Her reflections increased her anguish, while she was compelled to
acknowledge, that the fortitude she had formerly exerted, if it had
not conducted her to happiness, had saved her from irretrievable
misfortune--from Valancourt himself! But in these moments she could not
congratulate herself on the prudence, that had saved her; she could only
lament, with bitterest anguish, the circumstances, which had conspired
to betray Valancourt into a course of life so different from that,
which the virtues, the tastes, and the pursuits of his early years had
promised; but she still loved him too well to believe, that his
heart was even now depraved, though his conduct had been criminal. An
observation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubert more than once, now
occurred to her.
'This young man,' said he, speaking of Valancourt, 'has
never been at Paris;' a remark, that had surprised her at the time
it was uttered, but which she now understood, and she exclaimed
sorrowfully, 'O Valancourt! if such a friend as my father had been with
you at Paris--your noble, ingenuous nature would not have fallen!'
The sun was now set, and, recalling her thoughts from their melancholy
subject, she continued her walk; for the pensive shade of twilight was
pleasing to her, and the nightingales from the surrounding groves began
to answer each other in the long-drawn, plaintive note, which always
touched her heart; while all the fragrance of the flowery thickets, that
bounded the terrace, was awakened by the cool evening air, which floated
so lightly among their leaves, that they scarcely trembled as it passed.
Emily came, at length, to the steps of the pavilion, that terminated
the terrace, and where her last interview with Valancourt, before her
departure from Tholouse, had so unexpectedly taken place. The door was
now shut, and she trembled, while she hesitated whether to open it; but
her wish to see again a place, which had been the chief scene of her
former happiness, at length overcoming her reluctance to encounter the
painful regret it would renew, she entered. The room was obscured by a
melancholy shade; but through the open lattices, darkened by the
hanging foliage of the vines, appeared the dusky landscape, the Garonne
reflecting the evening light, and the west still glowing. A chair was
placed near one of the balconies, as if some person had been sitting
there, but the other furniture of the pavilion remained exactly as
usual, and Emily thought it looked as if it had not once been moved
since she set out for Italy.
The silent and deserted air of the place
added solemnity to her emotions, for she heard only the low whisper
of the breeze, as it shook the leaves of the vines, and the very faint
murmur of the Garonne. She seated herself in a chair, near the lattice, and yielded to the
sadness of her heart, while she recollected the circumstances of her
parting interview with Valancourt, on this spot. It was here too, that
she had passed some of the happiest hours of her life with him, when
her aunt favoured the connection, for here she had often sat and worked,
while he conversed, or read; and she now well remembered with what
discriminating judgment, with what tempered energy, he used to repeat
some of the sublimest passages of their favourite authors; how often he
would pause to admire with her their excellence, and with what tender
delight he would listen to her remarks, and correct her taste.