prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XIII

  As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles,
  Placed far amid the melancholy main,
  (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,
  Or that aerial beings sometimes deign
  To stand embodied to our senses plain)
  Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,
  The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain,
  A vast assembly moving to and fro,
 Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.
     CASTLE OF INDOLENCE

Madame Cheron's avarice at length yielded to her vanity. Some very
splendid entertainments, which Madame Clairval had given, and the
general adulation, which was paid her, made the former more anxious than
before to secure an alliance, that would so much exalt her in her own
opinion and in that of the world. She proposed terms for the immediate
marriage of her niece, and offered to give Emily a dower, provided
Madame Clairval observed equal terms, on the part of her nephew. Madame
Clairval listened to the proposal, and, considering that Emily was the
apparent heiress of her aunt's wealth, accepted it. Meanwhile, Emily
knew nothing of the transaction, till Madame Cheron informed her, that
she must make preparation for the nuptials, which would be celebrated
without further delay; then, astonished and wholly unable to account for
this sudden conclusion, which Valancourt had not solicited (for he was
ignorant of what had passed between the elder ladies, and had not
dared to hope such good fortune), she decisively objected to it. Madame
Cheron, however, quite as jealous of contradiction now, as she had been
formerly, contended for a speedy marriage with as much vehemence as she
had formerly opposed whatever had the most remote possibility of leading
to it; and Emily's scruples disappeared, when she again saw Valancourt,
who was now informed of the happiness, designed for him, and came to
claim a promise of it from herself.

While preparations were making for these nuptials, Montoni became the
acknowledged lover of Madame Cheron; and, though Madame Clairval was
much displeased, when she heard of the approaching connection, and was
willing to prevent that of Valancourt with Emily, her conscience told
her, that she had no right thus to trifle with their peace, and Madame
Clairval, though a woman of fashion, was far less advanced than
her friend in the art of deriving satisfaction from distinction and
admiration, rather than from conscience.

Emily observed with concern the ascendancy, which Montoni had acquired
over Madame Cheron, as well as the increasing frequency of his visits;
and her own opinion of this Italian was confirmed by that of Valancourt,
who had always expressed a dislike of him. As she was, one morning,
sitting at work in the pavilion, enjoying the pleasant freshness of
spring, whose colours were now spread upon the landscape, and listening
to Valancourt, who was reading, but who often laid aside the book to
converse, she received a summons to attend Madame Cheron immediately,
and had scarcely entered the dressing-room, when she observed with
surprise the dejection of her aunt's countenance, and the contrasted
gaiety of her dress. 'So, niece!'--said Madame, and she stopped under
some degree of embarrassment.--'I sent for you--I--I wished to see you;
I have news to tell you. From this hour you must consider the Signor
Montoni as your uncle--we were married this morning.'

Astonished--not so much at the marriage, as at the secrecy with which
it had been concluded, and the agitation with which it was announced,
Emily, at length, attributed the privacy to the wish of Montoni, rather
than of her aunt. His wife, however, intended, that the contrary should
be believed, and therefore added, 'you see I wished to avoid a bustle;
but now the ceremony is over I shall do so no longer; and I wish to
announce to my servants that they must receive the Signor Montoni for
their master.' Emily made a feeble attempt to congratulate her on these
apparently imprudent nuptials. 'I shall now celebrate my marriage with
some splendour,' continued Madame Montoni, 'and to save time I shall
avail myself of the preparation that has been made for yours, which
will, of course, be delayed a little while. Such of your wedding clothes
as are ready I shall expect you will appear in, to do honour to this
festival. I also wish you to inform Monsieur Valancourt, that I have
changed my name, and he will acquaint Madame Clairval. In a few days
I shall give a grand entertainment, at which I shall request their
presence.'

Emily was so lost in surprise and various thought, that she made Madame
Montoni scarcely any reply, but, at her desire, she returned to inform
Valancourt of what had passed. Surprise was not his predominant emotion
on hearing of these hasty nuptials; and, when he learned, that they were
to be the means of delaying his own, and that the very ornaments of the
chateau, which had been prepared to grace the nuptial day of his Emily,
were to be degraded to the celebration of Madame Montoni's, grief and
indignation agitated him alternately. He could conceal neither from the
observation of Emily, whose efforts to abstract him from these serious
emotions, and to laugh at the apprehensive considerations, that assailed
him, were ineffectual; and, when, at length, he took leave, there was an
earnest tenderness in his manner, that extremely affected her; she even
shed tears, when he disappeared at the end of the terrace, yet knew not
exactly why she should do so.

Montoni now took possession of the chateau, and the command of its
inhabitants, with the ease of a man, who had long considered it to be
his own. His friend Cavigni, who had been extremely serviceable,
in having paid Madame Cheron the attention and flattery, which she
required, but from which Montoni too often revolted, had apartments
assigned to him, and received from the domestics an equal degree of
obedience with the master of the mansion.

Within a few days, Madame Montoni, as she had promised, gave a
magnificent entertainment to a very numerous company, among whom was
Valancourt; but at which Madame Clairval excused herself from attending.
There was a concert, ball and supper. Valancourt was, of course, Emily's
partner, and though, when he gave a look to the decorations of the
apartments, he could not but remember, that they were designed for
other festivities, than those they now contributed to celebrate, he
endeavoured to check his concern by considering, that a little
while only would elapse before they would be given to their original
destination. During this evening, Madame Montoni danced, laughed
and talked incessantly; while Montoni, silent, reserved and somewhat
haughty, seemed weary of the parade, and of the frivolous company it had
drawn together.

This was the first and the last entertainment, given in celebration
of their nuptials. Montoni, though the severity of his temper and the
gloominess of his pride prevented him from enjoying such festivities,
was extremely willing to promote them. It was seldom, that he could meet
in any company a man of more address, and still seldomer one of more
understanding, than himself; the balance of advantage in such parties,
or in the connections, which might arise from them, must, therefore, be
on his side; and, knowing, as he did, the selfish purposes, for which
they are generally frequented, he had no objection to measure his
talents of dissimulation with those of any other competitor for
distinction and plunder. But his wife, who, when her own interest was
immediately concerned, had sometimes more discernment than vanity,
acquired a consciousness of her inferiority to other women, in personal
attractions, which, uniting with the jealousy natural to the discovery,
counteracted his readiness for mingling with all the parties Tholouse
could afford. Till she had, as she supposed, the affections of an
husband to lose, she had no motive for discovering the unwelcome truth,
and it had never obtruded itself upon her; but, now that it influenced
her policy, she opposed her husband's inclination for company, with the
more eagerness, because she believed him to be really as well received
in the female society of the place, as, during his addresses to her, he
had affected to be.

A few weeks only had elapsed, since the marriage, when Madame Montoni
informed Emily, that the Signor intended to return to Italy, as soon as
the necessary preparation could be made for so long a journey. 'We shall
go to Venice,' said she, 'where the Signor has a fine mansion, and from
thence to his estate in Tuscany. Why do you look so grave, child?--You,
who are so fond of a romantic country and fine views, will doubtless be
delighted with this journey.'

'Am I then to be of the party, madam?' said Emily, with extreme surprise
and emotion. 'Most certainly,' replied her aunt, 'how could you imagine
we should leave you behind? But I see you are thinking of the Chevalier;
he is not yet, I believe, informed of the journey, but he very soon
will be so. Signor Montoni is gone to acquaint Madame Clairval of our
journey, and to say, that the proposed connection between the families
must from this time be thought of no more.'

The unfeeling manner, in which Madame Montoni thus informed her niece,
that she must be separated, perhaps for ever, from the man, with whom
she was on the point of being united for life, added to the dismay,
which she must otherwise have suffered at such intelligence. When
she could speak, she asked the cause of the sudden change in Madame's
sentiments towards Valancourt, but the only reply she could obtain was,
that the Signor had forbade the connection, considering it to be greatly
inferior to what Emily might reasonably expect.

