Having withdrawn to a distant part of the corridor, he said,
with a long-drawn sigh, 'You, madam, are no stranger to me, though I am
so unhappy as to be unknown to you.--My name is Du Pont; I am of France,
of Gascony, your native province, and have long admired,--and, why
should I affect to disguise it?--have long loved you.' He paused,
but, in the next moment, proceeded. 'My family, madam, is probably not
unknown to you, for we lived within a few miles of La Vallee, and I
have, sometimes, had the happiness of meeting you, on visits in
the neighbourhood. I will not offend you by repeating how much you
interested me; how much I loved to wander in the scenes you frequented;
how often I visited your favourite fishing-house, and lamented the
circumstance, which, at that time, forbade me to reveal my passion. I
will not explain how I surrendered to temptation, and became possessed
of a treasure, which was to me inestimable; a treasure, which I
committed to your messenger, a few days ago, with expectations
very different from my present ones. I will say nothing of these
circumstances, for I know they will avail me little; let me only
supplicate from you forgiveness, and the picture, which I so unwarily
returned.
Your generosity will pardon the theft, and restore the
prize. My crime has been my punishment; for the portrait I stole has
contributed to nourish a passion, which must still be my torment.'
Emily now interrupted him. 'I think, sir, I may leave it to your
integrity to determine, whether, after what has just appeared,
concerning Mons. Valancourt, I ought to return the picture. I think you
will acknowledge, that this would not be generosity; and you will allow
me to add, that it would be doing myself an injustice. I must consider
myself honoured by your good opinion, but'--and she hesitated,--'the
mistake of this evening makes it unnecessary for me to say more.'
'It does, madam,--alas! it does!' said the stranger, who, after a long
pause, proceeded.--'But you will allow me to shew my disinterestedness,
though not my love, and will accept the services I offer. Yet, alas!
what services can I offer? I am myself a prisoner, a sufferer, like
you. But, dear as liberty is to me, I would not seek it through half
the hazards I would encounter to deliver you from this recess of vice.
Accept the offered services of a friend; do not refuse me the reward of
having, at least, attempted to deserve your thanks.'