Chapter: CHAPTER XII



 Some pow'r impart the spear and shield,
 At which the wizard passions fly,
 By which the giant follies die.
     COLLINS

Madame Cheron's house stood at a little distance from the city of
Tholouse, and was surrounded by extensive gardens, in which Emily, who
had risen early, amused herself with wandering before breakfast. From a
terrace, that extended along the highest part of them, was a wide view
over Languedoc. On the distant horizon to the south, she discovered
the wild summits of the Pyrenees, and her fancy immediately painted
the green pastures of Gascony at their feet. Her heart pointed to her
peaceful home--to the neighbourhood where Valancourt was--where St.
Aubert had been; and her imagination, piercing the veil of distance,
brought that home to her eyes in all its interesting and romantic
beauty. She experienced an inexpressible pleasure in believing, that she
beheld the country around it, though no feature could be distinguished,
except the retiring chain of the Pyrenees; and, inattentive to the scene
immediately before her, and to the flight of time, she continued to lean
on the window of a pavilion, that terminated the terrace, with her eyes
fixed on Gascony, and her mind occupied with the interesting ideas which
the view of it awakened, till a servant came to tell her breakfast
was ready. Her thoughts thus recalled to the surrounding objects,
the straight walks, square parterres, and artificial fountains of the
garden, could not fail, as she passed through it, to appear the worse,
opposed to the negligent graces, and natural beauties of the grounds of
La Vallee, upon which her recollection had been so intensely employed.

'Whither have you been rambling so early?' said Madame Cheron, as her
niece entered the breakfast-room. 'I don't approve of these solitary
walks;' and Emily was surprised, when, having informed her aunt, that
she had been no further than the gardens, she understood these to be
included in the reproof. 'I desire you will not walk there again at
so early an hour unattended,' said Madame Cheron; 'my gardens are very
extensive; and a young woman, who can make assignations by moon-light,
at La Vallee, is not to be trusted to her own inclinations elsewhere.'

Emily, extremely surprised and shocked, had scarcely power to beg an
explanation of these words, and, when she did, her aunt absolutely
refused to give it, though, by her severe looks, and half sentences,
she appeared anxious to impress Emily with a belief, that she was well
informed of some degrading circumstances of her conduct. Conscious
innocence could not prevent a blush from stealing over Emily's cheek;
she trembled, and looked confusedly under the bold eye of Madame Cheron,
who blushed also; but hers was the blush of triumph, such as sometimes
stains the countenance of a person, congratulating himself on the
penetration which had taught him to suspect another, and who loses both
pity for the supposed criminal, and indignation of his guilt, in the
gratification of his own vanity.

Emily, not doubting that her aunt's mistake arose from the having
observed her ramble in the garden on the night preceding her departure
from La Vallee, now mentioned the motive of it, at which Madame Cheron
smiled contemptuously, refusing either to accept this explanation, or
to give her reasons for refusing it; and, soon after, she concluded the
subject by saying, 'I never trust people's assertions, I always judge
of them by their actions; but I am willing to try what will be your
behaviour in future.'

Emily, less surprised by her aunt's moderation and mysterious silence,
than by the accusation she had received, deeply considered the latter,
and scarcely doubted, that it was Valancourt whom she had seen at night
in the gardens of La Vallee, and that he had been observed there by
Madame Cheron; who now passing from one painful topic only to revive
another almost equally so, spoke of the situation of her niece's
property, in the hands of M. Motteville. While she thus talked with
ostentatious pity of Emily's misfortunes, she failed not to inculcate
the duties of humility and gratitude, or to render Emily fully sensible
of every cruel mortification, who soon perceived, that she was to be
considered as a dependant, not only by her aunt, but by her aunt's
servants.

She was now informed, that a large party were expected to dinner, on
which account Madame Cheron repeated the lesson of the preceding night,
concerning her conduct in company, and Emily wished, that she might have
courage enough to practise it. Her aunt then proceeded to examine the
simplicity of her dress, adding, that she expected to see her attired
with gaiety and taste; after which she condescended to shew Emily the
splendour of her chateau, and to point out the particular beauty, or
elegance, which she thought distinguished each of her numerous suites of
apartments. She then withdrew to her toilet, the throne of her homage,
and Emily to her chamber, to unpack her books, and to try to charm her
mind by reading, till the hour of dressing.

When the company arrived, Emily entered the saloon with an air of
timidity, which all her efforts could not overcome, and which was
increased by the consciousness of Madame Cheron's severe observation.
Her mourning dress, the mild dejection of her beautiful countenance, and
the retiring diffidence of her manner, rendered her a very interesting
object to many of the company; among whom she distinguished Signor
Montoni, and his friend Cavigni, the late visitors at M. Quesnel's, who
now seemed to converse with Madame Cheron with the familiarity of old
acquaintance, and she to attend to them with particular pleasure.

This Signor Montoni had an air of conscious superiority, animated
by spirit, and strengthened by talents, to which every person seemed
involuntarily to yield. The quickness of his perceptions was strikingly
expressed on his countenance, yet that countenance could submit
implicitly to occasion; and, more than once in this day, the triumph of
art over nature might have been discerned in it. His visage was long,
and rather narrow, yet he was called handsome; and it was, perhaps,
the spirit and vigour of his soul, sparkling through his features, that
triumphed for him. Emily felt admiration, but not the admiration that
leads to esteem; for it was mixed with a degree of fear she knew not
exactly wherefore.

Cavigni was gay and insinuating as formerly; and, though he paid almost
incessant attention to Madame Cheron, he found some opportunities of
conversing with Emily, to whom he directed, at first, the sallies of his
wit, but now and then assumed an air of tenderness, which she observed,
and shrunk from. Though she replied but little, the gentleness and
sweetness of her manners encouraged him to talk, and she felt relieved
when a young lady of the party, who spoke incessantly, obtruded herself
on his notice. This lady, who possessed all the sprightliness of
a Frenchwoman, with all her coquetry, affected to understand every
subject, or rather there was no affectation in the case; for, never
looking beyond the limits of her own ignorance, she believed she had
nothing to learn. She attracted notice from all; amused some, disgusted
others for a moment, and was then forgotten.

