prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER X

 Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain,
 Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain:
 Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise!
 Each stamps its image as the other flies!
     PLEASURES OF MEMORY

Emily pursued her journey, without any accident, along the plains of
Languedoc towards the north-west; and, on this her return to Tholouse,
which she had last left with Madame Montoni, she thought much on the
melancholy fate of her aunt, who, but for her own imprudence, might now
have been living in happiness there! Montoni, too, often rose to her
fancy, such as she had seen him in his days of triumph, bold, spirited
and commanding; such also as she had since beheld him in his days of
vengeance; and now, only a few short months had passed--and he had
no longer the power, or the will to afflict;--he had become a clod of
earth, and his life was vanished like a shadow! Emily could have wept at
his fate, had she not remembered his crimes; for that of her unfortunate
aunt she did weep, and all sense of her errors was overcome by the
recollection of her misfortunes.

Other thoughts and other emotions succeeded, as Emily drew near the
well-known scenes of her early love, and considered, that Valancourt was
lost to her and to himself, for ever. At length, she came to the brow of
the hill, whence, on her departure for Italy, she had given a farewell
look to this beloved landscape, amongst whose woods and fields she had
so often walked with Valancourt, and where he was then to inhabit,
when she would be far, far away! She saw, once more, that chain of the
Pyrenees, which overlooked La Vallee, rising, like faint clouds, on the
horizon. 'There, too, is Gascony, extended at their feet!' said she,
'O my father,--my mother! And there, too, is the Garonne!' she added,
drying the tears, that obscured her sight,--'and Tholouse, and my aunt's
mansion--and the groves in her garden!--O my friends! are ye all lost
to me--must I never, never see ye more!' Tears rushed again to her eyes,
and she continued to weep, till an abrupt turn in the road had nearly
occasioned the carriage to overset, when, looking up, she perceived
another part of the well-known scene around Tholouse, and all the
reflections and anticipations, which she had suffered, at the moment,
when she bade it last adieu, came with recollected force to her heart.
She remembered how anxiously she had looked forward to the futurity,
which was to decide her happiness concerning Valancourt, and what
depressing fears had assailed her; the very words she had uttered, as
she withdrew her last look from the prospect, came to her memory. 'Could
I but be certain,' she had then said, 'that I should ever return, and
that Valancourt would still live for me--I should go in peace!'

Now, that futurity, so anxiously anticipated, was arrived, she was
returned--but what a dreary blank appeared!--Valancourt no longer
lived for her! She had no longer even the melancholy satisfaction of
contemplating his image in her heart, for he was no longer the same
Valancourt she had cherished there--the solace of many a mournful
hour, the animating friend, that had enabled her to bear up against the
oppression of Montoni--the distant hope, that had beamed over her gloomy
prospect! On perceiving this beloved idea to be an illusion of her own
creation, Valancourt seemed to be annihilated, and her soul sickened at
the blank, that remained. His marriage with a rival, even his death, she
thought she could have endured with more fortitude, than this discovery;
for then, amidst all her grief, she could have looked in secret upon the
image of goodness, which her fancy had drawn of him, and comfort would
have mingled with her suffering!

Drying her tears, she looked, once more, upon the landscape, which had
excited them, and perceived, that she was passing the very bank, where
she had taken leave of Valancourt, on the morning of her departure from
Tholouse, and she now saw him, through her returning tears, such as
he had appeared, when she looked from the carriage to give him a last
adieu--saw him leaning mournfully against the high trees, and remembered
the fixed look of mingled tenderness and anguish, with which he had then
regarded her. This recollection was too much for her heart, and she sunk
back in the carriage, nor once looked up, till it stopped at the gates
of what was now her own mansion.

