Madame Cheron's servant made the attendance of the good La Voisin
unnecessary; and Emily, who felt sensibly her obligations to him, for
all his kind attention to her late father, as well as to herself, was
glad to spare him a long, and what, at his time of life, must have been
a troublesome journey.
During her stay at the convent, the peace and sanctity that reigned
within, the tranquil beauty of the scenery without, and the delicate
attentions of the abbess and the nuns, were circumstances so soothing to
her mind, that they almost tempted her to leave a world, where she had
lost her dearest friends, and devote herself to the cloister, in a spot,
rendered sacred to her by containing the tomb of St. Aubert. The pensive
enthusiasm, too, so natural to her temper, had spread a beautiful
illusion over the sanctified retirement of a nun, that almost hid from
her view the selfishness of its security. But the touches, which a
melancholy fancy, slightly tinctured with superstition, gave to the
monastic scene, began to fade, as her spirits revived, and brought once
more to her heart an image, which had only transiently been banished
thence. By this she was silently awakened to hope and comfort and sweet
affections; visions of happiness gleamed faintly at a distance, and,
though she knew them to be illusions, she could not resolve to shut them
out for ever. It was the remembrance of Valancourt, of his taste, his
genius, and of the countenance which glowed with both, that, perhaps,
alone determined her to return to the world. The grandeur and sublimity
of the scenes, amidst which they had first met, had fascinated her
fancy, and had imperceptibly contributed to render Valancourt more
interesting by seeming to communicate to him somewhat of their own
character. The esteem, too, which St. Aubert had repeatedly expressed
for him, sanctioned this kindness; but, though his countenance and
manner had continually expressed his admiration of her, he had not
otherwise declared it; and even the hope of seeing him again was so
distant, that she was scarcely conscious of it, still less that it
influenced her conduct on this occasion.
It was several days after the arrival of Madame Cheron's servant before
Emily was sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey to La Vallee.
On the evening preceding her departure, she went to the cottage to take
leave of La Voisin and his family, and to make them a return for their
kindness. The old man she found sitting on a bench at his door, between
his daughter, and his son-in-law, who was just returned from his daily
labour, and who was playing upon a pipe, that, in tone, resembled an
oboe. A flask of wine stood beside the old man, and, before him, a small
table with fruit and bread, round which stood several of his grandsons,
fine rosy children, who were taking their supper, as their mother
distributed it. On the edge of the little green, that spread before
the cottage, were cattle and a few sheep reposing under the trees. The
landscape was touched with the mellow light of the evening sun, whose
long slanting beams played through a vista of the woods, and lighted
up the distant turrets of the chateau. She paused a moment, before she
emerged from the shade, to gaze upon the happy group before her--on the
complacency and ease of healthy age, depictured on the countenance of
La Voisin; the maternal tenderness of Agnes, as she looked upon her
children, and the innocency of infantine pleasures, reflected in their
smiles. Emily looked again at the venerable old man, and at the cottage;
the memory of her father rose with full force upon her mind, and she
hastily stepped forward, afraid to trust herself with a longer pause.
She took an affectionate and affecting leave of La Voisin and his
family; he seemed to love her as his daughter, and shed tears; Emily
shed many. She avoided going into the cottage, since she knew it would
revive emotions, such as she could not now endure.