Chapter: CHAPTER IX



 Give thy thoughts no tongue.
     SHAKESPEARE

The Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for his friend had kept awake, rose
early to enquire the event of the night, when, as he passed the Count's
closet, hearing steps within, he knocked at the door, and it was opened
by his friend himself. Rejoicing to see him in safety, and curious to
learn the occurrences of the night, he had not immediately leisure to
observe the unusual gravity, that overspread the features of the Count,
whose reserved answers first occasioned him to notice it. The Count,
then smiling, endeavoured to treat the subject of his curiosity with
levity, but the Baron was serious, and pursued his enquiries so closely,
that the Count, at length, resuming his gravity, said, 'Well, my friend,
press the subject no further, I entreat you; and let me request
also, that you will hereafter be silent upon any thing you may think
extraordinary in my future conduct. I do not scruple to tell you, that I
am unhappy, and that the watch of the last night has not assisted me to
discover Ludovico; upon every occurrence of the night you must excuse my
reserve.'

'But where is Henri?' said the Baron, with surprise and disappointment
at this denial.

'He is well in his own apartment,' replied the Count. 'You will not
question him on this topic, my friend, since you know my wish.'

'Certainly not,' said the Baron, somewhat chagrined, 'since it would
be displeasing to you; but methinks, my friend, you might rely on my
discretion, and drop this unusual reserve. However, you must allow me to
suspect, that you have seen reason to become a convert to my system, and
are no longer the incredulous knight you lately appeared to be.'

'Let us talk no more upon this subject,' said the Count; 'you may be
assured, that no ordinary circumstance has imposed this silence upon me
towards a friend, whom I have called so for near thirty years; and
my present reserve cannot make you question either my esteem, or the
sincerity of my friendship.'

'I will not doubt either,' said the Baron, 'though you must allow me to
express my surprise, at this silence.'

'To me I will allow it,' replied the Count, 'but I earnestly entreat
that you will forbear to notice it to my family, as well as every thing
remarkable you may observe in my conduct towards them.'

The Baron readily promised this, and, after conversing for some time on
general topics, they descended to the breakfast-room, where the Count
met his family with a cheerful countenance, and evaded their enquiries
by employing light ridicule, and assuming an air of uncommon gaiety,
while he assured them, that they need not apprehend any evil from the
north chambers, since Henri and himself had been permitted to return
from them in safety.

Henri, however, was less successful in disguising his feelings. From his
countenance an expression of terror was not entirely faded; he was
often silent and thoughtful, and when he attempted to laugh at the eager
enquiries of Mademoiselle Bearn, it was evidently only an attempt.

In the evening, the Count called, as he had promised, at the convent,
and Emily was surprised to perceive a mixture of playful ridicule and
of reserve in his mention of the north apartment. Of what had occurred
there, however, he said nothing, and, when she ventured to remind him
of his promise to tell her the result of his enquiries, and to ask if
he had received any proof, that those chambers were haunted, his look
became solemn, for a moment, then, seeming to recollect himself, he
smiled, and said, 'My dear Emily, do not suffer my lady abbess to infect
your good understanding with these fancies; she will teach you to expect
a ghost in every dark room. But believe me,' added he, with a profound
sigh, 'the apparition of the dead comes not on light, or sportive
errands, to terrify, or to surprise the timid.' He paused, and fell into
a momentary thoughtfulness, and then added, 'We will say no more on this
subject.'

Soon after, he took leave, and, when Emily joined some of the nuns, she
was surprised to find them acquainted with a circumstance, which she
had carefully avoided to mention, and expressing their admiration of
his intrepidity in having dared to pass a night in the apartment, whence
Ludovico had disappeared; for she had not considered with what rapidity
a tale of wonder circulates. The nuns had acquired their information
from peasants, who brought fruit to the monastery, and whose whole
attention had been fixed, since the disappearance of Ludovico, on what
was passing in the castle.

Emily listened in silence to the various opinions of the nuns,
concerning the conduct of the Count, most of whom condemned it as rash
and presumptuous, affirming, that it was provoking the vengeance of an
evil spirit, thus to intrude upon its haunts.

Sister Frances contended, that the Count had acted with the bravery of a
virtuous mind. He knew himself guiltless of aught, that should provoke a
good spirit, and did not fear the spells of an evil one, since he could
claim the protection of an higher Power, of Him, who can command the
wicked, and will protect the innocent.

