Unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
More needs she the divine, than the physician.
MACBETH
On the following evening, the view of the convent towers, rising among
the shadowy woods, reminded Emily of the nun, whose condition had so
much affected her; and, anxious to know how she was, as well as to see
some of her former friends, she and the Lady Blanche extended their
walk to the monastery. At the gate stood a carriage, which, from the
heat of the horses, appeared to have just arrived; but a more than
common stillness pervaded the court and the cloisters, through which
Emily and Blanche passed in their way to the great hall, where a nun,
who was crossing to the staircase, replied to the enquiries of the
former, that sister Agnes was still living, and sensible, but that it
was thought she could not survive the night. In the parlour, they found
several of the boarders, who rejoiced to see Emily, and told her many
little circumstances that had happened in the convent since her
departure, and which were interesting to her only because they related
to persons, whom she had regarded with affection. While they thus
conversed the abbess entered the room, and expressed much satisfaction
at seeing Emily, but her manner was unusually solemn, and her
countenance dejected. “Our house,” said she, after the first
salutations were over, “is truly a house of mourning—a daughter is now
paying the debt of nature.—You have heard, perhaps, that our daughter
Agnes is dying?”
Emily expressed her sincere concern.
“Her death presents to us a great and awful lesson,” continued the
abbess; “let us read it, and profit by it; let it teach us to prepare
ourselves for the change, that awaits us all! You are young, and have
it yet in your power to secure ‘the peace that passeth all
understanding’—the peace of conscience. Preserve it in your youth, that
it may comfort you in age; for vain, alas! and imperfect are the good
deeds of our latter years, if those of our early life have been evil!”
Emily would have said, that good deeds, she hoped, were never vain; but
she considered that it was the abbess who spoke, and she remained
silent.
“The latter days of Agnes,” resumed the abbess, “have been exemplary;
would they might atone for the errors of her former ones! Her
sufferings now, alas! are great; let us believe, that they will make
her peace hereafter! I have left her with her confessor, and a
gentleman, whom she has long been anxious to see, and who is just
arrived from Paris. They, I hope, will be able to administer the
repose, which her mind has hitherto wanted.”
Emily fervently joined in the wish.
“During her illness, she has sometimes named you,” resumed the abbess;
“perhaps, it would comfort her to see you; when her present visitors
have left her, we will go to her chamber, if the scene will not be too
melancholy for your spirits. But, indeed, to such scenes, however
painful, we ought to accustom ourselves, for they are salutary to the
soul, and prepare us for what we are ourselves to suffer.”
Emily became grave and thoughtful; for this conversation brought to her
recollection the dying moments of her beloved father, and she wished
once more to weep over the spot, where his remains were buried. During
the silence, which followed the abbess’ speech, many minute
circumstances attending his last hours occurred to her—his emotion on
perceiving himself to be in the neighbourhood of Château-le-Blanc—his
request to be interred in a particular spot in the church of this
monastery—and the solemn charge he had delivered to her to destroy
certain papers, without examining them.—She recollected also the
mysterious and horrible words in those manuscripts, upon which her eye
had involuntarily glanced; and, though they now, and, indeed, whenever
she remembered them, revived an excess of painful curiosity, concerning
their full import, and the motives for her father’s command, it was
ever her chief consolation, that she had strictly obeyed him in this
particular.
Little more was said by the abbess, who appeared too much affected by
the subject she had lately left, to be willing to converse, and her
companions had been for some time silent from the same cause, when this
general reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, Monsieur
Bonnac, who had just quitted the chamber of sister Agnes. He appeared
much disturbed, but Emily fancied, that his countenance had more the
expression of horror, than of grief. Having drawn the abbess to a
distant part of the room, he conversed with her for some time, during
which she seemed to listen with earnest attention, and he to speak with
caution, and a more than common degree of interest. When he had
concluded, he bowed silently to the rest of the company, and quitted
the room. The abbess, soon after, proposed going to the chamber of
sister Agnes, to which Emily consented, though not without some
reluctance, and Lady Blanche remained with the boarders below.
