The Mysteries of Udolpho

its sweetness remained, and it was rendered more interesting, than ever, by the faint expression of melancholy, that sometimes mingled with her smile. At his request, she related the most important circumstances, that had occurred to her, since she left France, and emotions of pity and indignation alternately prevailed in his mind, when he heard how much she had suffered from the villany of Montoni. More than once, when she was speaking of his conduct, of which the guilt was rather softened, than exaggerated, by her representation, he started from his seat, and walked away, apparently overcome as much by self-accusation as by resentment. Her sufferings alone were mentioned in the few words, which he could address to her, and he listened not to the account, which she was careful to give as distinctly as possible, of the present loss of Madame Montoni’s estates, and of the little reason there was to expect their restoration. At length, Valancourt remained lost in thought, and then some secret cause seemed to overcome him with anguish. Again he abruptly left her. When he returned, she perceived that he had been weeping, and tenderly begged, that he would compose himself. “My sufferings are all passed now,” said she, “for I have escaped from the tyranny of Montoni, and I see you well—let me also see you happy.” Valancourt was more agitated than before. “I am unworthy of you, Emily,” said he, “I am unworthy of you;”—words, by his manner of uttering which Emily was then more shocked than by their import. She fixed on him a mournful and enquiring eye. “Do not look thus on me,” said he, turning away and pressing her hand; “I cannot bear those looks.” “I would ask,” said Emily, in a gentle, but agitated voice, “the meaning of your words; but I perceive, that the question would distress you now. Let us talk on other subjects. Tomorrow, perhaps, you may be more composed. Observe those moonlight woods, and the towers, which appear obscurely in the perspective. You used to be a great admirer of landscape, and I have heard you say, that the faculty of deriving consolation, under misfortune, from the sublime prospects, which neither oppression, nor poverty withhold from us, was the peculiar blessing of the innocent.” Valancourt was deeply affected. “Yes,” replied he, “I had once a taste for innocent and elegant delights—I had once an uncorrupted heart.” Then, checking himself, he added, “Do you remember our journey together in the Pyrenees?” “Can I forget it?” said Emily.—“Would that I could!” he replied;—“that was the happiest period of my life. I then loved, with enthusiasm, whatever was truly great, or good.” It was some time before Emily could repress her tears, and try to command her emotions. “If you wish to forget that journey,” said she, “it must certainly be my wish to forget it also.” She paused, and then added, “You make me very uneasy; but this is not the time for further enquiry;—yet, how can I bear to believe, even for a moment, that you are less worthy of my esteem than formerly? I have still sufficient confidence in your candour, to believe, that, when I shall ask for an explanation, you will give it me.”—“Yes,” said Valancourt, “yes, Emily: I have not yet lost my candour: if I had, I could better have disguised my emotions, on learning what were your sufferings—your virtues, while I—I—but I will say no more. I did not mean to have said even so much—I have been surprised into the self-accusation. Tell me, Emily, that you will not forget that journey—will not wish to forget it, and I will be calm. I would not lose the remembrance of it for the whole earth.” “How contradictory is this!” said Emily;—“but we may be overheard. My recollection of it shall depend upon yours; I will endeavour to forget, or to recollect it, as you may do. Let us join the Count.”—“Tell me first,” said Valancourt, “that you forgive the uneasiness I have occasioned you, this evening, and that you will still love me.”—“I sincerely forgive you,” replied Emily. “You best know whether I shall continue to love you, for you know whether you deserve my esteem. At present, I will believe that you do. It is unnecessary to say,” added she, observing his dejection, “how much pain it would give me to believe otherwise.—The young lady, who approaches, is the Count’s daughter.” Valancourt and Emily now joined the Lady Blanche; and the party, soon after, sat down with the Count, his son, and the Chevalier Du Pont, at a banquet, spread under a gay awning, beneath the trees. At the table also were seated several of the most venerable of the Count’s tenants, and it was a festive repast to all but Valancourt and Emily. When the Count retired to the château, he did not invite Valancourt to accompany him, who, therefore, took leave of Emily, and retired to his solitary inn for the night: meanwhile, she soon withdrew to her own apartment, where she mused, with deep anxiety and concern, on his behaviour, and on the Count’s reception of him. Her attention was thus so wholly engaged, that she forgot Dorothée and her appointment, till morning was far advanced, when, knowing that the good old woman would not come, she retired, for a few hours, to repose. On the following day, when the Count had accidentally joined Emily in one of the walks, they talked of the festival of the preceding evening, and this led him to a mention of Valancourt. “That is a young man of talents,” said he; “you were formerly acquainted with him, I perceive.” Emily said, that she was. “He was introduced to me, at Paris,” said the Count, “and I was much pleased with him, on our first acquaintance.” He paused, and Emily trembled, between the desire of hearing more and the fear of showing the Count, that she felt an interest on the subject. “May I ask,” said he, at length, “how long you have known Monsieur Valancourt?”