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Chapter: CHAPTER VI

 I care not, Fortune! what you me deny;
 You cannot rob me of free nature's grace;
 You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
 Through which Aurora shews her brightening face;
 You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
 The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:
 Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
 And I their toys to the great children leave:
 Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
     THOMSON

In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily,
neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illness
still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily's fears his disorder appeared
to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxious
affection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in her
own.

At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known his
name and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for the
family estates, which were now in the possession of an elder brother of
Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant from La
Vallee, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on visits in the
neighbourhood. This knowledge had made him more willingly receive his
present companion; for, though his countenance and manners would have
won him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to trust to the
intelligence of his own eyes, with respect to countenances, he would
not have accepted these, as sufficient introductions to that of his
daughter.

The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night;
but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriage
wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started
from his chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and
he returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when
they must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would
never pass La Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt,
eagerly thanking him, assured him that he never would; as he said which
he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of
her spirits. They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation,
and St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt
following in silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutes
after they were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courage
enough to say--Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy
word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected
smile, and the carriage drove on.

The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil
pensiveness, which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by
observing, 'This is a very promising young man; it is many years since I
have been so much pleased with any person, on so short an acquaintance.
He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when every scene was
new and delightful!' St. Aubert sighed, and sunk again into a reverie;
and, as Emily looked back upon the road they had passed, Valancourt was
seen, at the door of the little inn, following them with his eyes. Her
perceived her, and waved his hand; and she returned the adieu, till the
winding road shut her from his sight.

'I remember when I was about his age,' resumed St. Aubert, 'and I
thought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon me
then, now--it is closing.'

'My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,' said Emily in a trembling
voice, 'I hope you have many, many years to live--for your own sake--for
MY sake.'

'Ah, my Emily!' replied St. Aubert, 'for thy sake! Well--I hope it is
so.' He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek, threw a
smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, 'there
is something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which is
particularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his
feelings have not been entirely corroded by the world. It is cheering
and reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person; his mind catches
somewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are lighted up with a
transient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring to me.'

Emily, who pressed her father's hand affectionately, had never before
listened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no, not even
when he had bestowed them on herself.

They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted with
the romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded, on one side, by
the grandeur of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the ocean; and,
soon after noon, they reached the town of Colioure, situated on the
Mediterranean. Here they dined, and rested till towards the cool of
day, when they pursued their way along the shores--those enchanting
shores!--which extend to Languedoc. Emily gazed with enthusiasm on the
vastness of the sea, its surface varying, as the lights and shadows
fell, and on its woody banks, mellowed with autumnal tints.

St. Aubert was impatient to reach Perpignan, where he expected letters
from M. Quesnel; and it was the expectation of these letters, that
had induced him to leave Colioure, for his feeble frame had required
immediate rest. After travelling a few miles, he fell asleep; and Emily,
who had put two or three books into the carriage, on leaving La Vallee,
had now the leisure for looking into them. She sought for one, in which
Valancourt had been reading the day before, and hoped for the pleasure
of re-tracing a page, over which the eyes of a beloved friend had
lately passed, of dwelling on the passages, which he had admired, and of
permitting them to speak to her in the language of his own mind, and to
bring himself to her presence. On searching for the book, she could find
it no where, but in its stead perceived a volume of Petrarch's poems,
that had belonged to Valancourt, whose name was written in it, and from
which he had frequently read passages to her, with all the pathetic
expression, that characterized the feelings of the author. She hesitated
in believing, what would have been sufficiently apparent to almost any
other person, that he had purposely left this book, instead of the
one she had lost, and that love had prompted the exchange; but, having
opened it with impatient pleasure, and observed the lines of his pencil
drawn along the various passages he had read aloud, and under others
more descriptive of delicate tenderness than he had dared to trust
his voice with, the conviction came, at length, to her mind. For some
moments she was conscious only of being beloved; then, a recollection
of all the variations of tone and countenance, with which he had recited
these sonnets, and of the soul, which spoke in their expression, pressed
to her memory, and she wept over the memorial of his affection.

They arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset, where St. Aubert found,
as he had expected, letters from M. Quesnel, the contents of which
so evidently and grievously affected him, that Emily was alarmed,
and pressed him, as far as her delicacy would permit, to disclose
the occasion of his concern; but he answered her only by tears, and
immediately began to talk on other topics. Emily, though she forbore
to press the one most interesting to her, was greatly affected by her
father's manner, and passed a night of sleepless solicitude.

In the morning they pursued their journey along the coast towards
Leucate, another town on the Mediterranean, situated on the borders of
Languedoc and Rousillon. On the way, Emily renewed the subject of the
preceding night, and appeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert's silence
and dejection, that he relaxed from his reserve. 'I was unwilling, my
dear Emily,' said he, 'to throw a cloud over the pleasure you receive
from these scenes, and meant, therefore, to conceal, for the present,
some circumstances, with which, however, you must at length have been
made acquainted. But your anxiety has defeated my purpose; you suffer as
much from this, perhaps, as you will do from a knowledge of the facts I
have to relate. M. Quesnel's visit proved an unhappy one to me; he came
to tell me part of the news he has now confirmed. You may have heard me
mention a M. Motteville, of Paris, but you did not know that the
chief of my personal property was invested in his hands. I had great
confidence in him, and I am yet willing to believe, that he is not
wholly unworthy of my esteem. A variety of circumstances have concurred
to ruin him, and--I am ruined with him.'

St. Aubert paused to conceal his emotion.

'The letters I have just received from M. Quesnel,' resumed he,
struggling to speak with firmness, 'enclosed others from Motteville,
which confirmed all I dreaded.'

'Must we then quit La Vallee?' said Emily, after a long pause of
silence. 'That is yet uncertain,' replied St. Aubert, 'it will depend
upon the compromise Motteville is able to make with his creditors. My
income, you know, was never large, and now it will be reduced to
little indeed! It is for you, Emily, for you, my child, that I am most
afflicted.' His last words faltered; Emily smiled tenderly upon him
through her tears, and then, endeavouring to overcome her emotion, 'My
dear father,' said she, 'do not grieve for me, or for yourself; we may
yet be happy;--if La Vallee remains for us, we must be happy. We will
retain only one servant, and you shall scarcely perceive the change in
your income. Be comforted, my dear sir; we shall not feel the want of
those luxuries, which others value so highly, since we never had a taste
for them; and poverty cannot deprive us of many consolations. It cannot
rob us of the affection we have for each other, or degrade us in our own
opinion, or in that of any person, whose opinion we ought to value.'

St. Aubert concealed his face with his handkerchief, and was unable
to speak; but Emily continued to urge to her father the truths, which
himself had impressed upon her mind.

