Emily continued her journey across the plains of Languedoc, traveling northwest toward Toulouse. As she returned to the city she had once left with Madame Montoni, her thoughts were filled with sorrowful memories.
She thought of her aunt and the tragic end of her life.
“If only she had not made such foolish choices,” Emily thought, “she might still be alive and happy here.”
Her thoughts also returned to Montoni. She remembered him as he had once been—proud, fearless, and powerful during his days of success. She remembered him later as a man driven by revenge and cruelty.
Yet only a few months had passed, and everything had changed.
He no longer had the power to harm anyone.
He had become nothing more than dust in the earth, and his life had disappeared like a passing shadow.
Emily almost felt pity for him, until she remembered the terrible things he had done. But for her unfortunate aunt, she could only weep, and all thoughts of her mistakes disappeared when she remembered her suffering.
As Emily drew closer to the places connected with her childhood and her first love, other emotions overwhelmed her.
She thought of Valancourt.
He was lost to her forever—not only lost to her, but lost to himself.
At last, she reached the hill where, before leaving for Italy, she had looked back one final time at the beautiful landscape she loved. Among those woods and fields, she had spent so many happy hours walking with Valancourt.
She looked toward the distant Pyrenees, rising like pale clouds on the horizon.
“There is Gascony,” she whispered.
“Oh, my father and my mother!”
“And there is the Garonne.”
She wiped away the tears that blurred her vision.
“And Toulouse, my aunt’s mansion, and the gardens where I once walked.”
“Oh, my dear friends, are you all lost to me? Must I never see you again?”
Her tears returned, and she continued crying until a sudden turn in the road nearly caused the carriage to overturn.
Looking up, she saw another familiar part of the landscape around Toulouse. At once, all the feelings she had experienced when leaving returned with painful force.
She remembered the fears she had carried before her journey—the uncertainty of her future with Valancourt and the sadness she had felt as she departed.
She remembered the words she had spoken while taking her final look at the scene.
“If only I could be certain that I would ever return,” she had thought, “and that Valancourt would still love me, I could leave in peace.”
Now the future she had feared had arrived.
She had returned.
But what did she find?
Only emptiness.
Valancourt was no longer hers.
The most painful part was not simply losing him, but losing the image of him she had treasured in her heart. For so long, he had been her comfort during lonely hours, the friend who gave her strength against Montoni’s oppression, and the distant hope that had brightened her darkest moments.
Now she realized that this beloved image might have been only an illusion created by her own heart.
Valancourt seemed to have vanished completely, leaving behind a painful emptiness.
She thought she could have endured his marriage to another woman.
She thought she could even have endured his death.
Because then she could still have secretly held onto the memory of the good and noble man she had loved. Her sorrow would have contained some comfort.
But this discovery—that he had become someone unworthy of her love—was far harder to bear.
As Emily looked again at the landscape that had caused her tears, she realized she was passing the very place where she had said farewell to Valancourt before leaving Toulouse.
Through her tears, she saw him again as he had appeared that morning.
She saw him standing beside the tall trees, looking at her carriage with sadness, tenderness, and pain.
The memory was too much.
Emily sank back in her seat and did not look up again until the carriage reached the gates of her own mansion.
When the gates opened and the carriage entered the courtyard, Emily stepped down and quickly walked through the large, silent hall into the oak-paneled sitting room that had once belonged to Madame Montoni.
There she expected to find Monsieur Quesnel.
Instead, she found only a letter.
The letter explained that important business had forced him to leave Toulouse two days earlier.
Emily was not disappointed by his absence. His sudden departure seemed to show the same lack of concern he had always displayed toward her.
The letter also informed her about the progress he had made in settling her affairs and gave instructions about the remaining business matters.
But Quesnel’s coldness soon disappeared from her thoughts.
Her mind returned to the people who had once filled this house, especially Madame Montoni—the unhappy woman whose life had ended so tragically.
This very room brought back painful memories.
Here, Emily had eaten breakfast with her aunt on the morning they left for Italy. She remembered Madame Montoni’s excitement and the many hopes she had held for their journey.