'I now leave the affair entirely to the Signor,' added Madame Montoni,
'but I must say, that M. Valancourt never was a favourite with me, and
I was overpersuaded, or I should not have given my consent to the
connection. I was weak enough--I am so foolish sometimes!--to suffer
other people's uneasiness to affect me, and so my better judgment
yielded to your affliction. But the Signor has very properly pointed out
the folly of this, and he shall not have to reprove me a second time. I
am determined, that you shall submit to those, who know how to guide you
better than yourself--I am determined, that you shall be conformable.'

Emily would have been astonished at the assertions of this eloquent
speech, had not her mind been so overwhelmed by the sudden shock it had
received, that she scarcely heard a word of what was latterly addressed
to her. Whatever were the weaknesses of Madame Montoni, she might have
avoided to accuse herself with those of compassion and tenderness to the
feelings of others, and especially to those of Emily. It was the same
ambition, that lately prevailed upon her to solicit an alliance with
Madame Clairval's family, which induced her to withdraw from it, now
that her marriage with Montoni had exalted her self-consequence, and,
with it, her views for her niece.

Emily was, at this time, too much affected to employ either
remonstrance, or entreaty on this topic; and when, at length, she
attempted the latter, her emotion overcame her speech, and she retired
to her apartment, to think, if in the present state of her mind to think
was possible, upon this sudden and overwhelming subject. It was very
long, before her spirits were sufficiently composed to permit the
reflection, which, when it came, was dark and even terrible. She saw,
that Montoni sought to aggrandise himself in his disposal of her, and
it occurred, that his friend Cavigni was the person, for whom he was
interested. The prospect of going to Italy was still rendered darker,
when she considered the tumultuous situation of that country, then
torn by civil commotion, where every petty state was at war with its
neighbour, and even every castle liable to the attack of an invader.
She considered the person, to whose immediate guidance she would
be committed, and the vast distance, that was to separate her from
Valancourt, and, at the recollection of him, every other image vanished
from her mind, and every thought was again obscured by grief.

In this perturbed state she passed some hours, and, when she was
summoned to dinner, she entreated permission to remain in her own
apartment; but Madame Montoni was alone, and the request was refused.
Emily and her aunt said little during the repast; the one occupied
by her griefs, the other engrossed by the disappointment, which the
unexpected absence of Montoni occasioned; for not only was her vanity
piqued by the neglect, but her jealousy alarmed by what she considered
as a mysterious engagement. When the cloth was drawn and they were
alone, Emily renewed the mention of Valancourt; but her aunt, neither
softened to pity, or awakened to remorse, became enraged, that her will
should be opposed, and the authority of Montoni questioned, though this
was done by Emily with her usual gentleness, who, after a long, and
torturing conversation, retired in tears.

As she crossed the hall, a person entered it by the great door, whom, as
her eyes hastily glanced that way, she imagined to be Montoni, and she
was passing on with quicker steps, when she heard the well-known voice
of Valancourt.

'Emily, O! my Emily!' cried he in a tone faltering with impatience,
while she turned, and, as he advanced, was alarmed at the expression of
his countenance and the eager desperation of his air. 'In tears, Emily!
I would speak with you,' said he, 'I have much to say; conduct me to
where we may converse. But you tremble--you are ill! Let me lead you to
a seat.'

He observed the open door of an apartment, and hastily took her hand
to lead her thither; but she attempted to withdraw it, and said, with a
languid smile, 'I am better already; if you wish to see my aunt she
is in the dining-parlour.' 'I must speak with YOU, my Emily,' replied
Valancourt, 'Good God! is it already come to this? Are you indeed so
willing to resign me?' But this is an improper place--I am overheard.
Let me entreat your attention, if only for a few minutes.'--'When you
have seen my aunt,' said Emily. 'I was wretched enough when I came
hither,' exclaimed Valancourt, 'do not increase my misery by this
coldness--this cruel refusal.'

The despondency, with which he spoke this, affected her almost to tears,
but she persisted in refusing to hear him, till he had conversed with
Madame Montoni. 'Where is her husband, where, then, is Montoni?' said
Valancourt, in an altered tone: 'it is he, to whom I must speak.'

Emily, terrified for the consequence of the indignation, that flashed
in his eyes, tremblingly assured him, that Montoni was not at home,
and entreated he would endeavour to moderate his resentment. At the
tremulous accents of her voice, his eyes softened instantly from
wildness into tenderness. 'You are ill, Emily,' said he, 'they will
destroy us both! Forgive me, that I dared to doubt your affection.'

Emily no longer opposed him, as he led her into an adjoining parlour;
the manner, in which he had named Montoni, had so much alarmed her
for his own safety, that she was now only anxious to prevent the
consequences of his just resentment. He listened to her entreaties,
with attention, but replied to them only with looks of despondency and
tenderness, concealing, as much as possible, the sentiments he
felt towards Montoni, that he might soothe the apprehensions, which
distressed her. But she saw the veil he had spread over his resentment,
and, his assumed tranquillity only alarming her more, she urged, at
length, the impolicy of forcing an interview with Montoni, and of
taking any measure, which might render their separation irremediable.
Valancourt yielded to these remonstrances, and her affecting entreaties
drew from him a promise, that, however Montoni might persist in his
design of disuniting them, he would not seek to redress his wrongs by
violence. 'For my sake,' said Emily, 'let the consideration of what I
should suffer deter you from such a mode of revenge!' 'For your sake,
Emily,' replied Valancourt, his eyes filling with tears of tenderness
and grief, while he gazed upon her. 'Yes--yes--I shall subdue myself.
But, though I have given you my solemn promise to do this, do not
expect, that I can tamely submit to the authority of Montoni; if I
could, I should be unworthy of you. Yet, O Emily! how long may he
condemn me to live without you,--how long may it be before you return to
France!'

Emily endeavoured to sooth him with assurances of her unalterable
affection, and by representing, that, in little more than a year, she
should be her own mistress, as far as related to her aunt, from whose
guardianship her age would then release her; assurances, which gave
little consolation to Valancourt, who considered, that she would then
be in Italy and in the power of those, whose dominion over her would not
cease with their rights; but he affected to be consoled by them.
Emily, comforted by the promise she had obtained, and by his apparent
composure, was about to leave him, when her aunt entered the room.
She threw a glance of sharp reproof upon her niece, who immediately
withdrew, and of haughty displeasure upon Valancourt.

'This is not the conduct I should have expected from you, sir;' said
she, 'I did not expect to see you in my house, after you had been
informed, that your visits were no longer agreeable, much less, that
you would seek a clandestine interview with my niece, and that she would
grant one.'

Valancourt, perceiving it necessary to vindicate Emily from such a
design, explained, that the purpose of his own visit had been to request
an interview with Montoni, and he then entered upon the subject of it,
with the tempered spirit which the sex, rather than the respectability,
of Madame Montoni, demanded.

His expostulations were answered with severe rebuke; she lamented again,
that her prudence had ever yielded to what she termed compassion, and
added, that she was so sensible of the folly of her former consent,
that, to prevent the possibility of a repetition, she had committed the
affair entirely to the conduct of Signor Montoni.

The feeling eloquence of Valancourt, however, at length, made her
sensible in some measure of her unworthy conduct, and she became
susceptible to shame, but not remorse: she hated Valancourt, who
awakened her to this painful sensation, and, in proportion as she grew
dissatisfied with herself, her abhorrence of him increased. This was
also the more inveterate, because his tempered words and manner were
such as, without accusing her, compelled her to accuse herself, and
neither left her a hope, that the odious portrait was the caricature
of his prejudice, or afforded her an excuse for expressing the violent
resentment, with which she contemplated it. At length, her anger rose
to such an height, that Valancourt was compelled to leave the house
abruptly, lest he should forfeit his own esteem by an intemperate reply.
He was then convinced, that from Madame Montoni he had nothing to hope,
for what of either pity, or justice could be expected from a person, who
could feel the pain of guilt, without the humility of repentance?

