Chapter: CHAPTER XVIII



  Then, fresh tears
 Stood on her cheek, as doth the honey-dew
 Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd
     SHAKESPEARE

After the late discoveries, Emily was distinguished at the chateau by
the Count and his family, as a relative of the house of Villeroi, and
received, if possible, more friendly attention, than had yet been shewn
her.

Count De Villefort's surprise at the delay of an answer to his letter,
which had been directed to Valancourt, at Estuviere, was mingled with
satisfaction for the prudence, which had saved Emily from a share of the
anxiety he now suffered, though, when he saw her still drooping under
the effect of his former error, all his resolution was necessary to
restrain him from relating the truth, that would afford her a momentary
relief. The approaching nuptials of the Lady Blanche now divided his
attention with this subject of his anxiety, for the inhabitants of the
chateau were already busied in preparations for that event, and the
arrival of Mons. St. Foix was daily expected. In the gaiety, which
surrounded her, Emily vainly tried to participate, her spirits being
depressed by the late discoveries, and by the anxiety concerning the
fate of Valancourt, that had been occasioned by the description of his
manner, when he had delivered the ring. She seemed to perceive in it
the gloomy wildness of despair; and, when she considered to what that
despair might have urged him, her heart sunk with terror and grief.
The state of suspense, as to his safety, to which she believed herself
condemned, till she should return to La Vallee, appeared insupportable,
and, in such moments, she could not even struggle to assume the
composure, that had left her mind, but would often abruptly quit the
company she was with, and endeavour to sooth her spirits in the deep
solitudes of the woods, that overbrowed the shore. Here, the faint roar
of foaming waves, that beat below, and the sullen murmur of the wind
among the branches around, were circumstances in unison with the temper
of her mind; and she would sit on a cliff, or on the broken steps of
her favourite watch-tower, observing the changing colours of the evening
clouds, and the gloom of twilight draw over the sea, till the white tops
of billows, riding towards the shore, could scarcely be discerned amidst
the darkened waters. The lines, engraved by Valancourt on this tower,
she frequently repeated with melancholy enthusiasm, and then would
endeavour to check the recollections and the grief they occasioned, and
to turn her thoughts to indifferent subjects.

One evening, having wandered with her lute to this her favourite spot,
she entered the ruined tower, and ascended a winding staircase, that
led to a small chamber, which was less decayed than the rest of the
building, and whence she had often gazed, with admiration, on the wide
prospect of sea and land, that extended below. The sun was now setting
on that tract of the Pyrenees, which divided Languedoc from Rousillon,
and, placing herself opposite to a small grated window, which, like the
wood-tops beneath, and the waves lower still, gleamed with the red glow
of the west, she touched the chords of her lute in solemn symphony, and
then accompanied it with her voice, in one of the simple and affecting
airs, to which, in happier days, Valancourt had often listened in
rapture, and which she now adapted to the following lines.

 TO MELANCHOLY

 Spirit of love and sorrow--hail!
 Thy solemn voice from far I hear,
 Mingling with ev'ning's dying gale:
 Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear!

 O! at this still, this lonely hour,
 Thine own sweet hour of closing day,
 Awake thy lute, whose charmful pow'r
 Shall call up Fancy to obey:

 To paint the wild romantic dream,
 That meets the poet's musing eye,
 As, on the bank of shadowy stream,
 He breathes to her the fervid sigh.

 O lonely spirit! let thy song
 Lead me through all thy sacred haunt;
 The minister's moon-light aisles along,
 Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt.

 I hear their dirges faintly swell!
 Then, sink at once in silence drear,
 While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell,
 Dimly their gliding forms appear!

 Lead where the pine-woods wave on high,
 Whose pathless sod is darkly seen,
 As the cold moon, with trembling eye,
 Darts her long beams the leaves between.

 Lead to the mountain's dusky head,
 Where, far below, in shade profound,
 Wide forests, plains and hamlets spread,
 And sad the chimes of vesper sound,

 Or guide me, where the dashing oar
 Just breaks the stillness of the vale,
 As slow it tracks the winding shore,
 To meet the ocean's distant sail:

 To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves,
 With measur'd surges, loud and deep,
 Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves,
 And wild the winds of autumn sweep.

 There pause at midnight's spectred hour,
 And list the long-resounding gale;
 And catch the fleeting moon-light's pow'r,
 O'er foaming seas and distant sail.