At the door of the chamber they met the confessor, whom, as he lifted
up his head on their approach, Emily observed to be the same that had
attended her dying father; but he passed on, without noticing her, and
they entered the apartment, where, on a mattress, was laid sister
Agnes, with one nun watching in the chair beside her. Her countenance
was so much changed, that Emily would scarcely have recollected her,
had she not been prepared to do so: it was ghastly, and overspread with
gloomy horror; her dim and hollow eyes were fixed on a crucifix, which
she held upon her bosom; and she was so much engaged in thought, as not
to perceive the abbess and Emily, till they stood at the bedside. Then,
turning her heavy eyes, she fixed them, in wild horror, upon Emily,
and, screaming, exclaimed, “Ah! that vision comes upon me in my dying
hours!”
Emily started back in terror, and looked for explanation to the abbess,
who made her a signal not to be alarmed, and calmly said to Agnes,
“Daughter, I have brought Mademoiselle St. Aubert to visit you: I
thought you would be glad to see her.”
Agnes made no reply; but, still gazing wildly upon Emily, exclaimed,
“It is her very self! Oh! there is all that fascination in her look,
which proved my destruction! What would you have—what is it you came to
demand—Retribution?—It will soon be yours—it is yours already. How many
years have passed, since last I saw you! My crime is but as
yesterday.—Yet I am grown old beneath it; while you are still young and
blooming—blooming as when you forced me to commit that most abhorred
deed! O! could I once forget it!—yet what would that avail?—the deed is
done!”
Emily, extremely shocked, would now have left the room; but the abbess,
taking her hand, tried to support her spirits, and begged she would
stay a few moments, when Agnes would probably be calm, whom now she
tried to sooth. But the latter seemed to disregard her, while she still
fixed her eyes on Emily, and added, “What are years of prayers and
repentance? they cannot wash out the foulness of murder!—Yes, murder!
Where is he—where is he?—Look there—look there!—see where he stalks
along the room! Why do you come to torment me now?” continued Agnes,
while her straining eyes were bent on air, “why was not I punished
before?—O! do not frown so sternly! Hah! there again! ’tis she herself!
Why do you look so piteously upon me—and smile, too? smile on me! What
groan was that?”
Agnes sunk down, apparently lifeless, and Emily, unable to support
herself, leaned against the bed, while the abbess and the attendant nun
were applying the usual remedies to Agnes. “Peace,” said the abbess,
when Emily was going to speak, “the delirium is going off, she will
soon revive. When was she thus before, daughter?”
“Not of many weeks, madam,” replied the nun, “but her spirits have been
much agitated by the arrival of the gentleman she wished so much to
see.”
“Yes,” observed the abbess, “that has undoubtedly occasioned this
paroxysm of frenzy. When she is better, we will leave her to repose.”
Emily very readily consented, but, though she could now give little
assistance, she was unwilling to quit the chamber, while any might be
necessary.
When Agnes recovered her senses, she again fixed her eyes on Emily, but
their wild expression was gone, and a gloomy melancholy had succeeded.
It was some moments before she recovered sufficient spirits to speak;
she then said feebly—“The likeness is wonderful!—surely it must be
something more than fancy. Tell me, I conjure you,” she added,
addressing Emily, “though your name is St. Aubert, are you not the
daughter of the Marchioness?”
“What Marchioness?” said Emily, in extreme surprise; for she had
imagined, from the calmness of Agnes’s manner, that her intellects were
restored. The abbess gave her a significant glance, but she repeated
the question.
“What Marchioness?” exclaimed Agnes, “I know but of one—the Marchioness
de Villeroi.”
Emily, remembering the emotion of her late father, upon the unexpected
mention of this lady, and his request to be laid near to the tomb of
the Villerois, now felt greatly interested, and she entreated Agnes to
explain the reason of her question. The abbess would now have withdrawn
Emily from the room, who being, however, detained by a strong interest,
repeated her entreaties.
