Your
spirits must be soothed. We are going to prayers;—will you attend our
evening service? It is comfortable, my child, to look up in our
afflictions to a father, who sees and pities us, and who chastens in
his mercy.”

Emily’s tears flowed again, but a thousand sweet emotions mingled with
them. The abbess suffered her to weep without interruption, and watched
over her with a look of benignity, that might have characterised the
countenance of a guardian angel. Emily, when she became tranquil, was
encouraged to speak without reserve, and to mention the motive, that
made her unwilling to quit the cottage, which the abbess did not oppose
even by a hint; but praised the filial piety of her conduct, and added
a hope, that she would pass a few days at the convent, before she
returned to La Vallée. “You must allow yourself a little time to
recover from your first shock, my daughter, before you encounter a
second; I will not affect to conceal from you how much I know your
heart must suffer, on returning to the scene of your former happiness. Here, you will have all, that quiet and sympathy and religion can give,
to restore your spirits. But come,” added she, observing the tears
swell in Emily’s eyes, “we will go to the chapel.”

Emily followed to the parlour, where the nuns were assembled, to whom
the abbess committed her, saying, “This is a daughter, for whom I have
much esteem; be sisters to her.”

They passed on in a train to the chapel, where the solemn devotion,
with which the service was performed, elevated her mind, and brought to
it the comforts of faith and resignation. Twilight came on, before the abbess’s kindness would suffer Emily to
depart, when she left the convent, with a heart much lighter than she
had entered it, and was reconducted by La Voisin through the woods, the
pensive gloom of which was in unison with the temper of her mind; and
she pursued the little wild path, in musing silence, till her guide
suddenly stopped, looked round, and then struck out of the path into
the high grass, saying he had mistaken the road. He now walked on
quickly, and Emily, proceeding with difficulty over the obscured and
uneven ground, was left at some distance, till her voice arrested him,
who seemed unwilling to stop, and still hurried on. “If you are in
doubt about the way,” said Emily, “had we not better enquire it at the
château yonder, between the trees?”

“No,” replied La Voisin, “there is no occasion. When we reach that
brook, ma’amselle, (you see the light upon the water there, beyond the
woods) when we reach that brook, we shall be at home presently. I don’t
know how I happened to mistake the path; I seldom come this way after
sunset.”

“It is solitary enough,” said Emily, “but you have no banditti here.”

“No, ma’amselle—no banditti.”

“What are you afraid of then, my good friend? you are not
superstitious?” “No, not superstitious; but, to tell you the truth,
lady, nobody likes to go near that château, after dusk.” “By whom is it
inhabited,” said Emily, “that it is so formidable?” “Why, ma’amselle,
it is scarcely inhabited, for our lord the Marquis, and the lord of all
these find woods, too, is dead. He had not once been in it, for these
many years, and his people, who have the care of it, live in a cottage
close by.” Emily now understood this to be the château, which La Voisin
had formerly pointed out, as having belonged to the Marquis Villeroi,
on the mention of which her father had appeared so much affected. “Ah! it is a desolate place now,” continued La Voisin, “and such a
grand, fine place, as I remember it!” Emily enquired what had
occasioned this lamentable change; but the old man was silent, and
Emily, whose interest was awakened by the fear he had expressed, and
above all by a recollection of her father’s agitation, repeated the
question, and added, “If you are neither afraid of the inhabitants, my
good friend, nor are superstitious, how happens it, that you dread to
pass near that château in the dark?”

“Perhaps, then, I am a little superstitious, ma’amselle; and, if you
knew what I do, you might be so too. Strange things have happened
there. Monsieur, your good father, appeared to have known the late
Marchioness.” “Pray inform me what did happen?” said Emily, with much
emotion. “Alas! ma’amselle,” answered La Voisin, “enquire no further; it is not
for me to lay open the domestic secrets of my lord.”—Emily, surprised
by the old man’s words, and his manner of delivering them, forbore to
repeat her question; a nearer interest, the remembrance of St. Aubert,
occupied her thoughts, and she was led to recollect the music she heard
on the preceding night, which she mentioned to La Voisin. “You were not
alone, ma’amselle, in this,” he replied, “I heard it too; but I have so
often heard it, at the same hour, that I was scarcely surprised.”

“You doubtless believe this music to have some connection with the
château,” said Emily suddenly, “and are, therefore, superstitious.” “It
may be so, ma’amselle, but there are other circumstances, belonging to
that château, which I remember, and sadly too.” A heavy sigh followed:
but Emily’s delicacy restrained the curiosity these words revived, and
she enquired no further. On reaching the cottage, all the violence of her grief returned; it
seemed as if she had escaped its heavy pressure only while she was
removed from the object of it. She passed immediately to the chamber,
where the remains of her father were laid, and yielded to all the
anguish of hopeless grief. La Voisin, at length, persuaded her to leave
the room, and she returned to her own, where, exhausted by the
sufferings of the day, she soon fell into deep sleep, and awoke
considerably refreshed. When the dreadful hour arrived, in which the remains of St. Aubert were
to be taken from her for ever, she went alone to the chamber to look
upon his countenance yet once again, and La Voisin, who had waited
patiently below stairs, till her despair should subside, with the
respect due to grief, forbore to interrupt the indulgence of it, till
surprise, at the length of her stay, and then apprehension overcame his
delicacy, and he went to lead her from the chamber. Having tapped
gently at the door, without receiving an answer, he listened
attentively, but all was still; no sigh, no sob of anguish was heard. Yet more alarmed by this silence, he opened the door, and found Emily
lying senseless across the foot of the bed, near which stood the
coffin. His calls procured assistance, and she was carried to her room,
where proper applications, at length, restored her. During her state of insensibility, La Voisin had given directions for
the coffin to be closed, and he succeeded in persuading Emily to
forbear revisiting the chamber. She, indeed, felt herself unequal to
this, and also perceived the necessity of sparing her spirits, and
recollecting fortitude sufficient to bear her through the approaching
scene.