["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> CHAPTER X\n\n\n\n     Can such things be,\n And overcome us like a summer's cloud,\n Without our special wonder? MACBETH\n\nOn the next morning, Emily ordered a fire to be lighted in the stove\nof the chamber, where St. Aubert used to sleep; and, as soon as she had\nbreakfasted, went thither to burn the papers. Having fastened the\ndoor to prevent interruption, she opened the closet where they were\nconcealed, as she entered which, she felt an emotion of unusual awe,\nand stood for some moments surveying it, trembling, and almost afraid to\nremove the board. There was a great chair in one corner of the closet,\nand, opposite to it, stood the table, at which she had seen her father\nsit, on the evening that preceded his departure, looking over, with so\nmuch emotion, what she believed to be these very papers. The solitary life, which Emily had led of late, and the melancholy\nsubjects, on which she had suffered her thoughts to dwell, had rendered\nher at times sensible to the 'thick-coming fancies' of a mind greatly\nenervated. It was lamentable, that her excellent understanding should\nhave yielded, even for a moment, to the reveries of superstition, or\nrather to those starts of imagination, which deceive the senses into\nwhat can be called nothing less than momentary madness. Instances of\nthis temporary failure of mind had more than once occurred since her\nreturn home; particularly when, wandering through this lonely mansion in\nthe evening twilight, she had been alarmed by appearances, which would\nhave been unseen in her more cheerful days. To this infirm state of her\nnerves may be attributed what she imagined, when, her eyes glancing\na second time on the arm-chair, which stood in an obscure part of the\ncloset, the countenance of her dead father appeared there. Emily stood\nfixed for a moment to the floor, after which she left the closet. Her spirits, however, soon returned; she reproached herself with the\nweakness of thus suffering interruption in an act of serious importance,\nand again opened the door. By the directions which St. Aubert had given\nher, she readily found the board he had described in an opposite corner\nof the closet, near the window; she distinguished also the line he\nhad mentioned, and, pressing it as he had bade her, it slid down, and\ndisclosed the bundle of papers, together with some scattered ones, and\nthe purse of louis. With a trembling hand she removed them, replaced the\nboard, paused a moment, and was rising from the floor, when, on looking\nup, there appeared to her alarmed fancy the same countenance in the\nchair. The illusion, another instance of the unhappy effect which\nsolitude and grief had gradually produced upon her mind, subdued her\nspirits; she rushed forward into the chamber, and sunk almost senseless\ninto a chair. Returning reason soon overcame the dreadful, but pitiable\nattack of imagination, and she turned to the papers, though still with\nso little recollection, that her eyes involuntarily settled on the\nwriting of some loose sheets, which lay open; and she was unconscious,\nthat she was transgressing her father's strict injunction, till a\nsentence of dreadful import awakened her attention and her memory\ntogether. She hastily put the papers from her; but the words, which had\nroused equally her curiosity and terror, she could not dismiss from her\nthoughts. So powerfully had they affected her, that she even could not\nresolve to destroy the papers immediately; and the more she dwelt on the\ncircumstance, the more it inflamed her imagination. Urged by the most\nforcible, and apparently the most necessary, curiosity to enquire\nfarther, concerning the terrible and mysterious subject, to which she\nhad seen an allusion, she began to lament her promise to destroy the\npapers. For a moment, she even doubted, whether it could justly be\nobeyed, in contradiction to such reasons as there appeared to be for\nfurther information. But the delusion was momentary. 'I have given a solemn promise,' said she, 'to observe a solemn\ninjunction, and it is not my business to argue, but to obey. Let me\nhasten to remove the temptation, that would destroy my innocence, and\nembitter my life with the consciousness of irremediable guilt, while I\nhave strength to reject it.' Thus re-animated with a sense of her duty, she completed the triumph\nof her integrity over temptation, more forcible than any she had ever\nknown, and consigned the papers to the flames. Her eyes watched them as\nthey slowly consumed, she shuddered at the recollection of the sentence\nshe had just seen, and at the certainty, that the only opportunity of\nexplaining it was then passing away for ever. It was long after this, that she recollected the purse; and as she was\ndepositing it, unopened, in a cabinet, perceiving that it contained\nsomething of a size larger than coin, she examined it. 