You may remember, that yester-evening I
said, I had still sufficient confidence in your candour to believe,
that, when I should request an explanation of your words, you would
give it. This explanation is now unnecessary, I understand them too
well; but prove, at least, that your candour is deserving of the
confidence I give it, when I ask you, whether you are conscious of
being the same estimable Valancourt—whom I once loved.”

“Once loved!” cried he,—“the same—the same!” He paused in extreme
emotion, and then added, in a voice at once solemn, and dejected,—“No—I
am not the same!—I am lost—I am no longer worthy of you!”

He again concealed his face. Emily was too much affected by this honest
confession to reply immediately, and, while she struggled to overcome
the pleadings of her heart, and to act with the decisive firmness,
which was necessary for her future peace, she perceived all the danger
of trusting long to her resolution, in the presence of Valancourt, and
was anxious to conclude an interview, that tortured them both; yet,
when she considered, that this was probably their last meeting, her
fortitude sunk at once, and she experienced only emotions of tenderness
and of despondency. Valancourt, meanwhile, lost in emotions of remorse and grief, which he
had neither the power, nor the will to express, sat insensible almost
of the presence of Emily, his features still concealed, and his breast
agitated by convulsive sighs. “Spare me the necessity,” said Emily, recollecting her fortitude,
“spare me the necessity of mentioning those circumstances of your
conduct, which oblige me to break our connection for ever.—We must
part, I now see you for the last time.”

“Impossible!” cried Valancourt, roused from his deep silence, “You
cannot mean what you say!—you cannot mean to throw me from you for
ever!”

“We must part,” repeated Emily, with emphasis,—“and that for ever! Your
own conduct has made this necessary.”

“This is the Count’s determination,” said he haughtily, “not yours, and
I shall enquire by what authority he interferes between us.” He now
rose, and walked about the room in great emotion. “Let me save you from this error,” said Emily, not less agitated—“it is
my determination, and, if you reflect a moment on your late conduct,
you will perceive, that my future peace requires it.”

“Your future peace requires, that we should part—part for ever!” said
Valancourt, “How little did I ever expect to hear you say so!”

“And how little did I expect, that it would be necessary for me to say
so!” rejoined Emily, while her voice softened into tenderness, and her
tears flowed again.—“That you—you, Valancourt, would ever fall from my
esteem!”

He was silent a moment, as if overwhelmed by the consciousness of no
longer deserving this esteem, as well as the certainty of having lost
it, and then, with impassioned grief, lamented the criminality of his
late conduct and the misery to which it had reduced him, till, overcome
by a recollection of the past and a conviction of the future, he burst
into tears, and uttered only deep and broken sighs. The remorse he had expressed, and the distress he suffered could not be
witnessed by Emily with indifference, and, had she not called to her
recollection all the circumstances, of which Count De Villefort had
informed her, and all he had said of the danger of confiding in
repentance, formed under the influence of passion, she might perhaps
have trusted to the assurances of her heart, and have forgotten his
misconduct in the tenderness, which that repentance excited. Valancourt, returning to the chair beside her, at length, said, in a
calm voice, “’Tis true, I am fallen—fallen from my own esteem! but
could you, Emily, so soon, so suddenly resign, if you had not before
ceased to love me, or, if your conduct was not governed by the designs,
I will say, the selfish designs of another person! Would you not
otherwise be willing to hope for my reformation—and could you bear, by
estranging me from you, to abandon me to misery—to myself!”—Emily wept
aloud.—“No, Emily—no—you would not do this, if you still loved me. You
would find your own happiness in saving mine.”

“There are too many probabilities against that hope,” said Emily, “to
justify me in trusting the comfort of my whole life to it. May I not
also ask, whether you could wish me to do this, if you really loved
me?”

“Really loved you!” exclaimed Valancourt—“is it possible you can doubt
my love! Yet it is reasonable, that you should do so, since you see,
that I am less ready to suffer the horror of parting with you, than
that of involving you in my ruin. Yes, Emily—I am ruined—irreparably
ruined—I am involved in debts, which I can never discharge!”
Valancourt’s look, which was wild, as he spoke this, soon settled into
an expression of gloomy despair; and Emily, while she was compelled to
admire his sincerity, saw, with unutterable anguish, new reasons for
fear in the suddenness of his feelings and the extent of the misery, in
which they might involve him. After some minutes, she seemed to contend
against her grief and to struggle for fortitude to conclude the
interview. “I will not prolong these moments,” said she, “by a
conversation, which can answer no good purpose. Valancourt, farewell!”

“You are not going?” said he, wildly interrupting her—“You will not
leave me thus—you will not abandon me even before my mind has suggested
any possibility of compromise between the last indulgence of my despair
and the endurance of my loss!” Emily was terrified by the sternness of
his look, and said, in a soothing voice, “You have yourself
acknowledged, that it is necessary we should part;—if you wish, that I
should believe you love me, you will repeat the
acknowledgment.”—“Never—never,” cried he—“I was distracted when I made
it. O! Emily—this is too much;—though you are not deceived as to my
faults, you must be deluded into this exasperation against them. The
Count is the barrier between us; but he shall not long remain so.”

“You are, indeed, distracted,” said Emily, “the Count is not your
enemy; on the contrary, he is my friend, and that might, in some
degree, induce you to consider him as yours.”—“Your friend!” said
Valancourt, hastily, “how long has he been your friend, that he can so
easily make you forget your lover? Was it he, who recommended to your
favour the Monsieur Du Pont, who, you say, accompanied you from Italy,
and who, I say, has stolen your affections? But I have no right to
question you;—you are your own mistress. Du Pont, perhaps, may not long
triumph over my fallen fortunes!” Emily, more frightened than before by
the frantic looks of Valancourt, said, in a tone scarcely audible, “For
heaven’s sake be reasonable—be composed. Monsieur Du Pont is not your
rival, nor is the Count his advocate. You have no rival; nor, except
yourself, an enemy.