The Mysteries of Udolpho
She thanked the Count for his friendly consideration, and lamented,
that the necessity for her going first to Thoulouse would render this
plan impracticable. “But, when you are at the Baron’s residence,” she
added, “you will be only a short journey from La Vallée, and I think,
sir, you will not leave the country without visiting me; it is
unnecessary to say with what pleasure I should receive you and the Lady
Blanche.”
“I do not doubt it,” replied the Count, “and I will not deny myself and
Blanche the pleasure of visiting you, if your affairs should allow you
to be at La Vallée, about the time when we can meet you there.”
When Emily said that she should hope to see the Countess also, she was
not sorry to learn that this lady was going, accompanied by
Mademoiselle Bearn, to pay a visit, for a few weeks, to a family in
lower Languedoc.
The Count, after some further conversation on his intended journey and
on the arrangement of Emily’s, took leave; and many days did not
succeed this visit, before a second letter from M. Quesnel informed
her, that he was then at Thoulouse, that La Vallée was at liberty, and
that he wished her to set off for the former place, where he awaited
her arrival, with all possible dispatch, since his own affairs pressed
him to return to Gascony. Emily did not hesitate to obey him, and,
having taken an affecting leave of the Count’s family, in which M. Du
Pont was still included, and of her friends at the convent, she set out
for Thoulouse, attended by the unhappy Annette, and guarded by a steady
servant of the Count.
CHAPTER X
Lull’d in the countless chambers of the brain,
Our thoughts are link’d by many a hidden chain:
Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies!
PLEASURES OF MEMORY
Emily pursued her journey, without any accident, along the plains of
Languedoc towards the north-west; and, on this her return to Thoulouse,
which she had last left with Madame Montoni, she thought much on the
melancholy fate of her aunt, who, but for her own imprudence, might now
have been living in happiness there! Montoni, too, often rose to her
fancy, such as she had seen him in his days of triumph, bold, spirited
and commanding; such also as she had since beheld him in his days of
vengeance; and now, only a few short months had passed—and he had no
longer the power, or the will to afflict;—he had become a clod of
earth, and his life was vanished like a shadow! Emily could have wept
at his fate, had she not remembered his crimes; for that of her
unfortunate aunt she did weep, and all sense of her errors was overcome
by the recollection of her misfortunes.
Other thoughts and other emotions succeeded, as Emily drew near the
well-known scenes of her early love, and considered, that Valancourt
was lost to her and to himself, for ever. At length, she came to the
brow of the hill, whence, on her departure for Italy, she had given a
farewell look to this beloved landscape, amongst whose woods and fields
she had so often walked with Valancourt, and where he was then to
inhabit, when she would be far, far away! She saw, once more, that
chain of the Pyrenees, which overlooked La Vallée, rising, like faint
clouds, on the horizon. “There, too, is Gascony, extended at their
feet!” said she, “O my father,—my mother! And there, too, is the
Garonne!” she added, drying the tears, that obscured her sight,—“and
Thoulouse, and my aunt’s mansion—and the groves in her garden!—O my
friends! are ye all lost to me—must I never, never see ye more!” Tears
rushed again to her eyes, and she continued to weep, till an abrupt
turn in the road had nearly occasioned the carriage to overset, when,
looking up, she perceived another part of the well-known scene around
Thoulouse, and all the reflections and anticipations, which she had
suffered, at the moment, when she bade it last adieu, came with
recollected force to her heart. She remembered how anxiously she had
looked forward to the futurity, which was to decide her happiness
concerning Valancourt, and what depressing fears had assailed her; the
very words she had uttered, as she withdrew her last look from the
prospect, came to her memory. “Could I but be certain,” she had then
said, “that I should ever return, and that Valancourt would still live
for me—I should go in peace!”
Now, that futurity, so anxiously anticipated, was arrived, she was
returned—but what a dreary blank appeared!—Valancourt no longer lived
for her! She had no longer even the melancholy satisfaction of
contemplating his image in her heart, for he was no longer the same
Valancourt she had cherished there—the solace of many a mournful hour,
the animating friend, that had enabled her to bear up against the
oppression of Montoni—the distant hope, that had beamed over her gloomy
prospect! On perceiving this beloved idea to be an illusion of her own
creation, Valancourt seemed to be annihilated, and her soul sickened at
the blank, that remained. His marriage with a rival, even his death,
she thought she could have endured with more fortitude, than this
discovery; for then, amidst all her grief, she could have looked in
secret upon the image of goodness, which her fancy had drawn of him,
and comfort would have mingled with her suffering!
Drying her tears, she looked, once more, upon the landscape, which had
excited them, and perceived, that she was passing the very bank, where
she had taken leave of Valancourt, on the morning of her departure from
Thoulouse, and she now saw him, through her returning tears, such as he
had appeared, when she looked from the carriage to give him a last
adieu—saw him leaning mournfully against the high trees, and remembered
the fixed look of mingled tenderness and anguish, with which he had
then regarded her. This recollection was too much for her heart, and
she sunk back in the carriage, nor once looked up, till it stopped at
the gates of what was now her own mansion.