'His hand\ndeposited them here,' said she, as she kissed some pieces of the coin,\nand wetted them with her tears, 'his hand--which is now dust!' At the\nbottom of the purse was a small packet, having taken out which, and\nunfolded paper after paper, she found to be an ivory case, containing\nthe miniature of a--lady! She started--'The same,' said she, 'my father\nwept over!' On examining the countenance she could recollect no person\nthat it resembled. It was of uncommon beauty, and was characterized\nby an expression of sweetness, shaded with sorrow, and tempered by\nresignation. St. Aubert had given no directions concerning this picture, nor had even\nnamed it; she, therefore, thought herself justified in preserving\nit. More than once remembering his manner, when he had spoken of the\nMarchioness of Villeroi, she felt inclined to believe that this was her\nresemblance; yet there appeared no reason why he should have preserved a\npicture of that lady, or, having preserved it, why he should lament over\nit in a manner so striking and affecting as she had witnessed on the\nnight preceding his departure. Emily still gazed on the countenance, examining its features, but she\nknew not where to detect the charm that captivated her attention,\nand inspired sentiments of such love and pity. Dark brown hair played\ncarelessly along the open forehead; the nose was rather inclined to\naquiline; the lips spoke in a smile, but it was a melancholy one; the\neyes were blue, and were directed upwards with an expression of peculiar\nmeekness, while the soft cloud of the brow spoke of the fine sensibility\nof the temper. Emily was roused from the musing mood into which the picture had thrown\nher, by the closing of the garden gate; and, on turning her eyes to\nthe window, she saw Valancourt coming towards the chateau. Her spirits\nagitated by the subjects that had lately occupied her mind, she felt\nunprepared to see him, and remained a few moments in the chamber to\nrecover herself. When she met him in the parlour, she was struck with the change that\nappeared in his air and countenance since they had parted in Rousillon,\nwhich twilight and the distress she suffered on the preceding evening\nhad prevented her from observing. But dejection and languor disappeared,\nfor a moment, in the smile that now enlightened his countenance, on\nperceiving her. 'You see,' said he, 'I have availed myself of the\npermission with which you honoured me--of bidding YOU farewell, whom I\nhad the happiness of meeting only yesterday.' Emily smiled faintly, and, anxious to say something, asked if he had\nbeen long in Gascony. 'A few days only,' replied Valancourt, while a\nblush passed over his cheek. 'I engaged in a long ramble after I had the\nmisfortune of parting with the friends who had made my wanderings among\nthe Pyrenees so delightful.' A tear came to Emily's eye, as Valancourt said this, which he observed;\nand, anxious to draw off her attention from the remembrance that had\noccasioned it, as well as shocked at his own thoughtlessness, he began\nto speak on other subjects, expressing his admiration of the chateau,\nand its prospects. Emily, who felt somewhat embarrassed how to support\na conversation, was glad of such an opportunity to continue it on\nindifferent topics. They walked down to the terrace, where Valancourt\nwas charmed with the river scenery, and the views over the opposite\nshores of Guienne. As he leaned on the wall of the terrace, watching the rapid current of\nthe Garonne, 'I was a few weeks ago,' said he, 'at the source of this\nnoble river; I had not then the happiness of knowing you, or I should\nhave regretted your absence--it was a scene so exactly suited to\nyour taste. It rises in a part of the Pyrenees, still wilder and more\nsublime, I think, than any we passed in the way to Rousillon.'