These being opened, and by the servant, to whose care the chateau had
been entrusted, the carriage drove into the court, where, alighting,
she hastily passed through the great hall, now silent and solitary, to
a large oak parlour, the common sitting room of the late Madame Montoni,
where, instead of being received by M. Quesnel, she found a letter from
him, informing her that business of consequence had obliged him to leave
Tholouse two days before. Emily was, upon the whole, not sorry to be
spared his presence, since his abrupt departure appeared to indicate the
same indifference, with which he had formerly regarded her. This letter
informed her, also, of the progress he had made in the settlement of
her affairs, and concluded with directions, concerning the forms of
some business, which remained for her to transact. But M. Quesnel's
unkindness did not long occupy her thoughts, which returned the
remembrance of the persons she had been accustomed to see in this
mansion, and chiefly of the ill-guided and unfortunate Madame Montoni.
In the room, where she now sat, she had breakfasted with her on the
morning of their departure for Italy; and the view of it brought most
forcibly to her recollection all she had herself suffered, at that time,
and the many gay expectations, which her aunt had formed, respecting
the journey before her. While Emily's mind was thus engaged, her eyes
wandered unconsciously to a large window, that looked upon the garden,
and here new memorials of the past spoke to her heart, for she saw
extended before her the very avenue, in which she had parted with
Valancourt, on the eve of her journey; and all the anxiety, the tender
interest he had shewn, concerning her future happiness, his earnest
remonstrances against her committing herself to the power of Montoni,
and the truth of his affection, came afresh to her memory. At this
moment, it appeared almost impossible, that Valancourt could have become
unworthy of her regard, and she doubted all that she had lately heard to
his disadvantage, and even his own words, which had confirmed Count De
Villefort's report of him. Overcome by the recollections, which the view
of this avenue occasioned, she turned abruptly from the window, and
sunk into a chair beside it, where she sat, given up to grief, till the
entrance of Annette, with coffee, aroused her.

'Dear madam, how melancholy this place looks now,' said Annette, 'to
what it used to do! It is dismal coming home, when there is nobody to
welcome one!'

This was not the moment, in which Emily could bear the remark; her tears
fell again, and, as soon as she had taken the coffee, she retired to
her apartment, where she endeavoured to repose her fatigued spirits. But
busy memory would still supply her with the visions of former times: she
saw Valancourt interesting and benevolent, as he had been wont to appear
in the days of their early love, and, amidst the scenes, where she had
believed that they should sometimes pass their years together!--but, at
length, sleep closed these afflicting scenes from her view.

On the following morning, serious occupation recovered her from such
melancholy reflections; for, being desirous of quitting Tholouse, and of
hastening on to La Vallee, she made some enquiries into the condition of
the estate, and immediately dispatched a part of the necessary business
concerning it, according to the directions of Mons. Quesnel. It
required a strong effort to abstract her thoughts from other interests
sufficiently to attend to this, but she was rewarded for her exertions
by again experiencing, that employment is the surest antidote to sorrow.

This day was devoted entirely to business; and, among other concerns,
she employed means to learn the situation of all her poor tenants, that
she might relieve their wants, or confirm their comforts.

In the evening, her spirits were so much strengthened, that she thought
she could bear to visit the gardens, where she had so often walked with
Valancourt; and, knowing, that, if she delayed to do so, their scenes
would only affect her the more, whenever they should be viewed, she took
advantage of the present state of her mind, and entered them.

Passing hastily the gate leading from the court into the gardens, she
hurried up the great avenue, scarcely permitting her memory to dwell for
a moment on the circumstance of her having here parted with Valancourt,
and soon quitted this for other walks less interesting to her heart.
These brought her, at length, to the flight of steps, that led from the
lower garden to the terrace, on seeing which, she became agitated,
and hesitated whether to ascend, but, her resolution returning, she
proceeded.

'Ah!' said Emily, as she ascended, 'these are the same high trees, that
used to wave over the terrace, and these the same flowery thickets--the
liburnum, the wild rose, and the cerinthe--which were wont to grow
beneath them! Ah! and there, too, on that bank, are the very plants,
which Valancourt so carefully reared!--O, when last I saw them!'--she
checked the thought, but could not restrain her tears, and, after
walking slowly on for a few moments, her agitation, upon the view of
this well-known scene, increased so much, that she was obliged to stop,
and lean upon the wall of the terrace. It was a mild, and beautiful
evening. The sun was setting over the extensive landscape, to which his
beams, sloping from beneath a dark cloud, that overhung the west,
gave rich and partial colouring, and touched the tufted summits of the
groves, that rose from the garden below, with a yellow gleam. Emily and
Valancourt had often admired together this scene, at the same hour; and
it was exactly on this spot, that, on the night preceding her departure
for Italy, she had listened to his remonstrances against the journey,
and to the pleadings of passionate affection. Some observations, which
she made on the landscape, brought this to her remembrance, and with it
all the minute particulars of that conversation;--the alarming doubts he
had expressed concerning Montoni, doubts, which had since been fatally
confirmed; the reasons and entreaties he had employed to prevail with
her to consent to an immediate marriage; the tenderness of his love,
the paroxysms of this grief, and the conviction that he had repeatedly
expressed, that they should never meet again in happiness! All these
circumstances rose afresh to her mind, and awakened the various emotions
she had then suffered. Her tenderness for Valancourt became as powerful
as in the moments, when she thought, that she was parting with him and
happiness together, and when the strength of her mind had enabled her to
triumph over present suffering, rather than to deserve the reproach
of her conscience by engaging in a clandestine marriage.--'Alas!' said
Emily, as these recollections came to her mind, 'and what have I gained
by the fortitude I then practised?--am I happy now?--He said, we should
meet no more in happiness; but, O! he little thought his own misconduct
would separate us, and lead to the very evil he then dreaded!'

