient
family of Gascony; and, having lost his parents at an early period of his life,
the care of his education and of his small portion had devolved to his
brother, the Count de Duvarney, his senior by nearly twenty years.
Valancourt had been educated in all the accomplishments of his age, and
had an ardour of spirit, and a certain grandeur of mind, that gave him
particular excellence in the exercises then thought heroic. His little fortune
had been diminished by the necessary expences of his education; but M. La
Valancourt, the elder, seemed to think that his genius and accomplishments
would amply supply the deficiency of his inheritance. They offered
flattering hopes of promotion in the military profession, in those times
almost the only one in which a gentleman could engage without incurring a
stain on his name; and La Valancourt was of course enrolled in the army.
The general genius of his mind was but little understood by his brother.
That ardour for whatever is great and good in the moral world, as well as in
the natural one, displayed itself in his infant years; and the strong
indignation, which he felt and expressed at a criminal, or a mean action,
sometimes drew upon him the displeasure of his tutor; who reprobated it
under the general term of violence of temper; and who, when haranguing on
the virtues of mildness and moderation, seemed to forget the gentleness and
compassion, which always appeared in his pupil towards objects of
misfortune.
He had now obtained leave of absence from his regiment when he made
the excursion into the Pyrenees, which was the means of introducing him to
St. Aubert; and, as this permission was nearly expired, he was the more
anxious to declare himself to Emily’s family, from whom he reasonably
apprehended opposition, since his fortune, though, with a moderate addition

from hers, it would be sufficient to support them, would not satisfy the
views, either of vanity, or ambition. Valancourt was not without the latter,
but he saw golden visions of promotion in the army; and believed, that with
Emily he could, in the mean time, be delighted to live within the limits of
his humble income. His thoughts were now occupied in considering the
means of making himself known to her family, to whom, however, he had
yet no address, for he was entirely ignorant of Emily’s precipitate departure
from La Vallée, of whom he hoped to obtain it.
Meanwhile, the travellers pursued their journey; Emily making frequent
efforts to appear cheerful, and too often relapsing into silence and dejection.
Madame Cheron, attributing her melancholy solely to the circumstance of
her being removed to a distance from her lover, and believing, that the
sorrow, which her niece still expressed for the loss of St. Aubert, proceeded
partly from an affectation of sensibility, endeavoured to make it appear
ridiculous to her, that such deep regret should continue to be felt so long
after the period usually allowed for grief.
At length, these unpleasant lectures were interrupted by the arrival of the
travellers at Thoulouse; and Emily, who had not been there for many years,
and had only a very faint recollection of it, was surprised at the ostentatious
style exhibited in her aunt’s house and furniture; the more so, perhaps,
because it was so totally different from the modest elegance, to which she
had been accustomed. She followed Madame Cheron through a large hall,
where several servants in rich liveries appeared, to a kind of saloon, fitted
up with more show than taste; and her aunt, complaining of fatigue, ordered
supper immediately. “I am glad to find myself in my own house again,” said
she, throwing herself on a large settee, “and to have my own people about
me. I detest travelling; though, indeed, I ought to like it, for what I see
abroad always makes me delighted to return to my own château. What
makes you so silent, child?—What is it that disturbs you now?”
Emily suppressed a starting tear, and tried to smile away the expression
of an oppressed heart; she was thinking of her home, and felt too sensibly
the arrogance and ostentatious vanity of Madame Cheron’s conversation.
“Can this be my father’s sister!” said she to herself; and then the conviction
that she was so, warming her heart with something like kindness towards
her, she felt anxious to soften the harsh impression her mind had received of
her aunt’s character, and to show a willingness to oblige her. The effort did

not entirely fail; she listened with apparent cheerfulness, while Madame
Cheron expatiated on the splendour of her house, told of the numerous
parties she entertained, and what she should expect of Emily, whose
diffidence assumed the air of a reserve, which her aunt, believing it to be
that of pride and ignorance united, now took occasion to reprehend. She
knew nothing of the conduct of a mind, that fears to trust its own powers;
which, possessing a nice judgment, and inclining to believe, that every
other person perceives still more critically, fears to commit itself to censure,
and seeks shelter in the obscurity of silence. Emily had frequently blushed
at the fearless manners, which she had seen admired, and the brilliant
nothings, which she had heard applauded; yet this applause, so far from
encouraging her to imitate the conduct that had won it, rather made her
shrink into the reserve, that would protect her from such absurdity.
Madame Cheron looked on her niece’s diffidence with a feeling very near
to contempt, and endeavoured to overcome it by reproof, rather than to
encourage it by gentleness.
The entrance of supper somewhat interrupted the complacent discourse
of Madame Cheron and the painful considerations, which it had forced
upon Emily. When the repast, which was rendered ostentatious by the
attendance of a great number of servants, and by a profusion of plate, was
over, Madame Cheron retired to her chamber, and a female servant came to
show Emily to hers. Having passed up a large staircase, and through several
galleries, they came to a flight of back stairs, which led into a short passage
in a remote part of the château, and there the servant opened the door of a
small chamber, which she said was Ma’amselle Emily’s, who, once more
alone, indulged the tears she had long tried to restrain.
Those, who know, from experience, how much the heart becomes
attached even to inanimate objects, to which it has been long accustomed,
how unwillingly it resigns them; how with the sensations of an old friend it
meets them, after temporary absence, will understand the forlornness of
Emily’s feelings, of Emily shut out from the only home she had known
from her infancy, and thrown upon a scene, and among persons,
disagreeable for more qualities than their novelty. Her father’s favourite
dog, now in the chamber, thus seemed to acquire the character and
importance of a friend; and, as the animal fawned over her when she wept,
and licked her hands, “Ah, poor Manchon!” said she, “I have nobody now

to love me—but you!” and she wept the more. After some time, her
thoughts returning to her father’s injunctions, she remembered how often he
had blamed her for indulging useless sorrow; how often he had pointed out
to her the necessity of fortitude and patience, assuring her, that the faculties
of the mind strengthen by exertion, till they finally unnerve affliction, and
triumph over it. These recollections dried her tears, gradually soothed her
spirits, and inspired her with the sweet emulation of practising precepts,
which her father had so frequently inculcated.

CHAPTER XII
Some pow’r impart the spear and shield,
At which the wizard passions fly,
By which the giant follies die!
COLLINS

Madame Cheron’s house stood at a little distance from the city of
Thoulouse, and was surrounded by extensive gardens, in which Emily, who
had risen early, amused herself with wandering before breakfast. From a
terrace, that extended along the highest part of them, was a wide view over
Languedoc. On the distant horizon to the south, she discovered the wild
summits of the Pyrenees, and her fancy immediately painted the green
pastures of Gascony at their feet. Her heart pointed to her peaceful home—
to the neighbourhood where Valancourt was—where St. Aubert had been;
and her imagination, piercing the veil of distance, brought that home to her
eyes in all its interesting and romantic beauty. She experienced an
inexpressible pleasure in believing, that she beheld the country around it,
though no feature could be distinguished, except the retiring chain of the
Pyrenees; and, inattentive to the scene immediately before her, and to the
flight of time, she continued to lean on the window of a pavilion, that
terminated the terrace, with her eyes fixed on Gascony, and her mind
occupied with the interesting ideas which the view of it awakened, till a
servant came to tell her breakfast was ready. Her thoughts thus recalled to
the surrounding objects, the straight walks, square parterres, and artificial
fountains of the garden, could not fail, as she passed through it, to appear
the worse, opposed to the negligent graces, and natural beauties of the
grounds of La Vallée, upon which her recollection had been so intensely
employed.
“Whither have you been rambling so early?” said Madame Cheron, as
her niece entered the breakfast-room. “I don’t approve of these solitary
walks.” And Emily was surprised, when, having informed her aunt, that she

had been no further than the gardens, she understood these to be included in
the reproof. “I desire you will not walk there again at so early an hour
unattended,” said Madame Cheron; “my gardens are very extensive; and a
young woman, who can make assignations by moonlight at La Vallée, is not
to be trusted to her own inclinations elsewhere.”
Emily, extremely surprised and shocked, had scarcely power to beg an
explanation of these words, and, when she did, her aunt absolutely refused
to give it, though, by her severe looks, and half sentences, she appeared
anxious to impress Emily with a belief, that she was well informed of some
degrading circumstances of her conduct. Conscious innocence could not
prevent a blush from stealing over Emily’s cheek; she trembled, and looked
confusedly under the bold eye of Madame Cheron, who blushed also; but
hers was the blush of triumph, such as sometimes stains the countenance of
a person, congratulating himself on the penetration which had taught him to
suspect another, and who loses both pity for the supposed criminal, and
indignation of his guilt, in the gratification of his own vanity.
Emily, not doubting that her aunt’s mistake arose from the having
observed her ramble in the garden on the night preceding her departure
from La Vallée, now mentioned the motive of it, at which Madame Cheron
smiled contemptuously, refusing either to accept this explanation, or to give
her reasons for refusing it; and, soon after, she concluded the subject by
saying, “I never trust people’s assertions, I always judge of them by their
actions; but I am willing to try what will be your behaviour in future.”
Emily, less surprised by her aunt’s moderation and mysterious silence,
than by the accusation she had received, deeply considered the latter, and
scarcely doubted, that it was Valancourt whom she had seen at night in the
gardens of La Vallée, and that he had been observed there by Madame
Cheron; who now passing from one painful topic only to revive another
almost equally so, spoke of the situation of her niece’s property, in the
hands of M. Motteville. While she thus talked with ostentatious pity of
Emily’s misfortunes, she failed not to inculcate the duties of humility and
gratitude, or to render Emily fully sensible of every cruel mortification, who
soon perceived, that she was to be considered as a dependant, not only by
her aunt, but by her aunt’s servants.
She was now informed, that a large party were expected to dinner, on
which account Madame Cheron repeated the lesson of the preceding night,

concerning her conduct in company, and Emily wished that she might have
courage enough to practise it. Her aunt then proceeded to examine the
simplicity of her dress, adding, that she expected to see her attired with
gaiety and taste; after which she condescended to show Emily the splendour
of her château, and to point out the particular beauty, or elegance, which she
thought distinguished each of her numerous suites of apartments. She then
withdrew to her toilet, the throne of her homage, and Emily to her chamber,
to unpack her books, and to try to charm her mind by reading, till the hour
of dressing.
When the company arrived, Emily entered the saloon with an air of
timidity, which all her efforts could not overcome, and which was increased
by the consciousness of Madame Cheron’s severe observation. Her
mourning dress, the mild dejection of her beautiful countenance, and the
retiring diffidence of her manner, rendered her a very interesting object to
many of the company; among whom she distinguished Signor Montoni, and
his friend Cavigni, the late visitors at M. Quesnel’s, who now seemed to
converse with Madame Cheron with the familiarity of old acquaintance, and
she to attend to them with particular pleasure.
This Signor Montoni had an air of conscious superiority, animated by
spirit, and strengthened by talents, to which every person seemed
involuntarily to yield. The quickness of his perceptions was strikingly
expressed on his countenance, yet that countenance could submit implicitly
to occasion; and, more than once in this day, the triumph of art over nature
might have been discerned in it. His visage was long, and rather narrow, yet
he was called handsome; and it was, perhaps, the spirit and vigour of his
soul, sparkling through his features, that triumphed for him. Emily felt
admiration, but not the admiration that leads to esteem; for it was mixed
with a degree of fear she knew not exactly wherefore.
Cavigni was gay and insinuating as formerly; and, though he paid almost
incessant attention to Madame Cheron, he found some opportunities of
conversing with Emily, to whom he directed, at first, the sallies of his wit,
but now and then assumed an air of tenderness, which she observed, and
shrunk from. Though she replied but little, the gentleness and sweetness of
her manners encouraged him to talk, and she felt relieved when a young
lady of the party, who spoke incessantly, obtruded herself on his notice.
This lady, who possessed all the sprightliness of a Frenchwoman, with all

her coquetry, affected to understand every subject, or rather there was no
affectation in the case; for, never looking beyond the limits of her own
ignorance, she believed she had nothing to learn. She attracted notice from
all; amused some, disgusted others for a moment, and was then forgotten.
This day passed without any material occurrence; and Emily, though
amused by the characters she had seen, was glad when she could retire to
the recollections, which had acquired with her the character of duties.
A fortnight passed in a round of dissipation and company, and Emily,
who attended Madame Cheron in all her visits, was sometimes entertained,
but oftener wearied. She was struck by the apparent talents and knowledge
displayed in the various conversations she listened to, and it was long
before she discovered, that the talents were for the most part those of
imposture, and the knowledge nothing more than was necessary to assist
them. But what deceived her most, was the air of constant gaiety and good
spirits, displayed by every visitor, and which she supposed to arise from
content as constant, and from benevolence as ready. At length, from the
over-acting of some, less accomplished than the others, she could perceive,
that, though contentment and benevolence are the only sure sources of
cheerfulness, the immoderate and feverish animation, usually exhibited in
large parties, results partly from an insensibility to the cares, which
benevolence must sometimes derive from the sufferings of others, and
partly from a desire to display the appearance of that prosperity, which they
know will command submission and attention to themselves.
Emily’s pleasantest hours were passed in the pavilion of the terrace, to
which she retired, when she could steal from observation, with a book to
overcome, or a lute to indulge, her melancholy. There, as she sat with her
eyes fixed on the far-distant Pyrenees, and her thoughts on Valancourt and
the beloved scenes of Gascony, she would play the sweet and melancholy
songs of her native province—the popular songs she had listened to from
her childhood.
One evening, having excused herself from accompanying her aunt
abroad, she thus withdrew to the pavilion, with books and her lute. It was
the mild and beautiful evening of a sultry day, and the windows, which
fronted the west, opened upon all the glory of a setting sun. Its rays
illuminated, with strong splendour, the cliffs of the Pyrenees, and touched
their snowy tops with a roseate hue, that remained, long after the sun had

sunk below the horizon, and the shades of twilight had stolen over the
landscape. Emily touched her lute with that fine melancholy expression,
which came from her heart. The pensive hour and the scene, the evening
light on the Garonne, that flowed at no great distance, and whose waves, as
they passed towards La Vallée, she often viewed with a sigh—these united
circumstances disposed her mind to tenderness, and her thoughts were with
Valancourt, of whom she had heard nothing since her arrival at Thoulouse,
and now that she was removed from him, and in uncertainty, she perceived
all the interest he held in her heart. Before she saw Valancourt she had
never met a mind and taste so accordant with her own, and, though Madame
Cheron told her much of the arts of dissimulation, and that the elegance and
propriety of thought, which she so much admired in her lover, were
assumed for the purpose of pleasing her, she could scarcely doubt their
truth. This possibility, however, faint as it was, was sufficient to harass her
mind with anxiety, and she found, that few conditions are more painful than
that of uncertainty, as to the merit of a beloved object; an uncertainty, which
she would not have suffered, had her confidence in her own opinions been
greater.
She was awakened from her musing by the sound of horses’ feet along a
road, that wound under the windows of the pavilion, and a gentleman
passed on horseback, whose resemblance to Valancourt, in air and figure,
for the twilight did not permit a view of his features, immediately struck
her. She retired hastily from the lattice, fearing to be seen, yet wishing to
observe further, while the stranger passed on without looking up, and, when
she returned to the lattice, she saw him faintly through the twilight, winding
under the high trees, that led to Thoulouse. This little incident so much
disturbed her spirits, that the temple and its scenery were no longer
interesting to her, and, after walking a while on the terrace, she returned to
the château.
Madame Cheron, whether she had seen a rival admired, had lost at play,
or had witnessed an entertainment more splendid than her own, was
returned from her visit with a temper more than usually discomposed; and
Emily was glad, when the hour arrived, in which she could retire to the
solitude of her own apartment.
On the following morning, she was summoned to Madame Cheron,
whose countenance was inflamed with resentment, and, as Emily advanced,

she held out a letter to her.
“Do you know this hand?” said she, in a severe tone, and with a look that
was intended to search her heart, while Emily examined the letter
attentively, and assured her, that she did not.
“Do not provoke me,” said her aunt; “you do know it, confess the truth
immediately. I insist upon your confessing the truth instantly.”
Emily was silent, and turned to leave the room, but Madame called her
back. “O you are guilty, then,” said she, “you do know the hand.” “If you
were before in doubt of this, madam,” replied Emily calmly, “why did you
accuse me of having told a falsehood.” Madame Cheron did not blush; but
her niece did, a moment after, when she heard the name of Valancourt. It
was not, however, with the consciousness of deserving reproof, for, if she
ever had seen his hand-writing, the present characters did not bring it to her
recollection.
“It is useless to deny it,” said Madame Cheron, “I see in your
countenance, that you are no stranger to this letter; and, I dare say, you have
received many such from this impertinent young man, without my
knowledge, in my own house.”
Emily, shocked at the indelicacy of this accusation, still more than by the
vulgarity of the former, instantly forgot the pride, that had imposed silence,
and endeavoured to vindicate herself from the aspersion, but Madame
Cheron was not to be convinced.
“I cannot suppose,” she resumed, “that this young man would have taken
the liberty of writing to me, if you had not encouraged him to do so, and I
must now”
“You will allow me to remind you, madam,” said Emily timidly, “of
some particulars of a conversation we had at La Vallée. I then told you truly,
that I had only not forbade Monsieur Valancourt from addressing my
family.”
“I will not be interrupted,” said Madame Cheron, interrupting her niece,
“I was going to say—I—I—have forgot what I was going to say. But how
happened it that you did not forbid him?” Emily was silent. “How happened
it that you encouraged him to trouble me with this letter?—A young man
that nobody knows;—an utter stranger in the place,—a young adventurer,

no doubt, who is looking out for a good fortune. However, on that point he
has mistaken his aim.”
“His family was known to my father,” said Emily modestly, and without
appearing to be sensible of the last sentence.
“O! that is no recommendation at all,” replied her aunt, with her usual
readiness upon this topic; “he took such strange fancies to people! He was
always judging persons by their countenances, and was continually
deceived.”
“Yet it was but now, madam, that you judged me guilty by my
countenance,” said Emily, with a design of reproving Madame Cheron, to
which she was induced by this disrespectful mention of her father.
“I called you here,” resumed her aunt, colouring, “to tell you, that I will
not be disturbed in my own house by any letters, or visits from young men,
who may take a fancy to flatter you. This M. de Valantine—I think you call
him, has the impertinence to beg I will permit him to pay his respects to
me! I shall send him a proper answer. And for you, Emily, I repeat it once
for all—if you are not contented to conform to my directions, and to my
way of live, I shall give up the task of overlooking your conduct—I shall no
longer trouble myself with your education, but shall send you to board in a
convent.”
“Dear madam,” said Emily, bursting into tears, and overcome by the rude
suspicions her aunt had expressed, “how have I deserved these reproofs?”
She could say no more; and so very fearful was she of acting with any
degree of impropriety in the affair itself, that, at the present moment,
Madame Cheron might perhaps have prevailed with her to bind herself by a
promise to renounce Valancourt for ever. Her mind, weakened by her
terrors, would no longer suffer her to view him as she had formerly done;
she feared the error of her own judgment, not that of Madame Cheron, and
feared also, that, in her former conversation with him, at La Vallée, she had
not conducted herself with sufficient reserve. She knew, that she did not
deserve the coarse suspicions, which her aunt had thrown out, but a
thousand scruples rose to torment her, such as would never have disturbed
the peace of Madame Cheron. Thus rendered anxious to avoid every
opportunity of erring, and willing to submit to any restrictions, that her aunt
should think proper, she expressed an obedience, to which Madame Cheron

did not give much confidence, and which she seemed to consider as the
consequence of either fear, or artifice.
“Well, then,” said she, “promise me that you will neither see this young
man, nor write to him without my consent.” “Dear madam,” replied Emily,
“can you suppose I would do either, unknown to you!” “I don’t know what
to suppose; there is no knowing how young women will act. It is difficult to
place any confidence in them, for they have seldom sense enough to wish
for the respect of the world.”
“Alas, madam!” said Emily, “I am anxious for my own respect; my father
taught me the value of that; he said if I deserved my own esteem, that the
world would follow of course.”
“My brother was a good kind of a man,” replied Madame Cheron, “but
he did not know the world. I am sure I have always felt a proper respect for
myself, yet—” she stopped, but she might have added, that the world had
not always shown respect to her, and this without impeaching its judgment.
“Well!” resumed Madame Cheron, “you have not given me the promise,
though, that I demand.”
Emily readily gave it, and, being then suffered to withdraw, she walked
in the garden; tried to compose her spirits, and, at length, arrived at her
favourite pavilion at the end of the terrace, where, seating herself at one of
the embowered windows, that opened upon a balcony, the stillness and
seclusion of the scene allowed her to recollect her thoughts, and to arrange
them so as to form a clearer judgment of her former conduct. She
endeavoured to review with exactness all the particulars of her conversation
with Valancourt at La Vallée, had the satisfaction to observe nothing, that
could alarm her delicate pride, and thus to be confirmed in the self-esteem,
which was so necessary to her peace. Her mind then became tranquil, and
she saw Valancourt amiable and intelligent, as he had formerly appeared,
and Madame Cheron neither the one, nor the other. The remembrance of her
lover, however, brought with it many very painful emotions, for it by no
means reconciled her to the thought of resigning him; and, Madame Cheron
having already shown how highly she disapproved of the attachment, she
foresaw much suffering from the opposition of interests; yet with all this
was mingled a degree of delight, which, in spite of reason, partook of hope.
She determined, however, that no consideration should induce her to permit
a clandestine correspondence, and to observe in her conversation with

