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diff --git a/3268-h/3268-h.htm b/3268-h/3268-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..79270e6 --- /dev/null +++ b/3268-h/3268-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,35389 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mysteries of Udolpho, by Ann Radcliffe</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mysteries of Udolpho, by Ann Radcliffe</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Mysteries of Udolpho</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Ann Radcliffe</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March 4, 2001 [eBook #3268]<br /> +[Most recently updated: December 1, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Karalee Coleman and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:70%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="cover " /> +</div> + +<h1>The Mysteries of Udolpho</h1> + +<h3>A Romance</h3> + +<h3>Interspersed With Some Pieces of Poetry</h3> + +<h2 class="no-break">By Ann Radcliffe</h2> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#part01"><b>VOLUME I</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII</a><br/><br/></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#part02"><b>VOLUME II</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER I</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER II</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER III</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER IV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER V</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER VI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER VII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER VIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER IX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER X</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XII</a><br/><br/></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#part03"><b>VOLUME III</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER I</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER II</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER III</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER IV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER V</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER VI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER VII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER VIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER IX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER X</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER XI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap37">CHAPTER XII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap38">CHAPTER XIII</a><br/><br/></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#part04"><b>VOLUME IV</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap39">CHAPTER I</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap40">CHAPTER II</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap41">CHAPTER III</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap42">CHAPTER IV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap43">CHAPTER V</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap44">CHAPTER VI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap45">CHAPTER VII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap46">CHAPTER VIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap47">CHAPTER IX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap48">CHAPTER X</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap49">CHAPTER XI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap50">CHAPTER XII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap51">CHAPTER XIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap52">CHAPTER XIV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap53">CHAPTER XV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap54">CHAPTER XVI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap55">CHAPTER XVII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap56">CHAPTER XVIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap57">CHAPTER XIX</a><br/><br/></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<p class="poem"> +Fate sits on these dark battlements, and frowns,<br/> +And, as the portals open to receive me,<br/> +Her voice, in sullen echoes through the courts,<br/> +Tells of a nameless deed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="part01"></a>VOLUME 1</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +home is the resort<br/> +Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,<br/> +Supporting and supported, polish’d friends<br/> +And dear relations mingle into bliss.<br/> + THOMSON +</p> + +<p> +On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony, stood, in the +year 1584, the château of Monsieur St. Aubert. From its windows were seen the +pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony stretching along the river, gay with +luxuriant woods and vine, and plantations of olives. To the south, the view was +bounded by the majestic Pyrenees, whose summits, veiled in clouds, or +exhibiting awful forms, seen, and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled +along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and +sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy pine, that swept downward to their +base. These tremendous precipices were contrasted by the soft green of the +pastures and woods that hung upon their skirts; among whose flocks, and herds, +and simple cottages, the eye, after having scaled the cliffs above, delighted +to repose. To the north, and to the east, the plains of Guienne and Languedoc +were lost in the mist of distance; on the west, Gascony was bounded by the +waters of Biscay. +</p> + +<p> +M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the margin of the +Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its waves. He had known +life in other forms than those of pastoral simplicity, having mingled in the +gay and in the busy scenes of the world; but the flattering portrait of +mankind, which his heart had delineated in early youth, his experience had too +sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidst the changing visions of life, his principles +remained unshaken, his benevolence unchilled; and he retired from the multitude +“more in <i>pity</i> than in anger,” to scenes of simple nature, to +the pure delights of literature, and to the exercise of domestic virtues. +</p> + +<p> +He was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family, and it +was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealth should be supplied +either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or by success in the intrigues of +public affairs. But St. Aubert had too nice a sense of honour to fulfil the +latter hope, and too small a portion of ambition to sacrifice what he called +happiness, to the attainment of wealth. After the death of his father he +married a very amiable woman, his equal in birth, and not his superior in +fortune. The late Monsieur St. Aubert’s liberality, or extravagance, had +so much involved his affairs, that his son found it necessary to dispose of a +part of the family domain, and, some years after his marriage, he sold it to +Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, and retired to a small estate in +Gascony, where conjugal felicity, and parental duties, divided his attention +with the treasures of knowledge and the illuminations of genius. +</p> + +<p> +To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often made +excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to his mind +by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom it was intrusted, +and whose fruit and cream never failed, had not been obliterated by succeeding +circumstances. The green pastures along which he had so often bounded in the +exultation of health, and youthful freedom—the woods, under whose +refreshing shade he had first indulged that pensive melancholy, which +afterwards made a strong feature of his character—the wild walks of the +mountains, the river, on whose waves he had floated, and the distant plains, +which seemed boundless as his early hopes—were never after remembered by +St. Aubert but with enthusiasm and regret. At length he disengaged himself from +the world, and retired hither, to realise the wishes of many years. +</p> + +<p> +The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, rendered +interesting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of the +surrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to make it a +comfortable family residence. St. Aubert felt a kind of affection for every +part of the fabric, which he remembered in his youth, and would not suffer a +stone of it to be removed, so that the new building, adapted to the style of +the old one, formed with it only a simple and elegant residence. The taste of +Madame St. Aubert was conspicuous in its internal finishing, where the same +chaste simplicity was observable in the furniture, and in the few ornaments of +the apartments, that characterised the manners of its inhabitants. +</p> + +<p> +The library occupied the west side of the château, and was enriched by a +collection of the best books in the ancient and modern languages. This room +opened upon a grove, which stood on the brow of a gentle declivity, that fell +towards the river, and the tall trees gave it a melancholy and pleasing shade; +while from the windows the eye caught, beneath the spreading branches, the gay +and luxuriant landscape stretching to the west, and overlooked on the left by +the bold precipices of the Pyrenees. Adjoining the library was a green-house, +stored with scarce and beautiful plants; for one of the amusements of St. +Aubert was the study of botany, and among the neighbouring mountains, which +afforded a luxurious feast to the mind of the naturalist, he often passed the +day in the pursuit of his favourite science. He was sometimes accompanied in +these little excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and frequently by his daughter; +when, with a small osier basket to receive plants, and another filled with cold +refreshments, such as the cabin of the shepherd did not afford, they wandered +away among the most romantic and magnificent scenes, nor suffered the charms of +Nature’s lowly children to abstract them from the observance of her +stupendous works. When weary of sauntering among cliffs that seemed scarcely +accessible but to the steps of the enthusiast, and where no track appeared on +the vegetation, but what the foot of the izard had left; they would seek one of +those green recesses, which so beautifully adorn the bosom of these mountains, +where, under the shade of the lofty larch, or cedar, they enjoyed their simple +repast, made sweeter by the waters of the cool stream, that crept along the +turf, and by the breath of wild flowers and aromatic plants, that fringed the +rocks, and inlaid the grass. +</p> + +<p> +Adjoining the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards the plains of +Languedoc, was a room, which Emily called hers, and which contained her books, +her drawings, her musical instruments, with some favourite birds and plants. +Here she usually exercised herself in elegant arts, cultivated only because +they were congenial to her taste, and in which native genius, assisted by the +instructions of Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, made her an early proficient. +The windows of this room were particularly pleasant; they descended to the +floor, and, opening upon the little lawn that surrounded the house, the eye was +led between groves of almond, palm-trees, flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the +distant landscape, where the Garonne wandered. +</p> + +<p> +The peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, when the +day’s labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the river. +Their sprightly melodies, <i>debonnaire</i> steps, the fanciful figure of their +dances, with the tasteful and capricious manner in which the girls adjusted +their simple dress, gave a character to the scene entirely French. +</p> + +<p> +The front of the château, which, having a southern aspect, opened upon the +grandeur of the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor by a rustic hall, +and two excellent sitting rooms. The first floor, for the cottage had no second +story, was laid out in bed-chambers, except one apartment that opened to a +balcony, and which was generally used for a breakfast-room. +</p> + +<p> +In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tasteful improvements; yet, +such was his attachment to objects he had remembered from his boyish days, that +he had in some instances sacrificed taste to sentiment. There were two old +larches that shaded the building, and interrupted the prospect; St. Aubert had +sometimes declared that he believed he should have been weak enough to have +wept at their fall. In addition to these larches he planted a little grove of +beech, pine, and mountain-ash. On a lofty terrace, formed by the swelling bank +of the river, rose a plantation of orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit, +in the coolness of evening, breathed delicious fragrance. With these were +mingled a few trees of other species. Here, under the ample shade of a +plane-tree, that spread its majestic canopy towards the river, St. Aubert loved +to sit in the fine evenings of summer, with his wife and children, watching, +beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mild splendour of its light fading +from the distant landscape, till the shadows of twilight melted its various +features into one tint of sober grey. Here, too, he loved to read, and to +converse with Madame St. Aubert; or to play with his children, resigning +himself to the influence of those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on +simplicity and nature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in +his eyes, that these were moments infinitely more delightful than any passed +amid the brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by the world. His +heart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely said, no wish for a happiness +beyond what it experienced. The consciousness of acting right diffused a +serenity over his manners, which nothing else could impart to a man of moral +perceptions like his, and which refined his sense of every surrounding +blessing. +</p> + +<p> +The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite plane-tree. +He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light die away; when the +stars, one by one, tremble through æther, and are reflected on the dark mirror +of the waters; that hour, which, of all others, inspires the mind with pensive +tenderness, and often elevates it to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed +her soft rays among the foliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of +cream and fruits was often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night, +came the song of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening +melancholy. +</p> + +<p> +The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since his retirement, +were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost them at that age when +infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and though, in consideration of Madame +St. Aubert’s distress, he restrained the expression of his own, and +endeavoured to bear it, as he meant, with philosophy, he had, in truth, no +philosophy that could render him calm to such losses. One daughter was now his +only surviving child; and, while he watched the unfolding of her infant +character, with anxious fondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting effort, to +counteract those traits in her disposition, which might hereafter lead her from +happiness. She had discovered in her early years uncommon delicacy of mind, +warm affections, and ready benevolence; but with these was observable a degree +of susceptibility too exquisite to admit of lasting peace. As she advanced in +youth, this sensibility gave a pensive tone to her spirits, and a softness to +her manner, which added grace to beauty, and rendered her a very interesting +object to persons of a congenial disposition. But St. Aubert had too much good +sense to prefer a charm to a virtue; and had penetration enough to see, that +this charm was too dangerous to its possessor to be allowed the character of a +blessing. He endeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to +habits of self-command; to teach her to reject the first impulse of her +feelings, and to look, with cool examination, upon the disappointments he +sometimes threw in her way. While he instructed her to resist first +impressions, and to acquire that steady dignity of mind, that can alone +counterbalance the passions, and bear us, as far as is compatible with our +nature, above the reach of circumstances, he taught himself a lesson of +fortitude; for he was often obliged to witness, with seeming indifference, the +tears and struggles which his caution occasioned her. +</p> + +<p> +In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant symmetry of +form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue eyes, full of tender +sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it was the varied expression of her +countenance, as conversation awakened the nicer emotions of her mind, that +threw such a captivating grace around her: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Those tend’rer tints, that shun the careless eye,<br/> +And, in the world’s contagious circle, die. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous care. He gave +her a general view of the sciences, and an exact acquaintance with every part +of elegant literature. He taught her Latin and English, chiefly that she might +understand the sublimity of their best poets. She discovered in her early years +a taste for works of genius; and it was St. Aubert’s principle, as well +as his inclination, to promote every innocent means of happiness. “A +well-informed mind,” he would say, “is the best security against +the contagion of folly and of vice. The vacant mind is ever on the watch for +relief, and ready to plunge into error, to escape from the languor of idleness. +Store it with ideas, teach it the pleasure of thinking; and the temptations of +the world without, will be counteracted by the gratifications derived from the +world within. Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness +of a country and a city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy sensations +of indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste they create for the +beautiful, and the grand; in the latter, they make dissipation less an object +of necessity, and consequently of interest.” +</p> + +<p> +It was one of Emily’s earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenes of +nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that she most delighted; +she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted the mountain; and still more +the mountain’s stupendous recesses, where the silence and grandeur of +solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her heart, and lifted her thoughts to the +GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. In scenes like these she would often linger along, +wrapt in a melancholy charm, till the last gleam of day faded from the west; +till the lonely sound of a sheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog, were +all that broke on the stillness of the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods; +the trembling of their leaves, at intervals, in the breeze; the bat, flitting +on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and now lost—were +circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led to enthusiasm and +poetry. +</p> + +<p> +Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St. Aubert, in a +woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended from the Pyrenees, and, +after foaming among their rocks, wound its silent way beneath the shades it +reflected. Above the woods, that screened this glen, rose the lofty summits of +the Pyrenees, which often burst boldly on the eye through the glades below. +Sometimes the shattered face of a rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs; +or a shepherd’s cabin seated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark cypress, or +waving ash. Emerging from the deep recesses of the woods, the glade opened to +the distant landscape, where the rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of +Gascony gradually declined to the plains; and there, on the winding shores of +the Garonne, groves, and hamlets, and villas—their outlines softened by +distance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious tint. +</p> + +<p> +This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he frequently +withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his daughter, and his books; +or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome the silent dusk, or to listen for +the music of the nightingale. Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and +awakened every fairy echo with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have +the tones of Emily’s voice drawn sweetness from the waves, over which +they trembled. +</p> + +<p> +It was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed the following +lines written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +SONNET<br/><br/> +Go, pencil! faithful to thy master’s sighs!<br/> +Go—tell the Goddess of the fairy scene,<br/> +When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green,<br/> +Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise;<br/> +Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin’d eyes,<br/> +The sweet expression of her pensive face,<br/> +The light’ning smile, the animated grace—<br/> +The portrait well the lover’s voice supplies;<br/> +Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say:<br/> +Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel!<br/> +How oft the flow’ret’s silken leaves conceal<br/> +The drug that steals the vital spark away!<br/> +And who that gazes on that angel-smile,<br/> +Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile! +</p> + +<p> +These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could not apply +them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of these shades. Having +glanced round the little circle of her acquaintance without being detained by a +suspicion as to whom they could be addressed, she was compelled to rest in +uncertainty; an uncertainty which would have been more painful to an idle mind +than it was to hers. She had no leisure to suffer this circumstance, trifling +at first, to swell into importance by frequent remembrance. The little vanity +it had excited (for the incertitude which forbade her to presume upon having +inspired the sonnet, forbade her also to disbelieve it) passed away, and the +incident was dismissed from her thoughts amid her books, her studies, and the +exercise of social charities. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indisposition of her +father, who was attacked with a fever; which, though not thought to be of a +dangerous kind, gave a severe shock to his constitution. Madame St. Aubert and +Emily attended him with unremitting care; but his recovery was very slow, and, +as he advanced towards health, Madame seemed to decline. +</p> + +<p> +The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take the air, was his +favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sent thither, with books, +and Emily’s lute; for fishing-tackle he had no use, for he never could +find amusement in torturing or destroying. +</p> + +<p> +After employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner was served. +It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being again permitted to visit this +spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness once more smiled beneath these +shades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed with unusual cheerfulness; every object +delighted his senses. The refreshing pleasure from the first view of nature, +after the pain of illness, and the confinement of a sick-chamber, is above the +conceptions, as well as the descriptions, of those in health. The green woods +and pastures; the flowery turf; the blue concave of the heavens; the balmy air; +the murmur of the limpid stream; and even the hum of every little insect of the +shade, seem to revivify the soul, and make mere existence bliss. +</p> + +<p> +Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of her husband, +was no longer sensible of the indisposition which had lately oppressed her; +and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of this romantic glen, and conversed +with him, and with her daughter, she often looked at them alternately with a +degree of tenderness, that filled her eyes with tears. St. Aubert observed this +more than once, and gently reproved her for the emotion; but she could only +smile, clasp his hand, and that of Emily, and weep the more. He felt the tender +enthusiasm stealing upon himself in a degree that became almost painful; his +features assumed a serious air, and he could not forbear secretly +sighing—“Perhaps I shall some time look back to these moments, as +to the summit of my happiness, with hopeless regret. But let me not misuse them +by useless anticipation; let me hope I shall not live to mourn the loss of +those who are dearer to me than life.” +</p> + +<p> +To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, he bade +Emily fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweet pathos. As she drew +near the fishing-house, she was surprised to hear the tones of the instrument, +which were awakened by the hand of taste, and uttered a plaintive air, whose +exquisite melody engaged all her attention. She listened in profound silence, +afraid to move from the spot, lest the sound of her steps should occasion her +to lose a note of the music, or should disturb the musician. Everything +without the building was still, and no person appeared. She continued to +listen, till timidity succeeded to surprise and delight; a timidity, increased +by a remembrance of the pencilled lines she had formerly seen, and she +hesitated whether to proceed, or to return. +</p> + +<p> +While she paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary hesitation, she +recollected courage to advance to the fishing-house, which she entered with +faltering steps, and found unoccupied! Her lute lay on the table; everything +seemed undisturbed, and she began to believe it was another instrument she had +heard, till she remembered, that, when she followed M. and Madame St. Aubert +from this spot, her lute was left on a window seat. She felt alarmed, yet knew +not wherefore; the melancholy gloom of evening, and the profound stillness of +the place, interrupted only by the light trembling of leaves, heightened her +fanciful apprehensions, and she was desirous of quitting the building, but +perceived herself grow faint, and sat down. As she tried to recover herself, +the pencilled lines on the wainscot met her eye; she started, as if she had +seen a stranger; but, endeavouring to conquer the tremor of her spirits, rose, +and went to the window. To the lines before noticed she now perceived that +others were added, in which her name appeared. +</p> + +<p> +Though no longer suffered to doubt that they were addressed to herself, she was +as ignorant, as before, by whom they could be written. While she mused, she +thought she heard the sound of a step without the building, and again alarmed, +she caught up her lute, and hurried away. Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert she +found in a little path that wound along the sides of the glen. +</p> + +<p> +Having reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and overlooking the +valleys and plains of Gascony, they seated themselves on the turf; and while +their eyes wandered over the glorious scene, and they inhaled the sweet breath +of flowers and herbs that enriched the grass, Emily played and sung several of +their favourite airs, with the delicacy of expression in which she so much +excelled. +</p> + +<p> +Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till the +sun’s last light slept upon the plains; till the white sails that glided +beneath the mountains, where the Garonne wandered, became dim, and the gloom of +evening stole over the landscape. It was a melancholy but not unpleasing gloom. +St. Aubert and his family rose, and left the place with regret; alas! Madame +St. Aubert knew not that she left it for ever. +</p> + +<p> +When they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet, and recollected +that she had taken it from her arm after dinner, and had left it on the table +when she went to walk. After a long search, in which Emily was very active, she +was compelled to resign herself to the loss of it. What made this bracelet +valuable to her was a miniature of her daughter to which it was attached, +esteemed a striking resemblance, and which had been painted only a few months +before. When Emily was convinced that the bracelet was really gone, she +blushed, and became thoughtful. That some stranger had been in the +fishing-house, during her absence, her lute, and the additional lines of a +pencil, had already informed her: from the purport of these lines it was not +unreasonable to believe, that the poet, the musician, and the thief were the +same person. But though the music she had heard, the written lines she had +seen, and the disappearance of the picture, formed a combination of +circumstances very remarkable, she was irresistibly restrained from mentioning +them; secretly determining, however, never again to visit the fishing-house +without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert. +</p> + +<p> +They returned pensively to the château, Emily musing on the incident which had +just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid gratitude, on the blessings +he possessed; and Madame St. Aubert somewhat disturbed, and perplexed, by the +loss of her daughter’s picture. As they drew near the house, they +observed an unusual bustle about it; the sound of voices was distinctly heard, +servants and horses were seen passing between the trees, and, at length, the +wheels of a carriage rolled along. Having come within view of the front of the +château, a landau, with smoking horses, appeared on the little lawn before it. +St. Aubert perceived the liveries of his brother-in-law, and in the parlour he +found Monsieur and Madame Quesnel already entered. They had left Paris some +days before, and were on the way to their estate, only ten leagues distant from +La Vallée, and which Monsieur Quesnel had purchased several years before of St. +Aubert. This gentleman was the only brother of Madame St. Aubert; but the ties +of relationship having never been strengthened by congeniality of character, +the intercourse between them had not been frequent. M. Quesnel had lived +altogether in the world; his aim had been consequence; splendour was the object +of his taste; and his address and knowledge of character had carried him +forward to the attainment of almost all that he had courted. By a man of such a +disposition, it is not surprising that the virtues of St. Aubert should be +overlooked; or that his pure taste, simplicity, and moderated wishes, were +considered as marks of a weak intellect, and of confined views. The marriage of +his sister with St. Aubert had been mortifying to his ambition, for he had +designed that the matrimonial connection she formed should assist him to attain +the consequence which he so much desired; and some offers were made her by +persons whose rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope. But his sister, who +was then addressed also by St. Aubert, perceived, or thought she perceived, +that happiness and splendour were not the same, and she did not hesitate to +forego the last for the attainment of the former. Whether Monsieur Quesnel +thought them the same, or not, he would readily have sacrificed his +sister’s peace to the gratification of his own ambition; and, on her +marriage with St. Aubert, expressed in private his contempt of her spiritless +conduct, and of the connection which it permitted. Madame St. Aubert, though +she concealed this insult from her husband, felt, perhaps, for the first time, +resentment lighted in her heart; and, though a regard for her own dignity, +united with considerations of prudence, restrained her expression of this +resentment, there was ever after a mild reserve in her manner towards M. +Quesnel, which he both understood and felt. +</p> + +<p> +In his own marriage he did not follow his sister’s example. His lady was +an Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and education, was a vain +and frivolous woman. +</p> + +<p> +They now determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as the château was +not large enough to accommodate their servants, the latter were dismissed to +the neighbouring village. When the first compliments were over, and the +arrangements for the night made M. Quesnel began the display of his +intelligence and his connections; while St. Aubert, who had been long enough in +retirement to find these topics recommended by their novelty, listened, with a +degree of patience and attention, which his guest mistook for the humility of +wonder. The latter, indeed, described the few festivities which the turbulence +of that period permitted to the court of Henry the Third, with a minuteness, +that somewhat recompensed for his ostentation; but, when he came to speak of +the character of the Duke de Joyeuse, of a secret treaty, which he knew to be +negotiating with the Porte, and of the light in which Henry of Navarre was +received, M. St. Aubert recollected enough of his former experience to be +assured, that his guest could be only of an inferior class of politicians; and +that, from the importance of the subjects upon which he committed himself, he +could not be of the rank to which he pretended to belong. The opinions +delivered by M. Quesnel, were such as St. Aubert forebore to reply to, for he +knew that his guest had neither humanity to feel, nor discernment to perceive, +what is just. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St. Aubert her +astonishment, that she could bear to pass her life in this remote corner of the +world, as she called it, and describing, from a wish, probably, of exciting +envy, the splendour of the balls, banquets, and processions which had just been +given by the court, in honour of the nuptials of the Duke de Joyeuse with +Margaretta of Lorrain, the sister of the Queen. She described with equal +minuteness the magnificence she had seen, and that from which she had been +excluded; while Emily’s vivid fancy, as she listened with the ardent +curiosity of youth, heightened the scenes she heard of; and Madame St. Aubert, +looking on her family, felt, as a tear stole to her eye, that though splendour +may grace happiness, virtue only can bestow it. +</p> + +<p> +“It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,” said M. Quesnel, “since +I purchased your family estate.”—“Somewhere +thereabout,” replied St. Aubert, suppressing a sigh. “It is near +five years since I have been there,” resumed Quesnel; “for Paris +and its neighbourhood is the only place in the world to live in, and I am so +immersed in politics, and have so many affairs of moment on my hands, that I +find it difficult to steal away even for a month or two.” St. Aubert +remaining silent, M. Quesnel proceeded: “I have sometimes wondered how +you, who have lived in the capital, and have been accustomed to company, can +exist elsewhere;—especially in so remote a country as this, where you can +neither hear nor see anything, and can in short be scarcely conscious of +life.” +</p> + +<p> +“I live for my family and myself,” said St. Aubert; “I am now +contented to know only happiness;—formerly I knew life.” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,” +said M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert; “for +I design, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de Durefort and the +Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.” To St. Aubert’s +enquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied, that he should take +down the whole east wing of the château, and raise upon the site a set of +stables. “Then I shall build,” said he, “a <i>salle à +manger</i>, a <i>salon</i>, a <i>salle au commune</i>, and a number of rooms +for servants; for at present there is not accommodation for a third part of my +own people.” +</p> + +<p> +“It accommodated our father’s household,” said St. Aubert, +grieved that the old mansion was to be thus improved, “and that was not a +small one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,” said M. +Quesnel;—“what was then thought a decent style of living would not +now be endured.” Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, but his +anger soon yielded to contempt. “The ground about the château is +encumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cut down the trees too!” said St. Aubert. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is a +chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of the château, +and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of its trunk will hold a +dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend that there can be either use, +or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as this.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!” exclaimed St. Aubert, “you surely will not +destroy that noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of +the estate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. How +often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat embowered +amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered above, and not a +rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book in my hand, sometimes +reading, and sometimes looking out between the branches upon the wide +landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight came, and brought the birds home +to their little nests among the leaves! How often—but pardon me,” +added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was speaking to a man who could neither +comprehend, nor allow his feelings, “I am talking of times and feelings +as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare that venerable tree.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will certainly come down,” said M. Quesnel; “I believe I +shall plant some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall +leave of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me how +much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from Venice.” +</p> + +<p> +“On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,” continued St. Aubert, +“where its spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and +where it plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it, +unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest, and near +a heavy gothic mansion—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my good sir,” said M. Quesnel, “I will not dispute +with you. You must return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But <i>à +propos</i> of Venice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer; +events may call me to take possession of that same villa, too, which they tell +me is the most charming that can be imagined. In that case I shall leave the +improvements I mention to another year, and I may, perhaps, be tempted to stay +some time in Italy.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to remain +abroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary at Paris, that +it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month or two; but St. Aubert +understood the self-importance of the man too well to wonder at this trait; and +the possibility, that these projected improvements might be deferred, gave him +a hope, that they might never take place. +</p> + +<p> +Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak with St. +Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they remained a +considerable time. The subject of this conversation was not known; but, +whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to the supper-room, seemed +much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow sometimes fell upon his features that +alarmed Madame St. Aubert. When they were alone she was tempted to enquire the +occasion of it, but the delicacy of mind, which had ever appeared in his +conduct, restrained her: she considered that, if St. Aubert wished her to be +acquainted with the subject of his concern, he would not wait on her enquiries. +</p> + +<p> +On the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a second conference +with St. Aubert. +</p> + +<p> +The guests, after dining at the château, set out in the cool of the day for +Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St. Aubert a pressing invitation, +prompted rather by the vanity of displaying their splendour, than by a wish to +make their friends happy. +</p> + +<p> +Emily returned, with delight, to the liberty which their presence had +restrained, to her books, her walks, and the rational conversation of M. and +Madame St. Aubert, who seemed to rejoice, no less, that they were delivered +from the shackles, which arrogance and frivolity had imposed. +</p> + +<p> +Madame St. Aubert excused herself from sharing their usual evening walk, +complaining that she was not quite well, and St. Aubert and Emily went out +together. +</p> + +<p> +They chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit some old pensioners +of St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate income, he contrived to support, +though it is probable M. Quesnel, with his very large one, could not have +afforded this. +</p> + +<p> +After distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends, listening patiently +to the complaints of some, redressing the grievances of others, and softening +the discontents of all, by the look of sympathy, and the smile of benevolence, +St. Aubert returned home through the woods, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +where,<br/> +At fall of eve the fairy-people throng,<br/> +In various games and revelry to pass<br/> +The summer night, as village stories tell.<br/> + THOMSON +</p> + +<p> +“The evening gloom of woods was always delightful to me,” said St. +Aubert, whose mind now experienced the sweet calm, which results from the +consciousness of having done a beneficent action, and which disposes it to +receive pleasure from every surrounding object. “I remember that in my +youth this gloom used to call forth to my fancy a thousand fairy visions, and +romantic images; and, I own, I am not yet wholly insensible of that high +enthusiasm, which wakes the poet’s dream: I can linger, with solemn +steps, under the deep shades, send forward a transforming eye into the distant +obscurity, and listen with thrilling delight to the mystic murmuring of the +woods.” +</p> + +<p> +“O my dear father,” said Emily, while a sudden tear started to her +eye, “how exactly you describe what I have felt so often, and which I +thought nobody had ever felt but myself! But hark! here comes the sweeping +sound over the wood-tops;—now it dies away;—how solemn the +stillness that succeeds! Now the breeze swells again. It is like the voice of +some supernatural being—the voice of the spirit of the woods, that +watches over them by night. Ah! what light is yonder? But it is gone. And now +it gleams again, near the root of that large chestnut: look, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you such an admirer of nature,” said St. Aubert, “and so +little acquainted with her appearances as not to know that for the glow-worm? +But come,” added he gaily, “step a little further, and we shall see +fairies, perhaps; they are often companions. The glow-worm lends his light, and +they in return charm him with music, and the dance. Do you see nothing tripping +yonder?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily laughed. “Well, my dear sir,” said she, “since you +allow of this alliance, I may venture to own I have anticipated you; and almost +dare venture to repeat some verses I made one evening in these very +woods.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” replied St. Aubert, “dismiss the <i>almost</i>, and +venture quite; let us hear what vagaries fancy has been playing in your mind. +If she has given you one of her spells, you need not envy those of the +fairies.” +</p> + +<p> +“If it is strong enough to enchant your judgment, sir,” said Emily, +“while I disclose her images, I need <i>not</i> envy them. The lines go +in a sort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject well +enough, but I fear they are too irregular.” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +THE GLOW-WORM.<br/><br/> + +How pleasant is the green-wood’s deep-matted shade<br/> +On a mid-summer’s eve, when the fresh rain is o’er;<br/> +When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro’ the glade,<br/> +And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!<br/><br/> + +But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,<br/> +And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay<br/> +Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow’rs, unprest,<br/> +Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.<br/><br/> + +To music’s softest sounds they dance away the hour,<br/> +Till moonlight steals down among the trembling leaves,<br/> +And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow’r,<br/> +The long haunted bow’r, where the nightingale grieves.<br/><br/> + +Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done,<br/> +But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend;<br/> +And often as her dying notes their pity have won,<br/> +They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.<br/><br/> + +When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev’ning star,<br/> +And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere,<br/> +How cheerless would they be, tho’ they fairies are,<br/> +If I, with my pale light, came not near!<br/><br/> + +Yet cheerless tho’ they’d be, they’re ungrateful to my +love!<br/> +For, often when the traveller’s benighted on his way,<br/> +And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro’ the grove,<br/> +They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;<br/><br/> + +And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out,<br/> +While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,<br/> +And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout,<br/> +Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!<br/><br/> + +But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring,<br/> +With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn,<br/> +And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string;<br/> +Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn.<br/><br/> + +Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen,<br/> +Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me,<br/> +That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green,<br/> +To seek the purple flow’r, whose juice from all her spells can free.<br/><br/> + +And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band,<br/> +With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute;<br/> +If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand,<br/> +And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.<br/><br/> + +O! had I but that purple flow’r whose leaves her charms can foil,<br/> +And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind,<br/> +I’d be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile,<br/> +And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!<br/><br/> + +But soon the <i>vapour of the woods</i> will wander afar,<br/> +And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear,<br/> +Then, cheerless will they be, tho’ they fairies are,<br/> +If I, with my pale light, come not near! +</p> + +<p> +Whatever St. Aubert might think of the stanzas, he would not deny his daughter +the pleasure of believing that he approved them; and, having given his +commendation, he sunk into a reverie, and they walked on in silence. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +A faint erroneous ray,<br/> +Glanc’d from th’ imperfect surfaces of things,<br/> +Flung half an image on the straining eye;<br/> +While waving woods, and villages, and streams,<br/> +And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain<br/> +The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,<br/> +Uncertain if beheld.