'Besides, my dear sir, poverty cannot deprive us of intellectual
delights. It cannot deprive you of the comfort of affording me examples
of fortitude and benevolence; nor me of the delight of consoling a
beloved parent. It cannot deaden our taste for the grand, and the
beautiful, or deny us the means of indulging it; for the scenes
of nature--those sublime spectacles, so infinitely superior to all
artificial luxuries! are open for the enjoyment of the poor, as well as
of the rich. Of what, then, have we to complain, so long as we are not
in want of necessaries? Pleasures, such as wealth cannot buy, will still
be ours. We retain, then, the sublime luxuries of nature, and lose only
the frivolous ones of art.'

St. Aubert could not reply: he caught Emily to his bosom, their tears
flowed together, but--they were not tears of sorrow. After this language
of the heart, all other would have been feeble, and they remained silent
for some time. Then, St. Aubert conversed as before; for, if his mind
had not recovered its natural tranquillity, it at least assumed the
appearance of it.

They reached the romantic town of Leucate early in the day, but St.
Aubert was weary, and they determined to pass the night there. In the
evening, he exerted himself so far as to walk with his daughter to view
the environs that overlook the lake of Leucate, the Mediterranean, part
of Rousillon, with the Pyrenees, and a wide extent of the luxuriant
province of Languedoc, now blushing with the ripened vintage, which the
peasants were beginning to gather. St. Aubert and Emily saw the busy
groups, caught the joyous song, that was wafted on the breeze, and
anticipated, with apparent pleasure, their next day's journey over this
gay region. He designed, however, still to wind along the sea-shore.
To return home immediately was partly his wish, but from this he was
withheld by a desire to lengthen the pleasure, which the journey gave
his daughter, and to try the effect of the sea air on his own disorder.

On the following day, therefore, they recommenced their journey through
Languedoc, winding the shores of the Mediterranean; the Pyrenees still
forming the magnificent back-ground of their prospects, while on their
right was the ocean, and, on their left, wide extended plains melting
into the blue horizon. St. Aubert was pleased, and conversed much with
Emily, yet his cheerfulness was sometimes artificial, and sometimes a
shade of melancholy would steal upon his countenance, and betray him.
This was soon chased away by Emily's smile; who smiled, however, with an
aching heart, for she saw that his misfortunes preyed upon his mind, and
upon his enfeebled frame.

It was evening when they reached a small village of Upper Languedoc,
where they meant to pass the night, but the place could not afford
them beds; for here, too, it was the time of the vintage, and they
were obliged to proceed to the next post. The languor of illness and of
fatigue, which returned upon St. Aubert, required immediate repose,
and the evening was now far advanced; but from necessity there was no
appeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed.

The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of the
vintage, with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened St.
Aubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to the
hilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyes
moved over the scene, he considered, that they would soon, perhaps, be
closed for ever on this world. 'Those distant and sublime mountains,'
said he secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretched
towards the west, 'these luxuriant plains, this blue vault, the cheerful
light of day, will be shut from my eyes! The song of the peasant, the
cheering voice of man--will no longer sound for me!'

The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind of
her father, and she fixed them on his face, with an expression of such
tender pity, as recalled his thoughts from every desultory object of
regret, and he remembered only, that he must leave his daughter without
protection. This reflection changed regret to agony; he sighed deeply,
and remained silent, while she seemed to understand that sigh, for
she pressed his hand affectionately, and then turned to the window to
conceal her tears. The sun now threw a last yellow gleam on the waves of
the Mediterranean, and the gloom of twilight spread fast over the scene,
till only a melancholy ray appeared on the western horizon, marking the
point where the sun had set amid the vapours of an autumnal evening. A
cool breeze now came from the shore, and Emily let down the glass; but
the air, which was refreshing to health, was as chilling to sickness,
and St. Aubert desired, that the window might be drawn up. Increasing
illness made him now more anxious than ever to finish the day's journey,
and he stopped the muleteer to enquire how far they had yet to go to the
next post. He replied, 'Nine miles.' 'I feel I am unable to proceed much
further,' said St. Aubert; 'enquire, as you go, if there is any house on
the road that would accommodate us for the night.' He sunk back in
the carriage, and Michael, cracking his whip in the air, set off, and
continued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert, almost fainting, called
to him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the window, and saw a
peasant walking at some little distance on the road, for whom they
waited, till he came up, when he was asked, if there was any house in
the neighbourhood that accommodated travellers. He replied, that he knew
of none. 'There is a chateau, indeed, among those woods on the right,'
added he, 'but I believe it receives nobody, and I cannot show you the
way, for I am almost a stranger here.' St. Aubert was going to ask
him some further question concerning the chateau, but the man abruptly
passed on. After some consideration, he ordered Michael to proceed
slowly to the woods. Every moment now deepened the twilight, and
increased the difficulty of finding the road. Another peasant soon after
passed. 'Which is the way to the chateau in the woods?' cried Michael.

'The chateau in the woods!' exclaimed the peasant--'Do you mean that
with the turret, yonder?'

'I don't know as for the turret, as you call it,' said Michael, 'I mean
that white piece of a building, that we see at a distance there, among
the trees.'

'Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, that you are going thither?'
said the man with surprise.

St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiar
tone in which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. 'We are
travellers,' said he, 'who are in search of a house of accommodation for
the night; is there any hereabout?'

'None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder,'
replied the peasant, pointing to the woods, 'but I would not advise you
to go there.'

'To whom does the chateau belong?'

'I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.'

'It is uninhabited, then?' 'No, not uninhabited; the steward and
housekeeper are there, I believe.'

On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the chateau, and
risque the refusal of being accommodated for the night; he therefore
desired the countryman would shew Michael the way, and bade him expect
reward for his trouble. The man was for a moment silent, and then said,
that he was going on other business, but that the road could not be
missed, if they went up an avenue to the right, to which he pointed. St.
Aubert was going to speak, but the peasant wished him good night, and
walked on.

The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a gate,
and Michael having dismounted to open it, they entered between rows of
ancient oak and chesnut, whose intermingled branches formed a lofty arch
above. There was something so gloomy and desolate in the appearance of
this avenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almost shuddered as
she passed along; and, recollecting the manner in which the peasant had
mentioned the chateau, she gave a mysterious meaning to his words, such
as she had not suspected when he uttered them. These apprehensions,
however, she tried to check, considering that they were probably the
effect of a melancholy imagination, which her father's situation, and
a consideration of her own circumstances, had made sensible to every
impression.

They passed slowly on, for they were now almost in darkness, which,
together with the unevenness of the ground, and the frequent roots of
old trees, that shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceed
with caution. On a sudden Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St.
Aubert looked from the window to enquire the cause, he perceived a
figure at some distance moving up the avenue. The dusk would not permit
him to distinguish what it was, but he bade Michael go on.

'This seems a wild place,' said Michael; 'there is no house hereabout,
don't your honour think we had better turn back?'

'Go a little farther, and if we see no house then, we will return to the
road,' replied St. Aubert.

Michael proceeded with reluctance, and the extreme slowness of his pace
made St. Aubert look again from the window to hasten him, when again he
saw the same figure. He was somewhat startled: probably the gloominess
of the spot made him more liable to alarm than usual; however this
might be, he now stopped Michael, and bade him call to the person in the
avenue.