\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-03 The user is reading a book]\n<User> He then\ndescribed its fall among the precipices of the mountains, where its\nwaters, augmented by the streams that descend from the snowy summits\naround, rush into the Vallee d'Aran, between whose romantic heights it\nfoams along, pursuing its way to the north west till it emerges upon the\nplains of Languedoc. Then, washing the walls of Tholouse, and turning\nagain to the north west, it assumes a milder character, as it fertilizes\nthe pastures of Gascony and Guienne, in its progress to the Bay of\nBiscay. Emily and Valancourt talked of the scenes they had passed among\nthe Pyrenean Alps; as he spoke of which there was often a tremulous\ntenderness in his voice, and sometimes he expatiated on them with all\nthe fire of genius, sometimes would appear scarcely conscious of the\ntopic, though he continued to speak. This subject recalled forcibly to\nEmily the idea of her father, whose image appeared in every landscape,\nwhich Valancourt particularized, whose remarks dwelt upon her memory,\nand whose enthusiasm still glowed in her heart. Her silence, at length,\nreminded Valancourt how nearly his conversation approached to the\noccasion of her grief, and he changed the subject, though for one\nscarcely less affecting to Emily. When he admired the grandeur of the\nplane-tree, that spread its wide branches over the terrace, and under\nwhose shade they now sat, she remembered how often she had sat thus with\nSt. Aubert, and heard him express the same admiration. 'This was a favourite tree with my dear father,' said she; 'he used to\nlove to sit under its foliage with his family about him, in the fine\nevenings of summer.' Valancourt understood her feelings, and was silent; had she raised her\neyes from the ground she would have seen tears in his. He rose, and\nleaned on the wall of the terrace, from which, in a few moments, he\nreturned to his seat, then rose again, and appeared to be greatly\nagitated; while Emily found her spirits so much depressed, that several\nof her attempts to renew the conversation were ineffectual. Valancourt\nagain sat down, but was still silent, and trembled. At length he said,\nwith a hesitating voice, 'This lovely scene!--I am going to leave--to\nleave you--perhaps for ever! These moments may never return; I cannot\nresolve to neglect, though I scarcely dare to avail myself of them. Let\nme, however, without offending the delicacy of your sorrow, venture to\ndeclare the admiration I must always feel of your goodness--O! that at\nsome future period I might be permitted to call it love!' Emily's emotion would not suffer her to reply; and Valancourt, who now\nventured to look up, observing her countenance change, expected to see\nher faint, and made an involuntary effort to support her, which recalled\nEmily to a sense of her situation, and to an exertion of her spirits. Valancourt did not appear to notice her indisposition, but, when he\nspoke again, his voice told the tenderest love. 'I will not presume,' he\nadded, 'to intrude this subject longer upon your attention at this time,\nbut I may, perhaps, be permitted to mention, that these parting moments\nwould lose much of their bitterness if I might be allowed to hope the\ndeclaration I have made would not exclude me from your presence in\nfuture.' Emily made another effort to overcome the confusion of her thoughts,\nand to speak. She feared to trust the preference her heart acknowledged\ntowards Valancourt, and to give him any encouragement for hope, on so\nshort an acquaintance. For though in this narrow period she had observed\nmuch that was admirable in his taste and disposition, and though these\nobservations had been sanctioned by the opinion of her father, they were\nnot sufficient testimonies of his general worth to determine her upon a\nsubject so infinitely important to her future happiness as that, which\nnow solicited her attention. Yet, though the thought of dismissing\nValancourt was so very painful to her, that she could scarcely endure to\npause upon it, the consciousness of this made her fear the partiality of\nher judgment, and hesitate still more to encourage that suit, for which\nher own heart too tenderly pleaded. The family of Valancourt, if not\nhis circumstances, had been known to her father, and known to be\nunexceptionable. Of his circumstances, Valancourt himself hinted as far\nas delicacy would permit, when he said he had at present little else to\noffer but an heart, that adored her. He had solicited only for a distant\nhope, and she could not resolve to forbid, though she scarcely dared to\npermit it; at length, she acquired courage to say, that she must think\nherself honoured by the good opinion of any person, whom her father had\nesteemed. 