'The guilty cannot claim that protection!' said sister Agnes, 'let the
Count look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim! Yet who is
he, that shall dare to call himself innocent!--all earthly innocence is
but comparative. Yet still how wide asunder are the extremes of guilt,
and to what an horrible depth may we fall! Oh!'--

The nun, as she concluded, uttered a shuddering sigh, that startled
Emily, who, looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixed on hers,
after which the sister rose, took her hand, gazed earnestly upon her
countenance, for some moments, in silence, and then said,

'You are young--you are innocent! I mean you are yet innocent of any
great crime!--But you have passions in your heart,--scorpions; they
sleep now--beware how you awaken them!--they will sting you, even unto
death!'

Emily, affected by these words and by the solemnity, with which they
were delivered, could not suppress her tears.

'Ah! is it so?' exclaimed Agnes, her countenance softening from its
sternness--'so young, and so unfortunate! We are sisters, then indeed.
Yet, there is no bond of kindness among the guilty,' she added, while
her eyes resumed their wild expression, 'no gentleness,--no peace, no
hope! I knew them all once--my eyes could weep--but now they burn, for
now, my soul is fixed, and fearless!--I lament no more!'

'Rather let us repent, and pray,' said another nun. 'We are taught to
hope, that prayer and penitence will work our salvation. There is hope
for all who repent!'

'Who repent and turn to the true faith,' observed sister Frances.

'For all but me!' replied Agnes solemnly, who paused, and then abruptly
added, 'My head burns, I believe I am not well. O! could I strike from
my memory all former scenes--the figures, that rise up, like furies, to
torment me!--I see them, when I sleep, and, when I am awake, they are
still before my eyes! I see them now--now!'

She stood in a fixed attitude of horror, her straining eyes moving
slowly round the room, as if they followed something. One of the nuns
gently took her hand, to lead her from the parlour. Agnes became calm,
drew her other hand across her eyes, looked again, and, sighing deeply,
said, 'They are gone--they are gone! I am feverish, I know not what I
say. I am thus, sometimes, but it will go off again, I shall soon be
better. Was not that the vesper-bell?'

'No,' replied Frances, 'the evening service is passed. Let Margaret lead
you to your cell.'

'You are right,' replied sister Agnes, 'I shall be better there. Good
night, my sisters, remember me in your orisons.'

When they had withdrawn, Frances, observing Emily's emotion, said, 'Do
not be alarmed, our sister is often thus deranged, though I have not
lately seen her so frantic; her usual mood is melancholy. This fit has
been coming on, for several days; seclusion and the customary treatment
will restore her.'

'But how rationally she conversed, at first!' observed Emily, 'her ideas
followed each other in perfect order.'

'Yes,' replied the nun, 'this is nothing new; nay, I have sometimes
known her argue not only with method, but with acuteness, and then, in a
moment, start off into madness.'

'Her conscience seems afflicted,' said Emily, 'did you ever hear what
circumstance reduced her to this deplorable condition?'

'I have,' replied the nun, who said no more till Emily repeated the
question, when she added in a low voice, and looking significantly
towards the other boarders, 'I cannot tell you now, but, if you think it
worth your while, come to my cell, to-night, when our sisterhood are at
rest, and you shall hear more; but remember we rise to midnight prayers,
and come either before, or after midnight.'

Emily promised to remember, and, the abbess soon after appearing, they
spoke no more of the unhappy nun.

The Count meanwhile, on his return home, had found M. Du Pont in one
of those fits of despondency, which his attachment to Emily frequently
occasioned him, an attachment, that had subsisted too long to be easily
subdued, and which had already outlived the opposition of his friends.
M. Du Pont had first seen Emily in Gascony, during the lifetime of his
parent, who, on discovering his son's partiality for Mademoiselle St.
Aubert, his inferior in point of fortune, forbade him to declare it to
her family, or to think of her more. During the life of his father, he
had observed the first command, but had found it impracticable to obey
the second, and had, sometimes, soothed his passion by visiting her
favourite haunts, among which was the fishing-house, where, once or
twice, he addressed her in verse, concealing his name, in obedience to
the promise he had given his father. There too he played the pathetic
air, to which she had listened with such surprise and admiration; and
there he found the miniature, that had since cherished a passion fatal
to his repose. During his expedition into Italy, his father died; but
he received his liberty at a moment, when he was the least enabled to
profit by it, since the object, that rendered it most valuable, was
no longer within the reach of his vows. By what accident he discovered
Emily, and assisted to release her from a terrible imprisonment, has
already appeared, and also the unavailing hope, with which he then
encouraged his love, and the fruitless efforts, that he had since made
to overcome it.

