Chapter: VOLUME 4 CHAPTER I



  Is all the council that we two have shared,
     the hours that we have spent,
 When we have chid the hasty-footed time
 For parting us--Oh! and is all forgot?

 And will you rend our ancient love asunder?
     MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

In the evening, when Emily was at length informed, that Count De
Villefort requested to see her, she guessed that Valancourt was below,
and, endeavouring to assume composure and to recollect all her spirits,
she rose and left the apartment; but on reaching the door of the
library, where she imagined him to be, her emotion returned with such
energy, that, fearing to trust herself in the room, she returned into
the hall, where she continued for a considerable time, unable to command
her agitated spirits.

When she could recall them, she found in the library Valancourt, seated
with the Count, who both rose on her entrance; but she did not dare
to look at Valancourt, and the Count, having led her to a chair,
immediately withdrew.

Emily remained with her eyes fixed on the floor, under such oppression
of heart, that she could not speak, and with difficulty breathed; while
Valancourt threw himself into a chair beside her, and, sighing heavily,
continued silent, when, had she raised her eyes, she would have
perceived the violent emotions, with which he was agitated.

At length, in a tremulous voice, he said, 'I have solicited to see you
this evening, that I might, at least, be spared the further torture of
suspense, which your altered manner had occasioned me, and which the
hints I have just received from the Count have in part explained. I
perceive I have enemies, Emily, who envied me my late happiness, and
who have been busy in searching out the means to destroy it: I perceive,
too, that time and absence have weakened the affection you once felt for
me, and that you can now easily be taught to forget me.'

His last words faltered, and Emily, less able to speak than before,
continued silent.

'O what a meeting is this!' exclaimed Valancourt, starting from his
seat, and pacing the room with hurried steps, 'what a meeting is this,
after our long--long separation!' Again he sat down, and, after the
struggle of a moment, he added in a firm but despairing tone, 'This is
too much--I cannot bear it! Emily, will you not speak to me?'

He covered his face with his hand, as if to conceal his emotion, and
took Emily's, which she did not withdraw. Her tears could no longer
be restrained; and, when he raised his eyes and perceived that she was
weeping, all his tenderness returned, and a gleam of hope appeared to
cross his mind, for he exclaimed, 'O! you do pity me, then, you do love
me! Yes, you are still my own Emily--let me believe those tears, that
tell me so!'

Emily now made an effort to recover her firmness, and, hastily drying
them, 'Yes,' said she, 'I do pity you--I weep for you--but, ought I to
think of you with affection? You may remember, that yester-evening I
said, I had still sufficient confidence in your candour to believe,
that, when I should request an explanation of your words, you would give
it. This explanation is now unnecessary, I understand them too well; but
prove, at least, that your candour is deserving of the confidence I
give it, when I ask you, whether you are conscious of being the same
estimable Valancourt--whom I once loved.'

'Once loved!' cried he,--'the same--the same!' He paused in
extreme emotion, and then added, in a voice at once solemn, and
dejected,--'No--I am not the same!--I am lost--I am no longer worthy of
you!'

He again concealed his face. Emily was too much affected by this honest
confession to reply immediately, and, while she struggled to overcome
the pleadings of her heart, and to act with the decisive firmness, which
was necessary for her future peace, she perceived all the danger of
trusting long to her resolution, in the presence of Valancourt, and was
anxious to conclude an interview, that tortured them both; yet, when
she considered, that this was probably their last meeting, her fortitude
sunk at once, and she experienced only emotions of tenderness and of
despondency.

Valancourt, meanwhile, lost in emotions of remorse and grief, which he
had neither the power, or the will to express, sat insensible almost
of the presence of Emily, his features still concealed, and his breast
agitated by convulsive sighs.

'Spare me the necessity,' said Emily, recollecting her fortitude, 'spare
me the necessity of mentioning those circumstances of your conduct,
which oblige me to break our connection forever.--We must part, I now
see you for the last time.'

'Impossible!' cried Valancourt, roused from his deep silence, 'You
cannot mean what you say!--you cannot mean to throw me from you
forever!'

'We must part,' repeated Emily, with emphasis,--'and that forever! Your
own conduct has made this necessary.'

'This is the Count's determination,' said he haughtily, 'not yours,
and I shall enquire by what authority he interferes between us.' He now
rose, and walked about the room in great emotion.

'Let me save you from this error,' said Emily, not less agitated--'it is
my determination, and, if you reflect a moment on your late conduct, you
will perceive, that my future peace requires it.'

'Your future peace requires, that we should part--part forever!' said
Valancourt, 'How little did I ever expect to hear you say so!'

'And how little did I expect, that it would be necessary for me to say
so!' rejoined Emily, while her voice softened into tenderness, and her
tears flowed again.--'That you--you, Valancourt, would ever fall from my
esteem!'

