Lady Blanche, who had been left without much company, soon began to long for Emily’s return. She wanted her new friend beside her so they could share the beauty of the surrounding landscape together.
Without Emily, Blanche had no one with whom she could express her admiration or share the little joys she discovered. There was no one whose eyes brightened when she smiled, no one whose happiness reflected her own. Gradually, she became quiet, thoughtful, and unhappy.
The Count noticed her disappointment and kindly agreed to her request. He reminded Emily of the promise she had made to visit the château again.
But Emily was troubled. Valancourt’s silence had lasted far longer than the time in which she might reasonably have expected to receive a letter from Estuvière. Her anxiety had become so severe that she no longer wished for company. She would have gladly postponed her visit until her heart was calmer.
However, the Count and his family sincerely wished to see her. Since Emily could not explain the true reason for her desire to be alone, refusing their invitation would seem like an unfriendly change of mood. She could not bring herself to offend people whose kindness she valued.
Therefore, she finally returned for a second visit to Château-le-Blanc.
The Count’s warm and respectful manner encouraged Emily to speak about the difficulty concerning her late aunt’s estates. She asked his advice on how she might recover her inheritance.
The Count believed the law would likely support her claim. He offered to write to a lawyer in Avignon whose judgment he trusted.
Emily gratefully accepted his kindness. The attention and courtesy she received each day almost restored her happiness. Yet one thing prevented her from feeling truly at peace.
She still had no news of Valancourt.
More than a week had now passed since she arrived at the château, and she had heard nothing from him. She knew that if he was no longer staying at his brother’s home, her letter might not yet have reached him. Still, she could not stop her mind from imagining terrible possibilities.
She wondered what might have happened during the long months since her first imprisonment at Udolpho. Sometimes she feared that Valancourt had died. At other moments, she feared something even worse—that he was alive but no longer cared for her.
These thoughts destroyed her peace. Even Blanche’s company sometimes became too painful to endure. Whenever the family’s activities allowed, Emily would sit alone in her room for hours, lost in sorrow.
During one of these lonely moments, Emily opened a small box containing several letters from Valancourt and some drawings she had made while staying in Tuscany.
The drawings no longer interested her.
But the letters were precious. She hoped to revisit the tenderness they once contained and remember the comfort his words had given her when distance separated them.
Yet the letters affected her differently now.
The affection written in them touched her heart painfully. She wondered whether such love could have survived time and separation. Even seeing his handwriting brought back so many memories that she could not continue reading.
She placed the first letter aside and sat silently, her cheek resting on her arm, while tears slowly fell from her eyes.
At that moment, old Dorothée entered the room.
“Madam, dinner will be ready an hour earlier than usual,” she said.
Emily quickly looked up and hurriedly gathered the papers. But Dorothée had already noticed her sadness and tears.
“Ah, Mademoiselle,” said the old woman, “you are so young. What reason could you possibly have for sorrow?”
Emily tried to smile, but she could not answer.
“Dear young lady,” Dorothée continued, “when you reach my age, you will not cry over small troubles. Surely nothing serious has happened to you.”
“No, Dorothée,” Emily replied softly. “Nothing important.”
As Dorothée bent down to pick up something that had fallen among the papers, she suddenly cried out.
“Holy Mary! What is this?”
She trembled and sank into a chair beside the table.
“What do you see?” Emily asked, alarmed by her reaction.
“It is her,” Dorothée whispered. “It is truly her, exactly as she looked shortly before she died!”
Emily feared the old woman had suddenly lost her senses and begged her to explain.
“That picture,” Dorothée said. “Where did you find it? It is my dear mistress herself!”
She placed the miniature on the table.
It was the same portrait Emily had discovered years before among the papers her father had ordered her to destroy. She remembered how deeply her father had wept when he looked at it.
Now, remembering all the strange actions of her father that had confused her for so long, Emily felt overwhelmed. She could hardly speak. The only question she managed to ask was whether Dorothée was certain the picture was truly a likeness of the late Marchioness.
