You look
surprised,” added the nun, observing Emily’s countenance; “I allow the
story is uncommon, but not, I believe, without a parallel.”

“Pray proceed,” said Emily, “I am interested.”

“The story is already told,” resumed the nun, “I have only to mention,
that the long struggle, which Agnes suffered, between love, remorse and
a sense of the duties she had taken upon herself in becoming of our
order, at length unsettled her reason. At first, she was frantic and
melancholy by quick alternatives; then, she sunk into a deep and
settled melancholy, which still, however, has, at times, been
interrupted by fits of wildness, and, of late, these have again been
frequent.”

Emily was affected by the history of the sister, some parts of whose
story brought to her remembrance that of the Marchioness de Villeroi,
who had also been compelled by her father to forsake the object of her
affections, for a nobleman of his choice; but, from what Dorothée had
related, there appeared no reason to suppose, that she had escaped the
vengeance of a jealous husband, or to doubt for a moment the innocence
of her conduct. But Emily, while she sighed over the misery of the nun,
could not forbear shedding a few tears to the misfortunes of the
Marchioness; and, when she returned to the mention of sister Agnes, she
asked Frances if she remembered her in her youth, and whether she was
then beautiful. “I was not here at the time, when she took the vows,” replied Frances,
“which is so long ago, that few of the present sisterhood, I believe,
were witnesses of the ceremony; nay, ever our lady mother did not then
preside over the convent: but I can remember, when sister Agnes was a
very beautiful woman. She retains that air of high rank, which always
distinguished her, but her beauty, you must perceive, is fled; I can
scarcely discover even a vestige of the loveliness, that once animated
her features.”

“It is strange,” said Emily, “but there are moments, when her
countenance has appeared familiar to my memory! You will think me
fanciful, and I think myself so, for I certainly never saw sister
Agnes, before I came to this convent, and I must, therefore, have seen
some person, whom she strongly resembles, though of this I have no
recollection.”

“You have been interested by the deep melancholy of her countenance,”
said Frances, “and its impression has probably deluded your
imagination; for I might as reasonably think I perceive a likeness
between you and Agnes, as you, that you have seen her anywhere but in
this convent, since this has been her place of refuge, for nearly as
many years as make your age.”

“Indeed!” said Emily. “Yes,” rejoined Frances, “and why does that circumstance excite your
surprise?”

Emily did not appear to notice this question, but remained thoughtful,
for a few moments, and then said, “It was about that same period that
the Marchioness de Villeroi expired.”

“That is an odd remark,” said Frances. Emily, recalled from her reverie, smiled, and gave the conversation
another turn, but it soon came back to the subject of the unhappy nun,
and Emily remained in the cell of sister Frances, till the midnight
bell aroused her; when, apologising for having interrupted the sister’s
repose, till this late hour, they quitted the cell together. Emily
returned to her chamber, and the nun, bearing a glimmering taper, went
to her devotion in the chapel. Several days followed, during which Emily saw neither the Count, nor
any of his family; and, when, at length, he appeared, she remarked,
with concern, that his air was unusually disturbed. “My spirits are harassed,” said he, in answer to her anxious enquiries,
“and I mean to change my residence, for a little while, an experiment,
which, I hope, will restore my mind to its usual tranquillity. My
daughter and myself will accompany the Baron St. Foix to his château. It lies in a valley of the Pyrenees, that opens towards Gascony, and I
have been thinking, Emily, that, when you set out for La Vallée, we may
go part of the way together; it would be a satisfaction to me to guard
you towards your home.”

She thanked the Count for his friendly consideration, and lamented,
that the necessity for her going first to Thoulouse would render this
plan impracticable. “But, when you are at the Baron’s residence,” she
added, “you will be only a short journey from La Vallée, and I think,
sir, you will not leave the country without visiting me; it is
unnecessary to say with what pleasure I should receive you and the Lady
Blanche.”

“I do not doubt it,” replied the Count, “and I will not deny myself and
Blanche the pleasure of visiting you, if your affairs should allow you
to be at La Vallée, about the time when we can meet you there.”

When Emily said that she should hope to see the Countess also, she was
not sorry to learn that this lady was going, accompanied by
Mademoiselle Bearn, to pay a visit, for a few weeks, to a family in
lower Languedoc. The Count, after some further conversation on his intended journey and
on the arrangement of Emily’s, took leave; and many days did not
succeed this visit, before a second letter from M. Quesnel informed
her, that he was then at Thoulouse, that La Vallée was at liberty, and
that he wished her to set off for the former place, where he awaited
her arrival, with all possible dispatch, since his own affairs pressed
him to return to Gascony. Emily did not hesitate to obey him, and,
having taken an affecting leave of the Count’s family, in which M. Du
Pont was still included, and of her friends at the convent, she set out
for Thoulouse, attended by the unhappy Annette, and guarded by a steady
servant of the Count. CHAPTER X

Lull’d in the countless chambers of the brain,
Our thoughts are link’d by many a hidden chain:
Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies! PLEASURES OF MEMORY


Emily pursued her journey, without any accident, along the plains of
Languedoc towards the north-west; and, on this her return to Thoulouse,
which she had last left with Madame Montoni, she thought much on the
melancholy fate of her aunt, who, but for her own imprudence, might now
have been living in happiness there! Montoni, too, often rose to her
fancy, such as she had seen him in his days of triumph, bold, spirited
and commanding; such also as she had since beheld him in his days of
vengeance; and now, only a few short months had passed—and he had no
longer the power, or the will to afflict;—he had become a clod of
earth, and his life was vanished like a shadow! Emily could have wept
at his fate, had she not remembered his crimes; for that of her
unfortunate aunt she did weep, and all sense of her errors was overcome
by the recollection of her misfortunes. Other thoughts and other emotions succeeded, as Emily drew near the
well-known scenes of her early love, and considered, that Valancourt
was lost to her and to himself, for ever.