Chapter: CHAPTER XI



     I leave that flowery path for eye
 Of childhood, where I sported many a day,
 Warbling and sauntering carelessly along;
 Where every face was innocent and gay,
 Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue,
 Sweet, wild, and artless all.
     THE MINSTREL

At an early hour, the carriage, which was to take Emily and Madame
Cheron to Tholouse, appeared at the door of the chateau, and Madame was
already in the breakfast-room, when her niece entered it. The repast
was silent and melancholy on the part of Emily; and Madame Cheron, whose
vanity was piqued on observing her dejection, reproved her in a manner
that did not contribute to remove it. It was with much reluctance, that
Emily's request to take with her the dog, which had been a favourite
of her father, was granted. Her aunt, impatient to be gone, ordered the
carriage to draw up; and, while she passed to the hall door, Emily gave
another look into the library, and another farewell glance over the
garden, and then followed. Old Theresa stood at the door to take leave
of her young lady. 'God for ever keep you, ma'amselle!' said she, while
Emily gave her hand in silence, and could answer only with a pressure of
her hand, and a forced smile.

At the gate, which led out of the grounds, several of her father's
pensioners were assembled to bid her farewell, to whom she would have
spoken, if her aunt would have suffered the driver to stop; and, having
distributed to them almost all the money she had about her, she sunk
back in the carriage, yielding to the melancholy of her heart. Soon
after, she caught, between the steep banks of the road, another view of
the chateau, peeping from among the high trees, and surrounded by green
slopes and tufted groves, the Garonne winding its way beneath their
shades, sometimes lost among the vineyards, and then rising in greater
majesty in the distant pastures. The towering precipices of the
Pyrenees, that rose to the south, gave Emily a thousand interesting
recollections of her late journey; and these objects of her former
enthusiastic admiration, now excited only sorrow and regret. Having
gazed on the chateau and its lovely scenery, till the banks again closed
upon them, her mind became too much occupied by mournful reflections, to
permit her to attend to the conversation, which Madame Cheron had begun
on some trivial topic, so that they soon travelled in profound silence.

Valancourt, mean while, was returned to Estuviere, his heart occupied
with the image of Emily; sometimes indulging in reveries of future
happiness, but more frequently shrinking with dread of the opposition
he might encounter from her family. He was the younger son of an ancient
family of Gascony; and, having lost his parents at an early period
of his life, the care of his education and of his small portion had
devolved to his brother, the Count de Duvarney, his senior by nearly
twenty years. Valancourt had been educated in all the accomplishments
of his age, and had an ardour of spirit, and a certain grandeur of
mind, that gave him particular excellence in the exercises then thought
heroic. His little fortune had been diminished by the necessary expences
of his education; but M. La Valancourt, the elder, seemed to think that
his genius and accomplishments would amply supply the deficiency of his
inheritance. They offered flattering hopes of promotion in the military
profession, in those times almost the only one in which a gentleman
could engage without incurring a stain on his name; and La Valancourt
was of course enrolled in the army. The general genius of his mind was
but little understood by his brother. That ardour for whatever is great
and good in the moral world, as well as in the natural one, displayed
itself in his infant years; and the strong indignation, which he felt
and expressed at a criminal, or a mean action, sometimes drew upon him
the displeasure of his tutor; who reprobated it under the general
term of violence of temper; and who, when haranguing on the virtues of
mildness and moderation, seemed to forget the gentleness and compassion,
which always appeared in his pupil towards objects of misfortune.

He had now obtained leave of absence from his regiment when he made the
excursion into the Pyrenees, which was the means of introducing him to
St. Aubert; and, as this permission was nearly expired, he was the more
anxious to declare himself to Emily's family, from whom he reasonably
apprehended opposition, since his fortune, though, with a moderate
addition from hers, it would be sufficient to support them, would not
satisfy the views, either of vanity, or ambition. Valancourt was not
without the latter, but he saw golden visions of promotion in the army;
and believed, that with Emily he could, in the mean time, be delighted
to live within the limits of his humble income. His thoughts were now
occupied in considering the means of making himself known to her family,
to whom, however, he had yet no address, for he was entirely ignorant of
Emily's precipitate departure from La Vallee, of whom he hoped to obtain
it.

Meanwhile, the travellers pursued their journey; Emily making frequent
efforts to appear cheerful, and too often relapsing into silence and
dejection. Madame Cheron, attributing her melancholy solely to the
circumstance of her being removed to a distance from her lover, and
believing, that the sorrow, which her niece still expressed for the
loss of St. Aubert, proceeded partly from an affectation of sensibility,
endeavoured to make it appear ridiculous to her, that such deep regret
should continue to be felt so long after the period usually allowed for
grief.

