 Ah, why did fate his steps decoy, install me paths to Rome, remote from all congenial joy? Beatey. Emily, meanwhile, was still suffering anxiety as to the fate of Valancour, but Theresa, having at length found a person whom she couldn't trust on her errand to the steward, informed her that the messenger would return on the following day, and Emily promised to be at the cottage, Theresa being too lame to attend her. In the evening, therefore, Emily set out alone for the cottage, with a melancholy foreboding concerning Valancour, while perhaps the gloom of the hour might contribute to depress her spirits. It was a grey or tunnel evening towards the close of the season, heavy mists partially obscured the mountains, and a chilling breeze that sighed among the beech-woods strewed her path with some of their last yellow leaves. These circling in the blast and foretelling the death of the year gave an image of desolation to her mind, and in her fancy seemed to announce the death of Valancour. Of this she had indeed more than once so strong a presentiment that she was on the point of returning home, feeling herself unequal to an encounter with the certainty she anticipated, but contending with her emotions she so far commanded them as to be able to proceed. While she walked mournfully on, gazing on the long volumes of vapour that poured upon the sky, and watching the swallows tossed along the wind, now disappearing among tempestuous clouds and then emerging for a moment in circles upon the calmer air, the afflictions and vicissitudes of her late life seemed portrayed in these fleeting images. Thus had she been tossed upon the stormy sea of misfortune for the last year, with but short intervals of peace, if peace that could be called which was only the delay of evils. And now, when she had escaped from so many dangers, was become independent of the will of those who had oppressed her, and found herself mistress of a large fortune. Now when she might reasonably have expected happiness, she perceived that she was as distant from it as ever. She would have accused herself of weakness and ingratitude, in thus suffering a sense of the various blessings she possessed to be overcome by that of a single misfortune. That this misfortune affected herself alone. But when she had wept for Valankur even as living, tears of compassion had mingled with those of regret, and while she lamented a human being degraded to vice and consequently to misery. Reason and humanity claimed these tears, and fortitude had not yet taught her to separate them from those of love. In the present moments, however, it was not the certainty of his guilt, but the apprehension of his death, of a death also to which she herself, however innocently, appeared to have been in some degree instrumental, that oppressed her. This fear increased as the means of certainty concerning it approached, and when she came within view of Therese's cottage she was so much disordered and her resolution failed her so entirely that, unable to proceed, she rested on a bank beside her path, where, as she said, the wind that groaned suddenly among the lofty branches above seemed to her malachally imagination to bear the sounds of distant lamentation, and in the pauses of the gusts she still fancied she heard the feeble and far-off notes of distress. Attention convinced her that this was no more than fancy, but the increase in gloom which seemed the sudden close of day soon warned her to depart, and with faltering steps she again moved toward the cottage. Through the casement appeared the cheerful blaze of a wood-fire, and Therese, who had observed Emily approaching, was already at the door to receive her. "'It's a cold evening, madam,' said she. "'Storms are coming on, and I thought you would like a fire. Do take this chair by the hearth.' Emily, thanking her for this consideration, sat down, and then, looking at her face, on which the wood-fire threw a gleam, she was struck with its expression, and, unable to speak, sunk back in her chair, with a countenance so full of woe, that Therese instantly comprehended the occasion of it, but she remained silent. "'Ah!' said Emily at length, "'It is unnecessary for me to ask the result of your inquiry. Your silence and that look sufficiently explain it. He is dead.' "'Alas, my dear young lady,' replied Therese, while tears filled her eyes. This world is made up of trouble. The rich have their share, as well as the poor. But we must all endeavor to bear what heaven pleases. "'He is dead, then,' interrupted Emily. "'Valaku' is dead?' "'Avalade, I fear he is,' replied Therese. "'You fear?' said Emily. "'Do you only fear?' "'Alas, yes, madam, I fear he is. Neither the steward or any of the Ipoviev family have heard of him since he left Langerdach, and the count is in great affliction about him. For he says he was always punctual in writing, but that now he has not received a line from him since he left Langerdach. He appointed to be at home three weeks ago, but he has neither come or written, and they fear some accident as before on him. "'Alas, that ever I should live to cry for his death. I am old and might have died without being missed, but he—' Emily was faint and asked for some water, and Therese, alarmed by the voice in which he spoke, hastened to her assistance, and while she held the water to Emily's lips, continued, "'My dear young mistress, do not take it so too hard. The chevelier may be alive and well for all this. Let us hope the best.' "'Oh, no. I cannot hope,' said Emily. "'I am acquainted with circumstances that will not suffer me to hope. I am somewhat better now, and can hear what you have to say. Tell me, I entreat, the particulars of what you know.' "'Stay, till you are a little better, madmoselle, you look sadly.' "'Oh, no, Therese, tell me all while I have the power to hear it,' said Emily. "'Tell me all, I conjure you.' "'Well, madame, I will, then, but the steward did not say much. For Richard says he seemed shy of talking about Monsieur Valancourt, and what he gathered was from Gabriel, one of the servants, who said he had heard it from my lord's gentlemen.' "'What did he hear?' said Emily. "'Why, madame, Richard has but a bad memory, and could not remember half of it, and if I had not asked him a great many questions, I should have heard little indeed. But he says that Gabriel said that he and all the other servants were in great trouble about Monsieur 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, Monsieur Valancourt was the first to persuade my lord to forgive them. And then, if any poor family was in distress, Monsieur 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. I, 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 said, attentive to her words, though almost overwhelmed with grief. My lord, continued Theresa, threats about Monsieur Valancourt certainly, and the more because they say he had been rather harsh against him lately. Gabriel says he added for my lord's valet that Monsieur 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 Monsieur Valancourt, who had been led astray sadly. Nay, for that matter, Monsieur 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 Grégoire, 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 Monsieur Valancourt is coming home. Oh, 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 inquired what further Theresa had heard. Yet why should I ask, she added, what you've already told is too much. Oh, Valancourt, they are gone, forever 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, says she, and do not say such frightful words. You murder, Monsieur 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 also 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, ma'am, was I, continued Theresa. Monsieur 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. I, my dear lady, said Theresa, mistaking the meaning of this considerate air. Monsieur 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 a little room with quick steps, and, often sighing deeply, clasped her hands and shut it. 