“Bring me that casket, sister,” said Agnes; “I will show her to you;
yet you need only look in that mirror, and you will behold her; you
surely are her daughter: such striking resemblance is never found but
among near relations.”
The nun brought the casket, and Agnes, having directed her how to
unlock it, she took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the
exact resemblance of the picture, which she had found among her late
father’s papers. Agnes held out her hand to receive it; gazed upon it
earnestly for some moments in silence; and then, with a countenance of
deep despair, threw up her eyes to Heaven, and prayed inwardly. When
she had finished, she returned the miniature to Emily. “Keep it,” said
she, “I bequeath it to you, for I must believe it is your right. I have
frequently observed the resemblance between you; but never, till this
day, did it strike upon my conscience so powerfully! Stay, sister, do
not remove the casket—there is another picture I would show.”
Emily trembled with expectation, and the abbess again would have
withdrawn her. “Agnes is still disordered,” said she, “you observe how
she wanders. In these moods she says anything, and does not scruple, as
you have witnessed, to accuse herself of the most horrible crimes.”
Emily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness in
the inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Marchioness, and
production of her picture, had interested her so much, that she
determined to obtain further information, if possible, respecting the
subject of it.
The nun returned with the casket, and, Agnes pointing out to her a
secret drawer, she took from it another miniature. “Here,” said Agnes,
as she offered it to Emily, “learn a lesson for your vanity, at least;
look well at this picture, and see if you can discover any resemblance
between what I was, and what I am.”
Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcely
glanced upon, before her trembling hands had nearly suffered it to
fall—it was the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini,
which she had formerly seen in the castle of Udolpho—the lady, who had
disappeared in so mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had been
suspected of having caused to be murdered.
In silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon the
picture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance between
them, which no longer existed.
“Why do you look so sternly on me?” said Agnes, mistaking the nature of
Emily’s emotion.
“I have seen this face before,” said Emily, at length; “was it really
your resemblance?”
“You may well ask that question,” replied the nun,—“but it was once
esteemed a striking likeness of me. Look at me well, and see what guilt
has made me. I then was innocent; the evil passions of my nature slept.
Sister!” added she solemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp hand
to Emily, who shuddered at its touch—“Sister! beware of the first
indulgence of the passions; beware of the first! Their course, if not
checked then, is rapid—their force is uncontrollable—they lead us we
know not whither—they lead us perhaps to the commission of crimes, for
which whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone!—Such may be the
force of even a single passion, that it overcomes every other, and
sears up every other approach to the heart. Possessing us like a fiend,
it leads us on to the acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity and
to conscience. And, when its purpose is accomplished, like a fiend, it
leaves us to the torture of those feelings, which its power had
suspended—not annihilated,—to the tortures of compassion, remorse, and
conscience. Then, we awaken as from a dream, and perceive a new world
around us—we gaze in astonishment, and horror—but the deed is
committed; not all the powers of heaven and earth united can undo
it—and the spectres of conscience will not fly! What are
riches—grandeur—health itself, to the luxury of a pure conscience, the
health of the soul;—and what the sufferings of poverty, disappointment,
despair—to the anguish of an afflicted one! O! how long is it since I
knew that luxury! I believed, that I had suffered the most agonizing
pangs of human nature, in love, jealousy, and despair—but these pangs
were ease, compared with the stings of conscience, which I have since
endured. I tasted too what was called the sweet of revenge—but it was
transient, it expired even with the object, that provoked it. Remember,
sister, that the passions are the seeds of vices as well as of virtues,
from which either may spring, accordingly as they are nurtured. Unhappy
they who have never been taught the art to govern them!”
“Alas! unhappy!” said the abbess, “and ill-informed of our holy
religion!” Emily listened to Agnes, in silent awe, while she still
examined the miniature, and became confirmed in her opinion of its
strong resemblance to the portrait at Udolpho. “This face is familiar
to me,” said she, wishing to lead the nun to an explanation, yet
fearing to discover too abruptly her knowledge of Udolpho.