The Count still endeavoured, with friendly zeal, to sooth him with a
belief, that patience, perseverance and prudence would finally obtain
for him happiness and Emily: 'Time,' said he, 'will wear away the
melancholy impression, which disappointment has left on her mind, and
she will be sensible of your merit. Your services have already awakened
her gratitude, and your sufferings her pity; and trust me, my friend, in
a heart so sensible as hers, gratitude and pity lead to love. When
her imagination is rescued from its present delusion, she will readily
accept the homage of a mind like yours.'

Du Pont sighed, while he listened to these words; and, endeavouring to
hope what his friend believed, he willingly yielded to an invitation to
prolong his visit at the chateau, which we now leave for the monastery
of St. Claire.

When the nuns had retired to rest, Emily stole to her appointment with
sister Frances, whom she found in her cell, engaged in prayer, before a
little table, where appeared the image she was addressing, and, above,
the dim lamp that gave light to the place. Turning her eyes, as the door
opened, she beckoned to Emily to come in, who, having done so, seated
herself in silence beside the nun's little mattress of straw, till
her orisons should conclude. The latter soon rose from her knees, and,
taking down the lamp and placing it on the table, Emily perceived
there a human scull and bones, lying beside an hour-glass; but the nun,
without observing her emotion, sat down on the mattress by her, saying,
'Your curiosity, sister, has made you punctual, but you have nothing
remarkable to hear in the history of poor Agnes, of whom I avoided
to speak in the presence of my lay-sisters, only because I would not
publish her crime to them.'

'I shall consider your confidence in me as a favour,' said Emily, 'and
will not misuse it.'

'Sister Agnes,' resumed the nun, 'is of a noble family, as the dignity
of her air must already have informed you, but I will not dishonour
their name so much as to reveal it. Love was the occasion of her crime
and of her madness. She was beloved by a gentleman of inferior fortune,
and her father, as I have heard, bestowing her on a nobleman, whom
she disliked, an ill-governed passion proved her destruction.--Every
obligation of virtue and of duty was forgotten, and she prophaned her
marriage vows; but her guilt was soon detected, and she would have
fallen a sacrifice to the vengeance of her husband, had not her father
contrived to convey her from his power. By what means he did this,
I never could learn; but he secreted her in this convent, where he
afterwards prevailed with her to take the veil, while a report was
circulated in the world, that she was dead, and the father, to save his
daughter, assisted the rumour, and employed such means as induced her
husband to believe she had become a victim to his jealousy. You look
surprised,' added the nun, observing Emily's countenance; 'I allow the
story is uncommon, but not, I believe, without a parallel.'

'Pray proceed,' said Emily, 'I am interested.'

'The story is already told,' resumed the nun, 'I have only to mention,
that the long struggle, which Agnes suffered, between love, remorse
and a sense of the duties she had taken upon herself in becoming of our
order, at length unsettled her reason. At first, she was frantic and
melancholy by quick alternatives; then, she sunk into a deep and settled
melancholy, which still, however, has, at times, been interrupted by
fits of wildness, and, of late, these have again been frequent.'

Emily was affected by the history of the sister, some parts of whose
story brought to her remembrance that of the Marchioness de Villeroi,
who had also been compelled by her father to forsake the object of her
affections, for a nobleman of his choice; but, from what Dorothee had
related, there appeared no reason to suppose, that she had escaped the
vengeance of a jealous husband, or to doubt for a moment the innocence
of her conduct. But Emily, while she sighed over the misery of the
nun, could not forbear shedding a few tears to the misfortunes of the
Marchioness; and, when she returned to the mention of sister Agnes, she
asked Frances if she remembered her in her youth, and whether she was
then beautiful.

'I was not here at the time, when she took the vows,' replied Frances,
'which is so long ago, that few of the present sisterhood, I believe,
were witnesses of the ceremony; nay, ever our lady mother did not then
preside over the convent: but I can remember, when sister Agnes was a
very beautiful woman. She retains that air of high rank, which always
distinguished her, but her beauty, you must perceive, is fled; I can
scarcely discover even a vestige of the loveliness, that once animated
her features.'

'It is strange,' said Emily, 'but there are moments, when her
countenance has appeared familiar to my memory! You will think me
fanciful, and I think myself so, for I certainly never saw sister Agnes,
before I came to this convent, and I must, therefore, have seen
some person, whom she strongly resembles, though of this I have no
recollection.'

'You have been interested by the deep melancholy of her countenance,'
said Frances, 'and its impression has probably deluded your imagination;
for I might as reasonably think I perceive a likeness between you and
Agnes, as you, that you have seen her any where but in this convent,
since this has been her place of refuge, for nearly as many years as
make your age.'