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 her cupboard a flask of wine. It's 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, long a dock, and the last of six flasks that Monsieur 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're 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 had supported me. Ah, he is in heaven with my blessed master if ever saint was. Theresa's voice faltered. She wept and sat 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 was Valancourt whom Theresa lamented. While she had paced the room, the still, soft note of an oboe, or flute, was heard mingling with a blast, the sweetness of which affected Emily's spirits. She paused the moment in attention, the tender notes as they swelled along the wind till they were lost again in the rudor gusts, came with a plaintiveness that touched her heart and she melted into tears. I, said Theresa, drying her eyes, there's Richard, our neighbor'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. They sit for Monsieur 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 spilled the wine as she withdrew it from her lips. For whose sake? Who gave the wine? Was such she in a faltering voice? Monsieur 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 and treated she might be left alone and wept them all. Her 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, unperceiving 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 that they could neither be then expressed or now described any more than Emily's sensations when, at length, she enclosed 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 fold which had formally 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 elusive 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 and treated 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 clamours and treaties of Theresa that she would not vent her 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 was 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, Oh, my Emily, am I then still dear to you? Did you indeed honour me with a thought, a tear? Oh, heavens, you weep, you weep now. Theresa, sir, said Emily, with a reserved air, and trying to conquer her tears, has reason to remember your 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 a 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, Moselle Saint-Ober, I 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 is my severest affliction. Her 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 your voluntary intruder. I would have entreated a few moments' attention, yet I know not for what purpose. You have seized 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 gentle folks 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, what was El Saint-Ober, said Valancourt, summoning all as a 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 he was crying, mademoiselle, because he was dead. Well, young ladies do change their minds 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. Monsieur Valancourt is sadly altered, madem, said Theresa. He looked 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 a shot of her gardener at Toulouse. 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 to the carriage, and Emily, having sendered Theresa for her thoughtless conversation to Valancourt, and strictly charging her never to repeat any hints of the same kind to him, was drew to her home, thoughtful and disconsolate. Meanwhile Valancourt had returned to a little inn of the village, whether he had arrived only a few moments before his visit to Theresa's cottage, on the way from Toulouse to the château of the Count de Duvernay, where it had not been since he bated her to Emily at Château Leblanc, in the neighborhood of which he'd 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 adjure the thought of involving her in his misfortunes, at length so far triumphed over passion, that he relinquished this desperate design and quit at Château Leblanc. But still his fancy wandered among the scenes which had witnessed his early love, and, on his way to Gascony, he stopped at Toulouse, 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 returning 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 Toulouse. 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 it received by the fire of the gardener, whom it took him for a rubble, a wound in his arm, which had detained him at Toulouse 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 Lavallée and his way to Estivière, the Count's residence, partly for the purpose of hearing of Emily, and of being again near her, and partly for that of inquiring into the situation of poor old Thérèse, who, he had reasoned to suppose, had been deprived of her stipend, small as it was, and which inquiry 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 laid appear to his senses, and banished from his heart every emotion, except those of love and despair. Before the evening concluded, he returned to Thérèse'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 Thérèse nearly all the money he had about him, though she repeatedly refused it, declaring that her mistress had amply supplied her once. 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. Thérèse wept as she received the ring. But it was more from sympathy than from any presentment 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. On the following morning, as Emily sat in the parlour adjoining the library, reflecting on the scene of the preceding night, a net rushed wildly into the room, and, without speaking, sunk breathless into a chair. It was some time before she could answer the anxious inquiries of Emily as to the occasion of her emotion, but at length she exclaimed, I've seen as ghost, madam, I've seen as ghost. What do you mean? said Emily, with extreme impatience. It came in from the hall, madam, continued her net, 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've seen him, often and often, added a net. 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 a net, who had hit the two, 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 a net, 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, and an inn among the Pyrenees, where they had been detained by the illness of Monsignor Saint-Foy, and the indisposition of Blanche, who added that the Baron Saint-Foy was just arrived to attend his son to his chateau, where he would remain till the perfect recovery of his wounds, and then return to Languedoc, but that her father and herself proposed to be at Lavallée on the following day. She added that Emily's presence would be expected at the approaching nub chills, and begged she would be prepared to proceed in a few days to chateau 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's apartment, 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 chateau le blanc was pressed with so much kindness by the count at 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 neighborhood. Sometimes, too, she thought that change of scenery and the society of her friends might contribute more than retirement to restore her to tranquillity. When Ludovico again appeared, she desired him to give a detail of his adventure in the North's apartments, and to tell by what means he became a companion of the Banditi with whom the count had found him. He immediately obeyed, while Annette, who had not yet had leisure to ask him many questions on the subject, prepared to listen with the countenance of extreme curiosity, venturing to remind her lady of her incredulity concerning spirits in the castle of Odolfo, and of her own sagacity in believing in them, while Emily, blushing at the consciousness of her late credulity, observed that if Ludovico's adventure could justify Annette's superstition, he had probably not been here to relate it. Ludovico smiled at Annette, and bowed to Emily, and then began as follows. You may remember, madam, that on the night when I sat up in the North chamber, my lord, the count, and Monsignor Henry, accompanied me thither, and that, while they remained there, nothing happened to excite any alarm. When they were gone, I made a fire in the bedroom, and, not being inclined to sleep, I sat down on the hearth with a book I had brought with me to divert my mind. I confess I did sometimes look round the chamber with something like apprehension. How very like it I daresay, interrupted Annette, and I daresay, too, if the truth was known, you shook from head to foot. Not quite so bad as that, replied Ludovico, smiling, but several times, as the wind whistled round the castle and shook the old casements, I did fancy I heard odd noises, and once or twice I got up and looked about me, but nothing was to be seen except