Chapter: CHAPTER XVI



  Unnatural deeds
 Do breed unnatural troubles:  infected minds
 To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
 More needs she the divine, than the physician.
     MACBETH

On the following evening, the view of the convent towers, rising among
the shadowy woods, reminded Emily of the nun, whose condition had so
much affected her; and, anxious to know how she was, as well as to see
some of her former friends, she and the Lady Blanche extended their walk
to the monastery. At the gate stood a carriage, which, from the heat
of the horses, appeared to have just arrived; but a more than common
stillness pervaded the court and the cloisters, through which Emily
and Blanche passed in their way to the great hall, where a nun, who was
crossing to the stair-case, replied to the enquiries of the former, that
sister Agnes was still living, and sensible, but that it was thought she
could not survive the night. In the parlour, they found several of
the boarders, who rejoiced to see Emily, and told her many little
circumstances that had happened in the convent since her departure, and
which were interesting to her only because they related to persons, whom
she had regarded with affection. While they thus conversed the abbess
entered the room, and expressed much satisfaction at seeing Emily, but
her manner was unusually solemn, and her countenance dejected. 'Our
house,' said she, after the first salutations were over, 'is truly a
house of mourning--a daughter is now paying the debt of nature.--You
have heard, perhaps, that our daughter Agnes is dying?'

Emily expressed her sincere concern.

'Her death presents to us a great and awful lesson,' continued the
abbess; 'let us read it, and profit by it; let it teach us to prepare
ourselves for the change, that awaits us all! You are young, and have
it yet in your power to secure "the peace that passeth all
understanding"--the peace of conscience. Preserve it in your youth, that
it may comfort you in age; for vain, alas! and imperfect are the good
deeds of our latter years, if those of our early life have been evil!'

Emily would have said, that good deeds, she hoped, were never vain;
but she considered that it was the abbess who spoke, and she remained
silent.

'The latter days of Agnes,' resumed the abbess, 'have been exemplary;
would they might atone for the errors of her former ones! Her sufferings
now, alas! are great; let us believe, that they will make her peace
hereafter! I have left her with her confessor, and a gentleman, whom she
has long been anxious to see, and who is just arrived from Paris.
They, I hope, will be able to administer the repose, which her mind has
hitherto wanted.'

Emily fervently joined in the wish.

'During her illness, she has sometimes named you,' resumed the abbess;
'perhaps, it would comfort her to see you; when her present visitors
have left her, we will go to her chamber, if the scene will not be
too melancholy for your spirits. But, indeed, to such scenes, however
painful, we ought to accustom ourselves, for they are salutary to the
soul, and prepare us for what we are ourselves to suffer.'

Emily became grave and thoughtful; for this conversation brought to her
recollection the dying moments of her beloved father, and she wished
once more to weep over the spot, where his remains were buried.
During the silence, which followed the abbess' speech, many minute
circumstances attending his last hours occurred to her--his emotion on
perceiving himself to be in the neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc--his
request to be interred in a particular spot in the church of this
monastery--and the solemn charge he had delivered to her to destroy
certain papers, without examining them.--She recollected also the
mysterious and horrible words in those manuscripts, upon which her eye
had involuntarily glanced; and, though they now, and, indeed, whenever
she remembered them, revived an excess of painful curiosity, concerning
their full import, and the motives for her father's command, it was
ever her chief consolation, that she had strictly obeyed him in this
particular.

Little more was said by the abbess, who appeared too much affected by
the subject she had lately left, to be willing to converse, and her
companions had been for some time silent from the same cause, when this
general reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, Monsieur
Bonnac, who had just quitted the chamber of sister Agnes. He appeared
much disturbed, but Emily fancied, that his countenance had more the
expression of horror, than of grief. Having drawn the abbess to a
distant part of the room, he conversed with her for some time, during
which she seemed to listen with earnest attention, and he to speak
with caution, and a more than common degree of interest. When he had
concluded, he bowed silently to the rest of the company, and quitted the
room. The abbess, soon after, proposed going to the chamber of sister
Agnes, to which Emily consented, though not without some reluctance, and
Lady Blanche remained with the boarders below.