“Oh, Mademoiselle!” Dorothée replied. “How could I have recognized it so quickly if it were not my lady’s face?”
She lifted the miniature carefully.
“These are her own blue eyes,” she said. “So gentle and so kind. And this expression—I have seen it many times. When she sat quietly thinking for a long while, tears would often fall from her eyes, yet she never complained.”
“She had such a humble and patient look. It broke my heart and made me love her even more.”
“Dorothée,” Emily said seriously, “I am deeply interested in the reason for your sorrow. Perhaps more than you realize. I beg you not to refuse my curiosity any longer. This is not ordinary curiosity.”
Emily remembered the papers that had been hidden with the portrait. She almost believed they must have concerned the Marchioness de Villeroi.
But she hesitated.
Her father had clearly wanted the matter concealed. Should she now investigate something he had tried so carefully to hide?
Only the memory of those few terrible words she had once seen in the papers prevented her from immediately asking more questions.
Still, she reasoned that if the papers concerned only the general story of the Marchioness, then whatever Dorothée knew could hardly be the secret her father had considered so important. Many people must have known ordinary details of the lady’s life.
At last, Emily decided to continue.
“Ah, Mademoiselle,” Dorothée said, “it is a sad story. But I cannot tell it now.”
She paused.
“Indeed, what am I saying? I should never tell it at all.”
“Many years have passed since it happened, and I have never liked speaking of the Marchioness to anyone except my husband. He lived with the family at that time, and he knew many things because of what I told him.”
“I was with my lady during her final illness. I saw and heard as much as, perhaps even more than, my lord himself.”
“Sweet angel! How patiently she suffered. When she died, I thought I would die with her.”
“Dorothée,” Emily interrupted, “whatever you tell me shall never be repeated by me. I have special reasons for wishing to know this story, and I promise most solemnly never to reveal anything you wish kept secret.”
Dorothée looked surprised by Emily’s seriousness.
After studying her face for a moment, she said:
“Young lady, your expression speaks for you. You look so much like my dear mistress that I almost imagine I see her again.”
“If you were her daughter, you could not remind me of her more.”
“But dinner will soon be ready. Should you not go downstairs?”
“You must first promise to grant my request,” Emily said.
“And should you not first tell me, Mademoiselle, how this picture came into your possession? You say you have reasons for asking about my lady.”
“No, Dorothée,” Emily replied after a moment’s thought. “I also have reasons for remaining silent about these matters until I know more.”
“Do not satisfy my curiosity because you expect me to satisfy yours. What I choose to hide concerns more than only myself.”
“Trust my honour, and tell me what I ask.”
After a long silence, Dorothée looked carefully at Emily.
“You seem so deeply concerned. This picture and your face make me believe you have a reason.”
“I will trust you. I will tell you things I have never told anyone except my husband, though others may have suspected them.”
“I will also tell you about my lady’s death and some suspicions I have carried for years.”
“But first you must promise me by all the saints—”
Emily interrupted and solemnly promised never to reveal anything Dorothée confided without her permission.
“But there is the dinner bell,” Dorothée said. “I must go.”
“When shall I see you again?” Emily asked.
Dorothée thought for a moment.
“It may make people curious if they notice me spending so much time in your room, and I would not like that.”
“I have little free time during the day, and I have much to tell you. If you agree, I will come when everyone is asleep.”
“That suits me perfectly,” Emily replied. “Then tonight—”
“Ah, I fear not tonight,” Dorothée said. “There is the vintage dance. The servants will not go to bed early. Once they begin dancing, they usually continue until morning.”
“Is it the vintage dance?” Emily asked with a deep sigh.
She suddenly remembered that it had been on the evening of this same festival the previous year that she and her father had arrived near Château-le-Blanc.
After a moment, she recovered herself.
“But the dance is held in the open woods. You will not be needed there. Surely you can come to me afterward.”
Dorothée admitted that she had always attended the festival and did not wish to miss it.
“But if I can escape for a while, madam, I will come,” she promised.
Emily then went to the dining room.
