The Mysteries of Udolpho
earnestness as not immediately to perceive their approach. When Du Pont
joined the ladies, the stranger took leave, and they proceeded to the
château, where the Count, when he heard of Mons. Bonnac, claimed him
for an acquaintance, and, on learning the melancholy occasion of his
visit to Languedoc, and that he was lodged at a small inn in the
village, begged the favour of Mons. Du Pont to invite him to the
château.
The latter was happy to do so, and the scruples of reserve, which made
M. Bonnac hesitate to accept the invitation, being at length overcome,
they went to the château, where the kindness of the Count and the
sprightliness of his son were exerted to dissipate the gloom, that
overhung the spirits of the stranger. M. Bonnac was an officer in the
French service, and appeared to be about fifty; his figure was tall and
commanding, his manners had received the last polish, and there was
something in his countenance uncommonly interesting; for over features,
which, in youth, must have been remarkably handsome, was spread a
melancholy, that seemed the effect of long misfortune, rather than of
constitution, or temper.
The conversation he held, during supper, was evidently an effort of
politeness, and there were intervals in which, unable to struggle
against the feelings, that depressed him, he relapsed into silence and
abstraction, from which, however, the Count, sometimes, withdrew him in
a manner so delicate and benevolent, that Emily, while she observed
him, almost fancied she beheld her late father.
The party separated, at an early hour, and then, in the solitude of her
apartment, the scenes, which Emily had lately witnessed, returned to
her fancy, with dreadful energy. That in the dying nun she should have
discovered Signora Laurentini, who, instead of having been murdered by
Montoni, was, as it now seemed, herself guilty of some dreadful crime,
excited both horror and surprise in a high degree; nor did the hints,
which she had dropped, respecting the marriage of the Marchioness de
Villeroi, and the enquiries she had made concerning Emily’s birth,
occasion her a less degree of interest, though it was of a different
nature.
The history, which sister Frances had formerly related, and had said to
be that of Agnes, it now appeared, was erroneous; but for what purpose
it had been fabricated, unless the more effectually to conceal the true
story, Emily could not even guess. Above all, her interest was excited
as to the relation, which the story of the late Marchioness de Villeroi
bore to that of her father; for, that some kind of relation existed
between them, the grief of St. Aubert, upon hearing her named, his
request to be buried near her, and her picture, which had been found
among his papers, certainly proved. Sometimes it occurred to Emily,
that he might have been the lover, to whom it was said the Marchioness
was attached, when she was compelled to marry the Marquis de Villeroi;
but that he had afterwards cherished a passion for her, she could not
suffer herself to believe, for a moment. The papers, which he had so
solemnly enjoined her to destroy, she now fancied had related to this
connection, and she wished more earnestly than before to know the
reasons, that made him consider the injunction necessary, which, had
her faith in his principles been less, would have led to believe, that
there was a mystery in her birth dishonourable to her parents, which
those manuscripts might have revealed.
Reflections, similar to these, engaged her mind, during the greater
part of the night, and when, at length, she fell into a slumber, it was
only to behold a vision of the dying nun, and to awaken in horrors,
like those she had witnessed.
On the following morning, she was too much indisposed to attend her
appointment with the abbess, and, before the day concluded, she heard,
that sister Agnes was no more. Mons. Bonnac received this intelligence,
with concern; but Emily observed, that he did not appear so much
affected now, as on the preceding evening, immediately after quitting
the apartment of the nun, whose death was probably less terrible to
him, than the confession he had been then called upon to witness.
However this might be, he was perhaps consoled, in some degree, by a
knowledge of the legacy bequeathed him, since his family was large, and
the extravagance of some part of it had lately been the means of
involving him in great distress, and even in the horrors of a prison;
and it was the grief he had suffered from the wild career of a
favourite son, with the pecuniary anxieties and misfortunes consequent
upon it, that had given to his countenance the air of dejection, which
had so much interested Emily.
To his friend Mons. Du Pont he recited some particulars of his late
sufferings, when it appeared, that he had been confined for several
months in one of the prisons of Paris, with little hope of release, and
without the comfort of seeing his wife, who had been absent in the
country, endeavouring, though in vain, to procure assistance from his
friends. When, at length, she had obtained an order for admittance, she
was so much shocked at the change, which long confinement and sorrow
had made in his appearance, that she was seized with fits, which, by
their long continuance, threatened her life.
“Our situation affected those, who happened to witness it,” continued
Mons. Bonnac, “and one generous friend, who was in confinement at the
same time, afterwards employed the first moments of his liberty in
efforts to obtain mine. He succeeded; the heavy debt, that oppressed
me, was discharged; and, when I would have expressed my sense of the
obligation I had received, my benefactor was fled from my search. I
have reason to believe he was the victim of his own generosity, and
that he returned to the state of confinement, from which he had
released me; but every enquiry after him was unsuccessful. Amiable and
unfortunate Valancourt!”
