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.