This day passed without any material occurrence; and Emily, though
amused by the characters she had seen, was glad when she could retire to
the recollections, which had acquired with her the character of duties.

A fortnight passed in a round of dissipation and company, and Emily, who
attended Madame Cheron in all her visits, was sometimes entertained, but
oftener wearied. She was struck by the apparent talents and knowledge
displayed in the various conversations she listened to, and it was long
before she discovered, that the talents were for the most part those of
imposture, and the knowledge nothing more than was necessary to assist
them. But what deceived her most, was the air of constant gaiety and
good spirits, displayed by every visitor, and which she supposed to
arise from content as constant, and from benevolence as ready. At
length, from the over-acting of some, less accomplished than the others,
she could perceive, that, though contentment and benevolence are
the only sure sources of cheerfulness, the immoderate and feverish
animation, usually exhibited in large parties, results partly from an
insensibility to the cares, which benevolence must sometimes derive
from the sufferings of others, and partly from a desire to display the
appearance of that prosperity, which they know will command submission
and attention to themselves.

Emily's pleasantest hours were passed in the pavilion of the terrace, to
which she retired, when she could steal from observation, with a book to
overcome, or a lute to indulge, her melancholy. There, as she sat
with her eyes fixed on the far-distant Pyrenees, and her thoughts on
Valancourt and the beloved scenes of Gascony, she would play the sweet
and melancholy songs of her native province--the popular songs she had
listened to from her childhood.

One evening, having excused herself from accompanying her aunt abroad,
she thus withdrew to the pavilion, with books and her lute. It was
the mild and beautiful evening of a sultry day, and the windows, which
fronted the west, opened upon all the glory of a setting sun. Its rays
illuminated, with strong splendour, the cliffs of the Pyrenees, and
touched their snowy tops with a roseate hue, that remained, long after
the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the shades of twilight had
stolen over the landscape. Emily touched her lute with that fine
melancholy expression, which came from her heart. The pensive hour and
the scene, the evening light on the Garonne, that flowed at no great
distance, and whose waves, as they passed towards La Vallee, she often
viewed with a sigh,--these united circumstances disposed her mind to
tenderness, and her thoughts were with Valancourt, of whom she had heard
nothing since her arrival at Tholouse, and now that she was removed from
him, and in uncertainty, she perceived all the interest he held in her
heart. Before she saw Valancourt she had never met a mind and taste so
accordant with her own, and, though Madame Cheron told her much of the
arts of dissimulation, and that the elegance and propriety of thought,
which she so much admired in her lover, were assumed for the purpose of
pleasing her, she could scarcely doubt their truth. This possibility,
however, faint as it was, was sufficient to harass her mind with
anxiety, and she found, that few conditions are more painful than that
of uncertainty, as to the merit of a beloved object; an uncertainty,
which she would not have suffered, had her confidence in her own
opinions been greater.

She was awakened from her musing by the sound of horses' feet along
a road, that wound under the windows of the pavilion, and a gentleman
passed on horseback, whose resemblance to Valancourt, in air and figure,
for the twilight did not permit a view of his features, immediately
struck her. She retired hastily from the lattice, fearing to be seen,
yet wishing to observe further, while the stranger passed on without
looking up, and, when she returned to the lattice, she saw him faintly
through the twilight, winding under the high trees, that led to
Tholouse. This little incident so much disturbed her spirits, that the
temple and its scenery were no longer interesting to her, and, after
walking awhile on the terrace, she returned to the chateau.

Madame Cheron, whether she had seen a rival admired, had lost at play,
or had witnessed an entertainment more splendid than her own, was
returned from her visit with a temper more than usually discomposed; and
Emily was glad, when the hour arrived, in which she could retire to the
solitude of her own apartment.

On the following morning, she was summoned to Madame Cheron, whose
countenance was inflamed with resentment, and, as Emily advanced, she
held out a letter to her.

'Do you know this hand?' said she, in a severe tone, and with a look
that was intended to search her heart, while Emily examined the letter
attentively, and assured her, that she did not.

'Do not provoke me,' said her aunt; 'you do know it, confess the truth
immediately. I insist upon your confessing the truth instantly.'

Emily was silent, and turned to leave the room, but Madame called her
back. 'O you are guilty, then,' said she, 'you do know the hand.' 'If
you was before in doubt of this, madam,' replied Emily calmly, 'why did
you accuse me of having told a falsehood.' Madame Cheron did not
blush; but her niece did, a moment after, when she heard the name of
Valancourt. It was not, however, with the consciousness of deserving
reproof, for, if she ever had seen his hand-writing, the present
characters did not bring it to her recollection.

'It is useless to deny it,' said Madame Cheron, 'I see in your
countenance, that you are no stranger to this letter; and, I dare say,
you have received many such from this impertinent young man, without my
knowledge, in my own house.'

Emily, shocked at the indelicacy of this accusation, still more than
by the vulgarity of the former, instantly forgot the pride, that
had imposed silence, and endeavoured to vindicate herself from the
aspersion, but Madame Cheron was not to be convinced.

'I cannot suppose,' she resumed, 'that this young man would have taken
the liberty of writing to me, if you had not encouraged him to do so,
and I must now'--'You will allow me to remind you, madam,' said Emily
timidly, 'of some particulars of a conversation we had at La Vallee.
I then told you truly, that I had only not forbade Monsieur Valancourt
from addressing my family.'

'I will not be interrupted,' said Madame Cheron, interrupting her niece,
'I was going to say--I--I-have forgot what I was going to say. But
how happened it that you did not forbid him?' Emily was silent. 'How
happened it that you encouraged him to trouble me with this letter?--A
young man that nobody knows;--an utter stranger in the place,--a young
adventurer, no doubt, who is looking out for a good fortune. However, on
that point he has mistaken his aim.'

'His family was known to my father,' said Emily modestly, and without
appearing to be sensible of the last sentence.

