“Why, no, Dorothée,” 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 I may judge proper to conceal, does not concern myself alone, or I should have less scruple in revealing it: let a confidence in my honour alone persuade you to disclose what I request.”
“Well, lady!” replied Dorothée, 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 anybody, 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 Dorothée’s consent.
“But there is the horn, ma’amselle, sounding for dinner,” said Dorothée; “I must be gone.”
“When shall I see you again?” enquired Emily.
Dorothée mused, and then replied, “Why, madam, it may make people curious, if it is known I am so much in your apartment, and that I should 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, tonight—”
“Aye, that is well remembered,” said Dorothée, “I fear I cannot come tonight, 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 Château-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.”
Dorothée 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.