The Mysteries of Udolpho
is my severest affliction. Affliction—do I call it!—that is a term of
mildness.”
“Dear heart!” said Theresa, preventing Emily from replying, “talk of
once having her affections! Why, my dear young lady loves you now,
better than she does anybody in the whole world, though she pretends to
deny it.”
“This is insupportable!” said Emily; “Theresa, you know not what you
say. Sir, if you respect my tranquillity, you will spare me from the
continuance of this distress.”
“I do respect your tranquillity too much, voluntarily to interrupt it,”
replied Valancourt, in whose bosom pride now contended with tenderness;
“and will not be a voluntary intruder. I would have entreated a few
moments attention—yet I know not for what purpose. You have ceased to
esteem me, and to recount to you my sufferings will degrade me more,
without exciting even your pity. Yet I have been, O Emily! I am indeed
very wretched!” added Valancourt, in a voice, that softened from
solemnity into grief.
“What! is my dear young master going out in all this rain!” said
Theresa. “No, he shall not stir a step. Dear! dear! to see how
gentlefolks can afford to throw away their happiness! Now, if you were
poor people, there would be none of this. To talk of unworthiness, and
not caring about one another, when I know there are not such a
kind-hearted lady and gentleman in the whole province, nor any that
love one another half so well, if the truth was spoken!”
Emily, in extreme vexation, now rose from her chair, “I must be gone,”
said she, “the storm is over.”
“Stay, Emily, stay, mademoiselle St. Aubert!” said Valancourt,
summoning all his resolution, “I will no longer distress you by my
presence. Forgive me, that I did not sooner obey you, and, if you can,
sometimes, pity one, who, in losing you—has lost all hope of peace! May
you be happy, Emily, however wretched I remain, happy as my fondest
wish would have you!”
His voice faltered with the last words, and his countenance changed,
while, with a look of ineffable tenderness and grief, he gazed upon her
for an instant, and then quitted the cottage.
“Dear heart! dear heart!” cried Theresa, following him to the door,
“why, Monsieur Valancourt! how it rains! what a night is this to turn
him out in! Why it will give him his death; and it was but now you were
crying, mademoiselle, because he was dead. Well! young ladies do change
their mind in a minute, as one may say!”
Emily made no reply, for she heard not what was said, while, lost in
sorrow and thought, she remained in her chair by the fire, with her
eyes fixed, and the image of Valancourt still before them.
“M. Valancourt is sadly altered! madam,” said Theresa; “he looks so
thin to what he used to do, and so melancholy, and then he wears his
arm in a sling.”
Emily raised her eyes at these words, for she had not observed this
last circumstance, and she now did not doubt, that Valancourt had
received the shot of her gardener at Thoulouse; with this conviction
her pity for him returning, she blamed herself for having occasioned
him to leave the cottage, during the storm.
Soon after her servants arrived with the carriage, and Emily, having
censured Theresa for her thoughtless conversation to Valancourt, and
strictly charging her never to repeat any hints of the same kind to
him, withdrew to her home, thoughtful and disconsolate.
Meanwhile, Valancourt had returned to a little inn of the village,
whither he had arrived only a few moments before his visit to Theresa’s
cottage, on the way from Thoulouse to the château of the Count de
Duvarney, where he had not been since he bade adieu to Emily at
Château-le-Blanc, in the neighbourhood of which he had lingered for a
considerable time, unable to summon resolution enough to quit a place,
that contained the object most dear to his heart. There were times,
indeed, when grief and despair urged him to appear again before Emily,
and, regardless of his ruined circumstances, to renew his suit. Pride,
however, and the tenderness of his affection, which could not long
endure the thought of involving her in his misfortunes, at length, so
far triumphed over passion, that he relinquished this desperate design,
and quitted Château-le-Blanc. But still his fancy wandered among the
scenes, which had witnessed his early love, and, on his way to Gascony,
he stopped at Thoulouse, where he remained when Emily arrived,
concealing, yet indulging his melancholy in the gardens, where he had
formerly passed with her so many happy hours; often recurring, with
vain regret, to the evening before her departure for Italy, when she
had so unexpectedly met him on the terrace, and endeavouring to recall
to his memory every word and look, which had then charmed him, the
arguments he had employed to dissuade her from the journey, and the
tenderness of their last farewell. In such melancholy recollections he
had been indulging, when Emily unexpectedly arrived to him on this very
terrace, the evening after her arrival at Thoulouse. His emotions, on
thus seeing her, can scarcely be imagined; but he so far overcame the
first promptings of love, that he forbore to discover himself, and
abruptly quitted the gardens. Still, however, the vision he had seen
haunted his mind; he became more wretched than before, and the only
solace of his sorrow was to return in the silence of the night; to
follow the paths which he believed her steps had pressed, during the
day; and, to watch round the habitation where she reposed. It was in
one of these mournful wanderings, that he had received by the fire of
the gardener, who mistook him for a robber, a wound in his arm, which
had detained him at Thoulouse till very lately, under the hands of a
surgeon. There, regardless of himself and careless of his friends,
whose late unkindness had urged him to believe, that they were
indifferent as to his fate, he remained, without informing them of his
situation; and now, being sufficiently recovered to bear travelling, he
had taken La Vallée in his way to Estuvière, the Count’s residence,
partly for the purpose of hearing of Emily, and of being again near
her, and partly for that of enquiring into the situation of poor old
Theresa, who, he had reason to suppose, had been deprived of her
stipend, small as it was, and which enquiry had brought him to her
cottage, when Emily happened to be there.
