In the evening, her spirits were so much strengthened, that she thought
she could bear to visit the gardens, where she had so often walked with
Valancourt; and, knowing, that, if she delayed to do so, their scenes
would only affect her the more, whenever they should be viewed, she
took advantage of the present state of her mind, and entered them. Passing hastily the gate leading from the court into the gardens, she
hurried up the great avenue, scarcely permitting her memory to dwell
for a moment on the circumstance of her having here parted with
Valancourt, and soon quitted this for other walks less interesting to
her heart. These brought her, at length, to the flight of steps, that
led from the lower garden to the terrace, on seeing which, she became
agitated, and hesitated whether to ascend, but, her resolution
returning, she proceeded. “Ah!” said Emily, as she ascended, “these are the same high trees, that
used to wave over the terrace, and these the same flowery thickets—the
liburnum, the wild rose, and the cerinthe—which were wont to grow
beneath them! Ah! and there, too, on that bank, are the very plants,
which Valancourt so carefully reared!—O, when last I saw them!”—she
checked the thought, but could not restrain her tears, and, after
walking slowly on for a few moments, her agitation, upon the view of
this well-known scene, increased so much, that she was obliged to stop,
and lean upon the wall of the terrace. It was a mild, and beautiful
evening. The sun was setting over the extensive landscape, to which his
beams, sloping from beneath a dark cloud, that overhung the west, gave
rich and partial colouring, and touched the tufted summits of the
groves, that rose from the garden below, with a yellow gleam. Emily and
Valancourt had often admired together this scene, at the same hour; and
it was exactly on this spot, that, on the night preceding her departure
for Italy, she had listened to his remonstrances against the journey,
and to the pleadings of passionate affection. Some observations, which
she made on the landscape, brought this to her remembrance, and with it
all the minute particulars of that conversation;—the alarming doubts he
had expressed concerning Montoni, doubts, which had since been fatally
confirmed; the reasons and entreaties he had employed to prevail with
her to consent to an immediate marriage; the tenderness of his love,
the paroxysms of this grief, and the conviction that he had repeatedly
expressed, that they should never meet again in happiness! All these
circumstances rose afresh to her mind, and awakened the various
emotions she had then suffered. Her tenderness for Valancourt became as
powerful as in the moments, when she thought, that she was parting with
him and happiness together, and when the strength of her mind had
enabled her to triumph over present suffering, rather than to deserve
the reproach of her conscience by engaging in a clandestine
marriage.—“Alas!” said Emily, as these recollections came to her mind,
“and what have I gained by the fortitude I then practised?—am I happy
now?—He said, we should meet no more in happiness; but, O! he little
thought his own misconduct would separate us, and lead to the very evil
he then dreaded!”

Her reflections increased her anguish, while she was compelled to
acknowledge, that the fortitude she had formerly exerted, if it had not
conducted her to happiness, had saved her from irretrievable
misfortune—from Valancourt himself! But in these moments she could not
congratulate herself on the prudence, that had saved her; she could
only lament, with bitterest anguish, the circumstances, which had
conspired to betray Valancourt into a course of life so different from
that, which the virtues, the tastes, and the pursuits of his early
years had promised; but she still loved him too well to believe, that
his heart was even now depraved, though his conduct had been criminal. An observation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubert more than once, now
occurred to her. “This young man,” said he, speaking of Valancourt,
“has never been at Paris;” a remark, that had surprised her at the time
it was uttered, but which she now understood, and she exclaimed
sorrowfully, “O Valancourt! if such a friend as my father had been with
you at Paris—your noble, ingenuous nature would not have fallen!”

The sun was now set, and, recalling her thoughts from their melancholy
subject, she continued her walk; for the pensive shade of twilight was
pleasing to her, and the nightingales from the surrounding groves began
to answer each other in the long-drawn, plaintive note, which always
touched her heart; while all the fragrance of the flowery thickets,
that bounded the terrace, was awakened by the cool evening air, which
floated so lightly among their leaves, that they scarcely trembled as
it passed. Emily came, at length, to the steps of the pavilion, that terminated
the terrace, and where her last interview with Valancourt, before her
departure from Thoulouse, had so unexpectedly taken place. The door was
now shut, and she trembled, while she hesitated whether to open it; but
her wish to see again a place, which had been the chief scene of her
former happiness, at length overcoming her reluctance to encounter the
painful regret it would renew, she entered. The room was obscured by a
melancholy shade; but through the open lattices, darkened by the
hanging foliage of the vines, appeared the dusky landscape, the Garonne
reflecting the evening light, and the west still glowing. A chair was
placed near one of the balconies, as if some person had been sitting
there, but the other furniture of the pavilion remained exactly as
usual, and Emily thought it looked as if it had not once been moved
since she set out for Italy. The silent and deserted air of the place
added solemnity to her emotions, for she heard only the low whisper of
the breeze, as it shook the leaves of the vines, and the very faint
murmur of the Garonne. She seated herself in a chair, near the lattice, and yielded to the
sadness of her heart, while she recollected the circumstances of her
parting interview with Valancourt, on this spot. It was here too, that
she had passed some of the happiest hours of her life with him, when
her aunt favoured the connection, for here she had often sat and
worked, while he conversed, or read; and she now well remembered with
what discriminating judgment, with what tempered energy, he used to
repeat some of the sublimest passages of their favourite authors; how
often he would pause to admire with her their excellence, and with what
tender delight he would listen to her remarks, and correct her taste.