Valancourt, should they ever meet again, the same nicety of reserve, which
had hitherto marked her conduct. As she repeated the words—“should we
ever meet again!” she shrunk as if this was a circumstance, which had never
before occurred to her, and tears came to her eyes, which she hastily dried,
for she heard footsteps approaching, and then the door of the pavilion open,
and, on turning, she saw—Valancourt.
An emotion of mingled pleasure, surprise and apprehension pressed so
suddenly upon her heart as almost to overcome her spirits; the colour left
her cheeks, then returned brighter than before, and she was for a moment
unable to speak, or to rise from her chair. His countenance was the mirror,
in which she saw her own emotions reflected, and it roused her to self-
command. The joy, which had animated his features, when he entered the
pavilion, was suddenly repressed, as, approaching, he perceived her
agitation, and, in a tremulous voice, enquired after her health. Recovered
from her first surprise, she answered him with a tempered smile; but a
variety of opposite emotions still assailed her heart, and struggled to subdue
the mild dignity of her manner. It was difficult to tell which predominated
—the joy of seeing Valancourt, or the terror of her aunt’s displeasure, when
she should hear of this meeting. After some short and embarrassed
conversation, she led him into the gardens, and enquired if he had seen
Madame Cheron. “No,” said he, “I have not yet seen her, for they told me
she was engaged, and as soon as I learned that you were in the gardens, I
came hither.” He paused a moment, in great agitation, and then added,
“May I venture to tell you the purport of my visit, without incurring your
displeasure, and to hope, that you will not accuse me of precipitation in now
availing myself of the permission you once gave me of addressing your
family?” Emily, who knew not what to reply, was spared from further
perplexity, and was sensible only of fear, when on raising her eyes, she saw
Madame Cheron turn into the avenue. As the consciousness of innocence
returned, this fear was so far dissipated as to permit her to appear tranquil,
and, instead of avoiding her aunt, she advanced with Valancourt to meet her.
The look of haughty and impatient displeasure, with which Madame Cheron
regarded them, made Emily shrink, who understood from a single glance,
that this meeting was believed to have been more than accidental: having
mentioned Valancourt’s name, she became again too much agitated to
remain with them, and returned into the château; where she awaited long, in
a state of trembling anxiety, the conclusion of the conference. She knew not

how to account for Valancourt’s visit to her aunt, before he had received the
permission he solicited, since she was ignorant of a circumstance, which
would have rendered the request useless, even if Madame Cheron had been
inclined to grant it. Valancourt, in the agitation of his spirits, had forgotten
to date his letter, so that it was impossible for Madame Cheron to return an
answer; and, when he recollected this circumstance, he was, perhaps, not so
sorry for the omission as glad of the excuse it allowed him for waiting on
her before she could send a refusal.
Madame Cheron had a long conversation with Valancourt, and, when she
returned to the château, her countenance expressed ill-humour, but not the
degree of severity, which Emily had apprehended. “I have dismissed this
young man, at last,” said she, “and I hope my house will never again be
disturbed with similar visits. He assures me, that your interview was not
preconcerted.”
“Dear madam!” said Emily in extreme emotion, “you surely did not ask
him the question!” “Most certainly I did; you could not suppose I should be
so imprudent as to neglect it.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, “what an opinion must he form of me,
since you, Madam, could express a suspicion of such ill conduct!”
“It is of very little consequence what opinion he may form of you,”
replied her aunt, “for I have put an end to the affair; but I believe he will not
form a worse opinion of me for my prudent conduct. I let him see, that I
was not to be trifled with, and that I had more delicacy, than to permit any
clandestine correspondence to be carried on in my house.”
Emily had frequently heard Madame Cheron use the word delicacy, but
she was now more than usually perplexed to understand how she meant to
apply it in this instance, in which her whole conduct appeared to merit the
very reverse of the term.
“It was very inconsiderate of my brother,” resumed Madame Cheron, “to
leave the trouble of overlooking your conduct to me; I wish you were well
settled in life. But if I find, that I am to be further troubled with such
visitors as this M. Valancourt, I shall place you in a convent at once;—so
remember the alternative. This young man has the impertinence to own to
me,—he owns it! that his fortune is very small, and that he is chiefly
dependent on an elder brother and on the profession he has chosen! He
should have concealed these circumstances, at least, if he expected to

succeed with me. Had he the presumption to suppose I would marry my
niece to a person such as he describes himself!”
Emily dried her tears when she heard of the candid confession of
Valancourt; and, though the circumstances it discovered were afflicting to
her hopes, his artless conduct gave her a degree of pleasure, that overcame
every other emotion. But she was compelled, even thus early in life, to
observe, that good sense and noble integrity are not always sufficient to
cope with folly and narrow cunning; and her heart was pure enough to
allow her, even at this trying moment, to look with more pride on the defeat
of the former, than with mortification on the conquests of the latter.
Madame Cheron pursued her triumph. “He has also thought proper to tell
me, that he will receive his dismission from no person but yourself; this
favour, however, I have absolutely refused him. He shall learn, that it is
quite sufficient, that I disapprove him. And I take this opportunity of
repeating,—that if you concert any means of interview unknown to me, you
shall leave my house immediately.”
“How little do you know me, madam, that you should think such an
injunction necessary!” said Emily, trying to suppress her emotion, “how
little of the dear parents, who educated me!”
Madame Cheron now went to dress for an engagement, which she had
made for the evening; and Emily, who would gladly have been excused
from attending her aunt, did not ask to remain at home lest her request
should be attributed to an improper motive. When she retired to her own
room, the little fortitude, which had supported her in the presence of her
relation, forsook her; she remembered only that Valancourt, whose
character appeared more amiable from every circumstance, that unfolded it,
was banished from her presence, perhaps, for ever, and she passed the time
in weeping, which, according to her aunt’s direction, she ought to have
employed in dressing. This important duty was, however, quickly
dispatched; though, when she joined Madame Cheron at table, her eyes
betrayed, that she had been in tears, and drew upon her a severe reproof.
Her efforts to appear cheerful did not entirely fail when she joined the
company at the house of Madame Clairval, an elderly widow lady, who had
lately come to reside at Thoulouse, on an estate of her late husband. She had
lived many years at Paris in a splendid style; had naturally a gay temper,

and, since her residence at Thoulouse, had given some of the most
magnificent entertainments, that had been seen in that neighbourhood.
These excited not only the envy, but the trifling ambition of Madame
Cheron, who, since she could not rival the splendour of her festivities, was
desirous of being ranked in the number of her most intimate friends. For
this purpose she paid her the most obsequious attention, and made a point
of being disengaged, whenever she received an invitation from Madame
Clairval, of whom she talked, wherever she went, and derived much self-
consequence from impressing a belief on her general acquaintance, that
they were on the most familiar footing.
The entertainments of this evening consisted of a ball and supper; it was
a fancy ball, and the company danced in groups in the gardens, which were
very extensive. The high and luxuriant trees, under which the groups
assembled, were illuminated with a profusion of lamps, disposed with taste
and fancy. The gay and various dresses of the company, some of whom
were seated on the turf, conversing at their ease, observing the cotillons,
taking refreshments, and sometimes touching sportively a guitar; the gallant
manners of the gentlemen, the exquisitely capricious air of the ladies; the
light fantastic steps of their dances; the musicians, with the lute, the
hautboy, and the tabor, seated at the foot of an elm, and the sylvan scenery
of woods around were circumstances, that unitedly formed a characteristic
and striking picture of French festivity. Emily surveyed the gaiety of the
scene with a melancholy kind of pleasure, and her emotion may be
imagined when, as she stood with her aunt, looking at one of the groups,
she perceived Valancourt; saw him dancing with a young and beautiful lady,
saw him conversing with her with a mixture of attention and familiarity,
such as she had seldom observed in his manner. She turned hastily from the
scene, and attempted to draw away Madame Cheron, who was conversing
with Signor Cavigni, and neither perceived Valancourt, nor was willing to
be interrupted. A faintness suddenly came over Emily, and, unable to
support herself, she sat down on a turf bank beneath the trees, where several
other persons were seated. One of these, observing the extreme paleness of
her countenance, enquired if she was ill, and begged she would allow him
to fetch her a glass of water, for which politeness she thanked him, but did
not accept it. Her apprehension lest Valancourt should observe her emotion
made her anxious to overcome it, and she succeeded so far as to recompose
her countenance. Madame Cheron was still conversing with Cavigni; and

the Count Bauvillers, who had addressed Emily, made some observations
upon the scene, to which she answered almost unconsciously, for her mind
was still occupied with the idea of Valancourt, to whom it was with extreme
uneasiness that she remained so near. Some remarks, however, which the
Count made upon the dance obliged her to turn her eyes towards it, and, at
that moment, Valancourt’s met hers. Her colour faded again, she felt, that
she was relapsing into faintness, and instantly averted her looks, but not
before she had observed the altered countenance of Valancourt, on
perceiving her. She would have left the spot immediately, had she not been
conscious, that this conduct would have shown him more obviously the
interest he held in her heart; and, having tried to attend to the Count’s
conversation, and to join in it, she, at length, recovered her spirits. But,
when he made some observation on Valancourt’s partner, the fear of
showing that she was interested in the remark, would have betrayed it to
him, had not the Count, while he spoke, looked towards the person of
whom he was speaking. “The lady,” said he, “dancing with that young
Chevalier, who appears to be accomplished in everything, but in dancing, is
ranked among the beauties of Thoulouse. She is handsome, and her fortune
will be very large. I hope she will make a better choice in a partner for life
than she has done in a partner for the dance, for I observe he has just put the
set into great confusion; he does nothing but commit blunders. I am
surprised, that, with his air and figure, he has not taken more care to
accomplish himself in dancing.”
Emily, whose heart trembled at every word, that was now uttered,
endeavoured to turn the conversation from Valancourt, by enquiring the
name of the lady, with whom he danced; but, before the Count could reply,
the dance concluded, and Emily, perceiving that Valancourt was coming
towards her, rose and joined Madame Cheron.
“Here is the Chevalier Valancourt, madam,” said she in a whisper, “pray
let us go.” Her aunt immediately moved on, but not before Valancourt had
reached them, who bowed lowly to Madame Cheron, and with an earnest
and dejected look to Emily, with whom, notwithstanding all her effort, an
air of more than common reserve prevailed. The presence of Madame
Cheron prevented Valancourt from remaining, and he passed on with a
countenance, whose melancholy reproached her for having increased it.
Emily was called from the musing fit, into which she had fallen, by the
Count Bauvillers, who was known to her aunt.

“I have your pardon to beg, ma’amselle,” said he, “for a rudeness, which
you will readily believe was quite unintentional. I did not know, that the
Chevalier was your acquaintance, when I so freely criticised his dancing.”
Emily blushed and smiled, and Madame Cheron spared her the difficulty of
replying. “If you mean the person, who has just passed us,” said she, “I can
assure you he is no acquaintance of either mine, or ma’amselle St. Aubert’s:
I know nothing of him.”
“O! that is the Chevalier Valancourt,” said Cavigni carelessly, and
looking back. “You know him then?” said Madame Cheron. “I am not
acquainted with him,” replied Cavigni. “You don’t know, then, the reason I
have to call him impertinent;—he has had the presumption to admire my
niece!”
“If every man deserves the title of impertinent, who admires ma’amselle
St. Aubert,” replied Cavigni, “I fear there are a great many impertinents,
and I am willing to acknowledge myself one of the number.”
“O Signor!” said Madame Cheron, with an affected smile, “I perceive
you have learnt the art of complimenting, since you came into France. But it
is cruel to compliment children, since they mistake flattery for truth.”
Cavigni turned away his face for a moment, and then said with a studied
air, “Whom then are we to compliment, madam? for it would be absurd to
compliment a woman of refined understanding; she is above all praise.” As
he finished the sentence he gave Emily a sly look, and the smile, that had
lurked in his eye, stole forth. She perfectly understood it, and blushed for
Madame Cheron, who replied, “You are perfectly right, signor, no woman
of understanding can endure compliment.”
“I have heard Signor Montoni say,” rejoined Cavigni, “that he never
knew but one woman who deserved it.”
“Well!” exclaimed Madame Cheron, with a short laugh, and a smile of
unutterable complacency, “and who could she be?”
“O!” replied Cavigni, “it is impossible to mistake her, for certainly there
is not more than one woman in the world, who has both the merit to deserve
compliment and the wit to refuse it. Most women reverse the case entirely.”
He looked again at Emily, who blushed deeper than before for her aunt, and
turned from him with displeasure.

“Well, signor!” said Madame Cheron, “I protest you are a Frenchman; I
never heard a foreigner say anything half so gallant as that!”
“True, madam,” said the Count, who had been some time silent, and with
a low bow, “but the gallantry of the compliment had been utterly lost, but
for the ingenuity that discovered the application.”
Madame Cheron did not perceive the meaning of this too satirical
sentence, and she, therefore, escaped the pain, which Emily felt on her
account. “O! here comes Signor Montoni himself,” said her aunt, “I protest
I will tell him all the fine things you have been saying to me.” The Signor,
however, passed at this moment into another walk. “Pray, who is it, that has
so much engaged your friend this evening?” asked Madame Cheron, with
an air of chagrin, “I have not seen him once.”
“He had a very particular engagement with the Marquis La Rivière,”
replied Cavigni, “which has detained him, I perceive, till this moment, or he
would have done himself the honour of paying his respects to you, madam,
sooner, as he commissioned me to say. But, I know not how it is—your
conversation is so fascinating—that it can charm even memory, I think, or I
should certainly have delivered my friend’s apology before.”
“The apology, sir, would have been more satisfactory from himself,” said
Madame Cheron, whose vanity was more mortified by Montoni’s neglect,
than flattered by Cavigni’s compliment. Her manner, at this moment, and
Cavigni’s late conversation, now awakened a suspicion in Emily’s mind,
which, notwithstanding that some recollections served to confirm it,
appeared preposterous. She thought she perceived, that Montoni was paying
serious addresses to her aunt, and that she not only accepted them, but was
jealously watchful of any appearance of neglect on his part.—That Madame
Cheron at her years should elect a second husband was ridiculous, though
her vanity made it not impossible; but that Montoni, with his discernment,
his figure, and pretensions, should make a choice of Madame Cheron—
appeared most wonderful. Her thoughts, however, did not dwell long on the
subject; nearer interests pressed upon them; Valancourt, rejected of her aunt,
and Valancourt dancing with a gay and beautiful partner, alternately
tormented her mind. As she passed along the gardens she looked timidly
forward, half fearing and half hoping that he might appear in the crowd; and
the disappointment she felt on not seeing him, told her, that she had hoped
more than she had feared.

Montoni soon after joined the party. He muttered over some short speech
about regret for having been so long detained elsewhere, when he knew he
should have the pleasure of seeing Madame Cheron here; and she, receiving
the apology with the air of a pettish girl, addressed herself entirely to
Cavigni, who looked archly at Montoni, as if he would have said, “I will not
triumph over you too much; I will have the goodness to bear my honours
meekly; but look sharp, Signor, or I shall certainly run away with your
prize.”
The supper was served in different pavilions in the gardens, as well as in
one large saloon of the château, and with more of taste, than either of
splendour, or even of plenty. Madame Cheron and her party supped with
Madame Clairval in the saloon, and Emily, with difficulty, disguised her
emotion, when she saw Valancourt placed at the same table with herself.
There, Madame Cheron having surveyed him with high displeasure, said to
some person who sat next to her, “Pray, who is that young man?” “It is the
Chevalier Valancourt,” was the answer. “Yes, I am not ignorant of his name,
but who is this Chevalier Valancourt that thus intrudes himself at this
table?” The attention of the person, to whom she spoke, was called off
before she received a second reply. The table, at which they sat, was very
long, and, Valancourt being seated, with his partner, near the bottom, and
Emily near the top, the distance between them may account for his not
immediately perceiving her. She avoided looking to that end of the table,
but whenever her eyes happened to glance towards it, she observed him
conversing with his beautiful companion, and the observation did not
contribute to restore her peace, any more than the accounts she heard of the
fortune and accomplishments of this same lady.
Madame Cheron, to whom these remarks were sometimes addressed,
because they supported topics for trivial conversation, seemed indefatigable
in her attempts to depreciate Valancourt, towards whom she felt all the petty
resentment of a narrow pride. “I admire the lady,” said she, “but I must
condemn her choice of a partner.” “Oh, the Chevalier Valancourt is one of
the most accomplished young men we have,” replied the lady, to whom this
remark was addressed: “it is whispered, that Mademoiselle d’Emery, and
her large fortune, are to be his.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Madame Cheron, reddening with vexation, “it
is impossible that she can be so destitute of taste; he has so little the air of a

person of condition, that, if I did not see him at the table of Madame
Clairval, I should never have suspected him to be one. I have besides
particular reasons for believing the report to be erroneous.”
“I cannot doubt the truth of it,” replied the lady gravely, disgusted by the
abrupt contradiction she had received, concerning her opinion of
Valancourt’s merit. “You will, perhaps, doubt it,” said Madame Cheron,
“when I assure you, that it was only this morning that I rejected his suit.”
This was said without any intention of imposing the meaning it
conveyed, but simply from a habit of considering herself to be the most
important person in every affair that concerned her niece, and because
literally she had rejected Valancourt. “Your reasons are indeed such as
cannot be doubted,” replied the lady, with an ironical smile. “Any more
than the discernment of the Chevalier Valancourt,” added Cavigni, who
stood by the chair of Madame Cheron, and had heard her arrogate to
herself, as he thought, a distinction which had been paid to her niece. “His
discernment may be justly questioned, Signor,” said Madame Cheron, who
was not flattered by what she understood to be an encomium on Emily.
“Alas!” exclaimed Cavigni, surveying Madame Cheron with affected
ecstasy, “how vain is that assertion, while that face—that shape—that air—
combine to refute it! Unhappy Valancourt! his discernment has been his
destruction.”
Emily looked surprised and embarrassed; the lady, who had lately
spoken, astonished, and Madame Cheron, who, though she did not perfectly
understand this speech, was very ready to believe herself complimented by
it, said smilingly, “O Signor! you are very gallant; but those, who hear you
vindicate the Chevalier’s discernment, will suppose that I am the object of
it.”
“They cannot doubt it,” replied Cavigni, bowing low.
“And would not that be very mortifying, Signor?”
“Unquestionably it would,” said Cavigni.
“I cannot endure the thought,” said Madame Cheron.
“It is not to be endured,” replied Cavigni.
“What can be done to prevent so humiliating a mistake?” rejoined
Madame Cheron.