To Montoni he looked with equal despondency, since it was nearly
evident, that this plan of separation originated with him, and it was
not probable, that he would relinquish his own views to entreaties, or
remonstrances, which he must have foreseen and have been prepared to
resist. Yet, remembering his promise to Emily, and more solicitous,
concerning his love, than jealous of his consequence, Valancourt was
careful to do nothing that might unnecessarily irritate Montoni, he
wrote to him, therefore, not to demand an interview, but to solicit one,
and, having done this, he endeavoured to wait with calmness his reply.

Madame Clairval was passive in the affair. When she gave her approbation
to Valancourt's marriage, it was in the belief, that Emily would be the
heiress of Madame Montoni's fortune; and, though, upon the nuptials
of the latter, when she perceived the fallacy of this expectation, her
conscience had withheld her from adopting any measure to prevent the
union, her benevolence was not sufficiently active to impel her towards
any step, that might now promote it. She was, on the contrary, secretly
pleased, that Valancourt was released from an engagement, which she
considered to be as inferior, in point of fortune, to his merit, as
his alliance was thought by Montoni to be humiliating to the beauty of
Emily; and, though her pride was wounded by this rejection of a member
of her family, she disdained to shew resentment otherwise, than by
silence.

Montoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said, that as an interview could
neither remove the objections of the one, or overcome the wishes of the
other, it would serve only to produce useless altercation between them.
He, therefore, thought proper to refuse it.

In consideration of the policy, suggested by Emily, and of his promise
to her, Valancourt restrained the impulse, that urged him to the house
of Montoni, to demand what had been denied to his entreaties. He only
repeated his solicitations to see him; seconding them with all the
arguments his situation could suggest. Thus several days passed, in
remonstrance, on one side, and inflexible denial, on the other; for,
whether it was fear, or shame, or the hatred, which results from both,
that made Montoni shun the man he had injured, he was peremptory in
his refusal, and was neither softened to pity by the agony, which
Valancourt's letters pourtrayed, or awakened to a repentance of his
own injustice by the strong remonstrances he employed. At length,
Valancourt's letters were returned unopened, and then, in the first
moments of passionate despair, he forgot every promise to Emily, except
the solemn one, which bound him to avoid violence, and hastened to
Montoni's chateau, determined to see him by whatever other means might
be necessary. Montoni was denied, and Valancourt, when he afterwards
enquired for Madame, and Ma'amselle St. Aubert, was absolutely refused
admittance by the servants. Not choosing to submit himself to a contest
with these, he, at length, departed, and, returning home in a state of
mind approaching to frenzy, wrote to Emily of what had passed, expressed
without restraint all the agony of his heart, and entreated, that, since
he must not otherwise hope to see her immediately, she would allow him
an interview unknown to Montoni. Soon after he had dispatched this, his
passions becoming more temperate, he was sensible of the error he had
committed in having given Emily a new subject of distress in the strong
mention of his own suffering, and would have given half the world, had
it been his, to recover the letter. Emily, however, was spared the
pain she must have received from it by the suspicious policy of Madame
Montoni, who had ordered, that all letters, addressed to her niece,
should be delivered to herself, and who, after having perused this and
indulged the expressions of resentment, which Valancourt's mention of
Montoni provoked, had consigned it to the flames.

Montoni, meanwhile, every day more impatient to leave France, gave
repeated orders for dispatch to the servants employed in preparations
for the journey, and to the persons, with whom he was transacting some
particular business. He preserved a steady silence to the letters in
which Valancourt, despairing of greater good, and having subdued the
passion, that had transgressed against his policy, solicited only the
indulgence of being allowed to bid Emily farewell. But, when the latter
[Valancourt] learned, that she was really to set out in a very few days,
and that it was designed he should see her no more, forgetting every
consideration of prudence, he dared, in a second letter to Emily, to
propose a clandestine marriage. This also was transmitted to Madame
Montoni, and the last day of Emily's stay at Tholouse arrived, without
affording Valancourt even a line to sooth his sufferings, or a hope,
that he should be allowed a parting interview.

During this period of torturing suspense to Valancourt, Emily was sunk
into that kind of stupor, with which sudden and irremediable misfortune
sometimes overwhelms the mind. Loving him with the tenderest affection,
and having long been accustomed to consider him as the friend and
companion of all her future days, she had no ideas of happiness, that
were not connected with him. What, then, must have been her suffering,
when thus suddenly they were to be separated, perhaps, for ever,
certainly to be thrown into distant parts of the world, where they could
scarcely hear of each other's existence; and all this in obedience to
the will of a stranger, for such as Montoni, and of a person, who had
but lately been anxious to hasten their nuptials! It was in vain, that
she endeavoured to subdue her grief, and resign herself to an event,
which she could not avoid. The silence of Valancourt afflicted more than
it surprised her, since she attributed it to its just occasion; but,
when the day, preceding that, on which she was to quit Tholouse,
arrived, and she had heard no mention of his being permitted to take
leave of her, grief overcame every consideration, that had made her
reluctant to speak of him, and she enquired of Madame Montoni, whether
this consolation had been refused. Her aunt informed her that it had,
adding, that, after the provocation she had herself received from
Valancourt, in their last interview, and the persecution, which the
Signor had suffered from his letters, no entreaties should avail to
procure it.

'If the Chevalier expected this favour from us,' said she, 'he should
have conducted himself in a very different manner; he should have waited
patiently, till he knew whether we were disposed to grant it, and not
have come and reproved me, because I did not think proper to bestow
my niece upon him,--and then have persisted in troubling the Signor,
because he did not think proper to enter into any dispute about
so childish an affair. His behaviour throughout has been extremely
presumptuous and impertinent, and I desire, that I may never hear his
name repeated, and that you will get the better of those foolish sorrows
and whims, and look like other people, and not appear with that dismal
countenance, as if you were ready to cry. For, though you say nothing,
you cannot conceal your grief from my penetration. I can see you are
ready to cry at this moment, though I am reproving you for it; aye, even
now, in spite of my commands.'

Emily, having turned away to hide her tears, quitted the room to indulge
them, and the day was passed in an intensity of anguish, such as she
had, perhaps, never known before. When she withdrew to her chamber for
the night, she remained in the chair where she had placed herself, on
entering the room, absorbed in her grief, till long after every member
of the family, except herself, was retired to rest. She could not divest
herself of a belief, that she had parted with Valancourt to meet no
more; a belief, which did not arise merely from foreseen circumstances,
for, though the length of the journey she was about to commence,
the uncertainty as to the period of her return, together with the
prohibitions she had received, seemed to justify it, she yielded also to
an impression, which she mistook for a pre-sentiment, that she was going
from Valancourt for ever. How dreadful to her imagination, too, was the
distance that would separate them--the Alps, those tremendous barriers!
would rise, and whole countries extend between the regions where each
must exist! To live in adjoining provinces, to live even in the same
country, though without seeing him, was comparative happiness to the
conviction of this dreadful length of distance.

Her mind was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of her
state, and the belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last time,
that she suddenly became very faint, and, looking round the chamber for
something, that might revive her, she observed the casements, and had
just strength to throw one open, near which she seated herself. The air
recalled her spirits, and the still moon-light, that fell upon the
elms of a long avenue, fronting the window, somewhat soothed them,
and determined her to try whether exercise and the open air would not
relieve the intense pain that bound her temples. In the chateau all was
still; and, passing down the great stair-case into the hall, from whence
a passage led immediately to the garden, she softly and unheard, as she
thought, unlocked the door, and entered the avenue. Emily passed on with
steps now hurried, and now faltering, as, deceived by the shadows
among the trees, she fancied she saw some person move in the distant
perspective, and feared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni. Her
desire, however, to re-visit the pavilion, where she had passed so many
happy hours with Valancourt, and had admired with him the extensive
prospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony, overcame her
apprehension of being observed, and she moved on towards the terrace,
which, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole of the
lower one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble steps, that
terminated the avenue.

