She must part from Valancourt, therefore, for ever—for what of either
happiness or tranquillity could she expect with a man, whose tastes
were degenerated into low inclinations, and to whom vice was become
habitual? whom she must no longer esteem, though the remembrance of
what he once was, and the long habit of loving him, would render it
very difficult for her to despise him. “O Valancourt!” she would
exclaim, “having been separated so long—do we meet, only to be
miserable—only to part for ever?”

Amidst all the tumult of her mind, she remembered pertinaciously the
seeming candour and simplicity of his conduct, on the preceding night;
and, had she dared to trust her own heart, it would have led her to
hope much from this. Still she could not resolve to dismiss him for
ever, without obtaining further proof of his ill conduct; yet she saw
no probability of procuring it, if, indeed, proof more positive was
possible. Something, however, it was necessary to decide upon, and she
almost determined to be guided in her opinion solely by the manner,
with which Valancourt should receive her hints concerning his late
conduct. Thus passed the hours till dinner-time, when Emily, struggling against
the pressure of her grief, dried her tears, and joined the family at
table, where the Count preserved towards her the most delicate
attention; but the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, having looked, for
a moment, with surprise, on her dejected countenance, began, as usual,
to talk of trifles, while the eyes of Lady Blanche asked much of her
friend, who could only reply by a mournful smile. Emily withdrew as soon after dinner as possible, and was followed by
the Lady Blanche, whose anxious enquiries, however, she found herself
quite unequal to answer, and whom she entreated to spare her on the
subject of her distress. To converse on any topic, was now, indeed, so
extremely painful to her, that she soon gave up the attempt, and
Blanche left her, with pity of the sorrow, which she perceived she had
no power to assuage. Emily secretly determined to go to her convent in a day or two; for
company, especially that of the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, was
intolerable to her, in the present state of her spirits; and, in the
retirement of the convent, as well as the kindness of the abbess, she
hoped to recover the command of her mind, and to teach it resignation
to the event, which, she too plainly perceived, was approaching. To have lost Valancourt by death, or to have seen him married to a
rival, would, she thought, have given her less anguish, than a
conviction of his unworthiness, which must terminate in misery to
himself, and which robbed her even of the solitary image her heart so
long had cherished. These painful reflections were interrupted, for a
moment, by a note from Valancourt, written in evident distraction of
mind, entreating, that she would permit him to see her on the
approaching evening, instead of the following morning; a request, which
occasioned her so much agitation, that she was unable to answer it. She
wished to see him, and to terminate her present state of suspense, yet
shrunk from the interview, and, incapable of deciding for herself, she,
at length, sent to beg a few moments’ conversation with the Count in
his library, where she delivered to him the note, and requested his
advice. After reading it, he said, that, if she believed herself well
enough to support the interview, his opinion was, that, for the relief
of both parties, it ought to take place, that evening. “His affection for you is, undoubtedly, a very sincere one,” added the
Count; “and he appears so much distressed, and you, my amiable friend,
are so ill at ease—that the sooner the affair is decided, the better.”

Emily replied, therefore, to Valancourt, that she would see him, and
then exerted herself in endeavours to attain fortitude and composure,
to bear her through the approaching scene—a scene so afflictingly the
reverse of any, to which she had looked forward! VOLUME 4



 CHAPTER I

Is all the council that we two have shared,
the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us—Oh! and is all forgot? And will you rend our ancient love asunder? MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM


In the evening, when Emily was at length informed, that Count De
Villefort requested to see her, she guessed that Valancourt was below,
and, endeavouring to assume composure and to recollect all her spirits,
she rose and left the apartment; but on reaching the door of the
library, where she imagined him to be, her emotion returned with such
energy, that, fearing to trust herself in the room, she returned into
the hall, where she continued for a considerable time, unable to
command her agitated spirits. When she could recall them, she found in the library Valancourt, seated
with the Count, who both rose on her entrance; but she did not dare to
look at Valancourt, and the Count, having led her to a chair,
immediately withdrew. Emily remained with her eyes fixed on the floor, under such oppression
of heart, that she could not speak, and with difficulty breathed; while
Valancourt threw himself into a chair beside her, and, sighing heavily,
continued silent, when, had she raised her eyes, she would have
perceived the violent emotions, with which he was agitated. At length, in a tremulous voice, he said, “I have solicited to see you
this evening, that I might, at least, be spared the further torture of
suspense, which your altered manner had occasioned me, and which the
hints I have just received from the Count have in part explained. I
perceive I have enemies, Emily, who envied me my late happiness, and
who have been busy in searching out the means to destroy it: I
perceive, too, that time and absence have weakened the affection you
once felt for me, and that you can now easily be taught to forget me.”

His last words faltered, and Emily, less able to speak than before,
continued silent. “O what a meeting is this!” exclaimed Valancourt, starting from his
seat, and pacing the room with hurried steps, “what a meeting is this,
after our long—long separation!” Again he sat down, and, after the
struggle of a moment, he added in a firm but despairing tone, “This is
too much—I cannot bear it! Emily, will you not speak to me?”

He covered his face with his hand, as if to conceal his emotion, and
took Emily’s, which she did not withdraw. Her tears could no longer be
restrained; and, when he raised his eyes and perceived that she was
weeping, all his tenderness returned, and a gleam of hope appeared to
cross his mind, for he exclaimed, “O! you do pity me, then, you do love
me! Yes, you are still my own Emily—let me believe those tears, that
tell me so!”

Emily now made an effort to recover her firmness, and, hastily drying
them, “Yes,” said she, “I do pity you—I weep for you—but, ought I to
think of you with affection?