<br/> + THOMSON. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert continued silent till he reached the château, where his wife had +retired to her chamber. The languor and dejection, that had lately oppressed +her, and which the exertion called forth by the arrival of her guests had +suspended, now returned with increased effect. On the following day, symptoms +of fever appeared, and St. Aubert, having sent for medical advice, learned, +that her disorder was a fever of the same nature as that, from which he had +lately recovered. She had, indeed, taken the infection, during her attendance +upon him, and, her constitution being too weak to throw out the disease +immediately, it had lurked in her veins, and occasioned the heavy languor of +which she had complained. St. Aubert, whose anxiety for his wife overcame every +other consideration, detained the physician in his house. He remembered the +feelings and the reflections that had called a momentary gloom upon his mind, +on the day when he had last visited the fishing-house, in company with Madame +St. Aubert, and he now admitted a presentiment, that this illness would be a +fatal one. But he effectually concealed this from her, and from his daughter, +whom he endeavoured to reanimate with hopes that her constant assiduities +would not be unavailing. The physician, when asked by St. Aubert for his +opinion of the disorder, replied, that the event of it depended upon +circumstances which he could not ascertain. Madame St. Aubert seemed to have +formed a more decided one; but her eyes only gave hints of this. She frequently +fixed them upon her anxious friends with an expression of pity, and of +tenderness, as if she anticipated the sorrow that awaited them, and that seemed +to say, it was for their sakes only, for their sufferings, that she regretted +life. On the seventh day, the disorder was at its crisis. The physician assumed +a graver manner, which she observed, and took occasion, when her family had +once quitted the chamber, to tell him, that she perceived her death was +approaching. “Do not attempt to deceive me,” said she, “I +feel that I cannot long survive. I am prepared for the event, I have long, I +hope, been preparing for it. Since I have not long to live, do not suffer a +mistaken compassion to induce you to flatter my family with false hopes. If you +do, their affliction will only be the heavier when it arrives: I will endeavour +to teach them resignation by my example.” +</p> + +<p> +The physician was affected; he promised to obey her, and told St. Aubert, +somewhat abruptly, that there was nothing to expect. The latter was not +philosopher enough to restrain his feelings when he received this information; +but a consideration of the increased affliction which the observance of his +grief would occasion his wife, enabled him, after some time, to command himself +in her presence. Emily was at first overwhelmed with the intelligence; then, +deluded by the strength of her wishes, a hope sprung up in her mind that her +mother would yet recover, and to this she pertinaciously adhered almost to the +last hour. +</p> + +<p> +The progress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St. Aubert, by +patient suffering, and subjected wishes. The composure, with which she awaited +her death, could be derived only from the retrospect of a life governed, as far +as human frailty permits, by a consciousness of being always in the presence of +the Deity, and by the hope of a higher world. But her piety could not entirely +subdue the grief of parting from those whom she so dearly loved. During these +her last hours, she conversed much with St. Aubert and Emily, on the prospect +of futurity, and on other religious topics. The resignation she expressed, with +the firm hope of meeting in a future world the friends she left in this, and +the effort which sometimes appeared to conceal her sorrow at this temporary +separation, frequently affected St. Aubert so much as to oblige him to leave +the room. Having indulged his tears a while, he would dry them and return to +the chamber with a countenance composed by an endeavour which did but increase +his grief. +</p> + +<p> +Never had Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had taught her to +restrain her sensibility, so much as in these moments, and never had she +practised them with a triumph so complete. But when the last was over, she sunk +at once under the pressure of her sorrow, and then perceived that it was hope, +as well as fortitude, which had hitherto supported her. St. Aubert was for a +time too devoid of comfort himself to bestow any on his daughter. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a> CHAPTER II </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word<br/> +Would harrow up thy soul.<br/> + SHAKESPEARE +</p> + +<p> +Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church; her husband +and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a long train of the +peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this excellent woman. +</p> + +<p> +On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his chamber. When he +came forth, it was with a serene countenance, though pale in sorrow. He gave +orders that his family should attend him. Emily only was absent; who, overcome +with the scene she had just witnessed, had retired to her closet to weep alone. +St. Aubert followed her thither: he took her hand in silence, while she +continued to weep; and it was some moments before he could so far command his +voice as to speak. It trembled while he said, “My Emily, I am going to +prayers with my family; you will join us. We must ask support from above. Where +else ought we to seek it—where else can we find it?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, where, the +servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemn voice, the +evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of the departed. During this, +his voice often faltered, his tears fell upon the book, and at length he +paused. But the sublime emotions of pure devotion gradually elevated his views +above this world, and finally brought comfort to his heart. +</p> + +<p> +When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he tenderly kissed +Emily, and said, “I have endeavoured to teach you, from your earliest +youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed out to you the great importance +of it through life, not only as it preserves us in the various and dangerous +temptations that call us from rectitude and virtue, but as it limits the +indulgences which are termed virtuous, yet which, extended beyond a certain +boundary, are vicious, for their consequence is evil. All excess is vicious; +even that sorrow, which is amiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and unjust +passion, if indulged at the expence of our duties—by our duties I mean +what we owe to ourselves, as well as to others. The indulgence of excessive +grief enervates the mind, and almost incapacitates it for again partaking of +those various innocent enjoyments which a benevolent God designed to be the +sunshine of our lives. My dear Emily, recollect and practise the precepts I +have so often given you, and which your own experience has so often shown you +to be wise. +</p> + +<p> +“Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplace +remark, but let reason <i>therefore</i> restrain sorrow. I would not annihilate +your feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command them; for whatever +may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible heart, nothing can be hoped +from an insensible one; that, on the other hand, is all vice—vice, of +which the deformity is not softened, or the effect consoled for, by any +semblance or possibility of good. You know my sufferings, and are, therefore, +convinced that mine are not the light words which, on these occasions, are so +often repeated to destroy even the sources of honest emotion, or which merely +display the selfish ostentation of a false philosophy. I will show my Emily, +that I can practise what I advise. I have said thus much, because I cannot bear +to see you wasting in useless sorrow, for want of that resistance which is due +from mind; and I have not said it till now, because there is a period when all +reasoning must yield to nature; that is past: and another, when excessive +indulgence, having sunk into habit, weighs down the elasticity of the spirits +so as to render conquest nearly impossible; this is to come. You, my Emily, +will show that you are willing to avoid it.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily smiled through her tears upon her father: “Dear sir,” said +she, and her voice trembled; she would have added, “I will show myself +worthy of being your daughter;” but a mingled emotion of gratitude, +affection, and grief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered her to weep without +interruption, and then began to talk on common topics. +</p> + +<p> +The first person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M. Barreaux, an +austere and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botany had introduced them to +each other, for they had frequently met in their wanderings among the +mountains. M. Barreaux had retired from the world, and almost from society, to +live in a pleasant château, on the skirts of the woods, near La Vallée. He also +had been disappointed in his opinion of mankind; but he did not, like St. +Aubert, pity and mourn for them; he felt more indignation at their vices, than +compassion for their weaknesses. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had often pressed +him to come to the château, he had never till now accepted the invitation; and +now he came without ceremony or reserve, entering the parlour as an old friend. +The claims of misfortune appeared to have softened down all the ruggedness and +prejudices of his heart. St. Aubert unhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that +occupied his mind. It was in manners, more than in words, that he appeared to +sympathise with his friends: he spoke little on the subject of their grief; but +the minute attention he gave them, and the modulated voice, and softened look +that accompanied it, came from his heart, and spoke to theirs. +</p> + +<p> +At this melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by Madame Cheron, his +only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow, and now resided on her +own estate near Thoulouse. The intercourse between them had not been very +frequent. In her condolements, words were not wanting; she understood not the +magic of the look that speaks at once to the soul, or the voice that sinks like +balm to the heart: but she assured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathised +with him, praised the virtues of his late wife, and then offered what she +considered to be consolation. Emily wept unceasingly while she spoke; St. +Aubert was tranquil, listened to what she said in silence, and then turned the +discourse upon another subject. +</p> + +<p> +At parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit. +“Change of place will amuse you,” said she, “and it is wrong +to give way to grief.” St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words +of course; but, at the same time, felt more reluctant than ever to quit the +spot which his past happiness had consecrated. The presence of his wife had +sanctified every surrounding scene, and, each day, as it gradually softened the +acuteness of his suffering, assisted the tender enchantment that bound him to +home. +</p> + +<p> +But there were calls which must be complied with, and of this kind was the +visit he paid to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel. An affair of an interesting +nature made it necessary that he should delay this visit no longer, and, +wishing to rouse Emily from her dejection, he took her with him to Epourville. +</p> + +<p> +As the carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his paternal domain, his +eyes once more caught, between the chesnut avenue, the turreted corners of the +château. He sighed to think of what had passed since he was last there, and +that it was now the property of a man who neither revered nor valued it. At +length he entered the avenue, whose lofty trees had so often delighted him when +a boy, and whose melancholy shade was now so congenial with the tone of his +spirits. Every feature of the edifice, distinguished by an air of heavy +grandeur, appeared successively between the branches of the trees—the +broad turret, the arched gateway that led into the courts, the drawbridge, and +the dry fossé which surrounded the whole. +</p> + +<p> +The sound of carriage wheels brought a troop of servants to the great gate, +where St. Aubert alighted, and from which he led Emily into the gothic hall, +now no longer hung with the arms and ancient banners of the family. These were +displaced, and the oak wainscotting, and beams that crossed the roof, were +painted white. The large table, too, that used to stretch along the upper end +of the hall, where the master of the mansion loved to display his hospitality, +and whence the peal of laughter, and the song of conviviality had so often +resounded, was now removed; even the benches that had surrounded the hall were +no longer there. The heavy walls were hung with frivolous ornaments, and +everything that appeared denoted the false taste and corrupted sentiments of +the present owner. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour, where sat Mons. and +Madame Quesnel, who received him with a stately politeness, and, after a few +formal words of condolement, seemed to have forgotten that they ever had a +sister. +</p> + +<p> +Emily felt tears swell into her eyes, and then resentment checked them. St. +Aubert, calm and deliberate, preserved his dignity without assuming importance, +and Quesnel was depressed by his presence without exactly knowing wherefore. +</p> + +<p> +After some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with him alone; +and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned that a large party was +invited to dine at the château, and was compelled to hear that nothing which +was past and irremediable ought to prevent the festivity of the present hour. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixed emotion +of disgust and indignation against the insensibility of Quesnel, which prompted +him to return home immediately. But he was informed, that Madame Cheron had +been asked to meet him; and, when he looked at Emily, and considered that a +time might come when the enmity of her uncle would be prejudicial to her, he +determined not to incur it himself, by conduct which would be resented as +indecorous, by the very persons who now showed so little sense of decorum. +</p> + +<p> +Among the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen, of whom one +was named Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel, a man about forty, of +an uncommonly handsome person, with features manly and expressive, but whose +countenance exhibited, upon the whole, more of the haughtiness of command, and +the quickness of discernment, than of any other character. +</p> + +<p> +Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about thirty—inferior in +dignity, but equal to him in penetration of countenance, and superior in +insinuation of manner. +</p> + +<p> +Emily was shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron met her +father—“Dear brother,” said she, “I am concerned to see +you look so very ill; do, pray, have advice!” St. Aubert answered, with a +melancholy smile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily’s fears +made her now fancy that her father looked worse than he really did. +</p> + +<p> +Emily would have been amused by the new characters she saw, and the varied +conversation that passed during dinner, which was served in a style of +splendour she had seldom seen before, had her spirits been less oppressed. Of +the guests, Signor Montoni was lately come from Italy, and he spoke of the +commotions which at that period agitated the country; talked of party +differences with warmth, and then lamented the probable consequences of the +tumults. His friend spoke with equal ardour, of the politics of his country; +praised the government and prosperity of Venice, and boasted of its decided +superiority over all the other Italian states. He then turned to the ladies, +and talked with the same eloquence, of Parisian fashions, the French opera, and +French manners; and on the latter subject he did not fail to mingle what is so +particularly agreeable to French taste. The flattery was not detected by those +to whom it was addressed, though its effect, in producing submissive attention, +did not escape his observation. When he could disengage himself from the +assiduities of the other ladies, he sometimes addressed Emily: but she knew +nothing of Parisian fashions, or Parisian operas; and her modesty, simplicity, +and correct manners formed a decided contrast to those of her female +companions. +</p> + +<p> +After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the old chesnut +which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he stood under its shade, and looked +up among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw here and there the blue sky +trembling between them; the pursuits and events of his early days crowded fast +to his mind, with the figures and characters of friends—long since gone +from the earth; and he now felt himself to be almost an insulated being, with +nobody but his Emily for his heart to turn to. +</p> + +<p> +He stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till the +succession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he started away, to +forget it, if possible, at the social board. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed, that he +was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; but she considered +this to be the effect of his visit to a place which spoke so eloquently of +former times, nor suspected that he had a cause of grief which he concealed +from her. +</p> + +<p> +On entering the château she felt more depressed than ever, for she more than +ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever she had been from +home, used to welcome her return with smiles and fondness; now, all was silent +and forsaken. +</p> + +<p> +But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after week passed +away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the harshness of her +affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness which the feeling heart +cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the contrary, visibly declined in health; +though Emily, who had been so constantly with him, was almost the last person +who observed it. His constitution had never recovered from the late attack of +the fever, and the succeeding shock it received from Madame St. Aubert’s +death had produced its present infirmity. His physician now ordered him to +travel; for it was perceptible that sorrow had seized upon his nerves, weakened +as they had been by the preceding illness; and variety of scene, it was +probable, would, by amusing his mind, restore them to their proper tone. +</p> + +<p> +For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and he, by +endeavours to diminish his expences at home during the journey—a purpose +which determined him at length to dismiss his domestics. Emily seldom opposed +her father’s wishes by questions or remonstrances, or she would now have +asked why he did not take a servant, and have represented that his infirm +health made one almost necessary. But when, on the eve of their departure, she +found that he had dismissed Jacques, Francis, and Mary, and detained only +Theresa the old housekeeper, she was extremely surprised, and ventured to ask +his reason for having done so. “To save expences, my dear,” he +replied—“we are going on an expensive excursion.” +</p> + +<p> +The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and St. Aubert +determined, therefore, to travel leisurely along the shores of the +Mediterranean, towards Provence. +</p> + +<p> +They retired early to their chamber on the night before their departure; but +Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and the clock had struck +twelve before she had finished, or had remembered that some of her drawing +instruments, which she meant to take with her, were in the parlour below. As +she went to fetch these, she passed her father’s room, and, perceiving +the door half open, concluded that he was in his study—for, since the +death of Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequently his custom to rise from his +restless bed, and go thither to compose his mind. When she was below stairs she +looked into this room, but without finding him; and as she returned to her +chamber, she tapped at his door, and receiving no answer, stepped softly in, to +be certain whether he was there. +</p> + +<p> +The room was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of glass that were +placed in the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believed her father to be in +the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so late an hour, apprehended he +was unwell, and was going to enquire; but, considering that her sudden +appearance at this hour might alarm him, she removed her light to the +staircase, and then stepped softly to the closet. On looking through the panes +of glass, she saw him seated at a small table, with papers before him, some of +which he was reading with deep attention and interest, during which he often +wept and sobbed aloud. Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether her +father was ill, was now detained there by a mixture of curiosity and +tenderness. She could not witness his sorrow, without being anxious to know the +subject of; and she therefore continued to observe him in silence, concluding +that those papers were letters of her late mother. Presently he knelt down, and +with a look so solemn as she had seldom seen him assume, and which was mingled +with a certain wild expression, that partook more of horror than of any other +character, he prayed silently for a considerable time. +</p> + +<p> +When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily was hastily +retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and she stopped. He took +from among them a small case, and from thence a miniature picture. The rays of +light fell strongly upon it, and she perceived it to be that of a lady, but not +of her mother. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to his lips, +and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emily could scarcely +believe what she saw to be real. She never knew till now that he had a picture +of any other lady than her mother, much less that he had one which he evidently +valued so highly; but having looked repeatedly, to be certain that it was not +the resemblance of Madame St. Aubert, she became entirely convinced that it was +designed for that of some other person. +</p> + +<p> +At length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily, recollecting +that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softly withdrew from the +chamber. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a> CHAPTER III </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +O how canst thou renounce the boundless store<br/> +Of charms which nature to her vot’ry yields!<br/> +The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,<br/> +The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;<br/> +All that the genial ray of morning gilds,<br/> +And all that echoes to the song of even;<br/> +All that the mountain’s shelt’ring bosom shields,<br/> +And all the dread magnificence of heaven;<br/> +O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!<br/> +.....<br/> +These charms shall work thy soul’s eternal health,<br/> +And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart.<br/> + THE MINSTREL +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along the feet of +the Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over the heights, afforded +more extensive views and greater variety of romantic scenery. He turned a +little out of his way to take leave of M. Barreaux, whom he found botanizing in +the wood near his château, and who, when he was told the purpose of St. +Aubert’s visit, expressed a degree of concern, such as his friend had +thought it was scarcely possible for him to feel on any similar occasion. They +parted with mutual regret. +</p> + +<p> +“If anything could have tempted me from my retirement,” said M. +Barreaux, “it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on this +little tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore, believe me, +when I say, that I shall look for your return with impatience.” +</p> + +<p> +The travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the heights, St. +Aubert often looked back upon the château, in the plain below; tender images +crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination suggested that he should return +no more; and though he checked this wandering thought, still he continued to +look, till the haziness of distance blended his home with the general +landscape, and St. Aubert seemed to +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Drag at each remove a lengthening chain. +</p> + +<p> +He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, from which +melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struck with the +grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to delightful impressions. +The road now descended into glens, confined by stupendous walls of rock, grey +and barren, except where shrubs fringed their summits, or patches of meagre +vegetation tinted their recesses, in which the wild goat was frequently +browsing. And now, the way led to the lofty cliffs, from whence the landscape +was seen extending in all its magnificence. +</p> + +<p> +Emily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pine forests of +the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched with woods, towns, blushing +vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, and olives, stretched along, till +their various colours melted in distance into one harmonious hue, that seemed +to unite earth with heaven. Through the whole of this glorious scene the +majestic Garonne wandered; descending from its source among the Pyrenees, and +winding its blue waves towards the Bay of Biscay. +</p> + +<p> +The ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers to alight +from their little carriage, but they thought themselves amply repaid for this +inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; and, while the muleteer led his +animals slowly over the broken ground, the travellers had leisure to linger +amid these solitudes, and to indulge the sublime reflections, which soften, +while they elevate, the heart, and fill it with the certainty of a present God! +Still the enjoyment of St. Aubert was touched with that pensive melancholy, +which gives to every object a mellower tint, and breathes a sacred charm over +all around. +</p> + +<p> +They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a want of +convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the carriage, so that +they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot, in the open air, and pass the +nights wherever they should happen to meet with a comfortable cottage. For the +mind, also, they had provided, by a work on botany, written by M. Barreaux, and +by several of the Latin and Italian poets; while Emily’s pencil enabled +her to preserve some of those combinations of forms, which charmed her at every +step. +</p> + +<p> +The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was seen +driving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the rocks, +heightened the effect of the scenery. St. Aubert was so much struck with it, +that he determined, if he could hear of a road, to penetrate further among the +mountains, and, bending his way rather more to the south, to emerge into +Rousillon, and coast the Mediterranean along part of that country to Languedoc. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs, which, +bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, the tremendous walls +of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part of Gascony, and part of +Languedoc. Here was shade, and the fresh water of a spring, that, gliding among +the turf, under the trees, thence precipitated itself from rock to rock, till +its dashing murmurs were lost in the abyss, though its white foam was long seen +amid the darkness of the pines below. +</p> + +<p> +This was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted to dine, +while the mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbs that enriched +this summit. +</p> + +<p> +It was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw their attention from +the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their little repast. Seated in the +shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed out to her observation the course of the +rivers, the situation of great towns, and the boundaries of provinces, which +science, rather than the eye, enabled him to describe. Notwithstanding this +occupation, when he had talked awhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful, +and tears often swelled to his eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of +her own heart told her their cause. The scene before them bore some +resemblance, though it was on a much grander scale, to a favourite one of the +late Madame St. Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They both observed +this, and thought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape, +while they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon this world. St. +Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot in company with her, +and also the mournfully presaging thoughts which had then arisen in his mind, +and were now, even thus soon, realised! The recollections subdued him, and he +abruptly rose from his seat, and walked away to where no eye could observe his +grief. +</p> + +<p> +When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; he took +Emily’s hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and soon after +called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerning a road among +the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said, there were several that way, but +he did not know how far they extended, or even whether they were passable; and +St. Aubert, who did not intend to travel after sunset, asked what village they +could reach about that time. The muleteer calculated that they could easily +reach Mateau, which was in their present road; but that, if they took a road +that sloped more to the south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he +thought they could gain before the evening shut in. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course, and +Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, again set forward, +but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to a cross, that stood on +a rock impending over their way. Having concluded his devotions, he smacked his +whip in the air, and, in spite of the rough road, and the pain of his poor +mules, which he had been lately lamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the +edge of a precipice, which it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was +terrified almost to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending still greater danger +from suddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and trust his +fate to the strength and discretion of the mules, who seemed to possess a +greater portion of the latter quality than their master; for they carried the +travellers safely into the valley, and there stopped upon the brink of the +rivulet that watered it. +</p> + +<p> +Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this narrow +valley screened by +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell,<br/> +Here scorch’d by lightnings, there with ivy green. +</p> + +<p> +The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreading +branches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the cliff, or +athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No living creature appeared, +except the lizard, scrambling among the rocks, and often hanging upon points so +dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view of them. This was such a scene as +<i>Salvator</i> would have chosen, had he then existed, for his canvas; St. +Aubert, impressed by the romantic character of the place, almost expected to +see banditti start from behind some projecting rock, and he kept his hand upon +the arms with which he always travelled. +</p> + +<p> +As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features gradually softened, +and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains, stretched in far +perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell was heard, and the voice of +the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to the nightly fold. His cabin, +partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the ilex, which St. Aubert observed to +flourish in higher regions of the air than any other trees, except the fir, was +all the human habitation that yet appeared. Along the bottom of this valley the +most vivid verdure was spread; and, in the little hollow recesses of the +mountains, under the shade of the oak and chestnut, herds of cattle were +grazing. Groups of them, too, were often seen reposing on the banks of the +rivulet, or laving their sides in the cool stream, and sipping its wave. +</p> + +<p> +The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon the water, +and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the heath and broom, that +overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired of Michael the distance to the +hamlet he had mentioned, but the man could not with certainty tell; and Emily +began to fear that he had mistaken the road. Here was no human being to assist, +or direct them; they had left the shepherd and his cabin far behind, and the +scene became so obscured in twilight, that the eye could not follow the distant +perspective of the valley in search of a cottage, or a hamlet. A glow of the +horizon still marked the west, and this was of some little use to the +travellers. Michael seemed endeavouring to keep up his courage by singing; his +music, however, was not of a kind to disperse melancholy; he sung, in a sort of +chant, one of the most dismal ditties his present auditors had ever heard, and +St. Aubert at length discovered it to be a vesper-hymn to his favourite saint. +</p> + +<p> +They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which twilight and +solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended his ditty, and nothing was +heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze among the woods, and its light +flutter, as it blew freshly into the carriage. They were at length roused by +the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert called to the muleteer to stop, and they +listened. The noise was not repeated; but presently they heard a rustling among +the brakes. St. Aubert drew forth a pistol, and ordered Michael to proceed as +fast as possible; who had not long obeyed, before a horn sounded, that made the +mountains ring. He looked again from the window, and then saw a young man +spring from the bushes into the road, followed by a couple of dogs. The +stranger was in a hunter’s dress. His gun was slung across his shoulders, +the hunter’s horn hung from his belt, and in his hand was a small pike, +which, as he held it, added to the manly grace of his figure, and assisted the +agility of his steps. +</p> + +<p> +After a moment’s hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage, and +waited till he came up, that they might enquire concerning the hamlet they were +in search of. The stranger informed him, that it was only half a league +distant, that he was going thither himself, and would readily show the way. St. +Aubert thanked him for the offer, and, pleased with his chevalier-like air and +open countenance, asked him to take a seat in the carriage; which the stranger, +with an acknowledgment, declined, adding that he would keep pace with the +mules. “But I fear you will be wretchedly accommodated,” said he: +“the inhabitants of these mountains are a simple people, who are not only +without the luxuries of life, but almost destitute of what in other places are +held to be its necessaries.” +</p> + +<p> +“I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,” said St. +Aubert. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.” +</p> + +<p> +The carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers very +thankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that now opened among +the mountains, would likewise have added to their perplexity. Emily, as she +looked up one of these, saw something at a great distance like a bright cloud +in the air. “What light is yonder, sir?” said she. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of a mountain, so +much higher than any around it, that it still reflected the sun’s rays, +while those below lay in deep shade. +</p> + +<p> +At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk, and, soon +after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or rather were seen by +reflection in the stream, on whose margin they stood, and which still gleamed +with the evening light. +</p> + +<p> +The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found not only +that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house of public +reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and enquire for a cottage +to accommodate them; for which further civility St. Aubert returned his thanks, +and said, that, as the village was so near, he would alight, and walk with him. +Emily followed slowly in the carriage. +</p> + +<p> +On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had in the +chase. “Not much, sir,” he replied, “nor do I aim at it. I am +pleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among its +scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for game. This +dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures me that respect from +the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a lonely stranger, who had no +visible motive for coming among them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I admire your taste,” said St. Aubert, “and, if I was a +younger man, should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, +am a wanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours—I +go in search of health, as much as of amusement.” St. Aubert sighed, and +paused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: “If I can +hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, it is my +intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore to Languedoc. You, +sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can, perhaps, give me +information on the subject.” +</p> + +<p> +The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely at his +service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which led to a +town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon. +</p> + +<p> +They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a cottage, that +would afford a night’s lodging. In several, which they entered, +ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and the owners eyed +St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity. Nothing like a bed could +be found, and he had ceased to enquire for one, when Emily joined him, who +observed the languor of her father’s countenance, and lamented, that he +had taken a road so ill provided with the comforts necessary for an invalid. +Other cottages, which they examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the +former, consisting of two rooms, if such they could be called; the first of +these occupied by mules and pigs, the second by the family, which generally +consisted of six or eight children, with their parents, who slept on beds of +skins and dried beech leaves, spread upon a mud floor. Here, light was +admitted, and smoke discharged, through an aperture in the roof; and here the +scent of spirits (for the travelling smugglers, who haunted the Pyrenees, had +made this rude people familiar with the use of liquors) was generally +perceptible enough. Emily turned from such scenes, and looked at her father +with anxious tenderness, which the young stranger seemed to observe; for, +drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offer of his own bed. “It is a +decent one,” said he, “when compared with what we have just seen, +yet such as in other circumstances I should be ashamed to offer you.” St. +Aubert acknowledged how much he felt himself obliged by this kindness, but +refused to accept it, till the young stranger would take no denial. “Do +not give me the pain of knowing, sir,” said he, “that an invalid, +like you, lies on hard skins, while I sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your +refusal wounds my pride; I must believe you think my offer unworthy your +acceptance. Let me show you the way. I have no doubt my landlady can +accommodate this young lady also.” +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he would accept +his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the stranger had proved +himself so deficient in gallantry, as to administer to the repose of an infirm +man, rather than to that of a very lovely young woman, for he had not once +offered the room for Emily. But she thought not of herself, and the animated +smile she gave him, told how much she felt herself obliged for the preference +of her father. +</p> + +<p> +On their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on first to +speak to his hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert into a cottage, +much superior to any he had seen. This good woman seemed very willing to +accommodate the strangers, who were soon compelled to accept the only two beds +in the place. Eggs and milk were the only food the cottage afforded; but +against scarcity of provisions St. Aubert had provided, and he requested +Valancourt to stay, and partake with him of less homely fare; an invitation, +which was readily accepted, and they passed an hour in intelligent +conversation. St. Aubert was much pleased with the manly frankness, simplicity, +and keen susceptibility to the grandeur of nature, which his new acquaintance +discovered; and, indeed, he had often been heard to say, that, without a +certain simplicity of heart, this taste could not exist in any strong degree. +</p> + +<p> +The conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar without, in which the +voice of the muleteer was heard above every other sound. Valancourt started +from his seat, and went to enquire the occasion; but the dispute continued so +long afterwards, that St. Aubert went himself, and found Michael quarrelling +with the hostess, because she had refused to let his mules lie in a little room +where he and three of her sons were to pass the night. The place was wretched +enough, but there was no other for these people to sleep in; and, with somewhat +more of delicacy than was usual among the inhabitants of this wild tract of +country, she persisted in refusing to let the animals have the same +<i>bed-chamber</i> with her children. This was a tender point with the +muleteer; his honour was wounded when his mules were treated with disrespect, +and he would have received a blow, perhaps, with more meekness. He declared +that his beasts were as honest beasts, and as good beasts, as any in the whole +province; and that they had a right to be well treated wherever they went. +“They are as harmless as lambs,” said he, “if people +don’t affront them. I never knew them behave themselves amiss above once +or twice in my life, and then they had good reason for doing so. Once, indeed, +they kicked at a boy’s leg that lay asleep in the stable, and broke it; +but I told them they were out there, and by St. Anthony! I believe they +understood me, for they never did so again.” +</p> + +<p> +He concluded this eloquent harangue with protesting, that they should share +with him, go where he would. +</p> + +<p> +The dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostess aside, +and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have the place in +question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed of skins designed +for him, for that he would wrap himself in his cloak, and sleep on the bench by +the cottage door. But this she thought it her duty to oppose, and she felt it +to be her inclination to disappoint the muleteer. Valancourt, however, was +positive, and the tedious affair was at length settled. +</p> + +<p> +It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, and Valancourt to +his station at the door, which, at this mild season, he preferred to a close +cabin and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to find in his room +volumes of Homer, Horace, and Petrarch; but the name of Valancourt, written in +them, told him to whom they belonged. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a> CHAPTER IV </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,<br/> +Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene,<br/> +In darkness, and in storm he found delight;<br/> +Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene<br/> +The southern sun diffus’d his dazzling sheen.<br/> +Even sad vicissitude amus’d his soul;<br/> +And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,<br/> +And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,<br/> +A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish’d not to control.