the grim figures in the tapestry, which seemed to frown upon me as I looked at them. I had sat thus for above an hour, continued Ludovico. When again I thought I heard a noise, and glanced my eyes round the room to discover what it came from, but, not perceiving anything, I began to read again, and, when I had finished the story I was upon, I felt drowsy and dropped to sleep. But presently I was awakened by the noise I had heard before, and it seemed to come from that part of the chamber where the bed stood, and then, whether it was a story I had been reading that affected my spirits, or the strange reports that have been spread of these apartments, I don't know, but, when I looked towards the bed again, I fancied I saw a man's face within the dusky curtains. At the mention of this Emily trembled, and looked anxiously, remembering the spectacle she had herself witnessed there with Dorothea. I confess, madam, my heart did fill me at that instant, continued Ludovico. But a return of the noise drew my attention from the bed, and I then distinctly heard a sound like that of a key turning in a lock, but what surprised me more was that I saw no door at the sound seemed to come from. In the next moment, however, the aros near the bed was slowly lifted, and the person appeared behind it, entering from a small door on the wall. He stood for a moment, as if half retreating, with his head bending under the aros, which concealed the upper part of his face, except his eyes scowling beneath the tapestry as he held it, and then, while he raced it higher, I saw the face of another man behind, looking over his shoulder. I know not how it was, but, though my sword was upon the table before me, I had not the power just then to seize it, but sat quite still, watching them, with my eyes half shut, as if I was asleep. I suppose they thought me so, and were debating what they should do, for I heard them whisper, and they stood in the same posture for the value of a minute, and then I thought I perceived other faces in their justness beyond the door, and heard louder whispers. This door surprises me, said Emily, because I understood that the count had caused the aura to be lifted, and the walls examined, suspecting that they might have concealed a passage through which you had departed. It does not appear so extraordinary to me, madam, replied Ludovico, that this door should escape notice, because it was formed in a narrow compartment which appeared to be part of the outward wall, and if the count had not passed over it, he might have thought it was useless to search for a door where it seemed as if no passage could communicate with one, but the truth was that the passage was formed within the wall itself. But to return to the man whom I saw obscurely beyond the door, and who did not suffer me to remain long in suspense concerning their design, they all rushed into the room and surrounded me, though not before I had snatched up my sword to defend myself. But what could one man do against four? They soon designed me, and, having fastened my arms and gagged my mouth, forced me through the private door, leaving my sword upon the table, to assist, as they said, those who should come in the morning to look for me in fighting against the ghosts. They then led me through many narrow passages, cut as I fancied in the walls, for I had never seen them before, and down several flights of steps, till we came to the vaults underneath the castle, and then, opening a stone door, which I should have taken for the wall itself, we went through a long passage and down other steps, cut in the solid rock, when another door delivered us into a cave. After turning and twining about for some time, we reached the mouth of it, and I found myself on the sea-beach at the foot of the cliffs, with a chateau above. A boat was in waiting, into which the Ruffians got, forcing me along with them, and we soon reached a small vessel that was at Anka, where other men appeared. When setting me aboard, two of the fellows had seized me, followed, and the other two rode back to the shore while we set sail. I soon found out what all this meant, and what was the business of these men at the chateau. We landed in Ossion, and after lingering several days about the shore, some of their comrades came down from the mountains and carried me with them to the fort, where I remained till my lord so unexpectedly arrived, for they had taken good care to prevent my running away, having blindfolded me during the journey, and if they had not done this, I think I never could have found my road to any town through the wild country we traversed. After I reached the fort I was watched like a prisoner, and never suffered to go out, without two or three companions, and I became so wary of life that I often wished to get rid of it. Well, but they let you talk, said Annette. They did not gag you after they got you away from the chateau, so I don't see what reason there was to be so very wary of living, to say nothing about the chance you had of seeing me again. Ludovico smiled, and Emily also, who inquired what was the motive of these men for carrying him off. I soon found out, madam, resumed Ludovico, that they were pirates who had, during many years, secreted their spoil in the vaults of the castle, which, being so near the sea, suited their purpose well. To prevent detection they had tried to have it believed that the chateau was haunted, and, having discovered the private way to the North apartment, which had been shut up ever since the death of the Lady Martianess, they easily succeeded. The housekeeper and her husband, who were the only persons that had inhabited the castle for some years, were so terrified by the strange noises they heard in the nights, that they would live there no longer. A report soon went abroad that it was haunted, and the whole country believed this more readily, I suppose, because it had been said that the Lady Martianess had died in a strange way, and because my Lord never would return to the place afterwards. But why, said Emily, were not these pirates contented with the cave? Why did they think it necessary to deposit their spoil in the castle? The cave, madam, replied Ludovico, was open to anybody, and their treasures would not long have remained undiscovered there, but in the vaults they were secure so long as the report prevailed of their being haunted. Thus then it appears that they brought at midnight the spoil they took on the seas, and kept it till they had opportunities of disposing of it to advantage. The pirates were connected with Spanish smugglers and banditi, who live among the wilds of the Pyrenees, and carry on various kinds of traffic, such as nobody would think of, and with this desperate horde of banditi I remained till my Lord arrived. I shall never forget what I felt when I first discovered him. I almost gave him up for a lost. But I knew that, if I showed myself, the banditi would discover who he was, and probably murder us all to prevent their secret in the chateau being detected. I, therefore, kept out of my Lord's sight, but had a strict watch upon the Ruffians, and determined if they offered him or his family violence to discover myself and fight for our lives. Soon after I overheard some of them laying a most diabolical plan for the murder and plunder of the whole party, when I contrived to speak to some of my Lord's attendants telling them what was going forward, and we consulted what was best to be done. Meanwhile, my Lord, alarmed at the absence of the Lady Blanche, demanded her, and the Ruffians having given some unsatisfactory answer, my Lord and Monsignor Saint-Foy became furious, so then we thought at a good time to discover the plot, and rushing into the chamber I called out, Trattory, my Lord Count! Defend yourself! His Lordship and the Chevalier drew their swords directly, and a hard battle we had, but we conquered at last, as, Madam, you are already informed of by my Lord Count. This is an extraordinary adventure, said Emily, and much praises you, Ludovico, to your prudence and interpidity. There are some circumstances, however, concerning the North Apartments, which still perplex me, but perhaps you may be able to explain them. Did you ever hear the Banditi relate anything extraordinary of these rooms? No, Madam, replied Ludovico. I never heard them speak about the rooms, except to laugh