Just then, she remembered the spectacle she had
witnessed in a chamber of Udolpho, and, by an odd kind of coincidence,
the alarming words, that had accidentally met her eye in the MS.
papers, which she had destroyed, in obedience to the command of her
father; and she shuddered at the meaning they seemed to impart, almost
as much as at the horrible appearance, disclosed by the black veil. The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, unable to prevail with Dorothée to explain
the subject of her late hints, had desired, on reaching the door, that
terminated the gallery, and which she found fastened on the preceding
day, to see the suite of rooms beyond. “Dear young lady,” said the
housekeeper, “I have told you my reason for not opening them; I have
never seen them, since my dear lady died; and it would go hard with me
to see them now. Pray, madam, do not ask me again.”

“Certainly I will not,” replied Blanche, “if that is really your
objection.”

“Alas! it is,” said the old woman: “we all loved her well, and I shall
always grieve for her. Time runs round! it is now many years, since she
died; but I remember everything, that happened then, as if it was but
yesterday. Many things, that have passed of late years, are gone quite
from my memory, while those so long ago, I can see as if in a glass.”
She paused, but afterwards, as they walked up the gallery, added to
Emily, “this young lady sometimes brings the late Marchioness to my
mind; I can remember, when she looked just as blooming, and very like
her, when she smiles. Poor lady! how gay she was, when she first came
to the château!”

“And was she not gay, afterwards?” said Blanche. Dorothée shook her head; and Emily observed her, with eyes strongly
expressive of the interest she now felt. “Let us sit down in this
window,” said the Lady Blanche, on reaching the opposite end of the
gallery: “and pray, Dorothée, if it is not painful to you, tell us
something more about the Marchioness. I should like to look into the
glass you spoke of just now, and see a few of the circumstances, which
you say often pass over it.”

“No, my lady,” replied Dorothée; “if you knew as much as I do, you
would not, for you would find there a dismal train of them; I often
wish I could shut them out, but they will rise to my mind. I see my
dear lady on her death-bed,—her very look,—and remember all she said—it
was a terrible scene!”

“Why was it so terrible?” said Emily with emotion. “Ah, dear young lady! is not death always terrible?” replied Dorothée. To some further enquiries of Blanche Dorothée was silent; and Emily,
observing the tears in her eyes, forbore to urge the subject, and
endeavoured to withdraw the attention of her young friend to some
object in the gardens, where the Count, with the Countess and Monsieur
Du Pont, appearing, they went down to join them. When he perceived Emily, he advanced to meet her, and presented her to
the Countess, in a manner so benign, that it recalled most powerfully
to her mind the idea of her late father, and she felt more gratitude to
him, than embarrassment towards the Countess, who, however, received
her with one of those fascinating smiles, which her caprice sometimes
allowed her to assume, and which was now the result of a conversation
the Count had held with her, concerning Emily. Whatever this might be,
or whatever had passed in his conversation with the lady abbess, whom
he had just visited, esteem and kindness were strongly apparent in his
manner, when he addressed Emily, who experienced that sweet emotion,
which arises from the consciousness of possessing the approbation of
the good; for to the Count’s worth she had been inclined to yield her
confidence almost from the first moment, in which she had seen him. Before she could finish her acknowledgments for the hospitality she had
received, and mention of her design of going immediately to the
convent, she was interrupted by an invitation to lengthen her stay at
the château, which was pressed by the Count and the Countess, with an
appearance of such friendly sincerity, that, though she much wished to
see her old friends at the monastery, and to sigh, once more, over her
father’s grave, she consented to remain a few days at the château. To the abbess, however, she immediately wrote, mentioning her arrival
in Languedoc and her wish to be received into the convent, as a
boarder; she also sent letters to Monsieur Quesnel and to Valancourt,
whom she merely informed of her arrival in France; and, as she knew not
where the latter might be stationed, she directed her letter to his
brother’s seat in Gascony. In the evening, Lady Blanche and Mons. Du Pont walked with Emily to the
cottage of La Voisin, which she had now a melancholy pleasure in
approaching, for time had softened her grief for the loss of St.
Aubert, though it could not annihilate it, and she felt a soothing
sadness in indulging the recollections, which this scene recalled. La
Voisin was still living, and seemed to enjoy, as much as formerly, the
tranquil evening of a blameless life. He was sitting at the door of his
cottage, watching some of his grandchildren, playing on the grass
before him, and, now and then, with a laugh, or a commendation,
encouraging their sports. He immediately recollected Emily, whom he was
much pleased to see, and she was as rejoiced to hear, that he had not
lost one of his family, since her departure. “Yes, ma’amselle,” said the old man, “we all live merrily together
still, thank God! and I believe there is not a happier family to be
found in Languedoc, than ours.”

Emily did not trust herself in the chamber, where St. Aubert died; and,
after half an hour’s conversation with La Voisin and his family, she
left the cottage. During these the first days of her stay at Château-le-Blanc, she was
often affected, by observing the deep, but silent melancholy, which, at
times, stole over Du Pont; and Emily, pitying the self-delusion, which
disarmed him of the will to depart, determined to withdraw herself as
soon as the respect she owed the Count and Countess De Villefort would
permit. The dejection of his friend soon alarmed the anxiety of the
Count, to whom Du Pont, at length, confided the secret of his hopeless
affection, which, however, the former could only commiserate, though he
secretly determined to befriend his suit, if an opportunity of doing so
should ever occur. Considering the dangerous situation of Du Pont, he
but feebly opposed his intention of leaving Château-le-Blanc, on the
following day, but drew from him a promise of a longer visit, when he
could return with safety to his peace.