He was silent a moment, as if overwhelmed by the consciousness of no
longer deserving this esteem, as well as the certainty of having lost
it, and then, with impassioned grief, lamented the criminality of his
late conduct and the misery to which it had reduced him, till, overcome
by a recollection of the past and a conviction of the future, he burst
into tears, and uttered only deep and broken sighs.

The remorse he had expressed, and the distress he suffered could not
be witnessed by Emily with indifference, and, had she not called to
her recollection all the circumstances, of which Count De Villefort
had informed her, and all he had said of the danger of confiding in
repentance, formed under the influence of passion, she might perhaps
have trusted to the assurances of her heart, and have forgotten his
misconduct in the tenderness, which that repentance excited.

Valancourt, returning to the chair beside her, at length, said, in a
calm voice, ''Tis true, I am fallen--fallen from my own esteem! but
could you, Emily, so soon, so suddenly resign, if you had not before
ceased to love me, or, if your conduct was not governed by the designs,
I will say, the selfish designs of another person! Would you not
otherwise be willing to hope for my reformation--and could you bear, by
estranging me from you, to abandon me to misery--to myself!'--Emily wept
aloud.--'No, Emily--no--you would not do this, if you still loved me.
You would find your own happiness in saving mine.'

'There are too many probabilities against that hope,' said Emily, 'to
justify me in trusting the comfort of my whole life to it. May I not
also ask, whether you could wish me to do this, if you really loved me?'

'Really loved you!' exclaimed Valancourt--'is it possible you can doubt
my love! Yet it is reasonable, that you should do so, since you see,
that I am less ready to suffer the horror of parting with you, than
that of involving you in my ruin. Yes, Emily--I am ruined--irreparably
ruined--I am involved in debts, which I can never discharge!'
Valancourt's look, which was wild, as he spoke this, soon settled into
an expression of gloomy despair; and Emily, while she was compelled to
admire his sincerity, saw, with unutterable anguish, new reasons for
fear in the suddenness of his feelings and the extent of the misery, in
which they might involve him. After some minutes, she seemed to
contend against her grief and to struggle for fortitude to conclude
the interview. 'I will not prolong these moments,' said she, 'by a
conversation, which can answer no good purpose. Valancourt, farewell!'

'You are not going?' said he, wildly interrupting her--'You will not
leave me thus--you will not abandon me even before my mind has suggested
any possibility of compromise between the last indulgence of my despair
and the endurance of my loss!' Emily was terrified by the sternness
of his look, and said, in a soothing voice, 'You have yourself
acknowledged, that it is necessary we should part;--if you
wish, that I should believe you love me, you will repeat the
acknowledgment.'--'Never--never,' cried he--'I was distracted when I
made it. O! Emily--this is too much;--though you are not deceived as to
my faults, you must be deluded into this exasperation against them. The
Count is the barrier between us; but he shall not long remain so.'

'You are, indeed, distracted,' said Emily, 'the Count is not your enemy;
on the contrary, he is my friend, and that might, in some degree, induce
you to consider him as yours.'--'Your friend!' said Valancourt, hastily,
'how long has he been your friend, that he can so easily make you forget
your lover? Was it he, who recommended to your favour the Monsieur Du
Pont, who, you say, accompanied you from Italy, and who, I say, has
stolen your affections? But I have no right to question you;--you are
your own mistress. Du Pont, perhaps, may not long triumph over my fallen
fortunes!' Emily, more frightened than before by the frantic looks of
Valancourt, said, in a tone scarcely audible, 'For heaven's sake be
reasonable--be composed. Monsieur Du Pont is not your rival, nor is the
Count his advocate. You have no rival; nor, except yourself, an enemy.
My heart is wrung with anguish, which must increase while your
frantic behaviour shews me, more than ever, that you are no longer the
Valancourt I have been accustomed to love.'

He made no reply, but sat with his arms rested on the table and his
face concealed by his hands; while Emily stood, silent and trembling,
wretched for herself and dreading to leave him in this state of mind.

'O excess of misery!' he suddenly exclaimed, 'that I can never lament
my sufferings, without accusing myself, nor remember you, without
recollecting the folly and the vice, by which I have lost you! Why was I
forced to Paris, and why did I yield to allurements, which were to make
me despicable for ever! O! why cannot I look back, without interruption,
to those days of innocence and peace, the days of our early love!'--The
recollection seemed to melt his heart, and the frenzy of despair yielded
to tears. After a long pause, turning towards her and taking her hand,
he said, in a softened voice, 'Emily, can you bear that we should
part--can you resolve to give up an heart, that loves you like mine--an
heart, which, though it has erred--widely erred, is not irretrievable
from error, as, you well know, it never can be retrievable from love?'
Emily made no reply, but with her tears. 'Can you,' continued he, 'can
you forget all our former days of happiness and confidence--when I had
not a thought, that I might wish to conceal from you--when I had no
taste--no pleasures, in which you did not participate?'

'O do not lead me to the remembrance of those days,' said Emily, 'unless
you can teach me to forget the present; I do not mean to reproach you;
if I did, I should be spared these tears; but why will you render your
present sufferings more conspicuous, by contrasting them with your
former virtues?'