At the door of the chamber they met the confessor, whom, as he lifted
up his head on their approach, Emily observed to be the same that had
attended her dying father; but he passed on, without noticing her, and
they entered the apartment, where, on a mattress, was laid sister Agnes,
with one nun watching in the chair beside her. Her countenance was so
much changed, that Emily would scarcely have recollected her, had she
not been prepared to do so: it was ghastly, and overspread with gloomy
horror; her dim and hollow eyes were fixed on a crucifix, which she
held upon her bosom; and she was so much engaged in thought, as not to
perceive the abbess and Emily, till they stood at the bed-side. Then,
turning her heavy eyes, she fixed them, in wild horror, upon Emily, and,
screaming, exclaimed, 'Ah! that vision comes upon me in my dying hours!'

Emily started back in terror, and looked for explanation to the abbess,
who made her a signal not to be alarmed, and calmly said to Agnes,
'Daughter, I have brought Mademoiselle St. Aubert to visit you: I
thought you would be glad to see her.'

Agnes made no reply; but, still gazing wildly upon Emily, exclaimed, 'It
is her very self! Oh! there is all that fascination in her look, which
proved my destruction! What would you have--what is it you came to
demand--Retribution?--It will soon be yours--it is yours already.
How many years have passed, since last I saw you! My crime is but as
yesterday.--Yet I am grown old beneath it; while you are still young and
blooming--blooming as when you forced me to commit that most abhorred
deed! O! could I once forget it!--yet what would that avail?--the deed
is done!'

Emily, extremely shocked, would now have left the room; but the abbess,
taking her hand, tried to support her spirits, and begged she would stay
a few moments, when Agnes would probably be calm, whom now she tried to
sooth. But the latter seemed to disregard her, while she still fixed
her eyes on Emily, and added, 'What are years of prayers and repentance?
they cannot wash out the foulness of murder!--Yes, murder! Where is
he--where is he?--Look there--look there!--see where he stalks along
the room! Why do you come to torment me now?' continued Agnes, while her
straining eyes were bent on air, 'why was not I punished before?--O!
do not frown so sternly! Hah! there again! 'til she herself! Why do you
look so piteously upon me--and smile, too? smile on me! What groan was
that?'

Agnes sunk down, apparently lifeless, and Emily, unable to support
herself, leaned against the bed, while the abbess and the attendant nun
were applying the usual remedies to Agnes. 'Peace,' said the abbess,
when Emily was going to speak, 'the delirium is going off, she will soon
revive. When was she thus before, daughter?'

'Not of many weeks, madam,' replied the nun, 'but her spirits have been
much agitated by the arrival of the gentleman she wished so much to
see.'

'Yes,' observed the abbess, 'that has undoubtedly occasioned this
paroxysm of frenzy. When she is better, we will leave her to repose.'

Emily very readily consented, but, though she could now give little
assistance, she was unwilling to quit the chamber, while any might be
necessary.

When Agnes recovered her senses, she again fixed her eyes on Emily, but
their wild expression was gone, and a gloomy melancholy had succeeded.
It was some moments before she recovered sufficient spirits to speak;
she then said feebly--'The likeness is wonderful!--surely it must
be something more than fancy. Tell me, I conjure you,' she added,
addressing Emily, 'though your name is St. Aubert, are you not the
daughter of the Marchioness?'

'What Marchioness?' said Emily, in extreme surprise; for she had
imagined, from the calmness of Agnes's manner, that her intellects were
restored. The abbess gave her a significant glance, but she repeated the
question.

'What Marchioness?' exclaimed Agnes, 'I know but of one--the Marchioness
de Villeroi.'

Emily, remembering the emotion of her late father, upon the unexpected
mention of this lady, and his request to be laid near to the tomb of
the Villerois, now felt greatly interested, and she entreated Agnes to
explain the reason of her question. The abbess would now have withdrawn
Emily from the room, who being, however, detained by a strong interest,
repeated her entreaties.

'Bring me that casket, sister,' said Agnes; 'I will shew her to you; yet
you need only look in that mirror, and you will behold her; you surely
are her daughter: such striking resemblance is never found but among
near relations.'