'Indeed!' said Emily.

'Yes,' rejoined Frances, 'and why does that circumstance excite your
surprise?'

Emily did not appear to notice this question, but remained thoughtful,
for a few moments, and then said, 'It was about that same period that
the Marchioness de Villeroi expired.'

'That is an odd remark,' said Frances.

Emily, recalled from her reverie, smiled, and gave the conversation
another turn, but it soon came back to the subject of the unhappy nun,
and Emily remained in the cell of sister Frances, till the mid-night
bell aroused her; when, apologizing for having interrupted the sister's
repose, till this late hour, they quitted the cell together. Emily
returned to her chamber, and the nun, bearing a glimmering taper, went
to her devotion in the chapel.

Several days followed, during which Emily saw neither the Count, or any
of his family; and, when, at length, he appeared, she remarked, with
concern, that his air was unusually disturbed.

'My spirits are harassed,' said he, in answer to her anxious enquiries,
'and I mean to change my residence, for a little while, an experiment,
which, I hope, will restore my mind to its usual tranquillity. My
daughter and myself will accompany the Baron St. Foix to his chateau. It
lies in a valley of the Pyrenees, that opens towards Gascony, and I have
been thinking, Emily, that, when you set out for La Vallee, we may go
part of the way together; it would be a satisfaction to me to guard you
towards your home.'

She thanked the Count for his friendly consideration, and lamented, that
the necessity for her going first to Tholouse would render this plan
impracticable. 'But, when you are at the Baron's residence,' she added,
'you will be only a short journey from La Vallee, and I think, sir, you
will not leave the country without visiting me; it is unnecessary to say
with what pleasure I should receive you and the Lady Blanche.'

'I do not doubt it,' replied the Count, 'and I will not deny myself and
Blanche the pleasure of visiting you, if your affairs should allow you
to be at La Vallee, about the time when we can meet you there.'

When Emily said that she should hope to see the Countess also, she was
not sorry to learn that this lady was going, accompanied by Mademoiselle
Bearn, to pay a visit, for a few weeks, to a family in lower Languedoc.

The Count, after some further conversation on his intended journey and
on the arrangement of Emily's, took leave; and many days did not succeed
this visit, before a second letter from M. Quesnel informed her, that he
was then at Tholouse, that La Vallee was at liberty, and that he wished
her to set off for the former place, where he awaited her arrival, with
all possible dispatch, since his own affairs pressed him to return
to Gascony. Emily did not hesitate to obey him, and, having taken an
affecting leave of the Count's family, in which M. Du Pont was still
included, and of her friends at the convent, she set out for Tholouse,
attended by the unhappy Annette, and guarded by a steady servant of the
Count.

 Well, whaddya know. When the Baron St. Foix goes to check on the Count de Villeforte and Henri in the morning, they're still there. Em goes to visit the convent again, where she finds the nuns all caught up on the haunted-room sitch. Sister Agnes can't help but wax eloquent about how everyone is guilty of grievous sins. She's definitely a little overexcited about the ghost story. Agnes even succeeds in making Em cry with all her fire-and-brimstone talk. Em can't help but notice that Agnes is acting kind of guilty. Sister Frances promises to tell Em Agnes's story if she comes back later in the night. Meanwhile, Du Pont is still pining over Em. It's revealed that he's the guy who hung around the fishing-house back at La Vallee, watching for his love. Cool it on the creepiness, dude. The Count de Villeforte gives Du Pont some encouraging advice: just wait for Em to get over Valancourt, and she'll be all yours. Back to Em and her quest to find out Agnes's secrets. Em sneaks back to the convent after all the nuns have gone to bed. Sister Frances has the dirt. Looks like Sister Agnes was long ago in love with a poor man whom her father wouldn't let her marry. Instead, Agnes's daddy married her off to a rich guy. Joke's on him, because Agnes cheated on her new husband with her old love. Big mistake, Agnes. To save her from the rich guy's vengeance, Agnes's dad shipped her off to the convent. Voila, Sister Agnes. Since that time, Agnes has been more and more prone to fits of madness. Em can't shake the strange feeling that she knows Agnes from somewhere. Maybe she just has a familiar-looking face? After several more days hanging at the Chateau-le-Blanc, the Count de Villeforte informs Em that he's taking the fam on a road trip to the Baron St. Foix's place. Em takes the opportunity to head on over to Tholouse to check out her new estates. Must be nice, Em.

