The look of haughty and impatient displeasure,
with which Madame Cheron regarded them, made Emily shrink, who
understood from a single glance, that this meeting was believed to have
been more than accidental: having mentioned Valancourt’s name, she
became again too much agitated to remain with them, and returned into
the château; where she awaited long, in a state of trembling anxiety,
the conclusion of the conference. She knew not how to account for
Valancourt’s visit to her aunt, before he had received the permission
he solicited, since she was ignorant of a circumstance, which would
have rendered the request useless, even if Madame Cheron had been
inclined to grant it. Valancourt, in the agitation of his spirits, had
forgotten to date his letter, so that it was impossible for Madame
Cheron to return an answer; and, when he recollected this circumstance,
he was, perhaps, not so sorry for the omission as glad of the excuse it
allowed him for waiting on her before she could send a refusal. Madame Cheron had a long conversation with Valancourt, and, when she
returned to the château, her countenance expressed ill-humour, but not
the degree of severity, which Emily had apprehended. “I have dismissed
this young man, at last,” said she, “and I hope my house will never
again be disturbed with similar visits. He assures me, that your
interview was not preconcerted.”

“Dear madam!” said Emily in extreme emotion, “you surely did not ask
him the question!” “Most certainly I did; you could not suppose I
should be so imprudent as to neglect it.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, “what an opinion must he form of me, since
you, Madam, could express a suspicion of such ill conduct!”

“It is of very little consequence what opinion he may form of you,”
replied her aunt, “for I have put an end to the affair; but I believe
he will not form a worse opinion of me for my prudent conduct. I let
him see, that I was not to be trifled with, and that I had more
delicacy, than to permit any clandestine correspondence to be carried
on in my house.”

Emily had frequently heard Madame Cheron use the word delicacy, but she
was now more than usually perplexed to understand how she meant to
apply it in this instance, in which her whole conduct appeared to merit
the very reverse of the term. “It was very inconsiderate of my brother,” resumed Madame Cheron, “to
leave the trouble of overlooking your conduct to me; I wish you were
well settled in life. But if I find, that I am to be further troubled
with such visitors as this M. Valancourt, I shall place you in a
convent at once;—so remember the alternative. This young man has the
impertinence to own to me,—he owns it! that his fortune is very small,
and that he is chiefly dependent on an elder brother and on the
profession he has chosen! He should have concealed these circumstances,
at least, if he expected to succeed with me. Had he the presumption to
suppose I would marry my niece to a person such as he describes
himself!”

Emily dried her tears when she heard of the candid confession of
Valancourt; and, though the circumstances it discovered were afflicting
to her hopes, his artless conduct gave her a degree of pleasure, that
overcame every other emotion. But she was compelled, even thus early in
life, to observe, that good sense and noble integrity are not always
sufficient to cope with folly and narrow cunning; and her heart was
pure enough to allow her, even at this trying moment, to look with more
pride on the defeat of the former, than with mortification on the
conquests of the latter. Madame Cheron pursued her triumph. “He has also thought proper to tell
me, that he will receive his dismission from no person but yourself;
this favour, however, I have absolutely refused him. He shall learn,
that it is quite sufficient, that I disapprove him. And I take this
opportunity of repeating,—that if you concert any means of interview
unknown to me, you shall leave my house immediately.”

“How little do you know me, madam, that you should think such an
injunction necessary!” said Emily, trying to suppress her emotion, “how
little of the dear parents, who educated me!”

Madame Cheron now went to dress for an engagement, which she had made
for the evening; and Emily, who would gladly have been excused from
attending her aunt, did not ask to remain at home lest her request
should be attributed to an improper motive. When she retired to her own
room, the little fortitude, which had supported her in the presence of
her relation, forsook her; she remembered only that Valancourt, whose
character appeared more amiable from every circumstance, that unfolded
it, was banished from her presence, perhaps, for ever, and she passed
the time in weeping, which, according to her aunt’s direction, she
ought to have employed in dressing. This important duty was, however,
quickly dispatched; though, when she joined Madame Cheron at table, her
eyes betrayed, that she had been in tears, and drew upon her a severe
reproof. Her efforts to appear cheerful did not entirely fail when she joined
the company at the house of Madame Clairval, an elderly widow lady, who
had lately come to reside at Thoulouse, on an estate of her late
husband. She had lived many years at Paris in a splendid style; had
naturally a gay temper, and, since her residence at Thoulouse, had
given some of the most magnificent entertainments, that had been seen
in that neighbourhood. These excited not only the envy, but the trifling ambition of Madame
Cheron, who, since she could not rival the splendour of her
festivities, was desirous of being ranked in the number of her most
intimate friends. For this purpose she paid her the most obsequious
attention, and made a point of being disengaged, whenever she received
an invitation from Madame Clairval, of whom she talked, wherever she
went, and derived much self-consequence from impressing a belief on her
general acquaintance, that they were on the most familiar footing. The entertainments of this evening consisted of a ball and supper; it
was a fancy ball, and the company danced in groups in the gardens,
which were very extensive. The high and luxuriant trees, under which
the groups assembled, were illuminated with a profusion of lamps,
disposed with taste and fancy. The gay and various dresses of the
company, some of whom were seated on the turf, conversing at their
ease, observing the _cotillons_, taking refreshments, and sometimes
touching sportively a guitar; the gallant manners of the gentlemen, the
exquisitely capricious air of the ladies; the light fantastic steps of
their dances; the musicians, with the lute, the hautboy, and the tabor,
seated at the foot of an elm, and the sylvan scenery of woods around
were circumstances, that unitedly formed a characteristic and striking
picture of French festivity.