The nun brought the casket, and Agnes, having directed her how to unlock
it, she took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the exact
resemblance of the picture, which she had found among her late father's
papers. Agnes held out her hand to receive it; gazed upon it earnestly
for some moments in silence; and then, with a countenance of deep
despair, threw up her eyes to Heaven, and prayed inwardly. When she had
finished, she returned the miniature to Emily. 'Keep it,' said she,
'I bequeath it to you, for I must believe it is your right. I have
frequently observed the resemblance between you; but never, till this
day, did it strike upon my conscience so powerfully! Stay, sister, do
not remove the casket--there is another picture I would shew.'

Emily trembled with expectation, and the abbess again would have
withdrawn her. 'Agnes is still disordered,' said she, 'you observe how
she wanders. In these moods she says any thing, and does not scruple, as
you have witnessed, to accuse herself of the most horrible crimes.'

Emily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness in
the inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Marchioness,
and production of her picture, had interested her so much, that she
determined to obtain further information, if possible, respecting the
subject of it.

The nun returned with the casket, and, Agnes pointing out to her a
secret drawer, she took from it another miniature. 'Here,' said Agnes,
as she offered it to Emily, 'learn a lesson for your vanity, at least;
look well at this picture, and see if you can discover any resemblance
between what I was, and what I am.'

Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcely
glanced upon, before her trembling hands had nearly suffered it to
fall--it was the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini,
which she had formerly seen in the castle of Udolpho--the lady, who
had disappeared in so mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had been
suspected of having caused to be murdered.

In silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon the
picture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance between
them, which no longer existed.

'Why do you look so sternly on me?' said Agnes, mistaking the nature of
Emily's emotion.

'I have seen this face before,' said Emily, at length; 'was it really
your resemblance?'

'You may well ask that question,' replied the nun,--'but it was once
esteemed a striking likeness of me. Look at me well, and see what guilt
has made me. I then was innocent; the evil passions of my nature slept.
Sister!' added she solemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp hand
to Emily, who shuddered at its touch--'Sister! beware of the first
indulgence of the passions; beware of the first! Their course, if not
checked then, is rapid--their force is uncontroulable--they lead us we
know not whither--they lead us perhaps to the commission of crimes, for
which whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone!--Such may be the
force of even a single passion, that it overcomes every other, and sears
up every other approach to the heart. Possessing us like a fiend, it
leads us on to the acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity and
to conscience. And, when its purpose is accomplished, like a fiend,
it leaves us to the torture of those feelings, which its power had
suspended--not annihilated,--to the tortures of compassion, remorse, and
conscience. Then, we awaken as from a dream, and perceive a new
world around us--we gaze in astonishment, and horror--but the deed
is committed; not all the powers of heaven and earth united can
undo it--and the spectres of conscience will not fly! What are
riches--grandeur--health itself, to the luxury of a pure conscience, the
health of the soul;--and what the sufferings of poverty, disappointment,
despair--to the anguish of an afflicted one! O! how long is it since
I knew that luxury! I believed, that I had suffered the most agonizing
pangs of human nature, in love, jealousy, and despair--but these pangs
were ease, compared with the stings of conscience, which I have since
endured. I tasted too what was called the sweet of revenge--but it was
transient, it expired even with the object, that provoked it. Remember,
sister, that the passions are the seeds of vices as well as of virtues,
from which either may spring, accordingly as they are nurtured. Unhappy
they who have never been taught the art to govern them!'

'Alas! unhappy!' said the abbess, 'and ill-informed of our holy
religion!' Emily listened to Agnes, in silent awe, while she still
examined the miniature, and became confirmed in her opinion of its
strong resemblance to the portrait at Udolpho. 'This face is familiar to
me,' said she, wishing to lead the nun to an explanation, yet fearing to
discover too abruptly her knowledge of Udolpho.

'You are mistaken,' replied Agnes, 'you certainly never saw that picture
before.'

'No,' replied Emily, 'but I have seen one extremely like it.'
'Impossible,' said Agnes, who may now be called the Lady Laurentini.

'It was in the castle of Udolpho,' continued Emily, looking stedfastly
at her.

'Of Udolpho!' exclaimed Laurentini, 'of Udolpho in Italy!' 'The same,'
replied Emily.

'You know me then,' said Laurentini, 'and you are the daughter of the
Marchioness.' Emily was somewhat surprised at this abrupt assertion. 'I
am the daughter of the late Mons. St. Aubert,' said she; 'and the lady
you name is an utter stranger to me.'

