I am
old, and might have died without being missed, but he”—Emily was faint,
and asked for some water, and Theresa, alarmed by the voice, in which
she spoke, hastened to her assistance, and, while she held the water to
Emily’s lips, continued, “My dear young mistress, do not take it so to
heart; the Chevalier may be alive and well, for all this; let us hope
the best!”

“O no! I cannot hope,” said Emily, “I am acquainted with circumstances,
that will not suffer me to hope. I am somewhat better now, and can hear
what you have to say. Tell me, I entreat, the particulars of what you
know.”

“Stay, till you are a little better, mademoiselle, you look sadly!”

“O no, Theresa, tell me all, while I have the power to hear it,” said
Emily, “tell me all, I conjure you!”

“Well, madam, I will then; but the steward did not say much, for
Richard says he seemed shy of talking about Mons. Valancourt, and what
he gathered was from Gabriel, one of the servants, who said he had
heard it from my lord’s gentleman.”

“What did he hear?” said Emily. “Why, madam, Richard has but a bad memory, and could not remember half
of it, and, if I had not asked him a great many questions, I should
have heard little indeed. But he says that Gabriel said, that he and
all the other servants were in great trouble about M. Valancourt, for
that he was such a kind young gentleman, they all loved him, as well as
if he had been their own brother—and now, to think what was become of
him! For he used to be so courteous to them all, and, if any of them
had been in fault, M. Valancourt was the first to persuade my lord to
forgive them. And then, if any poor family was in distress, M.
Valancourt was the first, too, to relieve them, though some folks, not
a great way off, could have afforded that much better than he. And
then, said Gabriel, he was so gentle to everybody, and, for all he had
such a noble look with him, he never would command, and call about him,
as some of your quality people do, and we never minded him the less for
that. Nay, says Gabriel, for that matter, we minded him the more, and
would all have run to obey him at a word, sooner than if some folks had
told us what to do at full length; aye, and were more afraid of
displeasing him, too, than of them, that used rough words to us.”

Emily, who no longer considered it to be dangerous to listen to praise,
bestowed on Valancourt, did not attempt to interrupt Theresa, but sat,
attentive to her words, though almost overwhelmed with grief. “My
Lord,” continued Theresa, “frets about M. Valancourt sadly, and the
more, because, they say, he had been rather harsh against him lately. Gabriel says he had it from my Lord’s valet, that M. Valancourt had
_comported_ himself wildly at Paris, and had spent a great deal of
money, more a great deal than my Lord liked, for he loves money better
than M. Valancourt, who had been led astray sadly. Nay, for that
matter, M. Valancourt had been put into prison at Paris, and my Lord,
says Gabriel, refused to take him out, and said he deserved to suffer;
and, when old Gregoire, the butler, heard of this, he actually bought a
walking-stick to take with him to Paris, to visit his young master; but
the next thing we hear is, that M. Valancourt is coming home. O, it was
a joyful day when he came; but he was sadly altered, and my Lord looked
very cool upon him, and he was very sad, indeed. And, soon after, he
went away again into Languedoc, and, since that time, we have never
seen him.”

Theresa paused, and Emily, sighing deeply, remained with her eyes fixed
upon the floor, without speaking. After a long pause, she enquired what
further Theresa had heard. “Yet why should I ask?” she added; “what you
have already told is too much. O Valancourt! thou art gone—for ever
gone! and I—I have murdered thee!” These words, and the countenance of
despair which accompanied them, alarmed Theresa, who began to fear,
that the shock of the intelligence Emily had just received, had
affected her senses. “My dear young lady, be composed,” said she, “and
do not say such frightful words. You murder M. Valancourt,—dear heart!”
Emily replied only by a heavy sigh. “Dear lady, it breaks my heart to see you look so,” said Theresa, “do
not sit with your eyes upon the ground, and all so pale and melancholy;
it frightens me to see you.” Emily was still silent, and did not appear
to hear anything that was said to her. “Besides, mademoiselle,”
continued Theresa, “M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet, for what
we know.”

At the mention of his name, Emily raised her eyes, and fixed them, in a
wild gaze, upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to understand what
had been said. “Aye, my dear lady,” said Theresa, mistaking the meaning
of this considerate air, “M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet.”

On the repetition of these words, Emily comprehended their import, but,
instead of producing the effect intended, they seemed only to heighten
her distress. She rose hastily from her chair, paced the little room,
with quick steps, and, often sighing deeply, clasped her hands, and
shuddered. Meanwhile, Theresa, with simple, but honest affection, endeavoured to
comfort her; put more wood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighter
blaze, swept the hearth, set the chair, which Emily had left, in a
warmer situation, and then drew forth from a cupboard a flask of wine. “It is a stormy night, madam,” said she, “and blows cold—do come nearer
the fire, and take a glass of this wine; it will comfort you, as it has
done me, often and often, for it is not such wine as one gets every
day; it is rich Languedoc, and the last of six flasks that M.
Valancourt sent me, the night before he left Gascony for Paris. They
have served me, ever since, as cordials, and I never drink it, but I
think of him, and what kind words he said to me when he gave them. ‘Theresa,’ says he, ‘you are not young now, and should have a glass of
good wine, now and then. I will send you a few flasks, and, when you
taste them, you will sometimes remember me your friend.’ Yes—those were
his very words—me your friend!” Emily still paced the room, without
seeming to hear what Theresa said, who continued speaking. “And I have
remembered him, often enough, poor young gentleman!—for he gave me this
roof for a shelter, and that, which has supported me. Ah! he is in
heaven, with my blessed master, if ever saint was!”

Theresa’s voice faltered; she wept, and set down the flask, unable to
pour out the wine. Her grief seemed to recall Emily from her own, who
went towards her, but then stopped, and, having gazed on her, for a
moment, turned suddenly away, as if overwhelmed by the reflection, that
it was Valancourt, whom Theresa lamented.