—“Will you allow me to ask your reason for the question, sir?” said she; “and I will answer it immediately.”—“Certainly,” said the Count, “that is but just. I will tell you my reason. I cannot but perceive, that Monsieur Valancourt admires you; in that, however, there is nothing extraordinary; every person, who sees you, must do the same. I am above using common-place compliments; I speak with sincerity. What I fear, is, that he is a favoured admirer.”—“Why do you fear it, sir?” said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion.—“Because,” replied the Count, “I think him not worthy of your favour.” Emily, greatly agitated, entreated further explanation. “I will give it,” said he, “if you will believe, that nothing but a strong interest in your welfare could induce me to hazard that assertion.”—“I must believe so, sir,” replied Emily. “But let us rest under these trees,” said the Count, observing the paleness of her countenance; “here is a seat—you are fatigued.” They sat down, and the Count proceeded. “Many young ladies, circumstanced as you are, would think my conduct, on this occasion, and on so short an acquaintance, impertinent, instead of friendly; from what I have observed of your temper and understanding, I do not fear such a return from you. Our acquaintance has been short, but long enough to make me esteem you, and feel a lively interest in your happiness. You deserve to be very happy, and I trust that you will be so.” Emily sighed softly, and bowed her thanks. The Count paused again. “I am unpleasantly circumstanced,” said he; “but an opportunity of rendering you important service shall overcome inferior considerations. Will you inform me of the manner of your first acquaintance with the Chevalier Valancourt, if the subject is not too painful?” Emily briefly related the accident of their meeting in the presence of her father, and then so earnestly entreated the Count not to hesitate in declaring what he knew, that he perceived the violent emotion, against which she was contending, and, regarding her with a look of tender compassion, considered how he might communicate his information with least pain to his anxious auditor. “The Chevalier and my son,” said he, “were introduced to each other, at the table of a brother officer, at whose house I also met him, and invited him to my own, whenever he should be disengaged. I did not then know, that he had formed an acquaintance with a set of men, a disgrace to their species, who live by plunder and pass their lives in continual debauchery. I knew several of the Chevalier’s family, resident at Paris, and considered them as sufficient pledges for his introduction to my own. But you are ill; I will leave the subject.”—“No, sir,” said Emily, “I beg you will proceed: I am only distressed.”—“_Only!_” said the Count, with emphasis; “however, I will proceed. I soon learned, that these, his associates, had drawn him into a course of dissipation, from which he appeared to have neither the power, nor the inclination, to extricate himself. He lost large sums at the gaming-table; he became infatuated with play; and was ruined. I spoke tenderly of this to his friends, who assured me, that they had remonstrated with him, till they were weary. I afterwards learned, that, in consideration of his talents for play, which were generally successful, when unopposed by the tricks of villany,—that in consideration of these, the party had initiated him into the secrets of their trade, and allotted him a share of their profits.” “Impossible!” said Emily suddenly; “but—pardon me, sir, I scarcely know what I say; allow for the distress of my mind. I must, indeed, I must believe, that you have not been truly informed. The Chevalier had, doubtless, enemies, who misrepresented him.”—“I should be most happy to believe so,” replied the Count, “but I cannot. Nothing short of conviction, and a regard for your happiness, could have urged me to repeat these unpleasant reports.” Emily was silent. She recollected Valancourt’s sayings, on the preceding evening, which discovered the pangs of self-reproach, and seemed to confirm all that the Count had related. Yet she had not fortitude enough to dare conviction. Her heart was overwhelmed with anguish at the mere suspicion of his guilt, and she could not endure a belief of it. After a silence, the Count said, “I perceive, and can allow for, your want of conviction. It is necessary I should give some proof of what I have asserted; but this I cannot do, without subjecting one, who is very dear to me, to danger.”—“What is the danger you apprehend, sir?” said Emily; “if I can prevent it, you may safely confide in my honour.”—“On your honour I am certain I can rely,” said the Count; “but can I trust your fortitude? Do you think you can resist the solicitation of a favoured admirer, when he pleads, in affliction, for the name of one, who has robbed him of a blessing?”—“I shall not be exposed to such a temptation, sir,” said Emily, with modest pride, “for I cannot favour one, whom I must no longer esteem. I, however, readily give my word.” Tears, in the mean time, contradicted her first assertion; and she felt, that time and effort only could eradicate an affection, which had been formed on virtuous esteem, and cherished by habit and difficulty. “I will trust you then,” said the Count, “for conviction is necessary to your peace, and cannot, I perceive, be obtained, without this confidence. My son has too often been an eye-witness of the Chevalier’s ill conduct; he was very near being drawn in by it; he was, indeed, drawn in to the commission of many follies, but I rescued him from guilt and destruction. Judge then, Mademoiselle St. Aubert, whether a father, who had nearly lost his only son by the example of the Chevalier, has not, from conviction, reason to warn those, whom he esteems, against trusting their happiness in such hands. I have myself