'Please your honour, he may be a robber,' said Michael. 'It does not
please me,' replied St. Aubert, who could not forbear smiling at the
simplicity of his phrase, 'and we will, therefore, return to the road,
for I see no probability of meeting here with what we seek.'

Michael turned about immediately, and was retracing his way with
alacrity, when a voice was heard from among the trees on the left. It
was not the voice of command, or distress, but a deep hollow tone, which
seemed to be scarcely human. The man whipped his mules till they went as
fast as possible, regardless of the darkness, the broken ground, and
the necks of the whole party, nor once stopped till he reached the gate,
which opened from the avenue into the high-road, where he went into a
more moderate pace.

'I am very ill,' said St. Aubert, taking his daughter's hand. 'You are
worse, then, sir!' said Emily, extremely alarmed by his manner, 'you
are worse, and here is no assistance. Good God! what is to be done!' He
leaned his head on her shoulder, while she endeavoured to support him
with her arm, and Michael was again ordered to stop. When the rattling
of the wheels had ceased, music was heard on their air; it was to Emily
the voice of Hope. 'Oh! we are near some human habitation!' said she,
'help may soon be had.'

She listened anxiously; the sounds were distant, and seemed to come from
a remote part of the woods that bordered the road; and, as she looked
towards the spot whence they issued, she perceived in the faint
moon-light something like a chateau. It was difficult, however, to reach
this; St. Aubert was now too ill to bear the motion of the carriage;
Michael could not quit his mules; and Emily, who still supported her
father, feared to leave him, and also feared to venture alone to such a
distance, she knew not whither, or to whom. Something, however, it was
necessary to determine upon immediately; St. Aubert, therefore, told
Michael to proceed slowly; but they had not gone far, when he fainted,
and the carriage was again stopped. He lay quite senseless.--'My dear,
dear father!' cried Emily in great agony, who began to fear that he was
dying, 'speak, if it is only one word to let me hear the sound of your
voice!' But no voice spoke in reply. In the agony of terror she bade
Michael bring water from the rivulet, that flowed along the road;
and, having received some in the man's hat, with trembling hands she
sprinkled it over her father's face, which, as the moon's rays now
fell upon it, seemed to bear the impression of death. Every emotion of
selfish fear now gave way to a stronger influence, and, committing St.
Aubert to the care of Michael, who refused to go far from his mules,
she stepped from the carriage in search of the chateau she had seen at
a distance. It was a still moon-light night, and the music, which yet
sounded on the air, directed her steps from the high road, up a shadowy
lane, that led to the woods. Her mind was for some time so entirely
occupied by anxiety and terror for her father, that she felt none for
herself, till the deepening gloom of the overhanging foliage, which now
wholly excluded the moon-light, and the wildness of the place, recalled
her to a sense of her adventurous situation. The music had ceased,
and she had no guide but chance. For a moment she paused in terrified
perplexity, till a sense of her father's condition again overcoming
every consideration for herself, she proceeded. The lane terminated in
the woods, but she looked round in vain for a house, or a human being,
and as vainly listened for a sound to guide her. She hurried on,
however, not knowing whither, avoiding the recesses of the woods, and
endeavouring to keep along their margin, till a rude kind of avenue,
which opened upon a moon-light spot, arrested her attention. The
wildness of this avenue brought to her recollection the one leading to
the turreted chateau, and she was inclined to believe, that this was a
part of the same domain, and probably led to the same point. While she
hesitated, whether to follow it or not, a sound of many voices in loud
merriment burst upon her ear. It seemed not the laugh of cheerfulness,
but of riot, and she stood appalled. While she paused, she heard a
distant voice, calling from the way she had come, and not doubting but
it was that of Michael, her first impulse was to hasten back; but a
second thought changed her purpose; she believed that nothing less than
the last extremity could have prevailed with Michael to quit his mules,
and fearing that her father was now dying, she rushed forward, with a
feeble hope of obtaining assistance from the people in the woods. Her
heart beat with fearful expectation, as she drew near the spot whence
the voices issued, and she often startled when her steps disturbed the
fallen leaves. The sounds led her towards the moon-light glade she had
before noticed; at a little distance from which she stopped, and saw,
between the boles of the trees, a small circular level of green turf,
surrounded by the woods, on which appeared a group of figures. On
drawing nearer, she distinguished these, by their dress, to be peasants,
and perceived several cottages scattered round the edge of the woods,
which waved loftily over this spot. While she gazed, and endeavoured
to overcome the apprehensions that withheld her steps, several peasant
girls came out of a cottage; music instantly struck up, and the dance
began. It was the joyous music of the vintage! the same she had before
heard upon the air. Her heart, occupied with terror for her father,
could not feel the contrast, which this gay scene offered to her own
distress; she stepped hastily forward towards a group of elder peasants,
who were seated at the door of a cottage, and, having explained her
situation, entreated their assistance. Several of them rose with
alacrity, and, offering any service in their power, followed Emily, who
seemed to move on the wind, as fast as they could towards the road.

When she reached the carriage she found St. Aubert restored to
animation. On the recovery of his senses, having heard from Michael
whither his daughter was gone, anxiety for her overcame every regard for
himself, and he had sent him in search of her. He was, however, still
languid, and, perceiving himself unable to travel much farther, he
renewed his enquiries for an inn, and concerning the chateau in the
woods. 'The chateau cannot accommodate you, sir,' said a venerable
peasant who had followed Emily from the woods, 'it is scarcely
inhabited; but, if you will do me the honour to visit my cottage, you
shall be welcome to the best bed it affords.'

St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman; he therefore was not surprised at
French courtesy; but, ill as he was, he felt the value of the offer
enhanced by the manner which accompanied it. He had too much delicacy
to apologize, or to appear to hesitate about availing himself of
the peasant's hospitality, but immediately accepted it with the same
frankness with which it was offered.

The carriage again moved slowly on; Michael following the peasants up
the lane, which Emily had just quitted, till they came to the moon-light
glade. St. Aubert's spirits were so far restored by the courtesy of
his host, and the near prospect of repose, that he looked with a sweet
complacency upon the moon-light scene, surrounded by the shadowy
woods, through which, here and there, an opening admitted the streaming
splendour, discovering a cottage, or a sparkling rivulet. He listened,
with no painful emotion, to the merry notes of the guitar and tamborine;
and, though tears came to his eyes, when he saw the debonnaire dance of
the peasants, they were not merely tears of mournful regret. With Emily
it was otherwise; immediate terror for her father had now subsided into
a gentle melancholy, which every note of joy, by awakening comparison,
served to heighten.