“Alas! I cannot assist you,” replied Cavigni, with a deliberating air.
“Your only chance of refuting the calumny, and of making people
understand what you wish them to believe, is to persist in your first
assertion; for, when they are told of the Chevalier’s want of discernment, it
is possible they may suppose he never presumed to distress you with his
admiration.—But then again—that diffidence, which renders you so
insensible to your own perfections—they will consider this, and
Valancourt’s taste will not be doubted, though you arraign it. In short, they
will, in spite of your endeavours, continue to believe, what might very
naturally have occurred to them without any hint of mine—that the
Chevalier has taste enough to admire a beautiful woman.”
“All this is very distressing!” said Madame Cheron, with a profound sigh.
“May I be allowed to ask what is so distressing?” said Madame Clairval,
who was struck with the rueful countenance and doleful accent, with which
this was delivered.
“It is a delicate subject,” replied Madame Cheron, “a very mortifying one
to me.” “I am concerned to hear it,” said Madame Clairval, “I hope nothing
has occurred, this evening, particularly to distress you?” “Alas, yes! within
this half hour; and I know not where the report may end;—my pride was
never so shocked before, but I assure you the report is totally void of
foundation.” “Good God!” exclaimed Madame Clairval, “what can be
done? Can you point out any way, by which I can assist, or console you?”
“The only way, by which you can do either,” replied Madame Cheron, “is
to contradict the report wherever you go.”
“Well! but pray inform me what I am to contradict.”
“It is so very humiliating, that I know not how to mention it,” continued
Madame Cheron, “but you shall judge. Do you observe that young man
seated near the bottom of the table, who is conversing with Mademoiselle
d’Emery?” “Yes, I perceive whom you mean.” “You observe how little he
has the air of a person of condition; I was saying just now, that I should not
have thought him a gentleman, if I had not seen him at this table.” “Well!
but the report,” said Madame Clairval, “let me understand the subject of
your distress.” “Ah! the subject of my distress,” replied Madame Cheron;
“this person, whom nobody knows—(I beg pardon, madam, I did not
consider what I said)—this impertinent young man, having had the
presumption to address my niece, has, I fear, given rise to a report, that he

had declared himself my admirer. Now only consider how very mortifying
such a report must be! You, I know, will feel for my situation. A woman of
my condition!—think how degrading even the rumour of such an alliance
must be.”
“Degrading indeed, my poor friend!” said Madame Clairval. “You may
rely upon it I will contradict the report wherever I go;” as she said which,
she turned her attention upon another part of the company; and Cavigni,
who had hitherto appeared a grave spectator of the scene, now fearing he
should be unable to smother the laugh, that convulsed him, walked abruptly
away.
“I perceive you do not know,” said the lady who sat near Madame
Cheron, “that the gentleman you have been speaking of is Madame
Clairval’s nephew!” “Impossible!” exclaimed Madame Cheron, who now
began to perceive, that she had been totally mistaken in her judgment of
Valancourt, and to praise him aloud with as much servility, as she had
before censured him with frivolous malignity.
Emily, who, during the greater part of this conversation, had been so
absorbed in thought as to be spared the pain of hearing it, was now
extremely surprised by her aunt’s praise of Valancourt, with whose
relationship to Madame Clairval she was unacquainted; but she was not
sorry when Madame Cheron, who, though she now tried to appear
unconcerned, was really much embarrassed, prepared to withdraw
immediately after supper. Montoni then came to hand Madame Cheron to
her carriage, and Cavigni, with an arch solemnity of countenance, followed
with Emily, who, as she wished them good night, and drew up the glass,
saw Valancourt among the crowd at the gates. Before the carriage drove off,
he disappeared. Madame Cheron forbore to mention him to Emily, and, as
soon as they reached the château, they separated for the night.
On the following morning, as Emily sat at breakfast with her aunt, a letter
was brought to her, of which she knew the handwriting upon the cover; and,
as she received it with a trembling hand, Madame Cheron hastily enquired
from whom it came. Emily, with her leave, broke the seal, and, observing
the signature of Valancourt, gave it unread to her aunt, who received it with
impatience; and, as she looked it over, Emily endeavoured to read on her
countenance its contents. Having returned the letter to her niece, whose
eyes asked if she might examine it, “Yes, read it, child,” said Madame

Cheron, in a manner less severe than she had expected, and Emily had,
perhaps, never before so willingly obeyed her aunt. In this letter Valancourt
said little of the interview of the preceding day, but concluded with
declaring, that he would accept his dismission from Emily only, and with
entreating, that she would allow him to wait upon her, on the approaching
evening. When she read this, she was astonished at the moderation of
Madame Cheron, and looked at her with timid expectation, as she said
sorrowfully—“What am I to say, madam?”
“Why—we must see the young man, I believe,” replied her aunt, “and
hear what he has further to say for himself. You may tell him he may
come.” Emily dared scarcely credit what she heard. “Yet, stay,” added
Madame Cheron, “I will tell him so myself.” She called for pen and ink;
Emily still not daring to trust the emotions she felt, and almost sinking
beneath them. Her surprise would have been less had she overheard, on the
preceding evening, what Madame Cheron had not forgotten—that
Valancourt was the nephew of Madame Clairval.
What were the particulars of her aunt’s note Emily did not learn, but the
result was a visit from Valancourt in the evening, whom Madame Cheron
received alone, and they had a long conversation before Emily was called
down. When she entered the room, her aunt was conversing with
complacency, and she saw the eyes of Valancourt, as he impatiently rose,
animated with hope.
“We have been talking over this affair,” said Madame Cheron, “the
chevalier has been telling me, that the late Monsieur Clairval was the
brother of the Countess de Duvarney, his mother. I only wish he had
mentioned his relationship to Madame Clairval before; I certainly should
have considered that circumstance as a sufficient introduction to my house.”
Valancourt bowed, and was going to address Emily, but her aunt prevented
him. “I have, therefore, consented that you shall receive his visits; and,
though I will not bind myself by any promise, or say, that I shall consider
him as my nephew, yet I shall permit the intercourse, and shall look forward
to any further connection as an event, which may possibly take place in a
course of years, provided the chevalier rises in his profession, or any
circumstance occurs, which may make it prudent for him to take a wife. But
Mons. Valancourt will observe, and you too, Emily, that, till that happens, I
positively forbid any thoughts of marrying.”

Emily’s countenance, during this coarse speech, varied every instant, and,
towards its conclusion, her distress had so much increased, that she was on
the point of leaving the room. Valancourt, meanwhile, scarcely less
embarrassed, did not dare to look at her, for whom he was thus distressed;
but, when Madame Cheron was silent, he said, “Flattering, madam, as your
approbation is to me—highly as I am honoured by it—I have yet so much
to fear, that I scarcely dare to hope.” “Pray, sir, explain yourself,” said
Madame Cheron; an unexpected requisition, which embarrassed Valancourt
again, and almost overcame him with confusion, at circumstances, on
which, had he been only a spectator of the scene, he would have smiled.
“Till I receive Mademoiselle St. Aubert’s permission to accept your
indulgence,” said he, falteringly—“till she allows me to hope—”
“O! is that all?” interrupted Madame Cheron. “Well, I will take upon me
to answer for her. But at the same time, sir, give me leave to observe to you,
that I am her guardian, and that I expect, in every instance, that my will is
hers.”
As she said this, she rose and quitted the room, leaving Emily and
Valancourt in a state of mutual embarrassment; and, when Valancourt’s
hopes enabled him to overcome his fears, and to address her with the zeal
and sincerity so natural to him, it was a considerable time before she was
sufficiently recovered to hear with distinctness his solicitations and
inquiries.
The conduct of Madame Cheron in this affair had been entirely governed
by selfish vanity. Valancourt, in his first interview, had with great candour
laid open to her the true state of his present circumstances, and his future
expectancies, and she, with more prudence than humanity, had absolutely
and abruptly rejected his suit. She wished her niece to marry ambitiously,
not because she desired to see her in possession of the happiness, which
rank and wealth are usually believed to bestow, but because she desired to
partake the importance, which such an alliance would give. When,
therefore, she discovered that Valancourt was the nephew of a person of so
much consequence as Madame Clairval, she became anxious for the
connection, since the prospect it afforded of future fortune and distinction
for Emily, promised the exaltation she coveted for herself. Her calculations
concerning fortune in this alliance were guided rather by her wishes, than
by any hint of Valancourt, or strong appearance of probability; and, when

she rested her expectation on the wealth of Madame Clairval, she seemed
totally to have forgotten, that the latter had a daughter. Valancourt, however,
had not forgotten this circumstance, and the consideration of it had made
him so modest in his expectations from Madame Clairval, that he had not
even named the relationship in his first conversation with Madame Cheron.
But, whatever might be the future fortune of Emily, the present distinction,
which the connection would afford for herself, was certain, since the
splendour of Madame Clairval’s establishment was such as to excite the
general envy and partial imitation of the neighbourhood. Thus had she
consented to involve her niece in an engagement, to which she saw only a
distant and uncertain conclusion, with as little consideration of her
happiness, as when she had so precipitately forbade it: for though she
herself possessed the means of rendering this union not only certain, but
prudent, yet to do so was no part of her present intention.
From this period Valancourt made frequent visits to Madame Cheron, and
Emily passed in his society the happiest hours she had known since the
death of her father. They were both too much engaged by the present
moments to give serious consideration to the future. They loved and were
beloved, and saw not, that the very attachment, which formed the delight of
their present days, might possibly occasion the sufferings of years.
Meanwhile, Madame Cheron’s intercourse with Madame Clairval became
more frequent than before, and her vanity was already gratified by the
opportunity of proclaiming, wherever she went, the attachment that
subsisted between their nephew and niece.
Montoni was now also become a daily guest at the château, and Emily
was compelled to observe, that he really was a suitor, and a favoured suitor,
to her aunt.
Thus passed the winter months, not only in peace, but in happiness, to
Valancourt and Emily; the station of his regiment being so near Thoulouse,
as to allow this frequent intercourse. The pavilion on the terrace was the
favourite scene of their interviews, and there Emily, with Madame Cheron,
would work, while Valancourt read aloud works of genius and taste,
listened to her enthusiasm, expressed his own, and caught new
opportunities of observing, that their minds were formed to constitute the
happiness of each other, the same taste, the same noble and benevolent
sentiments animating each.

CHAPTER XIII
As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles,
Placed far amid the melancholy main,
(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,
Or that aerial beings sometimes deign
To stand embodied to our senses plain)
Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,
The whilst in ocean Phœbus dips his wain,
A vast assembly moving to and fro,
Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.
CASTLE OF INDOLENCE

Madame Cheron’s avarice at length yielded to her vanity. Some very
splendid entertainments, which Madame Clairval had given, and the general
adulation, which was paid her, made the former more anxious than before to
secure an alliance, that would so much exalt her in her own opinion and in
that of the world. She proposed terms for the immediate marriage of her
niece, and offered to give Emily a dower, provided Madame Clairval
observed equal terms, on the part of her nephew. Madame Clairval listened
to the proposal, and, considering that Emily was the apparent heiress of her
aunt’s wealth, accepted it. Meanwhile, Emily knew nothing of the
transaction, till Madame Cheron informed her, that she must make
preparation for the nuptials, which would be celebrated without further
delay; then, astonished and wholly unable to account for this sudden
conclusion, which Valancourt had not solicited (for he was ignorant of what
had passed between the elder ladies, and had not dared to hope such good
fortune), she decisively objected to it. Madame Cheron, however, quite as
jealous of contradiction now, as she had been formerly, contended for a
speedy marriage with as much vehemence as she had formerly opposed
whatever had the most remote possibility of leading to it; and Emily’s
scruples disappeared, when she again saw Valancourt, who was now
informed of the happiness, designed for him, and came to claim a promise
of it from herself.

While preparations were making for these nuptials, Montoni became the
acknowledged lover of Madame Cheron; and, though Madame Clairval was
much displeased, when she heard of the approaching connection, and was
willing to prevent that of Valancourt with Emily, her conscience told her,
that she had no right thus to trifle with their peace, and Madame Clairval,
though a woman of fashion, was far less advanced than her friend in the art
of deriving satisfaction from distinction and admiration, rather than from
conscience.
Emily observed with concern the ascendancy, which Montoni had
acquired over Madame Cheron, as well as the increasing frequency of his
visits; and her own opinion of this Italian was confirmed by that of
Valancourt, who had always expressed a dislike of him. As she was, one
morning, sitting at work in the pavilion, enjoying the pleasant freshness of
spring, whose colours were now spread upon the landscape, and listening to
Valancourt, who was reading, but who often laid aside the book to converse,
she received a summons to attend Madame Cheron immediately, and had
scarcely entered the dressing-room, when she observed with surprise the
dejection of her aunt’s countenance, and the contrasted gaiety of her dress.
“So, niece!”—said Madame, and she stopped under some degree of
embarrassment.—“I sent for you—I—I wished to see you; I have news to
tell you. From this hour you must consider the Signor Montoni as your
uncle—we were married this morning.”
Astonished—not so much at the marriage, as at the secrecy with which it
had been concluded, and the agitation with which it was announced, Emily,
at length, attributed the privacy to the wish of Montoni, rather than of her
aunt. His wife, however, intended, that the contrary should be believed, and
therefore added, “you see I wished to avoid a bustle; but now the ceremony
is over I shall do so no longer; and I wish to announce to my servants that
they must receive the Signor Montoni for their master.” Emily made a
feeble attempt to congratulate her on these apparently imprudent nuptials. “I
shall now celebrate my marriage with some splendour,” continued Madame
Montoni, “and to save time I shall avail myself of the preparation that has
been made for yours, which will, of course, be delayed a little while. Such
of your wedding clothes as are ready I shall expect you will appear in, to do
honour to this festival. I also wish you to inform Monsieur Valancourt, that
I have changed my name, and he will acquaint Madame Clairval. In a few

days I shall give a grand entertainment, at which I shall request their
presence.”
Emily was so lost in surprise and various thought, that she made Madame
Montoni scarcely any reply, but, at her desire, she returned to inform
Valancourt of what had passed. Surprise was not his predominant emotion
on hearing of these hasty nuptials; and, when he learned, that they were to
be the means of delaying his own, and that the very ornaments of the
château, which had been prepared to grace the nuptial day of his Emily,
were to be degraded to the celebration of Madame Montoni’s, grief and
indignation agitated him alternately. He could conceal neither from the
observation of Emily, whose efforts to abstract him from these serious
emotions, and to laugh at the apprehensive considerations, that assailed
him, were ineffectual; and, when, at length, he took leave, there was an
earnest tenderness in his manner, that extremely affected her; she even shed
tears, when he disappeared at the end of the terrace, yet knew not exactly
why she should do so.
Montoni now took possession of the château, and the command of its
inhabitants, with the ease of a man, who had long considered it to be his
own. His friend Cavigni, who had been extremely serviceable, in having
paid Madame Cheron the attention and flattery, which she required, but
from which Montoni too often revolted, had apartments assigned to him,
and received from the domestics an equal degree of obedience with the
master of the mansion.
Within a few days, Madame Montoni, as she had promised, gave a
magnificent entertainment to a very numerous company, among whom was
Valancourt; but at which Madame Clairval excused herself from attending.
There was a concert, ball and supper. Valancourt was, of course, Emily’s
partner, and though, when he gave a look to the decorations of the
apartments, he could not but remember, that they were designed for other
festivities, than those they now contributed to celebrate, he endeavoured to
check his concern by considering, that a little while only would elapse
before they would be given to their original destination. During this
evening, Madame Montoni danced, laughed and talked incessantly; while
Montoni, silent, reserved and somewhat haughty, seemed weary of the
parade, and of the frivolous company it had drawn together.

This was the first and the last entertainment, given in celebration of their
nuptials. Montoni, though the severity of his temper and the gloominess of
his pride prevented him from enjoying such festivities, was extremely
willing to promote them. It was seldom, that he could meet in any company
a man of more address, and still seldomer one of more understanding, than
himself; the balance of advantage in such parties, or in the connections,
which might arise from them, must, therefore, be on his side; and, knowing,
as he did, the selfish purposes, for which they are generally frequented, he
had no objection to measure his talents of dissimulation with those of any
other competitor for distinction and plunder. But his wife, who, when her
own interest was immediately concerned, had sometimes more discernment
than vanity, acquired a consciousness of her inferiority to other women, in
personal attractions, which, uniting with the jealousy natural to the
discovery, counteracted his readiness for mingling with all the parties
Thoulouse could afford. Till she had, as she supposed, the affections of a
husband to lose, she had no motive for discovering the unwelcome truth,
and it had never obtruded itself upon her; but, now that it influenced her
policy, she opposed her husband’s inclination for company, with the more
eagerness, because she believed him to be really as well received in the
female society of the place, as, during his addresses to her, he had affected
to be.
A few weeks only had elapsed, since the marriage, when Madame
Montoni informed Emily, that the Signor intended to return to Italy, as soon
as the necessary preparation could be made for so long a journey. “We shall
go to Venice,” said she, “where the Signor has a fine mansion, and from
thence to his estate in Tuscany. Why do you look so grave, child?—You,
who are so fond of a romantic country and fine views, will doubtless be
delighted with this journey.”
“Am I then to be of the party, madam?” said Emily, with extreme surprise
and emotion. “Most certainly,” replied her aunt, “how could you imagine
we should leave you behind? But I see you are thinking of the Chevalier; he
is not yet, I believe, informed of the journey, but he very soon will be so.
Signor Montoni is gone to acquaint Madame Clairval of our journey, and to
say, that the proposed connection between the families must from this time
be thought of no more.”

The unfeeling manner, in which Madame Montoni thus informed her
niece, that she must be separated, perhaps for ever, from the man, with
whom she was on the point of being united for life, added to the dismay,
which she must otherwise have suffered at such intelligence. When she
could speak, she asked the cause of the sudden change in Madame’s
sentiments towards Valancourt, but the only reply she could obtain was, that
the Signor had forbade the connection, considering it to be greatly inferior
to what Emily might reasonably expect.
“I now leave the affair entirely to the Signor,” added Madame Montoni,
“but I must say, that M. Valancourt never was a favourite with me, and I
was overpersuaded, or I should not have given my consent to the
connection. I was weak enough—I am so foolish sometimes!—to suffer
other people’s uneasiness to affect me, and so my better judgment yielded
to your affliction. But the Signor has very properly pointed out the folly of
this, and he shall not have to reprove me a second time. I am determined,
that you shall submit to those, who know how to guide you better than
yourself—I am determined, that you shall be conformable.”
Emily would have been astonished at the assertions of this eloquent
speech, had not her mind been so overwhelmed by the sudden shock it had
received, that she scarcely heard a word of what was latterly addressed to
her. Whatever were the weaknesses of Madame Montoni, she might have
avoided to accuse herself with those of compassion and tenderness to the
feelings of others, and especially to those of Emily. It was the same
ambition, that lately prevailed upon her to solicit an alliance with Madame
Clairval’s family, which induced her to withdraw from it, now that her
marriage with Montoni had exalted her self-consequence, and, with it, her
views for her niece.
Emily was, at this time, too much affected to employ either
remonstrance, or entreaty on this topic; and when, at length, she attempted
the latter, her emotion overcame her speech, and she retired to her
apartment, to think, if in the present state of her mind to think was possible,
upon this sudden and overwhelming subject. It was very long, before her
spirits were sufficiently composed to permit the reflection, which, when it
came, was dark and even terrible. She saw, that Montoni sought to
aggrandise himself in his disposal of her, and it occurred, that his friend
Cavigni was the person, for whom he was interested. The prospect of going

to Italy was still rendered darker, when she considered the tumultuous
situation of that country, then torn by civil commotion, where every petty
state was at war with its neighbour, and even every castle liable to the attack
of an invader. She considered the person, to whose immediate guidance she
would be committed, and the vast distance, that was to separate her from
Valancourt, and, at the recollection of him, every other image vanished
from her mind, and every thought was again obscured by grief.
In this perturbed state she passed some hours, and, when she was
summoned to dinner, she entreated permission to remain in her own
apartment; but Madame Montoni was alone, and the request was refused.
Emily and her aunt said little during the repast; the one occupied by her
griefs, the other engrossed by the disappointment, which the unexpected
absence of Montoni occasioned; for not only was her vanity piqued by the
neglect, but her jealousy alarmed by what she considered as a mysterious
engagement. When the cloth was drawn and they were alone, Emily
renewed the mention of Valancourt; but her aunt, neither softened to pity,
nor awakened to remorse, became enraged, that her will should be opposed,
and the authority of Montoni questioned, though this was done by Emily
with her usual gentleness, who, after a long, and torturing conversation,
retired in tears.
As she crossed the hall, a person entered it by the great door, whom, as
her eyes hastily glanced that way, she imagined to be Montoni, and she was
passing on with quicker steps, when she heard the well-known voice of
Valancourt.
“Emily, O! my Emily!” cried he in a tone faltering with impatience,
while she turned, and, as he advanced, was alarmed at the expression of his
countenance and the eager desperation of his air. “In tears, Emily! I would
speak with you,” said he, “I have much to say; conduct me to where we
may converse. But you tremble—you are ill! Let me lead you to a seat.”
He observed the open door of an apartment, and hastily took her hand to
lead her thither; but she attempted to withdraw it, and said, with a languid
smile, “I am better already; if you wish to see my aunt she is in the dining-
parlour.” “I must speak with you, my Emily,” replied Valancourt, “Good
God! is it already come to this? Are you indeed so willing to resign me? But
this is an improper place—I am overheard. Let me entreat your attention, if
only for a few minutes.”—“When you have seen my aunt,” said Emily. “I

was wretched enough when I came hither,” exclaimed Valancourt, “do not
increase my misery by this coldness—this cruel refusal.”
The despondency, with which he spoke this, affected her almost to tears,
but she persisted in refusing to hear him, till he had conversed with
Madame Montoni. “Where is her husband, where, then, is Montoni?” said
Valancourt, in an altered tone: “it is he, to whom I must speak.”
Emily, terrified for the consequence of the indignation, that flashed in his
eyes, tremblingly assured him, that Montoni was not at home, and entreated
he would endeavour to moderate his resentment. At the tremulous accents
of her voice, his eyes softened instantly from wildness into tenderness.
“You are ill, Emily,” said he, “they will destroy us both! Forgive me, that I
dared to doubt your affection.”
Emily no longer opposed him, as he led her into an adjoining parlour; the
manner, in which he had named Montoni, had so much alarmed her for his
own safety, that she was now only anxious to prevent the consequences of
his just resentment. He listened to her entreaties, with attention, but replied
to them only with looks of despondency and tenderness, concealing, as
much as possible, the sentiments he felt towards Montoni, that he might
soothe the apprehensions, which distressed her. But she saw the veil he had
spread over his resentment, and, his assumed tranquillity only alarming her
more, she urged, at length, the impolicy of forcing an interview with
Montoni, and of taking any measure, which might render their separation
irremediable. Valancourt yielded to these remonstrances, and her affecting
entreaties drew from him a promise, that, however Montoni might persist in
his design of disuniting them, he would not seek to redress his wrongs by
violence. “For my sake,” said Emily, “let the consideration of what I should
suffer deter you from such a mode of revenge!” “For your sake, Emily,”
replied Valancourt, his eyes filling with tears of tenderness and grief, while
he gazed upon her. “Yes—yes—I shall subdue myself. But, though I have
given you my solemn promise to do this, do not expect, that I can tamely
submit to the authority of Montoni; if I could, I should be unworthy of you.
Yet, O Emily! how long may he condemn me to live without you,—how
long may it be before you return to France!”
Emily endeavoured to sooth him with assurances of her unalterable
affection, and by representing, that, in little more than a year, she should be
her own mistress, as far as related to her aunt, from whose guardianship her