'And was I, then, thought worthy of his esteem?' said Valancourt, in\na voice trembling with anxiety; then checking himself, he added, 'But\npardon the question; I scarcely know what I say. If I might dare to\nhope, that you think me not unworthy such honour, and might be permitted\nsometimes to enquire after your health, I should now leave you with\ncomparative tranquillity.' Emily, after a moment's silence, said, 'I will be ingenuous with you,\nfor I know you will understand, and allow for my situation; you will\nconsider it as a proof of my--my esteem that I am so. Though I live\nhere in what was my father's house, I live here alone. I have, alas! no\nlonger a parent--a parent, whose presence might sanction your visits. It is unnecessary for me to point out the impropriety of my receiving\nthem.' 'Nor will I affect to be insensible of this,' replied Valancourt, adding\nmournfully--'but what is to console me for my candour? I distress you,\nand would now leave the subject, if I might carry with me a hope of\nbeing some time permitted to renew it, of being allowed to make myself\nknown to your family.' Emily was again confused, and again hesitated what to reply; she felt\nmost acutely the difficulty--the forlornness of her situation, which did\nnot allow her a single relative, or friend, to whom she could turn\nfor even a look, that might support and guide her in the present\nembarrassing circumstances. Madame Cheron, who was her only relative,\nand ought to have been this friend, was either occupied by her own\namusements, or so resentful of the reluctance her niece had shewn to\nquit La Vallee, that she seemed totally to have abandoned her. 'Ah! I see,' said Valancourt, after a long pause, during which Emily had\nbegun, and left unfinished two or three sentences, 'I see that I have\nnothing to hope; my fears were too just, you think me unworthy of your\nesteem. That fatal journey! which I considered as the happiest period of\nmy life--those delightful days were to embitter all my future ones. How\noften I have looked back to them with hope and fear--yet never till\nthis moment could I prevail with myself to regret their enchanting\ninfluence.' His voice faltered, and he abruptly quitted his seat and walked on the\nterrace. There was an expression of despair on his countenance, that\naffected Emily. The pleadings of her heart overcame, in some degree, her\nextreme timidity, and, when he resumed his seat, she said, in an accent\nthat betrayed her tenderness, 'You do both yourself and me injustice\nwhen you say I think you unworthy of my esteem; I will acknowledge that\nyou have long possessed it, and--and--'\n\nValancourt waited impatiently for the conclusion of the sentence,\nbut the words died on her lips. Her eyes, however, reflected all the\nemotions of her heart. Valancourt passed, in an instant, from the\nimpatience of despair, to that of joy and tenderness. 'O Emily!' he\nexclaimed, 'my own Emily--teach me to sustain this moment! Let me seal\nit as the most sacred of my life!' He pressed her hand to his lips, it was cold and trembling; and, raising\nher eyes, he saw the paleness of her countenance. Tears came to her\nrelief, and Valancourt watched in anxious silence over her. In a few\nmoments, she recovered herself, and smiling faintly through her tears,\nsaid, 'Can you excuse this weakness? My spirits have not yet, I believe,\nrecovered from the shock they lately received.' 'I cannot excuse myself,' said Valancourt, 'but I will forbear to renew\nthe subject, which may have contributed to agitate them, now that I can\nleave you with the sweet certainty of possessing your esteem.' Then, forgetting his resolution, he again spoke of himself. 'You know\nnot,' said he, 'the many anxious hours I have passed near you lately,\nwhen you believed me, if indeed you honoured me with a thought, far\naway.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-03, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-06 The user is reading a book]\n<User> I have wandered, near the chateau, in the still hours of the\nnight, when no eye could observe me. It was delightful to know I was so\nnear you, and there was something particularly soothing in the thought,\nthat I watched round your habitation, while you slept. These grounds are\nnot entirely new to me. Once I ventured within the fence, and spent one\nof the happiest, and yet most melancholy hours of my life in walking\nunder what I believed to be your window.' Emily enquired how long Valancourt had been in the neighbourhood. 