The dance ceased on the approach of the carriage, which was a phenomenon
in these sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked round it with
eager curiosity. On learning that it brought a sick stranger, several
girls ran across the turf, and returned with wine and baskets of grapes,
which they presented to the travellers, each with kind contention
pressing for a preference. At length, the carriage stopped at a neat
cottage, and his venerable conductor, having assisted St. Aubert to
alight, led him and Emily to a small inner room, illuminated only by
moon-beams, which the open casement admitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing in
rest, seated himself in an arm-chair, and his senses were refreshed by
the cool and balmy air, that lightly waved the embowering honeysuckles,
and wafted their sweet breath into the apartment. His host, who was
called La Voisin, quitted the room, but soon returned with fruits,
cream, and all the pastoral luxury his cottage afforded; having set down
which, with a smile of unfeigned welcome, he retired behind the chair of
his guest. St. Aubert insisted on his taking a seat at the table, and,
when the fruit had allayed the fever of his palate, and he found himself
somewhat revived, he began to converse with his host, who communicated
several particulars concerning himself and his family, which were
interesting, because they were spoken from the heart, and delineated
a picture of the sweet courtesies of family kindness. Emily sat by her
father, holding his hand, and, while she listened to the old man, her
heart swelled with the affectionate sympathy he described, and her
tears fell to the mournful consideration, that death would probably
soon deprive her of the dearest blessing she then possessed. The soft
moon-light of an autumnal evening, and the distant music, which now
sounded a plaintive strain, aided the melancholy of her mind. The old
man continued to talk of his family, and St. Aubert remained silent.
'I have only one daughter living,' said La Voisin, 'but she is happily
married, and is every thing to me. When I lost my wife,' he added with
a sigh, 'I came to live with Agnes, and her family; she has several
children, who are all dancing on the green yonder, as merry as
grasshoppers--and long may they be so! I hope to die among them,
monsieur. I am old now, and cannot expect to live long, but there is
some comfort in dying surrounded by one's children.'

'My good friend,' said St. Aubert, while his voice trembled, 'I hope you
will long live surrounded by them.'

'Ah, sir! at my age I must not expect that!' replied the old man, and he
paused: 'I can scarcely wish it,' he resumed, 'for I trust that whenever
I die I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone before me. I can
sometimes almost fancy I see her of a still moon-light night, walking
among these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur, that
we shall be permitted to revisit the earth, after we have quitted the
body?'

Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart; her tears fell
fast upon her father's hand, which she yet held. He made an effort to
speak, and at length said in a low voice, 'I hope we shall be permitted
to look down on those we have left on the earth, but I can only hope it.
Futurity is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our only
guides concerning it. We are not enjoined to believe, that disembodied
spirits watch over the friends they have loved, but we may innocently
hope it. It is a hope which I will never resign,' continued he, while
he wiped the tears from his daughter's eyes, 'it will sweeten the bitter
moments of death!' Tears fell slowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too,
and there was a pause of silence. Then, La Voisin, renewing the subject,
said, 'But you believe, sir, that we shall meet in another world the
relations we have loved in this; I must believe this.' 'Then do
believe it,' replied St. Aubert, 'severe, indeed, would be the pangs of
separation, if we believed it to be eternal. Look up, my dear Emily,
we shall meet again!' He lifted his eyes towards heaven, and a gleam
of moon-light, which fell upon his countenance, discovered peace and
resignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow.

La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too far, and he dropped
it, saying, 'We are in darkness, I forgot to bring a light.'

'No,' said St. Aubert, 'this is a light I love. Sit down, my good
friend. Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all day;
this air refreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music,
which floats so sweetly at a distance. Let me see you smile. Who touches
that guitar so tastefully? are there two instruments, or is it an echo I
hear?'

'It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That guitar is often heard at night,
when all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and it is sometimes
accompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, one would almost think the
woods were haunted.' 'They certainly are haunted,' said St. Aubert with
a smile, 'but I believe it is by mortals.' 'I have sometimes heard it
at midnight, when I could not sleep,' rejoined La Voisin, not seeming to
notice this remark, 'almost under my window, and I never heard any music
like it. It has often made me think of my poor wife till I cried. I have
sometimes got up to the window to look if I could see anybody, but as
soon as I opened the casement all was hushed, and nobody to be seen; and
I have listened, and listened till I have been so timorous, that even
the trembling of the leaves in the breeze has made me start. They say
it often comes to warn people of their death, but I have heard it these
many years, and outlived the warning.'

Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridiculous superstition,
could not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly resist its
contagion.

'Well, but, my good friend,' said St. Aubert, 'has nobody had courage to
follow the sounds? If they had, they would probably have discovered who
is the musician.' 'Yes, sir, they have followed them some way into the
woods, but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as ever,
and the people have at last been afraid of being led into harm, and
would go no further. It is very seldom that I have heard these sounds so
early in the evening. They usually come about midnight, when that bright
planet, which is rising above the turret yonder, sets below the woods on
the left.'

'What turret?' asked St. Aubert with quickness, 'I see none.'

'Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for the moon shines full
upon it;--up the avenue yonder, a long way off; the chateau it belongs
to is hid among the trees.'

'Yes, my dear sir,' said Emily, pointing, 'don't you see something
glitter above the dark woods? It is a fane, I fancy, which the rays fall
upon.'

'O yes, I see what you mean; and who does the chateau belong to?'

'The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner,' replied La Voisin,
emphatically.

'Ah!' said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, 'are we then so near Le-Blanc!'
He appeared much agitated.

'It used to be the Marquis's favourite residence,' resumed La Voisin,
'but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there for many
years. We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen into
other hands.' St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was roused by the
last words. 'Dead!' he exclaimed, 'Good God! when did he die?'

'He is reported to have died about five weeks since,' replied La Voisin.
'Did you know the Marquis, sir?'

'This is very extraordinary!' said St. Aubert without attending to the
question. 'Why is it so, my dear sir?' said Emily, in a voice of timid
curiosity. He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie; and in a
few moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked who had
succeeded to the estates. 'I have forgot his title, monsieur,' said La
Voisin; 'but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of his
coming hither.'

'The chateau is shut up then, still?'

'Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her husband the
steward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage hard
by.'

'The chateau is spacious, I suppose,' said Emily, 'and must be desolate
for the residence of only two persons.'

'Desolate enough, mademoiselle,' replied La Voisin, 'I would not pass
one night in the chateau, for the value of the whole domain.'

'What is that?' said St. Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness. As
his host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St. Aubert,
and then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastily
asked La Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. 'Almost
from my childhood, sir,' replied his host.

'You remember the late marchioness, then?' said St. Aubert in an altered
voice.

'Ah, monsieur!--that I do well. There are many besides me who remember
her.'

'Yes--' said St. Aubert, 'and I am one of those.'

'Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady. She
deserved a better fate.'

Tears stood in St. Aubert's eyes; 'Enough,' said he, in a voice almost
stifled by the violence of his emotions,--'it is enough, my friend.'

Emily, though extremely surprised by her father's manner, forbore to
express her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologize, but
St. Aubert interrupted him; 'Apology is quite unnecessary,' said he,
'let us change the topic. You was speaking of the music we just now
heard.'

'I was, monsieur--but hark!--it comes again; listen to that voice!' They
were all silent;

 At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound
 Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,
 And stole upon the air, that even Silence
 Was took ere she was 'ware, and wished she might
 Deny her nature, and be never more
 Still, to be so displaced.*
     *Milton.