age would then release her; assurances, which gave little consolation to
Valancourt, who considered, that she would then be in Italy and in the
power of those, whose dominion over her would not cease with their rights;
but he affected to be consoled by them. Emily, comforted by the promise
she had obtained, and by his apparent composure, was about to leave him,
when her aunt entered the room. She threw a glance of sharp reproof upon
her niece, who immediately withdrew, and of haughty displeasure upon
Valancourt.
“This is not the conduct I should have expected from you, sir;” said she,
“I did not expect to see you in my house, after you had been informed, that
your visits were no longer agreeable, much less, that you would seek a
clandestine interview with my niece, and that she would grant one.”
Valancourt, perceiving it necessary to vindicate Emily from such a
design, explained, that the purpose of his own visit had been to request an
interview with Montoni, and he then entered upon the subject of it, with the
tempered spirit which the sex, rather than the respectability, of Madame
Montoni, demanded.
His expostulations were answered with severe rebuke; she lamented
again, that her prudence had ever yielded to what she termed compassion,
and added, that she was so sensible of the folly of her former consent, that,
to prevent the possibility of a repetition, she had committed the affair
entirely to the conduct of Signor Montoni.
The feeling eloquence of Valancourt, however, at length, made her
sensible in some measure of her unworthy conduct, and she became
susceptible to shame, but not remorse: she hated Valancourt, who awakened
her to this painful sensation, and, in proportion as she grew dissatisfied with
herself, her abhorrence of him increased. This was also the more inveterate,
because his tempered words and manner were such as, without accusing
her, compelled her to accuse herself, and neither left her a hope, that the
odious portrait was the caricature of his prejudice, or afforded her an excuse
for expressing the violent resentment, with which she contemplated it. At
length, her anger rose to such a height, that Valancourt was compelled to
leave the house abruptly, lest he should forfeit his own esteem by an
intemperate reply. He was then convinced, that from Madame Montoni he
had nothing to hope, for what of either pity, or justice could be expected

from a person, who could feel the pain of guilt, without the humility of
repentance?
To Montoni he looked with equal despondency, since it was nearly
evident, that this plan of separation originated with him, and it was not
probable, that he would relinquish his own views to entreaties, or
remonstrances, which he must have foreseen and have been prepared to
resist. Yet, remembering his promise to Emily, and more solicitous,
concerning his love, than jealous of his consequence, Valancourt was
careful to do nothing that might unnecessarily irritate Montoni, he wrote to
him, therefore, not to demand an interview, but to solicit one, and, having
done this, he endeavoured to wait with calmness his reply.
Madame Clairval was passive in the affair. When she gave her
approbation to Valancourt’s marriage, it was in the belief, that Emily would
be the heiress of Madame Montoni’s fortune; and, though, upon the nuptials
of the latter, when she perceived the fallacy of this expectation, her
conscience had withheld her from adopting any measure to prevent the
union, her benevolence was not sufficiently active to impel her towards any
step, that might now promote it. She was, on the contrary, secretly pleased,
that Valancourt was released from an engagement, which she considered to
be as inferior, in point of fortune, to his merit, as his alliance was thought
by Montoni to be humiliating to the beauty of Emily; and, though her pride
was wounded by this rejection of a member of her family, she disdained to
show resentment otherwise, than by silence.
Montoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said, that as an interview could
neither remove the objections of the one, nor overcome the wishes of the
other, it would serve only to produce useless altercation between them. He,
therefore, thought proper to refuse it.
In consideration of the policy, suggested by Emily, and of his promise to
her, Valancourt restrained the impulse, that urged him to the house of
Montoni, to demand what had been denied to his entreaties. He only
repeated his solicitations to see him; seconding them with all the arguments
his situation could suggest. Thus several days passed, in remonstrance, on
one side, and inflexible denial, on the other; for, whether it was fear, or
shame, or the hatred, which results from both, that made Montoni shun the
man he had injured, he was peremptory in his refusal, and was neither
softened to pity by the agony, which Valancourt’s letters portrayed, nor

awakened to a repentance of his own injustice by the strong remonstrances
he employed. At length, Valancourt’s letters were returned unopened, and
then, in the first moments of passionate despair, he forgot every promise to
Emily, except the solemn one, which bound him to avoid violence, and
hastened to Montoni’s château, determined to see him by whatever other
means might be necessary. Montoni was denied, and Valancourt, when he
afterwards enquired for Madame, and Ma’amselle St. Aubert, was
absolutely refused admittance by the servants. Not choosing to submit
himself to a contest with these, he, at length, departed, and, returning home
in a state of mind approaching to frenzy, wrote to Emily of what had
passed, expressed without restraint all the agony of his heart, and entreated,
that, since he must not otherwise hope to see her immediately, she would
allow him an interview unknown to Montoni. Soon after he had dispatched
this, his passions becoming more temperate, he was sensible of the error he
had committed in having given Emily a new subject of distress in the strong
mention of his own suffering, and would have given half the world, had it
been his, to recover the letter. Emily, however, was spared the pain she must
have received from it by the suspicious policy of Madame Montoni, who
had ordered, that all letters, addressed to her niece, should be delivered to
herself, and who, after having perused this and indulged the expressions of
resentment, which Valancourt’s mention of Montoni provoked, had
consigned it to the flames.
Montoni, meanwhile, every day more impatient to leave France, gave
repeated orders for dispatch to the servants employed in preparations for the
journey, and to the persons, with whom he was transacting some particular
business. He preserved a steady silence to the letters in which Valancourt,
despairing of greater good, and having subdued the passion, that had
transgressed against his policy, solicited only the indulgence of being
allowed to bid Emily farewell. But when Valancourt learned that she was
really to set out in a very few days, and that it was designed he should see
her no more, forgetting every consideration of prudence, he dared, in a
second letter to Emily, to propose a clandestine marriage. This also was
transmitted to Madame Montoni, and the last day of Emily’s stay at
Thoulouse arrived, without affording Valancourt even a line to sooth his
sufferings, or a hope, that he should be allowed a parting interview.
During this period of torturing suspense to Valancourt, Emily was sunk
into that kind of stupor, with which sudden and irremediable misfortune

sometimes overwhelms the mind. Loving him with the tenderest affection,
and having long been accustomed to consider him as the friend and
companion of all her future days, she had no ideas of happiness, that were
not connected with him. What, then, must have been her suffering, when
thus suddenly they were to be separated, perhaps, for ever, certainly to be
thrown into distant parts of the world, where they could scarcely hear of
each other’s existence; and all this in obedience to the will of a stranger, for
such as Montoni, and of a person, who had but lately been anxious to hasten
their nuptials! It was in vain, that she endeavoured to subdue her grief, and
resign herself to an event, which she could not avoid. The silence of
Valancourt afflicted more than it surprised her, since she attributed it to its
just occasion; but, when the day, preceding that, on which she was to quit
Thoulouse, arrived, and she had heard no mention of his being permitted to
take leave of her, grief overcame every consideration, that had made her
reluctant to speak of him, and she enquired of Madame Montoni, whether
this consolation had been refused. Her aunt informed her that it had, adding,
that, after the provocation she had herself received from Valancourt, in their
last interview, and the persecution, which the Signor had suffered from his
letters, no entreaties should avail to procure it.
“If the chevalier expected this favour from us,” said she, “he should have
conducted himself in a very different manner; he should have waited
patiently, till he knew whether we were disposed to grant it, and not have
come and reproved me, because I did not think proper to bestow my niece
upon him, and then have persisted in troubling the Signor, because he did
not think proper to enter into any dispute about so childish an affair. His
behaviour throughout has been extremely presumptuous and impertinent,
and I desire, that I may never hear his name repeated, and that you will get
the better of those foolish sorrows and whims, and look like other people,
and not appear with that dismal countenance, as if you were ready to cry.
For, though you say nothing, you cannot conceal your grief from my
penetration. I can see you are ready to cry at this moment, though I am
reproving you for it; aye, even now, in spite of my commands.”
Emily, having turned away to hide her tears, quitted the room to indulge
them, and the day was passed in an intensity of anguish, such as she had,
perhaps, never known before. When she withdrew to her chamber for the
night, she remained in the chair where she had placed herself, on entering
the room, absorbed in her grief, till long after every member of the family,

except herself, was retired to rest. She could not divest herself of a belief,
that she had parted with Valancourt to meet no more; a belief, which did not
arise merely from foreseen circumstances, for, though the length of the
journey she was about to commence, the uncertainty as to the period of her
return, together with the prohibitions she had received, seemed to justify it,
she yielded also to an impression, which she mistook for a presentiment,
that she was going from Valancourt for ever. How dreadful to her
imagination, too, was the distance that would separate them—the Alps,
those tremendous barriers! would rise, and whole countries extend between
the regions where each must exist! To live in adjoining provinces, to live
even in the same country, though without seeing him, was comparative
happiness to the conviction of this dreadful length of distance.
Her mind was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of her
state, and the belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last time, that she
suddenly became very faint, and, looking round the chamber for something,
that might revive her, she observed the casements, and had just strength to
throw one open, near which she seated herself. The air recalled her spirits,
and the still moonlight, that fell upon the elms of a long avenue, fronting
the window, somewhat soothed them, and determined her to try whether
exercise and the open air would not relieve the intense pain that bound her
temples. In the château all was still; and, passing down the great staircase
into the hall, from whence a passage led immediately to the garden, she
softly and unheard, as she thought, unlocked the door, and entered the
avenue. Emily passed on with steps now hurried, and now faltering, as,
deceived by the shadows among the trees, she fancied she saw some person
move in the distant perspective, and feared, that it was a spy of Madame
Montoni. Her desire, however, to revisit the pavilion, where she had passed
so many happy hours with Valancourt, and had admired with him the
extensive prospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony, overcame her
apprehension of being observed, and she moved on towards the terrace,
which, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole of the lower
one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble steps, that terminated
the avenue.
Having reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for her
distance from the château now increased the fear, which the stillness and
obscurity of the hour had awakened. But, perceiving nothing that could
justify it, she ascended to the terrace, where the moonlight showed the long

broad walk, with the pavilion at its extremity, while the rays silvered the
foliage of the high trees and shrubs, that bordered it on the right, and the
tufted summits of those, that rose to a level with the balustrade on the left,
from the garden below. Her distance from the château again alarming her,
she paused to listen; the night was so calm, that no sound could have
escaped her, but she heard only the plaintive sweetness of the nightingale,
with the light shiver of the leaves, and she pursued her way towards the
pavilion, having reached which, its obscurity did not prevent the emotion,
that a fuller view of its well-known scene would have excited. The lattices
were thrown back, and showed beyond their embowered arch the moonlight
landscape, shadowy and soft; its groves, and plains extending gradually and
indistinctly to the eye, its distant mountains catching a stronger gleam, and
the nearer river reflecting the moon, and trembling to her rays.
Emily, as she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features of this
scene only as they served to bring Valancourt more immediately to her
fancy. “Ah!” said she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw herself into a chair by
the window, “how often have we sat together in this spot—often have
looked upon that landscape! Never, never more shall we view it together—
never—never more, perhaps, shall we look upon each other!”
Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror—a voice spoke near her in the
pavilion; she shrieked—it spoke again, and she distinguished the well-
known tones of Valancourt. It was indeed Valancourt who supported her in
his arms! For some moments their emotion would not suffer either to speak.
“Emily,” said Valancourt at length, as he pressed her hand in his. “Emily!”
and he was again silent, but the accent, in which he had pronounced her
name, expressed all his tenderness and sorrow.
“O my Emily!” he resumed, after a long pause, “I do then see you once
again, and hear again the sound of that voice! I have haunted this place—
these gardens, for many—many nights, with a faint, very faint hope of
seeing you. This was the only chance that remained to me, and thank
Heaven! it has at length succeeded—I am not condemned to absolute
despair!”
Emily said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive of her
unalterable affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation of his mind;
but Valancourt could for some time only utter incoherent expressions of his
emotions; and, when he was somewhat more composed, he said, “I came

hither, soon after sunset, and have been watching in the gardens, and in this
pavilion ever since; for, though I had now given up all hope of seeing you, I
could not resolve to tear myself from a place so near to you, and should
probably have lingered about the château till morning dawned. O how
heavily the moments have passed, yet with what various emotion have they
been marked, as I sometimes thought I heard footsteps, and fancied you
were approaching, and then again—perceived only a dead and dreary
silence! But, when you opened the door of the pavilion, and the darkness
prevented my distinguishing with certainty, whether it was my love—my
heart beat so strongly with hopes and fears, that I could not speak. The
instant I heard the plaintive accents of your voice, my doubts vanished, but
not my fears, till you spoke of me; then, losing the apprehension of
alarming you in the excess of my emotion, I could no longer be silent. O
Emily! these are moments, in which joy and grief struggle so powerfully for
pre-eminence, that the heart can scarcely support the contest!”
Emily’s heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joy she felt
on thus meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she was lamenting,
that they must probably meet no more, soon melted into grief, as reflection
stole over her thoughts, and imagination prompted visions of the future. She
struggled to recover the calm dignity of mind, which was necessary to
support her through this last interview, and which Valancourt found it
utterly impossible to attain, for the transports of his joy changed abruptly
into those of suffering, and he expressed in the most impassioned language
his horror of this separation, and his despair of their ever meeting again.
Emily wept silently as she listened to him, and then, trying to command her
own distress, and to sooth his, she suggested every circumstance that could
lead to hope. But the energy of his fears led him instantly to detect the
friendly fallacies, which she endeavoured to impose on herself and him, and
also to conjure up illusions too powerful for his reason.
“You are going from me,” said he, “to a distant country, O how distant!—
to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too, who will try to
make you forget me, and to promote new connections! How can I know
this, and not know, that you will never return for me—never can be mine.”
His voice was stifled by sighs.
“You believe, then,” said Emily, “that the pangs I suffer proceed from a
trivial and temporary interest; you believe—”

“Suffer!” interrupted Valancourt, “suffer for me! O Emily—how sweet—
how bitter are those words; what comfort, what anguish do they give! I
ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection, yet such is the
inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion, however
unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the object of its
interest, and thus it is, that I always feel revived, as by a new conviction,
when your words tell me I am dear to you; and, wanting these, I relapse into
doubt, and too often into despondency.” Then seeming to recollect himself,
he exclaimed, “But what a wretch am I, thus to torture you, and in these
moments, too! I, who ought to support and comfort you!”
This reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing into
despondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again this cruel
separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that Emily could no longer
struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth his. Valancourt, between these
emotions of love and pity, lost the power, and almost the wish, of repressing
his agitation; and, in the intervals of convulsive sobs, he, at one moment,
kissed away her tears, then told her cruelly, that possibly she might never
again weep for him, and then tried to speak more calmly, but only
exclaimed, “O Emily—my heart will break!—I cannot—cannot leave you!
Now—I gaze upon that countenance, now I hold you in my arms! a little
while, and all this will appear a dream. I shall look, and cannot see you;
shall try to recollect your features—and the impression will be fled from
my imagination;—to hear the tones of your voice, and even memory will be
silent!—I cannot, cannot leave you! Why should we confide the happiness
of our whole lives to the will of people, who have no right to interrupt, and,
except in giving you to me, have no power to promote it? O Emily! venture
to trust your own heart, venture to be mine for ever!” His voice trembled,
and he was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was silent also, when
Valancourt proceeded to propose an immediate marriage, and that at an
early hour on the following morning, she should quit Madame Montoni’s
house, and be conducted by him to the church of the Augustines, where a
friar should await to unite them.
The silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love and
despair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely possible for her
to oppose it;—when her heart was softened by the sorrows of a separation,
that might be eternal, and her reason obscured by the illusions of love and
terror, encouraged him to hope, that it would not be rejected. “Speak, my

Emily!” said Valancourt eagerly, “let me hear your voice, let me hear you
confirm my fate.” she spoke not; her cheek was cold, and her senses seemed
to fail her, but she did not faint. To Valancourt’s terrified imagination she
appeared to be dying; he called upon her name, rose to go to the château for
assistance, and then, recollecting her situation, feared to go, or to leave her
for a moment.
After a few minutes, she drew a deep sigh, and began to revive. The
conflict she had suffered, between love and the duty she at present owed to
her father’s sister; her repugnance to a clandestine marriage, her fear of
emerging on the world with embarrassments, such as might ultimately
involve the object of her affection in misery and repentance;—all this
various interest was too powerful for a mind, already enervated by sorrow,
and her reason had suffered a transient suspension. But duty, and good
sense, however hard the conflict, at length, triumphed over affection and
mournful presentiment; above all, she dreaded to involve Valancourt in
obscurity and vain regret, which she saw, or thought she saw, must be the
too certain consequence of a marriage in their present circumstances; and
she acted, perhaps, with somewhat more than female fortitude, when she
resolved to endure a present, rather than provoke a distant misfortune.
With a candour, that proved how truly she esteemed and loved him, and
which endeared her to him, if possible, more than ever, she told Valancourt
all her reasons for rejecting his proposals. Those, which influenced her
concerning his future welfare, he instantly refuted, or rather contradicted;
but they awakened tender considerations for her, which the frenzy of
passion and despair had concealed before, and love, which had but lately
prompted him to propose a clandestine and immediate marriage, now
induced him to renounce it. The triumph was almost too much for his heart;
for Emily’s sake, he endeavoured to stifle his grief, but the swelling anguish
would not be restrained. “O Emily!” said he, “I must leave you—I must
leave you, and I know it is for ever!”
Convulsive sobs again interrupted his words, and they wept together in
silence, till Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered, and the
impropriety of prolonging an interview, which might subject her to censure,
summoned all her fortitude to utter a last farewell.
“Stay!” said Valancourt, “I conjure you stay, for I have much to tell you.
The agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak only on the

subject that occupied it;—I have forborne to mention a doubt of much
importance, partly, lest it should appear as if I told it with an ungenerous
view of alarming you into a compliance with my late proposal.”
Emily, much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from the
pavilion, and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as follows:
“This Montoni: I have heard some strange hints concerning him. Are you
certain he is of Madame Quesnel’s family, and that his fortune is what it
appears to be?”
“I have no reason to doubt either,” replied Emily, in a voice of alarm. “Of
the first, indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no certain means of judging of
the latter, and I entreat you will tell me all you have heard.”
“That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactory
information. I gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was speaking to
another person of this Montoni. They were talking of his marriage; the
Italian said, that if he was the person he meant, he was not likely to make
Madame Cheron happy. He proceeded to speak of him in general terms of
dislike, and then gave some particular hints, concerning his character, that
excited my curiosity, and I ventured to ask him a few questions. He was
reserved in his replies, but, after hesitating for some time, he owned, that he
had understood abroad, that Montoni was a man of desperate fortune and
character. He said something of a castle of Montoni’s, situated among the
Apennines, and of some strange circumstances, that might be mentioned, as
to his former mode of life. I pressed him to inform me further, but I believe
the strong interest I felt was visible in my manner, and alarmed him; for no
entreaties could prevail with him to give any explanation of the
circumstances he had alluded to, or to mention anything further concerning
Montoni. I observed to him, that, if Montoni was possessed of a castle in
the Apennines, it appeared from such a circumstance, that he was of some
family, and also seemed to contradict the report, that he was a man of
entirely broken fortunes. He shook his head, and looked as if he could have
said a great deal, but made no reply.
“A hope of learning something more satisfactory, or more positive,
detained me in his company a considerable time, and I renewed the subject
repeatedly, but the Italian wrapped himself up in reserve, said—that what he
had mentioned he had caught only from a floating report, and that reports
frequently arose from personal malice, and were very little to be depended

upon. I forbore to press the subject farther, since it was obvious that he was
alarmed for the consequence of what he had already said, and I was
compelled to remain in uncertainty on a point where suspense is almost
intolerable. Think, Emily, what I must suffer to see you depart for a foreign
country, committed to the power of a man of such doubtful character as is
this Montoni! But I will not alarm you unnecessarily;—it is possible, as the
Italian said, at first, that this is not the Montoni he alluded to. Yet, Emily,
consider well before you resolve to commit yourself to him. O! I must not
trust myself to speak—or I shall renounce all the motives, which so lately
influenced me to resign the hope of your becoming mine immediately.”
Valancourt walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emily
remained leaning on the balustrade in deep thought. The information she
had just received excited, perhaps, more alarm than it could justify, and
raised once more the conflict of contrasted interests. She had never liked
Montoni. The fire and keenness of his eye, its proud exultation, its bold
fierceness, its sullen watchfulness, as occasion, and even slight occasion,
had called forth the latent soul, she had often observed with emotion; while
from the usual expression of his countenance she had always shrunk. From
such observations she was the more inclined to believe, that it was this
Montoni, of whom the Italian had uttered his suspicious hints. The thought
of being solely in his power, in a foreign land, was terrifying to her, but it
was not by terror alone that she was urged to an immediate marriage with
Valancourt. The tenderest love had already pleaded his cause, but had been
unable to overcome her opinion, as to her duty, her disinterested
considerations for Valancourt, and the delicacy, which made her revolt from
a clandestine union. It was not to be expected, that a vague terror would be
more powerful, than the united influence of love and grief. But it recalled
all their energy, and rendered a second conquest necessary.
With Valancourt, whose imagination was now awake to the suggestion of
every passion; whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength by the
mere mention of them, and became every instant more powerful, as his
mind brooded over them—with Valancourt no second conquest was
attainable. He thought he saw in the clearest light, and love assisted the fear,
that this journey to Italy would involve Emily in misery; he determined,
therefore, to persevere in opposing it, and in conjuring her to bestow upon
him the title of her lawful protector.