The soft tranquillity of the scene below, where the evening breeze
scarcely curled the water, or swelled the passing sail, that caught the
last gleam of the sun, and where, now and then, a dipping oar was all
that disturbed the trembling radiance, conspired with the tender melody
of her lute to lull her mind into a state of gentle sadness, and she
sung the mournful songs of past times, till the remembrances they
awakened were too powerful for her heart, her tears fell upon the
lute, over which she drooped, and her voice trembled, and was unable to
proceed.

Though the sun had now sunk behind the mountains, and even his reflected
light was fading from their highest points, Emily did not leave the
watch-tower, but continued to indulge her melancholy reverie, till a
footstep, at a little distance, startled her, and, on looking through
the grate, she observed a person walking below, whom, however, soon
perceiving to be Mons. Bonnac, she returned to the quiet thoughtfulness
his step had interrupted. After some time, she again struck her lute,
and sung her favourite air; but again a step disturbed her, and, as she
paused to listen, she heard it ascending the stair-case of the tower.
The gloom of the hour, perhaps, made her sensible to some degree of
fear, which she might not otherwise have felt; for, only a few minutes
before, she had seen Mons. Bonnac pass. The steps were quick and
bounding, and, in the next moment, the door of the chamber opened, and a
person entered, whose features were veiled in the obscurity of
twilight; but his voice could not be concealed, for it was the voice
of Valancourt! At the sound, never heard by Emily, without emotion, she
started, in terror, astonishment and doubtful pleasure, and had scarcely
beheld him at her feet, when she sunk into a seat, overcome by the
various emotions, that contended at her heart, and almost insensible to
that voice, whose earnest and trembling calls seemed as if endeavouring
to save her. Valancourt, as he hung over Emily, deplored his own rash
impatience, in having thus surprised her: for when he had arrived at
the chateau, too anxious to await the return of the Count, who, he
understood, was in the grounds, he went himself to seek him, when, as
he passed the tower, he was struck by the sound of Emily's voice, and
immediately ascended.

It was a considerable time before she revived, but, when her
recollection returned, she repulsed his attentions, with an air of
reserve, and enquired, with as much displeasure as it was possible she
could feel in these first moments of his appearance, the occasion of his
visit.

'Ah Emily!' said Valancourt, 'that air, those words--alas! I have, then,
little to hope--when you ceased to esteem me, you ceased also to love
me!'

'Most true, sir,' replied Emily, endeavouring to command her trembling
voice; 'and if you had valued my esteem, you would not have given me
this new occasion for uneasiness.'

Valancourt's countenance changed suddenly from the anxieties of doubt to
an expression of surprise and dismay: he was silent a moment, and then
said, 'I had been taught to hope for a very different reception! Is
it, then, true, Emily, that I have lost your regard forever? am I to
believe, that, though your esteem for me may return--your affection
never can? Can the Count have meditated the cruelty, which now tortures
me with a second death?'

The voice, in which he spoke this, alarmed Emily as much as his words
surprised her, and, with trembling impatience, she begged that he would
explain them.

'Can any explanation be necessary?' said Valancourt, 'do you not know
how cruelly my conduct has been misrepresented? that the actions of
which you once believed me guilty (and, O Emily! how could you so
degrade me in your opinion, even for a moment!) those actions--I hold in
as much contempt and abhorrence as yourself? Are you, indeed, ignorant,
that Count de Villefort has detected the slanders, that have robbed me
of all I hold dear on earth, and has invited me hither to justify to
you my former conduct? It is surely impossible you can be uninformed of
these circumstances, and I am again torturing myself with a false hope!'

The silence of Emily confirmed this supposition; for the deep twilight
would not allow Valancourt to distinguish the astonishment and doubting
joy, that fixed her features. For a moment, she continued unable to
speak; then a profound sigh seemed to give some relief to her spirits,
and she said,

'Valancourt! I was, till this moment, ignorant of all the circumstances
you have mentioned; the emotion I now suffer may assure you of the truth
of this, and, that, though I had ceased to esteem, I had not taught
myself entirely to forget you.'

'This moment,' said Valancourt, in a low voice, and leaning for support
against the window--'this moment brings with it a conviction that
overpowers me!--I am dear to you then--still dear to you, my Emily!'

'Is it necessary that I should tell you so?' she replied, 'is it
necessary, that I should say--these are the first moments of joy I have
known, since your departure, and that they repay me for all those of
pain I have suffered in the interval?'

Valancourt sighed deeply, and was unable to reply; but, as he pressed
her hand to his lips, the tears, that fell over it, spoke a language,
which could not be mistaken, and to which words were inadequate.

