Soon after he had
dispatched this, his passions becoming more temperate, he was sensible
of the error he had committed in having given Emily a new subject of
distress in the strong mention of his own suffering, and would have
given half the world, had it been his, to recover the letter. Emily,
however, was spared the pain she must have received from it by the
suspicious policy of Madame Montoni, who had ordered, that all letters,
addressed to her niece, should be delivered to herself, and who, after
having perused this and indulged the expressions of resentment, which
Valancourt’s mention of Montoni provoked, had consigned it to the
flames. Montoni, meanwhile, every day more impatient to leave France, gave
repeated orders for dispatch to the servants employed in preparations
for the journey, and to the persons, with whom he was transacting some
particular business. He preserved a steady silence to the letters in
which Valancourt, despairing of greater good, and having subdued the
passion, that had transgressed against his policy, solicited only the
indulgence of being allowed to bid Emily farewell. But when Valancourt
learned that she was really to set out in a very few days, and that it
was designed he should see her no more, forgetting every consideration
of prudence, he dared, in a second letter to Emily, to propose a
clandestine marriage. This also was transmitted to Madame Montoni, and
the last day of Emily’s stay at Thoulouse arrived, without affording
Valancourt even a line to sooth his sufferings, or a hope, that he
should be allowed a parting interview. During this period of torturing suspense to Valancourt, Emily was sunk
into that kind of stupor, with which sudden and irremediable misfortune
sometimes overwhelms the mind. Loving him with the tenderest affection,
and having long been accustomed to consider him as the friend and
companion of all her future days, she had no ideas of happiness, that
were not connected with him. What, then, must have been her suffering,
when thus suddenly they were to be separated, perhaps, for ever,
certainly to be thrown into distant parts of the world, where they
could scarcely hear of each other’s existence; and all this in
obedience to the will of a stranger, for such as Montoni, and of a
person, who had but lately been anxious to hasten their nuptials! It
was in vain, that she endeavoured to subdue her grief, and resign
herself to an event, which she could not avoid. The silence of
Valancourt afflicted more than it surprised her, since she attributed
it to its just occasion; but, when the day, preceding that, on which
she was to quit Thoulouse, arrived, and she had heard no mention of his
being permitted to take leave of her, grief overcame every
consideration, that had made her reluctant to speak of him, and she
enquired of Madame Montoni, whether this consolation had been refused. Her aunt informed her that it had, adding, that, after the provocation
she had herself received from Valancourt, in their last interview, and
the persecution, which the Signor had suffered from his letters, no
entreaties should avail to procure it. “If the chevalier expected this favour from us,” said she, “he should
have conducted himself in a very different manner; he should have
waited patiently, till he knew whether we were disposed to grant it,
and not have come and reproved me, because I did not think proper to
bestow my niece upon him, and then have persisted in troubling the
Signor, because he did not think proper to enter into any dispute about
so childish an affair. His behaviour throughout has been extremely
presumptuous and impertinent, and I desire, that I may never hear his
name repeated, and that you will get the better of those foolish
sorrows and whims, and look like other people, and not appear with that
dismal countenance, as if you were ready to cry. For, though you say
nothing, you cannot conceal your grief from my penetration. I can see
you are ready to cry at this moment, though I am reproving you for it;
aye, even now, in spite of my commands.”

Emily, having turned away to hide her tears, quitted the room to
indulge them, and the day was passed in an intensity of anguish, such
as she had, perhaps, never known before. When she withdrew to her
chamber for the night, she remained in the chair where she had placed
herself, on entering the room, absorbed in her grief, till long after
every member of the family, except herself, was retired to rest. She
could not divest herself of a belief, that she had parted with
Valancourt to meet no more; a belief, which did not arise merely from
foreseen circumstances, for, though the length of the journey she was
about to commence, the uncertainty as to the period of her return,
together with the prohibitions she had received, seemed to justify it,
she yielded also to an impression, which she mistook for a
presentiment, that she was going from Valancourt for ever. How dreadful
to her imagination, too, was the distance that would separate them—the
Alps, those tremendous barriers! would rise, and whole countries extend
between the regions where each must exist! To live in adjoining
provinces, to live even in the same country, though without seeing him,
was comparative happiness to the conviction of this dreadful length of
distance. Her mind was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of her
state, and the belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last time,
that she suddenly became very faint, and, looking round the chamber for
something, that might revive her, she observed the casements, and had
just strength to throw one open, near which she seated herself. The air
recalled her spirits, and the still moonlight, that fell upon the elms
of a long avenue, fronting the window, somewhat soothed them, and
determined her to try whether exercise and the open air would not
relieve the intense pain that bound her temples. In the château all was
still; and, passing down the great staircase into the hall, from whence
a passage led immediately to the garden, she softly and unheard, as she
thought, unlocked the door, and entered the avenue. Emily passed on
with steps now hurried, and now faltering, as, deceived by the shadows
among the trees, she fancied she saw some person move in the distant
perspective, and feared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni. Her
desire, however, to revisit the pavilion, where she had passed so many
happy hours with Valancourt, and had admired with him the extensive
prospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony, overcame her
apprehension of being observed, and she moved on towards the terrace,
which, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole of the lower
one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble steps, that
terminated the avenue. Having reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for her
distance from the château now increased the fear, which the stillness
and obscurity of the hour had awakened.