'You are going from me,' said he, 'to a distant country, O how
distant!--to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too,
who will try to make you forget me, and to promote new connections! How
can I know this, and not know, that you will never return for me--never
can be mine.' His voice was stifled by sighs.
'You believe, then,' said Emily, 'that the pangs I suffer proceed from a
trivial and temporary interest; you believe--'
'Suffer!' interrupted Valancourt, 'suffer for me! O Emily--how
sweet--how bitter are those words; what comfort, what anguish do they
give! I ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection, yet such
is the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion,
however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the object
of its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel revived, as by a
new conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to you; and, wanting
these, I relapse into doubt, and too often into despondency.' Then
seeming to recollect himself, he exclaimed, 'But what a wretch am I,
thus to torture you, and in these moments, too! I, who ought to support
and comfort you!'
This reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing into
despondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again this
cruel separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that Emily
could no longer struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth his.
Valancourt, between these emotions of love and pity, lost the power, and
almost the wish, of repressing his agitation; and, in the intervals of
convulsive sobs, he, at one moment, kissed away her tears, then told
her cruelly, that possibly she might never again weep for him, and then
tried to speak more calmly, but only exclaimed, 'O Emily--my heart will
break!--I cannot--cannot leave you! Now--I gaze upon that countenance,
now I hold you in my arms! a little while, and all this will appear a
dream. I shall look, and cannot see you; shall try to recollect your
features--and the impression will be fled from my imagination;--to hear
the tones of your voice, and even memory will be silent!--I cannot,
cannot leave you! why should we confide the happiness of our whole lives
to the will of people, who have no right to interrupt, and, except in
giving you to me, have no power to promote it? O Emily! venture to trust
your own heart, venture to be mine for ever!' His voice trembled, and
he was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was silent also, when
Valancourt proceeded to propose an immediate marriage, and that at an
early hour on the following morning, she should quit Madame Montoni's
house, and be conducted by him to the church of the Augustines, where a
friar should await to unite them.