“Emily!” said he, with solemn earnestness, “this is no time for scrupulous
distinctions, for weighing the dubious and comparatively trifling
circumstances, that may affect our future comfort. I now see, much more
clearly than before, the train of serious dangers you are going to encounter
with a man of Montoni’s character. Those dark hints of the Italian spoke
much, but not more than the idea I have of Montoni’s disposition, as
exhibited even in his countenance. I think I see at this moment all that could
have been hinted, written there. He is the Italian, whom I fear, and I conjure
you for your own sake, as well as for mine, to prevent the evils I shudder to
foresee. O Emily! let my tenderness, my arms withhold you from them—
give me the right to defend you!”
Emily only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate and to
entreat with all the energy that love and apprehension could inspire. But, as
his imagination magnified to her the possible evils she was going to meet,
the mists of her own fancy began to dissipate, and allowed her to
distinguish the exaggerated images, which imposed on his reason. She
considered, that there was no proof of Montoni being the person, whom the
stranger had meant; that, even if he was so, the Italian had noticed his
character and broken fortunes merely from report; and that, though the
countenance of Montoni seemed to give probability to a part of the rumour,
it was not by such circumstances that an implicit belief of it could be
justified. These considerations would probably not have arisen so distinctly
to her mind, at this time, had not the terrors of Valancourt presented to her
such obvious exaggerations of her danger, as incited her to distrust the
fallacies of passion. But, while she endeavoured in the gentlest manner to
convince him of his error, she plunged him into a new one. His voice and
countenance changed to an expression of dark despair. “Emily!” said he,
“this, this moment is the bitterest that is yet come to me. You do not—
cannot love me!—It would be impossible for you to reason thus coolly, thus
deliberately, if you did. I, I am torn with anguish at the prospect of our
separation, and of the evils that may await you in consequence of it; I would
encounter any hazards to prevent it—to save you. No! Emily, no!—you
cannot love me.”
“We have now little time to waste in exclamation, or assertion,” said
Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion: “if you are yet to learn how
dear you are, and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of mine can give
you conviction.”

The last words faltered on her lips, and her tears flowed fast. These
words and tears brought, once more, and with instantaneous force,
conviction of her love to Valancourt. He could only exclaim, “Emily!
Emily!” and weep over the hand he pressed to his lips; but she, after some
moments, again roused herself from the indulgence of sorrow, and said, “I
must leave you; it is late, and my absence from the château may be
discovered. Think of me—love me—when I am far away; the belief of this
will be my comfort!”
“Think of you!—love you!” exclaimed Valancourt.
“Try to moderate these transports,” said Emily, “for my sake, try.”
“For your sake!”
“Yes, for my sake,” replied Emily, in a tremulous voice, “I cannot leave
you thus!”
“Then do not leave me!” said Valancourt, with quickness. “Why should
we part, or part for longer than till tomorrow?”
“I am, indeed I am, unequal to these moments,” replied Emily, “you tear
my heart, but I never can consent to this hasty, imprudent proposal!”
“If we could command our time, my Emily, it should not be thus hasty;
we must submit to circumstances.”
“We must indeed! I have already told you all my heart—my spirits are
gone. You allowed the force of my objections, till your tenderness called up
vague terrors, which have given us both unnecessary anguish. Spare me! do
not oblige me to repeat the reasons I have already urged.”
“Spare you!” cried Valancourt, “I am a wretch—a very wretch, that have
felt only for myself!—I! who ought to have shown the fortitude of a man,
who ought to have supported you, I have increased your sufferings by the
conduct of a child! Forgive me, Emily! think of the distraction of my mind
now that I am about to part with all that is dear to me—and forgive me!
When you are gone, I shall recollect with bitter remorse what I have made
you suffer, and shall wish in vain that I could see you, if only for a moment,
that I might sooth your grief.”
Tears again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him. “I will show
myself more worthy of your love,” said Valancourt, at length; “I will not
prolong these moments. My Emily—my own Emily! never forget me! God

knows when we shall meet again! I resign you to his care.—O God!—O
God!—protect and bless her!”
He pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunk almost lifeless on his
bosom, and neither wept, nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding his own
distress, tried to comfort and reassure her, but she appeared totally
unaffected by what he said, and a sigh, which she uttered, now and then,
was all that proved she had not fainted.
He supported her slowly towards the château, weeping and speaking to
her; but she answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate, that
terminated the avenue, she seemed to have recovered her consciousness,
and, looking round, perceived how near they were to the château. “We must
part here,” said she, stopping, “Why prolong these moments? Teach me the
fortitude I have forgot.”
Valancourt struggled to assume a composed air. “Farewell, my love!”
said he, in a voice of solemn tenderness—“trust me we shall meet again—
meet for each other—meet to part no more!” His voice faltered, but,
recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer tone. “You know not what I shall
suffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no opportunity of conveying to you
my letters, yet I tremble to think how few may occur. And trust me, love,
for your dear sake, I will try to bear this absence with fortitude. O how little
I have shown tonight!”
“Farewell!” said Emily faintly. “When you are gone, I shall think of
many things I would have said to you.” “And I of many—many!” said
Valancourt; “I never left you yet, that I did not immediately remember some
question, or some entreaty, or some circumstance, concerning my love, that
I earnestly wished to mention, and feel wretched because I could not. O
Emily! this countenance, on which I now gaze—will, in a moment, be gone
from my eyes, and not all the efforts of fancy will be able to recall it with
exactness. O! what an infinite difference between this moment and the next!
—now, I am in your presence, can behold you! then, all will be a dreary
blank—and I shall be a wanderer, exiled from my only home!”
Valancourt again pressed her to his heart, and held her there in silence,
weeping. Tears once again calmed her oppressed mind. They again bade
each other farewell, lingered a moment, and then parted. Valancourt seemed
to force himself from the spot; he passed hastily up the avenue, and Emily,
as she moved slowly towards the château, heard his distant steps. She

listened to the sounds, as they sunk fainter and fainter, till the melancholy
stillness of night alone remained; and then hurried to her chamber, to seek
repose, which, alas! was fled from her wretchedness.

VOLUME 2

CHAPTER I
Where’er I roam, whatever realms I see,
My heart untravell’d still shall turn to thee.
GOLDSMITH

The carriages were at the gates at an early hour; the bustle of the
domestics, passing to and fro in the galleries, awakened Emily from
harassing slumbers: her unquiet mind had, during the night, presented her
with terrific images and obscure circumstances, concerning her affection
and her future life. She now endeavoured to chase away the impressions
they had left on her fancy; but from imaginary evils she awoke to the
consciousness of real ones. Recollecting that she had parted with
Valancourt, perhaps for ever, her heart sickened as memory revived. But she
tried to dismiss the dismal forebodings that crowded on her mind, and to
restrain the sorrow which she could not subdue; efforts which diffused over
the settled melancholy of her countenance an expression of tempered
resignation, as a thin veil, thrown over the features of beauty, renders them
more interesting by a partial concealment. But Madame Montoni observed
nothing in this countenance except its usual paleness, which attracted her
censure. She told her niece, that she had been indulging in fanciful sorrows,
and begged she would have more regard for decorum, than to let the world
see that she could not renounce an improper attachment; at which Emily’s
pale cheek became flushed with crimson, but it was the blush of pride, and
she made no answer. Soon after, Montoni entered the breakfast room, spoke
little, and seemed impatient to be gone.
The windows of this room opened upon the garden. As Emily passed
them, she saw the spot where she had parted with Valancourt on the
preceding night: the remembrance pressed heavily on her heart, and she
turned hastily away from the object that had awakened it.
The baggage being at length adjusted, the travellers entered their
carriages, and Emily would have left the château without one sigh of regret,
had it not been situated in the neighbourhood of Valancourt’s residence.

From a little eminence she looked back upon Thoulouse, and the far-seen
plains of Gascony, beyond which the broken summits of the Pyrenees
appeared on the distant horizon, lighted up by a morning sun. “Dear
pleasant mountains!” said she to herself, “how long may it be ere I see ye
again, and how much may happen to make me miserable in the interval!
Oh, could I now be certain, that I should ever return to ye, and find that
Valancourt still lived for me, I should go in peace! He will still gaze on ye,
gaze when I am far away!”
The trees, that impended over the high banks of the road and formed a
line of perspective with the distant country, now threatened to exclude the
view of them; but the bluish mountains still appeared beyond the dark
foliage, and Emily continued to lean from the coach window, till at length
the closing branches shut them from her sight.
Another object soon caught her attention. She had scarcely looked at a
person who walked along the bank, with his hat, in which was the military
feather, drawn over his eyes, before, at the sound of wheels, he suddenly
turned, and she perceived that it was Valancourt himself, who waved his
hand, sprung into the road, and through the window of the carriage put a
letter into her hand. He endeavoured to smile through the despair that
overspread his countenance as she passed on. The remembrance of that
smile seemed impressed on Emily’s mind for ever. She leaned from the
window, and saw him on a knoll of the broken bank, leaning against the
high trees that waved over him, and pursuing the carriage with his eyes. He
waved his hand, and she continued to gaze till distance confused his figure,
and at length another turn of the road entirely separated him from her sight.
Having stopped to take up Signor Cavigni at a château on the road, the
travellers, of whom Emily was disrespectfully seated with Madame
Montoni’s woman in a second carriage, pursued their way over the plains of
Languedoc. The presence of this servant restrained Emily from reading
Valancourt’s letter, for she did not choose to expose the emotions it might
occasion to the observation of any person. Yet such was her wish to read
this his last communication, that her trembling hand was every moment on
the point of breaking the seal.
At length they reached the village, where they staid only to change
horses, without alighting, and it was not till they stopped to dine, that Emily
had an opportunity of reading the letter. Though she had never doubted the

sincerity of Valancourt’s affection, the fresh assurances she now received of
it revived her spirits; she wept over his letter in tenderness, laid it by to be
referred to when they should be particularly depressed, and then thought of
him with much less anguish than she had done since they parted. Among
some other requests, which were interesting to her, because expressive of
his tenderness, and because a compliance with them seemed to annihilate
for a while the pain of absence, he entreated she would always think of him
at sunset. “You will then meet me in thought,” said he; “I shall constantly
watch the sunset, and I shall be happy in the belief, that your eyes are fixed
upon the same object with mine, and that our minds are conversing. You
know not, Emily, the comfort I promise myself from these moments; but I
trust you will experience it.”
It is unnecessary to say with what emotion Emily, on this evening,
watched the declining sun, over a long extent of plains, on which she saw it
set without interruption, and sink towards the province which Valancourt
inhabited. After this hour her mind became far more tranquil and resigned,
than it had been since the marriage of Montoni and her aunt.
During several days the travellers journeyed over the plains of
Languedoc; and then entering Dauphiny, and winding for some time among
the mountains of that romantic province, they quitted their carriages and
began to ascend the Alps. And here such scenes of sublimity opened upon
them as no colours of language must dare to paint! Emily’s mind was even
so much engaged with new and wonderful images, that they sometimes
banished the idea of Valancourt, though they more frequently revived it.
These brought to her recollection the prospects among the Pyrenees, which
they had admired together, and had believed nothing could excel in
grandeur. How often did she wish to express to him the new emotions
which this astonishing scenery awakened, and that he could partake of
them! Sometimes too she endeavoured to anticipate his remarks, and almost
imagined him present. She seemed to have arisen into another world, and to
have left every trifling thought, every trifling sentiment, in that below; those
only of grandeur and sublimity now dilated her mind, and elevated the
affections of her heart.
With what emotions of sublimity, softened by tenderness, did she meet
Valancourt in thought, at the customary hour of sunset, when, wandering
among the Alps, she watched the glorious orb sink amid their summits, his

last tints die away on their snowy points, and a solemn obscurity steal over
the scene! And when the last gleam had faded, she turned her eyes from the
west with somewhat of the melancholy regret that is experienced after the
departure of a beloved friend; while these lonely feelings were heightened
by the spreading gloom, and by the low sounds, heard only when darkness
confines attention, which make the general stillness more impressive—
leaves shook by the air, the last sigh of the breeze that lingers after sunset,
or the murmur of distant streams.
During the first days of this journey among the Alps, the scenery
exhibited a wonderful mixture of solitude and inhabitation, of cultivation
and barrenness. On the edge of tremendous precipices, and within the
hollow of the cliffs, below which the clouds often floated, were seen
villages, spires, and convent towers; while green pastures and vineyards
spread their hues at the feet of perpendicular rocks of marble, or of granite,
whose points, tufted with alpine shrubs, or exhibiting only massy crags,
rose above each other, till they terminated in the snowtopped mountain,
whence the torrent fell, that thundered along the valley.
The snow was not yet melted on the summit of Mount Cenis, over which
the travellers passed; but Emily, as she looked upon its clear lake and
extended plain, surrounded by broken cliffs, saw, in imagination, the
verdant beauty it would exhibit when the snows should be gone, and the
shepherds, leading up the midsummer flocks from Piedmont, to pasture on
its flowery summit, should add Arcadian figures to Arcadian landscape.
As she descended on the Italian side, the precipices became still more
tremendous, and the prospects still more wild and majestic, over which the
shifting lights threw all the pomp of colouring. Emily delighted to observe
the snowy tops of the mountains under the passing influence of the day,
blushing with morning, glowing with the brightness of noon, or just tinted
with the purple evening. The haunt of man could now only be discovered by
the simple hut of the shepherd and the hunter, or by the rough pine bridge
thrown across the torrent, to assist the latter in his chase of the chamois over
crags where, but for this vestige of man, it would have been believed only
the chamois or the wolf dared to venture. As Emily gazed upon one of these
perilous bridges, with the cataract foaming beneath it, some images came to
her mind, which she afterwards combined in the following

STORIED SONNET

The weary traveller, who all night long
Has climb’d among the Alps’ tremendous steeps,
Skirting the pathless precipice, where throng
Wild forms of danger; as he onward creeps
If, chance, his anxious eye at distance sees
The mountain-shepherd’s solitary home,
Peeping from forth the moon-illumin’d trees,
What sudden transports to his bosom come!
But, if between some hideous chasm yawn,
Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge displays,
In dreadful silence, on the brink, forlorn
He stands, and views in the faint rays
Far, far below, the torrent’s rising surge,
And listens to the wild impetuous roar;
Still eyes the depth, still shudders on the verge,
Fears to return, nor dares to venture o’er.
Desperate, at length the tottering plank he tries,
His weak steps slide, he shrieks, he sinks—he dies!

Emily, often as she travelled among the clouds, watched in silent awe
their billowy surges rolling below; sometimes, wholly closing upon the
scene, they appeared like a world of chaos, and, at others, spreading thinly,
they opened and admitted partial catches of the landscape—the torrent,
whose astounding roar had never failed, tumbling down the rocky chasm,
huge cliffs white with snow, or the dark summits of the pine forests, that
stretched mid-way down the mountains. But who may describe her rapture,
when, having passed through a sea of vapour, she caught a first view of
Italy; when, from the ridge of one of those tremendous precipices that hang
upon Mount Cenis and guard the entrance of that enchanting country, she
looked down through the lower clouds, and, as they floated away, saw the
grassy vales of Piedmont at her feet, and, beyond, the plains of Lombardy
extending to the farthest distance, at which appeared, on the faint horizon,
the doubtful towers of Turin?
The solitary grandeur of the objects that immediately surrounded her, the
mountain-region towering above, the deep precipices that fell beneath, the
waving blackness of the forests of pine and oak, which skirted their feet, or
hung within their recesses, the headlong torrents that, dashing among their
cliffs, sometimes appeared like a cloud of mist, at others like a sheet of ice
—these were features which received a higher character of sublimity from

the reposing beauty of the Italian landscape below, stretching to the wide
horizon, where the same melting blue tint seemed to unite earth and sky.
Madame Montoni only shuddered as she looked down precipices near
whose edge the chairmen trotted lightly and swiftly, almost, as the chamois
bounded, and from which Emily too recoiled; but with her fears were
mingled such various emotions of delight, such admiration, astonishment,
and awe, as she had never experienced before.
Meanwhile the carriers, having come to a landing-place, stopped to rest,
and the travellers being seated on the point of a cliff, Montoni and Cavigni
renewed a dispute concerning Hannibal’s passage over the Alps, Montoni
contending that he entered Italy by way of Mount Cenis, and Cavigni, that
he passed over Mount St. Bernard. The subject brought to Emily’s
imagination the disasters he had suffered in this bold and perilous
adventure. She saw his vast armies winding among the defiles, and over the
tremendous cliffs of the mountains, which at night were lighted up by his
fires, or by the torches which he caused to be carried when he pursued his
indefatigable march. In the eye of fancy, she perceived the gleam of arms
through the duskiness of night, the glitter of spears and helmets, and the
banners floating dimly on the twilight; while now and then the blast of a
distant trumpet echoed along the defile, and the signal was answered by a
momentary clash of arms. She looked with horror upon the mountaineers,
perched on the higher cliffs, assailing the troops below with broken
fragments of the mountain; on soldiers and elephants tumbling headlong
down the lower precipices; and, as she listened to the rebounding rocks, that
followed their fall, the terrors of fancy yielded to those of reality, and she
shuddered to behold herself on the dizzy height, whence she had pictured
the descent of others.
Madame Montoni, meantime, as she looked upon Italy, was
contemplating in imagination the splendour of palaces and the grandeur of
castles, such as she believed she was going to be mistress of at Venice and
in the Apennine, and she became, in idea, little less than a princess. Being
no longer under the alarms which had deterred her from giving
entertainments to the beauties of Thoulouse, whom Montoni had mentioned
with more eclât to his own vanity than credit to their discretion, or regard to
truth, she determined to give concerts, though she had neither ear nor taste
for music; conversazione, though she had no talents for conversation; and to

outvie, if possible, in the gaieties of her parties and the magnificence of her
liveries, all the noblesse of Venice. This blissful reverie was somewhat
obscured, when she recollected the Signor, her husband, who, though he
was not averse to the profit which sometimes results from such parties, had
always shown a contempt of the frivolous parade that sometimes attends
them; till she considered that his pride might be gratified by displaying,
among his own friends, in his native city, the wealth which he had neglected
in France; and she courted again the splendid illusions that had charmed her
before.
The travellers, as they descended, gradually, exchanged the region of
winter for the genial warmth and beauty of spring. The sky began to assume
that serene and beautiful tint peculiar to the climate of Italy; patches of
young verdure, fragrant shrubs and flowers looked gaily among the rocks,
often fringing their rugged brows, or hanging in tufts from their broken
sides; and the buds of the oak and mountain ash were expanding into
foliage. Descending lower, the orange and the myrtle, every now and then,
appeared in some sunny nook, with their yellow blossoms peeping from
among the dark green of their leaves, and mingling with the scarlet flowers
of the pomegranate and the paler ones of the arbutus, that ran mantling to
the crags above; while, lower still, spread the pastures of Piedmont, where
early flocks were cropping the luxuriant herbage of spring.
The river Doria, which, rising on the summit of Mount Cenis, had dashed
for many leagues over the precipices that bordered the road, now began to
assume a less impetuous, though scarcely less romantic character, as it
approached the green valleys of Piedmont, into which the travellers
descended with the evening sun; and Emily found herself once more amid
the tranquil beauty of pastoral scenery; among flocks and herds, and slopes
tufted with woods of lively verdure and with beautiful shrubs, such as she
had often seen waving luxuriantly over the alps above. The verdure of the
pasturage, now varied with the hues of early flowers, among which were
yellow ranunculuses and pansey violets of delicious fragrance, she had
never seen excelled.—Emily almost wished to become a peasant of
Piedmont, to inhabit one of the pleasant embowered cottages which she saw
peeping beneath the cliffs, and to pass her careless hours among these
romantic landscapes. To the hours, the months, she was to pass under the
dominion of Montoni, she looked with apprehension; while those which
were departed she remembered with regret and sorrow.