At length, these unpleasant lectures were interrupted by the arrival of
the travellers at Tholouse; and Emily, who had not been there for many
years, and had only a very faint recollection of it, was surprised at
the ostentatious style exhibited in her aunt's house and furniture; the
more so, perhaps, because it was so totally different from the modest
elegance, to which she had been accustomed. She followed Madame Cheron
through a large hall, where several servants in rich liveries appeared,
to a kind of saloon, fitted up with more shew than taste; and her aunt,
complaining of fatigue, ordered supper immediately. 'I am glad to find
myself in my own house again,' said she, throwing herself on a large
settee, 'and to have my own people about me. I detest travelling;
though, indeed, I ought to like it, for what I see abroad always makes
me delighted to return to my own chateau. What makes you so silent,
child?--What is it that disturbs you now?'

Emily suppressed a starting tear, and tried to smile away the expression
of an oppressed heart; she was thinking of HER home, and felt too
sensibly the arrogance and ostentatious vanity of Madame Cheron's
conversation. 'Can this be my father's sister!' said she to herself; and
then the conviction that she was so, warming her heart with something
like kindness towards her, she felt anxious to soften the harsh
impression her mind had received of her aunt's character, and to shew
a willingness to oblige her. The effort did not entirely fail; she
listened with apparent cheerfulness, while Madame Cheron expatiated
on the splendour of her house, told of the numerous parties she
entertained, and what she should expect of Emily, whose diffidence
assumed the air of a reserve, which her aunt, believing it to be that
of pride and ignorance united, now took occasion to reprehend. She knew
nothing of the conduct of a mind, that fears to trust its own powers;
which, possessing a nice judgment, and inclining to believe, that every
other person perceives still more critically, fears to commit itself
to censure, and seeks shelter in the obscurity of silence. Emily had
frequently blushed at the fearless manners, which she had seen admired,
and the brilliant nothings, which she had heard applauded; yet this
applause, so far from encouraging her to imitate the conduct that had
won it, rather made her shrink into the reserve, that would protect her
from such absurdity.

Madame Cheron looked on her niece's diffidence with a feeling very near
to contempt, and endeavoured to overcome it by reproof, rather than to
encourage it by gentleness.

The entrance of supper somewhat interrupted the complacent discourse of
Madame Cheron and the painful considerations, which it had forced
upon Emily. When the repast, which was rendered ostentatious by the
attendance of a great number of servants, and by a profusion of plate,
was over, Madame Cheron retired to her chamber, and a female servant
came to shew Emily to hers. Having passed up a large stair-case, and
through several galleries, they came to a flight of back stairs, which
led into a short passage in a remote part of the chateau, and there
the servant opened the door of a small chamber, which she said was
Ma'amselle Emily's, who, once more alone, indulged the tears she had
long tried to restrain.

Those, who know, from experience, how much the heart becomes attached
even to inanimate objects, to which it has been long accustomed, how
unwillingly it resigns them; how with the sensations of an old friend it
meets them, after temporary absence, will understand the forlornness
of Emily's feelings, of Emily shut out from the only home she had
known from her infancy, and thrown upon a scene, and among persons,
disagreeable for more qualities than their novelty. Her father's
favourite dog, now in the chamber, thus seemed to acquire the character
and importance of a friend; and, as the animal fawned over her when she
wept, and licked her hands, 'Ah, poor Manchon!' said she, 'I have nobody
now to love me--but you!' and she wept the more. After some time, her
thoughts returning to her father's injunctions, she remembered how often
he had blamed her for indulging useless sorrow; how often he had pointed
out to her the necessity of fortitude and patience, assuring her, that
the faculties of the mind strengthen by exertion, till they finally
unnerve affliction, and triumph over it. These recollections dried her
tears, gradually soothed her spirits, and inspired her with the sweet
emulation of practising precepts, which her father had so frequently
inculcated.

 It's off to Tholouse for Ms. Emily, who is none too happy to be headed far from home. Auntie Cheron doesn't even stop the carriage to let Em say goodbye to her father's pensioners. FYI, pensioners are people who were given a sum of money by St. Aubert. Valancourt returns back home to Estuviere brokenhearted. He's more than a little worried about getting Madame Cheron on his side. See, Valancourt's a younger brother. That means he gets to inherit squat. Luckily, his older brother thinks he can make some much-needed cash by joining the military. Meanwhile, at Tholouse, Madame Cheron is really giving Emily the business about Valancourt. Emily can't believe this is really her father's sister. Madame Cheron is such a jerk. Madame Cheron's estates are pretty and all, but in a tacky way. Her number-one goal is to show off her wealth. Once Emily is alone in her room at Tholouse, out come the waterworks. At least she's got her dog, Manchon, who is her only friend. Woe is her. Emily remembers her dad's warning about not indulging her emotions. Whoops.

