The Mysteries of Udolpho
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