In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which had
been heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert now observed,
that it produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of a
guitar, and still more melancholy and soft than the lute. They continued
to listen, but the sounds returned no more. 'This is strange!' said St.
Aubert, at length interrupting the silence. 'Very strange!' said Emily.
'It is so,' rejoined La Voisin, and they were again silent.

After a long pause, 'It is now about eighteen years since I first heard
that music,' said La Voisin; 'I remember it was on a fine summer's
night, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the woods, and
alone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, for one of my
boys was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had been watching at
his bed-side all the evening while his mother slept; for she had sat
up with him the night before. I had been watching, and went out for a
little fresh air, the day had been very sultry. As I walked under the
shades and mused, I heard music at a distance, and thought it was
Claude playing upon his flute, as he often did of a fine evening, at
the cottage door. But, when I came to a place where the trees opened, (I
shall never forget it!) and stood looking up at the north-lights, which
shot up the heaven to a great height, I heard all of a sudden such
sounds!--they came so as I cannot describe. It was like the music of
angels, and I looked up again almost expecting to see them in the sky.
When I came home, I told what I had heard, but they laughed at me, and
said it must be some of the shepherds playing on their pipes, and I
could not persuade them to the contrary. A few nights after, however, my
wife herself heard the same sounds, and was as much surprised as I was,
and Father Denis frightened her sadly by saying, that it was music come
to warn her of her child's death, and that music often came to houses
where there was a dying person.'

Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious dread entirely new
to her, and could scarcely conceal her agitation from St. Aubert.

'But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of Father Denis.'

'Father Denis!' said St. Aubert, who had listened to 'narrative old age'
with patient attention, 'are we near a convent, then?'

'Yes, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at no great distance, on the
sea shore yonder.'

'Ah!' said St. Aubert, as if struck with some sudden remembrance, 'the
convent of St. Clair!' Emily observed the clouds of grief, mingled with
a faint expression of horror, gathering on his brow; his countenance
became fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver whiteness of
the moon-light, he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument,
which seem to bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of the dead,
shewn

     by the blunted light
 That the dim moon through painted casements lends.*
     * The Emigrants.

'But, my dear sir,' said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts, 'you
forget that repose is necessary to you. If our kind host will give me
leave, I will prepare your bed, for I know how you like it to be made.'
St. Aubert, recollecting himself, and smiling affectionately, desired
she would not add to her fatigue by that attention; and La Voisin, whose
consideration for his guest had been suspended by the interests
which his own narrative had recalled, now started from his seat, and,
apologizing for not having called Agnes from the green, hurried out of
the room.

In a few moments he returned with his daughter, a young woman of
pleasing countenance, and Emily learned from her, what she had not
before suspected, that, for their accommodation, it was necessary
part of La Voisin's family should leave their beds; she lamented this
circumstance, but Agnes, by her reply, fully proved that she inherited,
at least, a share of her father's courteous hospitality. It was settled,
that some of her children and Michael should sleep in the neighbouring
cottage.

'If I am better, to-morrow, my dear,' said St. Aubert when Emily
returned to him, 'I mean to set out at an early hour, that we may rest,
during the heat of the day, and will travel towards home. In the present
state of my health and spirits I cannot look on a longer journey with
pleasure, and I am also very anxious to reach La Vallee.' Emily, though
she also desired to return, was grieved at her father's sudden wish to
do so, which she thought indicated a greater degree of indisposition
than he would acknowledge. St. Aubert now retired to rest, and Emily to
her little chamber, but not to immediate repose. Her thoughts returned
to the late conversation, concerning the state of departed spirits; a
subject, at this time, particularly affecting to her, when she had every
reason to believe that her dear father would ere long be numbered with
them. She leaned pensively on the little open casement, and in deep
thought fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue unclouded concave was
studded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of spirits, unsphered
of mortal mould. As her eyes wandered along the boundless aether, her
thoughts rose, as before, towards the sublimity of the Deity, and to the
contemplation of futurity. No busy note of this world interrupted the
course of her mind; the merry dance had ceased, and every cottager had
retired to his home. The still air seemed scarcely to breathe upon the
woods, and, now and then, the distant sound of a solitary sheep-bell,
or of a closing casement, was all that broke on silence. At length, even
this hint of human being was heard no more. Elevated and enwrapt, while
her eyes were often wet with tears of sublime devotion and solemn awe,
she continued at the casement, till the gloom of mid-night hung over the
earth, and the planet, which La Voisin had pointed out, sunk below the
woods. She then recollected what he had said concerning this planet, and
the mysterious music; and, as she lingered at the window, half
hoping and half fearing that it would return, her mind was led to the
remembrance of the extreme emotion her father had shewn on mention of
the Marquis La Villeroi's death, and of the fate of the Marchioness,
and she felt strongly interested concerning the remote cause of this
emotion. Her surprise and curiosity were indeed the greater, because she
did not recollect ever to have heard him mention the name of Villeroi.

No music, however, stole on the silence of the night, and Emily,
perceiving the lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of fatigue,
remembered that she was to rise early in the morning, and withdrew from
the window to repose.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Before Valancourt heads off on his own, he breakfasts with the St. Auberts one last time. St. Aubert tells Valancourt that he'd better hit them up if he's ever near La Vallee. Finally, it's farewell time. The St. Auberts continue on in the opposite direction, and St. Aubert reminisces about what a promising young man Valancourt is. This makes him think of his own childhood , which is long, long gone. He remarks to Emily that the world is closing to him. Emily's all, "Nip it in the bud, Dad." But St. Aubert feels like being a sad sack, so he continues to mope. The travelers reach Perpignan, where St. Aubert receives a letter from Quesnel. If you thought he was sad before, you should see how gloomy this letter makes him. Emily wants to know what's wrong, so he fills her in: looks like St. Aubert's property was invested with a certain M. Motteville, who lost it all. The family is basically ruined. St. Aubert doesn't care that much for his own sake, but he doesn't want his daughter to land in the poorhouse. St. Aubert tells Emily that they can only have one servant. The horror! They resume their journey to Languedoc, but St. Aubert is definitely looking worse for the wear. At nighttime, St. Aubert doesn't feel he can go any further. They see a spooky-looking chateau in the distance, but peasants along the way tell him to steer clear. Michael doesn't want to go to the chateau, but St. Aubert is really sick. They pull over after St. Aubert faints, and Emily tries to revive him by sprinkling water on his face. Since Michael won't leave his mules, Emily goes to look for help. Man, is it scary out there in the woods. She thinks she hears a riot, and turns back to check on her dad. St. Aubert is up again, but he doesn't look too hot. A peasant named La Voisin appears in the woods and invites them to spend the night at his place. Oh yeah, that riot Emily thought she heard? It was really the peasants doing a ritual dance. They pass by the dancers on the way to La Voisin's cottage, but St. Aubert is wiped out. Once at the cottage, La Voisin tells them about how his wife passed away long ago. He asks St. Aubert if, once they have died, they will be permitted to return to earth. St. Aubert is thrilled to find a fellow sad sack. He says he hopes to be able to look down on those he loves when he's gone. La Voisin fills in the St. Auberts on the mysterious chateau in the woods. Apparently, it used to belong to the Marquis de Villerois up until he died recently. Word of advice, La Voisin says: don't ever spend the night there. La Voisin also talks about the late Marchioness, the Marquis' wife. She deserved a better fate, La Voisin says. St. Aubert's really on a roll with the mopey thing. He says he remembers the Marchioness well and gets all teary-eyed. All of the sudden a mysterious voice begins singing. An instrument in the distance plays a melancholy song, which both of the St. Auberts find very beautiful and strange. La Voisin doesn't know where the music is coming from, but he says one of the monks told him it occurs whenever someone is about to die. On that note, time for bed! St. Aubert is still feeling poorly, but Emily stays up and contemplates what happened to the Marquis de Villerois and his unfortunate wife. Curiosity killed the cat, Emily.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER VII