'At least you believe so,' rejoined Laurentini.

Emily asked what reasons there could be to believe otherwise.

'The family likeness, that you bear her,' said the nun. 'The
Marchioness, it is known, was attached to a gentleman of Gascony, at the
time when she accepted the hand of the Marquis, by the command of her
father. Ill-fated, unhappy woman!'

Emily, remembering the extreme emotion which St. Aubert had betrayed on
the mention of the Marchioness, would now have suffered something more
than surprise, had her confidence in his integrity been less; as it
was, she could not, for a moment, believe what the words of Laurentini
insinuated; yet she still felt strongly interested, concerning them, and
begged, that she would explain them further.

'Do not urge me on that subject,' said the nun, 'it is to me a terrible
one! Would that I could blot it from my memory!' She sighed deeply,
and, after the pause of a moment, asked Emily, by what means she had
discovered her name?

'By your portrait in the castle of Udolpho, to which this miniature
bears a striking resemblance,' replied Emily.

'You have been at Udolpho then!' said the nun, with great emotion.
'Alas! what scenes does the mention of it revive in my fancy--scenes of
happiness--of suffering--and of horror!'

At this moment, the terrible spectacle, which Emily had witnessed in a
chamber of that castle, occurred to her, and she shuddered, while she
looked upon the nun--and recollected her late words--that 'years of
prayer and penitence could not wash out the foulness of murder.' She
was now compelled to attribute these to another cause, than that of
delirium. With a degree of horror, that almost deprived her of sense,
she now believed she looked upon a murderer; all the recollected
behaviour of Laurentini seemed to confirm the supposition, yet Emily was
still lost in a labyrinth of perplexities, and, not knowing how to ask
the questions, which might lead to truth, she could only hint them in
broken sentences.

'Your sudden departure from Udolpho'--said she.

Laurentini groaned.

'The reports that followed it,' continued Emily--'The west chamber--the
mournful veil--the object it conceals!--when murders are committed--'

The nun shrieked. 'What! there again!' said she, endeavouring to raise
herself, while her starting eyes seemed to follow some object round
the room--'Come from the grave! What! Blood--blood too!--There was
no blood--thou canst not say it!--Nay, do not smile,--do not smile so
piteously!'

Laurentini fell into convulsions, as she uttered the last words; and
Emily, unable any longer to endure the horror of the scene, hurried from
the room, and sent some nuns to the assistance of the abbess.

The Lady Blanche, and the boarders, who were in the parlour, now
assembled round Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and affrighted
countenance, asked a hundred questions, which she avoided answering
further, than by saying, that she believed sister Agnes was dying. They
received this as a sufficient explanation of her terror, and had then
leisure to offer restoratives, which, at length, somewhat revived Emily,
whose mind was, however, so much shocked with the terrible surmises, and
perplexed with doubts by some words from the nun, that she was unable
to converse, and would have left the convent immediately, had she not
wished to know whether Laurentini would survive the late attack. After
waiting some time, she was informed, that, the convulsions having
ceased, Laurentini seemed to be reviving, and Emily and Blanche were
departing, when the abbess appeared, who, drawing the former aside, said
she had something of consequence to say to her, but, as it was late,
she would not detain her then, and requested to see her on the following
day.

Emily promised to visit her, and, having taken leave, returned with the
Lady Blanche towards the chateau, on the way to which the deep gloom of
the woods made Blanche lament, that the evening was so far advanced; for
the surrounding stillness and obscurity rendered her sensible of fear,
though there was a servant to protect her; while Emily was too much
engaged by the horrors of the scene she had just witnessed, to be
affected by the solemnity of the shades, otherwise than as they served
to promote her gloomy reverie, from which, however, she was at length
recalled by the Lady Blanche, who pointed out, at some distance, in
the dusky path they were winding, two persons slowly advancing. It was
impossible to avoid them without striking into a still more secluded
part of the wood, whither the strangers might easily follow; but all
apprehension vanished, when Emily distinguished the voice of Mons. Du
Pont, and perceived, that his companion was the gentleman, whom she
had seen at the monastery, and who was now conversing with so much
earnestness as not immediately to perceive their approach. When Du Pont
joined the ladies, the stranger took leave, and they proceeded to the
chateau, where the Count, when he heard of Mons. Bonnac, claimed him for
an acquaintance, and, on learning the melancholy occasion of his visit
to Languedoc, and that he was lodged at a small inn in the village,
begged the favour of Mons. Du Pont to invite him to the chateau.