'O! that is no recommendation at all,' replied her aunt, with her usual
readiness upon this topic; 'he took such strange fancies to people! He
was always judging persons by their countenances, and was continually
deceived.' 'Yet it was but now, madam, that you judged me guilty by my
countenance,' said Emily, with a design of reproving Madame Cheron, to
which she was induced by this disrespectful mention of her father.

'I called you here,' resumed her aunt, colouring, 'to tell you, that
I will not be disturbed in my own house by any letters, or visits from
young men, who may take a fancy to flatter you. This M. de Valantine--I
think you call him, has the impertinence to beg I will permit him to
pay his respects to me! I shall send him a proper answer. And for you,
Emily, I repeat it once for all--if you are not contented to conform
to my directions, and to my way of live, I shall give up the task of
overlooking your conduct--I shall no longer trouble myself with your
education, but shall send you to board in a convent.'

'Dear madam,' said Emily, bursting into tears, and overcome by the rude
suspicions her aunt had expressed, 'how have I deserved these reproofs?'
She could say no more; and so very fearful was she of acting with any
degree of impropriety in the affair itself, that, at the present moment,
Madame Cheron might perhaps have prevailed with her to bind herself by
a promise to renounce Valancourt for ever. Her mind, weakened by her
terrors, would no longer suffer her to view him as she had formerly
done; she feared the error of her own judgment, not that of Madame
Cheron, and feared also, that, in her former conversation with him, at
La Vallee, she had not conducted herself with sufficient reserve. She
knew, that she did not deserve the coarse suspicions, which her aunt had
thrown out, but a thousand scruples rose to torment her, such as would
never have disturbed the peace of Madame Cheron. Thus rendered anxious
to avoid every opportunity of erring, and willing to submit to any
restrictions, that her aunt should think proper, she expressed an
obedience, to which Madame Cheron did not give much confidence, and
which she seemed to consider as the consequence of either fear, or
artifice.

'Well, then,' said she, 'promise me that you will neither see this young
man, nor write to him without my consent.' 'Dear madam,' replied Emily,
'can you suppose I would do either, unknown to you!' 'I don't know
what to suppose; there is no knowing how young women will act. It is
difficult to place any confidence in them, for they have seldom sense
enough to wish for the respect of the world.'

'Alas, madam!' said Emily, 'I am anxious for my own respect; my father
taught me the value of that; he said if I deserved my own esteem, that
the world would follow of course.'

'My brother was a good kind of a man,' replied Madame Cheron, 'but he
did not know the world. I am sure I have always felt a proper respect
for myself, yet--' she stopped, but she might have added, that the world
had not always shewn respect to her, and this without impeaching its
judgment.

'Well!' resumed Madame Cheron, 'you have not give me the promise,
though, that I demand.' Emily readily gave it, and, being then suffered
to withdraw, she walked in the garden; tried to compose her spirits,
and, at length, arrived at her favourite pavilion at the end of the
terrace, where, seating herself at one of the embowered windows, that
opened upon a balcony, the stillness and seclusion of the scene allowed
her to recollect her thoughts, and to arrange them so as to form a
clearer judgment of her former conduct. She endeavoured to review with
exactness all the particulars of her conversation with Valancourt at La
Vallee, had the satisfaction to observe nothing, that could alarm her
delicate pride, and thus to be confirmed in the self-esteem, which was
so necessary to her peace. Her mind then became tranquil, and she saw
Valancourt amiable and intelligent, as he had formerly appeared, and
Madame Cheron neither the one, or the other. The remembrance of her
lover, however, brought with it many very painful emotions, for it by no
means reconciled her to the thought of resigning him; and, Madame Cheron
having already shewn how highly she disapproved of the attachment, she
foresaw much suffering from the opposition of interests; yet with all
this was mingled a degree of delight, which, in spite of reason, partook
of hope. She determined, however, that no consideration should induce
her to permit a clandestine correspondence, and to observe in her
conversation with Valancourt, should they ever meet again, the same
nicety of reserve, which had hitherto marked her conduct. As she
repeated the words--'should we ever meet again!' she shrunk as if this
was a circumstance, which had never before occurred to her, and tears
came to her eyes, which she hastily dried, for she heard footsteps
approaching, and then the door of the pavilion open, and, on turning,
she saw--Valancourt. An emotion of mingled pleasure, surprise and
apprehension pressed so suddenly upon her heart as almost to overcome
her spirits; the colour left her cheeks, then returned brighter than
before, and she was for a moment unable to speak, or to rise from her
chair. His countenance was the mirror, in which she saw her own emotions
reflected, and it roused her to self-command. The joy, which had
animated his features, when he entered the pavilion, was suddenly
repressed, as, approaching, he perceived her agitation, and, in a
tremulous voice, enquired after her health. Recovered from her first
surprise, she answered him with a tempered smile; but a variety of
opposite emotions still assailed her heart, and struggled to subdue
the mild dignity of her manner. It was difficult to tell which
predominated--the joy of seeing Valancourt, or the terror of her aunt's
displeasure, when she should hear of this meeting. After some short and
embarrassed conversation, she led him into the gardens, and enquired if
he had seen Madame Cheron. 'No,' said he, 'I have not yet seen her, for
they told me she was engaged, and as soon as I learned that you were in
the gardens, I came hither.' He paused a moment, in great agitation, and
then added, 'May I venture to tell you the purport of my visit, without
incurring your displeasure, and to hope, that you will not accuse me of
precipitation in now availing myself of the permission you once gave
me of addressing your family?' Emily, who knew not what to reply, was
spared from further perplexity, and was sensible only of fear, when on
raising her eyes, she saw Madame Cheron turn into the avenue. As the
consciousness of innocence returned, this fear was so far dissipated as
to permit her to appear tranquil, and, instead of avoiding her aunt, she
advanced with Valancourt to meet her. The look of haughty and impatient
displeasure, with which Madame Cheron regarded them, made Emily shrink,
who understood from a single glance, that this meeting was believed to
have been more than accidental: having mentioned Valancourt's name, she
became again too much agitated to remain with them, and returned into
the chateau; where she awaited long, in a state of trembling anxiety,
the conclusion of the conference. She knew not how to account for
Valancourt's visit to her aunt, before he had received the permission
he solicited, since she was ignorant of a circumstance, which would have
rendered the request useless, even if Madame Cheron had been inclined to
grant it. Valancourt, in the agitation of his spirits, had forgotten to
date his letter, so that it was impossible for Madame Cheron to return
an answer; and, when he recollected this circumstance, he was, perhaps,
not so sorry for the omission as glad of the excuse it allowed him for
waiting on her before she could send a refusal.