“You are mistaken,” replied Agnes, “you certainly never saw that
picture before.”
“No,” replied Emily, “but I have seen one extremely like it.”
“Impossible,” said Agnes, who may now be called the Lady Laurentini.
“It was in the castle of Udolpho,” continued Emily, looking steadfastly
at her.
“Of Udolpho!” exclaimed Laurentini, “of Udolpho in Italy!” “The same,”
replied Emily.
“You know me then,” said Laurentini, “and you are the daughter of the
Marchioness.” Emily was somewhat surprised at this abrupt assertion. “I
am the daughter of the late Mons. St. Aubert,” said she; “and the lady
you name is an utter stranger to me.”
“At least you believe so,” rejoined Laurentini.
Emily asked what reasons there could be to believe otherwise.
“The family likeness, that you bear her,” said the nun. “The
Marchioness, it is known, was attached to a gentleman of Gascony, at
the time when she accepted the hand of the Marquis, by the command of
her father. Ill-fated, unhappy woman!”
Emily, remembering the extreme emotion which St. Aubert had betrayed on
the mention of the Marchioness, would now have suffered something more
than surprise, had her confidence in his integrity been less; as it
was, she could not, for a moment, believe what the words of Laurentini
insinuated; yet she still felt strongly interested, concerning them,
and begged, that she would explain them further.
“Do not urge me on that subject,” said the nun, “it is to me a terrible
one! Would that I could blot it from my memory!” She sighed deeply,
and, after the pause of a moment, asked Emily, by what means she had
discovered her name?
“By your portrait in the castle of Udolpho, to which this miniature
bears a striking resemblance,” replied Emily.
“You have been at Udolpho then!” said the nun, with great emotion.
“Alas! what scenes does the mention of it revive in my fancy—scenes of
happiness—of suffering—and of horror!”
At this moment, the terrible spectacle, which Emily had witnessed in a
chamber of that castle, occurred to her, and she shuddered, while she
looked upon the nun—and recollected her late words—that “years of
prayer and penitence could not wash out the foulness of murder.” She
was now compelled to attribute these to another cause, than that of
delirium. With a degree of horror, that almost deprived her of sense,
she now believed she looked upon a murderer; all the recollected
behaviour of Laurentini seemed to confirm the supposition, yet Emily
was still lost in a labyrinth of perplexities, and, not knowing how to
ask the questions, which might lead to truth, she could only hint them
in broken sentences.
“Your sudden departure from Udolpho”—said she.
Laurentini groaned.
“The reports that followed it,” continued Emily—“The west chamber—the
mournful veil—the object it conceals!—when murders are committed—”
The nun shrieked. “What! there again!” said she, endeavouring to raise
herself, while her starting eyes seemed to follow some object round the
room—“Come from the grave! What! Blood—blood too!—There was no
blood—thou canst not say it!—Nay, do not smile,—do not smile so
piteously!”
Laurentini fell into convulsions, as she uttered the last words; and
Emily, unable any longer to endure the horror of the scene, hurried
from the room, and sent some nuns to the assistance of the abbess.
The Lady Blanche, and the boarders, who were in the parlour, now
assembled round Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and affrighted
countenance, asked a hundred questions, which she avoided answering
further, than by saying, that she believed sister Agnes was dying. They
received this as a sufficient explanation of her terror, and had then
leisure to offer restoratives, which, at length, somewhat revived
Emily, whose mind was, however, so much shocked with the terrible
surmises, and perplexed with doubts by some words from the nun, that
she was unable to converse, and would have left the convent
immediately, had she not wished to know whether Laurentini would
survive the late attack. After waiting some time, she was informed,
that, the convulsions having ceased, Laurentini seemed to be reviving,
and Emily and Blanche were departing, when the abbess appeared, who,
drawing the former aside, said she had something of consequence to say
to her, but, as it was late, she would not detain her then, and
requested to see her on the following day.
