The Mysteries of Udolpho
his criminal conduct and almost of his follies was obliterated from her
mind, and she was sensible only of pity and grief.
“My fortitude is gone,” said Valancourt at length; “I can no longer
even struggle to recall it. I cannot now leave you—I cannot bid you an
eternal farewell; say, at least, that you will see me once again.”
Emily’s heart was somewhat relieved by the request, and she endeavoured
to believe, that she ought not to refuse it. Yet she was embarrassed by
recollecting, that she was a visitor in the house of the Count, who
could not be pleased by the return of Valancourt. Other considerations,
however, soon overcame this, and she granted his request, on the
condition, that he would neither think of the Count, as his enemy, nor
Du Pont as his rival. He then left her, with a heart, so much lightened
by this short respite, that he almost lost every former sense of
misfortune.
Emily withdrew to her own room, that she might compose her spirits and
remove the traces of her tears, which would encourage the censorious
remarks of the Countess and her favourite, as well as excite the
curiosity of the rest of the family. She found it, however, impossible
to tranquillize her mind, from which she could not expel the
remembrance of the late scene with Valancourt, or the consciousness,
that she was to see him again, on the morrow. This meeting now appeared
more terrible to her than the last, for the ingenuous confession he had
made of his ill conduct and his embarrassed circumstances, with the
strength and tenderness of affection, which this confession discovered,
had deeply impressed her, and, in spite of all she had heard and
believed to his disadvantage, her esteem began to return. It frequently
appeared to her impossible, that he could have been guilty of the
depravities, reported of him, which, if not inconsistent with his
warmth and impetuosity, were entirely so with his candour and
sensibility. Whatever was the criminality, which had given rise to the
reports, she could not now believe them to be wholly true, nor that his
heart was finally closed against the charms of virtue. The deep
consciousness, which he felt as well as expressed of his errors, seemed
to justify the opinion; and, as she understood not the instability of
youthful dispositions, when opposed by habit, and that professions
frequently deceive those, who make, as well as those, who hear them,
she might have yielded to the flattering persuasions of her own heart
and the pleadings of Valancourt, had she not been guided by the
superior prudence of the Count. He represented to her, in a clear
light, the danger of her present situation, that of listening to
promises of amendment, made under the influence of strong passion, and
the slight hope, which could attach to a connection, whose chance of
happiness rested upon the retrieval of ruined circumstances and the
reform of corrupted habits. On these accounts, he lamented, that Emily
had consented to a second interview, for he saw how much it would shake
her resolution and increase the difficulty of her conquest.
Her mind was now so entirely occupied by nearer interests, that she
forgot the old housekeeper and the promised history, which so lately
had excited her curiosity, but which Dorothée was probably not very
anxious to disclose, for night came; the hours passed; and she did not
appear in Emily’s chamber. With the latter it was a sleepless and
dismal night; the more she suffered her memory to dwell on the late
scenes with Valancourt, the more her resolution declined, and she was
obliged to recollect all the arguments, which the Count had made use of
to strengthen it, and all the precepts, which she had received from her
deceased father, on the subject of self-command, to enable her to act,
with prudence and dignity, on this the most severe occasion of her
life. There were moments, when all her fortitude forsook her, and when,
remembering the confidence of former times, she thought it impossible,
that she could renounce Valancourt. His reformation then appeared
certain; the arguments of Count De Villefort were forgotten; she
readily believed all she wished, and was willing to encounter any evil,
rather than that of an immediate separation.
Thus passed the night in ineffectual struggles between affection and
reason, and she rose, in the morning, with a mind, weakened and
irresolute, and a frame, trembling with illness.
CHAPTER II
Come, weep with me;—past hope, past cure, past help!
ROMEO AND JULIET
Valancourt, meanwhile, suffered the tortures of remorse and despair.
The sight of Emily had renewed all the ardour, with which he first
loved her, and which had suffered a temporary abatement from absence
and the passing scenes of busy life. When, on the receipt of her
letter, he set out for Languedoc, he then knew, that his own folly had
involved him in ruin, and it was no part of his design to conceal this
from her. But he lamented only the delay which his ill-conduct must
give to their marriage, and did not foresee, that the information could
induce her to break their connection for ever. While the prospect of
this separation overwhelmed his mind, before stung with self-reproach,
he awaited their second interview, in a state little short of
distraction, yet was still inclined to hope, that his pleadings might
prevail upon her not to exact it. In the morning, he sent to know at
what hour she would see him; and his note arrived, when she was with
the Count, who had sought an opportunity of again conversing with her
of Valancourt; for he perceived the extreme distress of her mind, and
feared, more than ever, that her fortitude would desert her. Emily
having dismissed the messenger, the Count returned to the subject of
their late conversation, urging his fear of Valancourt’s entreaties,
and again pointing out to her the lengthened misery, that must ensue,
if she should refuse to encounter some present uneasiness. His repeated
arguments could, indeed, alone have protected her from the affection
she still felt for Valancourt, and she resolved to be governed by them.