Madame Cheron had a long conversation with Valancourt, and, when she
returned to the chateau, her countenance expressed ill-humour, but not
the degree of severity, which Emily had apprehended. 'I have dismissed
this young man, at last,' said she, 'and I hope my house will never
again be disturbed with similar visits. He assures me, that your
interview was not preconcerted.'

'Dear madam!' said Emily in extreme emotion, 'you surely did not ask him
the question!' 'Most certainly I did; you could not suppose I should be
so imprudent as to neglect it.'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, 'what an opinion must he form of me, since
you, Madam, could express a suspicion of such ill conduct!'

'It is of very little consequence what opinion he may form of you,'
replied her aunt, 'for I have put an end to the affair; but I believe
he will not form a worse opinion of me for my prudent conduct. I let him
see, that I was not to be trifled with, and that I had more delicacy,
than to permit any clandestine correspondence to be carried on in my
house.'

Emily had frequently heard Madame Cheron use the word delicacy, but she
was now more than usually perplexed to understand how she meant to apply
it in this instance, in which her whole conduct appeared to merit the
very reverse of the term.

'It was very inconsiderate of my brother,' resumed Madame Cheron, 'to
leave the trouble of overlooking your conduct to me; I wish you was well
settled in life. But if I find, that I am to be further troubled with
such visitors as this M. Valancourt, I shall place you in a convent at
once;--so remember the alternative. This young man has the impertinence
to own to me,--he owns it! that his fortune is very small, and that he
is chiefly dependent on an elder brother and on the profession he has
chosen! He should have concealed these circumstances, at least, if he
expected to succeed with me. Had he the presumption to suppose I would
marry my niece to a person such as he describes himself!'

Emily dried her tears when she heard of the candid confession of
Valancourt; and, though the circumstances it discovered were afflicting
to her hopes, his artless conduct gave her a degree of pleasure, that
overcame every other emotion. But she was compelled, even thus early
in life, to observe, that good sense and noble integrity are not always
sufficient to cope with folly and narrow cunning; and her heart was pure
enough to allow her, even at this trying moment, to look with more pride
on the defeat of the former, than with mortification on the conquests of
the latter.

Madame Cheron pursued her triumph. 'He has also thought proper to tell
me, that he will receive his dismission from no person but yourself;
this favour, however, I have absolutely refused him. He shall learn,
that it is quite sufficient, that I disapprove him. And I take this
opportunity of repeating,--that if you concert any means of interview
unknown to me, you shall leave my house immediately.'

'How little do you know me, madam, that you should think such an
injunction necessary!' said Emily, trying to suppress her emotion, 'how
little of the dear parents, who educated me!'

Madame Cheron now went to dress for an engagement, which she had made
for the evening; and Emily, who would gladly have been excused from
attending her aunt, did not ask to remain at home lest her request
should be attributed to an improper motive. When she retired to her own
room, the little fortitude, which had supported her in the presence of
her relation, forsook her; she remembered only that Valancourt, whose
character appeared more amiable from every circumstance, that unfolded
it, was banished from her presence, perhaps, for ever, and she passed
the time in weeping, which, according to her aunt's direction, she ought
to have employed in dressing. This important duty was, however, quickly
dispatched; though, when she joined Madame Cheron at table, her eyes
betrayed, that she had been in tears, and drew upon her a severe
reproof.

Her efforts to appear cheerful did not entirely fail when she joined the
company at the house of Madame Clairval, an elderly widow lady, who had
lately come to reside at Tholouse, on an estate of her late husband. She
had lived many years at Paris in a splendid style; had naturally a gay
temper, and, since her residence at Tholouse, had given some of the most
magnificent entertainments, that had been seen in that neighbourhood.

These excited not only the envy, but the trifling ambition of Madame
Cheron, who, since she could not rival the splendour of her festivities,
was desirous of being ranked in the number of her most intimate friends.
For this purpose she paid her the most obsequious attention, and made
a point of being disengaged, whenever she received an invitation from
Madame Clairval, of whom she talked, wherever she went, and derived much
self-consequence from impressing a belief on her general acquaintance,
that they were on the most familiar footing.

