St. Aubert had given a particular injunction, that his remains
should be interred in the church of the convent of St. Clair, and, in
mentioning the north chancel, near the ancient tomb of the Villerois,
had pointed out the exact spot, where he wished to be laid. The
superior had granted this place for the interment, and thither,
therefore, the sad procession now moved, which was met, at the gates,
by the venerable priest, followed by a train of friars. Every person,
who heard the solemn chant of the anthem, and the peal of the organ,
that struck up, when the body entered the church, and saw also the
feeble steps, and the assumed tranquillity of Emily, gave her
involuntary tears. She shed none, but walked, her face partly shaded by
a thin black veil, between two persons, who supported her, preceded by
the abbess, and followed by nuns, whose plaintive voices mellowed the
swelling harmony of the dirge. When the procession came to the grave
the music ceased. Emily drew the veil entirely over her face, and, in a
momentary pause, between the anthem and the rest of the service, her
sobs were distinctly audible. The holy father began the service, and
Emily again commanded her feelings, till the coffin was let down, and
she heard the earth rattle on its lid. Then, as she shuddered, a groan
burst from her heart, and she leaned for support on the person who
stood next to her. In a few moments she recovered; and, when she heard
those affecting and sublime words: “His body is buried in peace, and
his soul returns to Him that gave it,” her anguish softened into tears. The abbess led her from the church into her own parlour, and there
administered all the consolations, that religion and gentle sympathy
can give. Emily struggled against the pressure of grief; but the
abbess, observing her attentively, ordered a bed to be prepared, and
recommended her to retire to repose. She also kindly claimed her
promise to remain a few days at the convent; and Emily, who had no wish
to return to the cottage, the scene of all her sufferings, had leisure,
now that no immediate care pressed upon her attention, to feel the
indisposition, which disabled her from immediately travelling. Meanwhile, the maternal kindness of the abbess, and the gentle
attentions of the nuns did all, that was possible, towards soothing her
spirits and restoring her health. But the latter was too deeply
wounded, through the medium of her mind, to be quickly revived. She
lingered for some weeks at the convent, under the influence of a slow
fever, wishing to return home, yet unable to go thither; often even
reluctant to leave the spot where her father’s relics were deposited,
and sometimes soothing herself with the consideration, that, if she
died here, her remains would repose beside those of St. Aubert. In the
meanwhile, she sent letters to Madame Cheron and to the old
housekeeper, informing them of the sad event, that had taken place, and
of her own situation. From her aunt she received an answer, abounding
more in common-place condolement, than in traits of real sorrow, which
assured her, that a servant should be sent to conduct her to La Vallée,
for that her own time was so much occupied by company, that she had no
leisure to undertake so long a journey. However Emily might prefer La
Vallée to Thoulouse, she could not be insensible to the indecorous and
unkind conduct of her aunt, in suffering her to return thither, where
she had no longer a relation to console and protect her; a conduct,
which was the more culpable, since St. Aubert had appointed Madame
Cheron the guardian of his orphan daughter. Madame Cheron’s servant made the attendance of the good La Voisin
unnecessary; and Emily, who felt sensibly her obligations to him, for
all his kind attention to her late father, as well as to herself, was
glad to spare him a long, and what, at his time of life, must have been
a troublesome journey. During her stay at the convent, the peace and sanctity that reigned
within, the tranquil beauty of the scenery without, and the delicate
attentions of the abbess and the nuns, were circumstances so soothing
to her mind, that they almost tempted her to leave a world, where she
had lost her dearest friends, and devote herself to the cloister, in a
spot, rendered sacred to her by containing the tomb of St. Aubert. The
pensive enthusiasm, too, so natural to her temper, had spread a
beautiful illusion over the sanctified retirement of a nun, that almost
hid from her view the selfishness of its security. But the touches,
which a melancholy fancy, slightly tinctured with superstition, gave to
the monastic scene, began to fade, as her spirits revived, and brought
once more to her heart an image, which had only transiently been
banished thence. By this she was silently awakened to hope and comfort
and sweet affections; visions of happiness gleamed faintly at a
distance, and, though she knew them to be illusions, she could not
resolve to shut them out for ever. It was the remembrance of
Valancourt, of his taste, his genius, and of the countenance which
glowed with both, that, perhaps, alone determined her to return to the
world. The grandeur and sublimity of the scenes, amidst which they had
first met, had fascinated her fancy, and had imperceptibly contributed
to render Valancourt more interesting by seeming to communicate to him
somewhat of their own character. The esteem, too, which St. Aubert had
repeatedly expressed for him, sanctioned this kindness; but, though his
countenance and manner had continually expressed his admiration of her,
he had not otherwise declared it; and even the hope of seeing him again
was so distant, that she was scarcely conscious of it, still less that
it influenced her conduct on this occasion. It was several days after the arrival of Madame Cheron’s servant before
Emily was sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey to La Vallée. On the evening preceding her departure, she went to the cottage to take
leave of La Voisin and his family, and to make them a return for their
kindness. The old man she found sitting on a bench at his door, between
his daughter, and his son-in-law, who was just returned from his daily
labour, and who was playing upon a pipe, that, in tone, resembled an
oboe. A flask of wine stood beside the old man, and, before him, a
small table with fruit and bread, round which stood several of his
grandsons, fine rosy children, who were taking their supper, as their
mother distributed it. On the edge of the little green, that spread
before the cottage, were cattle and a few sheep reposing under the
trees. The landscape was touched with the mellow light of the evening
sun, whose long slanting beams played through a vista of the woods, and
lighted up the distant turrets of the château.