at the credulity of the old housekeeper, who once was very near catching one of the pirates. It was since the Count arrived at the chateau, he said, and he laughed heartily as he related the trick he had played off. A blush overspread Emily's cheek, and she impatiently desired Ludovico to explain himself. Why, my lady, said he, as this fellow was one night in the bedroom, he heard somebody approaching through the next apartment, and not having time to lift up the era, and, and fastened the door, he hid himself in the bed just by. There he lay for some time in his grade of fright, I suppose. As she was in, interrupted Annette, when you set up so boldly to watch by herself. I, said Ludovico, in as great a fright as he ever made anybody else suffer, and presently the housekeeper and some other person came up to the bed. When he, thinking they were going to examine it, we thought him that his only chance of escaping detection was by terrifying them. So he lifted up the counterpane, but that did not do, till he raised his face above it, and then they both set off, he said, as if they'd seen the devil, and he got out of the rooms, undiscovered. Emily could not forbear smiling at this explanation of the deception which had given her so much superstitious terror, and was surprised that she could have suffered herself to be thus alarmed, till she considered that, when the mind has once begun to yield to the weakness of superstition, trifles impress it with the force of conviction. Still, however, she remembered with awe the mysterious music which had been heard at midnight near Chateau de Blanc, and she asked Ludovico if he could give any explanation of it, but he could not. I only know, madam, he added, that it did not belong to the pirates, for I've heard them laugh about it, and say they believed the devil was in league with them there. Yes, I will answer for it, he was, said Annette, her countenance brightening. I was sure all along that he or his spirits had something to do with the North Apartments, and now you see, madam, I'm right at last. It cannot be denied that his spirits were very busy in that part of the Chateau, replied Emily, smiling. But I am surprised, Ludovico, that these pirates should persevere in their schemes after the arrival of the Count, what could they expect but certain detection? I have reasoned to believe, madam, replied Ludovico, that it was their intention to persevere no longer than was necessary for the removal of the stalls which were deposited in the vaults, and it appeared that they had been employed in doing so from within a short period after the Count's arrival. But, as they had only a few hours in a night for this business, and were carrying on other schemes at the same time, the vaults were not above half emptied when they took me away. They gloried exceedingly in this opportunity of confirming the superstitious reports that have been spread of the North Chambers, were careful to leave everything there as they had found it, the better to promote the deception, and frequently in their jokers' moods would laugh at the consternation which they believed the inhabitants of the castle had suffered upon my disappearing, and it was to prevent the possibility of my betraying their secret that they had removed me to such a distance. From that period they considered the chateau as nearly their own, but I found from the discourse with their comrades that, though they were cautious at first in showing their power there, they had once very nearly betrayed themselves. Going one night as was their custom to the North Chambers to repeat the noises that had occasioned such alarm among the servants, they heard as they were about to unfasten the secret door, voices in the bedroom. My Lord has since told me that himself and Monsieur Henry were then in the apartment, and they heard very extraordinary sounds of lamentation which it seems were made by these fellows with their usual design of spreading terror, and my Lord has owned he then felt somewhat more than surprise. But as it was necessary to the peace of his family that no notice should be taken, he was silent on the subject, and enjoined silence to his son. Emily, recollecting the change that had appeared in the spirits of the Count after the night when he had watched it in the North Room, now perceived the cause of it, and having made some further inquiries upon the strange affair, she dismissed Ludovico, and went to give orders for the accommodation of her friends on the following day. In the evening Theresa, lay where she was, came to deliver the ring with which Valancourt hadn't trusted her, and, when she presented it, Emily was much affected, for she remembered to have seen him wear it often in happier days. She was, however, much displeased that Theresa had received it, and positively refused to accept it herself, though to have done so would have afforded her a melancholy pleasure. Theresa entreated it, exposterated it, and then described the distress of Valancourt when it given the ring, and repeated the message with which she had commissioned her to deliver it, and Emily could not conceal the extreme sorrow this recital occasioned her, but wept and remained lost in thought. Alas, my dear young lady, said Theresa, why should all this be? I have known you from your infancy, and it may well be supposed I love you as if you was my own, and wish as much to see you happy. Monsieur Valancourt, to be sure, I have not known so long, but then I have reasoned to love him as though he was my own son. I know how well you love one another, or why all this weeping and wailing. Emily waved her hand for Theresa to be silent, who, disregarding the signal, continued, and how much you are alike in your tempers and ways, and that, if you were married, you would be the happiest couple in the whole province, then what is there to prevent your marrying? Dear, dear, to see how some people fling away their happiness, and then cry and lament about it, just as if it was not their own doing, and as if there was more pleasure in wailing and weeping than in being at peace. Learning, to be sure, is a fine thing, but if it teaches folks no better than that, why, I'd rather be without it. If it would teach them to be happier, I would say something to it, then it would be learning and wisdom too. Age and long services had given Theresa a privilege to talk, but Emily now endeavored to check her locustity, and, though she felt the justness of some of her remarks, did not choose to explain the circumstances that had determined her conduct towards Valencourt. She therefore only told Theresa that it would much displease her to hear the subject renewed, that she had reasons for her conduct which she did not think it proper to mention, and that the ring must be returned with an assurance that she could not accept it with propriety, and at the same time she forbade Theresa to repeat any future message from Valencourt as she valued her esteem and kindness. Theresa was afflicted, and made another attempt, though feeble, to interest her for Valencourt, but the unusual displeasure expressed in Emily's countenance soon obliged her to desist, and she departed in wonder and lamentation. To relieve her mind, in some degree, from the painful recollections that intruded upon it, Emily busied herself in preparations for the journey into Languedoc, and, while Annette, who assisted her, spoke with joy and affection of the safe return of Ludovico, she was considering how she might best promote their happiness, and determined, if it appeared that his affection was as unchanged as that of the simple and honest Annette, to give her a marriage portion and settle them on some part of her estate. Three considerations led her to the remembrance of her father's paternal domain, which his affairs had formerly compelled him to dispose of to Monsieur Canal, and which he frequently wished to regain, because Saint-Obert had lamented that the chief lands of his ancestors had passed into another family, and because they had been his birthplace and the haunt of his early years. Till he estated to lose she had no peculiar attachment, and it was her wish to dispose of this, that she might purchase her paternal domains, if Monsieur Canal could be prevailed on to part with them, which, as he talked much of living in Italy, did not appear very improbable. End of Volume 4 