Her attention was thus so wholly
engaged, that she forgot Dorothée and her appointment, till morning was
far advanced, when, knowing that the good old woman would not come, she
retired, for a few hours, to repose. On the following day, when the Count had accidentally joined Emily in
one of the walks, they talked of the festival of the preceding evening,
and this led him to a mention of Valancourt. “That is a young man of
talents,” said he; “you were formerly acquainted with him, I perceive.”
Emily said, that she was. “He was introduced to me, at Paris,” said the
Count, “and I was much pleased with him, on our first acquaintance.” He
paused, and Emily trembled, between the desire of hearing more and the
fear of showing the Count, that she felt an interest on the subject. “May I ask,” said he, at length, “how long you have known Monsieur
Valancourt?”—“Will you allow me to ask your reason for the question,
sir?” said she; “and I will answer it immediately.”—“Certainly,” said
the Count, “that is but just. I will tell you my reason. I cannot but
perceive, that Monsieur Valancourt admires you; in that, however, there
is nothing extraordinary; every person, who sees you, must do the same. I am above using common-place compliments; I speak with sincerity. What
I fear, is, that he is a favoured admirer.”—“Why do you fear it, sir?”
said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion.—“Because,” replied the
Count, “I think him not worthy of your favour.” Emily, greatly
agitated, entreated further explanation. “I will give it,” said he, “if
you will believe, that nothing but a strong interest in your welfare
could induce me to hazard that assertion.”—“I must believe so, sir,”
replied Emily. “But let us rest under these trees,” said the Count, observing the
paleness of her countenance; “here is a seat—you are fatigued.” They
sat down, and the Count proceeded. “Many young ladies, circumstanced as
you are, would think my conduct, on this occasion, and on so short an
acquaintance, impertinent, instead of friendly; from what I have
observed of your temper and understanding, I do not fear such a return
from you. Our acquaintance has been short, but long enough to make me
esteem you, and feel a lively interest in your happiness. You deserve
to be very happy, and I trust that you will be so.” Emily sighed
softly, and bowed her thanks. The Count paused again. “I am
unpleasantly circumstanced,” said he; “but an opportunity of rendering
you important service shall overcome inferior considerations. Will you
inform me of the manner of your first acquaintance with the Chevalier
Valancourt, if the subject is not too painful?”

Emily briefly related the accident of their meeting in the presence of
her father, and then so earnestly entreated the Count not to hesitate
in declaring what he knew, that he perceived the violent emotion,
against which she was contending, and, regarding her with a look of
tender compassion, considered how he might communicate his information
with least pain to his anxious auditor. “The Chevalier and my son,” said he, “were introduced to each other, at
the table of a brother officer, at whose house I also met him, and
invited him to my own, whenever he should be disengaged. I did not then
know, that he had formed an acquaintance with a set of men, a disgrace
to their species, who live by plunder and pass their lives in continual
debauchery. I knew several of the Chevalier’s family, resident at
Paris, and considered them as sufficient pledges for his introduction
to my own. But you are ill; I will leave the subject.”—“No, sir,” said
Emily, “I beg you will proceed: I am only distressed.”—“_Only!_” said
the Count, with emphasis; “however, I will proceed. I soon learned,
that these, his associates, had drawn him into a course of dissipation,
from which he appeared to have neither the power, nor the inclination,
to extricate himself. He lost large sums at the gaming-table; he became
infatuated with play; and was ruined. I spoke tenderly of this to his
friends, who assured me, that they had remonstrated with him, till they
were weary. I afterwards learned, that, in consideration of his talents
for play, which were generally successful, when unopposed by the tricks
of villany,—that in consideration of these, the party had initiated him
into the secrets of their trade, and allotted him a share of their
profits.” “Impossible!” said Emily suddenly; “but—pardon me, sir, I
scarcely know what I say; allow for the distress of my mind. I must,
indeed, I must believe, that you have not been truly informed. The
Chevalier had, doubtless, enemies, who misrepresented him.”—“I should
be most happy to believe so,” replied the Count, “but I cannot. Nothing
short of conviction, and a regard for your happiness, could have urged
me to repeat these unpleasant reports.”

Emily was silent. She recollected Valancourt’s sayings, on the
preceding evening, which discovered the pangs of self-reproach, and
seemed to confirm all that the Count had related. Yet she had not
fortitude enough to dare conviction. Her heart was overwhelmed with
anguish at the mere suspicion of his guilt, and she could not endure a
belief of it. After a silence, the Count said, “I perceive, and can
allow for, your want of conviction. It is necessary I should give some
proof of what I have asserted; but this I cannot do, without subjecting
one, who is very dear to me, to danger.”—“What is the danger you
apprehend, sir?” said Emily; “if I can prevent it, you may safely
confide in my honour.”—“On your honour I am certain I can rely,” said
the Count; “but can I trust your fortitude? Do you think you can resist
the solicitation of a favoured admirer, when he pleads, in affliction,
for the name of one, who has robbed him of a blessing?”—“I shall not be
exposed to such a temptation, sir,” said Emily, with modest pride, “for
I cannot favour one, whom I must no longer esteem. I, however, readily
give my word.” Tears, in the mean time, contradicted her first
assertion; and she felt, that time and effort only could eradicate an
affection, which had been formed on virtuous esteem, and cherished by
habit and difficulty. “I will trust you then,” said the Count, “for conviction is necessary
to your peace, and cannot, I perceive, be obtained, without this
confidence. My son has too often been an eye-witness of the Chevalier’s
ill conduct; he was very near being drawn in by it; he was, indeed,
drawn in to the commission of many follies, but I rescued him from
guilt and destruction. Judge then, Mademoiselle St. Aubert, whether a
father, who had nearly lost his only son by the example of the
Chevalier, has not, from conviction, reason to warn those, whom he
esteems, against trusting their happiness in such hands. I have myself
seen the Chevalier engaged in deep play with men, whom I almost
shuddered to look upon.