The latter was happy to do so, and the scruples of reserve, which made
M. Bonnac hesitate to accept the invitation, being at length overcome,
they went to the chateau, where the kindness of the Count and the
sprightliness of his son were exerted to dissipate the gloom, that
overhung the spirits of the stranger. M. Bonnac was an officer in the
French service, and appeared to be about fifty; his figure was tall
and commanding, his manners had received the last polish, and there was
something in his countenance uncommonly interesting; for over features,
which, in youth, must have been remarkably handsome, was spread a
melancholy, that seemed the effect of long misfortune, rather than of
constitution, or temper.

The conversation he held, during supper, was evidently an effort of
politeness, and there were intervals in which, unable to struggle
against the feelings, that depressed him, he relapsed into silence and
abstraction, from which, however, the Count, sometimes, withdrew him in
a manner so delicate and benevolent, that Emily, while she observed him,
almost fancied she beheld her late father.

The party separated, at an early hour, and then, in the solitude of her
apartment, the scenes, which Emily had lately witnessed, returned to
her fancy, with dreadful energy. That in the dying nun she should have
discovered Signora Laurentini, who, instead of having been murdered by
Montoni, was, as it now seemed, herself guilty of some dreadful crime,
excited both horror and surprise in a high degree; nor did the hints,
which she had dropped, respecting the marriage of the Marchioness de
Villeroi, and the enquiries she had made concerning Emily's birth,
occasion her a less degree of interest, though it was of a different
nature.

The history, which sister Frances had formerly related, and had said to
be that of Agnes, it now appeared, was erroneous; but for what purpose
it had been fabricated, unless the more effectually to conceal the true
story, Emily could not even guess. Above all, her interest was excited
as to the relation, which the story of the late Marchioness de Villeroi
bore to that of her father; for, that some kind of relation existed
between them, the grief of St. Aubert, upon hearing her named, his
request to be buried near her, and her picture, which had been found
among his papers, certainly proved. Sometimes it occurred to Emily, that
he might have been the lover, to whom it was said the Marchioness was
attached, when she was compelled to marry the Marquis de Villeroi; but
that he had afterwards cherished a passion for her, she could not suffer
herself to believe, for a moment. The papers, which he had so solemnly
enjoined her to destroy, she now fancied had related to this connection,
and she wished more earnestly than before to know the reasons, that
made him consider the injunction necessary, which, had her faith in
his principles been less, would have led to believe, that there was
a mystery in her birth dishonourable to her parents, which those
manuscripts might have revealed.

Reflections, similar to these, engaged her mind, during the greater part
of the night, and when, at length, she fell into a slumber, it was only
to behold a vision of the dying nun, and to awaken in horrors, like
those she had witnessed.

On the following morning, she was too much indisposed to attend her
appointment with the abbess, and, before the day concluded, she heard,
that sister Agnes was no more. Mons. Bonnac received this intelligence,
with concern; but Emily observed, that he did not appear so much
affected now, as on the preceding evening, immediately after quitting
the apartment of the nun, whose death was probably less terrible to him,
than the confession he had been then called upon to witness. However
this might be, he was perhaps consoled, in some degree, by a knowledge
of the legacy bequeathed him, since his family was large, and the
extravagance of some part of it had lately been the means of involving
him in great distress, and even in the horrors of a prison; and it was
the grief he had suffered from the wild career of a favourite son, with
the pecuniary anxieties and misfortunes consequent upon it, that
had given to his countenance the air of dejection, which had so much
interested Emily.

To his friend Mons. Du Pont he recited some particulars of his late
sufferings, when it appeared, that he had been confined for several
months in one of the prisons of Paris, with little hope of release,
and without the comfort of seeing his wife, who had been absent in the
country, endeavouring, though in vain, to procure assistance from his
friends. When, at length, she had obtained an order for admittance, she
was so much shocked at the change, which long confinement and sorrow had
made in his appearance, that she was seized with fits, which, by their
long continuance, threatened her life.