Emily, somewhat tranquillized, proposed returning to the chateau,
and then, for the first time, recollected that the Count had invited
Valancourt thither to explain his conduct, and that no explanation had
yet been given. But, while she acknowledged this, her heart would
not allow her to dwell, for a moment, on the possibility of his
unworthiness; his look, his voice, his manner, all spoke the noble
sincerity, which had formerly distinguished him; and she again permitted
herself to indulge the emotions of a joy, more surprising and powerful,
than she had ever before experienced.

Neither Emily, or Valancourt, were conscious how they reached the
chateau, whither they might have been transferred by the spell of a
fairy, for any thing they could remember; and it was not, till they had
reached the great hall, that either of them recollected there were other
persons in the world besides themselves. The Count then came forth
with surprise, and with the joyfulness of pure benevolence, to welcome
Valancourt, and to entreat his forgiveness of the injustice he had done
him; soon after which, Mons. Bonnac joined this happy group, in which he
and Valancourt were mutually rejoiced to meet.

When the first congratulations were over, and the general joy became
somewhat more tranquil, the Count withdrew with Valancourt to the
library, where a long conversation passed between them, in which
the latter so clearly justified himself of the criminal parts of the
conduct, imputed to him, and so candidly confessed and so feelingly
lamented the follies, which he had committed, that the Count was
confirmed in his belief of all he had hoped; and, while he perceived so
many noble virtues in Valancourt, and that experience had taught him
to detest the follies, which before he had only not admired, he did not
scruple to believe, that he would pass through life with the dignity of
a wise and good man, or to entrust to his care the future happiness of
Emily St. Aubert, for whom he felt the solicitude of a parent. Of this
he soon informed her, in a short conversation, when Valancourt had left
him. While Emily listened to a relation of the services, that Valancourt
had rendered Mons. Bonnac, her eyes overflowed with tears of pleasure,
and the further conversation of Count De Villefort perfectly dissipated
every doubt, as to the past and future conduct of him, to whom she now
restored, without fear, the esteem and affection, with which she had
formerly received him.

When they returned to the supper-room, the Countess and Lady Blanche
met Valancourt with sincere congratulations; and Blanche, indeed, was
so much rejoiced to see Emily returned to happiness, as to forget, for a
while, that Mons. St. Foix was not yet arrived at the chateau, though
he had been expected for some hours; but her generous sympathy was, soon
after, rewarded by his appearance. He was now perfectly recovered from
the wounds, received, during his perilous adventure among the Pyrenees,
the mention of which served to heighten to the parties, who had
been involved in it, the sense of their present happiness. New
congratulations passed between them, and round the supper-table appeared
a group of faces, smiling with felicity, but with a felicity, which had
in each a different character. The smile of Blanche was frank and gay,
that of Emily tender and pensive; Valancourt's was rapturous, tender and
gay alternately; Mons. St. Foix's was joyous, and that of the Count, as
he looked on the surrounding party, expressed the tempered complacency
of benevolence; while the features of the Countess, Henri, and Mons.
Bonnac, discovered fainter traces of animation. Poor Mons. Du Pont did
not, by his presence, throw a shade of regret over the company; for,
when he had discovered, that Valancourt was not unworthy of the esteem
of Emily, he determined seriously to endeavour at the conquest of
his own hopeless affection, and had immediately withdrawn from
Chateau-le-Blanc--a conduct, which Emily now understood, and rewarded
with her admiration and pity.

The Count and his guests continued together till a late hour, yielding
to the delights of social gaiety, and to the sweets of friendship. When
Annette heard of the arrival of Valancourt, Ludovico had some difficulty
to prevent her going into the supper-room, to express her joy, for she
declared, that she had never been so rejoiced at any ACCIDENT as this,
since she had found Ludovico himself.

 Even though the Count's okey-dokey with Valancourt now, he doesn't yet tell Emily that she's in the clear to marry him. He's a busy guy and all. Plus, his only daughter is getting married to Monsieur St. Foix. One evening, Em's out wandering as she often likes to do. You betcha she runs into Valancourt. Of course, he thinks the Count's already cleared his name. No such luck, Valancourt. Valancourt tells Em all about how he's a stand-up guy, and Em gets all starry-eyed. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes little Valancourts and Ems in a baby carriage! When the two head back to the chateau, the Count is there offer his congrats. Way to avoid the hard stuff, Count.