'Several days,' he replied. 'It was my design to avail myself of the\npermission M. St. Aubert had given me. I scarcely know how to account\nfor it; but, though I anxiously wished to do this, my resolution always\nfailed, when the moment approached, and I constantly deferred my visit. I lodged in a village at some distance, and wandered with my dogs, among\nthe scenes of this charming country, wishing continually to meet you,\nyet not daring to visit you.' Having thus continued to converse, without perceiving the flight of\ntime, Valancourt, at length, seemed to recollect himself. 'I must go,'\nsaid he mournfully, 'but it is with the hope of seeing you again, of\nbeing permitted to pay my respects to your family; let me hear this hope\nconfirmed by your voice.' 'My family will be happy to see any friend\nof my dear father,' said Emily. Valancourt kissed her hand, and still\nlingered, unable to depart, while Emily sat silently, with her eyes bent\non the ground; and Valancourt, as he gazed on her, considered that it\nwould soon be impossible for him to recall, even to his memory, the\nexact resemblance of the beautiful countenance he then beheld; at this\nmoment an hasty footstep approached from behind the plane-tree, and,\nturning her eyes, Emily saw Madame Cheron. She felt a blush steal upon\nher cheek, and her frame trembled with the emotion of her mind; but she\ninstantly rose to meet her visitor. 'So, niece!' said Madame Cheron,\ncasting a look of surprise and enquiry on Valancourt, 'so niece, how\ndo you do? But I need not ask, your looks tell me you have already\nrecovered your loss.' 'My looks do me injustice then, Madame, my loss I know can never be\nrecovered.' 'Well--well! I will not argue with you; I see you have exactly your\nfather's disposition; and let me tell you it would have been much\nhappier for him, poor man! if it had been a different one.' A look of dignified displeasure, with which Emily regarded Madame\nCheron, while she spoke, would have touched almost any other heart;\nshe made no other reply, but introduced Valancourt, who could scarcely\nstifle the resentment he felt, and whose bow Madame Cheron returned with\na slight curtsy, and a look of supercilious examination. After a few\nmoments he took leave of Emily, in a manner, that hastily expressed his\npain both at his own departure, and at leaving her to the society of\nMadame Cheron. 'Who is that young man?' said her aunt, in an accent which equally\nimplied inquisitiveness and censure. 'Some idle admirer of yours I\nsuppose; but I believed niece you had a greater sense of propriety, than\nto have received the visits of any young man in your present unfriended\nsituation. Let me tell you the world will observe those things, and it\nwill talk, aye and very freely too.' Emily, extremely shocked at this coarse speech, attempted to interrupt\nit; but Madame Cheron would proceed, with all the self-importance of a\nperson, to whom power is new. 'It is very necessary you should be under the eye of some person more\nable to guide you than yourself. I, indeed, have not much leisure for\nsuch a task; however, since your poor father made it his last request,\nthat I should overlook your conduct--I must even take you under my care. But this let me tell you niece, that, unless you will determine to be\nvery conformable to my direction, I shall not trouble myself longer\nabout you.' Emily made no attempt to interrupt Madame Cheron a second time, grief\nand the pride of conscious innocence kept her silent, till her aunt\nsaid, 'I am now come to take you with me to Tholouse; I am sorry\nto find, that your poor father died, after all, in such indifferent\ncircumstances; however, I shall take you home with me. Ah! poor man, he\nwas always more generous than provident, or he would not have left his\ndaughter dependent on his relations.' 'Nor has he done so, I hope, madam,' said Emily calmly, 'nor did his\npecuniary misfortunes arise from that noble generosity, which always\ndistinguished him. The affairs of M. de Motteville may, I trust, yet\nbe settled without deeply injuring his creditors, and in the meantime I\nshould be very happy to remain at La Vallee.' 