The entertainments of this evening consisted of a ball and supper; it
was a fancy ball, and the company danced in groups in the gardens,
which were very extensive. The high and luxuriant trees, under which the
groups assembled, were illuminated with a profusion of lamps, disposed
with taste and fancy. The gay and various dresses of the company, some
of whom were seated on the turf, conversing at their ease, observing
the cotillons, taking refreshments, and sometimes touching sportively a
guitar; the gallant manners of the gentlemen, the exquisitely capricious
air of the ladies; the light fantastic steps of their dances; the
musicians, with the lute, the hautboy, and the tabor, seated at the foot
of an elm, and the sylvan scenery of woods around were circumstances,
that unitedly formed a characteristic and striking picture of French
festivity. Emily surveyed the gaiety of the scene with a melancholy kind
of pleasure, and her emotion may be imagined when, as she stood with her
aunt, looking at one of the groups, she perceived Valancourt; saw him
dancing with a young and beautiful lady, saw him conversing with her
with a mixture of attention and familiarity, such as she had seldom
observed in his manner. She turned hastily from the scene, and attempted
to draw away Madame Cheron, who was conversing with Signor Cavigni,
and neither perceived Valancourt, or was willing to be interrupted. A
faintness suddenly came over Emily, and, unable to support herself, she
sat down on a turf bank beneath the trees, where several other persons
were seated. One of these, observing the extreme paleness of her
countenance, enquired if she was ill, and begged she would allow him to
fetch her a glass of water, for which politeness she thanked him, but
did not accept it. Her apprehension lest Valancourt should observe her
emotion made her anxious to overcome it, and she succeeded so far as
to re-compose her countenance. Madame Cheron was still conversing with
Cavigni; and the Count Bauvillers, who had addressed Emily, made some
observations upon the scene, to which she answered almost unconsciously,
for her mind was still occupied with the idea of Valancourt, to whom
it was with extreme uneasiness that she remained so near. Some remarks,
however, which the Count made upon the dance obliged her to turn her
eyes towards it, and, at that moment, Valancourt's met hers. Her colour
faded again, she felt, that she was relapsing into faintness, and
instantly averted her looks, but not before she had observed the altered
countenance of Valancourt, on perceiving her. She would have left the
spot immediately, had she not been conscious, that this conduct would
have shewn him more obviously the interest he held in her heart; and,
having tried to attend to the Count's conversation, and to join in
it, she, at length, recovered her spirits. But, when he made some
observation on Valancourt's partner, the fear of shewing that she was
interested in the remark, would have betrayed it to him, had not
the Count, while he spoke, looked towards the person of whom he was
speaking. 'The lady,' said he, 'dancing with that young Chevalier, who
appears to be accomplished in every thing, but in dancing, is ranked
among the beauties of Tholouse. She is handsome, and her fortune will be
very large. I hope she will make a better choice in a partner for life
than she has done in a partner for the dance, for I observe he has just
put the set into great confusion; he does nothing but commit blunders. I
am surprised, that, with his air and figure, he has not taken more care
to accomplish himself in dancing.'

Emily, whose heart trembled at every word, that was now uttered,
endeavoured to turn the conversation from Valancourt, by enquiring
the name of the lady, with whom he danced; but, before the Count could
reply, the dance concluded, and Emily, perceiving that Valancourt was
coming towards her, rose and joined Madame Cheron.

'Here is the Chevalier Valancourt, madam,' said she in a whisper, 'pray
let us go.' Her aunt immediately moved on, but not before Valancourt had
reached them, who bowed lowly to Madame Cheron, and with an earnest and
dejected look to Emily, with whom, notwithstanding all her effort, an
air of more than common reserve prevailed. The presence of Madame
Cheron prevented Valancourt from remaining, and he passed on with a
countenance, whose melancholy reproached her for having increased it.
Emily was called from the musing fit, into which she had fallen, by the
Count Bauvillers, who was known to her aunt.

'I have your pardon to beg, ma'amselle,' said he, 'for a rudeness, which
you will readily believe was quite unintentional. I did not know, that
the Chevalier was your acquaintance, when I so freely criticised his
dancing.' Emily blushed and smiled, and Madame Cheron spared her the
difficulty of replying. 'If you mean the person, who has just passed
us,' said she, 'I can assure you he is no acquaintance of either mine,
or ma'amselle St. Aubert's: I know nothing of him.'

'O! that is the Chevalier Valancourt,' said Cavigni carelessly, and
looking back. 'You know him then?' said Madame Cheron. 'I am not
acquainted with him,' replied Cavigni. 'You don't know, then, the reason
I have to call him impertinent;--he has had the presumption to admire my
niece!'

'If every man deserves the title of impertinent, who admires
ma'amselle St. Aubert,' replied Cavigni, 'I fear there are a great many
impertinents, and I am willing to acknowledge myself one of the number.'

'O Signor!' said Madame Cheron, with an affected smile, 'I perceive you
have learnt the art of complimenting, since you came into France. But it
is cruel to compliment children, since they mistake flattery for truth.'

Cavigni turned away his face for a moment, and then said with a studied
air, 'Whom then are we to compliment, madam? for it would be absurd to
compliment a woman of refined understanding; SHE is above all praise.'
As he finished the sentence he gave Emily a sly look, and the smile,
that had lurked in his eye, stole forth. She perfectly understood it,
and blushed for Madame Cheron, who replied, 'You are perfectly right,
signor, no woman of understanding can endure compliment.'

'I have heard Signor Montoni say,' rejoined Cavigni, 'that he never knew
but one woman who deserved it.'

'Well!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, with a short laugh, and a smile of
unutterable complacency, 'and who could she be?'

'O!' replied Cavigni, 'it is impossible to mistake her, for certainly
there is not more than one woman in the world, who has both the merit to
deserve compliment and the wit to refuse it. Most women reverse the case
entirely.' He looked again at Emily, who blushed deeper than before for
her aunt, and turned from him with displeasure.

'Well, signor!' said Madame Cheron, 'I protest you are a Frenchman; I
never heard a foreigner say any thing half so gallant as that!'

'True, madam,' said the Count, who had been some time silent, and with a
low bow, 'but the gallantry of the compliment had been utterly lost, but
for the ingenuity that discovered the application.'

Madame Cheron did not perceive the meaning of this too satirical
sentence, and she, therefore, escaped the pain, which Emily felt on
her account. 'O! here comes Signor Montoni himself,' said her aunt, 'I
protest I will tell him all the fine things you have been saying to me.'
The Signor, however, passed at this moment into another walk. 'Pray, who
is it, that has so much engaged your friend this evening?' asked Madame
Cheron, with an air of chagrin, 'I have not seen him once.'

'He had a very particular engagement with the Marquis La Riviere,'
replied Cavigni, 'which has detained him, I perceive, till this moment,
or he would have done himself the honour of paying his respects to you,
madam, sooner, as he commissioned me to say. But, I know not how it
is--your conversation is so fascinating--that it can charm even memory,
I think, or I should certainly have delivered my friend's apology
before.'