Her reflections increased her anguish, while she was compelled to
acknowledge, that the fortitude she had formerly exerted, if it had
not conducted her to happiness, had saved her from irretrievable
misfortune--from Valancourt himself! But in these moments she could not
congratulate herself on the prudence, that had saved her; she could only
lament, with bitterest anguish, the circumstances, which had conspired
to betray Valancourt into a course of life so different from that,
which the virtues, the tastes, and the pursuits of his early years had
promised; but she still loved him too well to believe, that his
heart was even now depraved, though his conduct had been criminal. An
observation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubert more than once, now
occurred to her. 'This young man,' said he, speaking of Valancourt, 'has
never been at Paris;' a remark, that had surprised her at the time
it was uttered, but which she now understood, and she exclaimed
sorrowfully, 'O Valancourt! if such a friend as my father had been with
you at Paris--your noble, ingenuous nature would not have fallen!'

The sun was now set, and, recalling her thoughts from their melancholy
subject, she continued her walk; for the pensive shade of twilight was
pleasing to her, and the nightingales from the surrounding groves began
to answer each other in the long-drawn, plaintive note, which always
touched her heart; while all the fragrance of the flowery thickets, that
bounded the terrace, was awakened by the cool evening air, which floated
so lightly among their leaves, that they scarcely trembled as it passed.

Emily came, at length, to the steps of the pavilion, that terminated
the terrace, and where her last interview with Valancourt, before her
departure from Tholouse, had so unexpectedly taken place. The door was
now shut, and she trembled, while she hesitated whether to open it; but
her wish to see again a place, which had been the chief scene of her
former happiness, at length overcoming her reluctance to encounter the
painful regret it would renew, she entered. The room was obscured by a
melancholy shade; but through the open lattices, darkened by the
hanging foliage of the vines, appeared the dusky landscape, the Garonne
reflecting the evening light, and the west still glowing. A chair was
placed near one of the balconies, as if some person had been sitting
there, but the other furniture of the pavilion remained exactly as
usual, and Emily thought it looked as if it had not once been moved
since she set out for Italy. The silent and deserted air of the place
added solemnity to her emotions, for she heard only the low whisper
of the breeze, as it shook the leaves of the vines, and the very faint
murmur of the Garonne.

She seated herself in a chair, near the lattice, and yielded to the
sadness of her heart, while she recollected the circumstances of her
parting interview with Valancourt, on this spot. It was here too, that
she had passed some of the happiest hours of her life with him, when
her aunt favoured the connection, for here she had often sat and worked,
while he conversed, or read; and she now well remembered with what
discriminating judgment, with what tempered energy, he used to repeat
some of the sublimest passages of their favourite authors; how often he
would pause to admire with her their excellence, and with what tender
delight he would listen to her remarks, and correct her taste.

'And is it possible,' said Emily, as these recollections returned--'is
it possible, that a mind, so susceptible of whatever is grand and
beautiful, could stoop to low pursuits, and be subdued by frivolous
temptations?'

She remembered how often she had seen the sudden tear start in his eye,
and had heard his voice tremble with emotion, while he related any great
or benevolent action, or repeated a sentiment of the same character.
'And such a mind,' said she, 'such a heart, were to be sacrificed to the
habits of a great city!'

These recollections becoming too painful to be endured, she abruptly
left the pavilion, and, anxious to escape from the memorials of her
departed happiness, returned towards the chateau. As she passed along
the terrace, she perceived a person, walking, with a slow step, and a
dejected air, under the trees, at some distance. The twilight, which
was now deep, would not allow her to distinguish who it was, and she
imagined it to be one of the servants, till, the sound of her steps
seeming to reach him, he turned half round, and she thought she saw
Valancourt!