In the present scenes her fancy often gave her the figure of Valancourt,
whom she saw on a point of the cliffs, gazing with awe and admiration on
the imagery around him; or wandering pensively along the vale below,
frequently pausing to look back upon the scenery, and then, his countenance
glowing with the poet’s fire, pursuing his way to some overhanging heights.
When she again considered the time and the distance that were to separate
them, that every step she now took lengthened this distance, her heart sunk,
and the surrounding landscape charmed her no more.
The travellers, passing Novalesa, reached, after the evening had closed,
the small and ancient town of Susa, which had formerly guarded this pass
of the Alps into Piedmont. The heights which command it had, since the
invention of artillery, rendered its fortifications useless; but these romantic
heights, seen by moonlight, with the town below, surrounded by its walls
and watchtowers, and partially illumined, exhibited an interesting picture to
Emily. Here they rested for the night at an inn, which had little
accommodation to boast of; but the travellers brought with them the hunger
that gives delicious flavour to the coarsest viands, and the weariness that
ensures repose; and here Emily first caught a strain of Italian music, on
Italian ground. As she sat after supper at a little window, that opened upon
the country, observing an effect of the moonlight on the broken surface of
the mountains, and remembering that on such a night as this she once had
sat with her father and Valancourt, resting upon a cliff of the Pyrenees, she
heard from below the long-drawn notes of a violin, of such tone and
delicacy of expression, as harmonised exactly with the tender emotions she
was indulging, and both charmed and surprised her. Cavigni, who
approached the window, smiled at her surprise. “This is nothing
extraordinary,” said he, “you will hear the same, perhaps, at every inn on
our way. It is one of our landlord’s family who plays, I doubt not,” Emily,
as she listened, thought he could be scarcely less than a professor of music
whom she heard; and the sweet and plaintive strains soon lulled her into a
reverie, from which she was very unwillingly roused by the raillery of
Cavigni, and by the voice of Montoni, who gave orders to a servant to have
the carriages ready at an early hour on the following morning; and added,
that he meant to dine at Turin.
Madame Montoni was exceedingly rejoiced to be once more on level
ground; and, after giving a long detail of the various terrors she had
suffered, which she forgot that she was describing to the companions of her

dangers, she added a hope, that she should soon be beyond the view of
these horrid mountains, “which all the world,” said she, “should not tempt
me to cross again.” Complaining of fatigue she soon retired to rest, and
Emily withdrew to her own room, when she understood from Annette, her
aunt’s woman, that Cavigni was nearly right in his conjecture concerning
the musician, who had awakened the violin with so much taste, for that he
was the son of a peasant inhabiting the neighbouring valley. “He is going to
the Carnival at Venice,” added Annette, “for they say he has a fine hand at
playing, and will get a world of money; and the Carnival is just going to
begin: but for my part, I should like to live among these pleasant woods and
hills, better than in a town; and they say Ma’amselle, we shall see no
woods, or hills, or fields, at Venice, for that it is built in the very middle of
the sea.”
Emily agreed with the talkative Annette, that this young man was making
a change for the worse, and could not forbear silently lamenting, that he
should be drawn from the innocence and beauty of these scenes, to the
corrupt ones of that voluptuous city.
When she was alone, unable to sleep, the landscapes of her native home,
with Valancourt, and the circumstances of her departure, haunted her fancy;
she drew pictures of social happiness amidst the grand simplicity of nature,
such as she feared she had bade farewell to for ever; and then, the idea of
this young Piedmontese, thus ignorantly sporting with his happiness,
returned to her thoughts, and, glad to escape a while from the pressure of
nearer interests, she indulged her fancy in composing the following lines.
THE PIEDMONTESE

Ah, merry swain, who laugh’d along the vales,
And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring,
Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gales,
And friends belov’d, for aught that wealth can bring?
He goes to wake o’er moonlight seas the string,
Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails!
Yet oft of home his simple carols sing,
And his steps pause, as the last Alp he scales.
Once more he turns to view his native scene—
Far, far below, as roll the clouds away,
He spies his cabin ’mid the pine-tops green,
The well-known woods, clear brook, and pastures gay;
And thinks of friends and parents left behind,
Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song;

And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind;
And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong!
Thus went the swain, till mountain-shadows fell,
And dimm’d the landscape to his aching sight;
And must he leave the vales he loves so well!
Can foreign wealth, and shows, his heart delight?
No, happy vales! your wild rocks still shall hear
His pipe, light sounding on the morning breeze;
Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear,
And watch at eve beneath the western trees.
Away, Venetian gold—your charm is o’er!
And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow’rs,
Where, through the leaves, his cottage light once more
Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours.
Ah, merry swain! that laugh along the vales,
And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring,
Your cot, your woods, your thymy-scented gales—
And friends belov’d, more joy than wealth can bring!

CHAPTER II
Titania. If you will patiently dance in our round,
And see our moonlight revels, go with us.
MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

Early on the following morning, the travellers set out for Turin. The
luxuriant plain, that extends from the feet of the Alps to that magnificent
city, was not then, as now, shaded by an avenue of trees nine miles in
length; but plantations of olives, mulberry and palms, festooned with vines,
mingled with the pastoral scenery, through with the rapid Po, after its
descent from the mountains, wandered to meet the humble Doria at Turin.
As they advanced towards this city, the Alps, seen at some distance, began
to appear in all their awful sublimity; chain rising over chain in long
succession, their higher points darkened by the hovering clouds, sometimes
hid, and at others seen shooting up far above them; while their lower steeps,
broken into fantastic forms, were touched with blue and purplish tints,
which, as they changed in light and shade, seemed to open new scenes to
the eye. To the east stretched the plains of Lombardy, with the towers of
Turin rising at a distance; and beyond, the Apennines, bounding the
horizon.
The general magnificence of that city, with its vistas of churches and
palaces, branching from the grand square, each opening to a landscape of
the distant Alps or Apennines, was not only such as Emily had never seen in
France, but such as she had never imagined.
Montoni, who had been often at Turin, and cared little about views of any
kind, did not comply with his wife’s request, that they might survey some of
the palaces; but staying only till the necessary refreshments could be
obtained, they set forward for Venice with all possible rapidity. Montoni’s
manner, during this journey, was grave, and even haughty; and towards
Madame Montoni he was more especially reserved; but it was not the
reserve of respect so much as of pride and discontent. Of Emily he took

little notice. With Cavigni his conversations were commonly on political or
military topics, such as the convulsed state of their country rendered at this
time particularly interesting, Emily observed, that, at the mention of any
daring exploit, Montoni’s eyes lost their sullenness, and seemed
instantaneously to gleam with fire; yet they still retained somewhat of a
lurking cunning, and she sometimes thought that their fire partook more of
the glare of malice than the brightness of valour, though the latter would
well have harmonised with the high chivalric air of his figure, in which
Cavigni, with all his gay and gallant manners, was his inferior.
On entering the Milanese, the gentlemen exchanged their French hats for
the Italian cap of scarlet cloth, embroidered; and Emily was somewhat
surprised to observe, that Montoni added to his the military plume, while
Cavigni retained only the feather: which was usually worn with such caps:
but she at length concluded, that Montoni assumed this ensign of a soldier
for convenience, as a means of passing with more safety through a country
over-run with parties of the military.
Over the beautiful plains of this country the devastations of war were
frequently visible. Where the lands had not been suffered to lie
uncultivated, they were often tracked with the steps of the spoiler; the vines
were torn down from the branches that had supported them, the olives
trampled upon the ground, and even the groves of mulberry trees had been
hewn by the enemy to light fires that destroyed the hamlets and villages of
their owners. Emily turned her eyes with a sigh from these painful vestiges
of contention, to the Alps of the Grison, that overlooked them to the north,
whose awful solitudes seemed to offer to persecuted man a secure asylum.
The travellers frequently distinguished troops of soldiers moving at a
distance; and they experienced, at the little inns on the road, the scarcity of
provision and other inconveniences, which are a part of the consequence of
intestine war; but they had never reason to be much alarmed for their
immediate safety, and they passed on to Milan with little interruption of any
kind, where they staid not to survey the grandeur of the city, or even to view
its vast cathedral, which was then building.
Beyond Milan, the country wore the aspect of a ruder devastation; and
though everything seemed now quiet, the repose was like that of death,
spread over features, which retain the impression of the last convulsions.

It was not till they had passed the eastern limits of the Milanese, that the
travellers saw any troops since they had left Milan, when, as the evening
was drawing to a close, they descried what appeared to be an army winding
onward along the distant plains, whose spears and other arms caught the last
rays of the sun. As the column advanced through a part of the road,
contracted between two hillocks, some of the commanders, on horseback,
were distinguished on a small eminence, pointing and making signals for
the march; while several of the officers were riding along the line directing
its progress, according to the signs communicated by those above; and
others, separating from the vanguard, which had emerged from the pass,
were riding carelessly along the plains at some distance to the right of the
army.
As they drew nearer, Montoni, distinguishing the feathers that waved in
their caps, and the banners and liveries of the bands that followed them,
thought he knew this to be the small army commanded by the famous
captain Utaldo, with whom, as well as with some of the other chiefs, he was
personally acquainted. He, therefore, gave orders that the carriages should
draw up by the side of the road, to await their arrival, and give them the
pass. A faint strain of martial music now stole by, and, gradually
strengthening as the troops approached, Emily distinguished the drums and
trumpets, with the clash of cymbals and of arms, that were struck by a small
party, in time to the march.
Montoni being now certain that these were the bands of the victorious
Utaldo, leaned from the carriage window, and hailed their general by
waving his cap in the air; which compliment the chief returned by raising
his spear, and then letting it down again suddenly, while some of his
officers, who were riding at a distance from the troops, came up to the
carriage, and saluted Montoni as an old acquaintance. The captain himself
soon after arriving, his bands halted while he conversed with Montoni,
whom he appeared much rejoiced to see; and from what he said, Emily
understood that this was a victorious army, returning into their own
principality; while the numerous waggons, that accompanied them,
contained the rich spoils of the enemy, their own wounded soldiers, and the
prisoners they had taken in battle, who were to be ransomed when the
peace, then negociating between the neighbouring states, should be ratified.
The chiefs on the following day were to separate, and each, taking his share
of the spoil, was to return with his own band to his castle. This was

therefore to be an evening of uncommon and general festivity, in
commemoration of the victory they had accomplished together, and of the
farewell which the commanders were about to take of each other.
Emily, as these officers conversed with Montoni, observed with
admiration, tinctured with awe, their high martial air, mingled with the
haughtiness of the noblesse of those days, and heightened by the gallantry
of their dress, by the plumes towering on their caps, the armorial coat,
Persian sash, and ancient Spanish cloak. Utaldo, telling Montoni that his
army were going to encamp for the night near a village at only a few miles
distance, invited him to turn back and partake of their festivity, assuring the
ladies also, that they should be pleasantly accommodated; but Montoni
excused himself, adding, that it was his design to reach Verona that evening;
and, after some conversation concerning the state of the country towards
that city, they parted.
The travellers proceeded without any interruption; but it was some hours
after sunset before they arrived at Verona, whose beautiful environs were
therefore not seen by Emily till the following morning; when, leaving that
pleasant town at an early hour, they set off for Padua, where they embarked
on the Brenta for Venice. Here the scene was entirely changed; no vestiges
of war, such as had deformed the plains of the Milanese, appeared; on the
contrary, all was peace and elegance. The verdant banks of the Brenta
exhibited a continued landscape of beauty, gaiety, and splendour. Emily
gazed with admiration on the villas of the Venetian noblesse, with their cool
porticos and colonnades, overhung with poplars and cypresses of majestic
height and lively verdure; on their rich orangeries, whose blossoms
perfumed the air, and on the luxuriant willows, that dipped their light leaves
in the wave, and sheltered from the sun the gay parties whose music came
at intervals on the breeze. The Carnival did, indeed, appear to extend from
Venice along the whole line of these enchanting shores; the river was gay
with boats passing to that city, exhibiting the fantastic diversity of a
masquerade in the dresses of the people within them; and, towards evening,
groups of dancers frequently were seen beneath the trees.
Cavigni, meanwhile, informed her of the names of the noblemen to
whom the several villas they passed belonged, adding light sketches of their
characters, such as served to amuse rather than to inform, exhibiting his
own wit instead of the delineation of truth. Emily was sometimes diverted

by his conversation; but his gaiety did not entertain Madame Montoni, as it
had formerly done; she was frequently grave, and Montoni retained his
usual reserve.
Nothing could exceed Emily’s admiration on her first view of Venice,
with its islets, palaces, and towers rising out of the sea, whose clear surface
reflected the tremulous picture in all its colours. The sun, sinking in the
west, tinted the waves and the lofty mountains of Friuli, which skirt the
northern shores of the Adriatic, with a saffron glow, while on the marble
porticos and colonnades of St. Mark were thrown the rich lights and shades
of evening. As they glided on, the grander features of this city appeared
more distinctly: its terraces, crowned with airy yet majestic fabrics,
touched, as they now were, with the splendour of the setting sun, appeared
as if they had been called up from the ocean by the wand of an enchanter,
rather than reared by mortal hands.
The sun, soon after, sinking to the lower world, the shadow of the earth
stole gradually over the waves, and then up the towering sides of the
mountains of Friuli, till it extinguished even the last upward beams that had
lingered on their summits, and the melancholy purple of evening drew over
them, like a thin veil. How deep, how beautiful was the tranquillity that
wrapped the scene! All nature seemed to repose; the finest emotions of the
soul were alone awake. Emily’s eyes filled with tears of admiration and
sublime devotion, as she raised them over the sleeping world to the vast
heavens, and heard the notes of solemn music, that stole over the waters
from a distance. She listened in still rapture, and no person of the party
broke the charm by an enquiry. The sounds seemed to grow on the air; for
so smoothly did the barge glide along, that its motion was not perceivable,
and the fairy city appeared approaching to welcome the strangers. They
now distinguished a female voice, accompanied by a few instruments,
singing a soft and mournful air; and its fine expression, as sometimes it
seemed pleading with the impassioned tenderness of love, and then
languishing into the cadence of hopeless grief, declared, that it flowed from
no feigned sensibility. Ah! thought Emily, as she sighed and remembered
Valancourt, those strains come from the heart!
She looked round, with anxious enquiry; the deep twilight, that had fallen
over the scene, admitted only imperfect images to the eye, but, at some
distance on the sea, she thought she perceived a gondola: a chorus of voices

and instruments now swelled on the air—so sweet, so solemn! it seemed
like the hymn of angels descending through the silence of night! Now it
died away, and fancy almost beheld the holy choir reascending towards
heaven; then again it swelled with the breeze, trembled awhile, and again
died into silence. It brought to Emily’s recollection some lines of her late
father, and she repeated in a low voice,
Oft I hear,
Upon the silence of the midnight air,
Celestial voices swell in holy chorus
That bears the soul to heaven!

The deep stillness, that succeeded, was as expressive as the strain that
had just ceased. It was uninterrupted for several minutes, till a general sigh
seemed to release the company from their enchantment. Emily, however,
long indulged the pleasing sadness, that had stolen upon her spirits; but the
gay and busy scene that appeared, as the barge approached St. Mark’s
Place, at length roused her attention. The rising moon, which threw a
shadowy light upon the terraces, and illumined the porticos and magnificent
arcades that crowned them, discovered the various company, whose light
steps, soft guitars, and softer voices, echoed through the colonnades.
The music they heard before now passed Montoni’s barge, in one of the
gondolas, of which several were seen skimming along the moonlight sea,
full of gay parties, catching the cool breeze. Most of these had music, made
sweeter by the waves over which it floated, and by the measured sound of
oars, as they dashed the sparkling tide. Emily gazed, and listened, and
thought herself in a fairy scene; even Madame Montoni was pleased;
Montoni congratulated himself on his return to Venice, which he called the
first city in the world, and Cavigni was more gay and animated than ever.
The barge passed on to the grand canal, where Montoni’s mansion was
situated. And here, other forms of beauty and of grandeur, such as her
imagination had never painted, were unfolded to Emily in the palaces of
Sansovino and Palladio, as she glided along the waves. The air bore no
sounds, but those of sweetness, echoing along each margin of the canal, and
from gondolas on its surface, while groups of masks were seen dancing on
the moonlight terraces, and seemed almost to realise the romance of
fairyland.

The barge stopped before the portico of a large house, from whence a
servant of Montoni crossed the terrace, and immediately the party
disembarked. From the portico they passed a noble hall to a staircase of
marble, which led to a saloon, fitted up in a style of magnificence that
surprised Emily. The walls and ceilings were adorned with historical and
allegorical paintings, in fresco; silver tripods, depending from chains of the
same metal, illumined the apartment, the floor of which was covered with
Indian mats painted in a variety of colours and devices; the couches and
drapery of the lattices were of pale green silk, embroidered and fringed with
green and gold. Balcony lattices opened upon the grand canal, whence rose
a confusion of voices and of musical instruments, and the breeze that gave
freshness to the apartment. Emily, considering the gloomy temper of
Montoni, looked upon the splendid furniture of this house with surprise, and
remembered the report of his being a man of broken fortune, with
astonishment. “Ah!” said she to herself, “if Valancourt could but see this
mansion, what peace would it give him! He would then be convinced that
the report was groundless.”
Madame Montoni seemed to assume the air of a princess; but Montoni
was restless and discontented, and did not even observe the civility of
bidding her welcome to her home.
Soon after his arrival, he ordered his gondola, and, with Cavigni, went
out to mingle in the scenes of the evening. Madame then became serious
and thoughtful. Emily, who was charmed with everything she saw,
endeavoured to enliven her; but reflection had not, with Madame Montoni,
subdued caprice and ill-humour, and her answers discovered so much of
both, that Emily gave up the attempt of diverting her, and withdrew to a
lattice, to amuse herself with the scene without, so new and so enchanting.
The first object that attracted her notice was a group of dancers on the
terrace below, led by a guitar and some other instruments. The girl, who
struck the guitar, and another, who flourished a tambourine, passed on in a
dancing step, and with a light grace and gaiety of heart, that would have
subdued the goddess of spleen in her worst humour. After these came a
group of fantastic figures, some dressed as gondolieri, others as minstrels,
while others seemed to defy all description. They sung in parts, their voices
accompanied by a few soft instruments. At a little distance from the portico
they stopped, and Emily distinguished the verses of Ariosto. They sung of

the wars of the Moors against Charlemagne, and then of the woes of
Orlando: afterwards the measure changed, and the melancholy sweetness of
Petrarch succeeded. The magic of his grief was assisted by all that Italian
music and Italian expression, heightened by the enchantments of Venetian
moonlight, could give.
Emily, as she listened, caught the pensive enthusiasm; her tears flowed
silently, while her fancy bore her far away to France and to Valancourt.
Each succeeding sonnet, more full of charming sadness than the last,
seemed to bind the spell of melancholy: with extreme regret she saw the
musicians move on, and her attention followed the strain till the last faint
warble died in air. She then remained sunk in that pensive tranquillity which
soft music leaves on the mind—a state like that produced by the view of a
beautiful landscape by moonlight, or by the recollection of scenes marked
with the tenderness of friends lost for ever, and with sorrows, which time
has mellowed into mild regret. Such scenes are indeed, to the mind, like
“those faint traces which the memory bears of music that is past.”
Other sounds soon awakened her attention: it was the solemn harmony of
horns, that swelled from a distance; and, observing the gondolas arrange
themselves along the margin of the terraces, she threw on her veil, and,
stepping into the balcony, discerned, in the distant perspective of the canal,
something like a procession, floating on the light surface of the water: as it
approached, the horns and other instruments mingled sweetly, and soon
after the fabled deities of the city seemed to have arisen from the ocean; for
Neptune, with Venice personified as his queen, came on the undulating
waves, surrounded by tritons and sea-nymphs. The fantastic splendour of
this spectacle, together with the grandeur of the surrounding palaces,
appeared like the vision of a poet suddenly embodied, and the fanciful
images, which it awakened in Emily’s mind, lingered there long after the
procession had passed away. She indulged herself in imagining what might
be the manners and delights of a sea-nymph, till she almost wished to throw
off the habit of mortality, and plunge into the green wave to participate
them.
“How delightful,” said she, “to live amidst the coral bowers and crystal
caverns of the ocean, with my sister nymphs, and listen to the sounding
waters above, and to the soft shells of the tritons! and then, after sunset, to
skim on the surface of the waves round wild rocks and along sequestered

shores, where, perhaps, some pensive wanderer comes to weep! Then
would I soothe his sorrows with my sweet music, and offer him from a shell
some of the delicious fruit that hangs round Neptune’s palace.”
She was recalled from her reverie to a mere mortal supper, and could not
forbear smiling at the fancies she had been indulging, and at her conviction
of the serious displeasure, which Madame Montoni would have expressed,
could she have been made acquainted with them.
After supper, her aunt sat late, but Montoni did not return, and she at
length retired to rest. If Emily had admired the magnificence of the saloon,
she was not less surprised, on observing the half-furnished and forlorn
appearance of the apartments she passed in the way to her chamber, whither
she went through long suites of noble rooms, that seemed, from their
desolate aspect, to have been unoccupied for many years. On the walls of
some were the faded remains of tapestry; from others, painted in fresco, the
damps had almost withdrawn both colours and design. At length she
reached her own chamber, spacious, desolate, and lofty, like the rest, with
high lattices that opened towards the Adriatic. It brought gloomy images to
her mind, but the view of the Adriatic soon gave her others more airy,
among which was that of the sea-nymph, whose delights she had before
amused herself with picturing; and, anxious to escape from serious
reflections, she now endeavoured to throw her fanciful ideas into a train,
and concluded the hour with composing the following lines:
THE SEA-NYMPH

Down, down a thousand fathom deep,
Among the sounding seas I go;
Play round the foot of ev’ry steep
Whose cliffs above the ocean grow.

