Though this was spoken in a low voice, it was overheard by the Count,
who immediately replied, that Mademoiselle St. Aubert was then too much
indisposed, to attend to any conversation, but that he would venture
to promise she would see Monsieur Valancourt on the morrow, if she was
better. Valancourt's cheek was crimsoned: he looked haughtily at the Count,
and then at Emily, with successive expressions of surprise, grief and
supplication, which she could neither misunderstand, or resist, and she
said languidly--'I shall be better tomorrow, and if you wish to accept
the Count's permission, I will see you then.'
'See me!' exclaimed Valancourt, as he threw a glance of mingled pride
and resentment upon the Count; and then, seeming to recollect
himself, he added--'But I will come, madam; I will accept the Count's
PERMISSION.' When they reached the door of the chateau, he lingered a moment, for
his resentment was now fled; and then, with a look so expressive of
tenderness and grief, that Emily's heart was not proof against it, he
bade her good morning, and, bowing slightly to the Count, disappeared.
Emily withdrew to her own apartment, under such oppression of heart as
she had seldom known, when she endeavoured to recollect all that the
Count had told, to examine the probability of the circumstances
he himself believed, and to consider of her future conduct towards
Valancourt. But, when she attempted to think, her mind refused controul,
and she could only feel that she was miserable. One moment, she sunk
under the conviction, that Valancourt was no longer the same, whom she
had so tenderly loved, the idea of whom had hitherto supported her
under affliction, and cheered her with the hope of happier days,--but
a fallen, a worthless character, whom she must teach herself to
despise--if she could not forget. Then, unable to endure this terrible
supposition, she rejected it, and disdained to believe him capable of
conduct, such as the Count had described, to whom she believed he had
been misrepresented by some artful enemy; and there were moments, when
she even ventured to doubt the integrity of the Count himself, and to
suspect, that he was influenced by some selfish motive, to break her
connection with Valancourt.
But this was the error of an instant, only;
the Count's character, which she had heard spoken of by Du Pont and
many other persons, and had herself observed, enabled her to judge, and
forbade the supposition; had her confidence, indeed, been less, there
appeared to be no temptation to betray him into conduct so treacherous,
and so cruel. Nor did reflection suffer her to preserve the hope, that
Valancourt had been mis-represented to the Count, who had said, that he
spoke chiefly from his own observation, and from his son's experience.
She must part from Valancourt, therefore, for ever--for what of either
happiness or tranquillity could she expect with a man, whose tastes were
degenerated into low inclinations, and to whom vice was become habitual?
whom she must no longer esteem, though the remembrance of what he once
was, and the long habit of loving him, would render it very difficult
for her to despise him. 'O Valancourt!' she would exclaim, 'having been
separated so long--do we meet, only to be miserable--only to part for
ever?'