'No doubt you would,' replied Madame Cheron, with a smile of irony, 'and\nI shall no doubt consent to this, since I see how necessary tranquillity\nand retirement are to restore your spirits. I did not think you capable\nof so much duplicity, niece; when you pleaded this excuse for remaining\nhere, I foolishly believed it to be a just one, nor expected to have\nfound with you so agreeable a companion as this M. La Val--, I forget\nhis name.' Emily could no longer endure these cruel indignities. 'It was a just\none, madam,' said she; 'and now, indeed, I feel more than ever the value\nof the retirement I then solicited; and, if the purport of your visit\nis only to add insult to the sorrows of your brother's child, she could\nwell have spared it.' 'I see that I have undertaken a very troublesome task,' said Madame\nCheron, colouring highly. 'I am sure, madam,' said Emily mildly, and\nendeavouring to restrain her tears, 'I am sure my father did not mean it\nshould be such. I have the happiness to reflect, that my conduct under\nhis eye was such as he often delighted to approve. It would be very\npainful to me to disobey the sister of such a parent, and, if you\nbelieve the task will really be so troublesome, I must lament, that it\nis yours.' 'Well! niece, fine speaking signifies little. I am willing, in\nconsideration of my poor brother, to overlook the impropriety of your\nlate conduct, and to try what your future will be.' Emily interrupted her, to beg she would explain what was the impropriety\nshe alluded to. 'What impropriety! why that of receiving the visits of a lover unknown\nto your family,' replied Madame Cheron, not considering the impropriety\nof which she had herself been guilty, in exposing her niece to the\npossibility of conduct so erroneous. A faint blush passed over Emily's countenance; pride and anxiety\nstruggled in her breast; and, till she recollected, that appearances\ndid, in some degree, justify her aunt's suspicions, she could not\nresolve to humble herself so far as to enter into the defence of a\nconduct, which had been so innocent and undesigning on her part. She\nmentioned the manner of Valancourt's introduction to her father; the\ncircumstances of his receiving the pistol-shot, and of their afterwards\ntravelling together; with the accidental way, in which she had met him,\non the preceding evening. She owned he had declared a partiality for\nher, and that he had asked permission to address her family. 'And who is this young adventurer, pray?' said Madame Cheron, 'and what\nare his pretensions?' 'These he must himself explain, madam,' replied\nEmily. 'Of his family my father was not ignorant, and I believe it is\nunexceptionable.' She then proceeded to mention what she knew concerning\nit. 'Oh, then, this it seems is a younger brother,' exclaimed her aunt, 'and\nof course a beggar. A very fine tale indeed! And so my brother took a\nfancy to this young man after only a few days acquaintance!--but that\nwas so like him! In his youth he was always taking these likes and\ndislikes, when no other person saw any reason for them at all; nay,\nindeed, I have often thought the people he disapproved were much more\nagreeable than those he admired;--but there is no accounting for tastes. He was always so much influenced by people's countenances; now I, for my\npart, have no notion of this, it is all ridiculous enthusiasm. What has\na man's face to do with his character? Can a man of good character\nhelp having a disagreeable face?'\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-06, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-07 The user is reading a book]\n<User> --which last sentence Madame Cheron\ndelivered with the decisive air of a person who congratulates herself\non having made a grand discovery, and believes the question to be\nunanswerably settled. Emily, desirous of concluding the conversation, enquired if her aunt\nwould accept some refreshment, and Madame Cheron accompanied her to the\nchateau, but without desisting from a topic, which she discussed with so\nmuch complacency to herself, and severity to her niece. 