'Our situation affected those, who happened to witness it,' continued
Mons. Bonnac, 'and one generous friend, who was in confinement at the
same time, afterwards employed the first moments of his liberty in
efforts to obtain mine. He succeeded; the heavy debt, that oppressed
me, was discharged; and, when I would have expressed my sense of the
obligation I had received, my benefactor was fled from my search. I have
reason to believe he was the victim of his own generosity, and that he
returned to the state of confinement, from which he had released me;
but every enquiry after him was unsuccessful. Amiable and unfortunate
Valancourt!'

'Valancourt!' exclaimed Mons. Du Pont. 'Of what family?'

'The Valancourts, Counts Duvarney,' replied Mons. Bonnac.

The emotion of Mons. Du Pont, when he discovered the generous benefactor
of his friend to be the rival of his love, can only be imagined; but,
having overcome his first surprise, he dissipated the apprehensions of
Mons. Bonnac by acquainting him, that Valancourt was at liberty, and had
lately been in Languedoc; after which his affection for Emily prompted
him to make some enquiries, respecting the conduct of his rival, during
his stay at Paris, of which M. Bonnac appeared to be well informed. The
answers he received were such as convinced him, that Valancourt had been
much misrepresented, and, painful as was the sacrifice, he formed the
just design of relinquishing his pursuit of Emily to a lover, who, it
now appeared, was not unworthy of the regard, with which she honoured
him.

The conversation of Mons. Bonnac discovered, that Valancourt, some
time after his arrival at Paris, had been drawn into the snares, which
determined vice had spread for him, and that his hours had been chiefly
divided between the parties of the captivating Marchioness and those
gaming assemblies, to which the envy, or the avarice, of his brother
officers had spared no art to seduce him. In these parties he had lost
large sums, in efforts to recover small ones, and to such losses the
Count De Villefort and Mons. Henri had been frequent witnesses. His
resources were, at length, exhausted; and the Count, his brother,
exasperated by his conduct, refused to continue the supplies necessary
to his present mode of life, when Valancourt, in consequence of
accumulated debts, was thrown into confinement, where his brother
suffered him to remain, in the hope, that punishment might effect a
reform of conduct, which had not yet been confirmed by long habit.

In the solitude of his prison, Valancourt had leisure for reflection,
and cause for repentance; here, too, the image of Emily, which, amidst
the dissipation of the city had been obscured, but never obliterated
from his heart, revived with all the charms of innocence and beauty, to
reproach him for having sacrificed his happiness and debased his talents
by pursuits, which his nobler faculties would formerly have taught him
to consider were as tasteless as they were degrading. But, though his
passions had been seduced, his heart was not depraved, nor had habit
riveted the chains, that hung heavily on his conscience; and, as he
retained that energy of will, which was necessary to burst them, he, at
length, emancipated himself from the bondage of vice, but not till after
much effort and severe suffering.

Being released by his brother from the prison, where he had witnessed
the affecting meeting between Mons. Bonnac and his wife, with whom he
had been for some time acquainted, the first use of his liberty formed a
striking instance of his humanity and his rashness; for with nearly all
the money, just received from his brother, he went to a gaming-house,
and gave it as a last stake for the chance of restoring his friend to
freedom, and to his afflicted family. The event was fortunate, and,
while he had awaited the issue of this momentous stake, he made a solemn
vow never again to yield to the destructive and fascinating vice of
gaming.