Having reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for her
distance from the chateau now increased the fear, which the stillness
and obscurity of the hour had awakened. But, perceiving nothing that
could justify it, she ascended to the terrace, where the moon-light
shewed the long broad walk, with the pavilion at its extremity, while
the rays silvered the foliage of the high trees and shrubs, that
bordered it on the right, and the tufted summits of those, that rose
to a level with the balustrade on the left, from the garden below. Her
distance from the chateau again alarming her, she paused to listen; the
night was so calm, that no sound could have escaped her, but she heard
only the plaintive sweetness of the nightingale, with the light shiver
of the leaves, and she pursued her way towards the pavilion, having
reached which, its obscurity did not prevent the emotion, that a fuller
view of its well-known scene would have excited. The lattices were
thrown back, and shewed beyond their embowered arch the moon-light
landscape, shadowy and soft; its groves, and plains extending gradually
and indistinctly to the eye, its distant mountains catching a stronger
gleam, and the nearer river reflecting the moon, and trembling to her
rays.

Emily, as she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features of
this scene only as they served to bring Valancourt more immediately to
her fancy. 'Ah!' said she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw herself
into a chair by the window, 'how often have we sat together in this
spot--often have looked upon that landscape! Never, never more shall we
view it together--never--never more, perhaps, shall we look upon each
other!'

Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror--a voice spoke near her in
the pavilion; she shrieked--it spoke again, and she distinguished the
well-known tones of Valancourt. It was indeed Valancourt who supported
her in his arms! For some moments their emotion would not suffer either
to speak. 'Emily,' said Valancourt at length, as he pressed her hand in
his. 'Emily!' and he was again silent, but the accent, in which he had
pronounced her name, expressed all his tenderness and sorrow.

'O my Emily!' he resumed, after a long pause, 'I do then see you once
again, and hear again the sound of that voice! I have haunted this
place--these gardens, for many--many nights, with a faint, very faint
hope of seeing you. This was the only chance that remained to me, and
thank heaven! it has at length succeeded--I am not condemned to absolute
despair!'

Emily said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive of her
unalterable affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation of
his mind; but Valancourt could for some time only utter incoherent
expressions of his emotions; and, when he was somewhat more composed, he
said, 'I came hither, soon after sun-set, and have been watching in the
gardens, and in this pavilion ever since; for, though I had now given up
all hope of seeing you, I could not resolve to tear myself from a place
so near to you, and should probably have lingered about the chateau till
morning dawned. O how heavily the moments have passed, yet with what
various emotion have they been marked, as I sometimes thought I heard
footsteps, and fancied you were approaching, and then again--perceived
only a dead and dreary silence! But, when you opened the door of the
pavilion, and the darkness prevented my distinguishing with certainty,
whether it was my love--my heart beat so strongly with hopes and fears,
that I could not speak. The instant I heard the plaintive accents of
your voice, my doubts vanished, but not my fears, till you spoke of
me; then, losing the apprehension of alarming you in the excess of my
emotion, I could no longer be silent. O Emily! these are moments, in
which joy and grief struggle so powerfully for pre-eminence, that the
heart can scarcely support the contest!'

Emily's heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joy
she felt on thus meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she was
lamenting, that they must probably meet no more, soon melted into grief,
as reflection stole over her thoughts, and imagination prompted visions
of the future. She struggled to recover the calm dignity of mind, which
was necessary to support her through this last interview, and which
Valancourt found it utterly impossible to attain, for the transports of
his joy changed abruptly into those of suffering, and he expressed in
the most impassioned language his horror of this separation, and his
despair of their ever meeting again. Emily wept silently as she listened
to him, and then, trying to command her own distress, and to sooth his,
she suggested every circumstance that could lead to hope. But the energy
of his fears led him instantly to detect the friendly fallacies, which
she endeavoured to impose on herself and him, and also to conjure up
illusions too powerful for his reason.

'You are going from me,' said he, 'to a distant country, O how
distant!--to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too,
who will try to make you forget me, and to promote new connections! How
can I know this, and not know, that you will never return for me--never
can be mine.' His voice was stifled by sighs.

'You believe, then,' said Emily, 'that the pangs I suffer proceed from a
trivial and temporary interest; you believe--'

'Suffer!' interrupted Valancourt, 'suffer for me! O Emily--how
sweet--how bitter are those words; what comfort, what anguish do they
give! I ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection, yet such
is the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion,
however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the object
of its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel revived, as by a
new conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to you; and, wanting
these, I relapse into doubt, and too often into despondency.' Then
seeming to recollect himself, he exclaimed, 'But what a wretch am I,
thus to torture you, and in these moments, too! I, who ought to support
and comfort you!'

This reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing into
despondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again this
cruel separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that Emily
could no longer struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth his.
Valancourt, between these emotions of love and pity, lost the power, and
almost the wish, of repressing his agitation; and, in the intervals of
convulsive sobs, he, at one moment, kissed away her tears, then told
her cruelly, that possibly she might never again weep for him, and then
tried to speak more calmly, but only exclaimed, 'O Emily--my heart will
break!--I cannot--cannot leave you! Now--I gaze upon that countenance,
now I hold you in my arms! a little while, and all this will appear a
dream. I shall look, and cannot see you; shall try to recollect your
features--and the impression will be fled from my imagination;--to hear
the tones of your voice, and even memory will be silent!--I cannot,
cannot leave you! why should we confide the happiness of our whole lives
to the will of people, who have no right to interrupt, and, except in
giving you to me, have no power to promote it? O Emily! venture to trust
your own heart, venture to be mine for ever!' His voice trembled, and
he was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was silent also, when
Valancourt proceeded to propose an immediate marriage, and that at an
early hour on the following morning, she should quit Madame Montoni's
house, and be conducted by him to the church of the Augustines, where a
friar should await to unite them.

The silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love and
despair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely possible
for her to oppose it;--when her heart was softened by the sorrows of
a separation, that might be eternal, and her reason obscured by the
illusions of love and terror, encouraged him to hope, that it would not
be rejected. 'Speak, my Emily!' said Valancourt eagerly, 'let me hear
your voice, let me hear you confirm my fate.' she spoke not; her cheek
was cold, and her senses seemed to fail her, but she did not faint. To
Valancourt's terrified imagination she appeared to be dying; he called
upon her name, rose to go to the chateau for assistance, and then,
recollecting her situation, feared to go, or to leave her for a moment.

After a few minutes, she drew a deep sigh, and began to revive. The
conflict she had suffered, between love and the duty she at present owed
to her father's sister; her repugnance to a clandestine marriage,
her fear of emerging on the world with embarrassments, such as
might ultimately involve the object of her affection in misery and
repentance;--all this various interest was too powerful for a mind,
already enervated by sorrow, and her reason had suffered a transient
suspension. But duty, and good sense, however hard the conflict, at
length, triumphed over affection and mournful presentiment; above all,
she dreaded to involve Valancourt in obscurity and vain regret, which
she saw, or thought she saw, must be the too certain consequence of a
marriage in their present circumstances; and she acted, perhaps, with
somewhat more than female fortitude, when she resolved to endure a
present, rather than provoke a distant misfortune.