Chapter 14 Recording by Ted Nugent The Mysterious of Udo IV by Ann Redcliffe Volume 4 Chapter 15 Sweet is the breath of Werner Schauer, the beast collected treasures sweet, sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet, the still small voice of gratitude, gray. On the following day, the arrival of her friend revived the dooping Emily, and Lavonne-les became, once more, the scene of so-so-kindness and of feliciton orpitality. Illness and the terror she has suffered has stolen from Blanche much of her sprightliness, but all her affectionate simplicity remained, and though she appears less blooming, she was not less engaging than before. The unfortunate adventure on the Pyrenees had made the count very anxious to reach home, and after a little more than a week's stay at Lavonne-les, Emily prepared to set out with her friends for L'Anguidot, assigning the care of her house during her absence to Theresa. On the evening preceding her departure, this old servant brought her again the ring of voluncle, and, with tears, entreated her mistress to receive it, for that she had neither seen, nor heard amongst her voluncle, seen the night when he delivered it to her. As she said this, her countenance expressed more alarm than she dared to utter, but Emily, checking her own propensity to fear, considered that he had probably returned to the residence of his brother, and again refusing to accept the ring, begged Theresa to preserve it, then she saw him, which, with extreme reluctance, she promised to do. On the following day, Carl Devin IV, with Emily and the Lady Blanche, left Lavonne-les, and on the ensuing evening arrived at the Chateau-les-Blanc, where the Countess, Henry, and Monson-Boupon, whom Emily was surprised to fight there, received them with much joy and congratulations. She was concerned to observe that the Count still encouraged the hopes of his friend, whose countenance declared that his defection had suffered no abatement from absence, and was much distressed when on the second evening after her revival, the Count, having withdrawn her from the Lady Blanche, with whom she was walking, renewed the subject of Monson-Boupon's hopes, the mightiness with which she listened to his intercession at first deceiving him. As to her sentiments, he began to believe that her defection for Volanco being overcome. She was, at length, disposed to think favorably of Monson-Boupon, and when she afterwards convinced him of his mistake, he ventured in the earnestness of his wish to promote what he considered to be the happiness of two persons, whom he so much esteemed, gently to remonstrate with her on the suffering and ill-placed defection to poison the happiness of her most valuable years. Observing her silence and the deep dejection of her countenance, he concluded with saying, I will not say more now, but I will still believe my dear Marie-Moselle sang over that he will not always reject a person so truly estimable as my friend Dupont. He spared her the pain of replying by leaving her, and she strung on, somewhat depleted with the count for having preserved to plead for a suit, which she had repeatedly rejected and lost to me the melancholy recollections which this topic has revived, since she had insensibly reached the borders of the wood, that screened the monastery of St. Clair, when, perceiving how far she had wandered, she determined to extend her work a little further and to inquire about the abyss and some of her friends among the nuns. Though the evening was now drawing to her clothes, she accepted the invitation of the friar who opened the gate, and anxious to meet some of her old acquaintances proceeded towards the convent parlor. As she crossed the lawn that sloped from the front of the monastery toward the sea, she was struck with a picture of repose exhibited by some monks sitting in the cloisters, which extended under the brow of the roots that crowned these simulants, where as they mediated at this twilight hour, holy subjects, they sometimes suffered their attention to be relieved by the scene before them, nor thought it profane to look at nature, now that it had exchanged the brilliant colors of day for the sober hue of evening. Before the cloisters, however, spread an ancient chestnut whose emblem branches were designed to screen the full magnificence of a scene that might hem the wish to the worldly pleasures, but still beneath the dark and spreading foliage gleamed a wide extent of ocean and many a passing sail. Why, to the right and left, thick woods were seen stretching along the winding shores, so much as this has been admitted, perhaps, to give to the secluded watery, anemic darshan the dangers and vicissitudes of life, and to console him, now that he had renounced his pleasures by the certainty of having escaped his evils. As Emily walked pensively along, considering how much suffering she might have escaped, had she become a watery of the order and remained in this retirement from the time of her father's death. The vessel bell struck up, and the monks retired slowly towards the chapel, while she, pursuing her way, entered the great hall, where an unusual silence seemed to rain. The parlor, too, which opened from it, she found to vacant, but as the evening bell was sounding, she believed the nuns had withdrawn into the chapel and sat down to rest for a moment before she returned to the chapel, where, however, the increasing blue made her now anxious to be. Not many minutes had elapsed before a nun entering in haste, inquired for the abyss, and was now retiring without recollecting Emily, when she made herself known and then learned that the mass was going to be performed for the soul of Sister Agne, who has been declining for some time, and who was now believed to be dying. Of her sufferings, the sister gave a melancholy account, and of the horrors into which she had frequently started, but which has now yielded to a dejection so gloomy that neither the prayers in which she was joined by the sister who, or the assurances of her confessor, had power to recall her from it, and all to cheer her mind, even with the momentary gleam of comfort. To this relation, Emily listened with extreme concern and recollecting the frenzied manners and the expressions of horror, which she had herself witnessed of Agne, together with the history that Sister Francis had communicated. Her compassion was heightened to a very painful degree. As the evening was already far advanced, Emily did not now desire to see her, or to join in the mass, and after living many kinds of remembrances with the nun, for her old friends, she quitted the monastery and returned over the cliffs towards the chateau, mediating upon what she had just heard, till, at length, she forced her mind upon less interesting subjects. The wind was high, and as she drew near the chateau, she often paused to listen to its awful sound as it swept over the below that beat bellow, or crawled along the surrounding woods, and while she rested on a cliff at a short distance from the chateau, and looked upon the wide waters, seen dimly beneath the last shade of the twilight, she thought of the following address, to the winds. On my startled ear, and awful seemed to say, some god is near. I love to list your midnight voices floats in the dread storm that over the ocean rolls, and while their charm, the angry wave controls, mixed with silent roar, and sink remorse, then rising in the pours a sweet note, the doge of spirits, who you did be well, a sweet note of swells while slips the gale, but soon your sightless powers, your rest is over, solemn and slow, your rise upon the air, speak in the swamps, and beat the seaboy fear, and the faint wobble doge, it is hurt no more. Oh, then I deprecate your awful rain, the loud lamented ear, be a note on your breath, be a note the crash of bark, far on the man, be a note the cry of man, who cry in vain. The cruise, dread chorus, sinking into death, oh, give not this, your powers, I ask alone, as rough I climb, these dark, romantic steps, the elemental war, the billows mourn, I ask the steel, sweet tear, that listening fancy waves. Volume 4 Chapter 16 On the following evening, the view of the convent towers, rising among the shadowy woods, reminded Emily of the nun, whose condition had so much affected her, and, anxious to know how she was, as well as to see some of her former friends, she