The Mysteries of Udolpho
all the other servants were in great trouble about M. Valancourt, for
that he was such a kind young gentleman, they all loved him, as well as
if he had been their own brother—and now, to think what was become of
him! For he used to be so courteous to them all, and, if any of them
had been in fault, M. Valancourt was the first to persuade my lord to
forgive them. And then, if any poor family was in distress, M.
Valancourt was the first, too, to relieve them, though some folks, not
a great way off, could have afforded that much better than he. And
then, said Gabriel, he was so gentle to everybody, and, for all he had
such a noble look with him, he never would command, and call about him,
as some of your quality people do, and we never minded him the less for
that. Nay, says Gabriel, for that matter, we minded him the more, and
would all have run to obey him at a word, sooner than if some folks had
told us what to do at full length; aye, and were more afraid of
displeasing him, too, than of them, that used rough words to us.”
Emily, who no longer considered it to be dangerous to listen to praise,
bestowed on Valancourt, did not attempt to interrupt Theresa, but sat,
attentive to her words, though almost overwhelmed with grief. “My
Lord,” continued Theresa, “frets about M. Valancourt sadly, and the
more, because, they say, he had been rather harsh against him lately.
Gabriel says he had it from my Lord’s valet, that M. Valancourt had
_comported_ himself wildly at Paris, and had spent a great deal of
money, more a great deal than my Lord liked, for he loves money better
than M. Valancourt, who had been led astray sadly. Nay, for that
matter, M. Valancourt had been put into prison at Paris, and my Lord,
says Gabriel, refused to take him out, and said he deserved to suffer;
and, when old Gregoire, the butler, heard of this, he actually bought a
walking-stick to take with him to Paris, to visit his young master; but
the next thing we hear is, that M. Valancourt is coming home. O, it was
a joyful day when he came; but he was sadly altered, and my Lord looked
very cool upon him, and he was very sad, indeed. And, soon after, he
went away again into Languedoc, and, since that time, we have never
seen him.”
Theresa paused, and Emily, sighing deeply, remained with her eyes fixed
upon the floor, without speaking. After a long pause, she enquired what
further Theresa had heard. “Yet why should I ask?” she added; “what you
have already told is too much. O Valancourt! thou art gone—for ever
gone! and I—I have murdered thee!” These words, and the countenance of
despair which accompanied them, alarmed Theresa, who began to fear,
that the shock of the intelligence Emily had just received, had
affected her senses. “My dear young lady, be composed,” said she, “and
do not say such frightful words. You murder M. Valancourt,—dear heart!”
Emily replied only by a heavy sigh.
“Dear lady, it breaks my heart to see you look so,” said Theresa, “do
not sit with your eyes upon the ground, and all so pale and melancholy;
it frightens me to see you.” Emily was still silent, and did not appear
to hear anything that was said to her. “Besides, mademoiselle,”
continued Theresa, “M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet, for what
we know.”
At the mention of his name, Emily raised her eyes, and fixed them, in a
wild gaze, upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to understand what
had been said. “Aye, my dear lady,” said Theresa, mistaking the meaning
of this considerate air, “M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet.”
On the repetition of these words, Emily comprehended their import, but,
instead of producing the effect intended, they seemed only to heighten
her distress. She rose hastily from her chair, paced the little room,
with quick steps, and, often sighing deeply, clasped her hands, and
shuddered.
Meanwhile, Theresa, with simple, but honest affection, endeavoured to
comfort her; put more wood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighter
blaze, swept the hearth, set the chair, which Emily had left, in a
warmer situation, and then drew forth from a cupboard a flask of wine.
“It is a stormy night, madam,” said she, “and blows cold—do come nearer
the fire, and take a glass of this wine; it will comfort you, as it has
done me, often and often, for it is not such wine as one gets every
day; it is rich Languedoc, and the last of six flasks that M.
Valancourt sent me, the night before he left Gascony for Paris. They
have served me, ever since, as cordials, and I never drink it, but I
think of him, and what kind words he said to me when he gave them.
‘Theresa,’ says he, ‘you are not young now, and should have a glass of
good wine, now and then. I will send you a few flasks, and, when you
taste them, you will sometimes remember me your friend.’ Yes—those were
his very words—me your friend!” Emily still paced the room, without
seeming to hear what Theresa said, who continued speaking. “And I have
remembered him, often enough, poor young gentleman!—for he gave me this
roof for a shelter, and that, which has supported me. Ah! he is in
heaven, with my blessed master, if ever saint was!”
Theresa’s voice faltered; she wept, and set down the flask, unable to
pour out the wine. Her grief seemed to recall Emily from her own, who
went towards her, but then stopped, and, having gazed on her, for a
moment, turned suddenly away, as if overwhelmed by the reflection, that
it was Valancourt, whom Theresa lamented.
While she yet paced the room, the still, soft note of an oboe, or
flute, was heard mingling with the blast, the sweetness of which
affected Emily’s spirits; she paused a moment in attention; the tender
tones, as they swelled along the wind, till they were lost again in the
ruder gust, came with a plaintiveness, that touched her heart, and she
melted into tears.