With a candour, that proved how truly she esteemed and loved him,
and which endeared her to him, if possible, more than ever, she told
Valancourt all her reasons for rejecting his proposals. Those, which
influenced her concerning his future welfare, he instantly refuted, or
rather contradicted; but they awakened tender considerations for her,
which the frenzy of passion and despair had concealed before, and love,
which had but lately prompted him to propose a clandestine and immediate
marriage, now induced him to renounce it. The triumph was almost too
much for his heart; for Emily's sake, he endeavoured to stifle his
grief, but the swelling anguish would not be restrained. 'O Emily!' said
he, 'I must leave you--I MUST leave you, and I know it is for ever!'

Convulsive sobs again interrupted his words, and they wept together in
silence, till Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered, and
the impropriety of prolonging an interview, which might subject her to
censure, summoned all her fortitude to utter a last farewell.

'Stay!' said Valancourt, 'I conjure you stay, for I have much to tell
you. The agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak only
on the subject that occupied it;--I have forborne to mention a doubt of
much importance, partly, lest it should appear as if I told it with
an ungenerous view of alarming you into a compliance with my late
proposal.'

Emily, much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from the
pavilion, and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as follows:

'This Montoni: I have heard some strange hints concerning him. Are you
certain he is of Madame Quesnel's family, and that his fortune is what
it appears to be?'

'I have no reason to doubt either,' replied Emily, in a voice of alarm.
'Of the first, indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no certain means
of judging of the latter, and I entreat you will tell me all you have
heard.'

'That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactory
information. I gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was speaking
to another person of this Montoni. They were talking of his marriage;
the Italian said, that if he was the person he meant, he was not likely
to make Madame Cheron happy. He proceeded to speak of him in general
terms of dislike, and then gave some particular hints, concerning his
character, that excited my curiosity, and I ventured to ask him a few
questions. He was reserved in his replies, but, after hesitating for
some time, he owned, that he had understood abroad, that Montoni was a
man of desperate fortune and character. He said something of a castle
of Montoni's, situated among the Apennines, and of some strange
circumstances, that might be mentioned, as to his former mode of life.
I pressed him to inform me further, but I believe the strong interest I
felt was visible in my manner, and alarmed him; for no entreaties could
prevail with him to give any explanation of the circumstances he had
alluded to, or to mention any thing further concerning Montoni. I
observed to him, that, if Montoni was possessed of a castle in the
Apennines, it appeared from such a circumstance, that he was of some
family, and also seemed to contradict the report, that he was a man of
entirely broken fortunes. He shook his head, and looked as if he could
have said a great deal, but made no reply.

'A hope of learning something more satisfactory, or more positive,
detained me in his company a considerable time, and I renewed the
subject repeatedly, but the Italian wrapped himself up in reserve,
said--that what he had mentioned he had caught only from a floating
report, and that reports frequently arose from personal malice, and were
very little to be depended upon. I forbore to press the subject farther,
since it was obvious that he was alarmed for the consequence of what
he had already said, and I was compelled to remain in uncertainty on a
point where suspense is almost intolerable. Think, Emily, what I must
suffer to see you depart for a foreign country, committed to the power
of a man of such doubtful character as is this Montoni! But I will not
alarm you unnecessarily;--it is possible, as the Italian said, at first,
that this is not the Montoni he alluded to. Yet, Emily, consider well
before you resolve to commit yourself to him. O! I must not trust
myself to speak--or I shall renounce all the motives, which so lately
influenced me to resign the hope of your becoming mine immediately.'

Valancourt walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emily
remained leaning on the balustrade in deep thought. The information she
had just received excited, perhaps, more alarm than it could justify,
and raised once more the conflict of contrasted interests. She had never
liked Montoni. The fire and keenness of his eye, its proud exultation,
its bold fierceness, its sullen watchfulness, as occasion, and even
slight occasion, had called forth the latent soul, she had often
observed with emotion; while from the usual expression of his
countenance she had always shrunk. From such observations she was the
more inclined to believe, that it was this Montoni, of whom the Italian
had uttered his suspicious hints. The thought of being solely in his
power, in a foreign land, was terrifying to her, but it was not
by terror alone that she was urged to an immediate marriage with
Valancourt. The tenderest love had already pleaded his cause, but had
been unable to overcome her opinion, as to her duty, her disinterested
considerations for Valancourt, and the delicacy, which made her revolt
from a clandestine union. It was not to be expected, that a vague terror
would be more powerful, than the united influence of love and grief. But
it recalled all their energy, and rendered a second conquest necessary.

With Valancourt, whose imagination was now awake to the suggestion of
every passion; whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength by
the mere mention of them, and became every instant more powerful, as
his mind brooded over them--with Valancourt no second conquest was
attainable. He thought he saw in the clearest light, and love assisted
the fear, that this journey to Italy would involve Emily in misery; he
determined, therefore, to persevere in opposing it, and in conjuring her
to bestow upon him the title of her lawful protector.

'Emily!' said he, with solemn earnestness, 'this is no time for
scrupulous distinctions, for weighing the dubious and comparatively
trifling circumstances, that may affect our future comfort. I now see,
much more clearly than before, the train of serious dangers you are
going to encounter with a man of Montoni's character. Those dark
hints of the Italian spoke much, but not more than the idea I have of
Montoni's disposition, as exhibited even in his countenance. I think I
see at this moment all that could have been hinted, written there. He is
the Italian, whom I fear, and I conjure you for your own sake, as well
as for mine, to prevent the evils I shudder to foresee. O Emily! let my
tenderness, my arms withhold you from them--give me the right to defend
you!'

Emily only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate and to
entreat with all the energy that love and apprehension could inspire.
But, as his imagination magnified to her the possible evils she was
going to meet, the mists of her own fancy began to dissipate, and
allowed her to distinguish the exaggerated images, which imposed on his
reason. She considered, that there was no proof of Montoni being the
person, whom the stranger had meant; that, even if he was so, the
Italian had noticed his character and broken fortunes merely from
report; and that, though the countenance of Montoni seemed to give
probability to a part of the rumour, it was not by such circumstances
that an implicit belief of it could be justified. These considerations
would probably not have arisen so distinctly to her mind, at this
time, had not the terrors of Valancourt presented to her such obvious
exaggerations of her danger, as incited her to distrust the fallacies of
passion. But, while she endeavoured in the gentlest manner to convince
him of his error, she plunged him into a new one. His voice and
countenance changed to an expression of dark despair. 'Emily!' said
he, 'this, this moment is the bitterest that is yet come to me. You
do not--cannot love me!--It would be impossible for you to reason thus
coolly, thus deliberately, if you did. I, _I_ am torn with anguish at
the prospect of our separation, and of the evils that may await you in
consequence of it; I would encounter any hazards to prevent it--to save
you. No! Emily, no!--you cannot love me.'

'We have now little time to waste in exclamation, or assertion,' said
Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion: 'if you are yet to learn how
dear you are, and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of mine can
give you conviction.'

The last words faltered on her lips, and her tears flowed fast. These
words and tears brought, once more, and with instantaneous force,
conviction of her love to Valancourt. He could only exclaim, 'Emily!
Emily!' and weep over the hand he pressed to his lips; but she, after
some moments, again roused herself from the indulgence of sorrow, and
said, 'I must leave you; it is late, and my absence from the chateau may
be discovered. Think of me--love me--when I am far away; the belief of
this will be my comfort!'

'Think of you!--love you!' exclaimed Valancourt.

'Try to moderate these transports,' said Emily, 'for my sake, try.'

'For your sake!'

'Yes, for my sake,' replied Emily, in a tremulous voice, 'I cannot leave
you thus!'

'Then do not leave me!' said Valancourt, with quickness. 'Why should we
part, or part for longer than till to-morrow?'

'I am, indeed I am, unequal to these moments,' replied Emily, 'you tear
my heart, but I never can consent to this hasty, imprudent proposal!'

'If we could command our time, my Emily, it should not be thus hasty; we
must submit to circumstances.'

'We must indeed! I have already told you all my heart--my spirits are
gone. You allowed the force of my objections, till your tenderness
called up vague terrors, which have given us both unnecessary anguish.
Spare me! do not oblige me to repeat the reasons I have already urged.'