Whoever it was, he instantly struck among the thickets on the left, and
disappeared, while Emily, her eyes fixed on the place, whence he
had vanished, and her frame trembling so excessively, that she could
scarcely support herself, remained, for some moments, unable to quit the
spot, and scarcely conscious of existence. With her recollection, her
strength returned, and she hurried toward the house, where she did not
venture to enquire who had been in the gardens, lest she should betray
her emotion; and she sat down alone, endeavouring to recollect the
figure, air and features of the person she had just seen. Her view of
him, however, had been so transient, and the gloom had rendered it
so imperfect, that she could remember nothing with exactness; yet the
general appearance of his figure, and his abrupt departure, made her
still believe, that this person was Valancourt. Sometimes, indeed, she
thought, that her fancy, which had been occupied by the idea of him,
had suggested his image to her uncertain sight: but this conjecture was
fleeting. If it was himself whom she had seen, she wondered much, that
he should be at Tholouse, and more, how he had gained admittance into
the garden; but as often as her impatience prompted her to enquire
whether any stranger had been admitted, she was restrained by an
unwillingness to betray her doubts; and the evening was passed in
anxious conjecture, and in efforts to dismiss the subject from her
thoughts. But, these endeavours were ineffectual, and a thousand
inconsistent emotions assailed her, whenever she fancied that Valancourt
might be near her; now, she dreaded it to be true, and now she feared it
to be false; and, while she constantly tried to persuade herself, that
she wished the person, whom she had seen, might not be Valancourt, her
heart as constantly contradicted her reason.

The following day was occupied by the visits of several neighbouring
families, formerly intimate with Madame Montoni, who came to condole
with Emily on her death, to congratulate her upon the acquisition of
these estates, and to enquire about Montoni, and concerning the strange
reports they had heard of her own situation; all which was done with the
utmost decorum, and the visitors departed with as much composure as they
had arrived.

Emily was wearied by these formalities, and disgusted by the subservient
manners of many persons, who had thought her scarcely worthy of common
attention, while she was believed to be a dependant on Madame Montoni.

'Surely,' said she, 'there is some magic in wealth, which can thus make
persons pay their court to it, when it does not even benefit themselves.
How strange it is, that a fool or a knave, with riches, should be
treated with more respect by the world, than a good man, or a wise man
in poverty!'

It was evening, before she was left alone, and she then wished to have
refreshed her spirits in the free air of her garden; but she feared to
go thither, lest she should meet again the person, whom she had seen on
the preceding night, and he should prove to be Valancourt. The suspense
and anxiety she suffered, on this subject, she found all her efforts
unable to controul, and her secret wish to see Valancourt once more,
though unseen by him, powerfully prompted her to go, but prudence and
a delicate pride restrained her, and she determined to avoid the
possibility of throwing herself in his way, by forbearing to visit the
gardens, for several days.

When, after near a week, she again ventured thither, she made Annette
her companion, and confined her walk to the lower grounds, but often
started as the leaves rustled in the breeze, imagining, that some person
was among the thickets; and, at the turn of every alley, she looked
forward with apprehensive expectation. She pursued her walk thoughtfully
and silently, for her agitation would not suffer her to converse with
Annette, to whom, however, thought and silence were so intolerable, that
she did not scruple at length to talk to her mistress.

'Dear madam,' said she, 'why do you start so? one would think you knew
what has happened.'

'What has happened?' said Emily, in a faltering voice, and trying to
command her emotion.

'The night before last, you know, madam'--

'I know nothing, Annette,' replied her lady in a more hurried voice.

'The night before last, madam, there was a robber in the garden.'

'A robber!' said Emily, in an eager, yet doubting tone.

'I suppose he was a robber, madam. What else could he be?'

'Where did you see him, Annette?' rejoined Emily, looking round her, and
turning back towards the chateau.

'It was not I that saw him, madam, it was Jean the gardener. It was
twelve o'clock at night, and, as he was coming across the court to go
the back way into the house, what should he see--but somebody walking in
the avenue, that fronts the garden gate! So, with that, Jean guessed how
it was, and he went into the house for his gun.'

'His gun!' exclaimed Emily.

'Yes, madam, his gun; and then he came out into the court to watch him.
Presently, he sees him come slowly down the avenue, and lean over the
garden gate, and look up at the house for a long time; and I warrant he
examined it well, and settled what window he should break in at.'