<br/> + THE MINSTREL +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous to set +forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and, talking again of +the road, Valancourt said, that, some months past, he had travelled as far as +Beaujeu, which was a town of some consequence on the way to Rousillon. He +recommended it to St. Aubert to take that route, and the latter determined to +do so. +</p> + +<p> +“The road from this hamlet,” said Valancourt, “and that to +Beaujeu, part at the distance of about a league and a half from hence; if you +will give me leave, I will direct your muleteer so far. I must wander +somewhere, and your company would make this a pleasanter ramble than any other +I could take.” +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert thankfully accepted his offer, and they set out together, the young +stranger on foot, for he refused the invitation of St. Aubert to take a seat in +his little carriage. +</p> + +<p> +The road wound along the feet of the mountains through a pastoral valley, +bright with verdure, and varied with groves of dwarf oak, beech and sycamore, +under whose branches herds of cattle reposed. The mountain-ash too, and the +weeping birch, often threw their pendant foliage over the steeps above, where +the scanty soil scarcely concealed their roots, and where their light branches +waved to every breeze that fluttered from the mountains. +</p> + +<p> +The travellers were frequently met at this early hour, for the sun had not yet +risen upon the valley, by shepherds driving immense flocks from their folds to +feed upon the hills. St. Aubert had set out thus early, not only that he might +enjoy the first appearance of sunrise, but that he might inhale the first pure +breath of morning, which above all things is refreshing to the spirits of the +invalid. In these regions it was particularly so, where an abundance of wild +flowers and aromatic herbs breathed forth their essence on the air. +</p> + +<p> +The dawn, which softened the scenery with its peculiar grey tint, now +dispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first trembling on the +tops of the highest cliffs, then touching them with splendid light, while their +sides and the vale below were still wrapt in dewy mist. Meanwhile, the sullen +grey of the eastern clouds began to blush, then to redden, and then to glow +with a thousand colours, till the golden light darted over all the air, touched +the lower points of the mountain’s brow, and glanced in long sloping +beams upon the valley and its stream. All nature seemed to have awakened from +death into life; the spirit of St. Aubert was renovated. His heart was full; he +wept, and his thoughts ascended to the Great Creator. +</p> + +<p> +Emily wished to trip along the turf, so green and bright with dew, and to taste +the full delight of that liberty, which the izard seemed to enjoy as he bounded +along the brow of the cliffs; while Valancourt often stopped to speak with the +travellers, and with social feeling to point out to them the peculiar objects +of his admiration. St. Aubert was pleased with him: “Here is the real +ingenuousness and ardour of youth,” said he to himself; “this young +man has never been at Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +He was sorry when they came to the spot where the roads parted, and his heart +took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after so short an +acquaintance. Valancourt talked long by the side of the carriage; seemed more +than once to be going, but still lingered, and appeared to search anxiously for +topics of conversation to account for his delay. At length he took leave. As he +went, St. Aubert observed him look with an earnest and pensive eye at Emily, +who bowed to him with a countenance full of timid sweetness, while the carriage +drove on. St. Aubert, for whatever reason, soon after looked from the window, +and saw Valancourt standing upon the bank of the road, resting on his pike with +folded arms, and following the carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and +Valancourt, seeming to awake from his reverie, returned the salute, and started +away. +</p> + +<p> +The aspect of the country now began to change, and the travellers soon found +themselves among mountains covered from their base nearly to their summits with +forests of gloomy pine, except where a rock of granite shot up from the vale, +and lost its snowy top in the clouds. The rivulet, which had hitherto +accompanied them, now expanded into a river; and, flowing deeply and silently +along, reflected, as in a mirror, the blackness of the impending shades. +Sometimes a cliff was seen lifting its bold head above the woods and the +vapours, that floated mid-way down the mountains; and sometimes a face of +perpendicular marble rose from the water’s edge, over which the larch +threw his gigantic arms, here scathed with lightning, and there floating in +luxuriant foliage. +</p> + +<p> +They continued to travel over a rough and unfrequented road, seeing now and +then at a distance the solitary shepherd, with his dog, stalking along the +valley, and hearing only the dashing of torrents, which the woods concealed +from the eye, the long sullen murmur of the breeze, as it swept over the pines, +or the notes of the eagle and the vulture, which were seen towering round the +beetling cliff. +</p> + +<p> +Often, as the carriage moved slowly over uneven ground, St. Aubert alighted, +and amused himself with examining the curious plants that grew on the banks of +the road, and with which these regions abound; while Emily, wrapt in high +enthusiasm, wandered away under the shades, listening in deep silence to the +lonely murmur of the woods. +</p> + +<p> +Neither village nor hamlet was seen for many leagues; the goat-herd’s or +the hunter’s cabin, perched among the cliffs of the rocks, were the only +human habitations that appeared. +</p> + +<p> +The travellers again took their dinner in the open air, on a pleasant spot in +the valley, under the spreading shade of cedars; and then set forward towards +Beaujeu. +</p> + +<p> +The road now began to descend, and, leaving the pine forests behind, wound +among rocky precipices. The evening twilight again fell over the scene, and the +travellers were ignorant how far they might yet be from Beaujeu. St. Aubert, +however, conjectured that the distance could not be very great, and comforted +himself with the prospect of travelling on a more frequented road after +reaching that town, where he designed to pass the night. Mingled woods, and +rocks, and heathy mountains were now seen obscurely through the dusk; but soon +even these imperfect images faded in darkness. Michael proceeded with caution, +for he could scarcely distinguish the road; his mules, however, seemed to have +more sagacity, and their steps were sure. +</p> + +<p> +On turning the angle of a mountain, a light appeared at a distance, that +illumined the rocks, and the horizon to a great extent. It was evidently a +large fire, but whether accidental, or otherwise, there were no means of +knowing. St. Aubert thought it was probably kindled by some of the numerous +banditti, that infested the Pyrenees, and he became watchful and anxious to +know whether the road passed near this fire. He had arms with him, which, on an +emergency, might afford some protection, though certainly a very unequal one, +against a band of robbers, so desperate too as those usually were who haunted +these wild regions. While many reflections rose upon his mind, he heard a voice +shouting from the road behind, and ordering the muleteer to stop. St. Aubert +bade him proceed as fast as possible; but either Michael, or his mules were +obstinate, for they did not quit the old pace. Horses’ feet were now +heard; a man rode up to the carriage, still ordering the driver to stop; and +St. Aubert, who could no longer doubt his purpose, was with difficulty able to +prepare a pistol for his defence, when his hand was upon the door of the +chaise. The man staggered on his horse, the report of the pistol was followed +by a groan, and St. Aubert’s horror may be imagined, when in the next +instant he thought he heard the faint voice of Valancourt. He now himself bade +the muleteer stop; and, pronouncing the name of Valancourt, was answered in a +voice, that no longer suffered him to doubt. St. Aubert, who instantly alighted +and went to his assistance, found him still sitting on his horse, but bleeding +profusely, and appearing to be in great pain, though he endeavoured to soften +the terror of St. Aubert by assurances that he was not materially hurt, the +wound being only in his arm. St. Aubert, with the muleteer, assisted him to +dismount, and he sat down on the bank of the road, where St. Aubert tried to +bind up his arm, but his hands trembled so excessively that he could not +accomplish it; and, Michael being now gone in pursuit of the horse, which, on +being disengaged from his rider, had galloped off, he called Emily to his +assistance. Receiving no answer, he went to the carriage, and found her sunk on +the seat in a fainting fit. Between the distress of this circumstance and that +of leaving Valancourt bleeding, he scarcely knew what he did; he endeavoured, +however, to raise her, and called to Michael to fetch water from the rivulet +that flowed by the road, but Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice. +Valancourt, who heard these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily, +instantly understood the subject of his distress; and, almost forgetting his +own condition, he hastened to her relief. She was reviving when he reached the +carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him had occasioned her +indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that trembled, but not from anguish, +that his wound was of no consequence. While he said this St. Aubert turned +round, and perceiving that he was still bleeding, the subject of his alarm +changed again, and he hastily formed some handkerchiefs into a bandage. This +stopped the effusion of the blood; but St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of +the wound, enquired repeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when, learning +that it was at two leagues’ distance, his distress increased, since he +knew not how Valancourt, in his present state, would bear the motion of the +carriage, and perceived that he was already faint from loss of blood. When he +mentioned the subject of his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that he would not +suffer himself to be thus alarmed on his account, for that he had no doubt he +should be able to support himself very well; and then he talked of the accident +as a slight one. The muleteer being now returned with Valancourt’s horse, +assisted him into the chaise; and, as Emily was now revived, they moved slowly +on towards Beaujeu. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by this +accident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explained his unexpected +appearance by saying, “You, sir, renewed my taste for society; when you +had left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a solitude. I determined, therefore, +since my object was merely amusement, to change the scene; and I took this +road, because I knew it led through a more romantic tract of mountains than the +spot I have left. Besides,” added he, hesitating for an instant, “I +will own, and why should I not? that I had some hope of overtaking you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment,” +said St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had produced the +accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. But Valancourt seemed +anxious only to remove from the minds of his companions every unpleasant +feeling relative to himself; and, for that purpose, still struggled against a +sense of pain, and tried to converse with gaiety. Emily meanwhile was silent, +except when Valancourt particularly addressed her, and there was at those times +a tremulous tone in his voice that spoke much. +</p> + +<p> +They were now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance on the +blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they could distinguish +figures moving about the blaze. The way winding still nearer, they perceived in +the valley one of those numerous bands of gipsies, which at that period +particularly haunted the wilds of the Pyrenees, and lived partly by plundering +the traveller. Emily looked with some degree of terror on the savage +countenances of these people, shown by the fire, which heightened the romantic +effects of the scenery, as it threw a red dusky gleam upon the rocks and on the +foliage of the trees, leaving heavy masses of shade and regions of obscurity, +which the eye feared to penetrate. +</p> + +<p> +They were preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, over which +several figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind of tent, round +which many children and dogs were playing, and the whole formed a picture +highly grotesque. The travellers saw plainly their danger. Valancourt was +silent, but laid his hand on one of St. Aubert’s pistols; St. Aubert drew +forth another, and Michael was ordered to proceed as fast as possible. They +passed the place, however, without being attacked; the rovers being probably +unprepared for the opportunity, and too busy about their supper to feel much +interest, at the moment, in anything besides. +</p> + +<p> +After a league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellers arrived at +Beaujeu, and drove up to the only inn the place afforded; which, though +superior to any they had seen since they entered the mountains, was bad enough. +</p> + +<p> +The surgeon of the town was immediately sent for, if a surgeon he could be +called, who prescribed for horses as well as for men, and shaved faces at least +as dexterously as he set bones. After examining Valancourt’s arm, and +perceiving that the bullet had passed through the flesh without touching the +bone, he dressed it, and left him with a solemn prescription of quiet, which +his patient was not inclined to obey. The delight of ease had now succeeded to +pain; for ease may be allowed to assume a positive quality when contrasted with +anguish; and, his spirits thus reanimated, he wished to partake of the +conversation of St. Aubert and Emily, who, released from so many apprehensions, +were uncommonly cheerful. Late as it was, however, St. Aubert was obliged to go +out with the landlord to buy meat for supper; and Emily, who, during this +interval, had been absent as long as she could, upon excuses of looking to +their accommodation, which she found rather better than she expected, was +compelled to return, and converse with Valancourt alone. They talked of the +character of the scenes they had passed, of the natural history of the country, +of poetry, and of St. Aubert; a subject on which Emily always spoke and +listened to with peculiar pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +The travellers passed an agreeable evening; but St. Aubert was fatigued with +his journey; and, as Valancourt seemed again sensible of pain, they separated +soon after supper. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning St. Aubert found that Valancourt had passed a restless night; +that he was feverish, and his wound very painful. The surgeon, when he dressed +it, advised him to remain quietly at Beaujeu; advice which was too reasonable +to be rejected. St. Aubert, however, had no favourable opinion of this +practitioner, and was anxious to commit Valancourt into more skilful hands; but +learning, upon enquiry, that there was no town within several leagues which +seemed more likely to afford better advice, he altered the plan of his journey, +and determined to await the recovery of Valancourt, who, with somewhat more +ceremony than sincerity, made many objections to this delay. +</p> + +<p> +By order of his surgeon, Valancourt did not go out of the house that day; but +St. Aubert and Emily surveyed with delight the environs of the town, situated +at the feet of the Pyrenean Alps, that rose, some in abrupt precipices, and +others swelling with woods of cedar, fir, and cypress, which stretched nearly +to their highest summits. The cheerful green of the beech and mountain-ash was +sometimes seen, like a gleam of light, amidst the dark verdure of the forest; +and sometimes a torrent poured its sparkling flood, high among the woods. +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt’s indisposition detained the travellers at Beaujeu several +days, during which interval St. Aubert had observed his disposition and his +talents with the philosophic inquiry so natural to him. He saw a frank and +generous nature, full of ardour, highly susceptible of whatever is grand and +beautiful, but impetuous, wild, and somewhat romantic. Valancourt had known +little of the world. His perceptions were clear, and his feelings just; his +indignation of an unworthy, or his admiration of a generous action, were +expressed in terms of equal vehemence. St. Aubert sometimes smiled at his +warmth, but seldom checked it, and often repeated to himself, “This young +man has never been at Paris.” A sigh sometimes followed this silent +ejaculation. He determined not to leave Valancourt till he should be perfectly +recovered; and, as he was now well enough to travel, though not able to manage +his horse, St. Aubert invited him to accompany him for a few days in the +carriage. This he the more readily did, since he had discovered that Valancourt +was of a family of the same name in Gascony, with whose respectability he was +well acquainted. The latter accepted the offer with great pleasure, and they +again set forward among these romantic wilds about Rousillon. +</p> + +<p> +They travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grand appeared; +frequently alighting to walk to an eminence, whither the mules could not go, +from which the prospect opened in greater magnificence; and often sauntering +over hillocks covered with lavender, wild thyme, juniper, and tamarisc; and +under the shades of woods, between those boles they caught the long +mountain-vista, sublime beyond anything that Emily had ever imagined. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valancourt and Emily +strolled on; he pointing out to her notice the objects that particularly +charmed him, and reciting beautiful passages from such of the Latin and Italian +poets as he had heard her admire. In the pauses of conversation, when he +thought himself not observed, he frequently fixed his eyes pensively on her +countenance, which expressed with so much animation the taste and energy of her +mind; and when he spoke again, there was a peculiar tenderness in the tone of +his voice, that defeated any attempt to conceal his sentiments. By degrees +these silent pauses became more frequent; till Emily, only, betrayed an anxiety +to interrupt them; and she; who had been hitherto reserved, would now talk +again, and again, of the woods and the valleys and the mountains, to avoid the +danger of sympathy and silence. +</p> + +<p> +From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the travellers into +the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers exhibited their frozen +horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits of the mountains. They often +paused to contemplate these stupendous scenes, and, seated on some wild cliff, +where only the ilex or the larch could flourish, looked over dark forests of +fir, and precipices where human foot had never wandered, into the glen—so +deep, that the thunder of the torrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom, +was scarcely heard to murmur. Over these crags rose others of stupendous +height, and fantastic shape; some shooting into cones; others impending far +over their base, in huge masses of granite, along whose broken ridges was often +lodged a weight of snow, that, trembling even to the vibration of a sound, +threatened to bear destruction in its course to the vale. Around, on every +side, far as the eye could penetrate, were seen only forms of +grandeur—the long perspective of mountain-tops, tinged with ethereal +blue, or white with snow; valleys of ice, and forests of gloomy fir. The +serenity and clearness of the air in these high regions were particularly +delightful to the travellers; it seemed to inspire them with a finer spirit, +and diffused an indescribable complacency over their minds. They had no words +to express the sublime emotions they felt. A solemn expression characterised +the feelings of St. Aubert; tears often came to his eyes, and he frequently +walked away from his companions. Valancourt now and then spoke, to point to +Emily’s notice some feature of the scene. The thinness of the atmosphere, +through which every object came so distinctly to the eye, surprised and deluded +her; who could scarcely believe that objects, which appeared so near, were, in +reality, so distant. The deep silence of these solitudes was broken only at +intervals by the scream of the vultures, seen cowering round some cliff below, +or by the cry of the eagle sailing high in the air; except when the travellers +listened to the hollow thunder that sometimes muttered at their feet. While, +above, the deep blue of the heavens was unobscured by the lightest cloud, half +way down the mountains, long billows of vapour were frequently seen rolling, +now wholly excluding the country below, and now opening, and partially +revealing its features. Emily delighted to observe the grandeur of these clouds +as they changed in shape and tints, and to watch their various effect on the +lower world, whose features, partly veiled, were continually assuming new forms +of sublimity. +</p> + +<p> +After traversing these regions for many leagues, they began to descend towards +Rousillon, and features of beauty then mingled with the scene. Yet the +travellers did not look back without some regret to the sublime objects they +had quitted; though the eye, fatigued with the extension of its powers, was +glad to repose on the verdure of woods and pastures, that now hung on the +margin of the river below; to view again the humble cottage shaded by cedars, +the playful group of mountaineer-children, and the flowery nooks that appeared +among the hills. +</p> + +<p> +As they descended, they saw at a distance, on the right, one of the grand +passes of the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its battlements and towers to +the splendour of the setting rays, yellow tops of woods colouring the steeps +below, while far above aspired the snowy points of the mountains, still +reflecting a rosy hue. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert began to look out for the little town he had been directed to by the +people of Beaujeu, and where he meant to pass the night; but no habitation yet +appeared. Of its distance Valancourt could not assist him to judge, for he had +never been so far along this chain of Alps before. There was, however, a road +to guide them; and there could be little doubt that it was the right one; for, +since they had left Beaujeu, there had been no variety of tracks to perplex or +mislead. +</p> + +<p> +The sun now gave his last light, and St. Aubert bade the muleteer proceed with +all possible dispatch. He found, indeed, the lassitude of illness return upon +him, after a day of uncommon fatigue, both of body and mind, and he longed for +repose. His anxiety was not soothed by observing a numerous train, consisting +of men, horses, and loaded mules, winding down the steeps of an opposite +mountain, appearing and disappearing at intervals among the woods, so that its +numbers could not be judged of. Something bright, like arms, glanced in the +setting ray, and the military dress was distinguishable upon the men who were +in the van, and on others scattered among the troop that followed. As these +wound into the vale, the rear of the party emerged from the woods, and +exhibited a band of soldiers. St. Aubert’s apprehensions now subsided; he +had no doubt that the train before him consisted of smugglers, who, in +conveying prohibited goods over the Pyrenees, had been encountered, and +conquered by a party of troops. +</p> + +<p> +The travellers had lingered so long among the sublimer scenes of these +mountains, that they found themselves entirely mistaken in their calculation +that they could reach Montigny at sunset; but, as they wound along the valley, +the saw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that united two lofty crags of the glen, a +group of mountaineer-children, amusing themselves with dropping pebbles into a +torrent below, and watching the stones plunge into the water, that threw up its +white spray high in the air as it received them, and returned a sullen sound, +which the echoes of the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge was seen a +perspective of the valley, with its cataract descending among the rocks, and a +cottage on a cliff, overshadowed with pines. It appeared, that they could not +be far from some small town. St. Aubert bade the muleteer stop, and then called +to the children to enquire if he was near Montigny; but the distance, and the +roaring of the waters, would not suffer his voice to be heard; and the crags, +adjoining the bridge, were of such tremendous height and steepness, that to +have climbed either would have been scarcely practicable to a person +unacquainted with the ascent. St. Aubert, therefore, did not waste more moments +in delay. They continued to travel long after twilight had obscured the road, +which was so broken, that, now thinking it safer to walk than to ride, they all +alighted. The moon was rising, but her light was yet too feeble to assist them. +While they stepped carefully on, they heard the vesper-bell of a convent. The +twilight would not permit them to distinguish anything like a building, but the +sounds seemed to come from some woods, that overhung an acclivity to the right. +Valancourt proposed to go in search of this convent. “If they will not +accommodate us with a night’s lodging,” said he, “they may +certainly inform us how far we are from Montigny, and direct us towards +it.” He was bounding forward, without waiting St. Aubert’s reply, +when the latter stopped him. “I am very weary,” said St. Aubert, +“and wish for nothing so much as for immediate rest. We will all go to +the convent; your good looks would defeat our purpose; but when they see mine +and Emily’s exhausted countenances, they will scarcely deny us +repose.” +</p> + +<p> +As he said this, he took Emily’s arm within his, and, telling Michael to +wait awhile in the road with the carriage, they began to ascend towards the +woods, guided by the bell of the convent. His steps were feeble, and Valancourt +offered him his arm, which he accepted. The moon now threw a faint light over +their path, and, soon after, enabled them to distinguish some towers rising +above the tops of the woods. Still following the note of the bell, they entered +the shade of those woods, lighted only by the moonbeams, that glided down +between the leaves, and threw a tremulous uncertain gleam upon the steep track +they were winding. The gloom and the silence that prevailed, except when the +bell returned upon the air, together with the wildness of the surrounding +scene, struck Emily with a degree of fear, which, however, the voice and +conversation of Valancourt somewhat repressed. When they had been some time +ascending, St. Aubert complained of weariness, and they stopped to rest upon a +little green summit, where the trees opened, and admitted the moonlight. He +sat down upon the turf, between Emily and Valancourt. The bell had now ceased, +and the deep repose of the scene was undisturbed by any sound, for the low dull +murmur of some distant torrents might be said to sooth, rather than to +interrupt, the silence. +</p> + +<p> +Before them, extended the valley they had quitted; its rocks, and woods to the +left, just silvered by the rays, formed a contrast to the deep shadow, that +involved the opposite cliffs, whose fringed summits only were tipped with +light; while the distant perspective of the valley was lost in the yellow mist +of moonlight. The travellers sat for some time wrapt in the complacency which +such scenes inspire. +</p> + +<p> +“These scenes,” said Valancourt, at length, “soften the +heart, like the notes of sweet music, and inspire that delicious melancholy +which no person, who had felt it once, would resign for the gayest pleasures. +They waken our best and purest feelings, disposing us to benevolence, pity, and +friendship. Those whom I love—I always seem to love more in such an hour +as this.” His voice trembled, and he paused. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert was silent; Emily perceived a warm tear fall upon the hand he held; +she knew the object of his thoughts; hers too had, for some time, been occupied +by the remembrance of her mother. He seemed by an effort to rouse himself. +“Yes,” said he, with a half-suppressed sigh, “the memory of +those we love—of times for ever past! in such an hour as this steals upon +the mind, like a strain of distant music in the stillness of night;—all +tender and harmonious as this landscape, sleeping in the mellow +moonlight.” After the pause of a moment, St. Aubert added, “I have +always fancied, that I thought with more clearness, and precision, at such an +hour than at any other, and that heart must be insensible in a great degree, +that does not soften to its influence. But many such there are.” +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Are there, indeed, many such?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“A few years hence, my Emily,” replied St. Aubert, “and you +may smile at the recollection of that question—if you do not weep to it. +But come, I am somewhat refreshed, let us proceed.” +</p> + +<p> +Having emerged from the woods, they saw, upon a turfy hillock above, the +convent of which they were in search. A high wall, that surrounded it, led them +to an ancient gate, at which they knocked; and the poor monk, who opened it, +conducted them into a small adjoining room, where he desired they would wait +while he informed the superior of their request. In this interval, several +friars came in separately to look at them; and at length the first monk +returned, and they followed him to a room, where the superior was sitting in an +arm-chair, with a large folio volume, printed in black letter, open on a desk +before him. He received them with courtesy, though he did not rise from his +seat; and, having asked them a few questions, granted their request. After a +short conversation, formal and solemn on the part of the superior, they +withdrew to the apartment where they were to sup, and Valancourt, whom one of +the inferior friars civilly desired to accompany, went to seek Michael and his +mules. They had not descended half way down the cliffs, before they heard the +voice of the muleteer echoing far and wide. Sometimes he called on St. Aubert, +and sometimes on Valancourt; who having, at length, convinced him that he had +nothing to fear either for himself, or his master; and having disposed of him, +for the night, in a cottage on the skirts of the woods, returned to sup with +his friends, on such sober fare as the monks thought it prudent to set before +them. While St. Aubert was too much indisposed to share it, Emily, in her +anxiety for her father, forgot herself; and Valancourt, silent and thoughtful, +yet never inattentive to them, appeared particularly solicitous to accommodate +and relieve St. Aubert, who often observed, while his daughter was pressing him +to eat, or adjusting the pillow she had placed in the back of his arm-chair, +that Valancourt fixed on her a look of pensive tenderness, which he was not +displeased to understand. +</p> + +<p> +They separated at an early hour, and retired to their respective apartments. +Emily was shown to hers by a nun of the convent, whom she was glad to dismiss, +for her heart was melancholy, and her attention so much abstracted, that +conversation with a stranger was painful. She thought her father daily +declining, and attributed his present fatigue more to the feeble state of his +frame, than to the difficulty of the journey. A train of gloomy ideas haunted +her mind, till she fell asleep. +</p> + +<p> +In about two hours after, she was awakened by the chiming of a bell, and then +heard quick steps pass along the gallery, into which her chamber opened. She +was so little accustomed to the manners of a convent, as to be alarmed by this +circumstance; her fears, ever alive for her father, suggested that he was very +ill, and she rose in haste to go to him. Having paused, however, to let the +persons in the gallery pass before she opened her door, her thoughts, in the +mean time, recovered from the confusion of sleep, and she understood that the +bell was the call of the monks to prayers. It had now ceased, and, all being +again still, she forbore to go to St. Aubert’s room. Her mind was not +disposed for immediate sleep, and the moonlight, that shone into her chamber, +invited her to open the casement, and look out upon the country. +</p> + +<p> +It was a still and beautiful night, the sky was unobscured by any cloud, and +scarce a leaf of the woods beneath trembled in the air. As she listened, the +midnight hymn of the monks rose softly from a chapel, that stood on one of the +lower cliffs, a holy strain, that seemed to ascend through the silence of +night to heaven, and her thoughts ascended with it. From the consideration of +His works, her mind arose to the adoration of the Deity, in His goodness and +power; wherever she turned her view, whether on the sleeping earth, or to the +vast regions of space, glowing with worlds beyond the reach of human thought, +the sublimity of God, and the majesty of His presence appeared. Her eyes were +filled with tears of awful love and admiration; and she felt that pure +devotion, superior to all the distinctions of human system, which lifts the +soul above this world, and seems to expand it into a nobler nature; such +devotion as can, perhaps, only be experienced, when the mind, rescued, for a +moment, from the humbleness of earthly considerations, aspires to contemplate +His power in the sublimity of His works, and His goodness in the infinity of +His blessings. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Is it not now the hour,<br/> +The holy hour, when to the cloudless height<br/> +Of yon starred concave climbs the full-orbed moon,<br/> +And to this nether world in solemn stillness,<br/> +Gives sign, that, to the list’ning ear of Heaven<br/> +Religion’s voice should plead? The very babe<br/> +Knows this, and, chance awak’d, his little hands<br/> +Lifts to the gods, and on his innocent couch<br/> +Calls down a blessing.<br/> + CARACTACUS +</p> + +<p> +The midnight chant of the monks soon after dropped into silence; but Emily +remained at the casement, watching the setting moon, and the valley sinking +into deep shade, and willing to prolong her present state of mind. At length +she retired to her mattress, and sunk into tranquil slumber. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a> CHAPTER V </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +While in the rosy vale<br/> +Love breath’d his infant sighs, from anguish free.<br/> + THOMSON +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert, sufficiently restored by a night’s repose to pursue his +journey, set out in the morning, with his family and Valancourt, for Rousillon, +which he hoped to reach before night-fall. The scenes, through which they now +passed, were as wild and romantic, as any they had yet observed, with this +difference, that beauty, every now and then, softened the landscape into +smiles. Little woody recesses appeared among the mountains, covered with bright +verdure and flowers; or a pastoral valley opened its grassy bosom in the shade +of the cliffs, with flocks and herds loitering along the banks of a rivulet, +that refreshed it with perpetual green. St. Aubert could not repent the having +taken this fatiguing road, though he was this day, also, frequently obliged to +alight, to walk along the rugged precipice, and to climb the steep and flinty +mountain. The wonderful sublimity and variety of the prospects repaid him for +all this, and the enthusiasm, with which they were viewed by his young +companions, heightened his own, and awakened a remembrance of all the +delightful emotions of his early days, when the sublime charms of nature were +first unveiled to him. He found great pleasure in conversing with Valancourt, +and in listening to his ingenuous remarks. The fire and simplicity of his +manners seemed to render him a characteristic figure in the scenes around them; +and St. Aubert discovered in his sentiments the justness and the dignity of an +elevated mind, unbiased by intercourse with the world. He perceived, that his +opinions were formed, rather than imbibed; were more the result of thought, +than of learning. Of the world he seemed to know nothing; for he believed well +of all mankind, and this opinion gave him the reflected image of his own heart. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert, as he sometimes lingered to examine the wild plants in his path, +often looked forward with pleasure to Emily and Valancourt, as they strolled on +together; he, with a countenance of animated delight, pointing to her attention +some grand feature of the scene; and she, listening and observing with a look +of tender seriousness, that spoke the elevation of her mind. They appeared like +two lovers who had never strayed beyond these their native mountains; whose +situation had secluded them from the frivolities of common life, whose ideas +were simple and grand, like the landscapes among which they moved, and who knew +no other happiness, than in the union of pure and affectionate hearts. St. +Aubert smiled, and sighed at the romantic picture of felicity his fancy drew; +and sighed again to think, that nature and simplicity were so little known to +the world, as that their pleasures were thought romantic. +</p> + +<p> +“The world,” said he, pursuing this train of thought, +“ridicules a passion which it seldom feels; its scenes, and its +interests, distract the mind, deprave the taste, corrupt the heart, and love +cannot exist in a heart that has lost the meek dignity of innocence. Virtue and +taste are nearly the same, for virtue is little more than active taste, and the +most delicate affections of each combine in real love. How then are we to look +for love in great cities, where selfishness, dissipation, and insincerity +supply the place of tenderness, simplicity and truth?” +</p> + +<p> +It was near noon, when the travellers, having arrived at a piece of steep and +dangerous road, alighted to walk. The road wound up an ascent, that was clothed +with wood, and, instead of following the carriage, they entered the refreshing +shade. A dewy coolness was diffused upon the air, which, with the bright +verdure of turf, that grew under the trees, the mingled fragrance of flowers +and of balm, thyme, and lavender, that enriched it, and the grandeur of the +pines, beech, and chestnuts, that overshadowed them, rendered this a most +delicious retreat. Sometimes, the thick foliage excluded all view of the +country; at others, it admitted some partial catches of the distant scenery, +which gave hints to the imagination to picture landscapes more interesting, +more impressive, than any that had been presented to the eye. The wanderers +often lingered to indulge in these reveries of fancy. +</p> + +<p> +The pauses of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the conversations of +Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today than ever. Valancourt often +dropped suddenly from the most animating vivacity into fits of deep musing, and +there was, sometimes, an unaffected melancholy in his smile, which Emily could +not avoid understanding, for her heart was interested in the sentiment it +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter under +them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction of the road, till +they perceived that they had totally lost it. They had continued near the brow +of the precipice, allured by the scenery it exhibited, while the road wound far +away over the cliff above. Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no +voice, except his own, echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to +regain the road were equally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced, +they perceived a shepherd’s cabin, between the boles of the trees at some +distance, and Valancourt bounded on first to ask assistance. When he reached +it, he saw only two little children, at play, on the turf before the door. He +looked into the hut, but no person was there, and the eldest of the boys told +him that their father was with his flocks, and their mother was gone down into +the vale, but would be back presently. As he stood, considering what was +further to be done, on a sudden he heard Michael’s voice roaring forth +most manfully among the cliffs above, till he made their echoes ring. +Valancourt immediately answered the call, and endeavoured to make his way +through the thicket that clothed the steeps, following the direction of the +sound. After much struggle over brambles and precipices, he reached Michael, +and at length prevailed with him to be silent, and to listen to him. The road +was at a considerable distance from the spot where St. Aubert and Emily were; +the carriage could not easily return to the entrance of the wood, and, since it +would be very fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep road to the +place where it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find a more easy ascent, by +the way he had himself passed. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested themselves on +a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which overshadowed it, till +Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, should return. +</p> + +<p> +The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to observe +the strangers, while the younger continued his little gambols, and teased his +brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked with pleasure upon this picture of +infantine simplicity, till it brought to his remembrance his own boys, whom he +had lost about the age of these, and their lamented mother; and he sunk into a +thoughtfulness, which Emily observing, she immediately began to sing one of +those simple and lively airs he was so fond of, and which she knew how to give +with the most captivating sweetness. St. Aubert smiled on her through his +tears, took her hand and pressed it affectionately, and then tried to dissipate +the melancholy reflections that lingered in his mind. +</p> + +<p> +While she sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupt her, and +paused at a little distance to listen. When she had concluded, he joined the +party, and told them, that he had found Michael, as well as a way, by which he +thought they could ascend the cliff to the carriage. He pointed to the woody +steeps above, which St. Aubert surveyed with an anxious eye. He was already +wearied by his walk, and this ascent was formidable to him. He thought, +however, it would be less toilsome than the long and broken road, and he +determined to attempt it; but Emily, ever watchful of his ease, proposing that +he should rest, and dine before they proceeded further, Valancourt went to the +carriage for the refreshments deposited there. +</p> + +<p> +On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain, to where +the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; and thither they were +preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join the children, and caress and +weep over them. +</p> + +<p> +The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her. She took +the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving the strangers, +hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage. St. Aubert, on enquiring +the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her husband, who was a shepherd, and +lived here in the summer months to watch over the flocks he led to feed upon +these mountains, had lost, on the preceding night, his little all. A gang of +gipsies, who had for some time infested the neighbourhood, had driven away +several of his master’s sheep. “Jacques,” added the +shepherd’s wife, “had saved a little money, and had bought a few +sheep with it, and now they must go to his master for those that are stolen; +and what is worse than all, his master, when he comes to know how it is, will +trust him no longer with the care of his flocks, for he is a hard man! and then +what is to become of our children!” +</p> + +<p> +The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her manner in +relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her story; and +Valancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what was the value of the +stolen sheep; on hearing which he turned away with a look of disappointment. +St. Aubert put some money into her hand, Emily too gave something from her +little purse, and they walked towards the cliff; but Valancourt lingered +behind, and spoke to the shepherd’s wife, who was now weeping with +gratitude and surprise. He enquired how much money was yet wanting to replace +the stolen sheep, and found, that it was a sum very little short of all he had +about him. He was perplexed and distressed. “This sum then,” said +he to himself, “would make this poor family completely happy—it is +in my power to give it—to make them completely happy! But what is to +become of me?—how shall I contrive to reach home with the little money +that will remain?” For a moment he stood, unwilling to forego the luxury +of raising a family from ruin to happiness, yet considering the difficulties of +pursuing his journey with so small a sum as would be left. +</p> + +<p> +While he was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself appeared: his +children ran to meet him; he took one of them in his arms, and, with the other +clinging to his coat, came forward with a loitering step. His forlorn and +melancholy look determined Valancourt at once; he threw down all the money he +had, except a very few louis, and bounded away after St. Aubert and Emily, who +were proceeding slowly up the steep. Valancourt had seldom felt his heart so +light as at this moment; his gay spirits danced with pleasure; every object +around him appeared more interesting, or beautiful, than before. St. Aubert +observed the uncommon vivacity of his countenance: “What has pleased you +so much?” said he. “O what a lovely day,” replied Valancourt, +“how brightly the sun shines, how pure is this air, what enchanting +scenery!” “It is indeed enchanting,” said St. Aubert, whom +early experience had taught to understand the nature of Valancourt’s +present feelings. “What pity that the wealthy, who can command such +sunshine, should ever pass their days in gloom—in the cold shade of +selfishness! For you, my young friend, may the sun always shine as brightly as +at this moment; may your own conduct always give you the sunshine of +benevolence and reason united!” +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt, highly flattered by this compliment, could make no reply but by a +smile of gratitude. +</p> + +<p> +They continued to wind under the woods, between the grassy knolls of the +mountain, and, as they reached the shady summit, which he had pointed out, the +whole party burst into an exclamation. Behind the spot where they stood, the +rock rose perpendicularly in a massy wall to a considerable height, and then +branched out into overhanging crags. Their grey tints were well contrasted by +the bright hues of the plants and wild flowers, that grew in their fractured +sides, and were deepened by the gloom of the pines and cedars, that waved +above. The steeps below, over which the eye passed abruptly to the valley, were +fringed with thickets of alpine shrubs; and, lower still, appeared the tufted +tops of the chesnut woods, that clothed their base, among which peeped forth +the shepherd’s cottage, just left by the travellers, with its bluish +smoke curling high in the air. On every side appeared the majestic summits of +the Pyrenees, some exhibiting tremendous crags of marble, whose appearance was +changing every instant, as the varying lights fell upon their surface; others, +still higher, displaying only snowy points, while their lower steeps were +covered almost invariably with forests of pine, larch, and oak, that stretched +down to the vale. This was one of the narrow valleys, that open from the +Pyrenees into the country of Rousillon, and whose green pastures, and +cultivated beauty, form a decided and wonderful contrast to the romantic +grandeur that environs it. Through a vista of the mountains appeared the +lowlands of Rousillon, tinted with the blue haze of distance, as they united +with the waters of the Mediterranean; where, on a promontory, which marked the +boundary of the shore, stood a lonely beacon, over which were seen circling +flights of sea-fowl. Beyond, appeared, now and then, a stealing sail, white +with the sunbeam, and whose progress was perceivable by its approach to the +light-house. Sometimes, too, was seen a sail so distant, that it served only to +mark the line of separation between the sky and the waves. +</p> + +<p> +On the other side of the valley, immediately opposite to the spot where the +travellers rested, a rocky pass opened toward Gascony. Here no sign of +cultivation appeared. The rocks of granite, that screened the glen, rose +abruptly from their base, and stretched their barren points to the clouds, +unvaried with woods, and uncheered even by a hunter’s cabin. Sometimes, +indeed, a gigantic larch threw its long shade over the precipice, and here and +there a cliff reared on its brow a monumental cross, to tell the traveller the +fate of him who had ventured thither before. This spot seemed the very haunt of +banditti; and Emily, as she looked down upon it, almost expected to see them +stealing out from some hollow cave to look for their prey. Soon after an object +not less terrific struck her,—a gibbet standing on a point of rock near +the entrance of the pass, and immediately over one of the crosses she had +before observed. These were hieroglyphics that told a plain and dreadful story. +She forbore to point it out to St. Aubert, but it threw a gloom over her +spirits, and made her anxious to hasten forward, that they might with certainty +reach Rousillon before night-fall. It was necessary, however, that St. Aubert +should take some refreshment, and, seating themselves on the short dry turf, +they opened the basket of provisions, while +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +by breezy murmurs cool’d,<br/> +Broad o’er <i>their</i> heads the verdant cedars wave,<br/> +And high palmetos lift their graceful shade.<br/> +———<i>they</i> draw<br/> +Ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales<br/> +Profusely breathing from the piney groves,<br/> +And vales of fragrance; there at a distance hear<br/> +The roaring floods, and cataracts.