'Spare you!' cried Valancourt, 'I am a wretch--a very wretch, that have
felt only for myself!--I! who ought to have shewn the fortitude of a
man, who ought to have supported you, I! have increased your sufferings
by the conduct of a child! Forgive me, Emily! think of the distraction
of my mind now that I am about to part with all that is dear to me--and
forgive me! When you are gone, I shall recollect with bitter remorse
what I have made you suffer, and shall wish in vain that I could see
you, if only for a moment, that I might sooth your grief.'

Tears again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him. 'I will shew
myself more worthy of your love,' said Valancourt, at length; 'I will
not prolong these moments. My Emily--my own Emily! never forget me! God
knows when we shall meet again! I resign you to his care.--O God!--O
God!--protect and bless her!'

He pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunk almost lifeless on his
bosom, and neither wept, nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding his own
distress, tried to comfort and re-assure her, but she appeared totally
unaffected by what he said, and a sigh, which she uttered, now and then,
was all that proved she had not fainted.

He supported her slowly towards the chateau, weeping and speaking to
her; but she answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate, that
terminated the avenue, she seemed to have recovered her consciousness,
and, looking round, perceived how near they were to the chateau. 'We
must part here,' said she, stopping, 'Why prolong these moments? Teach
me the fortitude I have forgot.'

Valancourt struggled to assume a composed air. 'Farewell, my love!' said
he, in a voice of solemn tenderness--'trust me we shall meet again--meet
for each other--meet to part no more!' His voice faltered, but,
recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer tone. 'You know not what I shall
suffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no opportunity of conveying
to you my letters, yet I tremble to think how few may occur. And trust
me, love, for your dear sake, I will try to bear this absence with
fortitude. O how little I have shewn to-night!'

'Farewell!' said Emily faintly. 'When you are gone, I shall think of
many things I would have said to you.' 'And I of many--many!' said
Valancourt; 'I never left you yet, that I did not immediately remember
some question, or some entreaty, or some circumstance, concerning my
love, that I earnestly wished to mention, and feel wretched because I
could not. O Emily! this countenance, on which I now gaze--will, in a
moment, be gone from my eyes, and not all the efforts of fancy will be
able to recall it with exactness. O! what an infinite difference between
this moment and the next! NOW, I am in your presence, can behold you!
THEN, all will be a dreary blank--and I shall be a wanderer, exiled from
my only home!'

Valancourt again pressed her to his heart, and held her there in
silence, weeping. Tears once again calmed her oppressed mind. They again
bade each other farewell, lingered a moment, and then parted. Valancourt
seemed to force himself from the spot; he passed hastily up the avenue,
and Emily, as she moved slowly towards the chateau, heard his distant
steps. She listened to the sounds, as they sunk fainter and fainter,
till the melancholy stillness of night alone remained; and then
hurried to her chamber, to seek repose, which, alas! was fled from her
wretchedness.

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

completion: Madame Cheron is ready to lock Valancourt down as Emily's husband, still thinking that he's Mr. Moneybags. Madame Clairval, Valancourt's aunt, is all too happy to consent. After all, she thinks Emily is the sole heiress of Madame Cheron's fortune. Everyone's a little confused here. Oh yeah, and Madame Cheron casually lets Em know that she married Montoni. That was fast. So Madame Cheron is now Madame Montoni. Just to shake things up even more, Madame Montoni tells Emily that the whole family is going to Montoni's mansion in Venice. Yes, Emily, "family" includes you. And FYI, the wedding with Valancourt is off. Em is more than a little surprised and upset. Time to tell Valancourt. Valancourt is livid that his beloved bride is being yanked away from him. He tells Em that there are some nasty rumors about Montoni floating around. Valancourt tries to orchestrate a hasty marriage with Emily, but she refuses to run away with him. She's a proper lady, after all. Still, there are some major tears being shed. They plan to write letters and find a way to be together.


prompt:
Chapter: VOLUME 2 CHAPTER I

 Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see,
 My heart untravell'd still shall turn to thee.
     GOLDSMITH

The carriages were at the gates at an early hour; the bustle of the
domestics, passing to and fro in the galleries, awakened Emily from
harassing slumbers: her unquiet mind had, during the night, presented
her with terrific images and obscure circumstances, concerning her
affection and her future life. She now endeavoured to chase away the
impressions they had left on her fancy; but from imaginary evils she
awoke to the consciousness of real ones. Recollecting that she had
parted with Valancourt, perhaps for ever, her heart sickened as memory
revived. But she tried to dismiss the dismal forebodings that crowded on
her mind, and to restrain the sorrow which she could not subdue;
efforts which diffused over the settled melancholy of her countenance
an expression of tempered resignation, as a thin veil, thrown over
the features of beauty, renders them more interesting by a partial
concealment. But Madame Montoni observed nothing in this countenance
except its usual paleness, which attracted her censure. She told her
niece, that she had been indulging in fanciful sorrows, and begged she
would have more regard for decorum, than to let the world see that she
could not renounce an improper attachment; at which Emily's pale cheek
became flushed with crimson, but it was the blush of pride, and she made
no answer. Soon after, Montoni entered the breakfast room, spoke little,
and seemed impatient to be gone.

The windows of this room opened upon the garden. As Emily passed them,
she saw the spot where she had parted with Valancourt on the preceding
night: the remembrance pressed heavily on her heart, and she turned
hastily away from the object that had awakened it.

The baggage being at length adjusted, the travellers entered their
carriages, and Emily would have left the chateau without one sigh of
regret, had it not been situated in the neighbourhood of Valancourt's
residence.

From a little eminence she looked back upon Tholouse, and the far-seen
plains of Gascony, beyond which the broken summits of the Pyrenees
appeared on the distant horizon, lighted up by a morning sun. 'Dear
pleasant mountains!' said she to herself, 'how long may it be ere I see
ye again, and how much may happen to make me miserable in the interval!
Oh, could I now be certain, that I should ever return to ye, and find
that Valancourt still lived for me, I should go in peace! He will still
gaze on ye, gaze when I am far away!'

The trees, that impended over the high banks of the road and formed a
line of perspective with the distant country, now threatened to exclude
the view of them; but the blueish mountains still appeared beyond the
dark foliage, and Emily continued to lean from the coach window, till at
length the closing branches shut them from her sight.

Another object soon caught her attention. She had scarcely looked at
a person who walked along the bank, with his hat, in which was the
military feather, drawn over his eyes, before, at the sound of wheels,
he suddenly turned, and she perceived that it was Valancourt himself,
who waved his hand, sprung into the road, and through the window of the
carriage put a letter into her hand. He endeavoured to smile through
the despair that overspread his countenance as she passed on. The
remembrance of that smile seemed impressed on Emily's mind for ever.
She leaned from the window, and saw him on a knoll of the broken bank,
leaning against the high trees that waved over him, and pursuing the
carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and she continued to gaze
till distance confused his figure, and at length another turn of the
road entirely separated him from her sight.

Having stopped to take up Signor Cavigni at a chateau on the road,
the travellers, of whom Emily was disrespectfully seated with Madame
Montoni's woman in a second carriage, pursued their way over the plains
of Languedoc. The presence of this servant restrained Emily from reading
Valancourt's letter, for she did not choose to expose the emotions it
might occasion to the observation of any person. Yet such was her wish
to read this his last communication, that her trembling hand was every
moment on the point of breaking the seal.