While thinking of the past, Emily’s eyes wandered toward the garden outside.
There she saw the avenue where she had parted from Valancourt before leaving.
Immediately, memories rushed back.
She remembered his concern for her happiness, his warnings about Montoni, his desperate attempts to prevent her from placing herself under Montoni’s control, and the sincerity of his love.
At that moment, it seemed almost impossible that Valancourt could truly have become unworthy.
She began to doubt everything she had heard about him—even his own words confirming Count De Villefort’s accusations.
Unable to bear the memories, Emily turned away from the window and sat down, overwhelmed by grief.
She remained there until Annette entered with coffee.
“Dear madam,” Annette said, looking around sadly, “how different this place seems now. It is so gloomy compared with before. It is terrible to come home when nobody is here to welcome you.”
The words struck Emily deeply.
She could not bear them at that moment. Tears filled her eyes again, and after drinking the coffee, she quickly returned to her room, hoping to rest.
But her memories would not leave her.
She saw Valancourt as he had been during their early love—kind, gentle, and full of warmth. She imagined them together in the very places where she had once believed they would spend their lives.
At last, sleep finally closed these painful visions from her mind.
The next morning, practical duties helped her escape from sorrow.
Because she wished to leave Toulouse and continue to La Vallée, she began examining the condition of her estate and immediately arranged some necessary matters according to Monsieur Quesnel’s instructions.
It required great effort to focus on these responsibilities, but she found comfort in discovering once again that work was the strongest remedy for grief.
She spent the entire day handling business.
Among other tasks, she made inquiries about all her poor tenants, hoping to ease their hardships or improve their comfort.
By evening, her spirits had recovered enough that she decided to visit the gardens where she had walked so often with Valancourt.
She knew that avoiding them would only make the memories more painful later, so she gathered her courage and entered.
Passing quickly through the garden gate, she hurried along the great avenue, refusing to let herself dwell on the place where she had last parted from Valancourt.
She soon moved toward quieter paths until she reached the steps leading to the terrace.
When she saw them, she hesitated.
But after regaining her determination, she continued upward.
“These are the same tall trees,” Emily whispered.
“The same flowers still grow here—the wild roses, the shrubs, and the plants Valancourt cared for so carefully.”
“Oh, when I last saw them…”
She stopped herself, but tears escaped.
The memories became too powerful, and she had to lean against the terrace wall for support.
The evening was peaceful and beautiful.
The setting sun spread golden light across the landscape, touching the tops of the distant trees and gardens below.
Emily and Valancourt had often admired this very view together at the same hour.
Standing there, she remembered their final conversation before her journey to Italy.
She remembered his warnings about Montoni, warnings that had sadly proven true.
She remembered his pleas for them to marry immediately, his deep affection, his sorrow, and his belief that they might never meet happily again.
All those emotions returned.
Her love for Valancourt became as powerful as it had been when she first believed she was leaving both him and happiness behind.
“Alas,” Emily whispered, “what have I gained from the strength I showed then?”
“Am I happy now?”
“He said we would never meet again in happiness, but he never imagined that his own actions would create the very disaster he feared.”
Her sorrow deepened.
She knew that her former strength had protected her from a terrible mistake, but at that moment she could not feel grateful for it.
She could only mourn the circumstances that had changed Valancourt from the noble young man she had known into someone so different.
Yet she still loved him too much to believe that his heart was truly corrupted.
She remembered something her father had once said about him.
“This young man has never been to Paris.”
At the time, she had not understood the meaning.
Now she did.
“Oh, Valancourt,” she cried, “if only a friend like my father had been with you in Paris, your noble and honest nature might never have fallen.”
The sun had now disappeared.
Emily continued walking through the peaceful twilight.
The nightingales sang among the trees, their sad and beautiful voices touching her heart. The evening air carried the fragrance of flowers and plants along the terrace.
At last, she reached the pavilion at the end of the terrace—the place where she had last spoken with Valancourt before leaving Toulouse.
The door was closed.
Emily trembled before opening it.