Emily promised to visit her, and, having taken leave, returned with the
Lady Blanche towards the château, on the way to which the deep gloom of
the woods made Blanche lament, that the evening was so far advanced;
for the surrounding stillness and obscurity rendered her sensible of
fear, though there was a servant to protect her; while Emily was too
much engaged by the horrors of the scene she had just witnessed, to be
affected by the solemnity of the shades, otherwise than as they served
to promote her gloomy reverie, from which, however, she was at length
recalled by the Lady Blanche, who pointed out, at some distance, in the
dusky path they were winding, two persons slowly advancing. It was
impossible to avoid them without striking into a still more secluded
part of the wood, whither the strangers might easily follow; but all
apprehension vanished, when Emily distinguished the voice of Mons. Du
Pont, and perceived, that his companion was the gentleman, whom she had
seen at the monastery, and who was now conversing with so much
earnestness as not immediately to perceive their approach. When Du Pont
joined the ladies, the stranger took leave, and they proceeded to the
château, where the Count, when he heard of Mons. Bonnac, claimed him
for an acquaintance, and, on learning the melancholy occasion of his
visit to Languedoc, and that he was lodged at a small inn in the
village, begged the favour of Mons. Du Pont to invite him to the
château.
The latter was happy to do so, and the scruples of reserve, which made
M. Bonnac hesitate to accept the invitation, being at length overcome,
they went to the château, where the kindness of the Count and the
sprightliness of his son were exerted to dissipate the gloom, that
overhung the spirits of the stranger. M. Bonnac was an officer in the
French service, and appeared to be about fifty; his figure was tall and
commanding, his manners had received the last polish, and there was
something in his countenance uncommonly interesting; for over features,
which, in youth, must have been remarkably handsome, was spread a
melancholy, that seemed the effect of long misfortune, rather than of
constitution, or temper.
The conversation he held, during supper, was evidently an effort of
politeness, and there were intervals in which, unable to struggle
against the feelings, that depressed him, he relapsed into silence and
abstraction, from which, however, the Count, sometimes, withdrew him in
a manner so delicate and benevolent, that Emily, while she observed
him, almost fancied she beheld her late father.
The party separated, at an early hour, and then, in the solitude of her
apartment, the scenes, which Emily had lately witnessed, returned to
her fancy, with dreadful energy. That in the dying nun she should have
discovered Signora Laurentini, who, instead of having been murdered by
Montoni, was, as it now seemed, herself guilty of some dreadful crime,
excited both horror and surprise in a high degree; nor did the hints,
which she had dropped, respecting the marriage of the Marchioness de
Villeroi, and the enquiries she had made concerning Emily’s birth,
occasion her a less degree of interest, though it was of a different
nature.
The history, which sister Frances had formerly related, and had said to
be that of Agnes, it now appeared, was erroneous; but for what purpose
it had been fabricated, unless the more effectually to conceal the true
story, Emily could not even guess. Above all, her interest was excited
as to the relation, which the story of the late Marchioness de Villeroi
bore to that of her father; for, that some kind of relation existed
between them, the grief of St. Aubert, upon hearing her named, his
request to be buried near her, and her picture, which had been found
among his papers, certainly proved. Sometimes it occurred to Emily,
that he might have been the lover, to whom it was said the Marchioness
was attached, when she was compelled to marry the Marquis de Villeroi;
but that he had afterwards cherished a passion for her, she could not
suffer herself to believe, for a moment. The papers, which he had so
solemnly enjoined her to destroy, she now fancied had related to this
connection, and she wished more earnestly than before to know the
reasons, that made him consider the injunction necessary, which, had
her faith in his principles been less, would have led to believe, that
there was a mystery in her birth dishonourable to her parents, which
those manuscripts might have revealed.
