He would go
into every room in the lower part of the house, and, sometimes, he
would sit himself down in a chair, with his arms across, and his eyes
on the floor, and there he would sit, and think, and think, for the
hour together. He used to be very fond of the south parlour, because I
told him it used to be yours; and there he would stay, looking at the
pictures, which I said you drew, and playing upon your lute, that hung
up by the window, and reading in your books, till sunset, and then he
must go back to his brother’s château. And then—”

“It is enough, Theresa,” said Emily.—“How long have you lived in this
cottage—and how can I serve you? Will you remain here, or return and
live with me?”

“Nay, mademoiselle,” said Theresa, “do not be so shy to your poor old
servant. I am sure it is no disgrace to like such a good young
gentleman.”

A deep sigh escaped from Emily. “Ah! how he did love to talk of you! I loved him for that. Nay, for
that matter, he liked to hear me talk, for he did not say much himself. But I soon found out what he came to the château about. Then, he would
go into the garden, and down to the terrace, and sit under that great
tree there, for the day together, with one of your books in his hand;
but he did not read much, I fancy; for one day I happened to go that
way, and I heard somebody talking. Who can be here? says I: I am sure I
let nobody into the garden, but the Chevalier. So I walked softly, to
see who it could be; and behold! it was the Chevalier himself, talking
to himself about you. And he repeated your name, and sighed so! and
said he had lost you for ever, for that you would never return for him. I thought he was out in his reckoning there, but I said nothing, and
stole away.”

“No more of this trifling,” said Emily, awakening from her reverie: “it
displeases me.”

“But, when M. Quesnel let the château, I thought it would have broke
the Chevalier’s heart.”

“Theresa,” said Emily seriously, “you must name the Chevalier no more!”

“Not name him, mademoiselle!” cried Theresa: “what times are come up
now? Why, I love the Chevalier next to my old master and you,
mademoiselle.”

“Perhaps your love was not well bestowed, then,” replied Emily, trying
to conceal her tears; “but, however that might be, we shall meet no
more.”

“Meet no more!—not well bestowed!” exclaimed Theresa. “What do I hear? No, mademoiselle, my love was well bestowed, for it was the Chevalier
Valancourt, who gave me this cottage, and has supported me in my old
age, ever since M. Quesnel turned me from my master’s house.”

“The Chevalier Valancourt!” said Emily, trembling extremely. “Yes, mademoiselle, he himself, though he made me promise not to tell;
but how could one help, when one heard him ill spoken of? Ah! dear
young lady, you may well weep, if you have behaved unkindly to him, for
a more tender heart than his never young gentleman had. He found me out
in my distress, when you were too far off to help me; and M. Quesnel
refused to do so, and bade me go to service again—Alas! I was too old
for that!—The Chevalier found me, and bought me this cottage, and gave
me money to furnish it, and bade me seek out another poor woman to live
with me; and he ordered his brother’s steward to pay me, every quarter,
that which has supported me in comfort. Think then, mademoiselle,
whether I have not reason to speak well of the Chevalier. And there are
others, who could have afforded it better than he: and I am afraid he
has hurt himself by his generosity, for quarter day is gone by long
since, and no money for me! But do not weep so, mademoiselle: you are
not sorry surely to hear of the poor Chevalier’s goodness?”

“Sorry!” said Emily, and wept the more. “But how long is it since you
have seen him?”

“Not this many a day, mademoiselle.”

“When did you hear of him?” enquired Emily, with increased emotion. “Alas! never since he went away so suddenly into Languedoc; and he was
but just come from Paris then, or I should have seen him, I am sure. Quarter day is gone by long since, and, as I said, no money for me; and
I begin to fear some harm has happened to him: and if I was not so far
from Estuvière and so lame, I should have gone to enquire before this
time; and I have nobody to send so far.”

Emily’s anxiety, as to the fate of Valancourt, was now scarcely
endurable, and, since propriety would not suffer her to send to the
château of his brother, she requested that Theresa would immediately
hire some person to go to his steward from herself, and, when he asked
for the quarterage due to her, to make enquiries concerning Valancourt. But she first made Theresa promise never to mention her name in this
affair, or ever with that of the Chevalier Valancourt; and her former
faithfulness to M. St. Aubert induced Emily to confide in her
assurances. Theresa now joyfully undertook to procure a person for this
errand, and then Emily, after giving her a sum of money to supply her
with present comforts, returned, with spirits heavily oppressed, to her
home, lamenting, more than ever, that a heart, possessed of so much
benevolence as Valancourt’s, should have been contaminated by the vices
of the world, but affected by the delicate affection, which his
kindness to her old servant expressed for herself. CHAPTER XII

Light thickens, and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood:
Good things of day begin to droop, and drowse;
While night’s black agents to their preys do rouse. MACBETH


Meanwhile Count De Villefort and Lady Blanche had passed a pleasant
fortnight at the château de St. Foix, with the Baron and Baroness,
during which they made frequent excursions among the mountains, and
were delighted with the romantic wildness of Pyrenean scenery. It was
with regret, that the Count bade adieu to his old friends, although
with the hope of being soon united with them in one family; for it was
settled that M. St. Foix, who now attended them into Gascony, should
receive the hand of the Lady Blanche, upon their arrival at
Château-le-Blanc. As the road, from the Baron’s residence to La Vallée,
was over some of the wildest tract of the Pyrenees, and where a
carriage-wheel had never passed, the Count hired mules for himself and
his family, as well as a couple of stout guides, who were well armed,
informed of all the passes of the mountains, and who boasted, too, that
they were acquainted with every brake and dingle in the way, could tell
the names of all the highest points of this chain of Alps, knew every
forest, that spread along their narrow valleys, the shallowest part of
every torrent they must cross, and the exact distance of every
goat-herd’s and hunter’s cabin they should have occasion to pass,—which
last article of learning required no very capacious memory, for even
such simple inhabitants were but thinly scattered over these wilds.