'But the gun,' said Emily--'the gun!'

'Yes, madam, all in good time. Presently, Jean says, the robber opened
the gate, and was coming into the court, and then he thought proper to
ask him his business: so he called out again, and bade him say who he
was, and what he wanted. But the man would do neither; but turned upon
his heel, and passed into the garden again. Jean knew then well enough
how it was, and so he fired after him.'

'Fired!' exclaimed Emily.

'Yes, madam, fired off his gun; but, Holy Virgin! what makes you look
so pale, madam? The man was not killed,--I dare say; but if he was, his
comrades carried him off: for, when Jean went in the morning, to look
for the body, it was gone, and nothing to be seen but a track of blood
on the ground. Jean followed it, that he might find out where the man
got into the garden, but it was lost in the grass, and'--

Annette was interrupted: for Emily's spirits died away, and she would
have fallen to the ground, if the girl had not caught her, and supported
her to a bench, close to them.

When, after a long absence, her senses returned, Emily desired to be
led to her apartment; and, though she trembled with anxiety to enquire
further on the subject of her alarm, she found herself too ill at
present, to dare the intelligence which it was possible she might
receive of Valancourt. Having dismissed Annette, that she might weep
and think at liberty, she endeavoured to recollect the exact air of the
person, whom she had seen on the terrace, and still her fancy gave her
the figure of Valancourt. She had, indeed, scarcely a doubt, that it was
he whom she had seen, and at whom the gardener had fired: for the manner
of the latter person, as described by Annette, was not that of a robber;
nor did it appear probable, that a robber would have come alone, to
break into a house so spacious as this.

When Emily thought herself sufficiently recovered, to listen to what
Jean might have to relate, she sent for him; but he could inform her of
no circumstance, that might lead to a knowledge of the person, who
had been shot, or of the consequence of the wound; and, after severely
reprimanding him, for having fired with bullets, and ordering diligent
enquiry to be made in the neighbourhood for the discovery of the wounded
person, she dismissed him, and herself remained in the same state of
terrible suspense. All the tenderness she had ever felt for Valancourt,
was recalled by the sense of his danger; and the more she considered the
subject, the more her conviction strengthened, that it was he, who
had visited the gardens, for the purpose of soothing the misery of
disappointed affection, amidst the scenes of his former happiness.

'Dear madam,' said Annette, when she returned, 'I never saw you so
affected before! I dare say the man is not killed.'

Emily shuddered, and lamented bitterly the rashness of the gardener in
having fired.

'I knew you would be angry enough about that, madam, or I should have
told you before; and he knew so too; for, says he, "Annette, say nothing
about this to my lady. She lies on the other side of the house, so did
not hear the gun, perhaps; but she would be angry with me, if she knew,
seeing there is blood. But then," says he, "how is one to keep the
garden clear, if one is afraid to fire at a robber, when one sees him?"'

'No more of this,' said Emily, 'pray leave me.'

Annette obeyed, and Emily returned to the agonizing considerations, that
had assailed her before, but which she, at length, endeavoured to sooth
by a new remark. If the stranger was Valancourt, it was certain he had
come alone, and it appeared, therefore, that he had been able to quit
the gardens, without assistance; a circumstance which did not seem
probable, had his wound been dangerous. With this consideration, she
endeavoured to support herself, during the enquiries, that were making
by her servants in the neighbourhood; but day after day came, and still
closed in uncertainty, concerning this affair: and Emily, suffering in
silence, at length, drooped, and sunk under the pressure of her anxiety.
She was attacked by a slow fever, and when she yielded to the persuasion
of Annette to send for medical advice, the physicians prescribed little
beside air, gentle exercise and amusement: but how was this last to be
obtained? She, however, endeavoured to abstract her thoughts from the
subject of her anxiety, by employing them in promoting that happiness in
others, which she had lost herself; and, when the evening was fine, she
usually took an airing, including in her ride the cottages of some of
her tenants, on whose condition she made such observations, as often
enabled her, unasked, to fulfil their wishes.

Her indisposition and the business she engaged in, relative to this
estate, had already protracted her stay at Tholouse, beyond the period
she had formerly fixed for her departure to La Vallee; and now she
was unwilling to leave the only place, where it seemed possible, that
certainty could be obtained on the subject of her distress. But the time
was come, when her presence was necessary at La Vallee, a letter from
the Lady Blanche now informing her, that the Count and herself, being
then at the chateau of the Baron St. Foix, purposed to visit her at La
Vallee, on their way home, as soon as they should be informed of her
arrival there. Blanche added, that they made this visit, with the hope
of inducing her to return with them to Chateau-le-Blanc.