<br/> + THOMSON +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert was revived by rest, and by the serene air of this summit; and +Valancourt was so charmed with all around, and with the conversation of his +companions, that he seemed to have forgotten he had any further to go. Having +concluded their simple repast, they gave a long farewell look to the scene, and +again began to ascend. St. Aubert rejoiced when he reached the carriage, which +Emily entered with him; but Valancourt, willing to take a more extensive view +of the enchanting country, into which they were about to descend, than he could +do from a carriage, loosened his dogs, and once more bounded with them along +the banks of the road. He often quitted it for points that promised a wider +prospect, and the slow pace, at which the mules travelled, allowed him to +overtake them with ease. Whenever a scene of uncommon magnificence appeared, he +hastened to inform St. Aubert, who, though he was too much tired to walk +himself, sometimes made the chaise wait, while Emily went to the neighbouring +cliff. +</p> + +<p> +It was evening when they descended the lower alps, that bind Rousillon, and +form a majestic barrier round that charming country, leaving it open only on +the east to the Mediterranean. The gay tints of cultivation once more +beautified the landscape; for the lowlands were coloured with the richest hues, +which a luxuriant climate, and an industrious people can awaken into life. +Groves of orange and lemon perfumed the air, their ripe fruit glowing among the +foliage; while, sloping to the plains, extensive vineyards spread their +treasures. Beyond these, woods and pastures, and mingled towns and hamlets +stretched towards the sea, on whose bright surface gleamed many a distant sail; +while, over the whole scene, was diffused the purple glow of evening. This +landscape with the surrounding alps did, indeed, present a perfect picture of +the lovely and the sublime, of “beauty sleeping in the lap of +horror.” +</p> + +<p> +The travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedges of +flowering myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, where they proposed to +rest for the night. They met with simple, but neat accommodation, and would +have passed a happy evening, after the toils and the delights of this day, had +not the approaching separation thrown a gloom over their spirit. It was St. +Aubert’s plan to proceed, on the morrow, to the borders of the +Mediterranean, and travel along its shores into Languedoc; and Valancourt, +since he was now nearly recovered, and had no longer a pretence for continuing +with his new friends, resolved to leave them here. St. Aubert, who was much +pleased with him, invited him to go further, but did not repeat the invitation, +and Valancourt had resolution enough to forego the temptation of accepting it, +that he might prove himself not unworthy of the favour. On the following +morning, therefore, they were to part, St. Aubert to pursue his way to +Languedoc, and Valancourt to explore new scenes among the mountains, on his +return home. During this evening he was often silent and thoughtful; St. +Aubert’s manner towards him was affectionate, though grave, and Emily was +serious, though she made frequent efforts to appear cheerful. After one of the +most melancholy evenings they had yet passed together, they separated for the +night. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a> CHAPTER VI </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +I care not, Fortune! what you me deny;<br/> +You cannot rob me of free nature’s grace;<br/> +You cannot shut the windows of the sky,<br/> +Through which Aurora shows her brightening face;<br/> +You cannot bar my constant feet to trace<br/> +The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:<br/> +Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,<br/> +And I their toys to the great children leave:<br/> +Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.<br/> + THOMSON +</p> + +<p> +In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily, neither of +whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illness still hung over St. +Aubert, and to Emily’s fears his disorder appeared to be increasing fast +upon him. She watched his looks with anxious affection, and their expression +was always faithfully reflected in her own. +</p> + +<p> +At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known his name +and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for the family estates, +which were now in the possession of an elder brother of Valancourt, were little +more than twenty miles distant from La Vallée, and he had sometimes met the +elder Valancourt on visits in the neighbourhood. This knowledge had made him +more willingly receive his present companion; for, though his countenance and +manners would have won him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to +trust to the intelligence of his own eyes, with respect to countenances, he +would not have accepted these, as sufficient introductions to that of his +daughter. +</p> + +<p> +The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night; but +their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriage wheels, +which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started from his +chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and he returned to +his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when they must part. St. +Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would never pass La Vallée without +favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him, assured him +that he never would; as he said which he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to +smile away the seriousness of her spirits. They passed a few minutes in +interesting conversation, and St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage, +Emily and Valancourt following in silence. The latter lingered at the door +several minutes after they were seated, and none of the party seemed to have +courage enough to say—Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the +melancholy word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a +dejected smile, and the carriage drove on. +</p> + +<p> +The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil pensiveness, +which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by observing, “This is +a very promising young man; it is many years since I have been so much pleased +with any person, on so short an acquaintance. He brings back to my memory the +days of my youth, when every scene was new and delightful!” St. Aubert +sighed, and sunk again into a reverie; and, as Emily looked back upon the road +they had passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of the little inn, following +them with his eyes. Her perceived her, and waved his hand; and she returned the +adieu, till the winding road shut her from his sight. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember when I was about his age,” resumed St. Aubert, +“and I thought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon +me then, now—it is closing.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,” said Emily in a trembling +voice, “I hope you have many, many years to live—for your own +sake—for <i>my</i> sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my Emily!” replied St. Aubert, “for thy sake! +Well—I hope it is so.” He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down +his cheek, threw a smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, +“there is something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which is +particularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his feelings have +not been entirely corroded by the world. It is cheering and reviving, like the +view of spring to a sick person; his mind catches somewhat of the spirit of the +season, and his eyes are lighted up with a transient sunshine. Valancourt is +this spring to me.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, who pressed her father’s hand affectionately, had never before +listened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no, not even when he +had bestowed them on herself. +</p> + +<p> +They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted with the +romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded, on one side, by the +grandeur of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the ocean; and, soon after +noon, they reached the town of Colioure, situated on the Mediterranean. Here +they dined, and rested till towards the cool of day, when they pursued their +way along the shores—those enchanting shores!—which extend to +Languedoc. Emily gazed with enthusiasm on the vastness of the sea, its surface +varying, as the lights and shadows fell, and on its woody banks, mellowed with +autumnal tints. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert was impatient to reach Perpignan, where he expected letters from M. +Quesnel; and it was the expectation of these letters, that had induced him to +leave Colioure, for his feeble frame had required immediate rest. After +travelling a few miles, he fell asleep; and Emily, who had put two or three +books into the carriage, on leaving La Vallée, had now the leisure for looking +into them. She sought for one, in which Valancourt had been reading the day +before, and hoped for the pleasure of retracing a page, over which the eyes of +a beloved friend had lately passed, of dwelling on the passages, which he had +admired, and of permitting them to speak to her in the language of his own +mind, and to bring himself to her presence. On searching for the book, she +could find it nowhere, but in its stead perceived a volume of Petrarch’s +poems, that had belonged to Valancourt, whose name was written in it, and from +which he had frequently read passages to her, with all the pathetic expression, +that characterised the feelings of the author. She hesitated in believing, what +would have been sufficiently apparent to almost any other person, that he had +purposely left this book, instead of the one she had lost, and that love had +prompted the exchange; but, having opened it with impatient pleasure, and +observed the lines of his pencil drawn along the various passages he had read +aloud, and under others more descriptive of delicate tenderness than he had +dared to trust his voice with, the conviction came, at length, to her mind. For +some moments she was conscious only of being beloved; then, a recollection of +all the variations of tone and countenance, with which he had recited these +sonnets, and of the soul, which spoke in their expression, pressed to her +memory, and she wept over the memorial of his affection. +</p> + +<p> +They arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset, where St. Aubert found, as he had +expected, letters from M. Quesnel, the contents of which so evidently and +grievously affected him, that Emily was alarmed, and pressed him, as far as her +delicacy would permit, to disclose the occasion of his concern; but he answered +her only by tears, and immediately began to talk on other topics. Emily, though +she forbore to press the one most interesting to her, was greatly affected by +her father’s manner, and passed a night of sleepless solicitude. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning they pursued their journey along the coast towards Leucate, +another town on the Mediterranean, situated on the borders of Languedoc and +Rousillon. On the way, Emily renewed the subject of the preceding night, and +appeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert’s silence and dejection, that +he relaxed from his reserve. “I was unwilling, my dear Emily,” said +he, “to throw a cloud over the pleasure you receive from these scenes, +and meant, therefore, to conceal, for the present, some circumstances, with +which, however, you must at length have been made acquainted. But your anxiety +has defeated my purpose; you suffer as much from this, perhaps, as you will do +from a knowledge of the facts I have to relate. M. Quesnel’s visit proved +an unhappy one to me; he came to tell me part of the news he has now confirmed. +You may have heard me mention a M. Motteville, of Paris, but you did not know +that the chief of my personal property was invested in his hands. I had great +confidence in him, and I am yet willing to believe, that he is not wholly +unworthy of my esteem. A variety of circumstances have concurred to ruin him, +and—I am ruined with him.” +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert paused to conceal his emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“The letters I have just received from M. Quesnel,” resumed he, +struggling to speak with firmness, “enclosed others from Motteville, +which confirmed all I dreaded.” +</p> + +<p> +“Must we then quit La Vallée?” said Emily, after a long pause of +silence. “That is yet uncertain,” replied St. Aubert, “it +will depend upon the compromise Motteville is able to make with his creditors. +My income, you know, was never large, and now it will be reduced to little +indeed! It is for you, Emily, for you, my child, that I am most +afflicted.” His last words faltered; Emily smiled tenderly upon him +through her tears, and then, endeavouring to overcome her emotion, “My +dear father,” said she, “do not grieve for me, or for yourself; we +may yet be happy;—if La Vallée remains for us, we must be happy. We will +retain only one servant, and you shall scarcely perceive the change in your +income. Be comforted, my dear sir; we shall not feel the want of those +luxuries, which others value so highly, since we never had a taste for them; +and poverty cannot deprive us of many consolations. It cannot rob us of the +affection we have for each other, or degrade us in our own opinion, or in that +of any person, whose opinion we ought to value.” +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert concealed his face with his handkerchief, and was unable to speak; +but Emily continued to urge to her father the truths, which himself had +impressed upon her mind. +</p> + +<p> +“Besides, my dear sir, poverty cannot deprive us of intellectual +delights. It cannot deprive you of the comfort of affording me examples of +fortitude and benevolence; nor me of the delight of consoling a beloved parent. +It cannot deaden our taste for the grand, and the beautiful, or deny us the +means of indulging it; for the scenes of nature—those sublime spectacles, +so infinitely superior to all artificial luxuries! are open for the enjoyment +of the poor, as well as of the rich. Of what, then, have we to complain, so +long as we are not in want of necessaries? Pleasures, such as wealth cannot +buy, will still be ours. We retain, then, the sublime luxuries of nature, and +lose only the frivolous ones of art.” +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert could not reply: he caught Emily to his bosom, their tears flowed +together, but—they were not tears of sorrow. After this language of the +heart, all other would have been feeble, and they remained silent for some +time. Then, St. Aubert conversed as before; for, if his mind had not recovered +its natural tranquillity, it at least assumed the appearance of it. +</p> + +<p> +They reached the romantic town of Leucate early in the day, but St. Aubert was +weary, and they determined to pass the night there. In the evening, he exerted +himself so far as to walk with his daughter to view the environs that overlook +the lake of Leucate, the Mediterranean, part of Rousillon, with the Pyrenees, +and a wide extent of the luxuriant province of Languedoc, now blushing with the +ripened vintage, which the peasants were beginning to gather. St. Aubert and +Emily saw the busy groups, caught the joyous song, that was wafted on the +breeze, and anticipated, with apparent pleasure, their next day’s journey +over this gay region. He designed, however, still to wind along the sea-shore. +To return home immediately was partly his wish, but from this he was withheld +by a desire to lengthen the pleasure, which the journey gave his daughter, and +to try the effect of the sea air on his own disorder. +</p> + +<p> +On the following day, therefore, they recommenced their journey through +Languedoc, winding the shores of the Mediterranean; the Pyrenees still forming +the magnificent back-ground of their prospects, while on their right was the +ocean, and, on their left, wide extended plains melting into the blue horizon. +St. Aubert was pleased, and conversed much with Emily, yet his cheerfulness was +sometimes artificial, and sometimes a shade of melancholy would steal upon his +countenance, and betray him. This was soon chased away by Emily’s smile; +who smiled, however, with an aching heart, for she saw that his misfortunes +preyed upon his mind, and upon his enfeebled frame. +</p> + +<p> +It was evening when they reached a small village of Upper Languedoc, where they +meant to pass the night, but the place could not afford them beds; for here, +too, it was the time of the vintage, and they were obliged to proceed to the +next post. The languor of illness and of fatigue, which returned upon St. +Aubert, required immediate repose, and the evening was now far advanced; but +from necessity there was no appeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed. +</p> + +<p> +The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of the vintage, +with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened St. Aubert to +pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to the hilarity and +youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyes moved over the scene, +he considered, that they would soon, perhaps, be closed for ever on this world. +“Those distant and sublime mountains,” said he secretly, as he +gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretched towards the west, “these +luxuriant plains, this blue vault, the cheerful light of day, will be shut from +my eyes! The song of the peasant, the cheering voice of man—will no +longer sound for me!” +</p> + +<p> +The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind of her +father, and she fixed them on his face, with an expression of such tender pity, +as recalled his thoughts from every desultory object of regret, and he +remembered only, that he must leave his daughter without protection. This +reflection changed regret to agony; he sighed deeply, and remained silent, +while she seemed to understand that sigh, for she pressed his hand +affectionately, and then turned to the window to conceal her tears. The sun now +threw a last yellow gleam on the waves of the Mediterranean, and the gloom of +twilight spread fast over the scene, till only a melancholy ray appeared on the +western horizon, marking the point where the sun had set amid the vapours of an +autumnal evening. A cool breeze now came from the shore, and Emily let down the +glass; but the air, which was refreshing to health, was as chilling to +sickness, and St. Aubert desired, that the window might be drawn up. Increasing +illness made him now more anxious than ever to finish the day’s journey, +and he stopped the muleteer to enquire how far they had yet to go to the next +post. He replied, “Nine miles.” “I feel I am unable to +proceed much further,” said St. Aubert; “enquire, as you go, if +there is any house on the road that would accommodate us for the night.” +He sunk back in the carriage, and Michael, cracking his whip in the air, set +off, and continued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert, almost fainting, called +to him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the window, and saw a peasant +walking at some little distance on the road, for whom they waited, till he came +up, when he was asked, if there was any house in the neighbourhood that +accommodated travellers. He replied, that he knew of none. “There is a +château, indeed, among those woods on the right,” added he, “but I +believe it receives nobody, and I cannot show you the way, for I am almost a +stranger here.” St. Aubert was going to ask him some further question +concerning the château, but the man abruptly passed on. After some +consideration, he ordered Michael to proceed slowly to the woods. Every moment +now deepened the twilight, and increased the difficulty of finding the road. +Another peasant soon after passed. “Which is the way to the château in +the woods?” cried Michael. +</p> + +<p> +“The château in the woods!” exclaimed the peasant—“Do +you mean that with the turret, yonder?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know as for the turret, as you call it,” said +Michael, “I mean that white piece of a building, that we see at a +distance there, among the trees.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, that you are going +thither?” said the man with surprise. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiar tone in +which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. “We are +travellers,” said he, “who are in search of a house of +accommodation for the night; is there any hereabout?” +</p> + +<p> +“None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder,” +replied the peasant, pointing to the woods, “but I would not advise you +to go there.” +</p> + +<p> +“To whom does the château belong?” +</p> + +<p> +“I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is uninhabited, then?”—“No, not uninhabited; the +steward and housekeeper are there, I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the château, and risk the +refusal of being accommodated for the night; he therefore desired the +countryman would show Michael the way, and bade him expect reward for his +trouble. The man was for a moment silent, and then said, that he was going on +other business, but that the road could not be missed, if they went up an +avenue to the right, to which he pointed. St. Aubert was going to speak, but +the peasant wished him good night, and walked on. +</p> + +<p> +The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a gate, and +Michael having dismounted to open it, they entered between rows of ancient oak +and chesnut, whose intermingled branches formed a lofty arch above. There was +something so gloomy and desolate in the appearance of this avenue, and its +lonely silence, that Emily almost shuddered as she passed along; and, +recollecting the manner in which the peasant had mentioned the château, she +gave a mysterious meaning to his words, such as she had not suspected when he +uttered them. These apprehensions, however, she tried to check, considering +that they were probably the effect of a melancholy imagination, which her +father’s situation, and a consideration of her own circumstances, had +made sensible to every impression. +</p> + +<p> +They passed slowly on, for they were now almost in darkness, which, together +with the unevenness of the ground, and the frequent roots of old trees, that +shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceed with caution. On a sudden +Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St. Aubert looked from the window to +enquire the cause, he perceived a figure at some distance moving up the avenue. +The dusk would not permit him to distinguish what it was, but he bade Michael +go on. +</p> + +<p> +“This seems a wild place,” said Michael; “there is no house +hereabout, don’t your honour think we had better turn back?” +</p> + +<p> +“Go a little farther, and if we see no house then, we will return to the +road,” replied St. Aubert. +</p> + +<p> +Michael proceeded with reluctance, and the extreme slowness of his pace made +St. Aubert look again from the window to hasten him, when again he saw the same +figure. He was somewhat startled: probably the gloominess of the spot made him +more liable to alarm than usual; however this might be, he now stopped Michael, +and bade him call to the person in the avenue. +</p> + +<p> +“Please your honour, he may be a robber,” said Michael. “It +does not please me,” replied St. Aubert, who could not forbear smiling at +the simplicity of his phrase, “and we will, therefore, return to the +road, for I see no probability of meeting here with what we seek.” +</p> + +<p> +Michael turned about immediately, and was retracing his way with alacrity, when +a voice was heard from among the trees on the left. It was not the voice of +command, or distress, but a deep hollow tone, which seemed to be scarcely +human. The man whipped his mules till they went as fast as possible, regardless +of the darkness, the broken ground, and the necks of the whole party, nor once +stopped till he reached the gate, which opened from the avenue into the +high-road, where he went into a more moderate pace. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very ill,” said St. Aubert, taking his daughter’s hand. +“You are worse, then, sir!” said Emily, extremely alarmed by his +manner, “you are worse, and here is no assistance. Good God! what is to +be done!” He leaned his head on her shoulder, while she endeavoured to +support him with her arm, and Michael was again ordered to stop. When the +rattling of the wheels had ceased, music was heard on their air; it was to +Emily the voice of Hope. “Oh! we are near some human habitation!” +said she, “help may soon be had.” +</p> + +<p> +She listened anxiously; the sounds were distant, and seemed to come from a +remote part of the woods that bordered the road; and, as she looked towards the +spot whence they issued, she perceived in the faint moonlight something like a +château. It was difficult, however, to reach this; St. Aubert was now too ill +to bear the motion of the carriage; Michael could not quit his mules; and +Emily, who still supported her father, feared to leave him, and also feared to +venture alone to such a distance, she knew not whither, or to whom. Something, +however, it was necessary to determine upon immediately; St. Aubert, therefore, +told Michael to proceed slowly; but they had not gone far, when he fainted, and +the carriage was again stopped. He lay quite senseless.—“My dear, +dear father!” cried Emily in great agony, who began to fear that he was +dying, “speak, if it is only one word to let me hear the sound of your +voice!” But no voice spoke in reply. In the agony of terror she bade +Michael bring water from the rivulet, that flowed along the road; and, having +received some in the man’s hat, with trembling hands she sprinkled it +over her father’s face, which, as the moon’s rays now fell upon it, +seemed to bear the impression of death. Every emotion of selfish fear now gave +way to a stronger influence, and, committing St. Aubert to the care of Michael, +who refused to go far from his mules, she stepped from the carriage in search +of the château she had seen at a distance. It was a still moonlight night, and +the music, which yet sounded on the air, directed her steps from the high road, +up a shadowy lane, that led to the woods. Her mind was for some time so +entirely occupied by anxiety and terror for her father, that she felt none for +herself, till the deepening gloom of the overhanging foliage, which now wholly +excluded the moonlight, and the wildness of the place, recalled her to a sense +of her adventurous situation. The music had ceased, and she had no guide but +chance. For a moment she paused in terrified perplexity, till a sense of her +father’s condition again overcoming every consideration for herself, she +proceeded. The lane terminated in the woods, but she looked round in vain for a +house, or a human being, and as vainly listened for a sound to guide her. She +hurried on, however, not knowing whither, avoiding the recesses of the woods, +and endeavouring to keep along their margin, till a rude kind of avenue, which +opened upon a moonlight spot, arrested her attention. The wildness of this +avenue brought to her recollection the one leading to the turreted château, and +she was inclined to believe, that this was a part of the same domain, and +probably led to the same point. While she hesitated, whether to follow it or +not, a sound of many voices in loud merriment burst upon her ear. It seemed not +the laugh of cheerfulness, but of riot, and she stood appalled. While she +paused, she heard a distant voice, calling from the way she had come, and not +doubting but it was that of Michael, her first impulse was to hasten back; but +a second thought changed her purpose; she believed that nothing less than the +last extremity could have prevailed with Michael to quit his mules, and fearing +that her father was now dying, she rushed forward, with a feeble hope of +obtaining assistance from the people in the woods. Her heart beat with fearful +expectation, as she drew near the spot whence the voices issued, and she often +startled when her steps disturbed the fallen leaves. The sounds led her towards +the moonlight glade she had before noticed; at a little distance from which +she stopped, and saw, between the boles of the trees, a small circular level of +green turf, surrounded by the woods, on which appeared a group of figures. On +drawing nearer, she distinguished these, by their dress, to be peasants, and +perceived several cottages scattered round the edge of the woods, which waved +loftily over this spot. While she gazed, and endeavoured to overcome the +apprehensions that withheld her steps, several peasant girls came out of a +cottage; music instantly struck up, and the dance began. It was the joyous +music of the vintage—the same she had before heard upon the air. Her +heart, occupied with terror for her father, could not feel the contrast, which +this gay scene offered to her own distress; she stepped hastily forward towards +a group of elder peasants, who were seated at the door of a cottage, and, +having explained her situation, entreated their assistance. Several of them +rose with alacrity, and, offering any service in their power, followed Emily, +who seemed to move on the wind, as fast as they could towards the road. +</p> + +<p> +When she reached the carriage she found St. Aubert restored to animation. On +the recovery of his senses, having heard from Michael whither his daughter was +gone, anxiety for her overcame every regard for himself, and he had sent him in +search of her. He was, however, still languid, and, perceiving himself unable +to travel much farther, he renewed his enquiries for an inn, and concerning the +château in the woods. “The château cannot accommodate you, sir,” +said a venerable peasant who had followed Emily from the woods, “it is +scarcely inhabited; but, if you will do me the honour to visit my cottage, you +shall be welcome to the best bed it affords.” +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman; he therefore was not surprised at French +courtesy; but, ill as he was, he felt the value of the offer enhanced by the +manner which accompanied it. He had too much delicacy to apologise, or to +appear to hesitate about availing himself of the peasant’s hospitality, +but immediately accepted it with the same frankness with which it was offered. +</p> + +<p> +The carriage again moved slowly on; Michael following the peasants up the lane, +which Emily had just quitted, till they came to the moonlight glade. St. +Aubert’s spirits were so far restored by the courtesy of his host, and +the near prospect of repose, that he looked with a sweet complacency upon the +moonlight scene, surrounded by the shadowy woods, through which, here and +there, an opening admitted the streaming splendour, discovering a cottage, or a +sparkling rivulet. He listened, with no painful emotion, to the merry notes of +the guitar and tamborine; and, though tears came to his eyes, when he saw the +<i>debonnaire</i> dance of the peasants, they were not merely tears of mournful +regret. With Emily it was otherwise; immediate terror for her father had now +subsided into a gentle melancholy, which every note of joy, by awakening +comparison, served to heighten. +</p> + +<p> +The dance ceased on the approach of the carriage, which was a phenomenon in +these sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked round it with eager +curiosity. On learning that it brought a sick stranger, several girls ran +across the turf, and returned with wine and baskets of grapes, which they +presented to the travellers, each with kind contention pressing for a +preference. At length, the carriage stopped at a neat cottage, and his +venerable conductor, having assisted St. Aubert to alight, led him and Emily to +a small inner room, illuminated only by moonbeams, which the open casement +admitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing in rest, seated himself in an arm-chair, and +his senses were refreshed by the cool and balmy air, that lightly waved the +embowering honeysuckles, and wafted their sweet breath into the apartment. His +host, who was called La Voisin, quitted the room, but soon returned with +fruits, cream, and all the pastoral luxury his cottage afforded; having set +down which, with a smile of unfeigned welcome, he retired behind the chair of +his guest. St. Aubert insisted on his taking a seat at the table, and, when the +fruit had allayed the fever of his palate, and he found himself somewhat +revived, he began to converse with his host, who communicated several +particulars concerning himself and his family, which were interesting, because +they were spoken from the heart, and delineated a picture of the sweet +courtesies of family kindness. Emily sat by her father, holding his hand, and, +while she listened to the old man, her heart swelled with the affectionate +sympathy he described, and her tears fell to the mournful consideration, that +death would probably soon deprive her of the dearest blessing she then +possessed. The soft moonlight of an autumnal evening, and the distant music, +which now sounded a plaintive strain, aided the melancholy of her mind. The old +man continued to talk of his family, and St. Aubert remained silent. “I +have only one daughter living,” said La Voisin, “but she is happily +married, and is everything to me. When I lost my wife,” he added with a +sigh, “I came to live with Agnes, and her family; she has several +children, who are all dancing on the green yonder, as merry as +grasshoppers—and long may they be so! I hope to die among them, monsieur. +I am old now, and cannot expect to live long, but there is some comfort in +dying surrounded by one’s children.” +</p> + +<p> +“My good friend,” said St. Aubert, while his voice trembled, +“I hope you will long live surrounded by them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, sir! at my age I must not expect that!” replied the old man, +and he paused: “I can scarcely wish it,” he resumed, “for I +trust that whenever I die I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone +before me. I can sometimes almost fancy I see her of a still moonlight night, +walking among these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur, that we +shall be permitted to revisit the earth, after we have quitted the body?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart; her tears fell fast upon +her father’s hand, which she yet held. He made an effort to speak, and at +length said in a low voice, “I hope we shall be permitted to look down on +those we have left on the earth, but I can only hope it. Futurity is much +veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our only guides concerning it. We +are not enjoined to believe, that disembodied spirits watch over the friends +they have loved, but we may innocently hope it. It is a hope which I will never +resign,” continued he, while he wiped the tears from his daughter’s +eyes, “it will sweeten the bitter moments of death!” Tears fell +slowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too, and there was a pause of silence. +Then, La Voisin, renewing the subject, said, “But you believe, sir, that +we shall meet in another world the relations we have loved in this; I must +believe this.” “Then do believe it,” replied St. Aubert, +“severe, indeed, would be the pangs of separation, if we believed it to +be eternal. Look up, my dear Emily, we shall meet again!” He lifted his +eyes towards heaven, and a gleam of moonlight, which fell upon his +countenance, discovered peace and resignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow. +</p> + +<p> +La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too far, and he dropped it, +saying, “We are in darkness, I forgot to bring a light.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said St. Aubert, “this is a light I love. Sit down, my +good friend. Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all day; +this air refreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music, which +floats so sweetly at a distance. Let me see you smile. Who touches that guitar +so tastefully? are there two instruments, or is it an echo I hear?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That guitar is often heard at night, +when all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and it is sometimes +accompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, one would almost think the woods +were haunted.” “They certainly are haunted,” said St. Aubert +with a smile, “but I believe it is by mortals.” “I have +sometimes heard it at midnight, when I could not sleep,” rejoined La +Voisin, not seeming to notice this remark, “almost under my window, and I +never heard any music like it. It has often made me think of my poor wife till +I cried. I have sometimes got up to the window to look if I could see anybody, +but as soon as I opened the casement all was hushed, and nobody to be seen; and +I have listened, and listened till I have been so timorous, that even the +trembling of the leaves in the breeze has made me start. They say it often +comes to warn people of their death, but I have heard it these many years, and +outlived the warning.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridiculous superstition, could +not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly resist its contagion. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but, my good friend,” said St. Aubert, “has nobody had +courage to follow the sounds? If they had, they would probably have discovered +who is the musician.” “Yes, sir, they have followed them some way +into the woods, but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as +ever, and the people have at last been afraid of being led into harm, and would +go no further. It is very seldom that I have heard these sounds so early in the +evening. They usually come about midnight, when that bright planet, which is +rising above the turret yonder, sets below the woods on the left.” +</p> + +<p> +“What turret?” asked St. Aubert with quickness, “I see +none.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for the moon shines full +upon it;—up the avenue yonder, a long way off; the château it belongs to +is hid among the trees.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my dear sir,” said Emily, pointing, “don’t you +see something glitter above the dark woods? It is a fane, I fancy, which the +rays fall upon.” +</p> + +<p> +“O yes, I see what you mean; and who does the château belong to?” +</p> + +<p> +“The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner,” replied La Voisin, +emphatically. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, “are we then so near +Le-Blanc!” He appeared much agitated. +</p> + +<p> +“It used to be the Marquis’s favourite residence,” resumed La +Voisin, “but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there for +many years. We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen into +other hands.” St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was roused by the +last words. “Dead!” he exclaimed, “Good God! when did he +die?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is reported to have died about five weeks since,” replied La +Voisin. “Did you know the Marquis, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“This is very extraordinary!” said St. Aubert without attending to +the question. “Why is it so, my dear sir?” said Emily, in a voice +of timid curiosity. He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie; and in a +few moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked who had succeeded +to the estates. “I have forgot his title, monsieur,” said La +Voisin; “but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of his +coming hither.” +</p> + +<p> +“The château is shut up then, still?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her husband the +steward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage hard +by.” +</p> + +<p> +“The château is spacious, I suppose,” said Emily, “and must +be desolate for the residence of only two persons.” +</p> + +<p> +“Desolate enough, mademoiselle,” replied La Voisin, “I would +not pass one night in the château, for the value of the whole domain.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is that?” said St. Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness. +As his host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St. Aubert, and +then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastily asked La +Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. “Almost from my +childhood, sir,” replied his host. +</p> + +<p> +“You remember the late marchioness, then?” said St. Aubert in an +altered voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, monsieur!—that I do well. There are many besides me who +remember her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—” said St. Aubert, “and I am one of those.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady. She +deserved a better fate.” +</p> + +<p> +Tears stood in St. Aubert’s eyes; “Enough,” said he, in a +voice almost stifled by the violence of his emotions,—“it is +enough, my friend.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, though extremely surprised by her father’s manner, forbore to +express her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologise, but St. +Aubert interrupted him; “Apology is quite unnecessary,” said he, +“let us change the topic. You were speaking of the music we just now +heard.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was, monsieur—but hark!—it comes again; listen to that +voice!” They were all silent; +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound<br/> +Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,<br/> +And stole upon the air, that even Silence<br/> +Was took ere she was ’ware, and wished she might<br/> +Deny her nature, and be never more<br/> +Still, to be so displaced.<br/> + MILTON. +</p> + +<p> +In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which had been +heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert now observed, that it +produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of a guitar, and still +more melancholy and soft than the lute. They continued to listen, but the +sounds returned no more. “This is strange!” said St. Aubert, at +length interrupting the silence. “Very strange!” said Emily. +“It is so,” rejoined La Voisin, and they were again silent. +</p> + +<p> +After a long pause, “It is now about eighteen years since I first heard +that music,” said La Voisin; “I remember it was on a fine +summer’s night, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the +woods, and alone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, for one of my +boys was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had been watching at his +bedside all the evening while his mother slept; for she had sat up with him +the night before. I had been watching, and went out for a little fresh air, the +day had been very sultry. As I walked under the shades and mused, I heard music +at a distance, and thought it was Claude playing upon his flute, as he often +did of a fine evening, at the cottage door. But, when I came to a place where +the trees opened, (I shall never forget it!) and stood looking up at the +north-lights, which shot up the heaven to a great height, I heard all of a +sudden such sounds!—they came so as I cannot describe. It was like the +music of angels, and I looked up again almost expecting to see them in the sky. +When I came home, I told what I had heard, but they laughed at me, and said it +must be some of the shepherds playing on their pipes, and I could not persuade +them to the contrary. A few nights after, however, my wife herself heard the +same sounds, and was as much surprised as I was, and Father Denis frightened +her sadly by saying, that it was music come to warn her of her child’s +death, and that music often came to houses where there was a dying +person.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious dread entirely new to her, +and could scarcely conceal her agitation from St. Aubert. +</p> + +<p> +“But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of Father Denis.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father Denis!” said St. Aubert, who had listened to +‘narrative old age’ with patient attention, “are we near a +convent, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at no great distance, on the +sea shore yonder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said St. Aubert, as if struck with some sudden remembrance, +“the convent of St. Clair!” Emily observed the clouds of grief, +mingled with a faint expression of horror, gathering on his brow; his +countenance became fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver whiteness of +the moonlight, he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument, which +seem to bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of the dead, shown +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +by the blunted light<br/> +That the dim moon through painted casements lends.<br/> + THE EMIGRANTS. +</p> + +<p> +“But, my dear sir,” said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts, +“you forget that repose is necessary to you. If our kind host will give +me leave, I will prepare your bed, for I know how you like it to be +made.” St. Aubert, recollecting himself, and smiling affectionately, +desired she would not add to her fatigue by that attention; and La Voisin, +whose consideration for his guest had been suspended by the interests which his +own narrative had recalled, now started from his seat, and, apologising for not +having called Agnes from the green, hurried out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +In a few moments he returned with his daughter, a young woman of pleasing +countenance, and Emily learned from her, what she had not before suspected, +that, for their accommodation, it was necessary part of La Voisin’s +family should leave their beds; she lamented this circumstance, but Agnes, by +her reply, fully proved that she inherited, at least, a share of her +father’s courteous hospitality. It was settled, that some of her children +and Michael should sleep in the neighbouring cottage. +</p> + +<p> +“If I am better, tomorrow, my dear,” said St. Aubert when Emily +returned to him, “I mean to set out at an early hour, that we may rest, +during the heat of the day, and will travel towards home. In the present state +of my health and spirits I cannot look on a longer journey with pleasure, and I +am also very anxious to reach La Vallée.” Emily, though she also desired +to return, was grieved at her father’s sudden wish to do so, which she +thought indicated a greater degree of indisposition than he would acknowledge. +St. Aubert now retired to rest, and Emily to her little chamber, but not to +immediate repose. Her thoughts returned to the late conversation, concerning +the state of departed spirits; a subject, at this time, particularly affecting +to her, when she had every reason to believe that her dear father would ere +long be numbered with them. She leaned pensively on the little open casement, +and in deep thought fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue unclouded concave +was studded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of spirits, unsphered of +mortal mould. As her eyes wandered along the boundless æther, her thoughts +rose, as before, towards the sublimity of the Deity, and to the contemplation +of futurity. No busy note of this world interrupted the course of her mind; the +merry dance had ceased, and every cottager had retired to his home. The still +air seemed scarcely to breathe upon the woods, and, now and then, the distant +sound of a solitary sheep-bell, or of a closing casement, was all that broke on +silence. At length, even this hint of human being was heard no more. Elevated +and enwrapt, while her eyes were often wet with tears of sublime devotion and +solemn awe, she continued at the casement, till the gloom of midnight hung +over the earth, and the planet, which La Voisin had pointed out, sunk below the +woods. She then recollected what he had said concerning this planet, and the +mysterious music; and, as she lingered at the window, half hoping and half +fearing that it would return, her mind was led to the remembrance of the +extreme emotion her father had shown on mention of the Marquis La +Villeroi’s death, and of the fate of the Marchioness, and she felt +strongly interested concerning the remote cause of this emotion. Her surprise +and curiosity were indeed the greater, because she did not recollect ever to +have heard him mention the name of Villeroi. +</p> + +<p> +No music, however, stole on the silence of the night, and Emily, perceiving the +lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of fatigue, remembered that she was +to rise early in the morning, and withdrew from the window to repose. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a> CHAPTER VII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Let those deplore their doom,<br/> +Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn.<br/> +But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,<br/> +Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.<br/> +Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?<br/> +Is yonder wave the sun’s eternal bed?—<br/> +Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,<br/> +And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,<br/> +Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead!<br/> + BEATTIE +</p> + +<p> +Emily, called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, little refreshed +by sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred the kindest blessing of +the unhappy. But, when she opened her casement, looked out upon the woods, +bright with the morning sun, and inspired the pure air, her mind was soothed. +The scene was filled with that cheering freshness, which seems to breathe the +very spirit of health, and she heard only sweet and <i>picturesque</i> sounds, +if such an expression may be allowed—the matin-bell of a distant convent, +the faint murmur of the sea-waves, the song of birds, and the far-off low of +cattle, which she saw coming slowly on between the trunks of trees. Struck with +the circumstances of imagery around her, she indulged the pensive tranquillity +which they inspired; and while she leaned on her window, waiting till St. +Aubert should descend to breakfast, her ideas arranged themselves in the +following lines: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING<br/><br/> + +How sweet to wind the forest’s tangled shade,<br/> + When early twilight, from the eastern bound,<br/> +Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,<br/> + And fades as morning spreads her blush around!<br/><br/> + +When ev’ry infant flower, that wept in night,<br/> + Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,<br/> +Expands its tender blossom to the light,<br/> + And gives its incense to the genial air.<br/><br/> + +How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume,<br/> + And swells the melody of waking birds;<br/> +The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,<br/> + And woodman’s song, and low of distant herds!<br/><br/> + +Then, doubtful gleams the mountain’s hoary head,<br/> + Seen through the parting foliage from afar;<br/> +And, farther still, the ocean’s misty bed,<br/> + With flitting sails, that partial sunbeams share.<br/><br/> + +But, vain the sylvan shade—the breath of May,<br/> + The voice of music floating on the gale,<br/> +And forms, that beam through morning’s dewy veil,<br/> + If health no longer bid the heart be gay!<br/><br/> + +O balmy hour! ’tis thine her wealth to give,<br/> +Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live! +</p> + +<p> +Emily now heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently the voice of +Michael, who was talking to his mules, as he led them forth from a hut +adjoining. As she left her room, St. Aubert, who was now risen, met her at the +door, apparently as little restored by sleep as herself. She led him down +stairs to the little parlour, in which they had supped on the preceding night, +where they found a neat breakfast set out, while the host and his daughter +waited to bid them good-morrow. +</p> + +<p> +“I envy you this cottage, my good friends,” said St. Aubert, as he +met them, “it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air, that +one breathes—if anything could restore lost health, it would surely be +this air.” +</p> + +<p> +La Voisin bowed gratefully, and replied, with the gallantry of a Frenchman, +“Our cottage may be envied, sir, since you and Mademoiselle have honoured +it with your presence.” St. Aubert gave him a friendly smile for his +compliment, and sat down to a table, spread with cream, fruit, new cheese, +butter, and coffee. Emily, who had observed her father with attention and +thought he looked very ill, endeavoured to persuade him to defer travelling +till the afternoon; but he seemed very anxious to be at home, and his anxiety +he expressed repeatedly, and with an earnestness that was unusual with him. He +now said, he found himself as well as he had been of late, and that he could +bear travelling better in the cool hour of the morning, than at any other time. +But, while he was talking with his venerable host, and thanking him for his +kind attentions, Emily observed his countenance change, and, before she could +reach him, he fell back in his chair. In a few moments he recovered from the +sudden faintness that had come over him, but felt so ill, that he perceived +himself unable to set out, and, having remained a little while, struggling +against the pressure of indisposition, he begged he might be helped up stairs +to bed. This request renewed all the terror which Emily had suffered on the +preceding evening; but, though scarcely able to support herself, under the +sudden shock it gave her, she tried to conceal her apprehensions from St. +Aubert, and gave her trembling arm to assist him to the door of his chamber. +</p> + +<p> +When he was once more in bed, he desired that Emily, who was then weeping in +her own room, might be called; and, as she came, he waved his hand for every +other person to quit the apartment. When they were alone, he held out his hand +to her, and fixed his eyes upon her countenance, with an expression so full of +tenderness and grief, that all her fortitude forsook her, and she burst into an +agony of tears. St. Aubert seemed struggling to acquire firmness, but was still +unable to speak; he could only press her hand, and check the tears that stood +trembling in his eyes. At length he commanded his voice, “My dear +child,” said he, trying to smile through his anguish, “my dear +Emily!”—and paused again. He raised his eyes to heaven, as if in +prayer, and then, in a firmer tone, and with a look, in which the tenderness of +the father was dignified by the pious solemnity of the saint, he said, +“My dear child, I would soften the painful truth I have to tell you, but +I find myself quite unequal to the art. Alas! I would, at this moment, conceal +it from you, but that it would be most cruel to deceive you. It cannot be long +before we must part; let us talk of it, that our thoughts and our prayers may +prepare us to bear it.” His voice faltered, while Emily, still weeping, +pressed his hand close to her heart, which swelled with a convulsive sigh, but +she could not look up. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me not waste these moments,” said St. Aubert, recovering +himself, “I have much to say. There is a circumstance of solemn +consequence, which I have to mention, and a solemn promise to obtain from you; +when this is done I shall be easier. You have observed, my dear, how anxious I +am to reach home, but know not all my reasons for this. Listen to what I am +going to say.—Yet stay—before I say more give me this promise, a +promise made to your dying father!”—St. Aubert was interrupted; +Emily, struck by his last words, as if for the first time, with a conviction of +his immediate danger, raised her head; her tears stopped, and, gazing at him +for a moment with an expression of unutterable anguish, a slight convulsion +seized her, and she sunk senseless in her chair. St. Aubert’s cries +brought La Voisin and his daughter to the room, and they administered every +means in their power to restore her, but, for a considerable time, without +effect. When she recovered, St. Aubert was so exhausted by the scene he had +witnessed, that it was many minutes before he had strength to speak; he was, +however, somewhat revived by a cordial, which Emily gave him; and, being again +alone with her, he exerted himself to tranquilize her spirits, and to offer her +all the comfort of which her situation admitted. She threw herself into his +arms, wept on his neck, and grief made her so insensible to all he said, that +he ceased to offer the alleviations, which he himself could not, at this +moment, feel, and mingled his silent tears with hers. Recalled, at length, to a +sense of duty, she tried to spare her father from a farther view of her +suffering; and, quitting his embrace, dried her tears, and said something, +which she meant for consolation. “My dear Emily,” replied St. +Aubert, “my dear child, we must look up with humble confidence to that +Being, who has protected and comforted us in every danger, and in every +affliction we have known; to whose eye every moment of our lives has been +exposed; he will not, he does not, forsake us now; I feel his consolations in +my heart. I shall leave you, my child, still in his care; and, though I depart +from this world, I shall be still in his presence. Nay, weep not again, my +Emily. In death there is nothing new, or surprising, since we all know, that we +are born to die; and nothing terrible to those, who can confide in an +all-powerful God. Had my life been spared now, after a very few years, in the +course of nature, I must have resigned it; old age, with all its train of +infirmity, its privations and its sorrows, would have been mine; and then, at +last, death would have come, and called forth the tears you now shed. Rather, +my child, rejoice, that I am saved from such suffering, and that I am permitted +to die with a mind unimpaired, and sensible of the comforts of faith and +resignation.” St. Aubert paused, fatigued with speaking. Emily again +endeavoured to assume an air of composure; and, in replying to what he had +said, tried to sooth him with a belief, that he had not spoken in vain. +</p> + +<p> +When he had reposed a while, he resumed the conversation. “Let me +return,” said he, “to a subject, which is very near my heart. I +said I had a solemn promise to receive from you; let me receive it now, before +I explain the chief circumstance which it concerns; there are others, of which +your peace requires that you should rest in ignorance. Promise, then, that you +will perform exactly what I shall enjoin.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, awed by the earnest solemnity of his manner, dried her tears, that had +begun again to flow, in spite of her efforts to suppress them; and, looking +eloquently at St. Aubert, bound herself to do whatever he should require by a +vow, at which she shuddered, yet knew not why. +</p> + +<p> +He proceeded: “I know you too well, my Emily, to believe, that you would +break any promise, much less one thus solemnly given; your assurance gives me +peace, and the observance of it is of the utmost importance to your +tranquillity. Hear, then, what I am going to tell you. The closet, which +adjoins my chamber at La Vallée, has a sliding board in the floor. You will +know it by a remarkable knot in the wood, and by its being the next board, +except one, to the wainscot, which fronts the door. At the distance of about a +yard from that end, nearer the window, you will perceive a line across it, as +if the plank had been joined;—the way to open it is this:—Press +your foot upon the line; the end of the board will then sink, and you may slide +it with ease beneath the other. Below, you will see a hollow place.” St. +Aubert paused for breath, and Emily sat fixed in deep attention. “Do you +understand these directions, my dear?” said he. Emily, though scarcely +able to speak, assured him that she did. +</p> + +<p> +“When you return home, then,” he added with a deep sigh— +</p> + +<p> +At the mention of her return home, all the melancholy circumstances, that must +attend this return, rushed upon her fancy; she burst into convulsive grief, and +St. Aubert himself, affected beyond the resistance of the fortitude which he +had, at first, summoned, wept with her. After some moments, he composed +himself. “My dear child,” said he, “be comforted. When I am +gone, you will not be forsaken—I leave you only in the more immediate +care of that Providence, which has never yet forsaken me. Do not afflict me +with this excess of grief; rather teach me by your example to bear my +own.” He stopped again, and Emily, the more she endeavoured to restrain +her emotion, found it the less possible to do so. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert, who now spoke with pain, resumed the subject. “That closet, +my dear,—when you return home, go to it; and, beneath the board I have +described, you will find a packet of written papers. Attend to me now, for the +promise you have given particularly relates to what I shall direct. These +papers you must burn—and, solemnly I command you, <i>without examining +them</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s surprise, for a moment, overcame her grief, and she ventured to +ask, why this must be? St. Aubert replied, that, if it had been right for him +to explain his reasons, her late promise would have been unnecessarily exacted. +“It is sufficient for you, my love, to have a deep sense of the +importance of observing me in this instance.” St. Aubert proceeded. +“Under that board you will also find about two hundred louis d’ors, +wrapped in a silk purse; indeed, it was to secure whatever money might be in +the château, that this secret place was contrived, at a time when the province +was over-run by troops of men, who took advantage of the tumults, and became +plunderers. +</p> + +<p> +“But I have yet another promise to receive from you, which is—that +you will never, whatever may be your future circumstances, <i>sell</i> the +château.” St. Aubert even enjoined her, whenever she might marry, to make +it an article in the contract, that the château should always be hers. He then +gave her a more minute account of his present circumstances than he had yet +done, adding, “The two hundred louis, with what money you will now find +in my purse, is all the ready money I have to leave you. I have told you how I +am circumstanced with M. Motteville, at Paris. Ah, my child! I leave you +poor—but not destitute,” he added, after a long pause. Emily could +make no reply to anything he now said, but knelt at the bedside, with her +face upon the quilt, weeping over the hand she held there. +</p> + +<p> +After this conversation, the mind of St. Aubert appeared to be much more at +ease; but, exhausted by the effort of speaking, he sunk into a kind of doze, +and Emily continued to watch and weep beside him, till a gentle tap at the +chamber-door roused her. It was La Voisin, come to say, that a confessor from +the neighbouring convent was below, ready to attend St. Aubert. Emily would not +suffer her father to be disturbed, but desired, that the priest might not leave +the cottage. When St. Aubert awoke from this doze, his senses were confused, +and it was some moments before he recovered them sufficiently to know, that it +was Emily who sat beside him. He then moved his lips, and stretched forth his +hand to her; as she received which, she sunk back in her chair, overcome by the +impression of death on his countenance. In a few minutes he recovered his +voice, and Emily then asked, if he wished to see the confessor; he replied, +that he did; and, when the holy father appeared, she withdrew. They remained +alone together above half an hour; when Emily was called in, she found St. +Aubert more agitated than when she had left him, and she gazed, with a slight +degree of resentment, at the friar, as the cause of this; who, however, looked +mildly and mournfully at her, and turned away. St. Aubert, in a tremulous +voice, said, he wished her to join in prayer with him, and asked if La Voisin +would do so too. The old man and his daughter came; they both wept, and knelt +with Emily round the bed, while the holy father read in a solemn voice the +service for the dying. St. Aubert lay with a serene countenance, and seemed to +join fervently in the devotion, while tears often stole from beneath his closed +eyelids, and Emily’s sobs more than once interrupted the service. +</p> + +<p> +When it was concluded, and extreme unction had been administered, the friar +withdrew. St. Aubert then made a sign for La Voisin to come nearer. He gave him +his hand, and was, for a moment, silent. At length, he said, in a trembling +voice, “My good friend, our acquaintance has been short, but long enough +to give you an opportunity of showing me much kind attention. I cannot doubt, +that you will extend this kindness to my daughter, when I am gone; she will +have need of it. I entrust her to your care during the few days she will remain +here. I need say no more—you know the feelings of a father, for you have +children; mine would be, indeed, severe if I had less confidence in you.” +He paused. La Voisin assured him, and his tears bore testimony to his +sincerity, that he would do all he could to soften her affliction, and that, if +St. Aubert wished it, he would even attend her into Gascony; an offer so +pleasing to St. Aubert, that he had scarcely words to acknowledge his sense of +the old man’s kindness, or to tell him, that he accepted it. The scene, +that followed between St. Aubert and Emily, affected La Voisin so much, that he +quitted the chamber, and she was again left alone with her father, whose +spirits seemed fainting fast, but neither his senses, nor his voice, yet failed +him; and, at intervals, he employed much of these last awful moments in +advising his daughter, as to her future conduct. Perhaps, he never had thought +more justly, or expressed himself more clearly, than he did now. +</p> + +<p> +“Above all, my dear Emily,” said he, “do not indulge in the +pride of fine feeling, the romantic error of amiable minds. Those, who really +possess sensibility, ought early to be taught, that it is a dangerous quality, +which is continually extracting the excess of misery, or delight, from every +surrounding circumstance. And, since, in our passage through this world, +painful circumstances occur more frequently than pleasing ones, and since our +sense of evil is, I fear, more acute than our sense of good, we become the +victims of our feelings, unless we can in some degree command them. I know you +will say, (for you are young, my Emily) I know you will say, that you are +contented sometimes to suffer, rather than to give up your refined sense of +happiness, at others; but, when your mind has been long harassed by +vicissitude, you will be content to rest, and you will then recover from your +delusion. You will perceive, that the phantom of happiness is exchanged for the +substance; for happiness arises in a state of peace, not of tumult. It is of a +temperate and uniform nature, and can no more exist in a heart, that is +continually alive to minute circumstances, than in one that is dead to feeling. +You see, my dear, that, though I would guard you against the dangers of +sensibility, I am not an advocate for apathy. At your age I should have said +<i>that</i> is a vice more hateful than all the errors of sensibility, and I +say so still. I call it a <i>vice</i>, because it leads to positive evil; in +this, however, it does no more than an ill-governed sensibility, which, by such +a rule, might also be called a vice; but the evil of the former is of more +general consequence. I have exhausted myself,” said St. Aubert, feebly, +“and have wearied you, my Emily; but, on a subject so important to your +future comfort, I am anxious to be perfectly understood.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily assured him, that his advice was most precious to her, and that she would +never forget it, or cease from endeavouring to profit by it. St. Aubert smiled +affectionately and sorrowfully upon her. “I repeat it,” said he, +“I would not teach you to become insensible, if I could; I would only +warn you of the evils of susceptibility, and point out how you may avoid them. +Beware, my love, I conjure you, of that self-delusion, which has been fatal to +the peace of so many persons; beware of priding yourself on the gracefulness of +sensibility; if you yield to this vanity, your happiness is lost for ever. +Always remember how much more valuable is the strength of fortitude, than the +grace of sensibility. Do not, however, confound fortitude with apathy; apathy +cannot know the virtue. Remember, too, that one act of beneficence, one act of +real usefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment in the world. Sentiment is +a disgrace, instead of an ornament, unless it lead us to good actions. The +miser, who thinks himself respectable, merely because he possesses wealth, and +thus mistakes the means of doing good, for the actual accomplishment of it, is +not more blameable than the man of sentiment, without active virtue. You may +have observed persons, who delight so much in this sort of sensibility to +sentiment, which excludes that to the calls of any practical virtue, that they +turn from the distressed, and, because their sufferings are painful to be +contemplated, do not endeavour to relieve them. How despicable is that +humanity, which can be contented to pity, where it might assuage!” +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert, some time after, spoke of Madame Cheron, his sister. “Let me +inform you of a circumstance, that nearly affects your welfare,” he +added. “We have, you know, had little intercourse for some years, but, as +she is now your only female relation, I have thought it proper to consign you +to her care, as you will see in my will, till you are of age, and to recommend +you to her protection afterwards. She is not exactly the person, to whom I +would have committed my Emily, but I had no alternative, and I believe her to +be upon the whole—a good kind of woman. I need not recommend it to your +prudence, my love, to endeavour to conciliate her kindness; you will do this +for his sake, who has often wished to do so for yours.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily assured him, that, whatever he requested she would religiously perform to +the utmost of her ability. “Alas!” added she, in a voice +interrupted by sighs, “that will soon be all which remains for me; it +will be almost my only consolation to fulfil your wishes.” +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken, but his +spirit sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull. She felt that look at +her heart. “My dear father!” she exclaimed; and then, checking +herself, pressed his hand closer, and hid her face with her handkerchief. Her +tears were concealed, but St. Aubert heard her convulsive sobs. His spirits +returned. “O my child!” said he, faintly, “let my +consolations be yours. I die in peace; for I know, that I am about to return to +the bosom of my Father, who will still be your Father, when I am gone. Always +trust in him, my love, and he will support you in these moments, as he supports +me.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily could only listen, and weep; but the extreme composure of his manner, and +the faith and hope he expressed, somewhat soothed her anguish. Yet, whenever +she looked upon his emaciated countenance, and saw the lines of death beginning +to prevail over it—saw his sunk eyes, still bent on her, and their heavy +lids pressing to a close, there was a pang in her heart, such as defied +expression, though it required filial virtue, like hers, to forbear the +attempt. +</p> + +<p> +He desired once more to bless her; “Where are you, my dear?” said +he, as he stretched forth his hands. Emily had turned to the window, that he +might not perceive her anguish; she now understood, that his sight had failed +him. When he had given her his blessing, and it seemed to be the last effort of +expiring life, he sunk back on his pillow. She kissed his forehead; the damps +of death had settled there, and, forgetting her fortitude for a moment, her +tears mingled with them. St. Aubert lifted up his eyes; the spirit of a father +returned to them, but it quickly vanished, and he spoke no more. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert lingered till about three o’clock in the afternoon, and, thus +gradually sinking into death, he expired without a struggle, or a sigh. +</p> + +<p> +Emily was led from the chamber by La Voisin and his daughter, who did what they +could to comfort her. The old man sat and wept with her. Agnes was more +erroneously officious. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a> CHAPTER VIII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +O’er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,<br/> +Aerial forms shall sit at eve,<br/> +and bend the pensive head.<br/> + COLLINS +</p> + +<p> +The monk, who had before appeared, returned in the evening to offer consolation +to Emily, and brought a kind message from the lady abbess, inviting her to the +convent. Emily, though she did not accept the offer, returned an answer +expressive of her gratitude. The holy conversation of the friar, whose mild +benevolence of manners bore some resemblance to those of St. Aubert, soothed +the violence of her grief, and lifted her heart to the Being, who, extending +through all place and all eternity, looks on the events of this little world as +on the shadows of a moment, and beholds equally, and in the same instant, the +soul that has passed the gates of death, and that, which still lingers in the +body. “In the sight of God,” said Emily, “my dear father now +exists, as truly as he yesterday existed to me; it is to me only that he is +dead; to God and to himself he yet lives!” +</p> + +<p> +The good monk left her more tranquil than she had been since St. Aubert died; +and, before she retired to her little cabin for the night, she trusted herself +so far as to visit the corpse. Silent, and without weeping, she stood by its +side. The features, placid and serene, told the nature of the last sensations, +that had lingered in the now deserted frame. For a moment she turned away, in +horror of the stillness in which death had fixed that countenance, never till +now seen otherwise than animated; then gazed on it with a mixture of doubt and +awful astonishment. Her reason could scarcely overcome an involuntary and +unaccountable expectation of seeing that beloved countenance still susceptible. +She continued to gaze wildly; took up the cold hand; spoke; still gazed, and +then burst into a transport of grief. La Voisin, hearing her sobs, came into +the room to lead her away, but she heard nothing, and only begged that he would +leave her. +</p> + +<p> +Again alone, she indulged her tears, and, when the gloom of evening obscured +the chamber, and almost veiled from her eyes the object of her distress, she +still hung over the body; till her spirits, at length, were exhausted, and she +became tranquil. La Voisin again knocked at the door, and entreated that she +would come to the common apartment. Before she went, she kissed the lips of St. +Aubert, as she was wont to do when she bade him good night. Again she kissed +them; her heart felt as if it would break, a few tears of agony started to her +eyes, she looked up to heaven, then at St. Aubert, and left the room. +</p> + +<p> +Retired to her lonely cabin, her melancholy thoughts still hovered round the +body of her deceased parent; and, when she sunk into a kind of slumber, the +images of her waking mind still haunted her fancy. She thought she saw her +father approaching her with a benign countenance; then, smiling mournfully and +pointing upwards, his lips moved, but, instead of words, she heard sweet music +borne on the distant air, and presently saw his features glow with the mild +rapture of a superior being. The strain seemed to swell louder, and she awoke. +The vision was gone, but music yet came to her ear in strains such as angels +might breathe. She doubted, listened, raised herself in the bed, and again +listened. It was music, and not an illusion of her imagination. After a solemn +steady harmony, it paused; then rose again, in mournful sweetness, and then +died, in a cadence, that seemed to bear away the listening soul to heaven. She +instantly remembered the music of the preceding night, with the strange +circumstances, related by La Voisin, and the affecting conversation it had led +to, concerning the state of departed spirits. All that St. Aubert had said, on +that subject, now pressed upon her heart, and overwhelmed it. What a change in +a few hours! He, who then could only conjecture, was now made acquainted with +truth; was himself become one of the departed! As she listened, she was chilled +with superstitious awe, her tears stopped; and she rose, and went to the +window. All without was obscured in shade; but Emily, turning her eyes from the +massy darkness of the woods, whose waving outline appeared on the horizon, saw, +on the left, that effulgent planet, which the old man had pointed out, setting +over the woods. She remembered what he had said concerning it, and, the music +now coming at intervals on the air, she unclosed the casement to listen to the +strains, that soon gradually sunk to a greater distance, and tried to discover +whence they came. The obscurity prevented her from distinguishing any object on +the green platform below; and the sounds became fainter and fainter, till they +softened into silence. She listened, but they returned no more. Soon after, she +observed the planet trembling between the fringed tops of the woods, and, in +the next moment, sink behind them. Chilled with a melancholy awe, she retired +once more to her bed, and, at length, forgot for a while her sorrows in sleep. +</p> + +<p> +On the following morning, she was visited by a sister of the convent, who came, +with kind offices and a second invitation from the lady abbess; and Emily, +though she could not forsake the cottage, while the remains of her father were +in it, consented, however painful such a visit must be, in the present state of +her spirits, to pay her respects to the abbess, in the evening. +</p> + +<p> +About an hour before sunset, La Voisin showed her the way through the woods to +the convent, which stood in a small bay of the Mediterranean, crowned by a +woody amphitheatre; and Emily, had she been less unhappy, would have admired +the extensive sea view, that appeared from the green slope, in front of the +edifice, and the rich shores, hung with woods and pastures, that extended on +either hand. But her thoughts were now occupied by one sad idea, and the +features of nature were to her colourless and without form. The bell for +vespers struck, as she passed the ancient gate of the convent, and seemed the +funereal note for St. Aubert. Little incidents affect a mind, enervated by +sorrow; Emily struggled against the sickening faintness, that came over her, +and was led into the presence of the abbess, who received her with an air of +maternal tenderness; an air of such gentle solicitude and consideration, as +touched her with an instantaneous gratitude; her eyes were filled with tears, +and the words she would have spoken faltered on her lips. The abbess led her to +a seat, and sat down beside her, still holding her hand and regarding her in +silence, as Emily dried her tears and attempted to speak. “Be composed, +my daughter,” said the abbess in a soothing voice, “do not speak +yet; I know all you would say. Your spirits must be soothed. We are going to +prayers;—will you attend our evening service? It is comfortable, my +child, to look up in our afflictions to a father, who sees and pities us, and +who chastens in his mercy.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s tears flowed again, but a thousand sweet emotions mingled with +them. The abbess suffered her to weep without interruption, and watched over +her with a look of benignity, that might have characterised the countenance of +a guardian angel. Emily, when she became tranquil, was encouraged to speak +without reserve, and to mention the motive, that made her unwilling to quit the +cottage, which the abbess did not oppose even by a hint; but praised the filial +piety of her conduct, and added a hope, that she would pass a few days at the +convent, before she returned to La Vallée. “You must allow yourself a +little time to recover from your first shock, my daughter, before you encounter +a second; I will not affect to conceal from you how much I know your heart must +suffer, on returning to the scene of your former happiness. Here, you will have +all, that quiet and sympathy and religion can give, to restore your spirits. +But come,” added she, observing the tears swell in Emily’s eyes, +“we will go to the chapel.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily followed to the parlour, where the nuns were assembled, to whom the +abbess committed her, saying, “This is a daughter, for whom I have much +esteem; be sisters to her.” +</p> + +<p> +They passed on in a train to the chapel, where the solemn devotion, with which +the service was performed, elevated her mind, and brought to it the comforts of +faith and resignation. +</p> + +<p> +Twilight came on, before the abbess’s kindness would suffer Emily to +depart, when she left the convent, with a heart much lighter than she had +entered it, and was reconducted by La Voisin through the woods, the pensive +gloom of which was in unison with the temper of her mind; and she pursued the +little wild path, in musing silence, till her guide suddenly stopped, looked +round, and then struck out of the path into the high grass, saying he had +mistaken the road. He now walked on quickly, and Emily, proceeding with +difficulty over the obscured and uneven ground, was left at some distance, till +her voice arrested him, who seemed unwilling to stop, and still hurried on. +“If you are in doubt about the way,” said Emily, “had we not +better enquire it at the château yonder, between the trees?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied La Voisin, “there is no occasion. When we reach +that brook, ma’amselle, (you see the light upon the water there, beyond +the woods) when we reach that brook, we shall be at home presently. I +don’t know how I happened to mistake the path; I seldom come this way +after sunset.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is solitary enough,” said Emily, “but you have no +banditti here.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, ma’amselle—no banditti.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you afraid of then, my good friend? you are not +superstitious?” “No, not superstitious; but, to tell you the truth, +lady, nobody likes to go near that château, after dusk.” “By whom +is it inhabited,” said Emily, “that it is so formidable?” +“Why, ma’amselle, it is scarcely inhabited, for our lord the +Marquis, and the lord of all these find woods, too, is dead. He had not once +been in it, for these many years, and his people, who have the care of it, live +in a cottage close by.” Emily now understood this to be the château, +which La Voisin had formerly pointed out, as having belonged to the Marquis +Villeroi, on the mention of which her father had appeared so much affected. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! it is a desolate place now,” continued La Voisin, “and +such a grand, fine place, as I remember it!” Emily enquired what had +occasioned this lamentable change; but the old man was silent, and Emily, whose +interest was awakened by the fear he had expressed, and above all by a +recollection of her father’s agitation, repeated the question, and added, +“If you are neither afraid of the inhabitants, my good friend, nor are +superstitious, how happens it, that you dread to pass near that château in the +dark?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps, then, I am a little superstitious, ma’amselle; and, if +you knew what I do, you might be so too. Strange things have happened there. +Monsieur, your good father, appeared to have known the late Marchioness.” +“Pray inform me what did happen?” said Emily, with much emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! ma’amselle,” answered La Voisin, “enquire no +further; it is not for me to lay open the domestic secrets of my +lord.”—Emily, surprised by the old man’s words, and his +manner of delivering them, forbore to repeat her question; a nearer interest, +the remembrance of St. Aubert, occupied her thoughts, and she was led to +recollect the music she heard on the preceding night, which she mentioned to La +Voisin. “You were not alone, ma’amselle, in this,” he +replied, “I heard it too; but I have so often heard it, at the same hour, +that I was scarcely surprised.” +</p> + +<p> +“You doubtless believe this music to have some connection with the +château,” said Emily suddenly, “and are, therefore, +superstitious.” “It may be so, ma’amselle, but there are +other circumstances, belonging to that château, which I remember, and sadly +too.” A heavy sigh followed: but Emily’s delicacy restrained the +curiosity these words revived, and she enquired no further. +</p> + +<p> +On reaching the cottage, all the violence of her grief returned; it seemed as +if she had escaped its heavy pressure only while she was removed from the +object of it. She passed immediately to the chamber, where the remains of her +father were laid, and yielded to all the anguish of hopeless grief. La Voisin, +at length, persuaded her to leave the room, and she returned to her own, where, +exhausted by the sufferings of the day, she soon fell into deep sleep, and +awoke considerably refreshed. +</p> + +<p> +When the dreadful hour arrived, in which the remains of St. Aubert were to be +taken from her for ever, she went alone to the chamber to look upon his +countenance yet once again, and La Voisin, who had waited patiently below +stairs, till her despair should subside, with the respect due to grief, forbore +to interrupt the indulgence of it, till surprise, at the length of her stay, +and then apprehension overcame his delicacy, and he went to lead her from the +chamber. Having tapped gently at the door, without receiving an answer, he +listened attentively, but all was still; no sigh, no sob of anguish was heard. +Yet more alarmed by this silence, he opened the door, and found Emily lying +senseless across the foot of the bed, near which stood the coffin. His calls +procured assistance, and she was carried to her room, where proper +applications, at length, restored her. +</p> + +<p> +During her state of insensibility, La Voisin had given directions for the +coffin to be closed, and he succeeded in persuading Emily to forbear revisiting +the chamber. She, indeed, felt herself unequal to this, and also perceived the +necessity of sparing her spirits, and recollecting fortitude sufficient to bear +her through the approaching scene. St. Aubert had given a particular +injunction, that his remains should be interred in the church of the convent of +St. Clair, and, in mentioning the north chancel, near the ancient tomb of the +Villerois, had pointed out the exact spot, where he wished to be laid. The +superior had granted this place for the interment, and thither, therefore, the +sad procession now moved, which was met, at the gates, by the venerable priest, +followed by a train of friars. Every person, who heard the solemn chant of the +anthem, and the peal of the organ, that struck up, when the body entered the +church, and saw also the feeble steps, and the assumed tranquillity of Emily, +gave her involuntary tears. She shed none, but walked, her face partly shaded +by a thin black veil, between two persons, who supported her, preceded by the +abbess, and followed by nuns, whose plaintive voices mellowed the swelling +harmony of the dirge. When the procession came to the grave the music ceased. +Emily drew the veil entirely over her face, and, in a momentary pause, between +the anthem and the rest of the service, her sobs were distinctly audible. The +holy father began the service, and Emily again commanded her feelings, till the +coffin was let down, and she heard the earth rattle on its lid. Then, as she +shuddered, a groan burst from her heart, and she leaned for support on the +person who stood next to her. In a few moments she recovered; and, when she +heard those affecting and sublime words: “His body is buried in peace, +and his soul returns to Him that gave it,” her anguish softened into +tears. +</p> + +<p> +The abbess led her from the church into her own parlour, and there administered +all the consolations, that religion and gentle sympathy can give. Emily +struggled against the pressure of grief; but the abbess, observing her +attentively, ordered a bed to be prepared, and recommended her to retire to +repose. She also kindly claimed her promise to remain a few days at the +convent; and Emily, who had no wish to return to the cottage, the scene of all +her sufferings, had leisure, now that no immediate care pressed upon her +attention, to feel the indisposition, which disabled her from immediately +travelling. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, the maternal kindness of the abbess, and the gentle attentions of +the nuns did all, that was possible, towards soothing her spirits and restoring +her health. But the latter was too deeply wounded, through the medium of her +mind, to be quickly revived. She lingered for some weeks at the convent, under +the influence of a slow fever, wishing to return home, yet unable to go +thither; often even reluctant to leave the spot where her father’s relics +were deposited, and sometimes soothing herself with the consideration, that, if +she died here, her remains would repose beside those of St. Aubert. In the +meanwhile, she sent letters to Madame Cheron and to the old housekeeper, +informing them of the sad event, that had taken place, and of her own +situation. From her aunt she received an answer, abounding more in common-place +condolement, than in traits of real sorrow, which assured her, that a servant +should be sent to conduct her to La Vallée, for that her own time was so much +occupied by company, that she had no leisure to undertake so long a journey. +However Emily might prefer La Vallée to Thoulouse, she could not be insensible +to the indecorous and unkind conduct of her aunt, in suffering her to return +thither, where she had no longer a relation to console and protect her; a +conduct, which was the more culpable, since St. Aubert had appointed Madame +Cheron the guardian of his orphan daughter. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Cheron’s servant made the attendance of the good La Voisin +unnecessary; and Emily, who felt sensibly her obligations to him, for all his +kind attention to her late father, as well as to herself, was glad to spare him +a long, and what, at his time of life, must have been a troublesome journey. +</p> + +<p> +During her stay at the convent, the peace and sanctity that reigned within, the +tranquil beauty of the scenery without, and the delicate attentions of the +abbess and the nuns, were circumstances so soothing to her mind, that they +almost tempted her to leave a world, where she had lost her dearest friends, +and devote herself to the cloister, in a spot, rendered sacred to her by +containing the tomb of St. Aubert. The pensive enthusiasm, too, so natural to +her temper, had spread a beautiful illusion over the sanctified retirement of a +nun, that almost hid from her view the selfishness of its security. But the +touches, which a melancholy fancy, slightly tinctured with superstition, gave +to the monastic scene, began to fade, as her spirits revived, and brought once +more to her heart an image, which had only transiently been banished thence. By +this she was silently awakened to hope and comfort and sweet affections; +visions of happiness gleamed faintly at a distance, and, though she knew them +to be illusions, she could not resolve to shut them out for ever. It was the +remembrance of Valancourt, of his taste, his genius, and of the countenance +which glowed with both, that, perhaps, alone determined her to return to the +world. The grandeur and sublimity of the scenes, amidst which they had first +met, had fascinated her fancy, and had imperceptibly contributed to render +Valancourt more interesting by seeming to communicate to him somewhat of their +own character. The esteem, too, which St. Aubert had repeatedly expressed for +him, sanctioned this kindness; but, though his countenance and manner had +continually expressed his admiration of her, he had not otherwise declared it; +and even the hope of seeing him again was so distant, that she was scarcely +conscious of it, still less that it influenced her conduct on this occasion. +</p> + +<p> +It was several days after the arrival of Madame Cheron’s servant before +Emily was sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey to La Vallée. On the +evening preceding her departure, she went to the cottage to take leave of La +Voisin and his family, and to make them a return for their kindness. The old +man she found sitting on a bench at his door, between his daughter, and his +son-in-law, who was just returned from his daily labour, and who was playing +upon a pipe, that, in tone, resembled an oboe. A flask of wine stood beside the +old man, and, before him, a small table with fruit and bread, round which stood +several of his grandsons, fine rosy children, who were taking their supper, as +their mother distributed it. On the edge of the little green, that spread +before the cottage, were cattle and a few sheep reposing under the trees. The +landscape was touched with the mellow light of the evening sun, whose long +slanting beams played through a vista of the woods, and lighted up the distant +turrets of the château. She paused a moment, before she emerged from the shade, +to gaze upon the happy group before her—on the complacency and ease of +healthy age, depictured on the countenance of La Voisin; the maternal +tenderness of Agnes, as she looked upon her children, and the innocency of +infantine pleasures, reflected in their smiles. Emily looked again at the +venerable old man, and at the cottage; the memory of her father rose with full +force upon her mind, and she hastily stepped forward, afraid to trust herself +with a longer pause. She took an affectionate and affecting leave of La Voisin +and his family; he seemed to love her as his daughter, and shed tears; Emily +shed many. She avoided going into the cottage, since she knew it would revive +emotions, such as she could not now endure. +</p> + +<p> +One painful scene yet awaited her, for she determined to visit again her +father’s grave; and that she might not be interrupted, or observed in the +indulgence of her melancholy tenderness, she deferred her visit, till every +inhabitant of the convent, except the nun who promised to bring her the key of +the church, should be retired to rest. Emily remained in her chamber, till she +heard the convent bell strike twelve, when the nun came, as she had appointed, +with the key of a private door, that opened into the church, and they descended +together the narrow winding staircase, that led thither. The nun offered to +accompany Emily to the grave, adding, “It is melancholy to go alone at +this hour;” but the former, thanking her for the consideration, could not +consent to have any witness of her sorrow; and the sister, having unlocked the +door, gave her the lamp. “You will remember, sister,” said she, +“that in the east aisle, which you must pass, is a newly opened grave; +hold the light to the ground, that you may not stumble over the loose +earth.” Emily, thanking her again, took the lamp, and, stepping into the +church, sister Mariette departed. But Emily paused a moment at the door; a +sudden fear came over her, and she returned to the foot of the staircase, +where, as she heard the steps of the nun ascending, and, while she held up the +lamp, saw her black veil waving over the spiral balusters, she was tempted to +call her back. While she hesitated, the veil disappeared, and, in the next +moment, ashamed of her fears, she returned to the church. The cold air of the +aisles chilled her, and their deep silence and extent, feebly shone upon by the +moonlight, that streamed through a distant gothic window, would at any other +time have awed her into superstition; now, grief occupied all her attention. +She scarcely heard the whispering echoes of her own steps, or thought of the +open grave, till she found herself almost on its brink. A friar of the convent +had been buried there on the preceding evening, and, as she had sat alone in +her chamber at twilight, she heard, at distance, the monks chanting the requiem +for his soul. This brought freshly to her memory the circumstances of her +father’s death; and, as the voices, mingling with a low querulous peal of +the organ, swelled faintly, gloomy and affecting visions had arisen upon her +mind. Now she remembered them, and, turning aside to avoid the broken ground, +these recollections made her pass on with quicker steps to the grave of St. +Aubert, when in the moonlight, that fell athwart a remote part of the aisle, +she thought she saw a shadow gliding between the pillars. She stopped to +listen, and, not hearing any footstep, believed that her fancy had deceived +her, and, no longer apprehensive of being observed, proceeded. St. Aubert was +buried beneath a plain marble, bearing little more than his name and the date +of his birth and death, near the foot of the stately monument of the Villerois. +Emily remained at his grave, till a chime, that called the monks to early +prayers, warned her to retire; then, she wept over it a last farewell, and +forced herself from the spot. After this hour of melancholy indulgence, she was +refreshed by a deeper sleep, than she had experienced for a long time, and, on +awakening, her mind was more tranquil and resigned, than it had been since St. +Aubert’s death. +</p> + +<p> +But, when the moment of her departure from the convent arrived, all her grief +returned; the memory of the dead, and the kindness of the living attached her +to the place; and for the sacred spot, where her father’s remains were +interred, she seemed to feel all those tender affections which we conceive for +home. The abbess repeated many kind assurances of regard at their parting, and +pressed her to return, if ever she should find her condition elsewhere +unpleasant; many of the nuns also expressed unaffected regret at her departure, +and Emily left the convent with many tears, and followed by sincere wishes for +her happiness. +</p> + +<p> +She had travelled several leagues, before the scenes of the country, through +which she passed, had power to rouse her for a moment from the deep melancholy, +into which she was sunk, and, when they did, it was only to remind her, that, +on her last view of them, St. Aubert was at her side, and to call up to her +remembrance the remarks he had delivered on similar scenery. Thus, without any +particular occurrence, passed the day in languor and dejection. She slept that +night in a town on the skirts of Languedoc, and, on the following morning, +entered Gascony. +</p> + +<p> +Towards the close of this day, Emily came within view of the plains in the +neighbourhood of La Vallée, and the well-known objects of former times began to +press upon her notice, and with them recollections, that awakened all her +tenderness and grief. Often, while she looked through her tears upon the wild +grandeur of the Pyrenees, now varied with the rich lights and shadows of +evening, she remembered, that, when last she saw them, her father partook with +her of the pleasure they inspired. Suddenly some scene, which he had +particularly pointed out to her, would present itself, and the sick languor of +despair would steal upon her heart. “There!” she would exclaim, +“there are the very cliffs, there the wood of pines, which he looked at +with such delight, as we passed this road together for the last time. There, +too, under the crag of that mountain, is the cottage, peeping from among the +cedars, which he bade me remember, and copy with my pencil. O my father, shall +I never see you more!” +</p> + +<p> +As she drew near the château, these melancholy memorials of past times +multiplied. At length, the château itself appeared, amid the glowing beauty of +St. Aubert’s favourite landscape. This was an object, which called for +fortitude, not for tears; Emily dried hers, and prepared to meet with calmness +the trying moment of her return to that home, where there was no longer a +parent to welcome her. “Yes,” said she, “let me not forget +the lessons he has taught me! How often he has pointed out the necessity of +resisting even virtuous sorrow; how often we have admired together the +greatness of a mind, that can at once suffer and reason! O my father! if you +are permitted to look down upon your child, it will please you to see, that she +remembers, and endeavours to practise, the precepts you have given her.” +</p> + +<p> +A turn on the road now allowed a nearer view of the château, the chimneys, +tipped with light, rising from behind St. Aubert’s favourite oaks, whose +foliage partly concealed the lower part of the building. Emily could not +suppress a heavy sigh. “This, too, was his favourite hour,” said +she, as she gazed upon the long evening shadows, stretched athwart the +landscape. “How deep the repose, how lovely the scene! lovely and +tranquil as in former days!” +</p> + +<p> +Again she resisted the pressure of sorrow, till her ear caught the gay melody +of the dance, which she had so often listened to, as she walked with St. +Aubert, on the margin of the Garonne, when all her fortitude forsook her, and +she continued to weep, till the carriage stopped at the little gate, that +opened upon what was now her own territory. She raised her eyes on the sudden +stopping of the carriage, and saw her father’s old housekeeper coming to +open the gate. Manchon also came running, and barking before her; and when his +young mistress alighted, fawned, and played round her, gasping with joy. