If you still doubt, I will refer you to my
son.”

“I must not doubt what you have yourself witnessed,” replied Emily,
sinking with grief, “or what you assert. But the Chevalier has,
perhaps, been drawn only into a transient folly, which he may never
repeat. If you had known the justness of his former principles, you
would allow for my present incredulity.”

“Alas!” observed the Count, “it is difficult to believe that, which
will make us wretched. But I will not sooth you by flattering and false
hopes. We all know how fascinating the vice of gaming is, and how
difficult it is, also, to conquer habits; the Chevalier might, perhaps,
reform for a while, but he would soon relapse into dissipation—for I
fear, not only the bonds of habit would be powerful, but that his
morals are corrupted. And—why should I conceal from you, that play is
not his only vice? he appears to have a taste for every vicious
pleasure.”

The Count hesitated and paused; while Emily endeavoured to support
herself, as, with increasing perturbation, she expected what he might
further say. A long pause of silence ensued, during which he was
visibly agitated; at length, he said, “It would be a cruel delicacy,
that could prevail with me to be silent—and I will inform you, that the
Chevalier’s extravagance has brought him twice into the prisons of
Paris, from whence he was last extricated, as I was told upon
authority, which I cannot doubt, by a well-known Parisian Countess,
with whom he continued to reside, when I left Paris.”

He paused again; and, looking at Emily, perceived her countenance
change, and that she was falling from the seat; he caught her, but she
had fainted, and he called loudly for assistance. They were, however,
beyond the hearing of his servants at the château, and he feared to
leave her while he went thither for assistance, yet knew not how
otherwise to obtain it; till a fountain at no great distance caught his
eye, and he endeavoured to support Emily against the tree, under which
she had been sitting, while he went thither for water. But again he was
perplexed, for he had nothing near him, in which water could be
brought; but while, with increased anxiety, he watched her, he thought
he perceived in her countenance symptoms of returning life. It was long, however, before she revived, and then she found herself
supported—not by the Count, but by Valancourt, who was observing her
with looks of earnest apprehension, and who now spoke to her in a tone,
tremulous with his anxiety. At the sound of his well-known voice, she
raised her eyes, but presently closed them, and a faintness again came
over her. The Count, with a look somewhat stern, waved him to withdraw; but he
only sighed heavily, and called on the name of Emily, as he again held
the water, that had been brought, to her lips. On the Count’s repeating
his action, and accompanying it with words, Valancourt answered him
with a look of deep resentment, and refused to leave the place, till
she should revive, or to resign her for a moment to the care of any
person. In the next instant, his conscience seemed to inform him of
what had been the subject of the Count’s conversation with Emily, and
indignation flashed in his eyes; but it was quickly repressed, and
succeeded by an expression of serious anguish, that induced the Count
to regard him with more pity than resentment, and the view of which so
much affected Emily, when she again revived, that she yielded to the
weakness of tears. But she soon restrained them, and, exerting her
resolution to appear recovered, she rose, thanked the Count and Henri,
with whom Valancourt had entered the garden, for their care, and moved
towards the château, without noticing Valancourt, who, heart-struck by
her manner, exclaimed in a low voice—“Good God! how have I deserved
this?—what has been said, to occasion this change?”

Emily, without replying, but with increased emotion, quickened her
steps. “What has thus disordered you, Emily?” said he, as he still
walked by her side: “give me a few moments’ conversation, I entreat
you;—I am very miserable!”

Though this was spoken in a low voice, it was overheard by the Count,
who immediately replied, that Mademoiselle St. Aubert was then too much
indisposed, to attend to any conversation, but that he would venture to
promise she would see Monsieur Valancourt on the morrow, if she was
better. Valancourt’s cheek was crimsoned: he looked haughtily at the Count, and
then at Emily, with successive expressions of surprise, grief and
supplication, which she could neither misunderstand, nor resist, and
she said languidly—“I shall be better tomorrow, and if you wish to
accept the Count’s permission, I will see you then.”

“See me!” exclaimed Valancourt, as he threw a glance of mingled pride
and resentment upon the Count; and then, seeming to recollect himself,
he added—“But I will come, madam; I will accept the Count’s
_permission_.”

When they reached the door of the château, he lingered a moment, for
his resentment was now fled; and then, with a look so expressive of
tenderness and grief, that Emily’s heart was not proof against it, he
bade her good morning, and, bowing slightly to the Count, disappeared. Emily withdrew to her own apartment, under such oppression of heart as
she had seldom known, when she endeavoured to recollect all that the
Count had told, to examine the probability of the circumstances he
himself believed, and to consider of her future conduct towards
Valancourt. But, when she attempted to think, her mind refused control,
and she could only feel that she was miserable. One moment, she sunk
under the conviction, that Valancourt was no longer the same, whom she
had so tenderly loved, the idea of whom had hitherto supported her
under affliction, and cheered her with the hope of happier days,—but a
fallen, a worthless character, whom she must teach herself to
despise—if she could not forget. Then, unable to endure this terrible
supposition, she rejected it, and disdained to believe him capable of
conduct, such as the Count had described, to whom she believed he had
been misrepresented by some artful enemy; and there were moments, when
she even ventured to doubt the integrity of the Count himself, and to
suspect, that he was influenced by some selfish motive, to break her
connection with Valancourt. But this was the error of an instant, only;
the Count’s character, which she had heard spoken of by Du Pont and
many other persons, and had herself observed, enabled her to judge, and
forbade the supposition; had her confidence, indeed, been less, there
appeared to be no temptation to betray him into conduct so treacherous,
and so cruel. Nor did reflection suffer her to preserve the hope, that
Valancourt had been mis-represented to the Count, who had said, that he
spoke chiefly from his own observation, and from his son’s experience.