'The apology, sir, would have been more satisfactory from himself,' said
Madame Cheron, whose vanity was more mortified by Montoni's neglect,
than flattered by Cavigni's compliment. Her manner, at this moment, and
Cavigni's late conversation, now awakened a suspicion in Emily's mind,
which, notwithstanding that some recollections served to confirm it,
appeared preposterous. She thought she perceived, that Montoni was
paying serious addresses to her aunt, and that she not only accepted
them, but was jealously watchful of any appearance of neglect on his
part.--That Madame Cheron at her years should elect a second husband was
ridiculous, though her vanity made it not impossible; but that Montoni,
with his discernment, his figure, and pretensions, should make a choice
of Madame Cheron--appeared most wonderful. Her thoughts, however, did
not dwell long on the subject; nearer interests pressed upon them;
Valancourt, rejected of her aunt, and Valancourt dancing with a gay and
beautiful partner, alternately tormented her mind. As she passed along
the gardens she looked timidly forward, half fearing and half hoping
that he might appear in the crowd; and the disappointment she felt on
not seeing him, told her, that she had hoped more than she had feared.

Montoni soon after joined the party. He muttered over some short speech
about regret for having been so long detained elsewhere, when he knew
he should have the pleasure of seeing Madame Cheron here; and she,
receiving the apology with the air of a pettish girl, addressed herself
entirely to Cavigni, who looked archly at Montoni, as if he would have
said, 'I will not triumph over you too much; I will have the goodness to
bear my honours meekly; but look sharp, Signor, or I shall certainly run
away with your prize.'

The supper was served in different pavilions in the gardens, as well as
in one large saloon of the chateau, and with more of taste, than either
of splendour, or even of plenty. Madame Cheron and her party supped with
Madame Clairval in the saloon, and Emily, with difficulty, disguised her
emotion, when she saw Valancourt placed at the same table with herself.
There, Madame Cheron having surveyed him with high displeasure, said to
some person who sat next to her, 'Pray, who IS that young man?' 'It is
the Chevalier Valancourt,' was the answer. 'Yes, I am not ignorant
of his name, but who is this Chevalier Valancourt that thus intrudes
himself at this table?' The attention of the person, who whom she spoke,
was called off before she received a second reply. The table, at which
they sat, was very long, and, Valancourt being seated, with his partner,
near the bottom, and Emily near the top, the distance between them may
account for his not immediately perceiving her. She avoided looking to
that end of the table, but whenever her eyes happened to glance towards
it, she observed him conversing with his beautiful companion, and the
observation did not contribute to restore her peace, any more than the
accounts she heard of the fortune and accomplishments of this same lady.

Madame Cheron, to whom these remarks were sometimes addressed, because
they supported topics for trivial conversation, seemed indefatigable
in her attempts to depreciate Valancourt, towards whom she felt all the
petty resentment of a narrow pride. 'I admire the lady,' said she, 'but
I must condemn her choice of a partner.' 'Oh, the Chevalier Valancourt
is one of the most accomplished young men we have,' replied the lady,
to whom this remark was addressed: 'it is whispered, that Mademoiselle
D'Emery, and her large fortune, are to be his.'

'Impossible!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, reddening with vexation, 'it is
impossible that she can be so destitute of taste; he has so little the
air of a person of condition, that, if I did not see him at the table
of Madame Clairval, I should never have suspected him to be one. I have
besides particular reasons for believing the report to be erroneous.'

'I cannot doubt the truth of it,' replied the lady gravely, disgusted
by the abrupt contradiction she had received, concerning her opinion of
Valancourt's merit. 'You will, perhaps, doubt it,' said Madame Cheron,
'when I assure you, that it was only this morning that I rejected his
suit.' This was said without any intention of imposing the meaning it
conveyed, but simply from a habit of considering herself to be the most
important person in every affair that concerned her niece, and because
literally she had rejected Valancourt. 'Your reasons are indeed such as
cannot be doubted,' replied the lady, with an ironical smile. 'Any more
than the discernment of the Chevalier Valancourt,' added Cavigni, who
stood by the chair of Madame Cheron, and had heard her arrogate to
herself, as he thought, a distinction which had been paid to her niece.
'His discernment MAY be justly questioned, Signor,' said Madame Cheron,
who was not flattered by what she understood to be an encomium on Emily.

'Alas!' exclaimed Cavigni, surveying Madame Cheron with affected
ecstasy, 'how vain is that assertion, while that face--that shape--that
air--combine to refute it! Unhappy Valancourt! his discernment has been
his destruction.'

Emily looked surprised and embarrassed; the lady, who had lately
spoke, astonished, and Madame Cheron, who, though she did not perfectly
understand this speech, was very ready to believe herself complimented
by it, said smilingly, 'O Signor! you are very gallant; but those, who
hear you vindicate the Chevalier's discernment, will suppose that I am
the object of it.'

'They cannot doubt it,' replied Cavigni, bowing low.

'And would not that be very mortifying, Signor?'

'Unquestionably it would,' said Cavigni.

'I cannot endure the thought,' said Madame Cheron.

'It is not to be endured,' replied Cavigni.

'What can be done to prevent so humiliating a mistake?' rejoined Madame
Cheron.

'Alas! I cannot assist you,' replied Cavigni, with a deliberating
air. 'Your only chance of refuting the calumny, and of making people
understand what you wish them to believe, is to persist in your
first assertion; for, when they are told of the Chevalier's want of
discernment, it is possible they may suppose he never presumed to
distress you with his admiration.--But then again--that diffidence,
which renders you so insensible to your own perfections--they will
consider this, and Valancourt's taste will not be doubted, though you
arraign it. In short, they will, in spite of your endeavours, continue
to believe, what might very naturally have occurred to them without any
hint of mine--that the Chevalier has taste enough to admire a beautiful
woman.'

'All this is very distressing!' said Madame Cheron, with a profound
sigh.

'May I be allowed to ask what is so distressing?' said Madame Clairval,
who was struck with the rueful countenance and doleful accent, with
which this was delivered.

