But their effect was now
changed; the affection they expressed appealed so forcibly to her
heart, when she considered that it had, perhaps, yielded to the powers
of time and absence, and even the view of the hand-writing recalled so
many painful recollections, that she found herself unable to go through
the first she had opened, and sat musing, with her cheek resting on her
arm, and tears stealing from her eyes, when old Dorothée entered the
room to inform her, that dinner would be ready, an hour before the
usual time. Emily started on perceiving her, and hastily put up the
papers, but not before Dorothée had observed both her agitation and her
tears. “Ah, ma’amselle!” said she, “you, who are so young,—have you reason for
sorrow?”

Emily tried to smile, but was unable to speak. “Alas! dear young lady, when you come to my age, you will not weep at
trifles; and surely you have nothing serious, to grieve you.”

“No, Dorothée, nothing of any consequence,” replied Emily. Dorothée,
now stooping to pick up something, that had dropped from among the
papers, suddenly exclaimed, “Holy Mary! what is it I see?” and then,
trembling, sat down in a chair, that stood by the table. “What is it you do see?” said Emily, alarmed by her manner, and looking
round the room. “It is herself,” said Dorothée, “her very self! just as she looked a
little before she died!”

Emily, still more alarmed, began now to fear, that Dorothée was seized
with sudden frenzy, but entreated her to explain herself. “That picture!” said she, “where did you find it, lady? it is my
blessed mistress herself!”

She laid on the table the miniature, which Emily had long ago found
among the papers her father had enjoined her to destroy, and over which
she had once seen him shed such tender and affecting tears; and,
recollecting all the various circumstances of his conduct, that had
long perplexed her, her emotions increased to an excess, which deprived
her of all power to ask the questions she trembled to have answered,
and she could only enquire, whether Dorothée was certain the picture
resembled the late marchioness. “O, ma’amselle!” said she, “how came it to strike me so, the instant I
saw it, if it was not my lady’s likeness? Ah!” added she, taking up the
miniature, “these are her own blue eyes—looking so sweet and so mild;
and there is her very look, such as I have often seen it, when she had
sat thinking for a long while, and then, the tears would often steal
down her cheeks—but she never would complain! It was that look so meek,
as it were, and resigned, that used to break my heart and make me love
her so!”

“Dorothée!” said Emily solemnly, “I am interested in the cause of that
grief, more so, perhaps, than you may imagine; and I entreat, that you
will no longer refuse to indulge my curiosity;—it is not a common one.”

As Emily said this, she remembered the papers, with which the picture
had been found, and had scarcely a doubt, that they had concerned the
Marchioness de Villeroi; but with this supposition came a scruple,
whether she ought to enquire further on a subject, which might prove to
be the same, that her father had so carefully endeavoured to conceal. Her curiosity, concerning the Marchioness, powerful as it was, it is
probable she would now have resisted, as she had formerly done, on
unwarily observing the few terrible words in the papers, which had
never since been erased from her memory, had she been certain that the
history of that lady was the subject of those papers, or, that such
simple particulars only as it was probable Dorothée could relate were
included in her father’s command. What was known to her could be no
secret to many other persons; and, since it appeared very unlikely,
that St. Aubert should attempt to conceal what Emily might learn by
ordinary means, she at length concluded, that, if the papers had
related to the story of the Marchioness, it was not those circumstances
of it, which Dorothée could disclose, that he had thought sufficiently
important to wish to have concealed. She, therefore, no longer
hesitated to make the enquiries, that might lead to the gratification
of her curiosity. “Ah, ma’amselle!” said Dorothée, “it is a sad story, and cannot be told
now: but what am I saying? I never will tell it. Many years have
passed, since it happened; and I never loved to talk of the Marchioness
to anybody, but my husband. He lived in the family, at that time, as
well as myself, and he knew many particulars from me, which nobody else
did; for I was about the person of my lady in her last illness, and saw
and heard as much, or more than my lord himself. Sweet saint! how
patient she was! When she died, I thought I could have died with her!”

“Dorothée,” said Emily, interrupting her, “what you shall tell, you may
depend upon it, shall never be disclosed by me. I have, I repeat it,
particular reasons for wishing to be informed on this subject, and am
willing to bind myself, in the most solemn manner, never to mention
what you shall wish me to conceal.”

Dorothée seemed surprised at the earnestness of Emily’s manner, and,
after regarding her for some moments, in silence, said, “Young lady! that look of yours pleads for you—it is so like my dear mistress’s,
that I can almost fancy I see her before me; if you were her daughter,
you could not remind me of her more. But dinner will be ready—had you
not better go down?”

“You will first promise to grant my request,” said Emily. “And ought not you first to tell me, ma’amselle, how this picture fell
into your hands, and the reasons you say you have for curiosity about
my lady?”

“Why, no, Dorothée,” replied Emily, recollecting herself, “I have also
particular reasons for observing silence, on these subjects, at least,
till I know further; and, remember, I do not promise ever to speak upon
them; therefore, do not let me induce you to satisfy my curiosity, from
an expectation, that I shall gratify yours. What I may judge proper to
conceal, does not concern myself alone, or I should have less scruple
in revealing it: let a confidence in my honour alone persuade you to
disclose what I request.”

“Well, lady!” replied Dorothée, after a long pause, during which her
eyes were fixed upon Emily, “you seem so much interested,—and this
picture and that face of yours make me think you have some reason to be
so,—that I will trust you—and tell some things, that I never told
before to anybody, but my husband, though there are people, who have
suspected as much. I will tell you the particulars of my lady’s death,
too, and some of my own suspicions; but you must first promise me by
all the saints—”

Emily, interrupting her, solemnly promised never to reveal what should
be confided to her, without Dorothée’s consent. “But there is the horn, ma’amselle, sounding for dinner,” said
Dorothée; “I must be gone.”

“When shall I see you again?” enquired Emily.