On reaching the monastery,
whence she had dated her letter, he found, to his extreme
disappointment, that the gates were already closed for the night; and
believing, that he should not see Emily, till the morrow, he was
returning to his little inn, with the intention of writing to her, when
he was overtaken by Henri, with whom he had been intimate at Paris, and
was led to her, whom he was secretly lamenting that he should not see,
till the following day. Emily, with Valancourt and Henri, now returned to the green, where the
latter presented Valancourt to the Count, who, she fancied, received
him with less than his usual benignity, though it appeared, that they
were not strangers to each other. He was invited, however, to partake
of the diversions of the evening; and, when he had paid his respects to
the Count, and while the dancers continued their festivity, he seated
himself by Emily, and conversed, without restraint. The lights, which
were hung among the trees, under which they sat, allowed her a more
perfect view of the countenance she had so frequently in absence
endeavoured to recollect, and she perceived, with some regret, that it
was not the same as when last she saw it. There was all its wonted
intelligence and fire; but it had lost much of the simplicity, and
somewhat of the open benevolence, that used to characterise it. Still,
however, it was an interesting countenance; but Emily thought she
perceived, at intervals, anxiety contract, and melancholy fix the
features of Valancourt; sometimes, too, he fell into a momentary
musing, and then appeared anxious to dissipate thought; while, at
others, as he fixed his eyes on Emily, a kind of sudden distraction
seemed to cross his mind. In her he perceived the same goodness and
beautiful simplicity, that had charmed him, on their first
acquaintance. The bloom of her countenance was somewhat faded, but all
its sweetness remained, and it was rendered more interesting, than
ever, by the faint expression of melancholy, that sometimes mingled
with her smile. At his request, she related the most important circumstances, that had
occurred to her, since she left France, and emotions of pity and
indignation alternately prevailed in his mind, when he heard how much
she had suffered from the villany of Montoni. More than once, when she
was speaking of his conduct, of which the guilt was rather softened,
than exaggerated, by her representation, he started from his seat, and
walked away, apparently overcome as much by self-accusation as by
resentment. Her sufferings alone were mentioned in the few words, which
he could address to her, and he listened not to the account, which she
was careful to give as distinctly as possible, of the present loss of
Madame Montoni’s estates, and of the little reason there was to expect
their restoration. At length, Valancourt remained lost in thought, and
then some secret cause seemed to overcome him with anguish. Again he
abruptly left her. When he returned, she perceived that he had been
weeping, and tenderly begged, that he would compose himself. “My
sufferings are all passed now,” said she, “for I have escaped from the
tyranny of Montoni, and I see you well—let me also see you happy.”

Valancourt was more agitated than before. “I am unworthy of you,
Emily,” said he, “I am unworthy of you;”—words, by his manner of
uttering which Emily was then more shocked than by their import. She
fixed on him a mournful and enquiring eye. “Do not look thus on me,”
said he, turning away and pressing her hand; “I cannot bear those
looks.”

“I would ask,” said Emily, in a gentle, but agitated voice, “the
meaning of your words; but I perceive, that the question would distress
you now. Let us talk on other subjects. Tomorrow, perhaps, you may be
more composed. Observe those moonlight woods, and the towers, which
appear obscurely in the perspective. You used to be a great admirer of
landscape, and I have heard you say, that the faculty of deriving
consolation, under misfortune, from the sublime prospects, which
neither oppression, nor poverty withhold from us, was the peculiar
blessing of the innocent.” Valancourt was deeply affected. “Yes,”
replied he, “I had once a taste for innocent and elegant delights—I had
once an uncorrupted heart.” Then, checking himself, he added, “Do you
remember our journey together in the Pyrenees?”

“Can I forget it?” said Emily.—“Would that I could!” he replied;—“that
was the happiest period of my life. I then loved, with enthusiasm,
whatever was truly great, or good.” It was some time before Emily could
repress her tears, and try to command her emotions. “If you wish to
forget that journey,” said she, “it must certainly be my wish to forget
it also.” She paused, and then added, “You make me very uneasy; but
this is not the time for further enquiry;—yet, how can I bear to
believe, even for a moment, that you are less worthy of my esteem than
formerly? I have still sufficient confidence in your candour, to
believe, that, when I shall ask for an explanation, you will give it
me.”—“Yes,” said Valancourt, “yes, Emily: I have not yet lost my
candour: if I had, I could better have disguised my emotions, on
learning what were your sufferings—your virtues, while I—I—but I will
say no more. I did not mean to have said even so much—I have been
surprised into the self-accusation. Tell me, Emily, that you will not
forget that journey—will not wish to forget it, and I will be calm. I
would not lose the remembrance of it for the whole earth.”

“How contradictory is this!” said Emily;—“but we may be overheard. My
recollection of it shall depend upon yours; I will endeavour to forget,
or to recollect it, as you may do. Let us join the Count.”—“Tell me
first,” said Valancourt, “that you forgive the uneasiness I have
occasioned you, this evening, and that you will still love me.”—“I
sincerely forgive you,” replied Emily. “You best know whether I shall
continue to love you, for you know whether you deserve my esteem. At
present, I will believe that you do. It is unnecessary to say,” added
she, observing his dejection, “how much pain it would give me to
believe otherwise.—The young lady, who approaches, is the Count’s
daughter.”

Valancourt and Emily now joined the Lady Blanche; and the party, soon
after, sat down with the Count, his son, and the Chevalier Du Pont, at
a banquet, spread under a gay awning, beneath the trees. At the table
also were seated several of the most venerable of the Count’s tenants,
and it was a festive repast to all but Valancourt and Emily. When the
Count retired to the château, he did not invite Valancourt to accompany
him, who, therefore, took leave of Emily, and retired to his solitary
inn for the night: meanwhile, she soon withdrew to her own apartment,
where she mused, with deep anxiety and concern, on his behaviour, and
on the Count’s reception of him.