This unexpected interview, which had at once shown him the tenderness
of her love and the strength of her resolution, renewed all the
acuteness of the despair, that had attended their former separation,
and which no effort of reason could teach him, in these moments, to
subdue. Her image, her look, the tones of her voice, all dwelt on his
fancy, as powerfully as they had late appeared to his senses, and
banished from his heart every emotion, except those of love and
despair.
Before the evening concluded, he returned to Theresa’s cottage, that he
might hear her talk of Emily, and be in the place, where she had so
lately been. The joy, felt and expressed by that faithful servant, was
quickly changed to sorrow, when she observed, at one moment, his wild
and frenzied look, and, at another, the dark melancholy, that overhung
him.
After he had listened, and for a considerable time, to all she had to
relate, concerning Emily, he gave Theresa nearly all the money he had
about him, though she repeatedly refused it, declaring, that her
mistress had amply supplied her wants; and then, drawing a ring of
value from his finger, he delivered it her with a solemn charge to
present it to Emily, of whom he entreated, as a last favour, that she
would preserve it for his sake, and sometimes, when she looked upon it,
remember the unhappy giver.
Theresa wept, as she received the ring, but it was more from sympathy,
than from any presentiment of evil; and before she could reply,
Valancourt abruptly left the cottage. She followed him to the door,
calling upon his name and entreating him to return; but she received no
answer, and saw him no more.
CHAPTER XIV
Call up him, that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold.
MILTON
On the following morning, as Emily sat in the parlour adjoining the
library, reflecting on the scene of the preceding night, Annette rushed
wildly into the room, and, without speaking, sunk breathless into a
chair. It was some time before she could answer the anxious enquiries
of Emily, as to the occasion of her emotion, but, at length, she
exclaimed, “I have seen his ghost, madam, I have seen his ghost!”
“Who do you mean?” said Emily, with extreme impatience.
“It came in from the hall, madam,” continued Annette, “as I was
crossing to the parlour.”
“Who are you speaking of?” repeated Emily, “Who came in from the hall?”
“It was dressed just as I have seen him, often and often,” added
Annette. “Ah! who could have thought—”
Emily’s patience was now exhausted, and she was reprimanding her for
such idle fancies, when a servant entered the room, and informed her,
that a stranger without begged leave to speak with her.
It immediately occurred to Emily, that this stranger was Valancourt,
and she told the servant to inform him, that she was engaged, and could
not see any person.
The servant, having delivered his message, returned with one from the
stranger, urging the first request, and saying, that he had something
of consequence to communicate; while Annette, who had hitherto sat
silent and amazed, now started up, and crying, “It is Ludovico!—it is
Ludovico!” ran out of the room. Emily bade the servant follow her, and,
if it really was Ludovico, to show him into the parlour.
In a few minutes, Ludovico appeared, accompanied by Annette, who, as
joy rendered her forgetful of all rules of decorum towards her
mistress, would not suffer any person to be heard, for some time, but
herself. Emily expressed surprise and satisfaction, on seeing Ludovico
in safety, and the first emotions increased, when he delivered letters
from Count De Villefort and the Lady Blanche, informing her of their
late adventure, and of their present situation at an inn among the
Pyrenees, where they had been detained by the illness of Mons. St.
Foix, and the indisposition of Blanche, who added, that the Baron St.
Foix was just arrived to attend his son to his château, where he would
remain till the perfect recovery of his wounds, and then return to
Languedoc, but that her father and herself purposed to be at La Vallée,
on the following day. She added, that Emily’s presence would be
expected at the approaching nuptials, and begged she would be prepared
to proceed, in a few days to Château-le-Blanc. For an account of
Ludovico’s adventure, she referred her to himself; and Emily, though
much interested, concerning the means, by which he had disappeared from
the north apartments, had the forbearance to suspend the gratification
of her curiosity, till he had taken some refreshment, and had conversed
with Annette, whose joy, on seeing him in safety, could not have been
more extravagant, had he arisen from the grave.
Meanwhile, Emily perused again the letters of her friends, whose
expressions of esteem and kindness were very necessary consolations to
her heart, awakened as it was by the late interview to emotions of
keener sorrow and regret.
The invitation to Château-le-Blanc was pressed with so much kindness by
the Count and his daughter, who strengthened it by a message from the
Countess, and the occasion of it was so important to her friend, that
Emily could not refuse to accept it, nor, though she wished to remain
in the quiet shades of her native home, could she avoid perceiving the
impropriety of remaining there alone, since Valancourt was again in the
neighbourhood. Sometimes, too, she thought, that change of scenery and