The Mysteries of Udolpho

Come, weep with me;--past hope, past cure, past help!

ROMEO AND JULIET V

alancourt, meanwhile, suffered the tortures of remorse and despair.

The sight of Emily had renewed all the ardour, with which he first loved

her, and which had suffered a temporary abatement from absence and the

passing scenes of busy life. When, on the receipt of her letter, he set

out for Languedoc, he then knew, that his own folly had involved him in

ruin, and it was no part of his design to conceal this from her.

But he lamented only the delay which his ill-conduct must give to their

marriage, and did not foresee, that the information could induce her to

break their connection forever. While the prospect of this separation

overwhelmed his mind, before stung with self-reproach, he awaited their

second interview, in a state little short of distraction, yet was still

inclined to hope, that his pleadings might prevail upon her not to exact

it.

In the morning, he sent to know at what hour she would see him;

and his note arrived, when she was with the Count, who had sought an

opportunity of again conversing with her of Valancourt; for he perceived

the extreme distress of her mind, and feared, more than ever, that her

fortitude would desert her. Emily having dismissed the messenger, the

Count returned to the subject of their late conversation, urging his

fear of Valancourt's entreaties, and again pointing out to her the

lengthened misery, that must ensue, if she should refuse to encounter

some present uneasiness. His repeated arguments could, indeed, alone

have protected her from the affection she still felt for Valancourt, and

she resolved to be governed by them.

The hour of interview, at length, arrived. Emily went to it, at least,

with composure of manner, but Valancourt was so much agitated, that

he could not speak, for several minutes, and his first words were

alternately those of lamentation, entreaty, and self-reproach.

Afterward, he said, 'Emily, I have loved you--I do love you, better than

my life; but I am ruined by my own conduct. Yet I would seek to entangle

you in a connection, that must be miserable for you, rather than subject

myself to the punishment, which is my due, the loss of you. I am a

wretch, but I will be a villain no longer.--I will not endeavour to

shake your resolution by the pleadings of a selfish passion. I resign

you, Emily, and will endeavour to find consolation in considering, that,

though I am miserable, you, at least, may be happy. The merit of the

sacrifice is, indeed, not my own, for I should never have attained

strength of mind to surrender you, if your prudence had not demanded

it.'