Reflections, similar to these, engaged her mind, during the greater
part of the night, and when, at length, she fell into a slumber, it was
only to behold a vision of the dying nun, and to awaken in horrors,
like those she had witnessed.
On the following morning, she was too much indisposed to attend her
appointment with the abbess, and, before the day concluded, she heard,
that sister Agnes was no more. Mons. Bonnac received this intelligence,
with concern; but Emily observed, that he did not appear so much
affected now, as on the preceding evening, immediately after quitting
the apartment of the nun, whose death was probably less terrible to
him, than the confession he had been then called upon to witness.
However this might be, he was perhaps consoled, in some degree, by a
knowledge of the legacy bequeathed him, since his family was large, and
the extravagance of some part of it had lately been the means of
involving him in great distress, and even in the horrors of a prison;
and it was the grief he had suffered from the wild career of a
favourite son, with the pecuniary anxieties and misfortunes consequent
upon it, that had given to his countenance the air of dejection, which
had so much interested Emily.
To his friend Mons. Du Pont he recited some particulars of his late
sufferings, when it appeared, that he had been confined for several
months in one of the prisons of Paris, with little hope of release, and
without the comfort of seeing his wife, who had been absent in the
country, endeavouring, though in vain, to procure assistance from his
friends. When, at length, she had obtained an order for admittance, she
was so much shocked at the change, which long confinement and sorrow
had made in his appearance, that she was seized with fits, which, by
their long continuance, threatened her life.
“Our situation affected those, who happened to witness it,” continued
Mons. Bonnac, “and one generous friend, who was in confinement at the
same time, afterwards employed the first moments of his liberty in
efforts to obtain mine. He succeeded; the heavy debt, that oppressed
me, was discharged; and, when I would have expressed my sense of the
obligation I had received, my benefactor was fled from my search. I
have reason to believe he was the victim of his own generosity, and
that he returned to the state of confinement, from which he had
released me; but every enquiry after him was unsuccessful. Amiable and
unfortunate Valancourt!”
“Valancourt!” exclaimed Mons. Du Pont. “Of what family?”
“The Valancourts, Counts Duvarney,” replied Mons. Bonnac.
The emotion of Mons. Du Pont, when he discovered the generous
benefactor of his friend to be the rival of his love, can only be
imagined; but, having overcome his first surprise, he dissipated the
apprehensions of Mons. Bonnac by acquainting him, that Valancourt was
at liberty, and had lately been in Languedoc; after which his affection
for Emily prompted him to make some enquiries, respecting the conduct
of his rival, during his stay at Paris, of which M. Bonnac appeared to
be well informed. The answers he received were such as convinced him,
that Valancourt had been much misrepresented, and, painful as was the
sacrifice, he formed the just design of relinquishing his pursuit of
Emily to a lover, who, it now appeared, was not unworthy of the regard,
with which she honoured him.
The conversation of Mons. Bonnac discovered, that Valancourt, some time
after his arrival at Paris, had been drawn into the snares, which
determined vice had spread for him, and that his hours had been chiefly
divided between the parties of the captivating Marchioness and those
gaming assemblies, to which the envy, or the avarice, of his brother
officers had spared no art to seduce him. In these parties he had lost
large sums, in efforts to recover small ones, and to such losses the
Count De Villefort and Mons. Henri had been frequent witnesses. His
resources were, at length, exhausted; and the Count, his brother,
exasperated by his conduct, refused to continue the supplies necessary
to his present mode of life, when Valancourt, in consequence of
accumulated debts, was thrown into confinement, where his brother
suffered him to remain, in the hope, that punishment might effect a
reform of conduct, which had not yet been confirmed by long habit.