There, within their secret cares,
I hear the mighty rivers roar;
And guide their streams through Neptune’s waves
To bless the green earth’s inmost shore:

And bid the freshen’d waters glide,
For fern-crown’d nymphs of lake, or brook,
Through winding woods and pastures wide,
And many a wild, romantic nook.

For this the nymphs, at fall of eave,
Oft dance upon the flow’ry banks,

And sing my name, and garlands weave
To bear beneath the wave their thanks.

In coral bow’rs I love to lie,
And hear the surges roll above,
And through the waters view on high
The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move.

And oft at midnight’s stillest hour,
When summer seas the vessel lave,
I love to prove my charmful pow’r
While floating on the moonlight wave.

And when deep sleep the crew has bound,
And the sad lover musing leans
O’er the ship’s side, I breathe around
Such strains as speak no mortal means!

O’er the dim waves his searching eye
Sees but the vessel’s lengthen’d shade;
Above—the moon and azure sky;
Entranc’d he hears, and half afraid!

Sometimes, a single note I swell,
That, softly sweet, at distance dies;
Then wake the magic of my shell,
And choral voices round me rise!

The trembling youth, charm’d by my strain,
Calls up the crew, who, silent, bend
O’er the high deck, but list in vain;
My song is hush’d, my wonders end!

Within the mountain’s woody bay,
Where the tall bark at anchor rides,
At twilight hour, with tritons gay,
I dance upon the lapsing tides:

And with my sister-nymphs I sport,
Till the broad sun looks o’er the floods;
Then, swift we seek our crystal court,
Deep in the wave, ’mid Neptune’s woods.

In cool arcades and glassy halls
We pass the sultry hours of noon,
Beyond wherever sunbeam falls,
Weaving sea-flowers in gay festoon.

The while we chant our ditties sweet
To some soft shell that warbles near;

Join’d by the murmuring currents, fleet,
That glide along our halls so clear.

There, the pale pearl and sapphire blue,
And ruby red, and em’rald green,
Dart from the domes a changing hue,
And sparry columns deck the scene.

When the dark storm scowls o’er the deep,
And long, long peals of thunder sound,
On some high cliff my watch I keep
O’er all the restless seas around:

Till on the ridgy wave afar
Comes the lone vessel, labouring slow,
Spreading the white foam in the air,
With sail and top-mast bending low.

Then, plunge I ’mid the ocean’s roar,
My way by quiv’ring lightnings shown,
To guide the bark to peaceful shore,
And hush the sailor’s fearful groan.

And if too late I reach its side
To save it from the ’whelming surge,
I call my dolphins o’er the tide,
To bear the crew where isles emerge.

Their mournful spirits soon I cheer,
While round the desert coast I go,
With warbled songs they faintly hear,
Oft as the stormy gust sinks low.

My music leads to lofty groves,
That wild upon the sea-bank wave;
Where sweet fruits bloom, and fresh spring roves,
And closing boughs the tempest brave.

Then, from the air spirits obey
My potent voice they love so well,
And, on the clouds, paint visions gay,
While strains more sweet at distance swell.

And thus the lonely hours I cheat,
Soothing the ship-wreck’d sailor’s heart,
Till from the waves the storms retreat,
And o’er the east the day-beams dart.

Neptune for this oft binds me fast
To rocks below, with coral chain,

Till all the tempest’s over-past,
And drowning seamen cry in vain.

Whoe’er ye are that love my lay,
Come, when red sunset tints the wave,
To the still sands, where fairies play;
There, in cool seas, I love to lave.

CHAPTER III
He is a great observer, and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays,
....................he hears no music;
Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mock’d himself, and scorn’d his spirit
that could be mov’d to smile at anything.
Such men as he be never at heart’s ease,
While they behold a greater than themselves.
JULIUS CÆSAR

Montoni and his companion did not return home, till many hours after the
dawn had blushed upon the Adriatic. The airy groups, which had danced all
night along the colonnade of St. Mark, dispersed before the morning, like so
many spirits. Montoni had been otherwise engaged; his soul was little
susceptible of light pleasures. He delighted in the energies of the passions;
the difficulties and tempests of life, which wreck the happiness of others,
roused and strengthened all the powers of his mind, and afforded him the
highest enjoyments, of which his nature was capable. Without some object
of strong interest, life was to him little more than a sleep; and, when
pursuits of real interest failed, he substituted artificial ones, till habit
changed their nature, and they ceased to be unreal. Of this kind was the
habit of gaming, which he had adopted, first, for the purpose of relieving
him from the languor of inaction, but had since pursued with the ardour of
passion. In this occupation he had passed the night with Cavigni and a party
of young men, who had more money than rank, and more vice than either.
Montoni despised the greater part of these for the inferiority of their talents,
rather than for their vicious inclinations, and associated with them only to
make them the instruments of his purposes. Among these, however, were
some of superior abilities, and a few whom Montoni admitted to his
intimacy, but even towards these he still preserved a decisive and haughty
air, which, while it imposed submission on weak and timid minds, roused
the fierce hatred of strong ones. He had, of course, many and bitter

enemies; but the rancour of their hatred proved the degree of his power;
and, as power was his chief aim, he gloried more in such hatred, than it was
possible he could in being esteemed. A feeling so tempered as that of
esteem, he despised, and would have despised himself also had he thought
himself capable of being flattered by it.
Among the few whom he distinguished, were the Signors Bertolini,
Orsino, and Verezzi. The first was a man of gay temper, strong passions,
dissipated, and of unbounded extravagance, but generous, brave, and
unsuspicious. Orsino was reserved, and haughty; loving power more than
ostentation; of a cruel and suspicious temper; quick to feel an injury, and
relentless in avenging it; cunning and unsearchable in contrivance, patient
and indefatigable in the execution of his schemes. He had a perfect
command of feature and of his passions, of which he had scarcely any, but
pride, revenge and avarice; and, in the gratification of these, few
considerations had power to restrain him, few obstacles to withstand the
depth of his stratagems. This man was the chief favourite of Montoni.
Verezzi was a man of some talent, of fiery imagination, and the slave of
alternate passions. He was gay, voluptuous, and daring; yet had neither
perseverance nor true courage, and was meanly selfish in all his aims.
Quick to form schemes, and sanguine in his hope of success, he was the
first to undertake, and to abandon, not only his own plans, but those
adopted from other persons. Proud and impetuous, he revolted against all
subordination; yet those who were acquainted with his character, and
watched the turn of his passions, could lead him like a child.
Such were the friends whom Montoni introduced to his family and his
table, on the day after his arrival at Venice. There were also of the party a
Venetian nobleman, Count Morano, and a Signora Livona, whom Montoni
had introduced to his wife, as a lady of distinguished merit, and who,
having called in the morning to welcome her to Venice, had been requested
to be of the dinner party.
Madame Montoni received with a very ill grace, the compliments of the
Signors. She disliked them, because they were the friends of her husband;
hated them, because she believed they had contributed to detain him abroad
till so late an hour of the preceding morning; and envied them, since,
conscious of her own want of influence, she was convinced, that he
preferred their society to her own. The rank of Count Morano procured him

that distinction which she refused to the rest of the company. The haughty
sullenness of her countenance and manner, and the ostentatious
extravagance of her dress, for she had not yet adopted the Venetian habit,
were strikingly contrasted by the beauty, modesty, sweetness and simplicity
of Emily, who observed, with more attention than pleasure, the party around
her. The beauty and fascinating manners of Signora Livona, however, won
her involuntary regard; while the sweetness of her accents and her air of
gentle kindness awakened with Emily those pleasing affections, which so
long had slumbered.
In the cool of the evening the party embarked in Montoni’s gondola, and
rowed out upon the sea. The red glow of sunset still touched the waves, and
lingered in the west, where the melancholy gleam seemed slowly expiring,
while the dark blue of the upper æther began to twinkle with stars. Emily
sat, given up to pensive and sweet emotions. The smoothness of the water,
over which she glided, its reflected images—a new heaven and trembling
stars below the waves, with shadowy outlines of towers and porticos,
conspired with the stillness of the hour, interrupted only by the passing
wave, or the notes of distant music, to raise those emotions to enthusiasm.
As she listened to the measured sound of the oars, and to the remote
warblings that came in the breeze, her softened mind returned to the
memory of St. Aubert and to Valancourt, and tears stole to her eyes. The
rays of the moon, strengthening as the shadows deepened, soon after threw
a silvery gleam upon her countenance, which was partly shaded by a thin
black veil, and touched it with inimitable softness. Hers was the contour of
a Madona, with the sensibility of a Magdalen; and the pensive uplifted eye,
with the tear that glittered on her cheek, confirmed the expression of the
character.
The last strain of distant music now died in air, for the gondola was far
upon the waves, and the party determined to have music of their own. The
Count Morano, who sat next to Emily, and who had been observing her for
some time in silence, snatched up a lute, and struck the chords with the
finger of harmony herself, while his voice, a fine tenor, accompanied them
in a rondeau full of tender sadness. To him, indeed, might have been applied
that beautiful exhortation of an English poet, had it then existed:
Strike up, my master,
But touch the strings with a religious softness!
Teach sounds to languish through the night’s dull ear

Till Melancholy starts from off her couch,
And Carelessness grows concert to attention!

With such powers of expression the Count sung the following
RONDEAU

Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps
Upon the ocean’s trembling tide;
Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps
Yon sad, that swells in stately pride:

Soft as the surge’s stealing note,
That dies along the distant shores,
Or warbled strain, that sinks remote—
So soft the sigh my bosom pours!

True as the wave to Cynthia’s ray,
True as the vessel to the breeze,
True as the soul to music’s sway,
Or music to Venetian seas:

Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep
Upon the ocean’s trembling breast;
So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep,
So soft, so true, with thee shall rest.

The cadence with which he returned from the last stanza to a repetition of
the first; the fine modulation in which his voice stole upon the first line, and
the pathetic energy with which it pronounced the last, were such as only
exquisite taste could give. When he had concluded, he gave the lute with a
sigh to Emily, who, to avoid any appearance of affectation, immediately
began to play. She sung a melancholy little air, one of the popular songs of
her native province, with a simplicity and pathos that made it enchanting.
But its well-known melody brought so forcibly to her fancy the scenes and
the persons, among which she had often heard it, that her spirits were
overcome, her voice trembled and ceased—and the strings of the lute were
struck with a disordered hand; till, ashamed of the emotion she had
betrayed, she suddenly passed on to a song so gay and airy, that the steps of
the dance seemed almost to echo to the notes. Bravissimo! burst instantly
from the lips of her delighted auditors, and she was compelled to repeat the
air. Among the compliments that followed, those of the Count were not the
least audible, and they had not concluded, when Emily gave the instrument
to Signora Livona, whose voice accompanied it with true Italian taste.

Afterwards, the Count, Emily, Cavigni, and the Signora, sung
canzonettes, accompanied by a couple of lutes and a few other instruments.
Sometimes the instruments suddenly ceased, and the voices dropped from
the full swell of harmony into a low chant; then, after a deep pause, they
rose by degrees, the instruments one by one striking up, till the loud and full
chorus soared again to heaven!
Meanwhile, Montoni, who was weary of this harmony, was considering
how he might disengage himself from his party, or withdraw with such of it
as would be willing to play, to a Casino. In a pause of the music, he
proposed returning to shore, a proposal which Orsino eagerly seconded, but
which the Count and the other gentlemen as warmly opposed.
Montoni still meditated how he might excuse himself from longer
attendance upon the Count, for to him only he thought excuse necessary,
and how he might get to land, till the gondolieri of an empty boat, returning
to Venice, hailed his people. Without troubling himself longer about an
excuse, he seized this opportunity of going thither, and, committing the
ladies to the care of his friends, departed with Orsino, while Emily, for the
first time, saw him go with regret; for she considered his presence a
protection, though she knew not what she should fear. He landed at St.
Mark’s, and, hurrying to a Casino, was soon lost amidst a crowd of
gamesters.
Meanwhile, the Count having secretly dispatched a servant in Montoni’s
boat, for his own gondola and musicians, Emily heard, without knowing his
project, the gay song of gondolieri approaching, as they sat on the stern of
the boat, and saw the tremulous gleam of the moonlight wave, which their
oars disturbed. Presently she heard the sound of instruments, and then a full
symphony swelled on the air, and, the boats meeting, the gondolieri hailed
each other. The Count then explaining himself, the party removed into his
gondola, which was embellished with all that taste could bestow.
While they partook of a collation of fruits and ice, the whole band,
following at a distance in the other boat, played the most sweet and
enchanting strains, and the Count, who had again seated himself by Emily,
paid her unremitted attention, and sometimes, in a low but impassioned
voice, uttered compliments which she could not misunderstand. To avoid
them she conversed with Signora Livona, and her manner to the Count
assumed a mild reserve, which, though dignified, was too gentle to repress

his assiduities: he could see, hear, speak to no person, but Emily while
Cavigni observed him now and then, with a look of displeasure, and Emily,
with one of uneasiness. She now wished for nothing so much as to return to
Venice, but it was near midnight before the gondolas approached St. Mark’s
Place, where the voice of gaiety and song was loud. The busy hum of
mingling sounds was heard at a considerable distance on the water, and, had
not a bright moonlight discovered the city, with its terraces and towers, a
stranger would almost have credited the fabled wonders of Neptune’s court,
and believed, that the tumult arose from beneath the waves.
They landed at St. Mark’s, where the gaiety of the colonnades and the
beauty of the night, made Madame Montoni willingly submit to the Count’s
solicitations to join the promenade, and afterwards to take a supper with the
rest of the party, at his Casino. If anything could have dissipated Emily’s
uneasiness, it would have been the grandeur, gaiety, and novelty of the
surrounding scene, adorned with Palladio’s palaces, and busy with parties
of masqueraders.
At length they withdrew to the Casino, which was fitted up with infinite
taste, and where a splendid banquet was prepared; but here Emily’s reserve
made the Count perceive, that it was necessary for his interest to win the
favour of Madame Montoni, which, from the condescension she had
already shown to him, appeared to be an achievement of no great difficulty.
He transferred, therefore, part of his attention from Emily to her aunt, who
felt too much flattered by the distinction even to disguise her emotion; and
before the party broke up, he had entirely engaged the esteem of Madame
Montoni. Whenever he addressed her, her ungracious countenance relaxed
into smiles, and to whatever he proposed she assented. He invited her, with
the rest of the party, to take coffee, in his box at the opera, on the following
evening, and Emily heard the invitation accepted, with strong anxiety,
concerning the means of excusing herself from attending Madame Montoni
thither.
It was very late before their gondola was ordered, and Emily’s surprise
was extreme, when, on quitting the Casino, she beheld the broad sun rising
out of the Adriatic, while St. Mark’s Place was yet crowded with company.
Sleep had long weighed heavily on her eyes, but now the fresh sea-breeze
revived her, and she would have quitted the scene with regret, had not the
Count been present, performing the duty, which he had imposed upon

himself, of escorting them home. There they heard that Montoni was not yet
returned; and his wife, retiring in displeasure to her apartment, at length
released Emily from the fatigue of further attendance.
Montoni came home late in the morning, in a very ill humour, having lost
considerably at play, and, before he withdrew to rest, had a private
conference with Cavigni, whose manner, on the following day, seemed to
tell, that the subject of it had not been pleasing to him.
In the evening, Madame Montoni, who, during the day, had observed a
sullen silence towards her husband, received visits from some Venetian
ladies, with whose sweet manners Emily was particularly charmed. They
had an air of ease and kindness towards the strangers, as if they had been
their familiar friends for years; and their conversation was by turns tender,
sentimental and gay. Madame, though she had no taste for such
conversation, and whose coarseness and selfishness sometimes exhibited a
ludicrous contrast to their excessive refinement, could not remain wholly
insensible to the captivations of their manner.
In a pause of conversation, a lady who was called Signora Herminia took
up a lute, and began to play and sing, with as much easy gaiety, as if she
had been alone. Her voice was uncommonly rich in tone, and various in
expression; yet she appeared to be entirely unconscious of its powers, and
meant nothing less than to display them. She sung from the gaiety of her
heart, as she sat with her veil half thrown back, holding gracefully the lute,
under the spreading foliage and flowers of some plants, that rose from
baskets, and interlaced one of the lattices of the saloon. Emily, retiring a
little from the company, sketched her figure, with the miniature scenery
around her, and drew a very interesting picture, which, though it would not,
perhaps, have borne criticism, had spirit and taste enough to awaken both
the fancy and the heart. When she had finished it, she presented it to the
beautiful original, who was delighted with the offering, as well as the
sentiment it conveyed, and assured Emily, with a smile of captivating
sweetness, that she should preserve it as a pledge of her friendship.
In the evening Cavigni joined the ladies, but Montoni had other
engagements; and they embarked in the gondola for St. Mark’s, where the
same gay company seemed to flutter as on the preceding night. The cool
breeze, the glassy sea, the gentle sound of its waves, and the sweeter
murmur of distant music; the lofty porticos and arcades, and the happy

groups that sauntered beneath them; these, with every feature and
circumstance of the scene, united to charm Emily, no longer teased by the
officious attentions of Count Morano. But, as she looked upon the
moonlight sea, undulating along the walls of St. Mark, and, lingering for a
moment over those walls, caught the sweet and melancholy song of some
gondolier as he sat in his boat below, waiting for his master, her softened
mind returned to the memory of her home, of her friends, and of all that was
dear in her native country.
After walking some time, they sat down at the door of a Casino, and,
while Cavigni was accommodating them with coffee and ice, were joined
by Count Morano. He sought Emily with a look of impatient delight, who,
remembering all the attention he had shown her on the preceding evening,
was compelled, as before, to shrink from his assiduities into a timid reserve,
except when she conversed with Signora Herminia and the other ladies of
her party.
It was near midnight before they withdrew to the opera, where Emily was
not so charmed but that, when she remembered the scene she had just
quitted, she felt how infinitely inferior all the splendour of art is to the
sublimity of nature. Her heart was not now affected, tears of admiration did
not start to her eyes, as when she viewed the vast expanse of ocean, the
grandeur of the heavens, and listened to the rolling waters, and to the faint
music that, at intervals, mingled with their roar. Remembering these, the
scene before her faded into insignificance.
Of the evening, which passed on without any particular incident, she
wished the conclusion, that she might escape from the attentions of the
Count; and, as opposite qualities frequently attract each other in our
thoughts, thus Emily, when she looked on Count Morano, remembered
Valancourt, and a sigh sometimes followed the recollection.
Several weeks passed in the course of customary visits, during which
nothing remarkable occurred. Emily was amused by the manners and scenes
that surrounded her, so different from those of France, but where Count
Morano, too frequently for her comfort, contrived to introduce himself. His
manner, figure and accomplishments, which were generally admired, Emily
would, perhaps, have admired also, had her heart been disengaged from
Valancourt, and had the Count forborne to persecute her with officious

attentions, during which she observed some traits in his character, that
prejudiced her against whatever might otherwise be good in it.
Soon after his arrival at Venice, Montoni received a packet from M.
Quesnel, in which the latter mentioned the death of his wife’s uncle, at his
villa on the Brenta; and that, in consequence of this event, he should hasten
to take possession of that estate and of other effects bequeathed to him. This
uncle was the brother of Madame Quesnel’s late mother; Montoni was
related to her by the father’s side, and though he could have had neither
claim nor expectation concerning these possessions, he could scarcely
conceal the envy which M. Quesnel’s letter excited.
Emily had observed with concern, that, since they left France, Montoni
had not even affected kindness towards her aunt, and that, after treating her,
at first, with neglect, he now met her with uniform ill-humour and reserve.
She had never supposed, that her aunt’s foibles could have escaped the
discernment of Montoni, or that her mind or figure were of a kind to
deserve his attention. Her surprise, therefore, at this match, had been
extreme; but since he had made the choice, she did not suspect that he
would so openly have discovered his contempt of it. But Montoni, who had
been allured by the seeming wealth of Madame Cheron, was now severely
disappointed by her comparative poverty, and highly exasperated by the
deceit she had employed to conceal it, till concealment was no longer
necessary. He had been deceived in an affair, wherein he meant to be the
deceiver; out-witted by the superior cunning of a woman, whose
understanding he despised, and to whom he had sacrificed his pride and his
liberty, without saving himself from the ruin, which had impended over his
head. Madame Montoni had contrived to have the greatest part of what she
really did possess, settled upon herself: what remained, though it was totally
inadequate both to her husband’s expectations, and to his necessities, he had
converted into money, and brought with him to Venice, that he might a little
longer delude society, and make a last effort to regain the fortunes he had
lost.
The hints which had been thrown out to Valancourt, concerning
Montoni’s character and condition, were too true; but it was now left to
time and occasion, to unfold the circumstances, both of what had, and of
what had not been hinted, and to time and occasion we commit them.