The hour of interview, at length, arrived. Emily went to it, at least,
with composure of manner, but Valancourt was so much agitated, that he
could not speak, for several minutes, and his first words were
alternately those of lamentation, entreaty, and self-reproach.
Afterward, he said, “Emily, I have loved you—I do love you, better than
my life; but I am ruined by my own conduct. Yet I would seek to
entangle you in a connection, that must be miserable for you, rather
than subject myself to the punishment, which is my due, the loss of
you. I am a wretch, but I will be a villain no longer.—I will not
endeavour to shake your resolution by the pleadings of a selfish
passion. I resign you, Emily, and will endeavour to find consolation in
considering, that, though I am miserable, you, at least, may be happy.
The merit of the sacrifice is, indeed, not my own, for I should never
have attained strength of mind to surrender you, if your prudence had
not demanded it.”
He paused a moment, while Emily attempted to conceal the tears, which
came to her eyes. She would have said, “You speak now, as you were wont
to do,” but she checked herself.—“Forgive me, Emily,” said he, “all the
sufferings I have occasioned you, and, sometimes, when you think of the
wretched Valancourt, remember, that his only consolation would be to
believe, that you are no longer unhappy by his folly.” The tears now
fell fast upon her cheek, and he was relapsing into the frenzy of
despair, when Emily endeavoured to recall her fortitude and to
terminate an interview, which only seemed to increase the distress of
both. Perceiving her tears and that she was rising to go, Valancourt
struggled, once more, to overcome his own feelings and to sooth hers.
“The remembrance of this sorrow,” said he, “shall in future be my
protection. O! never again will example, or temptation have power to
seduce me to evil, exalted as I shall be by the recollection of your
grief for me.”
Emily was somewhat comforted by this assurance. “We are now parting for
ever,” said she; “but, if my happiness is dear to you, you will always
remember, that nothing can contribute to it more, than to believe, that
you have recovered your own esteem.” Valancourt took her hand;—his eyes
were covered with tears, and the farewell he would have spoken was lost
in sighs. After a few moments, Emily said, with difficulty and emotion,
“Farewell, Valancourt, may you be happy!” She repeated her “farewell,”
and attempted to withdraw her hand, but he still held it and bathed it
with his tears. “Why prolong these moments?” said Emily, in a voice
scarcely audible, “they are too painful to us both.” “This is too—too
much,” exclaimed Valancourt, resigning her hand and throwing himself
into a chair, where he covered his face with his hands and was
overcome, for some moments, by convulsive sighs. After a long pause,
during which Emily wept in silence, and Valancourt seemed struggling
with his grief, she again rose to take leave of him. Then, endeavouring
to recover his composure, “I am again afflicting you,” said he, “but
let the anguish I suffer plead for me.” He then added, in a solemn
voice, which frequently trembled with the agitation of his heart,
“Farewell, Emily, you will always be the only object of my tenderness.
Sometimes you will think of the unhappy Valancourt, and it will be with
pity, though it may not be with esteem. O! what is the whole world to
me, without you—without your esteem!” He checked himself—“I am falling
again into the error I have just lamented. I must not intrude longer
upon your patience, or I shall relapse into despair.”
He once more bade Emily adieu, pressed her hand to his lips, looked at
her, for the last time, and hurried out of the room.
Emily remained in the chair, where he had left her, oppressed with a
pain at her heart, which scarcely permitted her to breathe, and
listening to his departing steps, sinking fainter and fainter, as he
crossed the hall. She was, at length, roused by the voice of the
Countess in the garden, and, her attention being then awakened, the
first object, which struck her sight, was the vacant chair, where
Valancourt had sat. The tears, which had been, for some time, repressed
by the kind of astonishment, that followed his departure, now came to
her relief, and she was, at length, sufficiently composed to return to
her own room.
CHAPTER III
This is no mortal business, nor no sound
That the earth owes!
SHAKESPEARE
We now return to the mention of Montoni, whose rage and disappointment
were soon lost in nearer interests, than any, which the unhappy Emily
had awakened. His depredations having exceeded their usual limits, and
reached an extent, at which neither the timidity of the then commercial
senate of Venice, nor their hope of his occasional assistance would
permit them to connive, the same effort, it was resolved, should
complete the suppression of his power and the correction of his
outrages. While a corps of considerable strength was upon the point of
receiving orders to march for Udolpho, a young officer, prompted partly
by resentment, for some injury, received from Montoni, and partly by
the hope of distinction, solicited an interview with the Minister, who
directed the enterprise. To him he represented, that the situation of
Udolpho rendered it too strong to be taken by open force, except after
some tedious operations; that Montoni had lately shown how capable he
was of adding to its strength all the advantages, which could be
derived from the skill of a commander; that so considerable a body of
troops, as that allotted to the expedition, could not approach Udolpho