'It is a delicate subject,' replied Madame Cheron, 'a very mortifying
one to me.' 'I am concerned to hear it,' said Madame Clairval, 'I hope
nothing has occurred, this evening, particularly to distress you?'
'Alas, yes! within this half hour; and I know not where the report may
end;--my pride was never so shocked before, but I assure you the report
is totally void of foundation.' 'Good God!' exclaimed Madame Clairval,'
what can be done? Can you point out any way, by which I can assist, or
console you?'

'The only way, by which you can do either,' replied Madame Cheron, 'is
to contradict the report wherever you go.'

'Well! but pray inform me what I am to contradict.'

'It is so very humiliating, that I know not how to mention it,'
continued Madame Cheron, 'but you shall judge. Do you observe that
young man seated near the bottom of the table, who is conversing with
Mademoiselle D'Emery?' 'Yes, I perceive whom you mean.' 'You observe how
little he has the air of a person of condition; I was saying just now,
that I should not have thought him a gentleman, if I had not seen him
at this table.' 'Well! but the report,' said Madame Clairval, 'let
me understand the subject of your distress.' 'Ah! the subject of my
distress,' replied Madame Cheron; 'this person, whom nobody knows--(I
beg pardon, madam, I did not consider what I said)--this impertinent
young man, having had the presumption to address my niece, has, I fear,
given rise to a report, that he had declared himself my admirer. Now
only consider how very mortifying such a report must be! You, I
know, will feel for my situation. A woman of my condition!--think how
degrading even the rumour of such an alliance must be.'

'Degrading indeed, my poor friend!' said Madame Clairval. 'You may rely
upon it I will contradict the report wherever I go;' as she said which,
she turned her attention upon another part of the company; and Cavigni,
who had hitherto appeared a grave spectator of the scene, now fearing
he should be unable to smother the laugh, that convulsed him, walked
abruptly away.

'I perceive you do not know,' said the lady who sat near Madame Cheron,
'that the gentleman you have been speaking of is Madame Clairval's
nephew!' 'Impossible!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, who now began to
perceive, that she had been totally mistaken in her judgment of
Valancourt, and to praise him aloud with as much servility, as she had
before censured him with frivolous malignity.

Emily, who, during the greater part of this conversation, had been so
absorbed in thought as to be spared the pain of hearing it, was now
extremely surprised by her aunt's praise of Valancourt, with whose
relationship to Madame Clairval she was unacquainted; but she was
not sorry when Madame Cheron, who, though she now tried to appear
unconcerned, was really much embarrassed, prepared to withdraw
immediately after supper. Montoni then came to hand Madame Cheron to her
carriage, and Cavigni, with an arch solemnity of countenance, followed
with Emily, who, as she wished them good night, and drew up the glass,
saw Valancourt among the crowd at the gates. Before the carriage drove
off, he disappeared. Madame Cheron forbore to mention him to Emily, and,
as soon as they reached the chateau, they separated for the night.

On the following morning, as Emily sat at breakfast with her aunt, a
letter was brought to her, of which she knew the handwriting upon the
cover; and, as she received it with a trembling hand, Madame Cheron
hastily enquired from whom it came. Emily, with her leave, broke the
seal, and, observing the signature of Valancourt, gave it unread to her
aunt, who received it with impatience; and, as she looked it over, Emily
endeavoured to read on her countenance its contents. Having returned
the letter to her niece, whose eyes asked if she might examine it, 'Yes,
read it, child,' said Madame Cheron, in a manner less severe than she
had expected, and Emily had, perhaps, never before so willingly obeyed
her aunt. In this letter Valancourt said little of the interview of the
preceding day, but concluded with declaring, that he would accept his
dismission from Emily only, and with entreating, that she would allow
him to wait upon her, on the approaching evening. When she read this,
she was astonished at the moderation of Madame Cheron, and looked at
her with timid expectation, as she said sorrowfully--'What am I to say,
madam?'

'Why--we must see the young man, I believe,' replied her aunt, 'and hear
what he has further to say for himself. You may tell him he may come.'
Emily dared scarcely credit what she heard. 'Yet, stay,' added Madame
Cheron, 'I will tell him so myself.' She called for pen and ink; Emily
still not daring to trust the emotions she felt, and almost sinking
beneath them. Her surprise would have been less had she overheard,
on the preceding evening, what Madame Cheron had not forgotten--that
Valancourt was the nephew of Madame Clairval.

What were the particulars of her aunt's note Emily did not learn, but
the result was a visit from Valancourt in the evening, whom Madame
Cheron received alone, and they had a long conversation before Emily
was called down. When she entered the room, her aunt was conversing with
complacency, and she saw the eyes of Valancourt, as he impatiently rose,
animated with hope.

'We have been talking over this affair,' said Madame Cheron, 'the
chevalier has been telling me, that the late Monsieur Clairval was the
brother of the Countess de Duvarney, his mother. I only wish he had
mentioned his relationship to Madame Clairval before; I certainly should
have considered that circumstance as a sufficient introduction to my
house.' Valancourt bowed, and was going to address Emily, but her aunt
prevented him. 'I have, therefore, consented that you shall receive his
visits; and, though I will not bind myself by any promise, or say, that
I shall consider him as my nephew, yet I shall permit the intercourse,
and shall look forward to any further connection as an event, which may
possibly take place in a course of years, provided the chevalier rises
in his profession, or any circumstance occurs, which may make it prudent
for him to take a wife. But Mons. Valancourt will observe, and you too,
Emily, that, till that happens, I positively forbid any thoughts of
marrying.'

Emily's countenance, during this coarse speech, varied every instant,
and, towards its conclusion, her distress had so much increased,
that she was on the point of leaving the room. Valancourt, meanwhile,
scarcely less embarrassed, did not dare to look at her, for whom he
was thus distressed; but, when Madame Cheron was silent, he said,
'Flattering, madam, as your approbation is to me--highly as I am
honoured by it--I have yet so much to fear, that I scarcely dare to
hope.' 'Pray, sir, explain yourself,' said Madame Cheron; an unexpected
requisition, which embarrassed Valancourt again, and almost overcame him
with confusion, at circumstances, on which, had he been only a spectator
of the scene, he would have smiled.