and the Lady Blanche extended their walk to the monastery. At the gate stood a carriage, which, from the heat of the horses, appeared to have just arrived, but a more than common stillness pervaded the court, and the cloisters, through which Emily and Blanche passed in their way to the great hall, were a nun who was crossing to the staircase, replied to the inquiries of the former, that Sister Agnes was still living and sensible, but that it was thought she could not survive the night. In the parlor they found several of the borders, who rejoiced to see Emily, and told her many little circumstances that had happened in the convent since her departure, and which were interesting to her only because they related to persons, whom she had regarded with affection. While they thus conversed, the abbess entered the room, and expressed much satisfaction at seeing Emily, but her manner was unusually solemn, and her countenance dejected. Said she, after the first salutations were over, is truly a house of mourning. A daughter is now paying the debt of nature. You have heard, perhaps, that our daughter Agnes is dying. Emily expressed her sincere concern. Her death presents to us a great and awful lesson, continued the abbess. Let us read it, and profit by it. Let it teach us to prepare ourselves for the change that awaits us all. You are young, and have it yet in your power to secure the peace that passeth all understanding, the peace of conscience. Preserve it in your youth that it may comfort you in age, for vain, alas, and imperfect are the good deeds of our latter years, if those of our early life have been evil. Emily would have said that good deeds, she hoped, were never in vain, but she considered that it was the abbess who spoke, and she remained silent. The latter days of Agnes, resumed the abbess, have been exemplary. Would they might atone for the errors of her former ones. Her sufferings now, alas, are great. Let us believe that they will make her peace hereafter. I have left her with her confessor, and a gentleman, whom she has long been anxious to see, and who has just arrived from Paris. They, I hope, will be able to administer the repose, which her mind his hitherto wanted. Emily, fervently joined in the wish. During her illness, she has sometimes named you, resumed the abbess. Perhaps it would comfort her to see you. When her present visitors have left her, we will go to her chamber, if the scene will not be too melancholy for your spirits. But indeed, to such scenes, however painful, we ought to accustom ourselves, for they are salutary to the soul, and prepare us for what we are ourselves to suffer. Emily became grave and thoughtful, for this conversation brought to her recollection the dying moments of her beloved father, and she wished once more to weep over the spot, where his remains were buried. During the silence, which followed the abbess's speech, many minute circumstances attending his last hours occurred to her. His emotion on perceiving himself to be in the neighborhood of Chateau Leblanc, his request to be interred in a particular spot in the church of this monastery, and the solemn charge he had delivered to her to destroy certain papers without examining them. She recollected also the mysterious and horrible words in those manuscripts, upon which her eye had involuntarily glanced, and though they now, and indeed, whenever she remembered them, revived an excess of painful curiosity concerning their full import, and the motives for her father's command, it was ever her chief consolation that she had strictly obeyed him in this particular. Little more was said by the abbess, who appeared too much affected by the subject she had lately left, to be willing to converse, and her companions had been for some time silent from the same cause, when this general reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, Monsieur Bonac, who had just quitted the chamber of Sister Agnes. He appeared much disturbed, but Emily fancied that his countenance had more the expression of horror than of grief. Having drawn the abbess to a distant part of the room, he conversed with her for some time, during which she seemed to listen with earnest attention, and he to speak with caution, and a more than common degree of interest. When he had concluded, he bowed silently to the rest of the company, and quitted the room. The abbess soon after proposed going to the chamber of Sister Agnes, to which Emily consented, though not without some reluctance, and Lady Blanche remained with the borders below. At the door of the chamber they met the confessor, whom, as he lifted up his head on their approach, Emily observed to be the same that had attended her dying father, but he passed on without noticing her, and they entered the apartment where, on a mattress, was laid Sister Agnes, with one nun watching in the chair beside her. Her countenance was so much changed that Emily would scarcely have recollected her. Had she not been prepared to do so? It was ghastly, and overspread with gloomy horror. Her dim and hollow eyes were fixed on a crucifix, which she held upon her bosom, and she was so much engaged and thought as not to perceive the abbess and Emily, till they stood at the bedside. Then, turning her heavy eyes, she fixed them in wild horror upon Emily, and, screaming, exclaimed, Ah, the vision comes upon me in my dying hours. Emily stared back in terror, and looked for explanation to the abbess, who made her signal not to be alarmed, and calmly said to Agnes, Daughter, I have brought Mammozelle St. Aubert to visit you. I thought you would be glad to see her. Agnes made no reply, but still gazing wildly upon Emily exclaimed. It is her very self. Oh, there is all that fascination in her look which proved my destruction. What would you have? What has you came to demand? Retribution? It will soon be yours. It is yours already. How many years have passed since last I saw you? My crime is but as yesterday. Yet I am grown old beneath it, while you are still young and blooming. Blooming is when you force me to commit that most abhorred deed. Oh, could I once forget it? Yet what would that avail? The deed is done. Emily, extremely shocked, would now have left the room, but the abbess, taking her hand, tried to support her spirits, and begged she would stay a few moments, when Agnes would probably be calm, whom now she tried to soothe. But the latter seemed to disregard her, while she still fixed her eyes on Emily and added, What are years of prayers and repentance? They cannot wash out the foulness of murder. Yes, murder. Where is he? Where is he? Look, there. Look, there. See where he stalks along the room? Why do you come to torment me now, continued Agnes, while her straining eyes were bent on air? Why was I not punished before? Oh, do not frown so sternly. Ha! There again! Till she herself. Why do you look so piteously upon me and smile to? Smile on me. What groan was that? Agnes sunk down, apparently lifeless, and Emily, unable to support herself, leaned against the bed, while the abbess and the attendant nun were applying the usual remedies to Agnes. Peace, said the abbess, when Emily was going to speak. The delirium is going off. She will soon revive. When was she thus before, daughter? Not of many weeks, madam, replied the nun, but her spirits have been much agitated by the arrival of the gentleman she wished so much to see. Yes, observed the abbess, that has undoubtedly occasioned this paroxysm of frenzy. When she is better, we will leave her to repose. Emily very readily consented, but, though she could now give little assistance, she was unwilling to quit the chamber, while any might be necessary. When Agnes recovered her senses, she again fixed her eyes on Emily, but their wild expression was gone, and the gloomy melancholy had succeeded. It was some moments before she recovered sufficient spirits to speak. She then said feebly, The likeness is wonderful. Surely it must be something more than fancy. Tell me, I conjure you, she added, addressing Emily. Though your name is Saint Aubert, are you not the daughter of the Marchioness? What Marchioness, said Emily, in extreme surprise, for she had imagined, from the calmness of Agnes's manner, that her intellects were restored. The abbess gave her a significant glance, but she repeated the question. What Marchioness exclaimed Agnes? I