“Aye,” said Theresa, drying her eyes, “there is Richard, our
neighbour’s son, playing on the oboe; it is sad enough, to hear such
sweet music now.” Emily continued to weep, without replying. “He often
plays of an evening,” added Theresa, “and, sometimes, the young folks
dance to the sound of his oboe. But, dear young lady! do not cry so;
and pray take a glass of this wine,” continued she, pouring some into a
glass, and handing it to Emily, who reluctantly took it.
“Taste it for M. Valancourt’s sake,” said Theresa, as Emily lifted the
glass to her lips, “for he gave it me, you know, madam.” Emily’s hand
trembled, and she spilt the wine as she withdrew it from her lips. “For
whose sake!—who gave the wine?” said she in a faltering voice. “M.
Valancourt, dear lady. I knew you would be pleased with it. It is the
last flask I have left.”
Emily set the wine upon the table, and burst into tears, while Theresa,
disappointed and alarmed, tried to comfort her; but she only waved her
hand, entreated she might be left alone, and wept the more.
A knock at the cottage door prevented Theresa from immediately obeying
her mistress, and she was going to open it, when Emily, checking her,
requested she would not admit any person; but, afterwards,
recollecting, that she had ordered her servant to attend her home, she
said it was only Philippe, and endeavoured to restrain her tears, while
Theresa opened the door.
A voice, that spoke without, drew Emily’s attention. She listened,
turned her eyes to the door, when a person now appeared, and
immediately a bright gleam, that flashed from the fire,
discovered—Valancourt!
Emily, on perceiving him, started from her chair, trembled, and,
sinking into it again, became insensible to all around her.
A scream from Theresa now told, that she knew Valancourt, whom her
imperfect sight, and the duskiness of the place had prevented her from
immediately recollecting; but his attention was immediately called from
her to the person, whom he saw, falling from a chair near the fire;
and, hastening to her assistance,—he perceived, that he was supporting
Emily! The various emotions, that seized him upon thus unexpectedly
meeting with her, from whom he had believed he had parted for ever, and
on beholding her pale and lifeless in his arms—may, perhaps, be
imagined, though they could neither be then expressed, nor now
described, any more than Emily’s sensations, when, at length, she
unclosed her eyes, and, looking up, again saw Valancourt. The intense
anxiety, with which he regarded her, was instantly changed to an
expression of mingled joy and tenderness, as his eye met hers, and he
perceived, that she was reviving. But he could only exclaim, “Emily!”
as he silently watched her recovery, while she averted her eye, and
feebly attempted to withdraw her hand; but, in these the first moments,
which succeeded to the pangs his supposed death had occasioned her, she
forgot every fault, which had formerly claimed indignation, and
beholding Valancourt such as he had appeared, when he won her early
affection, she experienced emotions of only tenderness and joy. This,
alas! was but the sunshine of a few short moments; recollections rose,
like clouds, upon her mind, and, darkening the illusive image, that
possessed it, she again beheld Valancourt, degraded—Valancourt unworthy
of the esteem and tenderness she had once bestowed upon him; her
spirits faltered, and, withdrawing her hand, she turned from him to
conceal her grief, while he, yet more embarrassed and agitated,
remained silent.
A sense of what she owed to herself restrained her tears, and taught
her soon to overcome, in some degree, the emotions of mingled joy and
sorrow, that contended at her heart, as she rose, and, having thanked
him for the assistance he had given her, bade Theresa good evening. As
she was leaving the cottage, Valancourt, who seemed suddenly awakened
as from a dream, entreated, in a voice, that pleaded powerfully for
compassion, a few moments attention. Emily’s heart, perhaps, pleaded as
powerfully, but she had resolution enough to resist both, together with
the clamorous entreaties of Theresa, that she would not venture home
alone in the dark, and had already opened the cottage door, when the
pelting storm compelled her to obey their requests.
Silent and embarrassed, she returned to the fire, while Valancourt,
with increasing agitation, paced the room, as if he wished, yet feared,
to speak, and Theresa expressed without restraint her joy and wonder
upon seeing him.
“Dear heart! sir,” said she, “I never was so surprised and overjoyed in
my life. We were in great tribulation before you came, for we thought
you were dead, and were talking, and lamenting about you, just when you
knocked at the door. My young mistress there was crying, fit to break
her heart—”
Emily looked with much displeasure at Theresa, but, before she could
speak, Valancourt, unable to repress the emotion, which Theresa’s
imprudent discovery occasioned, exclaimed, “O my Emily! am I then still
dear to you! Did you, indeed, honour me with a thought—a tear? O
heavens! you weep—you weep now!”
“Theresa, sir,” said Emily, with a reserved air, and trying to conquer
her tears, “has reason to remember you with gratitude, and she was
concerned, because she had not lately heard of you. Allow me to thank
you for the kindness you have shown her, and to say, that, since I am
now upon the spot, she must not be further indebted to you.”
“Emily,” said Valancourt, no longer master of his emotions, “is it thus
you meet him, whom once you meant to honour with your hand—thus you
meet him, who has loved you—suffered for you?—Yet what do I say? Pardon
me, pardon me, mademoiselle St. Aubert, I know not what I utter. I have
no longer any claim upon your remembrance—I have forfeited every
pretension to your esteem, your love. Yes! let me not forget, that I
once possessed your affections, though to know that I have lost them,