At length they reached the village, where they staid only to change
horses, without alighting, and it was not till they stopped to dine,
that Emily had an opportunity of reading the letter. Though she had
never doubted the sincerity of Valancourt's affection, the fresh
assurances she now received of it revived her spirits; she wept over his
letter in tenderness, laid it by to be referred to when they should be
particularly depressed, and then thought of him with much less anguish
than she had done since they parted. Among some other requests, which
were interesting to her, because expressive of his tenderness, and
because a compliance with them seemed to annihilate for a while the pain
of absence, he entreated she would always think of him at sunset. 'You
will then meet me in thought,' said he; 'I shall constantly watch the
sun-set, and I shall be happy in the belief, that your eyes are fixed
upon the same object with mine, and that our minds are conversing. You
know not, Emily, the comfort I promise myself from these moments; but I
trust you will experience it.'

It is unnecessary to say with what emotion Emily, on this evening,
watched the declining sun, over a long extent of plains, on which she
saw it set without interruption, and sink towards the province which
Valancourt inhabited. After this hour her mind became far more tranquil
and resigned, than it had been since the marriage of Montoni and her
aunt.

During several days the travellers journeyed over the plains of
Languedoc; and then entering Dauphiny, and winding for some time among
the mountains of that romantic province, they quitted their carriages
and began to ascend the Alps. And here such scenes of sublimity opened
upon them as no colours of language must dare to paint! Emily's mind was
even so much engaged with new and wonderful images, that they sometimes
banished the idea of Valancourt, though they more frequently revived
it. These brought to her recollection the prospects among the Pyrenees,
which they had admired together, and had believed nothing could excel
in grandeur. How often did she wish to express to him the new emotions
which this astonishing scenery awakened, and that he could partake
of them! Sometimes too she endeavoured to anticipate his remarks, and
almost imagined him present. She seemed to have arisen into another
world, and to have left every trifling thought, every trifling
sentiment, in that below; those only of grandeur and sublimity now
dilated her mind, and elevated the affections of her heart.

With what emotions of sublimity, softened by tenderness, did she meet
Valancourt in thought, at the customary hour of sun-set, when, wandering
among the Alps, she watched the glorious orb sink amid their summits,
his last tints die away on their snowy points, and a solemn obscurity
steal over the scene! And when the last gleam had faded, she turned
her eyes from the west with somewhat of the melancholy regret that is
experienced after the departure of a beloved friend; while these lonely
feelings were heightened by the spreading gloom, and by the low sounds,
heard only when darkness confines attention, which make the general
stillness more impressive--leaves shook by the air, the last sigh of the
breeze that lingers after sun-set, or the murmur of distant streams.

During the first days of this journey among the Alps, the scenery
exhibited a wonderful mixture of solitude and inhabitation, of
cultivation and barrenness. On the edge of tremendous precipices, and
within the hollow of the cliffs, below which the clouds often floated,
were seen villages, spires, and convent towers; while green pastures
and vineyards spread their hues at the feet of perpendicular rocks
of marble, or of granite, whose points, tufted with alpine shrubs, or
exhibiting only massy crags, rose above each other, till they terminated
in the snow-topt mountain, whence the torrent fell, that thundered along
the valley.

The snow was not yet melted on the summit of Mount Cenis, over which
the travellers passed; but Emily, as she looked upon its clear lake and
extended plain, surrounded by broken cliffs, saw, in imagination, the
verdant beauty it would exhibit when the snows should be gone, and the
shepherds, leading up the midsummer flocks from Piedmont, to pasture on
its flowery summit, should add Arcadian figures to Arcadian landscape.

As she descended on the Italian side, the precipices became still more
tremendous, and the prospects still more wild and majestic, over which
the shifting lights threw all the pomp of colouring. Emily delighted to
observe the snowy tops of the mountains under the passing influence of
the day, blushing with morning, glowing with the brightness of noon, or
just tinted with the purple evening. The haunt of man could now only be
discovered by the simple hut of the shepherd and the hunter, or by the
rough pine bridge thrown across the torrent, to assist the latter in his
chase of the chamois over crags where, but for this vestige of man, it
would have been believed only the chamois or the wolf dared to venture.
As Emily gazed upon one of these perilous bridges, with the cataract
foaming beneath it, some images came to her mind, which she afterwards
combined in the following

     STORIED SONNET

 The weary traveller, who, all night long,
 Has climb'd among the Alps' tremendous steeps,
 Skirting the pathless precipice, where throng
 Wild forms of danger; as he onward creeps
 If, chance, his anxious eye at distance sees
 The mountain-shepherd's solitary home,
 Peeping from forth the moon-illumin'd trees,
 What sudden transports to his bosom come!
 But, if between some hideous chasm yawn,
 Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge displays,
 In dreadful silence, on the brink, forlorn
 He stands, and views in the faint rays
 Far, far below, the torrent's rising surge,
 And listens to the wild impetuous roar;
 Still eyes the depth, still shudders on the verge,
 Fears to return, nor dares to venture o'er.
 Desperate, at length the tottering plank he tries,
 His weak steps slide, he shrieks, he sinks--he dies!

Emily, often as she travelled among the clouds, watched in silent awe
their billowy surges rolling below; sometimes, wholly closing upon the
scene, they appeared like a world of chaos, and, at others, spreading
thinly, they opened and admitted partial catches of the landscape--the
torrent, whose astounding roar had never failed, tumbling down the rocky
chasm, huge cliffs white with snow, or the dark summits of the pine
forests, that stretched mid-way down the mountains. But who may describe
her rapture, when, having passed through a sea of vapour, she caught
a first view of Italy; when, from the ridge of one of those tremendous
precipices that hang upon Mount Cenis and guard the entrance of that
enchanting country, she looked down through the lower clouds, and, as
they floated away, saw the grassy vales of Piedmont at her feet, and,
beyond, the plains of Lombardy extending to the farthest distance, at
which appeared, on the faint horizon, the doubtful towers of Turin?

The solitary grandeur of the objects that immediately surrounded her,
the mountain-region towering above, the deep precipices that fell
beneath, the waving blackness of the forests of pine and oak, which
skirted their feet, or hung within their recesses, the headlong torrents
that, dashing among their cliffs, sometimes appeared like a cloud of
mist, at others like a sheet of ice--these were features which received
a higher character of sublimity from the reposing beauty of the Italian
landscape below, stretching to the wide horizon, where the same melting
blue tint seemed to unite earth and sky.

Madame Montoni only shuddered as she looked down precipices near whose
edge the chairmen trotted lightly and swiftly, almost, as the chamois
bounded, and from which Emily too recoiled; but with her fears were
mingled such various emotions of delight, such admiration, astonishment,
and awe, as she had never experienced before.

Meanwhile the carriers, having come to a landing-place, stopped to rest,
and the travellers being seated on the point of a cliff, Montoni and
Cavigni renewed a dispute concerning Hannibal's passage over the Alps,
Montoni contending that he entered Italy by way of Mount Cenis, and
Cavigni, that he passed over Mount St. Bernard. The subject brought
to Emily's imagination the disasters he had suffered in this bold and
perilous adventure. She saw his vast armies winding among the defiles,
and over the tremendous cliffs of the mountains, which at night were
lighted up by his fires, or by the torches which he caused to be carried
when he pursued his indefatigable march. In the eye of fancy, she
perceived the gleam of arms through the duskiness of night, the glitter
of spears and helmets, and the banners floating dimly on the twilight;
while now and then the blast of a distant trumpet echoed along the
defile, and the signal was answered by a momentary clash of arms. She
looked with horror upon the mountaineers, perched on the higher cliffs,
assailing the troops below with broken fragments of the mountain; on
soldiers and elephants tumbling headlong down the lower precipices; and,
as she listened to the rebounding rocks, that followed their fall,
the terrors of fancy yielded to those of reality, and she shuddered to
behold herself on the dizzy height, whence she had pictured the descent
of others.

