Baron St. Foix had spent a restless night because of his concern for his friend. As soon as morning came, he rose early and went to ask what had happened during the mysterious night.
When he passed the Count’s private room, he heard footsteps inside. He knocked, and the door was opened by the Count himself.
The Baron was relieved to see that his friend was safe. He was eager to hear what had happened, and at first he was too happy to notice the serious expression on the Count’s face.
But the Count’s short and guarded replies soon attracted his attention.
“Something seems different about you this morning,” the Baron said. “You appear unusually troubled. Tell me what happened.”
The Count tried to smile and make light of the matter.
“My friend,” he said, “do not let your imagination run away with you. There is nothing worth making such a concern about.”
But the Baron was not satisfied.
“You cannot deceive me so easily,” he replied. “You know how deeply I care about you. I must know what happened.”
The Count’s expression became serious again.
“Please, my friend, ask me no more,” he said. “And I beg you also, from this day forward, do not speak about anything strange you may notice in my actions.”
The Baron looked at him with surprise.
“You speak as if something terrible has occurred.”
“I will not hide the truth from you,” said the Count. “I am unhappy. The watch I kept last night did not reveal where Ludovico has gone. As for everything else that happened, you must excuse my silence.”
“But where is Henri?” asked the Baron, disappointed.
“He is safe in his own room,” answered the Count.
“You do not wish me to question him?”
“No. You understand my wishes, and I hope you will respect them.”
“Of course I will,” said the Baron. “I would never do anything against your wishes. Yet I must admit, your secrecy surprises me. Perhaps you have finally changed your opinion and now believe what I believed before—that there are things in this world beyond ordinary explanation.”
“Let us speak no more of this,” said the Count.
The Baron studied his friend carefully.
“Very well. But remember, I have known you for almost thirty years. Your silence will not make me doubt your friendship or your affection for me.”
“Nor should it,” replied the Count. “But I ask one more favor. Do not mention this matter to my family, and do not speak of anything unusual you may observe in my behavior toward them.”
The Baron promised.
After they talked for some time about ordinary matters, they went down to breakfast.
The Count appeared cheerful when he joined his family. Whenever they questioned him about the north chambers, he avoided answering directly. Instead, he joked about their fears and laughed as though nothing serious had happened.
“Do not worry about those rooms,” he said. “Henri and I entered them, and we returned safely enough.”
However, Henri was unable to hide his feelings as well as the Count.
The fear on his face had not disappeared. He often became silent and lost in thought. When Mademoiselle Bearn tried to ask him questions and he attempted to laugh, everyone could see that his laughter was forced.
Later that evening, the Count visited the convent as he had promised.
Emily was surprised by the strange mixture of humor and seriousness in the way he spoke about the north chambers.
Yet he said nothing about what had truly happened.
Emily finally gathered courage and reminded him of his promise.
“You told me you would tell me the result of your investigation,” she said. “Have you discovered any proof that those rooms are haunted?”
For a moment, the Count’s face became solemn.
Then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he smiled.
“My dear Emily, do not allow the abbess to fill your mind with such ideas. She will soon make you expect a ghost every time you enter a dark room.”
Then he sighed deeply.
“But believe me, the spirits of the dead do not appear for amusement or to frighten people without reason.”
He paused for a moment, lost in thought.
“We will say no more about this subject.”
Soon afterward, he left.
When Emily joined some of the nuns, she was surprised to discover that they already knew what had happened.
They admired the Count’s courage in daring to spend the night in the very room where Ludovico had disappeared.
Emily had forgotten how quickly rumors spread. The nuns had heard the story from peasants who brought fruit to the monastery. Since Ludovico’s disappearance, the villagers had spoken of nothing else but the strange events at the château.
Emily listened quietly as the nuns discussed the Count’s actions.
Most of them believed he had acted recklessly.
“He has challenged the power that lives in those rooms,” one nun said. “It is dangerous to disturb an evil spirit in its own dwelling.”
But Sister Frances defended him.
“The Count acted with the courage of an honorable man,” she said. “He knows he has done nothing to offend a good spirit, and he does not fear an evil one because he trusts in a higher power—the power that protects the innocent and controls the wicked.”
Sister Agnes shook her head.
“The guilty cannot claim such protection,” she said. “The Count should examine his own heart and make sure he has not lost his right to call himself innocent.”
She paused.
“Who among us can truly say they are innocent? Human innocence is only a matter of comparison. Yet how enormous is the distance between different kinds of guilt! How terrible is the depth to which a person may fall!”
Her voice became filled with emotion.
“Oh!”
The strange sorrow in her voice startled Emily.
When Emily looked at her, she saw that Agnes was staring directly at her.
The nun stood, walked toward Emily, took her hand, and looked deeply into her face.
After several moments of silence, she whispered:
“You are young. You are innocent. I mean, you are still innocent of any great crime.”
She looked away.