know but of one, the Marchioness de Villaroy. Emily, remembering the emotion of her late father, upon the unexpected mention of this lady, and his request to be laid near to the tomb of the Villaroys, now felt greatly interested, and she entreated Agnes to explain the reason of her question. The abbess would now have withdrawn Emily from the room, who being, however, detained by a strong interest, repeated her entreaties. Bring me that casket, sister, said Agnes. I will show her to you. Yet you need only look in that mirror, and you will behold her. You surely are her daughter. Such striking resemblance is never found, but among near relations. The nun brought the casket, and Agnes, having directed her how to unlock it, she took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the exact resemblance of the picture, which she had found among her late father's papers. Agnes held out her hand to receive it, gazed upon it earnestly for some moments in silence, and then, with accountants of deep despair, threw up her eyes to heaven, and prayed inwardly. When she had finished, she returned the miniature to Emily. Keep it, said she. I bequeath it to you, for I must believe it is your right. I have frequently observed the resemblance between you, but never, till this day, did it strike upon my conscience so powerfully. Stay, sister, do not remove the casket. There is another picture I would show. Emily trembled with expectation, and the abbess again would have withdrawn her. Agnes is still disordered, said she. You observe how she wanders. In these moods, she says anything, and does not scruple, as you have witnessed, to accuse herself of the most horrible crimes. Emily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness in the inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Marchioness and production of her picture had interested her so much that she determined to obtain further information, if possible, respecting the subject of it. The nun returned with the casket, and Agnes pointing out to her a secret drawer she took from it another miniature. Here, said Agnes, as she offered it to Emily, learn a lesson for your vanity. At least, look well at this picture and see if you can discover any resemblance between what I was and what I am. Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcely glanced upon before her trembling hands had nearly suffered it to fall. It was the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Lorente, which she had formally seen in the castle of Udolfo, the lady who had disappeared in so mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had been suspected of having caused to be murdered. In silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon the picture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance between them, which no longer existed. Why do you look so sternly on me, said Agnes, mistaking the nature of Emily's emotion? I have seen this face before, said Emily at length. Was it really your resemblance? You may well ask that question, replied the nun. But it was once esteemed a striking likeness of me. Look at me well, and see what guilt has made me. I then was innocent. The evil passions of my nature slept. Sister, added she solemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp hand to Emily, who shuddered at its touch. Sister, beware of the first indulgence of the passions. Beware of the first. Their course, if not checked then, is rapid. Their force is uncontrollable. They lead us, we know, not wither. They lead us, perhaps, to the commission of crimes, for which whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone. Such may be the force of even a single passion, that it overcomes every other, and sears up every other approach to the heart. Possessing us like a fiend, it leads us on to the acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity and to conscience. And when its purpose is accomplished, like a fiend, it leaves us to the torture of those feelings, which its power had suspended, not annihilated, to the tortures of compassion, remorse, and conscience. Then we awaken, as from a dream, and perceive a new world around us. We gaze in astonishment and horror, but the deed is committed. Not all the powers of heaven and earth united can undo it, and the specters of conscience will not fly. What are riches, grandeur, health itself, to the luxury of a pure conscience, the health of the soul, and what the sufferings of poverty, disappointment, despair, to the anguish of an afflicted one? Oh, how long is it, since I knew that luxury? I believed that I had suffered the most agonizing pangs of human nature, in love, jealousy, and despair. But these pangs were ease, compared with the stings of conscience, which I have since endured. I tasted, too, what was called the sweet of revenge, but it was transient, it expired, even with the object, that provoked it. Remember, sister, that the passions are the seeds of vices, as well as of virtues, from which either may spring, accordingly, as they are nurtured. Unhappy they, who have never been taught the art to govern them. Alas, unhappy, said the Abbas, an ill-informed of our holy religion. Emily listened to Agnes in silent awe, while she still examined the miniature, and became confirmed, in her opinion, of its strong resemblance to the portrait at Udolfo. This face is familiar to me, said she, wishing to lead the Nun to an explanation, yet fearing to discover too abruptly her knowledge of Udolfo. You were mistaken, replied Agnes. You certainly never saw that picture before. No, replied Emily, but I have seen one extremely like it. Impossible, said Agnes, who may now be called the Lady Laurentini. It was in the castle of Udolfo, continued Emily, looking steadfastly at her. Of Udolfo, exclaimed Laurentini. Of Udolfo, in Italy? The same, replied Emily. You know me then, said Laurentini, and you are the daughter of the Marchioness. Emily was somewhat surprised at the subrupt assertion. I am the daughter of the late Monsignor Burr, said she, and the lady you name is an utter stranger to me. At least you believe so, rejoined Laurentini. Emily asked what reasons there could be to believe otherwise. The family likeness that you bear her, said the Nun. The Marchioness, it is known, was attracted to a gentleman of Gascony, at the time when she accepted the hand of the Marquis by the command of her father, ill-fated, unhappy woman. Emily, remembering the extreme emotion which Saint Aubert had betrayed on the mention of the Marchioness, would now have suffered something more than surprise, had her confidence in his integrity been less, as it was she could not for a moment believe what the words of Laurentini insinuated, yet she still felt strongly interested concerning them and begged that she would explain them further. Do not urge me on that subject, said the Nun. It is to me a terrible one. Would that I could blot it from my memory. She sighed deeply, and after the pause of a moment asked Emily by what means she had discovered her name. By your portrait in the castle of Udolfo, to which this miniature bears a striking resemblance, replied Emily. You have been at Udolfo then, said the Nun, with great emotion? Alas, what scenes does the mention of it revive in my fancy? Scenes of happiness, of suffering, and of horror. At this moment the terrible spectacle which Emily had witnessed in a chamber of that castle occurred to her, and she shuddered, while she looked upon the Nun and recollected her late words that years of prayer and penitence could not wash out the foulness of murder. She was now compelled to attribute these to another cause, then that of delirium. With the degree of horror that almost deprived her of sense, she now believed she looked upon a murderer. All the recollected behavior of Laurentini seemed to confirm the supposition. Yet Emily was still lost in a labyrinth of perplexities, and, not knowing how to ask the questions, which might lead to the truth, she could only hint them in broken sentences. Your sudden departure from Udolfo, said she. Laurentini groaned. The reports that followed it continued Emily. The west chamber, the mournful veil, the object it conceals, when murders are committed. The Nun shrieked. What? There again, said she, endeavouring to raise herself, while her staring eyes seemed to follow some object around the room. Come