The Mysteries of Udolpho

Valancourt, farewell!' 'You are not going?' said he, wildly interrupting her--'You will not

leave me thus--you will not abandon me even before my mind has suggested

any possibility of compromise between the last indulgence of my despair

and the endurance of my loss!' Emily was terrified by the sternness

of his look, and said, in a soothing voice, 'You have yourself

acknowledged, that it is necessary we should part;--if you

wish, that I should believe you love me, you will repeat the

acknowledgment.'--

'Never--never,' cried he--'I was distracted when I

made it. O! Emily--this is too much;--though you are not deceived as to

my faults, you must be deluded into this exasperation against them. The

Count is the barrier between us; but he shall not long remain so.'

'You are, indeed, distracted,' said Emily, 'the Count is not your enemy;

on the contrary, he is my friend, and that might, in some degree, induce

you to consider him as yours.'--'Your friend!' said Valancourt, hastily,

'how long has he been your friend, that he can so easily make you forget

your lover? Was it he, who recommended to your favour the Monsieur Du

Pont, who, you say, accompanied you from Italy, and who, I say, has

stolen your affections? But I have no right to question you;--you are

your own mistress. Du Pont, perhaps, may not long triumph over my fallen

fortunes!' Emily, more frightened than before by the frantic looks of

Valancourt, said, in a tone scarcely audible, 'For heaven's sake be

reasonable--be composed. Monsieur Du Pont is not your rival, nor is the

Count his advocate. You have no rival; nor, except yourself, an enemy.

My heart is wrung with anguish, which must increase while your

frantic behaviour shews me, more than ever, that you are no longer the

Valancourt I have been accustomed to love.'

He made no reply, but sat with his arms rested on the table and his

face concealed by his hands; while Emily stood, silent and trembling,

wretched for herself and dreading to leave him in this state of mind.

'O excess of misery!' he suddenly exclaimed, 'that I can never lament

my sufferings, without accusing myself, nor remember you, without

recollecting the folly and the vice, by which I have lost you! Why was I

forced to Paris, and why did I yield to allurements, which were to make

me despicable for ever! O! why cannot I look back, without interruption,

to those days of innocence and peace, the days of our early love!'--The

recollection seemed to melt his heart, and the frenzy of despair yielded

to tears.