“But you have passions in your heart—passions like sleeping scorpions. Beware of waking them. Once they rise, they will sting you until death.”
Emily was deeply moved by these words and could not stop her tears.
Sister Agnes’s expression softened.
“Ah, is that so?” she murmured. “So young, and already so unfortunate. Then we are sisters indeed.”
Suddenly her expression changed again.
“But there is no kindness among the guilty,” she said. “No tenderness. No peace. No hope.”
Her eyes became wild.
“I knew those things once. My eyes could cry. But now they burn, because my soul is fixed and fearless. I do not grieve anymore.”
“Rather let us repent and pray,” another nun said gently. “We are taught that prayer and repentance can save us. There is hope for everyone who truly repents.”
“For those who repent and return to the true faith,” added Sister Frances.
“For everyone except me,” Agnes replied.
She became silent for a moment.
Then suddenly she cried:
“My head burns. I am not well. If only I could remove all the memories of the past—the faces that rise before me like demons to torture me!”
She looked around in horror.
“I see them when I sleep. I see them when I am awake. They are before my eyes now!”
She stood frozen, staring around the room as though following something invisible.
One of the nuns gently took her hand and tried to lead her away.
After a moment, Agnes calmed down. She wiped her eyes and looked around again.
“They are gone,” she whispered. “They are gone.”
She sighed.
“I am feverish. I do not know what I am saying. Sometimes I become like this, but it always passes. I will soon be better.”
She suddenly looked toward the window.
“Was that the evening bell?”
“No,” answered Frances. “The evening service has already ended.”
“Then you are right,” said Agnes. “I shall be better in my cell. Good night, my sisters. Remember me in your prayers.”
After Agnes left, Frances noticed Emily’s troubled expression.
“Do not be frightened,” she said. “Our sister is often like this. Though I have not seen her so disturbed recently. Usually she is only deeply sad. This illness has been growing for several days, but rest and care will restore her.”
“But how calmly and intelligently she spoke at first,” Emily said. “Her thoughts followed each other perfectly.”
“Yes,” replied Frances. “That often happens. I have known her to argue with great reason and intelligence, then suddenly fall into madness.”
“Her conscience seems to be suffering,” Emily said. “Do you know what caused her condition?”
“I do,” answered Frances.
She became silent.
Emily asked again.
After looking carefully toward the other women in the room, Frances lowered her voice.
“I cannot tell you here. But if you truly wish to know, come to my cell tonight after everyone is asleep. I will tell you more. Remember, however, that we rise for prayers at midnight. Come either before or after that time.”
Emily promised.
Soon afterward, the abbess arrived, and they spoke no more about Sister Agnes.
Meanwhile, when the Count returned home, he found Monsieur Du Pont suffering from one of his usual periods of sadness.
His love for Emily had lasted too long to be easily forgotten. Even the opposition of his family had failed to destroy it.
Du Pont had first seen Emily in Gascony while his father was still alive.
When his father discovered that his son had fallen in love with Mademoiselle St. Aubert, a young woman whose fortune was below their own rank, he ordered him never to reveal his feelings to her family.
He also commanded him to forget her.
During his father’s lifetime, Du Pont obeyed the first command.
But he could not obey the second.
Sometimes he comforted himself by visiting the places Emily loved, especially the little fishing house.
There, he once or twice wrote poems to her without revealing his name, because he had promised his father he would not declare his love.
There, too, he played the sad melody that had once surprised and delighted Emily.
And there he discovered the miniature portrait that later strengthened his hopeless love.
During his journey in Italy, his father died.
But freedom came too late. The person who made that freedom valuable was no longer within his reach.
How he later discovered Emily and helped rescue her from imprisonment has already been told, along with the hope he briefly gained and the unsuccessful efforts he made afterward to overcome his feelings.
The Count continued trying to comfort him.
“My friend,” he said, “patience and perseverance may still bring you happiness. Time will soften the painful memories in Emily’s heart. She will come to understand your worth.”
He continued:
“Your kindness has already earned her gratitude, and your suffering has awakened her sympathy. In a heart as gentle as hers, gratitude and sympathy often lead to love.”
Du Pont listened sadly.
He wanted to believe his friend’s words, and when the Count invited him to remain longer at the château, he accepted.
We now return to the monastery of St. Claire.
When the nuns had gone to sleep, Emily quietly went to meet Sister Frances.
She found the nun kneeling in prayer inside her small cell.
A dim lamp burned beside a little table, where there was a religious image before which Frances prayed.
Emily entered silently and sat beside the nun’s simple straw mattress until the prayer was finished.
Soon Frances rose, took down the lamp, and placed it on the table.
Then Emily noticed something that startled her.
A human skull and several bones lay beside an hourglass.
Without mentioning them, Frances sat beside her.