Having restored the venerable Mons. Bonnac to his rejoicing family, he
hurried from Paris to Estuviere; and, in the delight of having made the
wretched happy, forgot, for a while, his own misfortunes. Soon, however,
he remembered, that he had thrown away the fortune, without which he
could never hope to marry Emily; and life, unless passed with her,
now scarcely appeared supportable; for her goodness, refinement, and
simplicity of heart, rendered her beauty more enchanting, if possible,
to his fancy, than it had ever yet appeared. Experience had taught
him to understand the full value of the qualities, which he had before
admired, but which the contrasted characters he had seen in the world
made him now adore; and these reflections, increasing the pangs of
remorse and regret, occasioned the deep dejection, that had accompanied
him even into the presence of Emily, of whom he considered himself no
longer worthy. To the ignominy of having received pecuniary obligations
from the Marchioness Chamfort, or any other lady of intrigue, as the
Count De Villefort had been informed, or of having been engaged in the
depredating schemes of gamesters, Valancourt had never submitted; and
these were some of such scandals as often mingle with truth, against the
unfortunate. Count De Villefort had received them from authority which
he had no reason to doubt, and which the imprudent conduct he had
himself witnessed in Valancourt, had certainly induced him the more
readily to believe. Being such as Emily could not name to the Chevalier,
he had no opportunity of refuting them; and, when he confessed
himself to be unworthy of her esteem, he little suspected, that he was
confirming to her the most dreadful calumnies. Thus the mistake had been
mutual, and had remained so, when Mons. Bonnac explained the conduct of
his generous, but imprudent young friend to Du Pont, who, with severe
justice, determined not only to undeceive the Count on this subject, but
to resign all hope of Emily. Such a sacrifice as his love rendered
this, was deserving of a noble reward, and Mons. Bonnac, if it had been
possible for him to forget the benevolent Valancourt, would have wished
that Emily might accept the just Du Pont.

When the Count was informed of the error he had committed, he was
extremely shocked at the consequence of his credulity, and the account
which Mons. Bonnac gave of his friend's situation, while at Paris,
convinced him, that Valancourt had been entrapped by the schemes of a
set of dissipated young men, with whom his profession had partly obliged
him to associate, rather than by an inclination to vice; and, charmed
by the humanity, and noble, though rash generosity, which his conduct
towards Mons. Bonnac exhibited, he forgave him the transient errors,
that had stained his youth, and restored him to the high degree of
esteem, with which he had regarded him, during their early acquaintance.
But, as the least reparation he could now make Valancourt was to
afford him an opportunity of explaining to Emily his former conduct,
he immediately wrote, to request his forgiveness of the unintentional
injury he had done him, and to invite him to Chateau-le-Blanc. Motives
of delicacy with-held the Count from informing Emily of this letter,
and of kindness from acquainting her with the discovery respecting
Valancourt, till his arrival should save her from the possibility of
anxiety, as to its event; and this precaution spared her even severer
inquietude, than the Count had foreseen, since he was ignorant of the
symptoms of despair, which Valancourt's late conduct had betrayed.

 The next day, Em runs into the abbess while walking around the chateau. It's a small world. The abbess invites Em back to the convent again, telling her that Agnes mentions her name frequently. Well, Em gets a special reception when she visits Agnes. Agnes screams at her: "Ah! That vision comes upon me in my dying hours!" That's one way to say hello. Turns out Agnes thinks Em is the daughter of the Marchioness. That's right, the Marchioness who died under suspicious circumstances at the Chateau-le-Blanc. In fact, Agnes has a picture to prove that Em is the spitting image of the Marchioness. And Agnes has another picture she wants to show Em: this one's of Agnes in her glory days. Hold up. It's a picture of Signora Laurentini, the former owner of Udolpho in Italy. Y'know, the one who disappeared in the woods and was never seen again? Worlds colliding. Yep, Agnes is really Signora Laurentini. Looks like the story Sister Frances told Em was a bunch of crock. Instead, Agnes-turned-Signora-Laurentini is going to tell her real story. Apparently, she was head-over-heels in love with the Marquis of Chateau-le-Blanc. He loved her back, but he was with the Marchioness. Not to be foiled, the Marquis and Signora Laurentini plotted to murder the Marchioness with poison. Once she was out of the way, the Marquis had a change of heart and suddenly wasn't so much into his fellow-murderer. He headed off to live out his days in guilt and left the Signora Laurentini broken-hearted. Em's not really sure if the Marchioness really is her mom. After all, her dad did have a picture of the Marchioness in his secret pile of papers. If the Signora Laurentini switcheroo isn't crazy-town enough, check this out: Du Pont has a buddy named Monsieur Bonnac who's in town. Bonnac happens to know Valancourt, and he's only got good things to say. Turns out Valancourt bailed him out of prison and paid off all his debts, just out of the goodness of his heart. What's more, Valancourt restored Bonnac to his ailing wife, who was having a tough time without her husband by her side. So even though Valancourt was into the gambling for a while, he shaped up and did what was right. And he didn't really squander away all of his money. The guy actually gave it away! Once the Count de Villeforte hears of Valancourt's true character, he's totally shocked. Valancourt might just be worthy of Emily.