Madame Montoni, meantime, as she looked upon Italy, was contemplating in
imagination the splendour of palaces and the grandeur of castles, such
as she believed she was going to be mistress of at Venice and in the
Apennine, and she became, in idea, little less than a princess. Being
no longer under the alarms which had deterred her from giving
entertainments to the beauties of Tholouse, whom Montoni had mentioned
with more eclat to his own vanity than credit to their discretion, or
regard to truth, she determined to give concerts, though she had neither
ear nor taste for music; conversazioni, though she had no talents for
conversation; and to outvie, if possible, in the gaieties of her parties
and the magnificence of her liveries, all the noblesse of Venice. This
blissful reverie was somewhat obscured, when she recollected the Signor,
her husband, who, though he was not averse to the profit which sometimes
results from such parties, had always shewn a contempt of the frivolous
parade that sometimes attends them; till she considered that his pride
might be gratified by displaying, among his own friends, in his native
city, the wealth which he had neglected in France; and she courted again
the splendid illusions that had charmed her before.

The travellers, as they descended, gradually, exchanged the region of
winter for the genial warmth and beauty of spring. The sky began to
assume that serene and beautiful tint peculiar to the climate of Italy;
patches of young verdure, fragrant shrubs and flowers looked gaily among
the rocks, often fringing their rugged brows, or hanging in tufts
from their broken sides; and the buds of the oak and mountain ash were
expanding into foliage. Descending lower, the orange and the myrtle,
every now and then, appeared in some sunny nook, with their yellow
blossoms peeping from among the dark green of their leaves, and mingling
with the scarlet flowers of the pomegranate and the paler ones of the
arbutus, that ran mantling to the crags above; while, lower still,
spread the pastures of Piedmont, where early flocks were cropping the
luxuriant herbage of spring.

The river Doria, which, rising on the summit of Mount Cenis, had dashed
for many leagues over the precipices that bordered the road, now began
to assume a less impetuous, though scarcely less romantic character, as
it approached the green vallies of Piedmont, into which the travellers
descended with the evening sun; and Emily found herself once more amid
the tranquil beauty of pastoral scenery; among flocks and herds, and
slopes tufted with woods of lively verdure and with beautiful shrubs,
such as she had often seen waving luxuriantly over the alps above. The
verdure of the pasturage, now varied with the hues of early flowers,
among which were yellow ranunculuses and pansey violets of delicious
fragrance, she had never seen excelled.--Emily almost wished to become
a peasant of Piedmont, to inhabit one of the pleasant embowered cottages
which she saw peeping beneath the cliffs, and to pass her careless hours
among these romantic landscapes. To the hours, the months, she was to
pass under the dominion of Montoni, she looked with apprehension; while
those which were departed she remembered with regret and sorrow.

In the present scenes her fancy often gave her the figure of Valancourt,
whom she saw on a point of the cliffs, gazing with awe and admiration
on the imagery around him; or wandering pensively along the vale
below, frequently pausing to look back upon the scenery, and then,
his countenance glowing with the poet's fire, pursuing his way to some
overhanging heights. When she again considered the time and the distance
that were to separate them, that every step she now took lengthened this
distance, her heart sunk, and the surrounding landscape charmed her no
more.

The travellers, passing Novalesa, reached, after the evening had closed,
the small and antient town of Susa, which had formerly guarded this pass
of the Alps into Piedmont. The heights which command it had, since the
invention of artillery, rendered its fortifications useless; but these
romantic heights, seen by moon-light, with the town below, surrounded
by its walls and watchtowers, and partially illumined, exhibited an
interesting picture to Emily. Here they rested for the night at an inn,
which had little accommodation to boast of; but the travellers brought
with them the hunger that gives delicious flavour to the coarsest
viands, and the weariness that ensures repose; and here Emily first
caught a strain of Italian music, on Italian ground. As she sat after
supper at a little window, that opened upon the country, observing an
effect of the moon-light on the broken surface of the mountains, and
remembering that on such a night as this she once had sat with her
father and Valancourt, resting upon a cliff of the Pyrenees, she heard
from below the long-drawn notes of a violin, of such tone and delicacy
of expression, as harmonized exactly with the tender emotions she was
indulging, and both charmed and surprised her. Cavigni, who approached
the window, smiled at her surprise. 'This is nothing extraordinary,'
said he, 'you will hear the same, perhaps, at every inn on our way. It
is one of our landlord's family who plays, I doubt not,' Emily, as she
listened, thought he could be scarcely less than a professor of music
whom she heard; and the sweet and plaintive strains soon lulled her into
a reverie, from which she was very unwillingly roused by the raillery
of Cavigni, and by the voice of Montoni, who gave orders to a servant to
have the carriages ready at an early hour on the following morning; and
added, that he meant to dine at Turin.

Madame Montoni was exceedingly rejoiced to be once more on level ground;
and, after giving a long detail of the various terrors she had suffered,
which she forgot that she was describing to the companions of her
dangers, she added a hope, that she should soon be beyond the view of
these horrid mountains, 'which all the world,' said she, 'should not
tempt me to cross again.' Complaining of fatigue she soon retired to
rest, and Emily withdrew to her own room, when she understood from
Annette, her aunt's woman, that Cavigni was nearly right in his
conjecture concerning the musician, who had awakened the violin with
so much taste, for that he was the son of a peasant inhabiting the
neighbouring valley. 'He is going to the Carnival at Venice,' added
Annette, 'for they say he has a fine hand at playing, and will get a
world of money; and the Carnival is just going to begin: but for my
part, I should like to live among these pleasant woods and hills, better
than in a town; and they say Ma'moiselle, we shall see no woods, or
hills, or fields, at Venice, for that it is built in the very middle of
the sea.'

Emily agreed with the talkative Annette, that this young man was making
a change for the worse, and could not forbear silently lamenting, that
he should be drawn from the innocence and beauty of these scenes, to the
corrupt ones of that voluptuous city.

When she was alone, unable to sleep, the landscapes of her native home,
with Valancourt, and the circumstances of her departure, haunted her
fancy; she drew pictures of social happiness amidst the grand simplicity
of nature, such as she feared she had bade farewel to for ever; and
then, the idea of this young Piedmontese, thus ignorantly sporting with
his happiness, returned to her thoughts, and, glad to escape awhile from
the pressure of nearer interests, she indulged her fancy in composing
the following lines.

     THE PIEDMONTESE

 Ah, merry swain, who laugh'd along the vales,
 And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring,
 Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gales,
 And friends belov'd, for aught that wealth can bring?
 He goes to wake o'er moon-light seas the string,
 Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails!
 Yet oft of home his simple carols sing,
 And his steps pause, as the last Alp he scales.
 Once more he turns to view his native scene--
 Far, far below, as roll the clouds away,
 He spies his cabin 'mid the pine-tops green,
 The well-known woods, clear brook, and pastures gay;
 And thinks of friends and parents left behind,
 Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song;
 And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind;
 And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong!
 Thus went the swain, till mountain-shadows fell,
 And dimm'd the landscape to his aching sight;
 And must he leave the vales he loves so well!
 Can foreign wealth, and shows, his heart delight?
 No, happy vales! your wild rocks still shall hear
 His pipe, light sounding on the morning breeze;
 Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear,
 And watch at eve beneath the western trees.
 Away, Venetian gold--your charm is o'er!
 And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow'rs,
 Where, through the leaves, his cottage light ONCE MORE
 Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours.
 Ah, merry swain! that laugh along the vales,
 And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring,
 Your cot, your woods, your thymy-scented gales--
 And friends belov'd--more joy than wealth can bring!

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

completion: Emily's maybe the only person ever who has to be dragged to Venice. As the carriage heads off, a disguised Valancourt presses a letter into her hand. Game on. Here are the juicy tidbits of Valancourt's letter: every time the sun sets, he'll look at it and think of her. Aww, it's just waiting to be turned into a Disney movie. Some more reflections about land and travel are headed our way. Em writes a pretty profound sonnet about a weary traveler climbing the Alps. She also writes a little poem about a local musician heading to Venice. She's a regular Shakespeare, that Emily.