Emily, having replied to the letter of her friend, and said that she
should be at La Vallee in a few days, made hasty preparations for the
journey; and, in thus leaving Tholouse, endeavoured to support herself
with a belief, that, if any fatal accident had happened to Valancourt,
she must in this interval have heard of it.

On the evening before her departure, she went to take leave of the
terrace and the pavilion. The day had been sultry, but a light shower,
that fell just before sun-set, had cooled the air, and given that soft
verdure to the woods and pastures, which is so refreshing to the eye;
while the rain drops, still trembling on the shrubs, glittered in the
last yellow gleam, that lighted up the scene, and the air was filled
with fragrance, exhaled by the late shower, from herbs and flowers and
from the earth itself. But the lovely prospect, which Emily beheld from
the terrace, was no longer viewed by her with delight; she sighed deeply
as her eye wandered over it, and her spirits were in a state of such
dejection, that she could not think of her approaching return to La
Vallee, without tears, and seemed to mourn again the death of her
father, as if it had been an event of yesterday. Having reached the
pavilion, she seated herself at the open lattice, and, while her
eyes settled on the distant mountains, that overlooked Gascony, still
gleaming on the horizon, though the sun had now left the plains below,
'Alas!' said she, 'I return to your long-lost scenes, but shall meet
no more the parents, that were wont to render them delightful!--no
more shall see the smile of welcome, or hear the well-known voice of
fondness:--all will now be cold and silent in what was once my happy
home.'

Tears stole down her cheek, as the remembrance of what that home had
been, returned to her; but, after indulging her sorrow for some time,
she checked it, accusing herself of ingratitude in forgetting the
friends, that she possessed, while she lamented those that were
departed; and she, at length, left the pavilion and the terrace, without
having observed a shadow of Valancourt or of any other person.

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

completion: Em heads on over to Tholouse, moping over Valancourt the whole way. This is the kind of breakup that requires a few pints of Ben & Jerry's. Arriving at Tholouse is like taking a trip down memory lane with Valancourt. All Em can think about is the happy times they shared together. Just when she's getting particularly upset, she catches a glimpse of a familiar face on the terrace. It looks like Valancourt, it moves like Valancourt... and she's pretty convinced it is Valancourt. Probably-Valancourt hightails it off of the property before Em can react. Annette is chattering away to Em a few days later when she mentions that the gardener shot a robber in the garden the other night. Em's mind immediately flashes to the worst scenario. Could the "robber" be Valancourt? Apparently, the guy made it away without being killed. But there's definitely a track of blood on the ground. Things aren't looking good for guys who hang out in the bushes.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XI

  Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!
 Ah fields belov'd in vain!
 Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
 A stranger yet to pain!
 I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
 A momentary bliss bestow,
 As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
 My weary soul they seem to sooth.
     GRAY

On the following morning, Emily left Tholouse at an early hour, and
reached La Vallee about sun-set. With the melancholy she experienced on
the review of a place which had been the residence of her parents, and
the scene of her earliest delight, was mingled, after the first shock
had subsided, a tender and undescribable pleasure. For time had so far
blunted the acuteness of her grief, that she now courted every scene,
that awakened the memory of her friends; in every room, where she had
been accustomed to see them, they almost seemed to live again; and
she felt that La Vallee was still her happiest home. One of the first
apartments she visited, was that, which had been her father's
library, and here she seated herself in his arm-chair, and, while she
contemplated, with tempered resignation, the picture of past times,
which her memory gave, the tears she shed could scarcely be called those
of grief.

Soon after her arrival, she was surprised by a visit from the venerable
M. Barreaux, who came impatiently to welcome the daughter of his late
respected neighbour, to her long-deserted home. Emily was comforted by
the presence of an old friend, and they passed an interesting hour in
conversing of former times, and in relating some of the circumstances,
that had occurred to each, since they parted.

The evening was so far advanced, when M. Barreaux left Emily, that she
could not visit the garden that night; but, on the following morning,
she traced its long-regretted scenes with fond impatience; and, as she
walked beneath the groves, which her father had planted, and where
she had so often sauntered in affectionate conversation with him, his
countenance, his smile, even the accents of his voice, returned
with exactness to her fancy, and her heart melted to the tender
recollections.

