He supported her slowly towards the château, weeping and speaking to
her; but she answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate,
that terminated the avenue, she seemed to have recovered her
consciousness, and, looking round, perceived how near they were to the
château. “We must part here,” said she, stopping, “Why prolong these
moments? Teach me the fortitude I have forgot.”

Valancourt struggled to assume a composed air. “Farewell, my love!”
said he, in a voice of solemn tenderness—“trust me we shall meet
again—meet for each other—meet to part no more!” His voice faltered,
but, recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer tone. “You know not what I
shall suffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no opportunity of
conveying to you my letters, yet I tremble to think how few may occur. And trust me, love, for your dear sake, I will try to bear this absence
with fortitude. O how little I have shown tonight!”

“Farewell!” said Emily faintly. “When you are gone, I shall think of
many things I would have said to you.” “And I of many—many!” said
Valancourt; “I never left you yet, that I did not immediately remember
some question, or some entreaty, or some circumstance, concerning my
love, that I earnestly wished to mention, and feel wretched because I
could not. O Emily! this countenance, on which I now gaze—will, in a
moment, be gone from my eyes, and not all the efforts of fancy will be
able to recall it with exactness. O! what an infinite difference
between this moment and the next!—_now_, I am in your presence, can
behold you! _then_, all will be a dreary blank—and I shall be a
wanderer, exiled from my only home!”

Valancourt again pressed her to his heart, and held her there in
silence, weeping. Tears once again calmed her oppressed mind. They
again bade each other farewell, lingered a moment, and then parted. Valancourt seemed to force himself from the spot; he passed hastily up
the avenue, and Emily, as she moved slowly towards the château, heard
his distant steps. She listened to the sounds, as they sunk fainter and
fainter, till the melancholy stillness of night alone remained; and
then hurried to her chamber, to seek repose, which, alas! was fled from
her wretchedness. VOLUME 2



 CHAPTER I

Where’er I roam, whatever realms I see,
My heart untravell’d still shall turn to thee. GOLDSMITH


The carriages were at the gates at an early hour; the bustle of the
domestics, passing to and fro in the galleries, awakened Emily from
harassing slumbers: her unquiet mind had, during the night, presented
her with terrific images and obscure circumstances, concerning her
affection and her future life. She now endeavoured to chase away the
impressions they had left on her fancy; but from imaginary evils she
awoke to the consciousness of real ones. Recollecting that she had
parted with Valancourt, perhaps for ever, her heart sickened as memory
revived. But she tried to dismiss the dismal forebodings that crowded
on her mind, and to restrain the sorrow which she could not subdue;
efforts which diffused over the settled melancholy of her countenance
an expression of tempered resignation, as a thin veil, thrown over the
features of beauty, renders them more interesting by a partial
concealment. But Madame Montoni observed nothing in this countenance
except its usual paleness, which attracted her censure. She told her
niece, that she had been indulging in fanciful sorrows, and begged she
would have more regard for decorum, than to let the world see that she
could not renounce an improper attachment; at which Emily’s pale cheek
became flushed with crimson, but it was the blush of pride, and she
made no answer. Soon after, Montoni entered the breakfast room, spoke
little, and seemed impatient to be gone. The windows of this room opened upon the garden. As Emily passed them,
she saw the spot where she had parted with Valancourt on the preceding
night: the remembrance pressed heavily on her heart, and she turned
hastily away from the object that had awakened it. The baggage being at length adjusted, the travellers entered their
carriages, and Emily would have left the château without one sigh of
regret, had it not been situated in the neighbourhood of Valancourt’s
residence. From a little eminence she looked back upon Thoulouse, and the far-seen
plains of Gascony, beyond which the broken summits of the Pyrenees
appeared on the distant horizon, lighted up by a morning sun. “Dear
pleasant mountains!” said she to herself, “how long may it be ere I see
ye again, and how much may happen to make me miserable in the interval! Oh, could I now be certain, that I should ever return to ye, and find
that Valancourt still lived for me, I should go in peace! He will still
gaze on ye, gaze when I am far away!”

The trees, that impended over the high banks of the road and formed a
line of perspective with the distant country, now threatened to exclude
the view of them; but the bluish mountains still appeared beyond the
dark foliage, and Emily continued to lean from the coach window, till
at length the closing branches shut them from her sight. Another object soon caught her attention. She had scarcely looked at a
person who walked along the bank, with his hat, in which was the
military feather, drawn over his eyes, before, at the sound of wheels,
he suddenly turned, and she perceived that it was Valancourt himself,
who waved his hand, sprung into the road, and through the window of the
carriage put a letter into her hand. He endeavoured to smile through
the despair that overspread his countenance as she passed on. The
remembrance of that smile seemed impressed on Emily’s mind for ever. She leaned from the window, and saw him on a knoll of the broken bank,
leaning against the high trees that waved over him, and pursuing the
carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and she continued to gaze
till distance confused his figure, and at length another turn of the
road entirely separated him from her sight. Having stopped to take up Signor Cavigni at a château on the road, the
travellers, of whom Emily was disrespectfully seated with Madame
Montoni’s woman in a second carriage, pursued their way over the plains
of Languedoc. The presence of this servant restrained Emily from
reading Valancourt’s letter, for she did not choose to expose the
emotions it might occasion to the observation of any person. Yet such
was her wish to read this his last communication, that her trembling
hand was every moment on the point of breaking the seal. At length they reached the village, where they staid only to change
horses, without alighting, and it was not till they stopped to dine,
that Emily had an opportunity of reading the letter.