     Let those deplore their doom,
 Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn.
 But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,
 Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.
 Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?
 Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?--
 Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
 And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
 Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead!
     BEATTIE

Emily, called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, little
refreshed by sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred the
kindest blessing of the unhappy. But, when she opened her casement,
looked out upon the woods, bright with the morning sun, and inspired the
pure air, her mind was soothed. The scene was filled with that cheering
freshness, which seems to breathe the very spirit of health, and she
heard only sweet and PICTURESQUE sounds, if such an expression may be
allowed--the matin-bell of a distant convent, the faint murmur of the
sea-waves, the song of birds, and the far-off low of cattle, which
she saw coming slowly on between the trunks of trees. Struck with
the circumstances of imagery around her, she indulged the pensive
tranquillity which they inspired; and while she leaned on her window,
waiting till St. Aubert should descend to breakfast, her ideas arranged
themselves in the following lines:

THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING

 How sweet to wind the forest's tangled shade,
  When early twilight, from the eastern bound,
 Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,
  And fades as morning spreads her blush around!

 When ev'ry infant flower, that wept in night,
  Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,
 Expands its tender blossom to the light,
  And gives its incense to the genial air.

 How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume,
  And swells the melody of waking birds;
 The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,
  And woodman's song, and low of distant herds!

 Then, doubtful gleams the mountain's hoary head,
  Seen through the parting foliage from afar;
 And, farther still, the ocean's misty bed,
  With flitting sails, that partial sun-beams share.

 But, vain the sylvan shade--the breath of May,
  The voice of music floating on the gale,
 And forms, that beam through morning's dewy veil,
 If health no longer bid the heart be gay!
 O balmy hour! 'tis thine her wealth to give,
 Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!

Emily now heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently the
voice of Michael, who was talking to his mules, as he led them forth
from a hut adjoining. As she left her room, St. Aubert, who was now
risen, met her at the door, apparently as little restored by sleep as
herself. She led him down stairs to the little parlour, in which they
had supped on the preceding night, where they found a neat breakfast set
out, while the host and his daughter waited to bid them good-morrow.

'I envy you this cottage, my good friends,' said St. Aubert, as he met
them, 'it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air, that one
breathes--if any thing could restore lost health, it would surely be
this air.'

La Voisin bowed gratefully, and replied, with the gallantry of a
Frenchman, 'Our cottage may be envied, sir, since you and Mademoiselle
have honoured it with your presence.' St. Aubert gave him a friendly
smile for his compliment, and sat down to a table, spread with cream,
fruit, new cheese, butter, and coffee. Emily, who had observed her
father with attention and thought he looked very ill, endeavoured to
persuade him to defer travelling till the afternoon; but he seemed very
anxious to be at home, and his anxiety he expressed repeatedly, and with
an earnestness that was unusual with him. He now said, he found himself
as well as he had been of late, and that he could bear travelling better
in the cool hour of the morning, than at any other time. But, while
he was talking with his venerable host, and thanking him for his kind
attentions, Emily observed his countenance change, and, before she could
reach him, he fell back in his chair. In a few moments he recovered from
the sudden faintness that had come over him, but felt so ill, that
he perceived himself unable to set out, and, having remained a little
while, struggling against the pressure of indisposition, he begged he
might be helped up stairs to bed. This request renewed all the terror
which Emily had suffered on the preceding evening; but, though scarcely
able to support herself, under the sudden shock it gave her, she tried
to conceal her apprehensions from St. Aubert, and gave her trembling arm
to assist him to the door of his chamber.

When he was once more in bed, he desired that Emily, who was then
weeping in her own room, might be called; and, as she came, he waved his
hand for every other person to quit the apartment. When they were alone,
he held out his hand to her, and fixed his eyes upon her countenance,
with an expression so full of tenderness and grief, that all her
fortitude forsook her, and she burst into an agony of tears. St. Aubert
seemed struggling to acquire firmness, but was still unable to speak; he
could only press her hand, and check the tears that stood trembling in
his eyes. At length he commanded his voice, 'My dear child,' said he,
trying to smile through his anguish, 'my dear Emily!'--and paused again.
He raised his eyes to heaven, as if in prayer, and then, in a firmer
tone, and with a look, in which the tenderness of the father was
dignified by the pious solemnity of the saint, he said, 'My dear child,
I would soften the painful truth I have to tell you, but I find myself
quite unequal to the art. Alas! I would, at this moment, conceal it from
you, but that it would be most cruel to deceive you. It cannot be
long before we must part; let us talk of it, that our thoughts and our
prayers may prepare us to bear it.' His voice faltered, while Emily,
still weeping, pressed his hand close to her heart, which swelled with a
convulsive sigh, but she could not look up.

'Let me not waste these moments,' said St. Aubert, recovering himself,
'I have much to say. There is a circumstance of solemn consequence,
which I have to mention, and a solemn promise to obtain from you; when
this is done I shall be easier. You have observed, my dear, how anxious
I am to reach home, but know not all my reasons for this. Listen to what
I am going to say.--Yet stay--before I say more give me this promise, a
promise made to your dying father!'--St. Aubert was interrupted; Emily,
struck by his last words, as if for the first time, with a conviction of
his immediate danger, raised her head; her tears stopped, and, gazing
at him for a moment with an expression of unutterable anguish, a slight
convulsion seized her, and she sunk senseless in her chair. St.
Aubert's cries brought La Voisin and his daughter to the room, and
they administered every means in their power to restore her, but, for a
considerable time, without effect. When she recovered, St. Aubert was so
exhausted by the scene he had witnessed, that it was many minutes
before he had strength to speak; he was, however, somewhat revived by
a cordial, which Emily gave him; and, being again alone with her, he
exerted himself to tranquilize her spirits, and to offer her all the
comfort of which her situation admitted. She threw herself into his
arms, wept on his neck, and grief made her so insensible to all he said,
that he ceased to offer the alleviations, which he himself could not, at
this moment, feel, and mingled his silent tears with hers. Recalled, at
length, to a sense of duty, she tried to spare her father from a farther
view of her suffering; and, quitting his embrace, dried her tears,
and said something, which she meant for consolation. 'My dear Emily,'
replied St. Aubert, 'my dear child, we must look up with humble
confidence to that Being, who has protected and comforted us in every
danger, and in every affliction we have known; to whose eye every moment
of our lives has been exposed; he will not, he does not, forsake us now;
I feel his consolations in my heart. I shall leave you, my child, still
in his care; and, though I depart from this world, I shall be still in
his presence. Nay, weep not again, my Emily. In death there is nothing
new, or surprising, since we all know, that we are born to die; and
nothing terrible to those, who can confide in an all-powerful God.
Had my life been spared now, after a very few years, in the course
of nature, I must have resigned it; old age, with all its train of
infirmity, its privations and its sorrows, would have been mine; and
then, at last, death would have come, and called forth the tears you now
shed. Rather, my child, rejoice, that I am saved from such suffering,
and that I am permitted to die with a mind unimpaired, and sensible of
the comforts of faith and resignation.' St. Aubert paused, fatigued with
speaking. Emily again endeavoured to assume an air of composure; and, in
replying to what he had said, tried to sooth him with a belief, that he
had not spoken in vain.