'Those virtues,' said Valancourt, 'might, perhaps, again be mine, if
your affection, which nurtured them, was unchanged;--but I fear, indeed,
I see, that you can no longer love me; else the happy hours, which we
have passed together, would plead for me, and you could not look
back upon them unmoved. Yet, why should I torture myself with the
remembrance--why do I linger here? Am I not ruined--would it not be
madness to involve you in my misfortunes, even if your heart was still
my own? I will not distress you further. Yet, before I go,' added he,
in a solemn voice, 'let me repeat, that, whatever may be my
destiny--whatever I may be doomed to suffer, I must always love
you--most fondly love you! I am going, Emily, I am going to leave
you--to leave you, forever!' As he spoke the last words, his voice
trembled, and he threw himself again into the chair, from which he had
risen. Emily was utterly unable to leave the room, or to say farewell.
All impression of his criminal conduct and almost of his follies was
obliterated from her mind, and she was sensible only of pity and grief.

'My fortitude is gone,' said Valancourt at length; 'I can no longer
even struggle to recall it. I cannot now leave you--I cannot bid you
an eternal farewell; say, at least, that you will see me once again.'
Emily's heart was somewhat relieved by the request, and she endeavoured
to believe, that she ought not to refuse it. Yet she was embarrassed
by recollecting, that she was a visitor in the house of the Count, who
could not be pleased by the return of Valancourt. Other considerations,
however, soon overcame this, and she granted his request, on the
condition, that he would neither think of the Count, as his enemy, nor
Du Pont as his rival. He then left her, with a heart, so much lightened
by this short respite, that he almost lost every former sense of
misfortune.

Emily withdrew to her own room, that she might compose her spirits and
remove the traces of her tears, which would encourage the censorious
remarks of the Countess and her favourite, as well as excite the
curiosity of the rest of the family. She found it, however, impossible
to tranquillize her mind, from which she could not expel the remembrance
of the late scene with Valancourt, or the consciousness, that she was to
see him again, on the morrow. This meeting now appeared more terrible to
her than the last, for the ingenuous confession he had made of his
ill conduct and his embarrassed circumstances, with the strength and
tenderness of affection, which this confession discovered, had deeply
impressed her, and, in spite of all she had heard and believed to his
disadvantage, her esteem began to return. It frequently appeared to her
impossible, that he could have been guilty of the depravities, reported
of him, which, if not inconsistent with his warmth and impetuosity,
were entirely so with his candour and sensibility. Whatever was the
criminality, which had given rise to the reports, she could not now
believe them to be wholly true, nor that his heart was finally closed
against the charms of virtue. The deep consciousness, which he felt as
well as expressed of his errors, seemed to justify the opinion; and,
as she understood not the instability of youthful dispositions, when
opposed by habit, and that professions frequently deceive those, who
make, as well as those, who hear them, she might have yielded to the
flattering persuasions of her own heart and the pleadings of Valancourt,
had she not been guided by the superior prudence of the Count. He
represented to her, in a clear light, the danger of her present
situation, that of listening to promises of amendment, made under the
influence of strong passion, and the slight hope, which could attach
to a connection, whose chance of happiness rested upon the retrieval
of ruined circumstances and the reform of corrupted habits. On these
accounts, he lamented, that Emily had consented to a second interview,
for he saw how much it would shake her resolution and increase the
difficulty of her conquest.

Her mind was now so entirely occupied by nearer interests, that she
forgot the old housekeeper and the promised history, which so lately had
excited her curiosity, but which Dorothee was probably not very anxious
to disclose, for night came; the hours passed; and she did not appear
in Emily's chamber. With the latter it was a sleepless and dismal
night; the more she suffered her memory to dwell on the late scenes with
Valancourt, the more her resolution declined, and she was obliged
to recollect all the arguments, which the Count had made use of to
strengthen it, and all the precepts, which she had received from her
deceased father, on the subject of self-command, to enable her to act,
with prudence and dignity, on this the most severe occasion of her
life. There were moments, when all her fortitude forsook her, and when,
remembering the confidence of former times, she thought it impossible,
that she could renounce Valancourt. His reformation then appeared
certain; the arguments of Count De Villefort were forgotten; she readily
believed all she wished, and was willing to encounter any evil, rather
than that of an immediate separation.

Thus passed the night in ineffectual struggles between affection
and reason, and she rose, in the morning, with a mind, weakened and
irresolute, and a frame, trembling with illness.

 When Em and Valancourt finally have their dreaded talk, Em spells it out pretty clearly for her poor beau: she still loves him, but the whole marriage thing definitely is not going to be happening. Valancourt is pretty devastated, but he also admits he isn't worthy of Em. He totally regrets gambling his life savings away in Paris, by the way. Not a good move. Em's completely wrecked. She's so upset that she forgets that old Dorothee is supposed to tell her about the Marchioness. But Dorothee doesn't show, so Em can mope over Valancourt in peace.

