'Dorothee!' said Emily solemnly, 'I am interested in the cause of that grief, more so, perhaps, than you may imagine; and I entreat, that you will no longer refuse to indulge my curiosity;--it is not a common one.'
As Emily said this, she remembered the papers, with which the picture had been found, and had scarcely a doubt, that they had concerned the Marchioness de Villeroi; but with this supposition came a scruple, whether she ought to enquire further on a subject, which might prove to be the same, that her father had so carefully endeavoured to conceal.Her curiosity, concerning the Marchioness, powerful as it was, it is probable she would now have resisted, as she had formerly done, on unwarily observing the few terrible words in the papers, which had never since been erased from her memory, had she been certain that the history of that lady was the subject of those papers, or, that such simple particulars only as it was probable Dorothee could relate were included in her father's command.What was known to her could be no secret to many other persons; and, since it appeared very unlikely, that St.Aubert should attempt to conceal what Emily might learn by ordinary means, she at length concluded, that, if the papers had related to the story of the Marchioness, it was not those circumstances of it, which Dorothee could disclose, that he had thought sufficiently important to wish to have concealed.
She, therefore, no longer hesitated to make the enquiries, that might lead to the gratification of her curiosity.
'Ah, ma'amselle!' said Dorothee, 'it is a sad story, and cannot be told now: but what am I saying? I never will tell it.Many years have passed, since it happened; and I never loved to talk of the Marchioness to any body, but my husband.He lived in the family, at that time, as well as myself, and he knew many particulars from me, which nobody else did; for I was about the person of my lady in her last illness, and saw and heard as much, or more than my lord himself.Sweet saint! how patient she was! When she died, I thought I could have died with her!'
'Dorothee,' said Emily, interrupting her, 'what you shall tell, you may depend upon it, shall never be disclosed by me.I have, I repeat it, particular reasons for wishing to be informed on this subject, and am willing to bind myself, in the most solemn manner, never to mention what you shall wish me to conceal.'
Dorothee seemed surprised at the earnestness of Emily's manner, and, after regarding her for some moments, in silence, said, 'Young lady!
that look of yours pleads for you--it is so like my dear mistress's, that I can almost fancy I see her before me; if you were her daughter, you could not remind me of her more.But dinner will be ready--had you not better go down?'
'You will first promise to grant my request,' said Emily.
'And ought not you first to tell me, ma'amselle, how this picture fell into your hands, and the reasons you say you have for curiosity about my lady?'
'Why, no, Dorothee,' replied Emily, recollecting herself, 'I have also particular reasons for observing silence, on these subjects, at least, till I know further; and, remember, I do not promise ever to speak upon them; therefore, do not let me induce you to satisfy my curiosity, from an expectation, that I shall gratify yours.What Imay judge proper to conceal, does not concern myself alone, or Ishould have less scruple in revealing it: let a confidence in my honour alone persuade you to disclose what I request.'
'Well, lady!' replied Dorothee, after a long pause, during which her eyes were fixed upon Emily, 'you seem so much interested,--and this picture and that face of yours make me think you have some reason to be so,--that I will trust you--and tell some things, that I never told before to any body, but my husband, though there are people, who have suspected as much.I will tell you the particulars of my lady's death, too, and some of my own suspicions; but you must first promise me by all the saints'--Emily, interrupting her, solemnly promised never to reveal what should be confided to her, without Dorothee's consent.
'But there is the horn, ma'amselle, sounding for dinner,' said Dorothee; 'I must be gone.'
'When shall I see you again?' enquired Emily.
Dorothee mused, and then replied, 'Why, madam, it may make people curious, if it is known I am so much in your apartment, and that Ishould be sorry for; so I will come when I am least likely to be observed.I have little leisure in the day, and I shall have a good deal to say; so, if you please, ma'am, I will come, when the family are all in bed.'
'That will suit me very well,' replied Emily: 'Remember, then, to-night'--
'Aye, that is well remembered,' said Dorothee, 'I fear I cannot come to-night, madam, for there will be the dance of the vintage, and it will be late, before the servants go to rest; for, when they once set in to dance, they will keep it up, in the cool of the air, till morning; at least, it used to be so in my time.'
'Ah! is it the dance of the vintage?' said Emily, with a deep sigh, remembering, that it was on the evening of this festival, in the preceding year, that St.Aubert and herself had arrived in the neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc.She paused a moment, overcome by the sudden recollection, and then, recovering herself, added--'But this dance is in the open woods; you, therefore, will not be wanted, and can easily come to me.'
Dorothee replied, that she had been accustomed to be present at the dance of the vintage, and she did not wish to be absent now; 'but if I can get away, madam, I will,' said she.