'Till I receive Mademoiselle St. Aubert's permission to accept your
indulgence,' said he, falteringly--'till she allows me to hope--'

'O! is that all?' interrupted Madame Cheron. 'Well, I will take upon me
to answer for her. But at the same time, sir, give me leave to observe
to you, that I am her guardian, and that I expect, in every instance,
that my will is hers.'

As she said this, she rose and quitted the room, leaving Emily and
Valancourt in a state of mutual embarrassment; and, when Valancourt's
hopes enabled him to overcome his fears, and to address her with the
zeal and sincerity so natural to him, it was a considerable time
before she was sufficiently recovered to hear with distinctness his
solicitations and inquiries.

The conduct of Madame Cheron in this affair had been entirely governed
by selfish vanity. Valancourt, in his first interview, had with great
candour laid open to her the true state of his present circumstances,
and his future expectancies, and she, with more prudence than humanity,
had absolutely and abruptly rejected his suit. She wished her niece to
marry ambitiously, not because she desired to see her in possession of
the happiness, which rank and wealth are usually believed to bestow, but
because she desired to partake the importance, which such an alliance
would give. When, therefore, she discovered that Valancourt was the
nephew of a person of so much consequence as Madame Clairval, she became
anxious for the connection, since the prospect it afforded of future
fortune and distinction for Emily, promised the exaltation she coveted
for herself. Her calculations concerning fortune in this alliance were
guided rather by her wishes, than by any hint of Valancourt, or strong
appearance of probability; and, when she rested her expectation on the
wealth of Madame Clairval, she seemed totally to have forgotten, that
the latter had a daughter. Valancourt, however, had not forgotten this
circumstance, and the consideration of it had made him so modest in
his expectations from Madame Clairval, that he had not even named the
relationship in his first conversation with Madame Cheron. But, whatever
might be the future fortune of Emily, the present distinction, which the
connection would afford for herself, was certain, since the splendour of
Madame Clairval's establishment was such as to excite the general envy
and partial imitation of the neighbourhood. Thus had she consented to
involve her niece in an engagement, to which she saw only a distant and
uncertain conclusion, with as little consideration of her happiness,
as when she had so precipitately forbade it: for though she herself
possessed the means of rendering this union not only certain, but
prudent, yet to do so was no part of her present intention.

From this period Valancourt made frequent visits to Madame Cheron, and
Emily passed in his society the happiest hours she had known since the
death of her father. They were both too much engaged by the present
moments to give serious consideration to the future. They loved and were
beloved, and saw not, that the very attachment, which formed the delight
of their present days, might possibly occasion the sufferings of years.
Meanwhile, Madame Cheron's intercourse with Madame Clairval became
more frequent than before, and her vanity was already gratified by
the opportunity of proclaiming, wherever she went, the attachment that
subsisted between their nephew and niece.

Montoni was now also become a daily guest at the chateau, and Emily
was compelled to observe, that he really was a suitor, and a favoured
suitor, to her aunt.

Thus passed the winter months, not only in peace, but in happiness,
to Valancourt and Emily; the station of his regiment being so near
Tholouse, as to allow this frequent intercourse. The pavilion on the
terrace was the favourite scene of their interviews, and there Emily,
with Madame Cheron, would work, while Valancourt read aloud works of
genius and taste, listened to her enthusiasm, expressed his own, and
caught new opportunities of observing, that their minds were formed to
constitute the happiness of each other, the same taste, the same noble
and benevolent sentiments animating each.

 Em gets up early to take a little stroll around Tholouse. She has to admit, the views are pretty nice. But man, Madame Cheron can't let the Valancourt thing go. She tells Emily she doesn't want her strolling the gardens unattended--after all, she's not to be trusted. Madame Cheron hosts yet another dinner with Cavigni and Montoni, the Italian noblemen. There's just something about Montoni that bugs Emily. She's a little scared of him, but she can't figure out why. A couple of days later, Em sees someone who looks just like Valancourt riding by on a horse. Coincidence? Definitely not, because Madame Cheron receives a letter from Emily's favorite beau. He wants to "pay his respects." Valancourt's back. Emily gets the scolding of her life from Madame Cheron, who isn't too thrilled about her niece receiving love letters. She makes Emily promise not to see Valancourt or speak to him without her consent. Oopsies, Emily runs into Valancourt lurking in the garden outside. So much for silly promises. Just like clockwork, Madame Cheron comes around the corner. Emily's too agitated to stay around and hear what her aunt has to say, but you can bet Madame gives Valancourt an earful. Emily doesn't get off the hook either. Madame Cheron lets Em know in no uncertain terms that any more Valancourt episodes will get her the boot. Luckily, there's a fancy ball to distract Em from the humiliation. Great, Valancourt decides to go to the ball. And he's dancing with a beautiful woman. Even worse, the beautiful woman has quite the fortune to bequeath on some lucky husband. Emily's pretty upset until her eyes meet Valancourt's across the room. Valancourt catches up with Madame Cheron and Emily to pay his respects, but the good Madame swears she doesn't know him. Cavigni is pretty obviously hitting on Emily, but Madame Cheron mistakes the compliments as directed toward her. This Cavigni guy knows how to play the game. Emily starts to figure out that Montoni may be angling to marry Madame Cheron. Em thinks they're like the original Odd Couple, but who can account for taste? During supper, rumors are flying that Valancourt is going to marry his dancing companion, Madame D'Emery. Madame Cheron is all, "I doubt it." Everyone is interested why Madame Cheron has the inside scoop on Valancourt. Get this--she tells everyone that she rejected Valancourt just this morning. Cavigni pokes a little fun at Madame Clairval, but she's too dense to get what's happening. After all this Valancourt talk, Madame Cheron figures out that he's related to her best friend, Madame Clairval. Need we mention that Madame Clairval is pretty well off? Madame Cheron starts to rethink this ban on Valancourt. If he's got the right connections, he might as well court her niece. Valancourt and Em start logging some serious time together. They're not the only lovebirds. Montoni and Madame Cheron are hanging out on the regular, too.