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear ma’amselle!” said Theresa, and paused, and looked as if +she would have offered something of condolement to Emily, whose tears now +prevented reply. The dog still fawned and ran round her, and then flew towards +the carriage, with a short quick bark. “Ah, ma’amselle!—my +poor master!” said Theresa, whose feelings were more awakened than her +delicacy, “Manchon’s gone to look for him.” Emily sobbed +aloud; and, on looking towards the carriage, which still stood with the door +open, saw the animal spring into it, and instantly leap out, and then with his +nose on the ground run round the horses. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t cry so, ma’amselle,” said Theresa, “it +breaks my heart to see you.” The dog now came running to Emily, then +returned to the carriage, and then back again to her, whining and discontented. +“Poor rogue!” said Theresa, “thou hast lost thy master, thou +mayst well cry! But come, my dear young lady, be comforted. What shall I get to +refresh you?” Emily gave her hand to the old servant, and tried to +restrain her grief, while she made some kind enquiries concerning her health. +But she still lingered in the walk which led to the château, for within was no +person to meet her with the kiss of affection; her own heart no longer +palpitated with impatient joy to meet again the well-known smile, and she +dreaded to see objects, which would recall the full remembrance of her former +happiness. She moved slowly towards the door, paused, went on, and paused +again. How silent, how forsaken, how forlorn did the château appear! Trembling +to enter it, yet blaming herself for delaying what she could not avoid, she, at +length, passed into the hall; crossed it with a hurried step, as if afraid to +look round, and opened the door of that room, which she was wont to call her +own. The gloom of evening gave solemnity to its silent and deserted air. The +chairs, the tables, every article of furniture, so familiar to her in happier +times, spoke eloquently to her heart. She seated herself, without immediately +observing it, in a window, which opened upon the garden, and where St. Aubert +had often sat with her, watching the sun retire from the rich and extensive +prospect, that appeared beyond the groves. +</p> + +<p> +Having indulged her tears for some time, she became more composed; and, when +Theresa, after seeing the baggage deposited in her lady’s room, again +appeared, she had so far recovered her spirits, as to be able to converse with +her. +</p> + +<p> +“I have made up the green bed for you, ma’amselle,” said +Theresa, as she set the coffee upon the table. “I thought you would like +it better than your own now; but I little thought this day month, that you +would come back alone. A-well-a-day! the news almost broke my heart, when it +did come. Who would have believed, that my poor master, when he went from home, +would never return again!” Emily hid her face with her handkerchief, and +waved her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Do taste the coffee,” said Theresa. “My dear young lady, be +comforted—we must all die. My dear master is a saint above.” Emily +took the handkerchief from her face, and raised her eyes full of tears towards +heaven; soon after she dried them, and, in a calm, but tremulous voice, began +to enquire concerning some of her late father’s pensioners. +</p> + +<p> +“Alas-a-day!” said Theresa, as she poured out the coffee, and +handed it to her mistress, “all that could come, have been here every day +to enquire after you and my master.” She then proceeded to tell, that +some were dead whom they had left well; and others, who were ill, had +recovered. “And see, ma’amselle,” added Theresa, “there +is old Mary coming up the garden now; she has looked every day these three +years as if she would die, yet she is alive still. She has seen the chaise at +the door, and knows you are come home.” +</p> + +<p> +The sight of this poor old woman would have been too much for Emily, and she +begged Theresa would go and tell her, that she was too ill to see any person +that night. “Tomorrow I shall be better, perhaps; but give her this +token of my remembrance.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily sat for some time, given up to sorrow. Not an object, on which her eye +glanced, but awakened some remembrance, that led immediately to the subject of +her grief. Her favourite plants, which St. Aubert had taught her to nurse; the +little drawings, that adorned the room, which his taste had instructed her to +execute; the books, that he had selected for her use, and which they had read +together; her musical instruments, whose sounds he loved so well, and which he +sometimes awakened himself—every object gave new force to sorrow. At +length, she roused herself from this melancholy indulgence, and, summoning all +her resolution, stepped forward to go into those forlorn rooms, which, though +she dreaded to enter, she knew would yet more powerfully affect her, if she +delayed to visit them. +</p> + +<p> +Having passed through the green-house, her courage for a moment forsook her, +when she opened the door of the library; and, perhaps, the shade, which evening +and the foliage of the trees near the windows threw across the room, heightened +the solemnity of her feelings on entering that apartment, where everything +spoke of her father. There was an arm chair, in which he used to sit; she +shrunk when she observed it, for she had so often seen him seated there, and +the idea of him rose so distinctly to her mind, that she almost fancied she saw +him before her. But she checked the illusions of a distempered imagination, +though she could not subdue a certain degree of awe, which now mingled with her +emotions. She walked slowly to the chair, and seated herself in it; there was a +reading-desk before it, on which lay a book open, as it had been left by her +father. It was some moments before she recovered courage enough to examine it; +and, when she looked at the open page, she immediately recollected, that St. +Aubert, on the evening before his departure from the château, had read to her +some passages from this his favourite author. The circumstance now affected her +extremely; she looked at the page, wept, and looked again. To her the book +appeared sacred and invaluable, and she would not have moved it, or closed the +page, which he had left open, for the treasures of the Indies. Still she sat +before the desk, and could not resolve to quit it, though the increasing gloom, +and the profound silence of the apartment, revived a degree of painful awe. Her +thoughts dwelt on the probable state of departed spirits, and she remembered +the affecting conversation, which had passed between St. Aubert and La Voisin, +on the night preceding his death. +</p> + +<p> +As she mused she saw the door slowly open, and a rustling sound in a remote +part of the room startled her. Through the dusk she thought she perceived +something move. The subject she had been considering, and the present tone of +her spirits, which made her imagination respond to every impression of her +senses, gave her a sudden terror of something supernatural. She sat for a +moment motionless, and then, her dissipated reason returning, “What +should I fear?” said she. “If the spirits of those we love ever +return to us, it is in kindness.” +</p> + +<p> +The silence, which again reigned, made her ashamed of her late fears, and she +believed, that her imagination had deluded her, or that she had heard one of +those unaccountable noises, which sometimes occur in old houses. The same +sound, however, returned; and, distinguishing something moving towards her, and +in the next instant press beside her into the chair, she shrieked; but her +fleeting senses were instantly recalled, on perceiving that it was Manchon who +sat by her, and who now licked her hands affectionately. +</p> + +<p> +Perceiving her spirits unequal to the task she had assigned herself of visiting +the deserted rooms of the château this night, when she left the library, she +walked into the garden, and down to the terrace, that overhung the river. The +sun was now set; but, under the dark branches of the almond trees, was seen the +saffron glow of the west, spreading beyond the twilight of middle air. The bat +flitted silently by; and, now and then, the mourning note of the nightingale +was heard. The circumstances of the hour brought to her recollection some +lines, which she had once heard St. Aubert recite on this very spot, and she +had now a melancholy pleasure in repeating them. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +SONNET<br/><br/> + +Now the bat circles on the breeze of eve,<br/> + That creeps, in shudd’ring fits, along the wave,<br/> + And trembles ’mid the woods, and through the cave<br/> +Whose lonely sighs the wanderer deceive;<br/><br/> + +For oft, when melancholy charms his mind,<br/> + He thinks the Spirit of the rock he hears,<br/> + Nor listens, but with sweetly-thrilling fears,<br/> +To the low, mystic murmurs of the wind!<br/><br/> + +Now the bat circles, and the twilight-dew<br/> + Falls silent round, and, o’er the mountain-cliff,<br/> + The gleaming wave, and far-discover’d skiff,<br/> +Spreads the grey veil of soft, harmonious hue.<br/><br/> + +So falls o’er Grief the dew of pity’s tear<br/> +Dimming her lonely visions of despair. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, wandering on, came to St. Aubert’s favourite plane-tree, where so +often, at this hour, they had sat beneath the shade together, and with her dear +mother so often had conversed on the subject of a future state. How often, too, +had her father expressed the comfort he derived from believing, that they +should meet in another world! Emily, overcome by these recollections, left the +plane-tree, and, as she leaned pensively on the wall of the terrace, she +observed a group of peasants dancing gaily on the banks of the Garonne, which +spread in broad expanse below, and reflected the evening light. What a contrast +they formed to the desolate, unhappy Emily! They were gay and +<i>debonnaire</i>, as they were wont to be when she, too, was gay—when +St. Aubert used to listen to their merry music, with a countenance beaming +pleasure and benevolence. Emily, having looked for a moment on this sprightly +band, turned away, unable to bear the remembrances it excited; but where, alas! +could she turn, and not meet new objects to give acuteness to grief? +</p> + +<p> +As she walked slowly towards the house, she was met by Theresa. “Dear +ma’amselle,” said she, “I have been seeking you up and down +this half hour, and was afraid some accident had happened to you. How can you +like to wander about so in this night air! Do come into the house. Think what +my poor master would have said, if he could see you. I am sure, when my dear +lady died, no gentleman could take it more to heart than he did, yet you know +he seldom shed a tear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray, Theresa, cease,” said Emily, wishing to interrupt this +ill-judged, but well-meaning harangue; Theresa’s loquacity, however, was +not to be silenced so easily. “And when you used to grieve so,” she +added, “he often told you how wrong it was—for that my mistress was +happy. And, if she was happy, I am sure he is so too; for the prayers of the +poor, they say, reach heaven.” During this speech, Emily had walked +silently into the château, and Theresa lighted her across the hall into the +common sitting parlour, where she had laid the cloth, with one solitary knife +and fork, for supper. Emily was in the room before she perceived that it was +not her own apartment, but she checked the emotion which inclined her to leave +it, and seated herself quietly by the little supper table. Her father’s +hat hung upon the opposite wall; while she gazed at it, a faintness came over +her. Theresa looked at her, and then at the object, on which her eyes were +settled, and went to remove it; but Emily waved her +hand—“No,” said she, “let it remain. I am going to my +chamber.” “Nay, ma’amselle, supper is ready.” “I +cannot take it,” replied Emily, “I will go to my room, and try to +sleep. Tomorrow I shall be better.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is poor doings!” said Theresa. “Dear lady! do take some +food! I have dressed a pheasant, and a fine one it is. Old Monsieur Barreaux +sent it this morning, for I saw him yesterday, and told him you were coming. +And I know nobody that seemed more concerned, when he heard the sad news, then +he.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he?” said Emily, in a tender voice, while she felt her poor +heart warmed for a moment by a ray of sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +At length, her spirits were entirely overcome, and she retired to her room. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a> CHAPTER IX </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Can Music’s voice, can Beauty’s eye,<br/> +Can Painting’s glowing hand supply<br/> +A charm so suited to my mind,<br/> +As blows this hollow gust of wind?<br/> +As drops this little weeping rill,<br/> +Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill;<br/> +While, through the west, where sinks the crimson day,<br/> +Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners grey?<br/> + MASON +</p> + +<p> +Emily, some time after her return to La Vallée, received letters from her aunt, +Madame Cheron, in which, after some common-place condolement and advice, she +invited her to Thoulouse, and added, that, as her late brother had entrusted +Emily’s <i>education</i> to her, she should consider herself bound to +overlook her conduct. Emily, at this time, wished only to remain at La Vallée, +in the scenes of her early happiness, now rendered infinitely dear to her, as +the late residence of those, whom she had lost for ever, where she could weep +unobserved, retrace their steps, and remember each minute particular of their +manners. But she was equally anxious to avoid the displeasure of Madame Cheron. +</p> + +<p> +Though her affection would not suffer her to question, even a moment, the +propriety of St. Aubert’s conduct in appointing Madame Cheron for her +guardian, she was sensible, that this step had made her happiness depend, in a +great degree, on the humour of her aunt. In her reply, she begged permission to +remain, at present, at La Vallée, mentioning the extreme dejection of her +spirits, and the necessity she felt for quiet and retirement to restore them. +These she knew were not to be found at Madame Cheron’s, whose +inclinations led her into a life of dissipation, which her ample fortune +encouraged; and, having given her answer, she felt somewhat more at ease. +</p> + +<p> +In the first days of her affliction, she was visited by Monsieur Barreaux, a +sincere mourner for St. Aubert. “I may well lament my friend,” said +he, “for I shall never meet with his resemblance. If I could have found +such a man in what is called society, I should not have left it.” +</p> + +<p> +M. Barreaux’s admiration of her father endeared him extremely to Emily, +whose heart found almost its first relief in conversing of her parents, with a +man, whom she so much revered, and who, though with such an ungracious +appearance, possessed to much goodness of heart and delicacy of mind. +</p> + +<p> +Several weeks passed away in quiet retirement, and Emily’s affliction +began to soften into melancholy. She could bear to read the books she had +before read with her father; to sit in his chair in the library—to watch +the flowers his hand had planted—to awaken the tones of that instrument +his fingers had pressed, and sometimes even to play his favourite air. +</p> + +<p> +When her mind had recovered from the first shock of affliction, perceiving the +danger of yielding to indolence, and that activity alone could restore its +tone, she scrupulously endeavoured to pass all her hours in employment. And it +was now that she understood the full value of the education she had received +from St. Aubert, for in cultivating her understanding he had secured her an +asylum from indolence, without recourse to dissipation, and rich and varied +amusement and information, independent of the society, from which her situation +secluded her. Nor were the good effects of this education confined to selfish +advantages, since, St. Aubert having nourished every amiable quality of her +heart, it now expanded in benevolence to all around her, and taught her, when +she could not remove the misfortunes of others, at least to soften them by +sympathy and tenderness;—a benevolence that taught her to feel for all, +that could suffer. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Cheron returned no answer to Emily’s letter, who began to hope, +that she should be permitted to remain some time longer in her retirement, and +her mind had now so far recovered its strength, that she ventured to view the +scenes, which most powerfully recalled the images of past times. Among these +was the fishing-house; and, to indulge still more the affectionate melancholy +of the visit, she took thither her lute, that she might again hear there the +tones, to which St. Aubert and her mother had so often delighted to listen. She +went alone, and at that still hour of the evening which is so soothing to fancy +and to grief. The last time she had been here she was in company with Monsieur +and Madame St. Aubert, a few days preceding that, on which the latter was +seized with a fatal illness. Now, when Emily again entered the woods, that +surrounded the building, they awakened so forcibly the memory of former times, +that her resolution yielded for a moment to excess of grief. She stopped, +leaned for support against a tree, and wept for some minutes, before she had +recovered herself sufficiently to proceed. The little path, that led to the +building, was overgrown with grass and the flowers which St. Aubert had +scattered carelessly along the border were almost choked with weeds—the +tall thistle—the fox-glove, and the nettle. She often paused to look on +the desolate spot, now so silent and forsaken, and when, with a trembling hand, +she opened the door of the fishing-house, “Ah!” said she, +“everything—everything remains as when I left it last—left +it with those who never must return!” She went to a window, that overhung +the rivulet, and, leaning over it, with her eyes fixed on the current, was soon +lost in melancholy reverie. The lute she had brought lay forgotten beside her; +the mournful sighing of the breeze, as it waved the high pines above, and its +softer whispers among the osiers, that bowed upon the banks below, was a kind +of music more in unison with her feelings. It did not vibrate on the chords of +unhappy memory, but was soothing to the heart as the voice of Pity. She +continued to muse, unconscious of the gloom of evening, and that the +sun’s last light trembled on the heights above, and would probably have +remained so much longer, if a sudden footstep, without the building, had not +alarmed her attention, and first made her recollect that she was unprotected. +In the next moment, a door opened, and a stranger appeared, who stopped on +perceiving Emily, and then began to apologise for his intrusion. But Emily, at +the sound of his voice, lost her fear in a stronger emotion: its tones were +familiar to her ear, and, though she could not readily distinguish through the +dusk the features of the person who spoke, she felt a remembrance too strong to +be distrusted. +</p> + +<p> +He repeated his apology, and Emily then said something in reply, when the +stranger eagerly advancing, exclaimed, “Good God! can it be—surely +I am not mistaken—ma’amselle St. Aubert?—is it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is indeed,” said Emily, who was confirmed in her first +conjecture, for she now distinguished the countenance of Valancourt, lighted up +with still more than its usual animation. A thousand painful recollections +crowded to her mind, and the effort, which she made to support herself, only +served to increase her agitation. Valancourt, meanwhile, having enquired +anxiously after her health, and expressed his hopes, that M. St. Aubert had +found benefit from travelling, learned from the flood of tears, which she could +no longer repress, the fatal truth. He led her to a seat, and sat down by her, +while Emily continued to weep, and Valancourt to hold the hand, which she was +unconscious he had taken, till it was wet with the tears, which grief for St. +Aubert and sympathy for herself had called forth. +</p> + +<p> +“I feel,” said he at length, “I feel how insufficient all +attempt at consolation must be on this subject. I can only mourn with you, for +I cannot doubt the source of your tears. Would to God I were mistaken!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily could still answer only by tears, till she rose, and begged they might +leave the melancholy spot, when Valancourt, though he saw her feebleness, could +not offer to detain her, but took her arm within his, and led her from the +fishing-house. They walked silently through the woods, Valancourt anxious to +know, yet fearing to ask any particulars concerning St. Aubert; and Emily too +much distressed to converse. After some time, however, she acquired fortitude +enough to speak of her father, and to give a brief account of the manner of his +death; during which recital Valancourt’s countenance betrayed strong +emotion, and, when he heard that St. Aubert had died on the road, and that +Emily had been left among strangers, he pressed her hand between his, and +involuntarily exclaimed, “Why was I not there!” but in the next +moment recollected himself, for he immediately returned to the mention of her +father; till, perceiving that her spirits were exhausted, he gradually changed +the subject, and spoke of himself. Emily thus learned that, after they had +parted, he had wandered, for some time, along the shores of the Mediterranean, +and had then returned through Languedoc into Gascony, which was his native +province, and where he usually resided. +</p> + +<p> +When he had concluded his little narrative, he sunk into a silence, which Emily +was not disposed to interrupt, and it continued, till they reached the gate of +the château, when he stopped, as if he had known this to be the limit of his +walk. Here, saying, that it was his intention to return to Estuvière on the +following day, he asked her if she would permit him to take leave of her in the +morning; and Emily, perceiving that she could not reject an ordinary civility, +without expressing by her refusal an expectation of something more, was +compelled to answer, that she should be at home. +</p> + +<p> +She passed a melancholy evening, during which the retrospect of all that had +happened, since she had seen Valancourt, would rise to her imagination; and the +scene of her father’s death appeared in tints as fresh, as if it had +passed on the preceding day. She remembered particularly the earnest and solemn +manner, in which he had required her to destroy the manuscript papers, and, +awakening from the lethargy, in which sorrow had held her, she was shocked to +think she had not yet obeyed him, and determined, that another day should not +reproach her with the neglect. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a> CHAPTER X </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Can such things be,<br/> +And overcome us like a summer’s cloud,<br/> +Without our special wonder?<br/> + MACBETH +</p> + +<p> +On the next morning, Emily ordered a fire to be lighted in the stove of the +chamber, where St. Aubert used to sleep; and, as soon as she had breakfasted, +went thither to burn the papers. Having fastened the door to prevent +interruption, she opened the closet where they were concealed, as she entered +which, she felt an emotion of unusual awe, and stood for some moments surveying +it, trembling, and almost afraid to remove the board. There was a great chair +in one corner of the closet, and, opposite to it, stood the table, at which she +had seen her father sit, on the evening that preceded his departure, looking +over, with so much emotion, what she believed to be these very papers. +</p> + +<p> +The solitary life, which Emily had led of late, and the melancholy subjects, on +which she had suffered her thoughts to dwell, had rendered her at times +sensible to the ‘thick-coming fancies’ of a mind greatly enervated. +It was lamentable, that her excellent understanding should have yielded, even +for a moment, to the reveries of superstition, or rather to those starts of +imagination, which deceive the senses into what can be called nothing less than +momentary madness. Instances of this temporary failure of mind had more than +once occurred since her return home; particularly when, wandering through this +lonely mansion in the evening twilight, she had been alarmed by appearances, +which would have been unseen in her more cheerful days. To this infirm state of +her nerves may be attributed what she imagined, when, her eyes glancing a +second time on the arm-chair, which stood in an obscure part of the closet, the +countenance of her dead father appeared there. Emily stood fixed for a moment +to the floor, after which she left the closet. Her spirits, however, soon +returned; she reproached herself with the weakness of thus suffering +interruption in an act of serious importance, and again opened the door. By the +directions which St. Aubert had given her, she readily found the board he had +described in an opposite corner of the closet, near the window; she +distinguished also the line he had mentioned, and, pressing it as he had bade +her, it slid down, and disclosed the bundle of papers, together with some +scattered ones, and the purse of louis. With a trembling hand she removed them, +replaced the board, paused a moment, and was rising from the floor, when, on +looking up, there appeared to her alarmed fancy the same countenance in the +chair. The illusion, another instance of the unhappy effect which solitude and +grief had gradually produced upon her mind, subdued her spirits; she rushed +forward into the chamber, and sunk almost senseless into a chair. Returning +reason soon overcame the dreadful, but pitiable attack of imagination, and she +turned to the papers, though still with so little recollection, that her eyes +involuntarily settled on the writing of some loose sheets, which lay open; and +she was unconscious, that she was transgressing her father’s strict +injunction, till a sentence of dreadful import awakened her attention and her +memory together. She hastily put the papers from her; but the words, which had +roused equally her curiosity and terror, she could not dismiss from her +thoughts. So powerfully had they affected her, that she even could not resolve +to destroy the papers immediately; and the more she dwelt on the circumstance, +the more it inflamed her imagination. Urged by the most forcible, and +apparently the most necessary, curiosity to enquire farther, concerning the +terrible and mysterious subject, to which she had seen an allusion, she began +to lament her promise to destroy the papers. For a moment, she even doubted, +whether it could justly be obeyed, in contradiction to such reasons as there +appeared to be for further information. But the delusion was momentary. +</p> + +<p> +“I have given a solemn promise,” said she, “to observe a +solemn injunction, and it is not my business to argue, but to obey. Let me +hasten to remove the temptation, that would destroy my innocence, and embitter +my life with the consciousness of irremediable guilt, while I have strength to +reject it.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus reanimated with a sense of her duty, she completed the triumph of her +integrity over temptation, more forcible than any she had ever known, and +consigned the papers to the flames. Her eyes watched them as they slowly +consumed, she shuddered at the recollection of the sentence she had just seen, +and at the certainty, that the only opportunity of explaining it was then +passing away for ever. +</p> + +<p> +It was long after this, that she recollected the purse; and as she was +depositing it, unopened, in a cabinet, perceiving that it contained something +of a size larger than coin, she examined it. “His hand deposited them +here,” said she, as she kissed some pieces of the coin, and wetted them +with her tears, “his hand—which is now dust!” At the bottom +of the purse was a small packet, having taken out which, and unfolded paper +after paper, she found to be an ivory case, containing the miniature of +a—lady! She started—“The same,” said she, “my +father wept over!” On examining the countenance she could recollect no +person that it resembled. It was of uncommon beauty, and was characterised by +an expression of sweetness, shaded with sorrow, and tempered by resignation. +</p> + +<p> +St. Aubert had given no directions concerning this picture, nor had even named +it; she, therefore, thought herself justified in preserving it. More than once +remembering his manner, when he had spoken of the Marchioness of Villeroi, she +felt inclined to believe that this was her resemblance; yet there appeared no +reason why he should have preserved a picture of that lady, or, having +preserved it, why he should lament over it in a manner so striking and +affecting as she had witnessed on the night preceding his departure. +</p> + +<p> +Emily still gazed on the countenance, examining its features, but she knew not +where to detect the charm that captivated her attention, and inspired +sentiments of such love and pity. Dark brown hair played carelessly along the +open forehead; the nose was rather inclined to aquiline; the lips spoke in a +smile, but it was a melancholy one; the eyes were blue, and were directed +upwards with an expression of peculiar meekness, while the soft cloud of the +brow spoke of the fine sensibility of the temper. +</p> + +<p> +Emily was roused from the musing mood into which the picture had thrown her, by +the closing of the garden gate; and, on turning her eyes to the window, she saw +Valancourt coming towards the château. Her spirits agitated by the subjects +that had lately occupied her mind, she felt unprepared to see him, and remained +a few moments in the chamber to recover herself. +</p> + +<p> +When she met him in the parlour, she was struck with the change that appeared +in his air and countenance since they had parted in Rousillon, which twilight +and the distress she suffered on the preceding evening had prevented her from +observing. But dejection and languor disappeared, for a moment, in the smile +that now enlightened his countenance, on perceiving her. “You see,” +said he, “I have availed myself of the permission with which you honoured +me—of bidding <i>you</i> farewell, whom I had the happiness of meeting +only yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily smiled faintly, and, anxious to say something, asked if he had been long +in Gascony. “A few days only,” replied Valancourt, while a blush +passed over his cheek. “I engaged in a long ramble after I had the +misfortune of parting with the friends who had made my wanderings among the +Pyrenees so delightful.” +</p> + +<p> +A tear came to Emily’s eye, as Valancourt said this, which he observed; +and, anxious to draw off her attention from the remembrance that had occasioned +it, as well as shocked at his own thoughtlessness, he began to speak on other +subjects, expressing his admiration of the château, and its prospects. Emily, +who felt somewhat embarrassed how to support a conversation, was glad of such +an opportunity to continue it on indifferent topics. They walked down to the +terrace, where Valancourt was charmed with the river scenery, and the views +over the opposite shores of Guienne. +</p> + +<p> +As he leaned on the wall of the terrace, watching the rapid current of the +Garonne, “I was a few weeks ago,” said he, “at the source of +this noble river; I had not then the happiness of knowing you, or I should have +regretted your absence—it was a scene so exactly suited to your taste. It +rises in a part of the Pyrenees, still wilder and more sublime, I think, than +any we passed in the way to Rousillon.” He then described its fall among +the precipices of the mountains, where its waters, augmented by the streams +that descend from the snowy summits around, rush into the Vallée d’Aran, +between whose romantic heights it foams along, pursuing its way to the north +west till it emerges upon the plains of Languedoc. Then, washing the walls of +Thoulouse, and turning again to the north west, it assumes a milder character, +as it fertilizes the pastures of Gascony and Guienne, in its progress to the +Bay of Biscay. +</p> + +<p> +Emily and Valancourt talked of the scenes they had passed among the Pyrenean +Alps; as he spoke of which there was often a tremulous tenderness in his voice, +and sometimes he expatiated on them with all the fire of genius, sometimes +would appear scarcely conscious of the topic, though he continued to speak. +This subject recalled forcibly to Emily the idea of her father, whose image +appeared in every landscape, which Valancourt particularized, whose remarks +dwelt upon her memory, and whose enthusiasm still glowed in her heart. Her +silence, at length, reminded Valancourt how nearly his conversation approached +to the occasion of her grief, and he changed the subject, though for one +scarcely less affecting to Emily. When he admired the grandeur of the +plane-tree, that spread its wide branches over the terrace, and under whose +shade they now sat, she remembered how often she had sat thus with St. Aubert, +and heard him express the same admiration. +</p> + +<p> +“This was a favourite tree with my dear father,” said she; +“he used to love to sit under its foliage with his family about him, in +the fine evenings of summer.” +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt understood her feelings, and was silent; had she raised her eyes +from the ground she would have seen tears in his. He rose, and leaned on the +wall of the terrace, from which, in a few moments, he returned to his seat, +then rose again, and appeared to be greatly agitated; while Emily found her +spirits so much depressed, that several of her attempts to renew the +conversation were ineffectual. Valancourt again sat down, but was still silent, +and trembled. At length he said, with a hesitating voice, “This lovely +scene!—I am going to leave—to leave you—perhaps for ever! +These moments may never return; I cannot resolve to neglect, though I scarcely +dare to avail myself of them. Let me, however, without offending the delicacy +of your sorrow, venture to declare the admiration I must always feel of your +goodness—O! that at some future period I might be permitted to call it +love!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s emotion would not suffer her to reply; and Valancourt, who now +ventured to look up, observing her countenance change, expected to see her +faint, and made an involuntary effort to support her, which recalled Emily to a +sense of her situation, and to an exertion of her spirits. Valancourt did not +appear to notice her indisposition, but, when he spoke again, his voice told +the tenderest love. “I will not presume,” he added, “to +intrude this subject longer upon your attention at this time, but I may, +perhaps, be permitted to mention, that these parting moments would lose much of +their bitterness if I might be allowed to hope the declaration I have made +would not exclude me from your presence in future.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily made another effort to overcome the confusion of her thoughts, and to +speak. She feared to trust the preference her heart acknowledged towards +Valancourt, and to give him any encouragement for hope, on so short an +acquaintance. For though in this narrow period she had observed much that was +admirable in his taste and disposition, and though these observations had been +sanctioned by the opinion of her father, they were not sufficient testimonies +of his general worth to determine her upon a subject so infinitely important to +her future happiness as that, which now solicited her attention. Yet, though +the thought of dismissing Valancourt was so very painful to her, that she could +scarcely endure to pause upon it, the consciousness of this made her fear the +partiality of her judgment, and hesitate still more to encourage that suit, for +which her own heart too tenderly pleaded. The family of Valancourt, if not his +circumstances, had been known to her father, and known to be unexceptionable. +Of his circumstances, Valancourt himself hinted as far as delicacy would +permit, when he said he had at present little else to offer but a heart, that +adored her. He had solicited only for a distant hope, and she could not resolve +to forbid, though she scarcely dared to permit it; at length, she acquired +courage to say, that she must think herself honoured by the good opinion of any +person, whom her father had esteemed. +</p> + +<p> +“And was I, then, thought worthy of his esteem?” said Valancourt, +in a voice trembling with anxiety; then checking himself, he added, “But +pardon the question; I scarcely know what I say. If I might dare to hope, that +you think me not unworthy such honour, and might be permitted sometimes to +enquire after your health, I should now leave you with comparative +tranquillity.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, after a moment’s silence, said, “I will be ingenuous with +you, for I know you will understand, and allow for my situation; you will +consider it as a proof of my—my esteem that I am so. Though I live here +in what was my father’s house, I live here alone. I have, alas! no longer +a parent—a parent, whose presence might sanction your visits. It is +unnecessary for me to point out the impropriety of my receiving them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor will I affect to be insensible of this,” replied Valancourt, +adding mournfully—“but what is to console me for my candour? I +distress you, and would now leave the subject, if I might carry with me a hope +of being some time permitted to renew it, of being allowed to make myself known +to your family.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was again confused, and again hesitated what to reply; she felt most +acutely the difficulty—the forlornness of her situation, which did not +allow her a single relative, or friend, to whom she could turn for even a look, +that might support and guide her in the present embarrassing circumstances. +Madame Cheron, who was her only relative, and ought to have been this friend, +was either occupied by her own amusements, or so resentful of the reluctance +her niece had shown to quit La Vallée, that she seemed totally to have +abandoned her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I see,” said Valancourt, after a long pause, during which +Emily had begun, and left unfinished two or three sentences, “I see that +I have nothing to hope; my fears were too just, you think me unworthy of your +esteem. That fatal journey! which I considered as the happiest period of my +life—those delightful days were to embitter all my future ones. How often +I have looked back to them with hope and fear—yet never till this moment +could I prevail with myself to regret their enchanting influence.” +</p> + +<p> +His voice faltered, and he abruptly quitted his seat and walked on the terrace. +There was an expression of despair on his countenance, that affected Emily. The +pleadings of her heart overcame, in some degree, her extreme timidity, and, +when he resumed his seat, she said, in an accent that betrayed her tenderness, +“You do both yourself and me injustice when you say I think you unworthy +of my esteem; I will acknowledge that you have long possessed it, +and—and—” +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt waited impatiently for the conclusion of the sentence, but the words +died on her lips. Her eyes, however, reflected all the emotions of her heart. +Valancourt passed, in an instant, from the impatience of despair, to that of +joy and tenderness. “O Emily!” he exclaimed, “my own +Emily—teach me to sustain this moment! Let me seal it as the most sacred +of my life!” +</p> + +<p> +He pressed her hand to his lips, it was cold and trembling; and, raising her +eyes, he saw the paleness of her countenance. Tears came to her relief, and +Valancourt watched in anxious silence over her. In a few moments, she recovered +herself, and smiling faintly through her tears, said, “Can you excuse +this weakness? My spirits have not yet, I believe, recovered from the shock +they lately received.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot excuse myself,” said Valancourt, “but I will +forbear to renew the subject, which may have contributed to agitate them, now +that I can leave you with the sweet certainty of possessing your esteem.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, forgetting his resolution, he again spoke of himself. “You know +not,” said he, “the many anxious hours I have passed near you +lately, when you believed me, if indeed you honoured me with a thought, far +away. I have wandered, near the château, in the still hours of the night, when +no eye could observe me. It was delightful to know I was so near you, and there +was something particularly soothing in the thought, that I watched round your +habitation, while you slept. These grounds are not entirely new to me. Once I +ventured within the fence, and spent one of the happiest, and yet most +melancholy hours of my life in walking under what I believed to be your +window.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily enquired how long Valancourt had been in the neighbourhood. +“Several days,” he replied. “It was my design to avail myself +of the permission M. St. Aubert had given me. I scarcely know how to account +for it; but, though I anxiously wished to do this, my resolution always failed, +when the moment approached, and I constantly deferred my visit. I lodged in a +village at some distance, and wandered with my dogs, among the scenes of this +charming country, wishing continually to meet you, yet not daring to visit +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Having thus continued to converse, without perceiving the flight of time, +Valancourt, at length, seemed to recollect himself. “I must go,” +said he mournfully, “but it is with the hope of seeing you again, of +being permitted to pay my respects to your family; let me hear this hope +confirmed by your voice.” “My family will be happy to see any +friend of my dear father,” said Emily. Valancourt kissed her hand, and +still lingered, unable to depart, while Emily sat silently, with her eyes bent +on the ground; and Valancourt, as he gazed on her, considered that it would +soon be impossible for him to recall, even to his memory, the exact resemblance +of the beautiful countenance he then beheld; at this moment a hasty footstep +approached from behind the plane-tree, and, turning her eyes, Emily saw Madame +Cheron. She felt a blush steal upon her cheek, and her frame trembled with the +emotion of her mind; but she instantly rose to meet her visitor. “So, +niece!” said Madame Cheron, casting a look of surprise and enquiry on +Valancourt, “so niece, how do you do? But I need not ask, your looks tell +me you have already recovered your loss.” +</p> + +<p> +“My looks do me injustice then, Madame, my loss I know can never be +recovered.