When he had reposed a while, he resumed the conversation. 'Let me
return,' said he, 'to a subject, which is very near my heart. I said I
had a solemn promise to receive from you; let me receive it now, before
I explain the chief circumstance which it concerns; there are others,
of which your peace requires that you should rest in ignorance. Promise,
then, that you will perform exactly what I shall enjoin.'

Emily, awed by the earnest solemnity of his manner, dried her tears,
that had begun again to flow, in spite of her efforts to suppress them;
and, looking eloquently at St. Aubert, bound herself to do whatever he
should require by a vow, at which she shuddered, yet knew not why.

He proceeded: 'I know you too well, my Emily, to believe, that you would
break any promise, much less one thus solemnly given; your assurance
gives me peace, and the observance of it is of the utmost importance to
your tranquillity. Hear, then, what I am going to tell you. The closet,
which adjoins my chamber at La Vallee, has a sliding board in the floor.
You will know it by a remarkable knot in the wood, and by its being the
next board, except one, to the wainscot, which fronts the door. At the
distance of about a yard from that end, nearer the window, you will
perceive a line across it, as if the plank had been joined;--the way to
open it is this:--Press your foot upon the line; the end of the board
will then sink, and you may slide it with ease beneath the other. Below,
you will see a hollow place.' St. Aubert paused for breath, and Emily
sat fixed in deep attention. 'Do you understand these directions, my
dear?' said he. Emily, though scarcely able to speak, assured him that
she did.

'When you return home, then,' he added with a deep sigh--

At the mention of her return home, all the melancholy circumstances,
that must attend this return, rushed upon her fancy; she burst into
convulsive grief, and St. Aubert himself, affected beyond the resistance
of the fortitude which he had, at first, summoned, wept with her.
After some moments, he composed himself. 'My dear child,' said he, 'be
comforted. When I am gone, you will not be forsaken--I leave you only in
the more immediate care of that Providence, which has never yet forsaken
me. Do not afflict me with this excess of grief; rather teach me by
your example to bear my own.' He stopped again, and Emily, the more she
endeavoured to restrain her emotion, found it the less possible to do
so.

St. Aubert, who now spoke with pain, resumed the subject. 'That closet,
my dear,--when you return home, go to it; and, beneath the board I have
described, you will find a packet of written papers. Attend to me now,
for the promise you have given particularly relates to what I shall
direct. These papers you must burn--and, solemnly I command you, WITHOUT
EXAMINING THEM.'

Emily's surprise, for a moment, overcame her grief, and she ventured to
ask, why this must be? St. Aubert replied, that, if it had been right
for him to explain his reasons, her late promise would have been
unnecessarily exacted. 'It is sufficient for you, my love, to have a
deep sense of the importance of observing me in this instance.' St.
Aubert proceeded. 'Under that board you will also find about two hundred
louis d'ors, wrapped in a silk purse; indeed, it was to secure whatever
money might be in the chateau, that this secret place was contrived,
at a time when the province was over-run by troops of men, who took
advantage of the tumults, and became plunderers.

'But I have yet another promise to receive from you, which is--that
you will never, whatever may be your future circumstances, SELL the
chateau.' St. Aubert even enjoined her, whenever she might marry, to
make it an article in the contract, that the chateau should always
be hers. He then gave her a more minute account of his present
circumstances than he had yet done, adding, 'The two hundred louis, with
what money you will now find in my purse, is all the ready money I have
to leave you. I have told you how I am circumstanced with M. Motteville,
at Paris. Ah, my child! I leave you poor--but not destitute,' he added,
after a long pause. Emily could make no reply to any thing he now said,
but knelt at the bed-side, with her face upon the quilt, weeping over
the hand she held there.

After this conversation, the mind of St. Aubert appeared to be much more
at ease; but, exhausted by the effort of speaking, he sunk into a kind
of doze, and Emily continued to watch and weep beside him, till a gentle
tap at the chamber-door roused her. It was La Voisin, come to say, that
a confessor from the neighbouring convent was below, ready to attend St.
Aubert. Emily would not suffer her father to be disturbed, but desired,
that the priest might not leave the cottage. When St. Aubert awoke from
this doze, his senses were confused, and it was some moments before he
recovered them sufficiently to know, that it was Emily who sat beside
him. He then moved his lips, and stretched forth his hand to her; as she
received which, she sunk back in her chair, overcome by the impression
of death on his countenance. In a few minutes he recovered his voice,
and Emily then asked, if he wished to see the confessor; he replied,
that he did; and, when the holy father appeared, she withdrew. They
remained alone together above half an hour; when Emily was called in,
she found St. Aubert more agitated than when she had left him, and she
gazed, with a slight degree of resentment, at the friar, as the cause
of this; who, however, looked mildly and mournfully at her, and turned
away. St. Aubert, in a tremulous voice, said, he wished her to join in
prayer with him, and asked if La Voisin would do so too. The old man and
his daughter came; they both wept, and knelt with Emily round the bed,
while the holy father read in a solemn voice the service for the dying.
St. Aubert lay with a serene countenance, and seemed to join fervently
in the devotion, while tears often stole from beneath his closed
eyelids, and Emily's sobs more than once interrupted the service.