In the solitude of his prison, Valancourt had leisure for reflection,
and cause for repentance; here, too, the image of Emily, which, amidst
the dissipation of the city had been obscured, but never obliterated
from his heart, revived with all the charms of innocence and beauty, to
reproach him for having sacrificed his happiness and debased his
talents by pursuits, which his nobler faculties would formerly have
taught him to consider were as tasteless as they were degrading. But,
though his passions had been seduced, his heart was not depraved, nor
had habit riveted the chains, that hung heavily on his conscience; and,
as he retained that energy of will, which was necessary to burst them,
he, at length, emancipated himself from the bondage of vice, but not
till after much effort and severe suffering.
Being released by his brother from the prison, where he had witnessed
the affecting meeting between Mons. Bonnac and his wife, with whom he
had been for some time acquainted, the first use of his liberty formed
a striking instance of his humanity and his rashness; for with nearly
all the money, just received from his brother, he went to a
gaming-house, and gave it as a last stake for the chance of restoring
his friend to freedom, and to his afflicted family. The event was
fortunate, and, while he had awaited the issue of this momentous stake,
he made a solemn vow never again to yield to the destructive and
fascinating vice of gaming.
Having restored the venerable Mons. Bonnac to his rejoicing family, he
hurried from Paris to Estuvière; and, in the delight of having made the
wretched happy, forgot, for a while, his own misfortunes. Soon,
however, he remembered, that he had thrown away the fortune, without
which he could never hope to marry Emily; and life, unless passed with
her, now scarcely appeared supportable; for her goodness, refinement,
and simplicity of heart, rendered her beauty more enchanting, if
possible, to his fancy, than it had ever yet appeared. Experience had
taught him to understand the full value of the qualities, which he had
before admired, but which the contrasted characters he had seen in the
world made him now adore; and these reflections, increasing the pangs
of remorse and regret, occasioned the deep dejection, that had
accompanied him even into the presence of Emily, of whom he considered
himself no longer worthy. To the ignominy of having received pecuniary
obligations from the Marchioness Chamfort, or any other lady of
intrigue, as the Count De Villefort had been informed, or of having
been engaged in the depredating schemes of gamesters, Valancourt had
never submitted; and these were some of such scandals as often mingle
with truth, against the unfortunate. Count De Villefort had received
them from authority which he had no reason to doubt, and which the
imprudent conduct he had himself witnessed in Valancourt, had certainly
induced him the more readily to believe. Being such as Emily could not
name to the Chevalier, he had no opportunity of refuting them; and,
when he confessed himself to be unworthy of her esteem, he little
suspected, that he was confirming to her the most dreadful calumnies.
Thus the mistake had been mutual, and had remained so, when Mons.
Bonnac explained the conduct of his generous, but imprudent young
friend to Du Pont, who, with severe justice, determined not only to
undeceive the Count on this subject, but to resign all hope of Emily.
Such a sacrifice as his love rendered this, was deserving of a noble
reward, and Mons. Bonnac, if it had been possible for him to forget the
benevolent Valancourt, would have wished that Emily might accept the
just Du Pont.
When the Count was informed of the error he had committed, he was
extremely shocked at the consequence of his credulity, and the account
which Mons. Bonnac gave of his friend’s situation, while at Paris,
convinced him, that Valancourt had been entrapped by the schemes of a
set of dissipated young men, with whom his profession had partly
obliged him to associate, rather than by an inclination to vice; and,
charmed by the humanity, and noble, though rash generosity, which his
conduct towards Mons. Bonnac exhibited, he forgave him the transient
errors, that had stained his youth, and restored him to the high degree
of esteem, with which he had regarded him, during their early
acquaintance. But, as the least reparation he could now make Valancourt
was to afford him an opportunity of explaining to Emily his former
conduct, he immediately wrote, to request his forgiveness of the
unintentional injury he had done him, and to invite him to
Château-le-Blanc. Motives of delicacy withheld the Count from informing
Emily of this letter, and of kindness from acquainting her with the
discovery respecting Valancourt, till his arrival should save her from
the possibility of anxiety, as to its event; and this precaution spared
her even severer inquietude, than the Count had foreseen, since he was
ignorant of the symptoms of despair, which Valancourt’s late conduct
had betrayed.