At any other period, he would have smiled at
such a relation, and have believed, that its object had existed only in
the distempered fancy of the relater; but he now attended to Emily with
seriousness, and, when she concluded, requested of her a promise, that
this occurrence should rest in silence. “Whatever may be the cause and
the import of these extraordinary occurrences,” added the Count, “time
only can explain them. I shall keep a wary eye upon all that passes in
the château, and shall pursue every possible means of discovering the
fate of Ludovico. Meanwhile, we must be prudent and be silent. I will
myself watch in the north chambers, but of this we will say nothing,
till the night arrives, when I purpose doing so.”

The Count then sent for Dorothée, and required of her also a promise of
silence, concerning what she had already, or might in future witness of
an extraordinary nature; and this ancient servant now related to him
the particulars of the Marchioness de Villeroi’s death, with some of
which he appeared to be already acquainted, while by others he was
evidently surprised and agitated. After listening to this narrative,
the Count retired to his closet, where he remained alone for several
hours; and, when he again appeared, the solemnity of his manner
surprised and alarmed Emily, but she gave no utterance to her thoughts. On the week following the disappearance of Ludovico, all the Count’s
guests took leave of him, except the Baron, his son Mons. St. Foix, and
Emily; the latter of whom was soon after embarrassed and distressed by
the arrival of another visitor, Mons. Du Pont, which made her determine
upon withdrawing to her convent immediately. The delight, that appeared
in his countenance, when he met her, told that he brought back the same
ardour of passion, which had formerly banished him from
Château-le-Blanc. He was received with reserve by Emily, and with
pleasure by the Count, who presented him to her with a smile, that
seemed intended to plead his cause, and who did not hope the less for
his friend, from the embarrassment she betrayed. But M. Du Pont, with truer sympathy, seemed to understand her manner,
and his countenance quickly lost its vivacity, and sunk into the
languor of despondency. On the following day, however, he sought an opportunity of declaring
the purport of his visit, and renewed his suit; a declaration, which
was received with real concern by Emily, who endeavoured to lessen the
pain she might inflict by a second rejection, with assurances of esteem
and friendship; yet she left him in a state of mind, that claimed and
excited her tenderest compassion; and, being more sensible than ever of
the impropriety of remaining longer at the château, she immediately
sought the Count, and communicated to him her intention of returning to
the convent. “My dear Emily,” said he, “I observe with extreme concern, the illusion
you are encouraging—an illusion common to young and sensible minds. Your heart has received a severe shock; you believe you can never
entirely recover it, and you will encourage this belief, till the habit
of indulging sorrow will subdue the strength of your mind, and
discolour your future views with melancholy and regret. Let me
dissipate this illusion, and awaken you to a sense of your danger.”

Emily smiled mournfully, “I know what you would say, my dear sir,” said
she, “and am prepared to answer you. I feel, that my heart can never
know a second affection; and that I must never hope even to recover its
tranquillity—if I suffer myself to enter into a second engagement.”

“I know, that you feel all this,” replied the Count; “and I know, also,
that time will overcome these feelings, unless you cherish them in
solitude, and, pardon me, with romantic tenderness. Then, indeed, time
will only confirm habit. I am particularly empowered to speak on this
subject, and to sympathise in your sufferings,” added the Count, with
an air of solemnity, “for I have known what it is to love, and to
lament the object of my love. Yes,” continued he, while his eyes filled
with tears, “I have suffered!—but those times have passed away—long
passed! and I can now look back upon them without emotion.”

“My dear sir,” said Emily, timidly, “what mean those tears?—they speak,
I fear, another language—they plead for me.”

“They are weak tears, for they are useless ones,” replied the Count,
drying them, “I would have you superior to such weakness. These,
however, are only faint traces of a grief, which, if it had not been
opposed by long continued effort, might have led me to the verge of
madness! Judge, then, whether I have not cause to warn you of an
indulgence, which may produce so terrible an effect, and which must
certainly, if not opposed, overcloud the years, that otherwise might be
happy. M. Du Pont is a sensible and amiable man, who has long been
tenderly attached to you; his family and fortune are
unexceptionable;—after what I have said, it is unnecessary to add, that
I should rejoice in your felicity, and that I think M. Du Pont would
promote it. Do not weep, Emily,” continued the Count, taking her hand,
“there _is_ happiness reserved for you.”

He was silent a moment; and then added, in a firmer voice, “I do not
wish, that you should make a violent effort to overcome your feelings;
all I, at present, ask, is, that you will check the thoughts, that
would lead you to a remembrance of the past; that you will suffer your
mind to be engaged by present objects; that you will allow yourself to
believe it possible you may yet be happy; and that you will sometimes
think with complacency of poor Du Pont, and not condemn him to the
state of despondency, from which, my dear Emily, I am endeavouring to
withdraw you.”

“Ah! my dear sir,” said Emily, while her tears still fell, “do not
suffer the benevolence of your wishes to mislead Mons. Du Pont with an
expectation that I can ever accept his hand. If I understand my own
heart, this never can be; your instruction I can obey in almost every
other particular, than that of adopting a contrary belief.”

“Leave me to understand your heart,” replied the Count, with a faint
smile. “If you pay me the compliment to be guided by my advice in other
instances, I will pardon your incredulity, respecting your future
conduct towards Mons. Du Pont. I will not even press you to remain
longer at the château than your own satisfaction will permit; but
though I forbear to oppose your present retirement, I shall urge the
claims of friendship for your future visits.”

Tears of gratitude mingled with those of tender regret, while Emily
thanked the Count for the many instances of friendship she had received
from him; promised to be directed by his advice upon every subject but
one, and assured him of the pleasure, with which she should, at some
future period, accept the invitation of the Countess and himself—If
Mons. Du Pont was not at the château. The Count smiled at this condition.