Madame Montoni was not of a nature to bear injuries with meekness, or
to resent them with dignity: her exasperated pride displayed itself in all the
violence and acrimony of a little, or at least of an ill-regulated mind. She
would not acknowledge, even to herself, that she had in any degree
provoked contempt by her duplicity, but weakly persisted in believing, that
she alone was to be pitied, and Montoni alone to be censured; for, as her
mind had naturally little perception of moral obligation, she seldom
understood its force but when it happened to be violated towards herself:
her vanity had already been severely shocked by a discovery of Montoni’s
contempt; it remained to be farther reproved by a discovery of his
circumstances. His mansion at Venice, though its furniture discovered a part
of the truth to unprejudiced persons, told nothing to those who were blinded
by a resolution to believe whatever they wished. Madame Montoni still
thought herself little less than a princess, possessing a palace at Venice, and
a castle among the Apennines. To the castle di Udolpho, indeed, Montoni
sometimes talked of going for a few weeks to examine into its condition,
and to receive some rents; for it appeared that he had not been there for two
years, and that, during this period, it had been inhabited only by an old
servant, whom he called his steward.
Emily listened to the mention of this journey with pleasure, for she not
only expected from it new ideas, but a release from the persevering
assiduities of Count Morano. In the country, too, she would have leisure to
think of Valancourt, and to indulge the melancholy, which his image, and a
recollection of the scenes of La Vallée, always blessed with the memory of
her parents, awakened. The ideal scenes were dearer, and more soothing to
her heart, than all the splendour of gay assemblies; they were a kind of
talisman that expelled the poison of temporary evils, and supported her
hopes of happy days: they appeared like a beautiful landscape, lighted up by
a gleam of sunshine, and seen through a perspective of dark and rugged
rocks.
But Count Morano did not long confine himself to silent assiduities; he
declared his passion to Emily, and made proposals to Montoni, who
encouraged, though Emily rejected, him: with Montoni for his friend, and
an abundance of vanity to delude him, he did not despair of success. Emily
was astonished and highly disgusted at his perseverance, after she had
explained her sentiments with a frankness that would not allow him to
misunderstand them.

He now passed the greater part of his time at Montoni’s, dining there
almost daily, and attending Madame and Emily wherever they went; and all
this, notwithstanding the uniform reserve of Emily, whose aunt seemed as
anxious as Montoni to promote this marriage; and would never dispense
with her attendance at any assembly where the Count proposed to be
present.
Montoni now said nothing of his intended journey, of which Emily
waited impatiently to hear; and he was seldom at home but when the Count,
or Signor Orsino, was there, for between himself and Cavigni a coolness
seemed to subsist, though the latter remained in his house. With Orsino,
Montoni was frequently closeted for hours together, and, whatever might be
the business, upon which they consulted, it appeared to be of consequence,
since Montoni often sacrificed to it his favourite passion for play, and
remained at home the whole night. There was somewhat of privacy, too, in
the manner of Orsino’s visits, which had never before occurred, and which
excited not only surprise, but some degree of alarm in Emily’s mind, who
had unwillingly discovered much of his character when he had most
endeavoured to disguise it. After these visits, Montoni was often more
thoughtful than usual; sometimes the deep workings of his mind entirely
abstracted him from surrounding objects, and threw a gloom over his visage
that rendered it terrible; at others, his eyes seemed almost to flash fire, and
all the energies of his soul appeared to be roused for some great enterprise.
Emily observed these written characters of his thoughts with deep interest,
and not without some degree of awe, when she considered that she was
entirely in his power; but forbore even to hint her fears, or her observations,
to Madame Montoni, who discerned nothing in her husband, at these times,
but his usual sternness.
A second letter from M. Quesnel announced the arrival of himself and his
lady at the Villa Miarenti; stated several circumstances of his good fortune,
respecting the affair that had brought him into Italy; and concluded with an
earnest request to see Montoni, his wife and niece, at his new estate.
Emily received, about the same period, a much more interesting letter,
and which soothed for a while every anxiety of her heart. Valancourt,
hoping she might be still at Venice, had trusted a letter to the ordinary post,
that told her of his health, and of his unceasing and anxious affection. He
had lingered at Thoulouse for some time after her departure, that he might

indulge the melancholy pleasure of wandering through the scenes where he
had been accustomed to behold her, and had thence gone to his brother’s
château, which was in the neighbourhood of La Vallée. Having mentioned
this, he added, “If the duty of attending my regiment did not require my
departure, I know not when I should have resolution enough to quit the
neighbourhood of a place which is endeared by the remembrance of you.
The vicinity to La Vallée has alone detained me thus long at Estuvière: I
frequently ride thither early in the morning, that I may wander, at leisure,
through the day, among scenes, which were once your home, where I have
been accustomed to see you, and to hear you converse. I have renewed my
acquaintance with the good old Theresa, who rejoiced to see me, that she
might talk of you: I need not say how much this circumstance attached me
to her, or how eagerly I listened to her upon her favourite subject. You will
guess the motive that first induced me to make myself known to Theresa: it
was, indeed, no other than that of gaining admittance into the château and
gardens, which my Emily had so lately inhabited: here, then, I wander, and
meet your image under every shade: but chiefly I love to sit beneath the
spreading branches of your favourite plane, where once, Emily, we sat
together; where I first ventured to tell you, that I loved. O Emily! the
remembrance of those moments overcomes me—I sit lost in reverie—I
endeavour to see you dimly through my tears, in all the heaven of peace and
innocence, such as you then appeared to me; to hear again the accents of
that voice, which then thrilled my heart with tenderness and hope. I lean on
the wall of the terrace, where we together watched the rapid current of the
Garonne below, while I described the wild scenery about its source, but
thought only of you. O Emily! are these moments passed for ever—will
they never more return?”
In another part of his letter he wrote thus. “You see my letter is dated on
many different days, and, if you look back to the first, you will perceive,
that I began to write soon after your departure from France. To write was,
indeed, the only employment that withdrew me from my own melancholy,
and rendered your absence supportable, or rather, it seemed to destroy
absence; for, when I was conversing with you on paper, and telling you
every sentiment and affection of my heart, you almost appeared to be
present. This employment has been from time to time my chief consolation,
and I have deferred sending off my packet, merely for the comfort of
prolonging it, though it was certain, that what I had written, was written to

no purpose till you received it. Whenever my mind has been more than
usually depressed I have come to pour forth its sorrows to you, and have
always found consolation; and, when any little occurrence has interested my
heart, and given a gleam of joy to my spirits, I have hastened to
communicate it to you, and have received reflected satisfaction. Thus, my
letter is a kind of picture of my life and of my thoughts for the last month,
and thus, though it has been deeply interesting to me, while I wrote it, and I
dare hope will, for the same reason, be not indifferent to you, yet to other
readers it would seem to abound only in frivolities. Thus it is always, when
we attempt to describe the finer movements of the heart, for they are too
fine to be discerned, they can only be experienced, and are therefore passed
over by the indifferent observer, while the interested one feels, that all
description is imperfect and unnecessary, except as it may prove the
sincerity of the writer, and sooth his own sufferings. You will pardon all this
egotism—for I am a lover.”
“I have just heard of a circumstance, which entirely destroys all my fairy
paradise of ideal delight, and which will reconcile me to the necessity of
returning to my regiment, for I must no longer wander beneath the beloved
shades, where I have been accustomed to meet you in thought.—La Vallée
is let! I have reason to believe this is without your knowledge, from what
Theresa told me this morning, and, therefore, I mention the circumstance.
She shed tears, while she related, that she was going to leave the service of
her dear mistress, and the château where she had lived so many happy
years; and all this, added she, without even a letter from Mademoiselle to
soften the news; but it is all Mons. Quesnel’s doings, and I dare say she
does not even know what is going forward.”
“Theresa added, That she had received a letter from him, informing her
the château was let, and that, as her services would no longer be required,
she must quit the place, on that day week, when the new tenant would
arrive.”
“Theresa had been surprised by a visit from M. Quesnel, some time
before the receipt of this letter, who was accompanied by a stranger that
viewed the premises with much curiosity.”
Towards the conclusion of his letter, which is dated a week after this
sentence, Valancourt adds, “I have received a summons from my regiment,
and I join it without regret, since I am shut out from the scenes that are so

interesting to my heart. I rode to La Vallée this morning, and heard that the
new tenant was arrived, and that Theresa was gone. I should not treat the
subject thus familiarly if I did not believe you to be uninformed of this
disposal of your house; for your satisfaction I have endeavoured to learn
something of the character and fortune of your tenant, but without success.
He is a gentleman, they say, and this is all I can hear. The place, as I
wandered round the boundaries, appeared more melancholy to my
imagination, than I had ever seen it. I wished earnestly to have got
admittance, that I might have taken another leave of your favourite plane-
tree, and thought of you once more beneath its shade: but I forbore to tempt
the curiosity of strangers: the fishing-house in the woods, however, was still
open to me; thither I went, and passed an hour, which I cannot even look
back upon without emotion. O Emily! surely we are not separated for ever
—surely we shall live for each other!”
This letter brought many tears to Emily’s eyes; tears of tenderness and
satisfaction on learning that Valancourt was well, and that time and absence
had in no degree effaced her image from his heart. There were passages in
this letter which particularly affected her, such as those describing his visits
to La Vallée, and the sentiments of delicate affection that its scenes had
awakened. It was a considerable time before her mind was sufficiently
abstracted from Valancourt to feel the force of his intelligence concerning
La Vallée. That Mons. Quesnel should let it, without even consulting her on
the measure, both surprised and shocked her, particularly as it proved the
absolute authority he thought himself entitled to exercise in her affairs. It is
true, he had proposed, before she left France, that the château should be let,
during her absence, and to the economical prudence of this she had nothing
to object; but the committing what had been her father’s villa to the power
and caprice of strangers, and the depriving herself of a sure home, should
any unhappy circumstances make her look back to her home as an asylum,
were considerations that made her, even then, strongly oppose the measure.
Her father, too, in his last hour, had received from her a solemn promise
never to dispose of La Vallée; and this she considered as in some degree
violated if she suffered the place to be let. But it was now evident with how
little respect M. Quesnel had regarded these objections, and how
insignificant he considered every obstacle to pecuniary advantage. It
appeared, also, that he had not even condescended to inform Montoni of the
step he had taken, since no motive was evident for Montoni’s concealing

the circumstance from her, if it had been made known to him: this both
displeased and surprised her; but the chief subjects of her uneasiness were
—the temporary disposal of La Vallée, and the dismission of her father’s
old and faithful servant.—“Poor Theresa,” said Emily, “thou hadst not
saved much in thy servitude, for thou wast always tender towards the poor,
and believd’st thou shouldst die in the family, where thy best years had been
spent. Poor Theresa!—now thou art turned out in thy old age to seek thy
bread!”
Emily wept bitterly as these thoughts passed over her mind, and she
determined to consider what could be done for Theresa, and to talk very
explicitly to M. Quesnel on the subject; but she much feared that his cold
heart could feel only for itself. She determined also to enquire whether he
had made any mention of her affairs, in his letter to Montoni, who soon
gave her the opportunity she sought, by desiring that she would attend him
in his study. She had little doubt, that the interview was intended for the
purpose of communicating to her a part of M. Quesnel’s letter concerning
the transactions at La Vallée, and she obeyed him immediately. Montoni
was alone.
“I have just been writing to Mons. Quesnel,” said he when Emily
appeared, “in reply to the letter I received from him a few days ago, and I
wished to talk to you upon a subject that occupied part of it.”
“I also wished to speak with you on this topic, sir,” said Emily.
“It is a subject of some interest to you, undoubtedly,” rejoined Montoni,
“and I think you must see it in the light that I do; indeed it will not bear any
other. I trust you will agree with me, that any objection founded on
sentiment, as they call it, ought to yield to circumstances of solid
advantage.”
“Granting this, sir,” replied Emily, modestly, “those of humanity ought
surely to be attended to. But I fear it is now too late to deliberate upon this
plan, and I must regret, that it is no longer in my power to reject it.”
“It is too late,” said Montoni; “but since it is so, I am pleased to observe,
that you submit to reason and necessity without indulging useless
complaint. I applaud this conduct exceedingly, the more, perhaps, since it
discovers a strength of mind seldom observable in your sex. When you are
older you will look back with gratitude to the friends who assisted in
rescuing you from the romantic illusions of sentiment, and will perceive,

that they are only the snares of childhood, and should be vanquished the
moment you escape from the nursery. I have not closed my letter, and you
may add a few lines to inform your uncle of your acquiescence. You will
soon see him, for it is my intention to take you, with Madame Montoni, in a
few days to Miarenti, and you can then talk over the affair.”
Emily wrote on the opposite page of the paper as follows:

“It is now useless, sir, for me to remonstrate upon the
circumstances of which Signor Montoni informs me that he
has written. I could have wished, at least, that the affair had
been concluded with less precipitation, that I might have
taught myself to subdue some prejudices, as the Signor calls
them, which still linger in my heart. As it is, I submit. In
point of prudence nothing certainly can be objected; but,
though I submit, I have yet much to say on some other
points of the subject, when I shall have the honour of seeing
you. In the meantime I entreat you will take care of Theresa,
for the sake of,
“Sir,
“Your affectionate niece,
“EMILY ST. AUBERT.”

Montoni smiled satirically at what Emily had written, but did not object
to it, and she withdrew to her own apartment, where she sat down to begin a
letter to Valancourt, in which she related the particulars of her journey, and
her arrival at Venice, described some of the most striking scenes in the
passage over the Alps; her emotions on her first view of Italy; the manners
and characters of the people around her, and some few circumstances of
Montoni’s conduct. But she avoided even naming Count Morano, much
more the declaration he had made, since she well knew how tremblingly
alive to fear is real love, how jealously watchful of every circumstance that
may affect its interest; and she scrupulously avoided to give Valancourt
even the slightest reason for believing he had a rival.
On the following day Count Morano dined again at Montoni’s. He was in
an uncommon flow of spirits, and Emily thought there was somewhat of
exultation in his manner of addressing her, which she had never observed
before. She endeavoured to repress this by more than her usual reserve, but

the cold civility of her air now seemed rather to encourage than to depress
him. He appeared watchful of an opportunity of speaking with her alone,
and more than once solicited this; but Emily always replied, that she could
hear nothing from him which he would be unwilling to repeat before the
whole company.
In the evening, Madame Montoni and her party went out upon the sea,
and as the Count led Emily to his zendaletto, he carried her hand to his lips,
and thanked her for the condescension she had shown him. Emily, in
extreme surprise and displeasure, hastily withdrew her hand, and concluded
that he had spoken ironically; but, on reaching the steps of the terrace, and
observing by the livery, that it was the Count’s zendaletto which waited
below, while the rest of the party, having arranged themselves in the
gondolas, were moving on, she determined not to permit a separate
conversation, and, wishing him a good evening, returned to the portico. The
Count followed to expostulate and entreat, and Montoni, who then came
out, rendered solicitation unnecessary, for, without condescending to speak,
he took her hand, and led her to the zendaletto. Emily was not silent; she
entreated Montoni, in a low voice, to consider the impropriety of these
circumstances, and that he would spare her the mortification of submitting
to them; he, however, was inflexible.
“This caprice is intolerable,” said he, “and shall not be indulged: there is
no impropriety in the case.”
At this moment, Emily’s dislike of Count Morano rose to abhorrence.
That he should, with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her, notwithstanding
all she had expressed on the subject of his addresses, and think, as it was
evident he did, that her opinion of him was of no consequence, so long as
his pretensions were sanctioned by Montoni, added indignation to the
disgust which she had felt towards him. She was somewhat relieved by
observing that Montoni was to be of the party, who seated himself on one
side of her, while Morano placed himself on the other. There was a pause
for some moments as the gondolieri prepared their oars, and Emily
trembled from apprehension of the discourse that might follow this silence.
At length she collected courage to break it herself, in the hope of preventing
fine speeches from Morano, and reproof from Montoni. To some trivial
remark which she made, the latter returned a short and disobliging reply;
but Morano immediately followed with a general observation, which he

contrived to end with a particular compliment, and, though Emily passed it
without even the notice of a smile, he was not discouraged.
“I have been impatient,” said he, addressing Emily, “to express my
gratitude; to thank you for your goodness; but I must also thank Signor
Montoni, who has allowed me this opportunity of doing so.”
Emily regarded the Count with a look of mingled astonishment and
displeasure.
“Why,” continued he, “should you wish to diminish the delight of this
moment by that air of cruel reserve?—Why seek to throw me again into the
perplexities of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict the kindness of
your late declaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity, the ardour of my
passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charming Emily! surely unnecessary,
any longer to attempt a disguise of your sentiments.”
“If I ever had disguised them, sir,” said Emily, with recollected spirit, “it
would certainly be unnecessary any longer to do so. I had hoped, sir, that
you would have spared me any farther necessity of alluding to them; but,
since you do not grant this, hear me declare, and for the last time, that your
perseverance has deprived you even of the esteem, which I was inclined to
believe you merited.”
“Astonishing!” exclaimed Montoni: “this is beyond even my expectation,
though I have hitherto done justice to the caprice of the sex! But you will
observe, Mademoiselle Emily, that I am no lover, though Count Morano is,
and that I will not be made the amusement of your capricious moments.
Here is the offer of an alliance, which would do honour to any family;
yours, you will recollect, is not noble; you long resisted my remonstrances,
but my honour is now engaged, and it shall not be trifled with.—You shall
adhere to the declaration, which you have made me an agent to convey to
the Count.”
“I must certainly mistake you, sir,” said Emily; “my answers on the
subject have been uniform; it is unworthy of you to accuse me of caprice. If
you have condescended to be my agent, it is an honour I did not solicit. I
myself have constantly assured Count Morano, and you also, sir, that I
never can accept the honour he offers me, and I now repeat the declaration.”
The Count looked with an air of surprise and enquiry at Montoni, whose
countenance also was marked with surprise, but it was surprise mingled
with indignation.

“Here is confidence, as well as caprice!” said the latter. “Will you deny
your own words, Madam?”
“Such a question is unworthy of an answer, sir;” said Emily blushing;
“you will recollect yourself, and be sorry that you have asked it.”
“Speak to the point,” rejoined Montoni, in a voice of increasing
vehemence. “Will you deny your own words; will you deny, that you
acknowledged, only a few hours ago, that it was too late to recede from
your engagements, and that you accepted the Count’s hand?”
“I will deny all this, for no words of mine ever imported it.”
“Astonishing! Will you deny what you wrote to Mons. Quesnel, your
uncle? If you do, your own hand will bear testimony against you. What
have you now to say?” continued Montoni, observing the silence and
confusion of Emily.
“I now perceive, sir, that you are under a very great error, and that I have
been equally mistaken.”
“No more duplicity, I entreat; be open and candid, if it be possible.”
“I have always been so, sir; and can claim no merit in such conduct, for I
have had nothing to conceal.”
“How is this, Signor?” cried Morano, with trembling emotion.
“Suspend your judgment, Count,” replied Montoni, “the wiles of a
female heart are unsearchable. Now, Madame, your explanation.”
“Excuse me, sir, if I withhold my explanation till you appear willing to
give me your confidence; assertion as present can only subject me to
insult.”
“Your explanation, I entreat you!” said Morano.
“Well, well,” rejoined Montoni, “I give you my confidence; let us hear
this explanation.”
“Let me lead to it then, by asking a question.”
“As many as you please,” said Montoni, contemptuously.
“What, then, was the subject of your letter to Mons. Quesnel?”
“The same that was the subject of your note to him, certainly. You did
well to stipulate for my confidence before you demanded that question.”
“I must beg you will be more explicit, sir; what was that subject?”

“What could it be, but the noble offer of Count Morano,” said Montoni.
“Then, sir, we entirely misunderstood each other,” replied Emily.
“We entirely misunderstood each other too, I suppose,” rejoined
Montoni, “in the conversation which preceded the writing of that note? I
must do you the justice to own, that you are very ingenious at this same art
of misunderstanding.”
Emily tried to restrain the tears that came to her eyes, and to answer with
becoming firmness. “Allow me, sir, to explain myself fully, or to be wholly
silent.”
“The explanation may now be dispensed with; it is anticipated. If Count
Morano still thinks one necessary, I will give him an honest one: you have
changed your intention since our last conversation; and, if he can have
patience and humility enough to wait till tomorrow, he will probably find it
changed again: but as I have neither the patience nor the humility, which
you expect from a lover, I warn you of the effect of my displeasure!”
“Montoni, you are too precipitate,” said the Count, who had listened to
this conversation in extreme agitation and impatience;—“Signora, I entreat
your own explanation of this affair!”
“Signor Montoni has said justly,” replied Emily, “that all explanation
may now be dispensed with; after what has passed I cannot suffer myself to
give one. It is sufficient for me, and for you, sir, that I repeat my late
declaration; let me hope this is the last time it will be necessary for me to
repeat it—I never can accept the honour of your alliance.”
“Charming Emily!” exclaimed the Count in an impassioned tone, “let not
resentment make you unjust; let me not suffer for the offence of Montoni!
—Revoke—”
“Offence!” interrupted Montoni—“Count, this language is ridiculous,
this submission is childish!—speak as becomes a man, not as the slave of a
pretty tyrant.”
“You distract me, Signor; suffer me to plead my own cause; you have
already proved insufficient to it.”
“All conversation on this subject, sir,” said Emily, “is worse than useless,
since it can bring only pain to each of us: if you would oblige me, pursue it
no farther.”