But her longing to see again the place connected with her happiest memories overcame her fear.
She entered.
The room was dark and quiet.
Through the open windows, covered by vines, she saw the fading landscape, the Garonne reflecting the evening light, and the western sky still glowing.
A chair stood near the balcony, as though someone had recently been sitting there.
Everything else appeared unchanged.
The pavilion seemed almost untouched since the day she left for Italy.
The silence made the place feel even more solemn.
Emily heard only the soft movement of the vines in the breeze and the distant murmur of the river.
She sat near the window and allowed herself to remember.
This was where she and Valancourt had shared some of the happiest moments of their lives.
When Madame Montoni had approved of their relationship, Emily had often sat here working while Valancourt talked or read.
She remembered his thoughtful voice, his love for great literature, his admiration for beautiful ideas, and the gentle pleasure he took in listening to her opinions.
“Is it truly possible,” Emily whispered, “that a mind so capable of appreciating everything noble and beautiful could fall into such weakness?”
She remembered the tears that had often appeared in his eyes when he spoke of heroic deeds or acts of kindness.
“And such a heart,” she said sadly, “was sacrificed to the temptations of a great city.”
The memories became unbearable.
Emily quickly left the pavilion and returned toward the château.
As she crossed the terrace, she noticed someone walking slowly beneath the trees.
The darkness prevented her from seeing clearly.
At first, she thought it was a servant.
Then the figure turned slightly.
Emily froze.
She thought she saw Valancourt.
The person immediately disappeared into the bushes.
Emily stood trembling, unable to move.
She could barely support herself.
When her strength returned, she hurried back to the house.
She did not dare ask who had been in the garden because she feared revealing her emotions.
All night she tried to remember the figure she had seen.
The glimpse had been too brief, and the darkness too deep, but everything about the person—the shape, the movement, the sudden disappearance—made her believe it had been Valancourt.
Sometimes she wondered whether her longing for him had created the vision.
But the thought quickly vanished.
If it truly had been him, why was he in Toulouse?
How had he entered the garden?
She wanted to ask if anyone had seen a stranger, but pride and uncertainty stopped her.
The evening passed in anxious thoughts.
Her heart constantly changed between hope and fear.
She told herself she wished it was not Valancourt.
But her heart refused to believe her.
The next day, several neighboring families visited.
They had once been close to Madame Montoni and came to express sympathy for her death, congratulate Emily on inheriting the estate, and ask about the strange events surrounding Montoni and Emily’s own experiences.
They behaved politely, and after their formal visits, they departed calmly.
Emily was exhausted by their attention.
She disliked the respectful behavior of people who had once ignored her when they believed she depended on Madame Montoni.
“Surely wealth has some strange power,” Emily said.
“It can make people show respect even when they gain nothing from it.”
“How strange that a foolish or dishonest person with money may receive more admiration than a wise and good person who is poor.”
That evening, when she was finally alone, Emily wished to walk in the garden.
But she feared meeting the mysterious figure again.
The thought of seeing Valancourt filled her with anxiety.
She wanted desperately to see him once more, even if he did not see her.
Yet dignity and caution restrained her.
She decided not to enter the gardens again for several days.
Nearly a week later, she finally returned with Annette.
She stayed only in the lower gardens, but every sound made her start.
Whenever leaves moved in the wind, she imagined someone hiding nearby.
At every turn in the path, she looked ahead nervously.
She walked silently, unable to speak.
Annette eventually became uncomfortable with the silence.
“Dear madam,” she said, “why do you keep starting like that? You act as if you already know what happened.”
“What happened?” Emily asked, trying to control her trembling voice.
“The night before last, madam…”
“I know nothing, Annette,” Emily replied quickly.
“The night before last, madam, there was a robber in the garden.”
“A robber?” Emily repeated.
“I suppose he was a robber, madam. What else could he have been?”
“Where did you see him?” Emily asked.
“It was not me who saw him. It was Jean the gardener.”
“He was crossing the courtyard at midnight when he saw someone walking near the garden gate. Jean guessed trouble was coming and went inside for his gun.”