These being opened, and by the servant, to whose care the château had
been entrusted, the carriage drove into the court, where, alighting,
she hastily passed through the great hall, now silent and solitary, to
a large oak parlour, the common sitting room of the late Madame
Montoni, where, instead of being received by M. Quesnel, she found a
letter from him, informing her that business of consequence had obliged
him to leave Thoulouse two days before. Emily was, upon the whole, not
sorry to be spared his presence, since his abrupt departure appeared to
indicate the same indifference, with which he had formerly regarded
her. This letter informed her, also, of the progress he had made in the
settlement of her affairs, and concluded with directions, concerning
the forms of some business, which remained for her to transact. But M.
Quesnel’s unkindness did not long occupy her thoughts, which returned
the remembrance of the persons she had been accustomed to see in this
mansion, and chiefly of the ill-guided and unfortunate Madame Montoni.
In the room, where she now sat, she had breakfasted with her on the
morning of their departure for Italy; and the view of it brought most
forcibly to her recollection all she had herself suffered, at that
time, and the many gay expectations, which her aunt had formed,
respecting the journey before her. While Emily’s mind was thus engaged,
her eyes wandered unconsciously to a large window, that looked upon the
garden, and here new memorials of the past spoke to her heart, for she
saw extended before her the very avenue, in which she had parted with
Valancourt, on the eve of her journey; and all the anxiety, the tender
interest he had shown, concerning her future happiness, his earnest
remonstrances against her committing herself to the power of Montoni,
and the truth of his affection, came afresh to her memory. At this
moment, it appeared almost impossible, that Valancourt could have
become unworthy of her regard, and she doubted all that she had lately
heard to his disadvantage, and even his own words, which had confirmed
Count De Villefort’s report of him. Overcome by the recollections,
which the view of this avenue occasioned, she turned abruptly from the
window, and sunk into a chair beside it, where she sat, given up to
grief, till the entrance of Annette, with coffee, aroused her.
“Dear madam, how melancholy this place looks now,” said Annette, “to
what it used to do! It is dismal coming home, when there is nobody to
welcome one!”
This was not the moment, in which Emily could bear the remark; her
tears fell again, and, as soon as she had taken the coffee, she retired
to her apartment, where she endeavoured to repose her fatigued spirits.
But busy memory would still supply her with the visions of former
times: she saw Valancourt interesting and benevolent, as he had been
wont to appear in the days of their early love, and, amidst the scenes,
where she had believed that they should sometimes pass their years
together!—but, at length, sleep closed these afflicting scenes from her
view.
On the following morning, serious occupation recovered her from such
melancholy reflections; for, being desirous of quitting Thoulouse, and
of hastening on to La Vallée, she made some enquiries into the
condition of the estate, and immediately dispatched a part of the
necessary business concerning it, according to the directions of Mons.
Quesnel. It required a strong effort to abstract her thoughts from
other interests sufficiently to attend to this, but she was rewarded
for her exertions by again experiencing, that employment is the surest
antidote to sorrow.
This day was devoted entirely to business; and, among other concerns,
she employed means to learn the situation of all her poor tenants, that
she might relieve their wants, or confirm their comforts.
In the evening, her spirits were so much strengthened, that she thought
she could bear to visit the gardens, where she had so often walked with
Valancourt; and, knowing, that, if she delayed to do so, their scenes
would only affect her the more, whenever they should be viewed, she
took advantage of the present state of her mind, and entered them.
Passing hastily the gate leading from the court into the gardens, she
hurried up the great avenue, scarcely permitting her memory to dwell
for a moment on the circumstance of her having here parted with
Valancourt, and soon quitted this for other walks less interesting to
her heart. These brought her, at length, to the flight of steps, that
led from the lower garden to the terrace, on seeing which, she became
agitated, and hesitated whether to ascend, but, her resolution
returning, she proceeded.
“Ah!” said Emily, as she ascended, “these are the same high trees, that
used to wave over the terrace, and these the same flowery thickets—the
liburnum, the wild rose, and the cerinthe—which were wont to grow
beneath them! Ah! and there, too, on that bank, are the very plants,
which Valancourt so carefully reared!—O, when last I saw them!”—she
checked the thought, but could not restrain her tears, and, after
walking slowly on for a few moments, her agitation, upon the view of
this well-known scene, increased so much, that she was obliged to stop,
and lean upon the wall of the terrace. It was a mild, and beautiful
evening. The sun was setting over the extensive landscape, to which his
beams, sloping from beneath a dark cloud, that overhung the west, gave
rich and partial colouring, and touched the tufted summits of the
groves, that rose from the garden below, with a yellow gleam. Emily and
Valancourt had often admired together this scene, at the same hour; and
it was exactly on this spot, that, on the night preceding her departure
for Italy, she had listened to his remonstrances against the journey,