from the grave. What? Blood, blood, too. There was no blood. Thou canst not say it. Nay, do not smile. Do not smile so piteously. Laurentini fell into convulsions, as she uttered the last words, and Emily, unable any longer to endure the horror of the scene, hurried from the room, and sent some nuns to the assistance of the Abbas. The Lady Blanche and the Borders, who were in the parlor, now assembled around Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and a frightened countenance, asked a hundred questions, which she avoided answering further, then by saying that she believed Sister Agnes was dying. They received this as a sufficient explanation of her terror, and had then leisure to offer restoratives, which at length somewhat revived Emily, whose mind was, however, so much shocked with the terrible surmises and perplexed with doubts, by some words from the nun, that she was unable to converse, and would have left the convent immediately, had she not wished to know whether Laurentini would survive the late attack. After waiting some time, she was informed that the convulsions having ceased, Laurentini seemed to be reviving, and Emily and Blanche were departing, when the Abbas appeared, who, drawing the former aside, said she had something of consequence to say to her. But as it was late, she would not detain her then, and requested to see her on the following day. Emily promised to visit her, and, having taken leave, returned with the Lady Blanche towards the chateau, on the way to which the deep gloom of the woods made Blanche lament that the evening was so far advanced, for the surrounding stillness and obscurity rendered her sensible of fear. Though there was a servant to protect her, while Emily was too much engaged by the horrors of the scene she had just witnessed to be affected by the solemnity of the shades, otherwise than as they served to promote her gloomy reverie, from which, however, she was at length recalled by the Lady Blanche, who pointed out, at some distance, in the dusky path they were winding, two persons slowly advancing. It was impossible to avoid them without striking into a still more secluded part of the wood, whether the strangers might easily follow, but all apprehension vanished when Emily distinguished the voice of Monsieur Dupont, and perceived that his companion was the gentleman, whom she had seen at the monastery, and who was now conversing with so much earnestness as not immediately to perceive their approach. When Dupont joined the ladies, the stranger took leave, and they proceeded to the chateau, where the count, when he heard of Monsieur Bonac, 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, beg the favor of Monsieur Dupont to invite him to the chateau. The latter was happy to do so, and the scruples of reserve, which made Monsieur Bonac hesitate to accept the invitation, began at length overcome, they went to the chateau, 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. Monsieur Bonac 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 Senora Laurentini, who, instead of having been murdered by Montoni, was, as now it 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 Villaroy, and the inquiries she had made concerning Emily's birth, occasioned her a less degree of interest, though it was of a different nature. The history, which sister Francis had formerly related, 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 Villaroy bore to that of her father, for that some kind of relation existed between them, the grief of Saint 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 Marchioness de Villaroy, but that 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 dishonorable 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 none, 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 Abbas, and before the day concluded, she heard that Sister Agnes was no more. Mushur Banak 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 Mushur Dupont, 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 the little hope of relief 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 Mushur Binach, 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 inquiry after him was unsuccessful, amiable and unfortunate, Valencourt. Valencourt exclaimed, Mushur Dupont, of what family? The Valencourt's Counts de Varnay replied, Mushur Binach. The emotion of Mushur Dupont, 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 Mushur Binach by acquaining him that Valencourt was at liberty, and had lately been in Languedoc, after which his affection for Emily prompted him to make some inquiries, respecting the conduct of his rival, during his stay at Paris, of which Mushur Binach appeared to be well informed. The answers he received were such as convinced him that Valencourt 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 which she honored him. The conversation of Mushur Binach, discovered that Valencourt, sometime 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 Marchenaise 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 Vefort, Amaljeu and Ray, 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, and when Valencourt, in consequence of accumulated debts, was thrown into confinement, where his brother suffered him to remain in the hope that punishment might affect a reform of conduct which had not yet been confirmed by long habit. In the solitude of his prison, Valencourt 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 to baste 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 Moshe Benoc 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 moment of stake, he had made a solemn vow never again to yield to the destructive and fascinating vice of gaming. Having restored the venerable Moshe Benoc to his rejoicing family, he hurried from Paris to Estuveret, 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, occasion the deep dejection that had accompanied him even into the presence of Emily, of whom he considered himself no longer worthy. To the ignomy of having received pecuniary obligations from the marchiness Chamfort, or any other lady of intrigue, as the count of Efort had been informed, or of having been engaged in the depredating schemes of gamesters, Ballantcourt had never submitted, and these were some of such scandals as often mingle with truth against the unfortunate. Count of Efort had received them from authority, which he had no reason to doubt, and which the imprudent conduct he had himself witnessed in Ballantcourt had certainly induced him the more readily to believe. Being such as Emily could not name to the chivalier, 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 calamities. Thus the mistake had been mutual, and had remained so when Monsieur Benoît explained the conduct of his generous but imprudent young friend to Dupont, 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 Monsieur Benoît, if it had been possible for him to forget the benevolent Ballantcourt, would have wished that Emily might accept the just Dupont. 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 Monsieur Benoît gave of his friend's situation, while at Paris convinced him that Ballantcourt had been entrapped by the schemes of a set of dissipated young men, with whom his profession had partly obliged him to associate, rather than by an indication to vice, and charmed by the humanity and noble though rash generosity which his conduct towards Monsieur Benoît exhibited, he forgave him the transient errors that had stained his youth, and restored him to the high degree of esteem with which he had regarded him during their early acquaintance. But as the least reparation he could now make Ballantcourt, was to afford him an opportunity of explaining to Emily his former conduct, he immediately wrote to request his forgiveness of the unintentional injury he had done him, and to invite him to Chateau Leblanc. Motives of delicacy withheld the count from informing Emily of this letter, and of kindness from acquaining her with the discovery respecting Ballantcourt, till his arrival should save her from the possibility of anxiety. As to its event, and this precaution spared her even severe inquietitude, then the count had foreseen, since he was ignorant of the symptoms of despair which Ballantcourt's late conduct had betrayed. End of Volume 4, Chapter 16, Recorded December 2008, Malinois Farm, Pembroke, Georgia