“His gun?” Emily cried.
“Yes, madam. He watched the man come slowly down the avenue and lean against the gate, staring up at the house for a long time.”
“He must have been deciding which window to enter.”
“But the gun,” Emily said anxiously.
“Then the man opened the gate and began walking into the courtyard. Jean called out and asked who he was and what he wanted.”
“But the man refused to answer and returned into the garden.”
“Jean believed he was a robber, so he fired after him.”
“Fired?” Emily whispered.
“Yes, madam. But why do you look so pale? The man was not killed, I am sure. If he was injured, his friends must have carried him away.”
“When Jean searched the next morning, there was no body—only a trail of blood.”
Emily could hear no more.
Her strength failed, and she would have fallen if Annette had not caught her.
When she finally recovered, Emily asked to be taken to her room.
She desperately wanted to know more, but she was too frightened to hear that Valancourt might be dead.
After sending Annette away, she tried to remember the person she had seen on the terrace.
Her heart told her it had been Valancourt.
She had almost no doubt.
The description of the stranger did not sound like a robber.
A thief would hardly come alone to enter such a large house.
When Emily felt strong enough, she called Jean.
But he knew nothing about the stranger’s identity or what had happened afterward.
Emily strongly criticized him for firing real bullets and ordered him to search the surrounding area for the wounded man.
Then she remained alone, suffering through terrible uncertainty.
Her love for Valancourt returned with all its former strength because she feared he might be injured.
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that he had come to the garden only to find comfort among the places connected with their lost happiness.
“Dear madam,” Annette said when she returned, “I have never seen you so upset. I am sure the man is not dead.”
Emily trembled.
She bitterly regretted the gardener’s careless action.
Annette explained that Jean had even warned her not to tell Emily.
“He said, ‘Annette, don’t tell my lady. She might be angry if she knew I fired, especially because there was blood. But how can we protect the garden if we are afraid to shoot at a robber?’”
“Enough,” Emily said quietly. “Please leave me.”
Annette obeyed.
Emily returned to her painful thoughts.
She tried to comfort herself with one small hope.
If the stranger was Valancourt, he had come alone and must have managed to leave the garden without help.
That seemed unlikely if his wound had been serious.
She held onto this hope while her servants continued searching for information.
But days passed without answers.
The uncertainty slowly weakened her.
At last, Emily became ill with a lingering fever.
The doctors advised fresh air, gentle exercise, and pleasant distractions.
But how could she find happiness when her heart was consumed by worry?
Still, she tried to turn her thoughts toward helping others.
Whenever the weather allowed, she visited the cottages of her tenants and looked for ways to improve their lives.
Her illness and estate business delayed her departure to La Vallée.
Now she hesitated to leave Toulouse, because it seemed the only place where she might discover the truth about Valancourt.
But finally, the time came when she had to go.
A letter from Lady Blanche informed her that she and the Count were staying at Baron St. Foix’s château and planned to visit Emily at La Vallée before returning home.
They hoped Emily would return with them to Château-le-Blanc.
Emily replied that she would arrive at La Vallée within a few days.
She prepared quickly for the journey.
As she left Toulouse, she tried to comfort herself with the thought that if anything terrible had happened to Valancourt, she surely would have heard by now.
The evening before her departure, she went to say farewell to the terrace and pavilion.
A gentle rain had cooled the air and refreshed the gardens.
The flowers shone with drops of water, and the evening light gave the landscape a soft golden glow.
But Emily no longer saw the beauty around her.
She only felt sadness.
She sighed as she looked across the scene.
The thought of returning to La Vallée brought tears to her eyes.
When she reached the pavilion, she sat by the open window and looked toward the distant mountains of Gascony.
“Alas,” she whispered, “I return to those beloved places, but I will never see my parents there again.”
“Never again will I hear their voices or receive their loving welcome.”
“Everything will feel cold and silent where my happiest memories once lived.”
Tears fell from her eyes.
But after grieving for some time, Emily reminded herself that she still had friends who loved her.
She left the pavilion and terrace at last, without seeing Valancourt or anyone else.