This, too, was his favourite season of the year, at which they had often
together admired the rich and variegated tints of these woods and the
magical effect of autumnal lights upon the mountains; and now, the view
of these circumstances made memory eloquent. As she wandered pensively
on, she fancied the following address

 TO AUTUMN

 Sweet Autumn! how thy melancholy grace
 Steals on my heart, as through these shades I wind!
 Sooth'd by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace
 Each lonely image of the pensive mind!
 Lov'd scenes, lov'd friends--long lost! around me rise,
 And wake the melting thought, the tender tear!
 That tear, that thought, which more than mirth I prize--
 Sweet as the gradual tint, that paints thy year!
 Thy farewel smile, with fond regret, I view,
 Thy beaming lights, soft gliding o'er the woods;
 Thy distant landscape, touch'd with yellow hue
 While falls the lengthen'd gleam; thy winding floods,
 Now veil'd in shade, save where the skiff's white sails
 Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming ray.
 But now, e'en now!--the partial vision fails,
 And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away!
 Emblem of life!--Thus checquer'd is its plan,
 Thus joy succeeds to grief--thus smiles the varied man!

One of Emily's earliest enquiries, after her arrival at La Vallee, was
concerning Theresa, her father's old servant, whom it may be remembered
that M. Quesnel had turned from the house when it was let, without
any provision. Understanding that she lived in a cottage at no great
distance, Emily walked thither, and, on approaching, was pleased to see,
that her habitation was pleasantly situated on a green slope, sheltered
by a tuft of oaks, and had an appearance of comfort and extreme
neatness. She found the old woman within, picking vine-stalks, who, on
perceiving her young mistress, was nearly overcome with joy.

'Ah! my dear young lady!' said she, 'I thought I should never see
you again in this world, when I heard you was gone to that outlandish
country. I have been hardly used, since you went; I little thought they
would have turned me out of my old master's family in my old age!'

Emily lamented the circumstance, and then assured her, that she would
make her latter days comfortable, and expressed satisfaction, on seeing
her in so pleasant an habitation.

Theresa thanked her with tears, adding, 'Yes, mademoiselle, it is a
very comfortable home, thanks to the kind friend, who took me out of
my distress, when you was too far off to help me, and placed me here! I
little thought!--but no more of that--'

'And who was this kind friend?' said Emily: 'whoever it was, I shall
consider him as mine also.'

'Ah, mademoiselle! that friend forbad me to blazon the good deed--I must
not say, who it was. But how you are altered since I saw you last! You
look so pale now, and so thin, too; but then, there is my old master's
smile! Yes, that will never leave you, any more than the goodness, that
used to make him smile. Alas-a-day! the poor lost a friend indeed, when
he died!'

Emily was affected by this mention of her father, which Theresa
observing, changed the subject. 'I heard, mademoiselle,' said she,
'that Madame Cheron married a foreign gentleman, after all, and took you
abroad; how does she do?'

Emily now mentioned her death. 'Alas!' said Theresa, 'if she had not
been my master's sister, I should never have loved her; she was always
so cross. But how does that dear young gentleman do, M. Valancourt? he
was an handsome youth, and a good one; is he well, mademoiselle?'

Emily was much agitated.

'A blessing on him!' continued Theresa. 'Ah, my dear young lady, you
need not look so shy; I know all about it. Do you think I do not know,
that he loves you? Why, when you was away, mademoiselle, he used to
come to the chateau and walk about it, so disconsolate! He would go into
every room in the lower part of the house, and, sometimes, he would
sit himself down in a chair, with his arms across, and his eyes on
the floor, and there he would sit, and think, and think, for the hour
together. He used to be very fond of the south parlour, because I
told him it used to be yours; and there he would stay, looking at the
pictures, which I said you drew, and playing upon your lute, that hung
up by the window, and reading in your books, till sunset, and then he
must go back to his brother's chateau. And then--'

'It is enough, Theresa,' said Emily.--'How long have you lived in this
cottage--and how can I serve you? Will you remain here, or return and
live with me?'

'Nay, mademoiselle,' said Theresa, 'do not be so shy to your poor
old servant. I am sure it is no disgrace to like such a good young
gentleman.'

A deep sigh escaped from Emily.