The Count treated her with the natural courtesy of a truly noble character. The Countess, though usually lacking in kindness, behaved more pleasantly toward Emily than she did toward most people.
The Countess possessed little genuine modesty or tenderness. She knew how to appear confident and charming, but her elegance often hid a lack of true compassion.
She could become deeply moved by imaginary suffering in a story, yet remain untouched by real misery before her eyes.
She had never known the greatest pleasure of kindness—the joy of bringing happiness to someone who suffered.
That evening, the Count and his family, except the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, went into the woods to watch the peasants’ celebration.
The scene was beautiful.
The trees opened into a wide grassy circle, their branches covered with vines heavy with ripe grapes. Tables were arranged beneath them, filled with fruit, wine, cheese, and other simple country foods.
The older peasants sat nearby, though many soon joined the cheerful dancing.
Even people nearly sixty years old danced with the energy and happiness of the young.
The musicians sat casually on the grass beneath a tree, playing flutes and long guitars. A boy stood behind them with a tambourine, performing lively dances and making everyone laugh with his playful movements.
The Count was delighted by the happiness of the people, knowing his generosity had helped create it.
Lady Blanche joined the dance with a young gentleman from her father’s party.
Du Pont asked Emily to dance, but she could not join the celebration. The festival reminded her too strongly of the previous year, when her father was still alive and when sorrow had soon followed.
Overcome by memories, Emily quietly left the gathering and walked deeper into the woods.
The distant music softened her sadness.
The moonlight shone gently through the leaves. The air was cool and peaceful.
Lost in thought, Emily wandered without noticing where she was going until the music faded completely.
The only sound was the nightingale singing in the darkness.
Soon she found herself near the same avenue where, on the night of her father’s arrival, Michael had once tried to pass while searching for a house.
The place remained wild and lonely.
The Count had improved many parts of the estate but had neglected this distant road. The trees still grew thickly, and the path remained rough and overgrown.
As Emily stood there remembering her former fears, she suddenly thought of the mysterious figure that had once been seen moving among the trees and had ignored Michael’s calls.
A feeling of fear returned.
She wondered whether these woods might sometimes shelter dangerous people.
She quickly turned back toward the festival.
But before she reached the dancers, she heard footsteps approaching from the avenue.
She could not hear the peasants’ voices or music anymore.
She walked faster.
The footsteps behind her came closer.
Then she recognized Henri’s voice.
She slowed her pace and waited.
But suddenly, from beside him, another voice spoke.
A voice she knew.
Could it be?
It was Valancourt.
They met at last.
Their joy was beyond description.
After so much separation, after so much suffering, Emily forgot every sorrow she had endured.
Valancourt seemed to see no one except Emily.
Henri watched them silently, amazed by the strength of their emotions.
Valancourt immediately asked about her and about Montoni.
There was no time to explain everything, but Emily learned that her letter had finally reached him after following him from Paris to Gascony.
When he received news of her arrival in Languedoc, he had immediately set out to find her.
He reached the monastery where she had written from, but the gates were already closed for the night.
Believing he would not see her until the next day, he had returned to his inn, intending to write to her.
Then Henri, whom he had known in Paris, happened to meet him and brought him directly to Emily.
For that moment, all their fears disappeared.
But later that evening, as Valancourt sat beside Emily beneath the trees, she noticed something had changed.
His face still held intelligence and warmth, but it no longer had the same openness and innocence she remembered.
There was sadness in his expression.
Sometimes anxiety crossed his features. Sometimes he seemed lost in painful thoughts, only to force himself away from them.
Emily could not understand the change.
Yet when Valancourt looked at her, he saw the same goodness and simplicity that had first captured his heart.
Her beauty was touched by sadness now, but her sweetness remained.
Valancourt listened as Emily told him about everything she had suffered since leaving France.
When she described Montoni’s cruelty, anger and sorrow struggled within him.
Several times he rose suddenly and walked away, as though overwhelmed by both anger toward Montoni and blame toward himself.
Emily noticed his strange reaction.
Something was troubling him deeply.
And she had not yet learned what it was.