'Alas, madam!' said Emily, 'I am anxious for my own respect; my father
taught me the value of that; he said if I deserved my own esteem, that
the world would follow of course.'
'My brother was a good kind of a man,' replied Madame Cheron, 'but he
did not know the world. I am sure I have always felt a proper respect
for myself, yet--' she stopped, but she might have added, that the world
had not always shewn respect to her, and this without impeaching its
judgment. 'Well!' resumed Madame Cheron, 'you have not give me the promise,
though, that I demand.' Emily readily gave it, and, being then suffered
to withdraw, she walked in the garden; tried to compose her spirits,
and, at length, arrived at her favourite pavilion at the end of the
terrace, where, seating herself at one of the embowered windows, that
opened upon a balcony, the stillness and seclusion of the scene allowed
her to recollect her thoughts, and to arrange them so as to form a
clearer judgment of her former conduct. She endeavoured to review with
exactness all the particulars of her conversation with Valancourt at La
Vallee, had the satisfaction to observe nothing, that could alarm her
delicate pride, and thus to be confirmed in the self-esteem, which was
so necessary to her peace. Her mind then became tranquil, and she saw
Valancourt amiable and intelligent, as he had formerly appeared, and
Madame Cheron neither the one, or the other. The remembrance of her
lover, however, brought with it many very painful emotions, for it by no
means reconciled her to the thought of resigning him; and, Madame Cheron
having already shewn how highly she disapproved of the attachment, she
foresaw much suffering from the opposition of interests; yet with all
this was mingled a degree of delight, which, in spite of reason, partook
of hope.
She determined, however, that no consideration should induce
her to permit a clandestine correspondence, and to observe in her
conversation with Valancourt, should they ever meet again, the same
nicety of reserve, which had hitherto marked her conduct. As she
repeated the words--'should we ever meet again!' she shrunk as if this
was a circumstance, which had never before occurred to her, and tears
came to her eyes, which she hastily dried, for she heard footsteps
approaching, and then the door of the pavilion open, and, on turning,
she saw--Valancourt. An emotion of mingled pleasure, surprise and
apprehension pressed so suddenly upon her heart as almost to overcome
her spirits; the colour left her cheeks, then returned brighter than
before, and she was for a moment unable to speak, or to rise from her
chair.