When it was concluded, and extreme unction had been administered,
the friar withdrew. St. Aubert then made a sign for La Voisin to come
nearer. He gave him his hand, and was, for a moment, silent. At length,
he said, in a trembling voice, 'My good friend, our acquaintance has
been short, but long enough to give you an opportunity of shewing me
much kind attention. I cannot doubt, that you will extend this kindness
to my daughter, when I am gone; she will have need of it. I entrust her
to your care during the few days she will remain here. I need say no
more--you know the feelings of a father, for you have children; mine
would be, indeed, severe if I had less confidence in you.' He paused. La
Voisin assured him, and his tears bore testimony to his sincerity, that
he would do all he could to soften her affliction, and that, if St.
Aubert wished it, he would even attend her into Gascony; an offer so
pleasing to St. Aubert, that he had scarcely words to acknowledge his
sense of the old man's kindness, or to tell him, that he accepted it.
The scene, that followed between St. Aubert and Emily, affected La
Voisin so much, that he quitted the chamber, and she was again left
alone with her father, whose spirits seemed fainting fast, but neither
his senses, or his voice, yet failed him; and, at intervals, he employed
much of these last awful moments in advising his daughter, as to her
future conduct. Perhaps, he never had thought more justly, or expressed
himself more clearly, than he did now.

'Above all, my dear Emily,' said he, 'do not indulge in the pride of
fine feeling, the romantic error of amiable minds. Those, who really
possess sensibility, ought early to be taught, that it is a dangerous
quality, which is continually extracting the excess of misery, or
delight, from every surrounding circumstance. And, since, in our passage
through this world, painful circumstances occur more frequently than
pleasing ones, and since our sense of evil is, I fear, more acute than
our sense of good, we become the victims of our feelings, unless we can
in some degree command them. I know you will say, (for you are young, my
Emily) I know you will say, that you are contented sometimes to suffer,
rather than to give up your refined sense of happiness, at others;
but, when your mind has been long harassed by vicissitude, you will be
content to rest, and you will then recover from your delusion. You will
perceive, that the phantom of happiness is exchanged for the substance;
for happiness arises in a state of peace, not of tumult. It is of a
temperate and uniform nature, and can no more exist in a heart, that is
continually alive to minute circumstances, than in one that is dead to
feeling. You see, my dear, that, though I would guard you against the
dangers of sensibility, I am not an advocate for apathy. At your age
I should have said THAT is a vice more hateful than all the errors of
sensibility, and I say so still. I call it a VICE, because it leads to
positive evil; in this, however, it does no more than an ill-governed
sensibility, which, by such a rule, might also be called a vice; but
the evil of the former is of more general consequence. I have exhausted
myself,' said St. Aubert, feebly, 'and have wearied you, my Emily; but,
on a subject so important to your future comfort, I am anxious to be
perfectly understood.'

Emily assured him, that his advice was most precious to her, and that
she would never forget it, or cease from endeavouring to profit by it.
St. Aubert smiled affectionately and sorrowfully upon her. 'I repeat
it,' said he, 'I would not teach you to become insensible, if I could;
I would only warn you of the evils of susceptibility, and point out
how you may avoid them. Beware, my love, I conjure you, of that
self-delusion, which has been fatal to the peace of so many persons;
beware of priding yourself on the gracefulness of sensibility; if you
yield to this vanity, your happiness is lost for ever. Always remember
how much more valuable is the strength of fortitude, than the grace of
sensibility. Do not, however, confound fortitude with apathy; apathy
cannot know the virtue. Remember, too, that one act of beneficence,
one act of real usefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment in the
world. Sentiment is a disgrace, instead of an ornament, unless it lead
us to good actions. The miser, who thinks himself respectable, merely
because he possesses wealth, and thus mistakes the means of doing good,
for the actual accomplishment of it, is not more blameable than the man
of sentiment, without active virtue. You may have observed persons, who
delight so much in this sort of sensibility to sentiment, which excludes
that to the calls of any practical virtue, that they turn from
the distressed, and, because their sufferings are painful to be
contemplated, do not endeavour to relieve them. How despicable is that
humanity, which can be contented to pity, where it might assuage!'

St. Aubert, some time after, spoke of Madame Cheron, his sister. 'Let
me inform you of a circumstance, that nearly affects your welfare,' he
added. 'We have, you know, had little intercourse for some years, but,
as she is now your only female relation, I have thought it proper to
consign you to her care, as you will see in my will, till you are of
age, and to recommend you to her protection afterwards. She is not
exactly the person, to whom I would have committed my Emily, but I had
no alternative, and I believe her to be upon the whole--a good kind of
woman. I need not recommend it to your prudence, my love, to endeavour
to conciliate her kindness; you will do this for his sake, who has often
wished to do so for yours.'

Emily assured him, that, whatever he requested she would religiously
perform to the utmost of her ability. 'Alas!' added she, in a voice
interrupted by sighs, 'that will soon be all which remains for me; it
will be almost my only consolation to fulfil your wishes.'

St. Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken, but
his spirit sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull. She felt
that look at her heart. 'My dear father!' she exclaimed; and then,
checking herself, pressed his hand closer, and hid her face with
her handkerchief. Her tears were concealed, but St. Aubert heard her
convulsive sobs. His spirits returned. 'O my child!' said he, faintly,
'let my consolations be yours. I die in peace; for I know, that I
am about to return to the bosom of my Father, who will still be your
Father, when I am gone. Always trust in him, my love, and he will
support you in these moments, as he supports me.'

Emily could only listen, and weep; but the extreme composure of his
manner, and the faith and hope he expressed, somewhat soothed her
anguish. Yet, whenever she looked upon his emaciated countenance, and
saw the lines of death beginning to prevail over it--saw his sunk eyes,
still bent on her, and their heavy lids pressing to a close, there was a
pang in her heart, such as defied expression, though it required filial
virtue, like hers, to forbear the attempt.

He desired once more to bless her; 'Where are you, my dear?' said he,
as he stretched forth his hands. Emily had turned to the window, that he
might not perceive her anguish; she now understood, that his sight had
failed him. When he had given her his blessing, and it seemed to be the
last effort of expiring life, he sunk back on his pillow. She kissed
his forehead; the damps of death had settled there, and, forgetting her
fortitude for a moment, her tears mingled with them. St. Aubert lifted
up his eyes; the spirit of a father returned to them, but it quickly
vanished, and he spoke no more.

St. Aubert lingered till about three o'clock in the afternoon, and, thus
gradually sinking into death, he expired without a struggle, or a sigh.

Emily was led from the chamber by La Voisin and his daughter, who did
what they could to comfort her. The old man sat and wept with her. Agnes
was more erroneously officious.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Emily wakes up the next morning in a poetic mood . She writes a little ditty called "The First Hour of Morning" about, y'know, waking up. At least she keeps it simple. St. Aubert is ready to hit the road again, but he can't even make it out of his chair without falling down. Yep, he's figured it out. He's dying, no question about it. So now that that's settled, St. Aubert wants to make sure Emily's all set to finish his work. He just has one simple request for her: look for secret papers underneath a sliding floorboard at La Vallee. And then burn them without looking at them. Burn them all! Sure, Emily's a little surprised that her dad is going fire-crazy, but she's happy to oblige. It's go time. St. Aubert calls in his confessor and bids his goodbyes to Emily and La Voisin. He's just got one more thing to say to Emily: don't get carried away with foolish nonsense, girl. Emily's crying too hard at this point to take anything in, but she tries to make her dad comfortable in his final hours. St. Aubert finally passes away, leaving Emily pretty wrecked. What on earth is she going to do now?