'I am sorry to perceive, niece,' said she, in allusion to somewhat that\nEmily had said, concerning physiognomy, 'that you have a great many of\nyour father's prejudices, and among them those sudden predilections for\npeople from their looks. I can perceive, that you imagine yourself to be\nviolently in love with this young adventurer, after an acquaintance of\nonly a few days. There was something, too, so charmingly romantic in the\nmanner of your meeting!' Emily checked the tears, that trembled in her eyes, while she said,\n'When my conduct shall deserve this severity, madam, you will do well\nto exercise it; till then justice, if not tenderness, should surely\nrestrain it. I have never willingly offended you; now I have lost my\nparents, you are the only person to whom I can look for kindness. Let me\nnot lament more than ever the loss of such parents.' The last words were\nalmost stifled by her emotions, and she burst into tears. Remembering\nthe delicacy and the tenderness of St. Aubert, the happy, happy days\nshe had passed in these scenes, and contrasting them with the coarse\nand unfeeling behaviour of Madame Cheron, and from the future hours\nof mortification she must submit to in her presence--a degree of grief\nseized her, that almost reached despair. Madame Cheron, more offended\nby the reproof which Emily's words conveyed, than touched by the\nsorrow they expressed, said nothing, that might soften her grief; but,\nnotwithstanding an apparent reluctance to receive her niece, she desired\nher company. The love of sway was her ruling passion, and she knew it\nwould be highly gratified by taking into her house a young orphan, who\nhad no appeal from her decisions, and on whom she could exercise without\ncontroul the capricious humour of the moment. On entering the chateau, Madame Cheron expressed a desire, that she\nwould put up what she thought necessary to take to Tholouse, as she\nmeant to set off immediately. Emily now tried to persuade her to defer\nthe journey, at least till the next day, and, at length, with much\ndifficulty, prevailed. The day passed in the exercise of petty tyranny on the part of Madame\nCheron, and in mournful regret and melancholy anticipation on that of\nEmily, who, when her aunt retired to her apartment for the night, went\nto take leave of every other room in this her dear native home, which\nshe was now quitting for she knew not how long, and for a world, to\nwhich she was wholly a stranger. She could not conquer a presentiment,\nwhich frequently occurred to her, this night--that she should never more\nreturn to La Vallee. Having passed a considerable time in what had been\nher father's study, having selected some of his favourite authors, to\nput up with her clothes, and shed many tears, as she wiped the dust from\ntheir covers, she seated herself in his chair before the reading desk,\nand sat lost in melancholy reflection, till Theresa opened the door to\nexamine, as was her custom before she went to bed, if was all safe. She\nstarted, on observing her young lady, who bade her come in, and then\ngave her some directions for keeping the chateau in readiness for her\nreception at all times. 'Alas-a-day! that you should leave it!' said Theresa, 'I think you would\nbe happier here than where you are going, if one may judge.' Emily made\nno reply to this remark; the sorrow Theresa proceeded to express at\nher departure affected her, but she found some comfort in the simple\naffection of this poor old servant, to whom she gave such directions as\nmight best conduce to her comfort during her own absence. Having dismissed Theresa to bed, Emily wandered through every lonely\napartment of the chateau, lingering long in what had been her father's\nbed-room, indulging melancholy, yet not unpleasing, emotions, and,\nhaving often returned within the door to take another look at it, she\nwithdrew to her own chamber. From her window she gazed upon the\ngarden below, shewn faintly by the moon, rising over the tops of the\npalm-trees, and, at length, the calm beauty of the night increased a\ndesire of indulging the mournful sweetness of bidding farewel to the\nbeloved shades of her childhood, till she was tempted to descend. Throwing over her the light veil, in which she usually walked, she\nsilently passed into the garden, and, hastening towards the distant\ngroves, was glad to breathe once more the air of liberty, and to sigh\nunobserved. The deep repose of the scene, the rich scents, that floated\non the breeze, the grandeur of the wide horizon and of the clear\nblue arch, soothed and gradually elevated her mind to that sublime\ncomplacency, which renders the vexations of this world so insignificant\nand mean in our eyes, that we wonder they have had power for a moment to\ndisturb us. Emily forgot Madame Cheron and all the circumstances of\nher conduct, while her thoughts ascended to the contemplation of those\nunnumbered worlds, that lie scattered in the depths of aether, thousands\nof them hid from human eyes, and almost beyond the flight of human\nfancy. As her imagination soared through the regions of space, and\naspired