“You are very punctual, sister,” she said. “Your curiosity has brought you here exactly as promised. But there is nothing extraordinary in the history of poor Agnes. I only avoided speaking about her before the others because I did not wish to reveal her crime.”
“I will consider your trust a kindness,” Emily replied. “I will never misuse it.”
“Sister Agnes comes from a noble family,” Frances began. “Her dignity and manner have probably already told you that. But I will not dishonor her family by revealing their name.”
She paused.
“Love was the cause of her crime and her madness.”
Emily listened carefully.
“She was loved by a gentleman of lower fortune. But her father forced her to marry a nobleman whom she did not love.”
Frances sighed.
“That uncontrolled passion destroyed her. She forgot every duty and every moral obligation. She broke her marriage vows.”
Emily lowered her eyes.
“Her guilt was discovered. Her husband would have punished her terribly, but her father managed to remove her from his power.”
“How?” Emily asked.
“I never learned,” Frances replied. “He hid her in this convent and later persuaded her to become a nun. Meanwhile, a story was spread that she had died. Her father even helped convince her husband that she had become a victim of his jealousy.”
Emily looked shocked.
“I know the story is unusual,” Frances said, noticing her expression. “But I do not believe it is impossible.”
“Please continue,” Emily said.
“There is little more to tell,” Frances answered. “Agnes suffered for many years between love, guilt, and the duties she had accepted when she entered our order. Eventually her mind became disturbed.”
“At first, she changed quickly between madness and deep sadness. Later, she fell into a lasting melancholy. Yet sometimes the old madness returns, and recently those attacks have become more frequent.”
Emily was deeply affected.
Parts of Agnes’s story reminded her of the Marchioness de Villeroi, who had also been forced by her father to abandon the person she loved and marry another.
But according to Dorothée’s account, there was no reason to believe the Marchioness had suffered a jealous husband’s revenge or that she had ever been guilty.
Emily felt sorrow for Agnes, but she also shed tears for the tragedy of the Marchioness.
Then she asked:
“Do you remember Sister Agnes when she was young? Was she beautiful?”
“I was not here when she took her vows,” Frances replied. “That happened so long ago that few of the present sisters witnessed it. Even our abbess was not yet in charge of the convent.”
She paused.
“But I remember when Agnes was a very beautiful woman. She still has the air of high birth that always distinguished her. Yet her beauty has disappeared. I can hardly see any trace of the loveliness that once brightened her face.”
“It is strange,” Emily said. “Sometimes her face seems familiar to me.”
She smiled slightly.
“You will think me foolish, and perhaps I am. I know I never saw her before coming here. Yet she resembles someone I have known, though I cannot remember who.”
“You have been deeply affected by her sadness,” said Frances. “Your imagination may have created the resemblance. I might just as easily think that Agnes resembles you, since you have only known her here, and this convent has been her refuge for almost as many years as your age.”
“Really?” Emily whispered.
“Yes,” replied Frances. “Why does that surprise you?”
Emily did not answer.
She remained thoughtful for several moments.
Then she said quietly:
“It was around that same time that the Marchioness de Villeroi died.”
“That is a strange observation,” said Frances.
Emily realized what she had said and quickly changed the subject.
But the conversation soon returned to Sister Agnes, and Emily remained in Frances’s cell until the midnight bell rang.
She apologized for keeping the nun awake so late.
Then they left the cell together.
Emily returned to her room, while Frances carried her small candle toward the chapel for prayer.
Several days passed.
Emily saw neither the Count nor any member of his family.
When the Count finally appeared, she immediately noticed that he looked troubled.
“My spirits are disturbed,” he said when she asked about his condition. “I have decided to leave for a short time. Perhaps a change of place will restore my peace of mind.”
“My daughter and I will accompany Baron St. Foix to his château. It lies in a valley of the Pyrenees opening toward Gascony.”
He paused.
“Emily, when you leave for La Vallée, perhaps we can travel part of the way together. It would give me pleasure to protect you on your journey home.”
Emily thanked him warmly.
But she explained that she must first travel to Toulouse, making his plan impossible.
“When you are staying with the Baron,” she added, “you will not be far from La Vallée. I hope you will visit me before leaving the country.”
“I would gladly do so,” replied the Count. “If your affairs allow you to be there at the same time, Blanche and I will come.”
Emily said she would also be happy to see the Countess.
She was not disappointed when she learned that the Countess would soon leave with Mademoiselle Bearn to visit a family in lower Languedoc for several weeks.
After more conversation about their journeys, the Count took his leave.
Not many days later, Emily received another letter from Monsieur Quesnel.
He informed her that he was already in Toulouse, that La Vallée was now available, and that he wished her to come immediately because his own affairs required him to return to Gascony.
Emily did not hesitate.
After taking an emotional farewell from the Count’s family—including Monsieur Du Pont—and from her friends at the convent, she departed for Toulouse.
The unhappy Annette accompanied her, and a faithful servant of the Count was sent to protect her on the journey.