“Valancourt!” exclaimed Mons. Du Pont. “Of what family?”
“The Valancourts, Counts Duvarney,” replied Mons. Bonnac.
The emotion of Mons. Du Pont, when he discovered the generous
benefactor of his friend to be the rival of his love, can only be
imagined; but, having overcome his first surprise, he dissipated the
apprehensions of Mons. Bonnac by acquainting him, that Valancourt was
at liberty, and had lately been in Languedoc; after which his affection
for Emily prompted him to make some enquiries, respecting the conduct
of his rival, during his stay at Paris, of which M. Bonnac appeared to
be well informed. The answers he received were such as convinced him,
that Valancourt had been much misrepresented, and, painful as was the
sacrifice, he formed the just design of relinquishing his pursuit of
Emily to a lover, who, it now appeared, was not unworthy of the regard,
with which she honoured him.
The conversation of Mons. Bonnac discovered, that Valancourt, some time
after his arrival at Paris, had been drawn into the snares, which
determined vice had spread for him, and that his hours had been chiefly
divided between the parties of the captivating Marchioness and those
gaming assemblies, to which the envy, or the avarice, of his brother
officers had spared no art to seduce him. In these parties he had lost
large sums, in efforts to recover small ones, and to such losses the
Count De Villefort and Mons. Henri had been frequent witnesses. His
resources were, at length, exhausted; and the Count, his brother,
exasperated by his conduct, refused to continue the supplies necessary
to his present mode of life, when Valancourt, in consequence of
accumulated debts, was thrown into confinement, where his brother
suffered him to remain, in the hope, that punishment might effect a
reform of conduct, which had not yet been confirmed by long habit.
In the solitude of his prison, Valancourt had leisure for reflection,
and cause for repentance; here, too, the image of Emily, which, amidst
the dissipation of the city had been obscured, but never obliterated
from his heart, revived with all the charms of innocence and beauty, to
reproach him for having sacrificed his happiness and debased his
talents by pursuits, which his nobler faculties would formerly have
taught him to consider were as tasteless as they were degrading. But,
though his passions had been seduced, his heart was not depraved, nor
had habit riveted the chains, that hung heavily on his conscience; and,
as he retained that energy of will, which was necessary to burst them,
he, at length, emancipated himself from the bondage of vice, but not
till after much effort and severe suffering.
Being released by his brother from the prison, where he had witnessed
the affecting meeting between Mons. Bonnac and his wife, with whom he
had been for some time acquainted, the first use of his liberty formed
a striking instance of his humanity and his rashness; for with nearly
all the money, just received from his brother, he went to a
gaming-house, and gave it as a last stake for the chance of restoring
his friend to freedom, and to his afflicted family. The event was
fortunate, and, while he had awaited the issue of this momentous stake,
he made a solemn vow never again to yield to the destructive and
fascinating vice of gaming.
Having restored the venerable Mons. Bonnac to his rejoicing family, he
hurried from Paris to Estuvière; and, in the delight of having made the
wretched happy, forgot, for a while, his own misfortunes. Soon,
however, he remembered, that he had thrown away the fortune, without
which he could never hope to marry Emily; and life, unless passed with
her, now scarcely appeared supportable; for her goodness, refinement,
and simplicity of heart, rendered her beauty more enchanting, if
possible, to his fancy, than it had ever yet appeared. Experience had
taught him to understand the full value of the qualities, which he had
before admired, but which the contrasted characters he had seen in the
world made him now adore; and these reflections, increasing the pangs
of remorse and regret, occasioned the deep dejection, that had
accompanied him even into the presence of Emily, of whom he considered
himself no longer worthy. To the ignominy of having received pecuniary
obligations from the Marchioness Chamfort, or any other lady of
intrigue, as the Count De Villefort had been informed, or of having
been engaged in the depredating schemes of gamesters, Valancourt had
never submitted; and these were some of such scandals as often mingle
with truth, against the unfortunate. Count De Villefort had received
them from authority which he had no reason to doubt, and which the
imprudent conduct he had himself witnessed in Valancourt, had certainly
induced him the more readily to believe. Being such as Emily could not
name to the Chevalier, he had no opportunity of refuting them; and,
when he confessed himself to be unworthy of her esteem, he little
suspected, that he was confirming to her the most dreadful calumnies.
Thus the mistake had been mutual, and had remained so, when Mons.
Bonnac explained the conduct of his generous, but imprudent young
friend to Du Pont, who, with severe justice, determined not only to
undeceive the Count on this subject, but to resign all hope of Emily.
Such a sacrifice as his love rendered this, was deserving of a noble
reward, and Mons. Bonnac, if it had been possible for him to forget the
benevolent Valancourt, would have wished that Emily might accept the
just Du Pont.
When the Count was informed of the error he had committed, he was
extremely shocked at the consequence of his credulity, and the account
which Mons. Bonnac gave of his friend’s situation, while at Paris,
convinced him, that Valancourt had been entrapped by the schemes of a