to that Great First Cause, which pervades and governs all being,\nthe idea of her father scarcely ever left her; but it was a pleasing\nidea, since she resigned him to God in the full confidence of a pure and\nholy faith. She pursued her way through the groves to the terrace,\noften pausing as memory awakened the pang of affection, and as reason\nanticipated the exile, into which she was going. And now the moon was high over the woods, touching their summits with\nyellow light, and darting between the foliage long level beams; while on\nthe rapid Garonne below the trembling radiance was faintly obscured by\nthe lightest vapour. Emily long watched the playing lustre, listened to\nthe soothing murmur of the current, and the yet lighter sounds of the\nair, as it stirred, at intervals, the lofty palm-trees. 'How delightful\nis the sweet breath of these groves,' said she. 'This lovely scene!--how\noften shall I remember and regret it, when I am far away. Alas! what events may occur before I see it again! O, peaceful, happy\nshades!--scenes of my infant delights, of parental tenderness now lost\nfor ever!--why must I leave ye!--In your retreats I should still find\nsafety and repose. Sweet hours of my childhood--I am now to leave even\nyour last memorials! No objects, that would revive your impressions,\nwill remain for me!' Then drying her tears and looking up, her thoughts rose again to the\nsublime subject she had contemplated; the same divine complacency stole\nover her heart, and, hushing its throbs, inspired hope and confidence\nand resignation to the will of the Deity, whose works filled her mind\nwith adoration. Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and then seated herself, for the\nlast time, on the bench under its shade, where she had so often sat with\nher parents, and where, only a few hours before, she had conversed\nwith Valancourt, at the remembrance of whom, thus revived, a mingled\nsensation of esteem, tenderness and anxiety rose in her breast. With\nthis remembrance occurred a recollection of his late confession--that he\nhad often wandered near her habitation in the night, having even passed\nthe boundary of the garden, and it immediately occurred to her, that\nhe might be at this moment in the grounds. The fear of meeting him,\nparticularly after the declaration he had made, and of incurring a\ncensure, which her aunt might so reasonably bestow, if it was known,\nthat she was met by her lover, at this hour, made her instantly leave\nher beloved plane-tree, and walk towards the chateau. She cast an\nanxious eye around, and often stopped for a moment to examine the\nshadowy scene before she ventured to proceed, but she passed on without\nperceiving any person, till, having reached a clump of almond trees, not\nfar from the house, she rested to take a retrospect of the garden, and\nto sigh forth another adieu. As her eyes wandered over the landscape she\nthought she perceived a person emerge from the groves, and pass slowly\nalong a moon-light alley that led between them; but the distance, and\nthe imperfect light would not suffer her to judge with any degree of\ncertainty whether this was fancy or reality.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-07, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-09 The user is reading a book]\n<User> She continued to gaze for\nsome time on the spot, till on the dead stillness of the air she heard\na sudden sound, and in the next instant fancied she distinguished\nfootsteps near her. Wasting not another moment in conjecture, she\nhurried to the chateau, and, having reached it, retired to her chamber,\nwhere, as she closed her window she looked upon the garden, and then\nagain thought she distinguished a figure, gliding between the almond\ntrees she had just left. She immediately withdrew from the casement,\nand, though much agitated, sought in sleep the refreshment of a short\noblivion.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-09, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-09", "answer": "Emily, St. Aubert, Valancourt, Madame Cheron, La Vallee, Tholouse, father's old bedchamber, burning papers, promise to burn, father's ghost, miniature of beautiful woman, purse in cabinet, conscience struggle, nature, love confession, family status, childhood memories, lurking in bushes, figure in garden, melancholy, contraband, inheritance, death of father, secrecy, discovery, interruption, social class, propriety, emotional conflict, supernatural elements"}]