'Ah! how he did love to talk of you! I loved him for that. Nay, for that
matter, he liked to hear me talk, for he did not say much himself. But I
soon found out what he came to the chateau about. Then, he would go
into the garden, and down to the terrace, and sit under that great tree
there, for the day together, with one of your books in his hand; but he
did not read much, I fancy; for one day I happened to go that way, and I
heard somebody talking. Who can be here? says I: I am sure I let nobody
into the garden, but the Chevalier. So I walked softly, to see who it
could be; and behold! it was the Chevalier himself, talking to himself
about you. And he repeated your name, and sighed so! and said he had
lost you for ever, for that you would never return for him. I thought he
was out in his reckoning there, but I said nothing, and stole away.'

'No more of this trifling,' said Emily, awakening from her reverie: 'it
displeases me.'

'But, when M. Quesnel let the chateau, I thought it would have broke the
Chevalier's heart.'

'Theresa,' said Emily seriously, 'you must name the Chevalier no more!'

'Not name him, mademoiselle!' cried Theresa: 'what times are come
up now? Why, I love the Chevalier next to my old master and you,
mademoiselle.'

'Perhaps your love was not well bestowed, then,' replied Emily, trying
to conceal her tears; 'but, however that might be, we shall meet no
more.'

'Meet no more!--not well bestowed!' exclaimed Theresa. 'What do I hear?
No, mademoiselle, my love was well bestowed, for it was the Chevalier
Valancourt, who gave me this cottage, and has supported me in my old
age, ever since M. Quesnel turned me from my master's house.'

'The Chevalier Valancourt!' said Emily, trembling extremely.

'Yes, mademoiselle, he himself, though he made me promise not to tell;
but how could one help, when one heard him ill spoken of? Ah! dear young
lady, you may well weep, if you have behaved unkindly to him, for a more
tender heart than his never young gentleman had. He found me out in my
distress, when you was too far off to help me; and M. Quesnel refused
to do so, and bade me go to service again--Alas! I was too old for
that!--The Chevalier found me, and bought me this cottage, and gave me
money to furnish it, and bade me seek out another poor woman to live
with me; and he ordered his brother's steward to pay me, every quarter,
that which has supported me in comfort. Think then, mademoiselle,
whether I have not reason to speak well of the Chevalier. And there are
others, who could have afforded it better than he: and I am afraid he
has hurt himself by his generosity, for quarter day is gone by long
since, and no money for me! But do not weep so, mademoiselle: you are
not sorry surely to hear of the poor Chevalier's goodness?'

'Sorry!' said Emily, and wept the more. 'But how long is it since you
have seen him?'

'Not this many a day, mademoiselle.'

'When did you hear of him?' enquired Emily, with increased emotion.

'Alas! never since he went away so suddenly into Languedoc; and he was
but just come from Paris then, or I should have seen him, I am sure.
Quarter day is gone by long since, and, as I said, no money for me; and
I begin to fear some harm has happened to him: and if I was not so far
from Estuviere and so lame, I should have gone to enquire before this
time; and I have nobody to send so far.'

Emily's anxiety, as to the fate of Valancourt, was now scarcely
endurable, and, since propriety would not suffer her to send to the
chateau of his brother, she requested that Theresa would immediately
hire some person to go to his steward from herself, and, when he asked
for the quarterage due to her, to make enquiries concerning Valancourt.
But she first made Theresa promise never to mention her name in this
affair, or ever with that of the Chevalier Valancourt; and her
former faithfulness to M. St. Aubert induced Emily to confide in her
assurances. Theresa now joyfully undertook to procure a person for this
errand, and then Emily, after giving her a sum of money to supply her
with present comforts, returned, with spirits heavily oppressed, to her
home, lamenting, more than ever, that an heart, possessed of so much
benevolence as Valancourt's, should have been contaminated by the vices
of the world, but affected by the delicate affection, which his kindness
to her old servant expressed for herself.

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

completion: Em heads on back to La Vallee to take her mind off of the possibility that Valancourt is dead. She has a nice time hanging out with Monsieur Barreaux, her father's old friend and neighbor. Since Em has a good heart, she also wants to figure out what happened to Theresa, her old servant dismissed by Quesnel. She finds Theresa in a comfortable home close by, looking none the worse for the wear. Who'da thunk it. Valancourt's been taking care of Theresa this whole time. Maybe the guy's not a degenerate gambler after all. But Theresa says she hasn't heard from Valancourt in a couple of days. Uh-oh.