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—well! I will not argue with you; I see you have exactly your +father’s disposition; and let me tell you it would have been much happier +for him, poor man! if it had been a different one.” +</p> + +<p> +A look of dignified displeasure, with which Emily regarded Madame Cheron, while +she spoke, would have touched almost any other heart; she made no other reply, +but introduced Valancourt, who could scarcely stifle the resentment he felt, +and whose bow Madame Cheron returned with a slight curtsy, and a look of +supercilious examination. After a few moments he took leave of Emily, in a +manner, that hastily expressed his pain both at his own departure, and at +leaving her to the society of Madame Cheron. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is that young man?” said her aunt, in an accent which equally +implied inquisitiveness and censure. “Some idle admirer of yours I +suppose; but I believed niece you had a greater sense of propriety, than to +have received the visits of any young man in your present unfriended situation. +Let me tell you the world will observe those things, and it will talk, aye and +very freely too.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, extremely shocked at this coarse speech, attempted to interrupt it; but +Madame Cheron would proceed, with all the self-importance of a person, to whom +power is new. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very necessary you should be under the eye of some person more +able to guide you than yourself. I, indeed, have not much leisure for such a +task; however, since your poor father made it his last request, that 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 very conformable to my +direction, I shall not trouble myself longer about you.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily made no attempt to interrupt Madame Cheron a second time, grief and the +pride of conscious innocence kept her silent, till her aunt said, “I am +now come to take you with me to Thoulouse; I am sorry to find, that your poor +father died, after all, in such indifferent circumstances; however, I shall +take you home with me. Ah! poor man, he was always more generous than +provident, or he would not have left his daughter dependent on his +relations.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor has he done so, I hope, madam,” said Emily calmly, “nor +did his pecuniary misfortunes arise from that noble generosity, which always +distinguished him. The affairs of M. de Motteville may, I trust, yet be settled +without deeply injuring his creditors, and in the meantime I should be very +happy to remain at La Vallée.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt you would,” replied Madame Cheron, with a smile of irony, +“and I shall no doubt consent to this, since I see how necessary +tranquillity and retirement are to restore your spirits. I did not think you +capable of so much duplicity, niece; when you pleaded this excuse for remaining +here, I foolishly believed it to be a just one, nor expected to have found with +you so agreeable a companion as this M. La Val—, I forget his +name.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily could no longer endure these cruel indignities. “It was a just one, +madam,” said she; “and now, indeed, I feel more than ever the value +of the retirement I then solicited; and, if the purport of your visit is only +to add insult to the sorrows of your brother’s child, she could well have +spared it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see that I have undertaken a very troublesome task,” said Madame +Cheron, colouring highly. “I am sure, madam,” said Emily mildly, +and endeavouring to restrain her tears, “I am sure my father did not mean +it should be such. I have the happiness to reflect, that my conduct under his +eye was such as he often delighted to approve. It would be very painful to me +to disobey the sister of such a parent, and, if you believe the task will +really be so troublesome, I must lament, that it is yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! niece, fine speaking signifies little. I am willing, in +consideration of my poor brother, to overlook the impropriety of your late +conduct, and to try what your future will be.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily interrupted her, to beg she would explain what was the impropriety she +alluded to. +</p> + +<p> +“What impropriety! why that of receiving the visits of a lover unknown to +your family,” replied Madame Cheron, not considering the impropriety of +which she had herself been guilty, in exposing her niece to the possibility of +conduct so erroneous. +</p> + +<p> +A faint blush passed over Emily’s countenance; pride and anxiety +struggled in her breast; and, till she recollected, that appearances did, in +some degree, justify her aunt’s suspicions, she could not resolve to +humble herself so far as to enter into the defence of a conduct, which had been +so innocent and undesigning on her part. She mentioned the manner of +Valancourt’s introduction to her father; the circumstances of his +receiving the pistol-shot, and of their afterwards travelling together; with +the accidental way, in which she had met him, on the preceding evening. She +owned he had declared a partiality for her, and that he had asked permission to +address her family. +</p> + +<p> +“And who is this young adventurer, pray?” said Madame Cheron, +“and what are his pretensions?” “These he must himself +explain, madam,” replied Emily. “Of his family my father was not +ignorant, and I believe it is unexceptionable.” She then proceeded to +mention what she knew concerning it. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, then, this it seems is a younger brother,” exclaimed her aunt, +“and of course a beggar. A very fine tale indeed! And so my brother took +a fancy to this young man after only a few days acquaintance!—but that +was so like him! In his youth he was always taking these likes and dislikes, +when no other person saw any reason for them at all; nay, indeed, I have often +thought the people he disapproved were much more agreeable 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 part, have no notion +of this, it is all ridiculous enthusiasm. What has a man’s face to do +with his character? Can a man of good character help having a disagreeable +face?”—which last sentence Madame Cheron delivered with the +decisive air of a person who congratulates herself on having made a grand +discovery, and believes the question to be unanswerably settled. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, desirous of concluding the conversation, enquired if her aunt would +accept some refreshment, and Madame Cheron accompanied her to the château, but +without desisting from a topic, which she discussed with so much complacency to +herself, and severity to her niece. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to perceive, niece,” said she, in allusion to somewhat +that Emily had said, concerning physiognomy, “that you have a great many +of your father’s prejudices, and among them those sudden predilections +for people from their looks. I can perceive, that you imagine yourself to be +violently in love with this young adventurer, after an acquaintance of only a +few days. There was something, too, so charmingly romantic in the manner of +your meeting!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily checked the tears, that trembled in her eyes, while she said, “When +my conduct shall deserve this severity, madam, you will do well to exercise it; +till then justice, if not tenderness, should surely restrain it. I have never +willingly offended you; now I have lost my parents, you are the only person to +whom I can look for kindness. Let me not lament more than ever the loss of such +parents.” The last words were almost stifled by her emotions, and she +burst into tears. Remembering the delicacy and the tenderness of St. Aubert, +the happy, happy days she had passed in these scenes, and contrasting them with +the coarse and unfeeling behaviour of Madame Cheron, and from the future hours +of mortification she must submit to in her presence—a degree of grief +seized her, that almost reached despair. Madame Cheron, more offended by the +reproof which Emily’s words conveyed, than touched by the sorrow they +expressed, said nothing, that might soften her grief; but, notwithstanding an +apparent reluctance to receive her niece, she desired her company. The love of +sway was her ruling passion, and she knew it would be highly gratified by +taking into her house a young orphan, who had no appeal from her decisions, and +on whom she could exercise without control the capricious humour of the +moment. +</p> + +<p> +On entering the château, Madame Cheron expressed a desire, that she would put +up what she thought necessary to take to Thoulouse, as she meant to set off +immediately. Emily now tried to persuade her to defer the journey, at least +till the next day, and, at length, with much difficulty, prevailed. +</p> + +<p> +The day passed in the exercise of petty tyranny on the part of Madame Cheron, +and in mournful regret and melancholy anticipation on that of Emily, who, when +her aunt retired to her apartment for the night, went to take leave of every +other room in this her dear native home, which she was now quitting for she +knew not how long, and for a world, to which she was wholly a stranger. She +could not conquer a presentiment, which frequently occurred to her, this +night—that she should never more return to La Vallée. Having passed a +considerable time in what had been her father’s study, having selected +some of his favourite authors, to put up with her clothes, and shed many tears, +as she wiped the dust from their covers, she seated herself in his chair before +the reading desk, and sat lost in melancholy reflection, till Theresa opened +the door to examine, as was her custom before she went to bed, it was all safe. +She started, on observing her young lady, who bade her come in, and then gave +her some directions for keeping the château in readiness for her reception at +all times. +</p> + +<p> +“Alas-a-day! that you should leave it!” said Theresa, “I +think you would be happier here than where you are going, if one may +judge.” Emily made no reply to this remark; the sorrow Theresa proceeded +to express at her departure affected her, but she found some comfort in the +simple affection of this poor old servant, to whom she gave such directions as +might best conduce to her comfort during her own absence. +</p> + +<p> +Having dismissed Theresa to bed, Emily wandered through every lonely apartment +of the château, lingering long in what had been her father’s bedroom, +indulging melancholy, yet not unpleasing, emotions, and, having often returned +within the door to take another look at it, she withdrew to her own chamber. +From her window she gazed upon the garden below, shown faintly by the moon, +rising over the tops of the palm-trees, and, at length, the calm beauty of the +night increased a desire of indulging the mournful sweetness of bidding +farewell to the beloved shades of her childhood, till she was tempted to +descend. Throwing over her the light veil, in which she usually walked, she +silently passed into the garden, and, hastening towards the distant groves, was +glad to breathe once more the air of liberty, and to sigh unobserved. The deep +repose of the scene, the rich scents, that floated on the breeze, the grandeur +of the wide horizon and of the clear blue arch, soothed and gradually elevated +her mind to that sublime complacency, which renders the vexations of this world +so insignificant and mean in our eyes, that we wonder they have had power for a +moment to disturb us. Emily forgot Madame Cheron and all the circumstances of +her conduct, while her thoughts ascended to the contemplation of those +unnumbered worlds, that lie scattered in the depths of æther, thousands of them +hid from human eyes, and almost beyond the flight of human fancy. As her +imagination soared through the regions of space, and aspired to that Great +First Cause, which pervades and governs all being, the idea of her father +scarcely ever left her; but it was a pleasing idea, since she resigned him to +God in the full confidence of a pure and holy faith. She pursued her way +through the groves to the terrace, often pausing as memory awakened the pang of +affection, and as reason anticipated the exile, into which she was going. +</p> + +<p> +And now the moon was high over the woods, touching their summits with yellow +light, and darting between the foliage long level beams; while on the rapid +Garonne below the trembling radiance was faintly obscured by the lightest +vapour. Emily long watched the playing lustre, listened to the soothing murmur +of the current, and the yet lighter sounds of the air, as it stirred, at +intervals, the lofty palm-trees. “How delightful is the sweet breath of +these groves,” said she. “This lovely scene!—how often shall +I remember and regret it, when I am far away. Alas! what events may occur +before I see it again! O, peaceful, happy shades!—scenes of my infant +delights, of parental tenderness now lost for ever!—why must I leave +ye!—In your retreats I should still find safety and repose. Sweet hours +of my childhood—I am now to leave even your last memorials! No objects, +that would revive your impressions, will remain for me!” +</p> + +<p> +Then drying her tears and looking up, her thoughts rose again to the sublime +subject she had contemplated; the same divine complacency stole over her heart, +and, hushing its throbs, inspired hope and confidence and resignation to the +will of the Deity, whose works filled her mind with adoration. +</p> + +<p> +Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and then seated herself, for the last time, +on the bench under its shade, where she had so often sat with her parents, and +where, only a few hours before, she had conversed with Valancourt, at the +remembrance of whom, thus revived, a mingled sensation of esteem, tenderness +and anxiety rose in her breast. With this remembrance occurred a recollection +of his late confession—that he had often wandered near her habitation in +the night, having even passed the boundary of the garden, and it immediately +occurred to her, that he might be at this moment in the grounds. The fear of +meeting him, particularly after the declaration he had made, and of incurring a +censure, which her aunt might so reasonably bestow, if it was known, that she +was met by her lover, at this hour, made her instantly leave her beloved +plane-tree, and walk towards the château. She cast an anxious eye around, and +often stopped for a moment to examine the shadowy scene before she ventured to +proceed, but she passed on without perceiving any person, till, having reached +a clump of almond trees, not far from the house, she rested to take a +retrospect of the garden, and to sigh forth another adieu. As her eyes wandered +over the landscape she thought she perceived a person emerge from the groves, +and pass slowly along a moonlight alley that led between them; but the +distance, and the imperfect light would not suffer her to judge with any degree +of certainty whether this was fancy or reality. She continued to gaze for some +time on the spot, till on the dead stillness of the air she heard a sudden +sound, and in the next instant fancied she distinguished footsteps near her. +Wasting not another moment in conjecture, she hurried to the château, and, +having reached it, retired to her chamber, where, as she closed her window she +looked upon the garden, and then again thought she distinguished a figure, +gliding between the almond trees she had just left. She immediately withdrew +from the casement, and, though much agitated, sought in sleep the refreshment +of a short oblivion. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a> CHAPTER XI </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +I leave that flowery path for eye<br/> +Of childhood, where I sported many a day,<br/> +Warbling and sauntering carelessly along;<br/> +Where every face was innocent and gay,<br/> +Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue— <br/> +Sweet, wild, and artless, all.<br/> + THE MINSTREL +</p> + +<p> +At an early hour, the carriage, which was to take Emily and Madame Cheron to +Thoulouse, appeared at the door of the château, and Madame was already in the +breakfast-room, when her niece entered it. The repast was silent and melancholy +on the part of Emily; and Madame Cheron, whose vanity was piqued on observing +her dejection, reproved her in a manner that did not contribute to remove it. +It was with much reluctance, that Emily’s request to take with her the +dog, which had been a favourite of her father, was granted. Her aunt, impatient +to be gone, ordered the carriage to draw up; and, while she passed to the hall +door, Emily gave another look into the library, and another farewell glance +over the garden, and then followed. Old Theresa stood at the door to take leave +of her young lady. “God for ever keep you, ma’amselle!” said +she, while Emily gave her hand in silence, and could answer only with a +pressure of her hand, and a forced smile. +</p> + +<p> +At the gate, which led out of the grounds, several of her father’s +pensioners were assembled to bid her farewell, to whom she would have spoken, +if her aunt would have suffered the driver to stop; and, having distributed to +them almost all the money she had about her, she sunk back in the carriage, +yielding to the melancholy of her heart. Soon after, she caught, between the +steep banks of the road, another view of the château, peeping from among the +high trees, and surrounded by green slopes and tufted groves, the Garonne +winding its way beneath their shades, sometimes lost among the vineyards, and +then rising in greater majesty in the distant pastures. The towering precipices +of the Pyrenees, that rose to the south, gave Emily a thousand interesting +recollections of her late journey; and these objects of her former enthusiastic +admiration, now excited only sorrow and regret. Having gazed on the château and +its lovely scenery, till the banks again closed upon them, her mind became too +much occupied by mournful reflections, to permit her to attend to the +conversation, which Madame Cheron had begun on some trivial topic, so that they +soon travelled in profound silence. +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt, meanwhile, was returned to Estuvière, his heart occupied with the +image of Emily; sometimes indulging in reveries of future happiness, but more +frequently shrinking with dread of the opposition he might encounter from her +family. He was the younger son of an ancient family of Gascony; and, having +lost his parents at an early period of his life, the care of his education and +of his small portion had devolved to his brother, the Count de Duvarney, his +senior by nearly twenty years. Valancourt had been educated in all the +accomplishments of his age, and had an ardour of spirit, and a certain grandeur +of mind, that gave him particular excellence in the exercises then thought +heroic. His little fortune had been diminished by the necessary expences of his +education; but M. La Valancourt, the elder, seemed to think that his genius and +accomplishments would amply supply the deficiency of his inheritance. They +offered flattering hopes of promotion in the military profession, in those +times almost the only one in which a gentleman could engage without incurring a +stain on his name; and La Valancourt was of course enrolled in the army. The +general genius of his mind was but little understood by his brother. That +ardour for whatever is great and good in the moral world, as well as in the +natural one, displayed itself in his infant years; and the strong indignation, +which he felt and expressed at a criminal, or a mean action, sometimes drew +upon him the displeasure of his tutor; who reprobated it under the general term +of violence of temper; and who, when haranguing on the virtues of mildness and +moderation, seemed to forget the gentleness and compassion, which always +appeared in his pupil towards objects of misfortune. +</p> + +<p> +He had now obtained leave of absence from his regiment when he made the +excursion into the Pyrenees, which was the means of introducing him to St. +Aubert; and, as this permission was nearly expired, he was the more anxious to +declare himself to Emily’s family, from whom he reasonably apprehended +opposition, since his fortune, though, with a moderate addition from hers, it +would be sufficient to support them, would not satisfy the views, either of +vanity, or ambition. Valancourt was not without the latter, but he saw golden +visions of promotion in the army; and believed, that with Emily he could, in +the mean time, be delighted to live within the limits of his humble income. His +thoughts were now occupied in considering the means of making himself known to +her family, to whom, however, he had yet no address, for he was entirely +ignorant of Emily’s precipitate departure from La Vallée, of whom he +hoped to obtain it. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, the travellers pursued their journey; Emily making frequent efforts +to appear cheerful, and too often relapsing into silence and dejection. Madame +Cheron, attributing her melancholy solely to the circumstance of her being +removed to a distance from her lover, and believing, that the sorrow, which her +niece still expressed for the loss of St. Aubert, proceeded partly from an +affectation of sensibility, endeavoured to make it appear ridiculous to her, +that such deep regret should continue to be felt so long after the period +usually allowed for grief. +</p> + +<p> +At length, these unpleasant lectures were interrupted by the arrival of the +travellers at Thoulouse; and Emily, who had not been there for many years, and +had only a very faint recollection of it, was surprised at the ostentatious +style exhibited in her aunt’s house and furniture; the more so, perhaps, +because it was so totally different from the modest elegance, to which she had +been accustomed. She followed Madame Cheron through a large hall, where several +servants in rich liveries appeared, to a kind of saloon, fitted up with more +show than taste; and her aunt, complaining of fatigue, ordered supper +immediately. “I am glad to find myself in my own house again,” said +she, throwing herself on a large settee, “and to have my own people about +me. I detest travelling; though, indeed, I ought to like it, for what I see +abroad always makes me delighted to return to my own château. What makes you so +silent, child?—What is it that disturbs you now?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily suppressed a starting tear, and tried to smile away the expression of an +oppressed heart; she was thinking of <i>her</i> home, and felt too sensibly the +arrogance and ostentatious vanity of Madame Cheron’s conversation. +“Can this be my father’s sister!” said she to herself; and +then the conviction that she was so, warming her heart with something like +kindness towards her, she felt anxious to soften the harsh impression her mind +had received of her aunt’s character, and to show a willingness to oblige +her. The effort did not entirely fail; she listened with apparent cheerfulness, +while Madame Cheron expatiated on the splendour of her house, told of the +numerous parties she entertained, and what she should expect of Emily, whose +diffidence assumed the air of a reserve, which her aunt, believing it to be +that of pride and ignorance united, now took occasion to reprehend. She knew +nothing of the conduct of a mind, that fears to trust its own powers; which, +possessing a nice judgment, and inclining to believe, that every other person +perceives still more critically, fears to commit itself to censure, and seeks +shelter in the obscurity of silence. Emily had frequently blushed at the +fearless manners, which she had seen admired, and the brilliant nothings, which +she had heard applauded; yet this applause, so far from encouraging her to +imitate the conduct that had won it, rather made her shrink into the reserve, +that would protect her from such absurdity. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Cheron looked on her niece’s diffidence with a feeling very near +to contempt, and endeavoured to overcome it by reproof, rather than to +encourage it by gentleness. +</p> + +<p> +The entrance of supper somewhat interrupted the complacent discourse of Madame +Cheron and the painful considerations, which it had forced upon Emily. When the +repast, which was rendered ostentatious by the attendance of a great number of +servants, and by a profusion of plate, was over, Madame Cheron retired to her +chamber, and a female servant came to show Emily to hers. Having passed up a +large staircase, and through several galleries, they came to a flight of back +stairs, which led into a short passage in a remote part of the château, and +there the servant opened the door of a small chamber, which she said was +Ma’amselle Emily’s, who, once more alone, indulged the tears she +had long tried to restrain. +</p> + +<p> +Those, who know, from experience, how much the heart becomes attached even to +inanimate objects, to which it has been long accustomed, how unwillingly it +resigns them; how with the sensations of an old friend it meets them, after +temporary absence, will understand the forlornness of Emily’s feelings, +of Emily shut out from the only home she had known from her infancy, and thrown +upon a scene, and among persons, disagreeable for more qualities than their +novelty. Her father’s favourite dog, now in the chamber, thus seemed to +acquire the character and importance of a friend; and, as the animal fawned +over her when she wept, and licked her hands, “Ah, poor Manchon!” +said she, “I have nobody now to love me—but you!” and she +wept the more. After some time, her thoughts returning to her father’s +injunctions, she remembered how often he had blamed her for indulging useless +sorrow; how often he had pointed out to her the necessity of fortitude and +patience, assuring her, that the faculties of the mind strengthen by exertion, +till they finally unnerve affliction, and triumph over it. These recollections +dried her tears, gradually soothed her spirits, and inspired her with the sweet +emulation of practising precepts, which her father had so frequently +inculcated. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a> CHAPTER XII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Some pow’r impart the spear and shield,<br/> +At which the wizard passions fly,<br/> +By which the giant follies die!<br/> + COLLINS +</p> + +<p> +Madame Cheron’s house stood at a little distance from the city of +Thoulouse, and was surrounded by extensive gardens, in which Emily, who had +risen early, amused herself with wandering before breakfast. From a terrace, +that extended along the highest part of them, was a wide view over Languedoc. +On the distant horizon to the south, she discovered the wild summits of the +Pyrenees, and her fancy immediately painted the green pastures of Gascony at +their feet. Her heart pointed to her peaceful home—to the neighbourhood +where Valancourt was—where St. Aubert had been; and her imagination, +piercing the veil of distance, brought that home to her eyes in all its +interesting and romantic beauty. She experienced an inexpressible pleasure in +believing, that she beheld the country around it, though no feature could be +distinguished, except the retiring chain of the Pyrenees; and, inattentive to +the scene immediately before her, and to the flight of time, she continued to +lean on the window of a pavilion, that terminated the terrace, with her eyes +fixed on Gascony, and her mind occupied with the interesting ideas which the +view of it awakened, till a servant came to tell her breakfast was ready. Her +thoughts thus recalled to the surrounding objects, the straight walks, square +parterres, and artificial fountains of the garden, could not fail, as she +passed through it, to appear the worse, opposed to the negligent graces, and +natural beauties of the grounds of La Vallée, upon which her recollection had +been so intensely employed. +</p> + +<p> +“Whither have you been rambling so early?” said Madame Cheron, as +her niece entered the breakfast-room. “I don’t approve of these +solitary walks.” And Emily was surprised, when, having informed her aunt, +that she had been no further than the gardens, she understood these to be +included in the reproof. “I desire you will not walk there again at so +early an hour unattended,” said Madame Cheron; “my gardens are very +extensive; and a young woman, who can make assignations by moonlight at La +Vallée, is not to be trusted to her own inclinations elsewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, extremely surprised and shocked, had scarcely power to beg an +explanation of these words, and, when she did, her aunt absolutely refused to +give it, though, by her severe looks, and half sentences, she appeared anxious +to impress Emily with a belief, that she was well informed of some degrading +circumstances of her conduct. Conscious innocence could not prevent a blush +from stealing over Emily’s cheek; she trembled, and looked confusedly +under the bold eye of Madame Cheron, who blushed also; but hers was the blush +of triumph, such as sometimes stains the countenance of a person, +congratulating himself on the penetration which had taught him to suspect +another, and who loses both pity for the supposed criminal, and indignation of +his guilt, in the gratification of his own vanity. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, not doubting that her aunt’s mistake arose from the having +observed her ramble in the garden on the night preceding her departure from La +Vallée, now mentioned the motive of it, at which Madame Cheron smiled +contemptuously, refusing either to accept this explanation, or to give her +reasons for refusing it; and, soon after, she concluded the subject by saying, +“I never trust people’s assertions, I always judge of them by their +actions; but I am willing to try what will be your behaviour in future.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, less surprised by her aunt’s moderation and mysterious silence, +than by the accusation she had received, deeply considered the latter, and +scarcely doubted, that it was Valancourt whom she had seen at night in the +gardens of La Vallée, and that he had been observed there by Madame Cheron; who +now passing from one painful topic only to revive another almost equally so, +spoke of the situation of her niece’s property, in the hands of M. +Motteville. While she thus talked with ostentatious pity of Emily’s +misfortunes, she failed not to inculcate the duties of humility and gratitude, +or to render Emily fully sensible of every cruel mortification, who soon +perceived, that she was to be considered as a dependant, not only by her aunt, +but by her aunt’s servants. +</p> + +<p> +She was now informed, that a large party were expected to dinner, on which +account Madame Cheron repeated the lesson of the preceding night, concerning +her conduct in company, and Emily wished that she might have courage enough to +practise it. Her aunt then proceeded to examine the simplicity of her dress, +adding, that she expected to see her attired with gaiety and taste; after which +she condescended to show Emily the splendour of her château, and to point out +the particular beauty, or elegance, which she thought distinguished each of her +numerous suites of apartments. She then withdrew to her toilet, the throne of +her homage, and Emily to her chamber, to unpack her books, and to try to charm +her mind by reading, till the hour of dressing. +</p> + +<p> +When the company arrived, Emily entered the saloon with an air of timidity, +which all her efforts could not overcome, and which was increased by the +consciousness of Madame Cheron’s severe observation. Her mourning dress, +the mild dejection of her beautiful countenance, and the retiring diffidence of +her manner, rendered her a very interesting object to many of the company; +among whom she distinguished Signor Montoni, and his friend Cavigni, the late +visitors at M. Quesnel’s, who now seemed to converse with Madame Cheron +with the familiarity of old acquaintance, and she to attend to them with +particular pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +This Signor Montoni had an air of conscious superiority, animated by spirit, +and strengthened by talents, to which every person seemed involuntarily to +yield. The quickness of his perceptions was strikingly expressed on his +countenance, yet that countenance could submit implicitly to occasion; and, +more than once in this day, the triumph of art over nature might have been +discerned in it. His visage was long, and rather narrow, yet he was called +handsome; and it was, perhaps, the spirit and vigour of his soul, sparkling +through his features, that triumphed for him. Emily felt admiration, but not +the admiration that leads to esteem; for it was mixed with a degree of fear she +knew not exactly wherefore. +</p> + +<p> +Cavigni was gay and insinuating as formerly; and, though he paid almost +incessant attention to Madame Cheron, he found some opportunities of conversing +with Emily, to whom he directed, at first, the sallies of his wit, but now and +then assumed an air of tenderness, which she observed, and shrunk from. Though +she replied but little, the gentleness and sweetness of her manners encouraged +him to talk, and she felt relieved when a young lady of the party, who spoke +incessantly, obtruded herself on his notice. This lady, who possessed all the +sprightliness of a Frenchwoman, with all her coquetry, affected to understand +every subject, or rather there was no affectation in the case; for, never +looking beyond the limits of her own ignorance, she believed she had nothing to +learn. She attracted notice from all; amused some, disgusted others for a +moment, and was then forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +This day passed without any material occurrence; and Emily, though amused by +the characters she had seen, was glad when she could retire to the +recollections, which had acquired with her the character of duties. +</p> + +<p> +A fortnight passed in a round of dissipation and company, and Emily, who +attended Madame Cheron in all her visits, was sometimes entertained, but +oftener wearied. She was struck by the apparent talents and knowledge displayed +in the various conversations she listened to, and it was long before she +discovered, that the talents were for the most part those of imposture, and the +knowledge nothing more than was necessary to assist them. But what deceived her +most, was the air of constant gaiety and good spirits, displayed by every +visitor, and which she supposed to arise from content as constant, and from +benevolence as ready. At length, from the over-acting of some, less +accomplished than the others, she could perceive, that, though contentment and +benevolence are the only sure sources of cheerfulness, the immoderate and +feverish animation, usually exhibited in large parties, results partly from an +insensibility to the cares, which benevolence must sometimes derive from the +sufferings of others, and partly from a desire to display the appearance of +that prosperity, which they know will command submission and attention to +themselves. +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s pleasantest hours were passed in the pavilion of the terrace, to +which she retired, when she could steal from observation, with a book to +overcome, or a lute to indulge, her melancholy. There, as she sat with her eyes +fixed on the far-distant Pyrenees, and her thoughts on Valancourt and the +beloved scenes of Gascony, she would play the sweet and melancholy songs of her +native province—the popular songs she had listened to from her childhood. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, having excused herself from accompanying her aunt abroad, she thus +withdrew to the pavilion, with books and her lute. It was the mild and +beautiful evening of a sultry day, and the windows, which fronted the west, +opened upon all the glory of a setting sun. Its rays illuminated, with strong +splendour, the cliffs of the Pyrenees, and touched their snowy tops with a +roseate hue, that remained, long after the sun had sunk below the horizon, and +the shades of twilight had stolen over the landscape. Emily touched her lute +with that fine melancholy expression, which came from her heart. The pensive +hour and the scene, the evening light on the Garonne, that flowed at no great +distance, and whose waves, as they passed towards La Vallée, she often viewed +with a sigh—these united circumstances disposed her mind to tenderness, +and her thoughts were with Valancourt, of whom she had heard nothing since her +arrival at Thoulouse, and now that she was removed from him, and in uncertainty, +she perceived all the interest he held in her heart. Before she saw Valancourt +she had never met a mind and taste so accordant with her own, and, though +Madame Cheron told her much of the arts of dissimulation, and that the elegance +and propriety of thought, which she so much admired in her lover, were assumed +for the purpose of pleasing her, she could scarcely doubt their truth. This +possibility, however, faint as it was, was sufficient to harass her mind with +anxiety, and she found, that few conditions are more painful than that of +uncertainty, as to the merit of a beloved object; an uncertainty, which she +would not have suffered, had her confidence in her own opinions been greater. +</p> + +<p> +She was awakened from her musing by the sound of horses’ feet along a +road, that wound under the windows of the pavilion, and a gentleman passed on +horseback, whose resemblance to Valancourt, in air and figure, for the twilight +did not permit a view of his features, immediately struck her. She retired +hastily from the lattice, fearing to be seen, yet wishing to observe further, +while the stranger passed on without looking up, and, when she returned to the +lattice, she saw him faintly through the twilight, winding under the high +trees, that led to Thoulouse. This little incident so much disturbed her +spirits, that the temple and its scenery were no longer interesting to her, +and, after walking a while on the terrace, she returned to the château. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Cheron, whether she had seen a rival admired, had lost at play, or had +witnessed an entertainment more splendid than her own, was returned from her +visit with a temper more than usually discomposed; and Emily was glad, when the +hour arrived, in which she could retire to the solitude of her own apartment. +</p> + +<p> +On the following morning, she was summoned to Madame Cheron, whose countenance +was inflamed with resentment, and, as Emily advanced, she held out a letter to +her. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know this hand?” said she, in a severe tone, and with a +look that was intended to search her heart, while Emily examined the letter +attentively, and assured her, that she did not. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not provoke me,” said her aunt; “you do know it, confess +the truth immediately. I insist upon your confessing the truth +instantly.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was silent, and turned to leave the room, but Madame called her back. +“O you are guilty, then,” said she, “you do know the +hand.” “If you were before in doubt of this, madam,” replied +Emily calmly, “why did you accuse me of having told a falsehood.” +Madame Cheron did not blush; but her niece did, a moment after, when she heard +the name of Valancourt. It was not, however, with the consciousness of +deserving reproof, for, if she ever had seen his hand-writing, the present +characters did not bring it to her recollection. +</p> + +<p> +“It is useless to deny it,” said Madame Cheron, “I see in +your countenance, that you are no stranger to this letter; and, I dare say, you +have received many such from this impertinent young man, without my knowledge, +in my own house.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, shocked at the indelicacy of this accusation, still more than by the +vulgarity of the former, instantly forgot the pride, that had imposed silence, +and endeavoured to vindicate herself from the aspersion, but Madame Cheron was +not to be convinced. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot suppose,” she resumed, “that this young man would +have taken the liberty of writing to me, if you had not encouraged him to do +so, and I must now” +</p> + +<p> +“You will allow me to remind you, madam,” said Emily timidly, +“of some particulars of a conversation we had at La Vallée. I then told +you truly, that I had only not forbade Monsieur Valancourt from addressing my +family.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not be interrupted,” said Madame Cheron, interrupting her +niece, “I was going to say—I—I—have forgot what I was +going to say. But how happened it that you did not forbid him?” Emily was +silent. “How happened it that you encouraged him to trouble me with this +letter?—A young man that nobody knows;—an utter stranger in the +place,—a young adventurer, no doubt, who is looking out for a good +fortune. However, on that point he has mistaken his aim.” +</p> + +<p> +“His family was known to my father,” said Emily modestly, and +without appearing to be sensible of the last sentence. +</p> + +<p> +“O! that is no recommendation at all,” replied her aunt, with her +usual readiness upon this topic; “he took such strange fancies to people! +He was always judging persons by their countenances, and was continually +deceived.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet it was but now, madam, that you judged me guilty by my +countenance,” said Emily, with a design of reproving Madame Cheron, to +which she was induced by this disrespectful mention of her father. +</p> + +<p> +“I called you here,” resumed her aunt, colouring, “to tell +you, that I will not be disturbed in my own house by any letters, or visits +from young men, who may take a fancy to flatter you. This M. de +Valantine—I think you call him, has the impertinence to beg I will permit +him to pay his respects to me! I shall send him a proper answer. And for you, +Emily, I repeat it once for all—if you are not contented to conform to my +directions, and to my way of live, I shall give up the task of overlooking your +conduct—I shall no longer trouble myself with your education, but shall +send you to board in a convent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear madam,” said Emily, bursting into tears, and overcome by the +rude suspicions her aunt had expressed, “how have I deserved these +reproofs?” She could say no more; and so very fearful was she of acting +with any degree of impropriety in the affair itself, that, at the present +moment, Madame Cheron might perhaps have prevailed with her to bind herself by +a promise to renounce Valancourt for ever. Her mind, weakened by her terrors, +would no longer suffer her to view him as she had formerly done; she feared the +error of her own judgment, not that of Madame Cheron, and feared also, that, in +her former conversation with him, at La Vallée, she had not conducted herself +with sufficient reserve. She knew, that she did not deserve the coarse +suspicions, which her aunt had thrown out, but a thousand scruples rose to +torment her, such as would never have disturbed the peace of Madame Cheron. +Thus rendered anxious to avoid every opportunity of erring, and willing to +submit to any restrictions, that her aunt should think proper, she expressed an +obedience, to which Madame Cheron did not give much confidence, and which she +seemed to consider as the consequence of either fear, or artifice. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then,” said she, “promise me that you will neither see +this young man, nor write to him without my consent.” “Dear +madam,” replied Emily, “can you suppose I would do either, unknown +to you!” “I don’t know what to suppose; there is no knowing +how young women will act. It is difficult to place any confidence in them, for +they have seldom sense enough to wish for the respect of the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas, madam!” said Emily, “I am anxious for my own respect; +my father taught me the value of that; he said if I deserved my own esteem, +that the world would follow of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“My brother was a good kind of a man,” replied Madame Cheron, +“but he did not know the world. I am sure I have always felt a proper +respect for myself, yet—” she stopped, but she might have added, +that the world had not always shown respect to her, and this without impeaching +its judgment. +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” resumed Madame Cheron, “you have not given me the +promise, though, that I demand.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily readily gave it, and, being then suffered to withdraw, she walked in the +garden; tried to compose her spirits, and, at length, arrived at her favourite +pavilion at the end of the terrace, where, seating herself at one of the +embowered windows, that opened upon a balcony, the stillness and seclusion of +the scene allowed her to recollect her thoughts, and to arrange them so as to +form a clearer judgment of her former conduct. She endeavoured to review with +exactness all the particulars of her conversation with Valancourt at La Vallée, +had the satisfaction to observe nothing, that could alarm her delicate pride, +and thus to be confirmed in the self-esteem, which was so necessary to her +peace. Her mind then became tranquil, and she saw Valancourt amiable and +intelligent, as he had formerly appeared, and Madame Cheron neither the one, nor +the other. The remembrance of her lover, however, brought with it many very +painful emotions, for it by no means reconciled her to the thought of resigning +him; and, Madame Cheron having already shown how highly she disapproved of the +attachment, she foresaw much suffering from the opposition of interests; yet +with all this was mingled a degree of delight, which, in spite of reason, +partook of hope. She determined, however, that no consideration should induce +her to permit a clandestine correspondence, and to observe in her conversation +with Valancourt, should they ever meet again, the same nicety of reserve, which +had hitherto marked her conduct. As she repeated the words—“should +we ever meet again!” she shrunk as if this was a circumstance, which had +never before occurred to her, and tears came to her eyes, which she hastily +dried, for she heard footsteps approaching, and then the door of the pavilion +open, and, on turning, she saw—Valancourt. +</p> + +<p> +An emotion of mingled pleasure, surprise and apprehension pressed so suddenly +upon her heart as almost to overcome her spirits; the colour left her cheeks, +then returned brighter than before, and she was for a moment unable to speak, +or to rise from her chair. His countenance was the mirror, in which she saw her +own emotions reflected, and it roused her to self-command. The joy, which had +animated his features, when he entered the pavilion, was suddenly repressed, +as, approaching, he perceived her agitation, and, in a tremulous voice, +enquired after her health. Recovered from her first surprise, she answered him +with a tempered smile; but a variety of opposite emotions still assailed her +heart, and struggled to subdue the mild dignity of her manner. It was difficult +to tell which predominated—the joy of seeing Valancourt, or the terror of +her aunt’s displeasure, when she should hear of this meeting. After some +short and embarrassed conversation, she led him into the gardens, and enquired +if he had seen Madame Cheron. “No,” said he, “I have not yet +seen her, for they told me she was engaged, and as soon as I learned that you +were in the gardens, I came hither.” He paused a moment, in great +agitation, and then added, “May I venture to tell you the purport of my +visit, without incurring your displeasure, and to hope, that you will not +accuse me of precipitation in now availing myself of the permission you once +gave me of addressing your family?” Emily, who knew not what to reply, +was spared from further perplexity, and was sensible only of fear, when on +raising her eyes, she saw Madame Cheron turn into the avenue. As the +consciousness of innocence returned, this fear was so far dissipated as to +permit her to appear tranquil, and, instead of avoiding her aunt, she advanced +with Valancourt to meet her. The look of haughty and impatient displeasure, +with which Madame Cheron regarded them, made Emily shrink, who understood from +a single glance, that this meeting was believed to have been more than +accidental: having mentioned Valancourt’s name, she became again too much +agitated to remain with them, and returned into the château; where she awaited +long, in a state of trembling anxiety, the conclusion of the conference. She +knew not how to account for Valancourt’s visit to her aunt, before he had +received the permission he solicited, since she was ignorant of a circumstance, +which would have rendered the request useless, even if Madame Cheron had been +inclined to grant it. Valancourt, in the agitation of his spirits, had +forgotten to date his letter, so that it was impossible for Madame Cheron to +return an answer; and, when he recollected this circumstance, he was, perhaps, +not so sorry for the omission as glad of the excuse it allowed him for waiting +on her before she could send a refusal. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Cheron had a long conversation with Valancourt, and, when she returned +to the château, her countenance expressed ill-humour, but not the degree of +severity, which Emily had apprehended. “I have dismissed this young man, +at last,” said she, “and I hope my house will never again be +disturbed with similar visits. He assures me, that your interview was not +preconcerted.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear madam!” said Emily in extreme emotion, “you surely did +not ask him the question!” “Most certainly I did; you could not +suppose I should be so imprudent as to neglect it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, “what an opinion must he form of +me, since you, Madam, could express a suspicion of such ill conduct!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is of very little consequence what opinion he may form of you,” +replied her aunt, “for I have put an end to the affair; but I believe he +will not form a worse opinion of me for my prudent conduct. I let him see, that +I was not to be trifled with, and that I had more delicacy, than to permit any +clandestine correspondence to be carried on in my house.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily had frequently heard Madame Cheron use the word delicacy, but she was now +more than usually perplexed to understand how she meant to apply it in this +instance, in which her whole conduct appeared to merit the very reverse of the +term. +</p> + +<p> +“It was very inconsiderate of my brother,” resumed Madame Cheron, +“to leave the trouble of overlooking your conduct to me; I wish you were +well settled in life. But if I find, that I am to be further troubled with such +visitors as this M. Valancourt, I shall place you in a convent at +once;—so remember the alternative. This young man has the impertinence to +own to me,—he owns it! that his fortune is very small, and that he is +chiefly dependent on an elder brother and on the profession he has chosen! He +should have concealed these circumstances, at least, if he expected to succeed +with me. Had he the presumption to suppose I would marry my niece to a person +such as he describes himself!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily dried her tears when she heard of the candid confession of Valancourt; +and, though the circumstances it discovered were afflicting to her hopes, his +artless conduct gave her a degree of pleasure, that overcame every other +emotion. But she was compelled, even thus early in life, to observe, that good +sense and noble integrity are not always sufficient to cope with folly and +narrow cunning; and her heart was pure enough to allow her, even at this trying +moment, to look with more pride on the defeat of the former, than with +mortification on the conquests of the latter. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Cheron pursued her triumph. “He has also thought proper to tell +me, that he will receive his dismission from no person but yourself; this +favour, however, I have absolutely refused him. He shall learn, that it is +quite sufficient, that I disapprove him. And I take this opportunity of +repeating,—that if you concert any means of interview unknown to me, you +shall leave my house immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +“How little do you know me, madam, that you should think such an +injunction necessary!” said Emily, trying to suppress her emotion, +“how little of the dear parents, who educated me!” +</p> + +<p> +Madame Cheron now went to dress for an engagement, which she had made for the +evening; and Emily, who would gladly have been excused from attending her aunt, +did not ask to remain at home lest her request should be attributed to an +improper motive. When she retired to her own room, the little fortitude, which +had supported her in the presence of her relation, forsook her; she remembered +only that Valancourt, whose character appeared more amiable from every +circumstance, that unfolded it, was banished from her presence, perhaps, for +ever, and she passed the time in weeping, which, according to her aunt’s +direction, she ought to have employed in dressing. This important duty was, +however, quickly dispatched; though, when she joined Madame Cheron at table, +her eyes betrayed, that she had been in tears, and drew upon her a severe +reproof. +</p> + +<p> +Her efforts to appear cheerful did not entirely fail when she joined the +company at the house of Madame Clairval, an elderly widow lady, who had lately +come to reside at Thoulouse, on an estate of her late husband. She had lived +many years at Paris in a splendid style; had naturally a gay temper, and, since +her residence at Thoulouse, had given some of the most magnificent +entertainments, that had been seen in that neighbourhood. +</p> + +<p> +These excited not only the envy, but the trifling ambition of Madame Cheron, +who, since she could not rival the splendour of her festivities, was desirous +of being ranked in the number of her most intimate friends. For this purpose +she paid her the most obsequious attention, and made a point of being +disengaged, whenever she received an invitation from Madame Clairval, of whom +she talked, wherever she went, and derived much self-consequence from +impressing a belief on her general acquaintance, that they were on the most +familiar footing. +</p> + +<p> +The entertainments of this evening consisted of a ball and supper; it was a +fancy ball, and the company danced in groups in the gardens, which were very +extensive. The high and luxuriant trees, under which the groups assembled, were +illuminated with a profusion of lamps, disposed with taste and fancy. The gay +and various dresses of the company, some of whom were seated on the turf, +conversing at their ease, observing the <i>cotillons</i>, taking refreshments, +and sometimes touching sportively a guitar; the gallant manners of the +gentlemen, the exquisitely capricious air of the ladies; the light fantastic +steps of their dances; the musicians, with the lute, the hautboy, and the +tabor, seated at the foot of an elm, and the sylvan scenery of woods around +were circumstances, that unitedly formed a characteristic and striking picture +of French festivity. Emily surveyed the gaiety of the scene with a melancholy +kind of pleasure, and her emotion may be imagined when, as she stood with her +aunt, looking at one of the groups, she perceived Valancourt; saw him dancing +with a young and beautiful lady, saw him conversing with her with a mixture of +attention and familiarity, such as she had seldom observed in his manner. She +turned hastily from the scene, and attempted to draw away Madame Cheron, who +was conversing with Signor Cavigni, and neither perceived Valancourt, nor was +willing to be interrupted. A faintness suddenly came over Emily, and, unable to +support herself, she sat down on a turf bank beneath the trees, where several +other persons were seated. One of these, observing the extreme paleness of her +countenance, enquired if she was ill, and begged she would allow him to fetch +her a glass of water, for which politeness she thanked him, but did not accept +it. Her apprehension lest Valancourt should observe her emotion made her +anxious to overcome it, and she succeeded so far as to recompose her +countenance. Madame Cheron was still conversing with Cavigni; and the Count +Bauvillers, who had addressed Emily, made some observations upon the scene, to +which she answered almost unconsciously, for her mind was still occupied with +the idea of Valancourt, to whom it was with extreme uneasiness that she +remained so near. Some remarks, however, which the Count made upon the dance +obliged her to turn her eyes towards it, and, at that moment, +Valancourt’s met hers. Her colour faded again, she felt, that she was +relapsing into faintness, and instantly averted her looks, but not before she +had observed the altered countenance of Valancourt, on perceiving her. She +would have left the spot immediately, had she not been conscious, that this +conduct would have shown him more obviously the interest he held in her heart; +and, having tried to attend to the Count’s conversation, and to join in +it, she, at length, recovered her spirits. But, when he made some observation +on Valancourt’s partner, the fear of showing that she was interested in +the remark, would have betrayed it to him, had not the Count, while he spoke, +looked towards the person of whom he was speaking. “The lady,” said +he, “dancing with that young Chevalier, who appears to be accomplished in +everything, but in dancing, is ranked among the beauties of Thoulouse. She is +handsome, and her fortune will be very large. I hope she will make a better +choice in a partner for life than she has done in a partner for the dance, for +I observe he has just put the set into great confusion; he does nothing but +commit blunders. I am surprised, that, with his air and figure, he has not +taken more care to accomplish himself in dancing.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, whose heart trembled at every word, that was now uttered, endeavoured to +turn the conversation from Valancourt, by enquiring the name of the lady, with +whom he danced; but, before the Count could reply, the dance concluded, and +Emily, perceiving that Valancourt was coming towards her, rose and joined +Madame Cheron. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is the Chevalier Valancourt, madam,” said she in a whisper, +“pray let us go.” Her aunt immediately moved on, but not before +Valancourt had reached them, who bowed lowly to Madame Cheron, and with an +earnest and dejected look to Emily, with whom, notwithstanding all her effort, +an air of more than common reserve prevailed. The presence of Madame Cheron +prevented Valancourt from remaining, and he passed on with a countenance, whose +melancholy reproached her for having increased it. Emily was called from the +musing fit, into which she had fallen, by the Count Bauvillers, who was known +to her aunt. +</p> + +<p> +“I have your pardon to beg, ma’amselle,” said he, “for +a rudeness, which you will readily believe was quite unintentional. I did not +know, that the Chevalier was your acquaintance, when I so freely criticised his +dancing.” Emily blushed and smiled, and Madame Cheron spared her the +difficulty of replying. “If you mean the person, who has just passed +us,” said she, “I can assure you he is no acquaintance of either +mine, or ma’amselle St. Aubert’s: I know nothing of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“O! that is the Chevalier Valancourt,” said Cavigni carelessly, and +looking back. “You know him then?” said Madame Cheron. “I am +not acquainted with him,” replied Cavigni. “You don’t know, +then, the reason I have to call him impertinent;—he has had the +presumption to admire my niece!” +</p> + +<p> +“If every man deserves the title of impertinent, who admires +ma’amselle St. Aubert,” replied Cavigni, “I fear there are a +great many impertinents, and I am willing to acknowledge myself one of the +number.” +</p> + +<p> +“O Signor!” said Madame Cheron, with an affected smile, “I +perceive you have learnt the art of complimenting, since you came into France. +But it is cruel to compliment children, since they mistake flattery for +truth.” +</p> + +<p> +Cavigni turned away his face for a moment, and then said with a studied air, +“Whom then are we to compliment, madam? for it would be absurd to +compliment a woman of refined understanding; <i>she</i> is above all +praise.” As he finished the sentence he gave Emily a sly look, and the +smile, that had lurked in his eye, stole forth. She perfectly understood it, +and blushed for Madame Cheron, who replied, “You are perfectly right, +signor, no woman of understanding can endure compliment.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have heard Signor Montoni say,” rejoined Cavigni, “that he +never knew but one woman who deserved it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” exclaimed Madame Cheron, with a short laugh, and a smile of +unutterable complacency, “and who could she be?” +</p> + +<p> +“O!” replied Cavigni, “it is impossible to mistake her, for +certainly there is not more than one woman in the world, who has both the merit +to deserve compliment and the wit to refuse it. Most women reverse the case +entirely.” He looked again at Emily, who blushed deeper than before for +her aunt, and turned from him with displeasure. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, signor!” said Madame Cheron, “I protest you are a +Frenchman; I never heard a foreigner say anything half so gallant as +that!” +</p> + +<p> +“True, madam,” said the Count, who had been some time silent, and +with a low bow, “but the gallantry of the compliment had been utterly +lost, but for the ingenuity that discovered the application.” +</p> + +<p> +Madame Cheron did not perceive the meaning of this too satirical sentence, and +she, therefore, escaped the pain, which Emily felt on her account. “O! +here comes Signor Montoni himself,” said her aunt, “I protest I +will tell him all the fine things you have been saying to me.” The +Signor, however, passed at this moment into another walk. “Pray, who is +it, that has so much engaged your friend this evening?” asked Madame +Cheron, with an air of chagrin, “I have not seen him once.” +</p> + +<p> +“He had a very particular engagement with the Marquis La Rivière,” +replied Cavigni, “which has detained him, I perceive, till this moment, +or he would have done himself the honour of paying his respects to you, madam, +sooner, as he commissioned me to say. But, I know not how it is—your +conversation is so fascinating—that it can charm even memory, I think, or +I should certainly have delivered my friend’s apology before.” +</p> + +<p> +“The apology, sir, would have been more satisfactory from himself,” +said Madame Cheron, whose vanity was more mortified by Montoni’s neglect, +than flattered by Cavigni’s compliment. Her manner, at this moment, and +Cavigni’s late conversation, now awakened a suspicion in Emily’s +mind, which, notwithstanding that some recollections served to confirm it, +appeared preposterous. She thought she perceived, that Montoni was paying +serious addresses to her aunt, and that she not only accepted them, but was +jealously watchful of any appearance of neglect on his part.—That Madame +Cheron at her years should elect a second husband was ridiculous, though her +vanity made it not impossible; but that Montoni, with his discernment, his +figure, and pretensions, should make a choice of Madame Cheron—appeared +most wonderful. Her thoughts, however, did not dwell long on the subject; +nearer interests pressed upon them; Valancourt, rejected of her aunt, and +Valancourt dancing with a gay and beautiful partner, alternately tormented her +mind. As she passed along the gardens she looked timidly forward, half fearing +and half hoping that he might appear in the crowd; and the disappointment she +felt on not seeing him, told her, that she had hoped more than she had feared. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni soon after joined the party. He muttered over some short speech about +regret for having been so long detained elsewhere, when he knew he should have +the pleasure of seeing Madame Cheron here; and she, receiving the apology with +the air of a pettish girl, addressed herself entirely to Cavigni, who looked +archly at Montoni, as if he would have said, “I will not triumph over you +too much; I will have the goodness to bear my honours meekly; but look sharp, +Signor, or I shall certainly run away with your prize.” +</p> + +<p> +The supper was served in different pavilions in the gardens, as well as in one +large saloon of the château, and with more of taste, than either of splendour, +or even of plenty. Madame Cheron and her party supped with Madame Clairval in +the saloon, and Emily, with difficulty, disguised her emotion, when she saw +Valancourt placed at the same table with herself. There, Madame Cheron having +surveyed him with high displeasure, said to some person who sat next to her, +“Pray, who <i>is</i> that young man?” “It is the Chevalier +Valancourt,” was the answer. “Yes, I am not ignorant of his name, +but who is this Chevalier Valancourt that thus intrudes himself at this +table?” The attention of the person, to whom she spoke, was called off +before she received a second reply. The table, at which they sat, was very +long, and, Valancourt being seated, with his partner, near the bottom, and +Emily near the top, the distance between them may account for his not +immediately perceiving her. She avoided looking to that end of the table, but +whenever her eyes happened to glance towards it, she observed him conversing +with his beautiful companion, and the observation did not contribute to restore +her peace, any more than the accounts she heard of the fortune and +accomplishments of this same lady. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Cheron, to whom these remarks were sometimes addressed, because they +supported topics for trivial conversation, seemed indefatigable in her attempts +to depreciate Valancourt, towards whom she felt all the petty resentment of a +narrow pride. “I admire the lady,” said she, “but I must +condemn her choice of a partner.” “Oh, the Chevalier Valancourt is +one of the most accomplished young men we have,” replied the lady, to +whom this remark was addressed: “it is whispered, that Mademoiselle +d’Emery, and her large fortune, are to be his.” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible!” exclaimed Madame Cheron, reddening with vexation, +“it is impossible that she can be so destitute of taste; he has so little +the air of a person of condition, that, if I did not see him at the table of +Madame Clairval, I should never have suspected him to be one. I have besides +particular reasons for believing the report to be erroneous.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot doubt the truth of it,” replied the lady gravely, +disgusted by the abrupt contradiction she had received, concerning her opinion +of Valancourt’s merit. “You will, perhaps, doubt it,” said +Madame Cheron, “when I assure you, that it was only this morning that I +rejected his suit.” +</p> + +<p> +This was said without any intention of imposing the meaning it conveyed, but +simply from a habit of considering herself to be the most important person in +every affair that concerned her niece, and because literally <i>she</i> had +rejected Valancourt. “Your reasons are indeed such as cannot be +doubted,” replied the lady, with an ironical smile. “Any more than +the discernment of the Chevalier Valancourt,” added Cavigni, who stood by +the chair of Madame Cheron, and had heard her arrogate to herself, as he +thought, a distinction which had been paid to her niece. “His discernment +<i>may</i> be justly questioned, Signor,” said Madame Cheron, who was not +flattered by what she understood to be an encomium on Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Alas!” exclaimed Cavigni, surveying Madame Cheron with affected +ecstasy, “how vain is that assertion, while that face—that +shape—that air—combine to refute it! Unhappy Valancourt! his +discernment has been his destruction.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily looked surprised and embarrassed; the lady, who had lately spoken, +astonished, and Madame Cheron, who, though she did not perfectly understand +this speech, was very ready to believe herself complimented by it, said +smilingly, “O Signor! you are very gallant; but those, who hear you +vindicate the Chevalier’s discernment, will suppose that I am the object +of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“They cannot doubt it,” replied Cavigni, bowing low. +</p> + +<p> +“And would not that be very mortifying, Signor?” +</p> + +<p> +“Unquestionably it would,” said Cavigni. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot endure the thought,” said Madame Cheron. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not to be endured,” replied Cavigni. +</p> + +<p> +“What can be done to prevent so humiliating a mistake?” rejoined +Madame Cheron. +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! I cannot assist you,” replied Cavigni, with a deliberating +air. “Your only chance of refuting the calumny, and of making people +understand what you wish them to believe, is to persist in your first +assertion; for, when they are told of the Chevalier’s want of +discernment, it is possible they may suppose he never presumed to distress you +with his admiration.—But then again—that diffidence, which renders +you so insensible to your own perfections—they will consider this, and +Valancourt’s taste will not be doubted, though you arraign it. In short, +they will, in spite of your endeavours, continue to believe, what might very +naturally have occurred to them without any hint of mine—that the +Chevalier has taste enough to admire a beautiful woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“All this is very distressing!” said Madame Cheron, with a profound +sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“May I be allowed to ask what is so distressing?” said Madame +Clairval, who was struck with the rueful countenance and doleful accent, with +which this was delivered. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a delicate subject,” replied Madame Cheron, “a very +mortifying one to me.” “I am concerned to hear it,” said +Madame Clairval, “I hope nothing has occurred, this evening, particularly +to distress you?” “Alas, yes! within this half hour; and I know not +where the report may end;—my pride was never so shocked before, but I +assure you the report is totally void of foundation.” “Good +God!” exclaimed Madame Clairval, “what can be done? Can you point +out any way, by which I can assist, or console you?” +</p> + +<p> +“The only way, by which you can do either,” replied Madame Cheron, +“is to contradict the report wherever you go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! but pray inform me what I am to contradict.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is so very humiliating, that I know not how to mention it,” +continued Madame Cheron, “but you shall judge. Do you observe that young +man seated near the bottom of the table, who is conversing with Mademoiselle +d’Emery?” “Yes, I perceive whom you mean.” “You +observe how little he has the air of a person of condition; I was saying just +now, that I should not have thought him a gentleman, if I had not seen him at +this table.” “Well! but the report,” said Madame Clairval, +“let me understand the subject of your distress.” “Ah! the +subject of my distress,” replied Madame Cheron; “this person, whom +nobody knows—(I beg pardon, madam, I did not consider what I +said)—this impertinent young man, having had the presumption to address +my niece, has, I fear, given rise to a report, that he had declared himself my +admirer. Now only consider how very mortifying such a report must be! You, I +know, will feel for my situation. A woman of my condition!—think how +degrading even the rumour of such an alliance must be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Degrading indeed, my poor friend!” said Madame Clairval. +“You may rely upon it I will contradict the report wherever I go;” +as she said which, she turned her attention upon another part of the company; +and Cavigni, who had hitherto appeared a grave spectator of the scene, now +fearing he should be unable to smother the laugh, that convulsed him, walked +abruptly away. +</p> + +<p> +“I perceive you do not know,” said the lady who sat near Madame +Cheron, “that the gentleman you have been speaking of is Madame +Clairval’s nephew!” “Impossible!” exclaimed Madame +Cheron, who now began to perceive, that she had been totally mistaken in her +judgment of Valancourt, and to praise him aloud with as much servility, as she +had before censured him with frivolous malignity. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, who, during the greater part of this conversation, had been so absorbed +in thought as to be spared the pain of hearing it, was now extremely surprised +by her aunt’s praise of Valancourt, with whose relationship to Madame +Clairval she was unacquainted; but she was not sorry when Madame Cheron, who, +though she now tried to appear unconcerned, was really much embarrassed, +prepared to withdraw immediately after supper. Montoni then came to hand Madame +Cheron to her carriage, and Cavigni, with an arch solemnity of countenance, +followed with Emily, who, as she wished them good night, and drew up the glass, +saw Valancourt among the crowd at the gates. Before the carriage drove off, he +disappeared. Madame Cheron forbore to mention him to Emily, and, as soon as +they reached the château, they separated for the night. +</p> + +<p> +On the following morning, as Emily sat at breakfast with her aunt, a letter was +brought to her, of which she knew the handwriting upon the cover; and, as she +received it with a trembling hand, Madame Cheron hastily enquired from whom it +came. Emily, with her leave, broke the seal, and, observing the signature of +Valancourt, gave it unread to her aunt, who received it with impatience; and, +as she looked it over, Emily endeavoured to read on her countenance its +contents. Having returned the letter to her niece, whose eyes asked if she +might examine it, “Yes, read it, child,” said Madame Cheron, in a +manner less severe than she had expected, and Emily had, perhaps, never before +so willingly obeyed her aunt. In this letter Valancourt said little of the +interview of the preceding day, but concluded with declaring, that he would +accept his dismission from Emily only, and with entreating, that she would +allow him to wait upon her, on the approaching evening. When she read this, she +was astonished at the moderation of Madame Cheron, and looked at her with timid +expectation, as she said sorrowfully—“What am I to say, +madam?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why—we must see the young man, I believe,” replied her aunt, +“and hear what he has further to say for himself. You may tell him he may +come.” Emily dared scarcely credit what she heard. “Yet, +stay,” added Madame Cheron, “I will tell him so myself.” She +called for pen and ink; Emily still not daring to trust the emotions she felt, +and almost sinking beneath them. Her surprise would have been less had she +overheard, on the preceding evening, what Madame Cheron had not +forgotten—that Valancourt was the nephew of Madame Clairval. +</p> + +<p> +What were the particulars of her aunt’s note Emily did not learn, but the +result was a visit from Valancourt in the evening, whom Madame Cheron received +alone, and they had a long conversation before Emily was called down. When she +entered the room, her aunt was conversing with complacency, and she saw the +eyes of Valancourt, as he impatiently rose, animated with hope. +</p> + +<p> +“We have been talking over this affair,” said Madame Cheron, +“the chevalier has been telling me, that the late Monsieur Clairval was +the brother of the Countess de Duvarney, his mother. I only wish he had +mentioned his relationship to Madame Clairval before; I certainly should have +considered that circumstance as a sufficient introduction to my house.” +Valancourt bowed, and was going to address Emily, but her aunt prevented him. +“I have, therefore, consented that you shall receive his visits; and, +though I will not bind myself by any promise, or say, that I shall consider him +as my nephew, yet I shall permit the intercourse, and shall look forward to any +further connection as an event, which may possibly take place in a course of +years, provided the chevalier rises in his profession, or any circumstance +occurs, which may make it prudent for him to take a wife. But Mons. Valancourt +will observe, and you too, Emily, that, till that happens, I positively forbid +any thoughts of marrying.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s countenance, during this coarse speech, varied every instant, +and, towards its conclusion, her distress had so much increased, that she was +on the point of leaving the room. Valancourt, meanwhile, scarcely less +embarrassed, did not dare to look at her, for whom he was thus distressed; but, +when Madame Cheron was silent, he said, “Flattering, madam, as your +approbation is to me—highly as I am honoured by it—I have yet so +much to fear, that I scarcely dare to hope.” “Pray, sir, explain +yourself,” said Madame Cheron; an unexpected requisition, which +embarrassed Valancourt again, and almost overcame him with confusion, at +circumstances, on which, had he been only a spectator of the scene, he would +have smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Till I receive Mademoiselle St. Aubert’s permission to accept your +indulgence,” said he, falteringly—“till she allows me to +hope—” +</p> + +<p> +“O! is that all?” interrupted Madame Cheron. “Well, I will +take upon me to answer for her. But at the same time, sir, give me leave to +observe to you, that I am her guardian, and that I expect, in every instance, +that my will is hers.” +</p> + +<p> +As she said this, she rose and quitted the room, leaving Emily and Valancourt +in a state of mutual embarrassment; and, when Valancourt’s hopes enabled +him to overcome his fears, and to address her with the zeal and sincerity so +natural to him, it was a considerable time before she was sufficiently +recovered to hear with distinctness his solicitations and inquiries. +</p> + +<p> +The conduct of Madame Cheron in this affair had been entirely governed by +selfish vanity. Valancourt, in his first interview, had with great candour laid +open to her the true state of his present circumstances, and his future +expectancies, and she, with more prudence than humanity, had absolutely and +abruptly rejected his suit. She wished her niece to marry ambitiously, not +because she desired to see her in possession of the happiness, which rank and +wealth are usually believed to bestow, but because she desired to partake the +importance, which such an alliance would give. When, therefore, she discovered +that Valancourt was the nephew of a person of so much consequence as Madame +Clairval, she became anxious for the connection, since the prospect it afforded +of future fortune and distinction for Emily, promised the exaltation she +coveted for herself. Her calculations concerning fortune in this alliance were +guided rather by her wishes, than by any hint of Valancourt, or strong +appearance of probability; and, when she rested her expectation on the wealth +of Madame Clairval, she seemed totally to have forgotten, that the latter had a +daughter. Valancourt, however, had not forgotten this circumstance, and the +consideration of it had made him so modest in his expectations from Madame +Clairval, that he had not even named the relationship in his first conversation +with Madame Cheron. But, whatever might be the future fortune of Emily, the +present distinction, which the connection would afford for herself, was +certain, since the splendour of Madame Clairval’s establishment was such +as to excite the general envy and partial imitation of the neighbourhood. Thus +had she consented to involve her niece in an engagement, to which she saw only +a distant and uncertain conclusion, with as little consideration of her +happiness, as when she had so precipitately forbade it: for though she herself +possessed the means of rendering this union not only certain, but prudent, yet +to do so was no part of her present intention. +</p> + +<p> +From this period Valancourt made frequent visits to Madame Cheron, and Emily +passed in his society the happiest hours she had known since the death of her +father. They were both too much engaged by the present moments to give serious +consideration to the future. They loved and were beloved, and saw not, that the +very attachment, which formed the delight of their present days, might possibly +occasion the sufferings of years. Meanwhile, Madame Cheron’s intercourse +with Madame Clairval became more frequent than before, and her vanity was +already gratified by the opportunity of proclaiming, wherever she went, the +attachment that subsisted between their nephew and niece. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni was now also become a daily guest at the château, and Emily was +compelled to observe, that he really was a suitor, and a favoured suitor, to +her aunt. +</p> + +<p> +Thus passed the winter months, not only in peace, but in happiness, to +Valancourt and Emily; the station of his regiment being so near Thoulouse, as to +allow this frequent intercourse. The pavilion on the terrace was the favourite +scene of their interviews, and there Emily, with Madame Cheron, would work, +while Valancourt read aloud works of genius and taste, listened to her +enthusiasm, expressed his own, and caught new opportunities of observing, that +their minds were formed to constitute the happiness of each other, the same +taste, the same noble and benevolent sentiments animating each. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a> CHAPTER XIII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles,<br/> +Placed far amid the melancholy main,<br/> +(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,<br/> +Or that aerial beings sometimes deign<br/> +To stand embodied to our senses plain)<br/> +Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,<br/> +The whilst in ocean Phœbus dips his wain,<br/> +A vast assembly moving to and fro,<br/> +Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.<br/> + CASTLE OF INDOLENCE +</p> + +<p> +Madame Cheron’s avarice at length yielded to her vanity. Some very +splendid entertainments, which Madame Clairval had given, and the general +adulation, which was paid her, made the former more anxious than before to +secure an alliance, that would so much exalt her in her own opinion and in that +of the world. She proposed terms for the immediate marriage of her niece, and +offered to give Emily a dower, provided Madame Clairval observed equal terms, +on the part of her nephew. Madame Clairval listened to the proposal, and, +considering that Emily was the apparent heiress of her aunt’s wealth, +accepted it. Meanwhile, Emily knew nothing of the transaction, till Madame +Cheron informed her, that she must make preparation for the nuptials, which +would be celebrated without further delay; then, astonished and wholly unable +to account for this sudden conclusion, which Valancourt had not solicited (for +he was ignorant of what had passed between the elder ladies, and had not dared +to hope such good fortune), she decisively objected to it. Madame Cheron, +however, quite as jealous of contradiction now, as she had been formerly, +contended for a speedy marriage with as much vehemence as she had formerly +opposed whatever had the most remote possibility of leading to it; and +Emily’s scruples disappeared, when she again saw Valancourt, who was now +informed of the happiness, designed for him, and came to claim a promise of it +from herself. +</p> + +<p> +While preparations were making for these nuptials, Montoni became the +acknowledged lover of Madame Cheron; and, though Madame Clairval was much +displeased, when she heard of the approaching connection, and was willing to +prevent that of Valancourt with Emily, her conscience told her, that she had no +right thus to trifle with their peace, and Madame Clairval, though a woman of +fashion, was far less advanced than her friend in the art of deriving +satisfaction from distinction and admiration, rather than from conscience. +</p> + +<p> +Emily observed with concern the ascendancy, which Montoni had acquired over +Madame Cheron, as well as the increasing frequency of his visits; and her own +opinion of this Italian was confirmed by that of Valancourt, who had always +expressed a dislike of him. As she was, one morning, sitting at work in the +pavilion, enjoying the pleasant freshness of spring, whose colours were now +spread upon the landscape, and listening to Valancourt, who was reading, but +who often laid aside the book to converse, she received a summons to attend +Madame Cheron immediately, and had scarcely entered the dressing-room, when she +observed with surprise the dejection of her aunt’s countenance, and the +contrasted gaiety of her dress. “So, niece!”—said Madame, and +she stopped under some degree of embarrassment.—“I sent for +you—I—I wished to see you; I have news to tell you. From this hour +you must consider the Signor Montoni as your uncle—we were married this +morning.” +</p> + +<p> +Astonished—not so much at the marriage, as at the secrecy with which it +had been concluded, and the agitation with which it was announced, Emily, at +length, attributed the privacy to the wish of Montoni, rather than of her aunt. +His wife, however, intended, that the contrary should be believed, and +therefore added, “you see I wished to avoid a bustle; but now the +ceremony is over I shall do so no longer; and I wish to announce to my servants +that they must receive the Signor Montoni for their master.” Emily made a +feeble attempt to congratulate her on these apparently imprudent nuptials. +“I shall now celebrate my marriage with some splendour,” continued +Madame Montoni, “and to save time I shall avail myself of the preparation +that has been made for yours, which will, of course, be delayed a little while. +Such of your wedding clothes as are ready I shall expect you will appear in, to +do honour to this festival. I also wish you to inform Monsieur Valancourt, that +I have changed my name, and he will acquaint Madame Clairval. In a few days I +shall give a grand entertainment, at which I shall request their +presence.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was so lost in surprise and various thought, that she made Madame Montoni +scarcely any reply, but, at her desire, she returned to inform Valancourt of +what had passed. Surprise was not his predominant emotion on hearing of these +hasty nuptials; and, when he learned, that they were to be the means of +delaying his own, and that the very ornaments of the château, which had been +prepared to grace the nuptial day of his Emily, were to be degraded to the +celebration of Madame Montoni’s, grief and indignation agitated him +alternately. He could conceal neither from the observation of Emily, whose +efforts to abstract him from these serious emotions, and to laugh at the +apprehensive considerations, that assailed him, were ineffectual; and, when, at +length, he took leave, there was an earnest tenderness in his manner, that +extremely affected her; she even shed tears, when he disappeared at the end of +the terrace, yet knew not exactly why she should do so. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni now took possession of the château, and the command of its inhabitants, +with the ease of a man, who had long considered it to be his own. His friend +Cavigni, who had been extremely serviceable, in having paid Madame Cheron the +attention and flattery, which she required, but from which Montoni too often +revolted, had apartments assigned to him, and received from the domestics an +equal degree of obedience with the master of the mansion. +</p> + +<p> +Within a few days, Madame Montoni, as she had promised, gave a magnificent +entertainment to a very numerous company, among whom was Valancourt; but at +which Madame Clairval excused herself from attending. There was a concert, ball +and supper. Valancourt was, of course, Emily’s partner, and though, when +he gave a look to the decorations of the apartments, he could not but remember, +that they were designed for other festivities, than those they now contributed +to celebrate, he endeavoured to check his concern by considering, that a little +while only would elapse before they would be given to their original +destination. During this evening, Madame Montoni danced, laughed and talked +incessantly; while Montoni, silent, reserved and somewhat haughty, seemed weary +of the parade, and of the frivolous company it had drawn together. +</p> + +<p> +This was the first and the last entertainment, given in celebration of their +nuptials. Montoni, though the severity of his temper and the gloominess of his +pride prevented him from enjoying such festivities, was extremely willing to +promote them. It was seldom, that he could meet in any company a man of more +address, and still seldomer one of more understanding, than himself; the +balance of advantage in such parties, or in the connections, which might arise +from them, must, therefore, be on his side; and, knowing, as he did, the +selfish purposes, for which they are generally frequented, he had no objection +to measure his talents of dissimulation with those of any other competitor for +distinction and plunder. But his wife, who, when her own interest was +immediately concerned, had sometimes more discernment than vanity, acquired a +consciousness of her inferiority to other women, in personal attractions, +which, uniting with the jealousy natural to the discovery, counteracted his +readiness for mingling with all the parties Thoulouse could afford. Till she +had, as she supposed, the affections of a husband to lose, she had no motive +for discovering the unwelcome truth, and it had never obtruded itself upon her; +but, now that it influenced her policy, she opposed her husband’s +inclination for company, with the more eagerness, because she believed him to +be really as well received in the female society of the place, as, during his +addresses to her, he had affected to be. +</p> + +<p> +A few weeks only had elapsed, since the marriage, when Madame Montoni informed +Emily, that the Signor intended to return to Italy, as soon as the necessary +preparation could be made for so long a journey. “We shall go to +Venice,” said she, “where the Signor has a fine mansion, and from +thence to his estate in Tuscany. Why do you look so grave, child?—You, +who are so fond of a romantic country and fine views, will doubtless be +delighted with this journey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I then to be of the party, madam?” said Emily, with extreme +surprise and emotion. “Most certainly,” replied her aunt, +“how could you imagine we should leave you behind? But I see you are +thinking of the Chevalier; he is not yet, I believe, informed of the journey, +but he very soon will be so. Signor Montoni is gone to acquaint Madame Clairval +of our journey, and to say, that the proposed connection between the families +must from this time be thought of no more.” +</p> + +<p> +The unfeeling manner, in which Madame Montoni thus informed her niece, that she +must be separated, perhaps for ever, from the man, with whom she was on the +point of being united for life, added to the dismay, which she must otherwise +have suffered at such intelligence. When she could speak, she asked the cause +of the sudden change in Madame’s sentiments towards Valancourt, but the +only reply she could obtain was, that the Signor had forbade the connection, +considering it to be greatly inferior to what Emily might reasonably expect. +</p> + +<p> +“I now leave the affair entirely to the Signor,” added Madame +Montoni, “but I must say, that M. Valancourt never was a favourite with +me, and I was overpersuaded, or I should not have given my consent to the +connection. I was weak enough—I am so foolish sometimes!—to suffer +other people’s uneasiness to affect me, and so my better judgment yielded +to your affliction. But the Signor has very properly pointed out the folly of +this, and he shall not have to reprove me a second time. I am determined, that +you shall submit to those, who know how to guide you better than +yourself—I am determined, that you shall be conformable.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily would have been astonished at the assertions of this eloquent speech, had +not her mind been so overwhelmed by the sudden shock it had received, that she +scarcely heard a word of what was latterly addressed to her. Whatever were the +weaknesses of Madame Montoni, she might have avoided to accuse herself with +those of compassion and tenderness to the feelings of others, and especially to +those of Emily. It was the same ambition, that lately prevailed upon her to +solicit an alliance with Madame Clairval’s family, which induced her to +withdraw from it, now that her marriage with Montoni had exalted her +self-consequence, and, with it, her views for her niece. +</p> + +<p> +Emily was, at this time, too much affected to employ either remonstrance, or +entreaty on this topic; and when, at length, she attempted the latter, her +emotion overcame her speech, and she retired to her apartment, to think, if in +the present state of her mind to think was possible, upon this sudden and +overwhelming subject. It was very long, before her spirits were sufficiently +composed to permit the reflection, which, when it came, was dark and even +terrible. She saw, that Montoni sought to aggrandise himself in his disposal of +her, and it occurred, that his friend Cavigni was the person, for whom he was +interested. The prospect of going to Italy was still rendered darker, when she +considered the tumultuous situation of that country, then torn by civil +commotion, where every petty state was at war with its neighbour, and even +every castle liable to the attack of an invader. She considered the person, to +whose immediate guidance she would be committed, and the vast distance, that +was to separate her from Valancourt, and, at the recollection of him, every +other image vanished from her mind, and every thought was again obscured by +grief. +</p> + +<p> +In this perturbed state she passed some hours, and, when she was summoned to +dinner, she entreated permission to remain in her own apartment; but Madame +Montoni was alone, and the request was refused. Emily and her aunt said little +during the repast; the one occupied by her griefs, the other engrossed by the +disappointment, which the unexpected absence of Montoni occasioned; for not +only was her vanity piqued by the neglect, but her jealousy alarmed by what she +considered as a mysterious engagement. When the cloth was drawn and they were +alone, Emily renewed the mention of Valancourt; but her aunt, neither softened +to pity, nor awakened to remorse, became enraged, that her will should be +opposed, and the authority of Montoni questioned, though this was done by Emily +with her usual gentleness, who, after a long, and torturing conversation, +retired in tears. +</p> + +<p> +As she crossed the hall, a person entered it by the great door, whom, as her +eyes hastily glanced that way, she imagined to be Montoni, and she was passing +on with quicker steps, when she heard the well-known voice of Valancourt. +</p> + +<p> +“Emily, O! my Emily!” cried he in a tone faltering with impatience, +while she turned, and, as he advanced, was alarmed at the expression of his +countenance and the eager desperation of his air. “In tears, Emily! I +would speak with you,” said he, “I have much to say; conduct me to +where we may converse. But you tremble—you are ill! Let me lead you to a +seat.” +</p> + +<p> +He observed the open door of an apartment, and hastily took her hand to lead +her thither; but she attempted to withdraw it, and said, with a languid smile, +“I am better already; if you wish to see my aunt she is in the +dining-parlour.” “I must speak with <i>you</i>, my Emily,” +replied Valancourt, “Good God! is it already come to this? Are you indeed +so willing to resign me? But this is an improper place—I am overheard. +Let me entreat your attention, if only for a few +minutes.”—“When you have seen my aunt,” said Emily. +“I was wretched enough when I came hither,” exclaimed Valancourt, +“do not increase my misery by this coldness—this cruel +refusal.” +</p> + +<p> +The despondency, with which he spoke this, affected her almost to tears, but +she persisted in refusing to hear him, till he had conversed with Madame +Montoni. “Where is her husband, where, then, is Montoni?” said +Valancourt, in an altered tone: “it is he, to whom I must speak.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, terrified for the consequence of the indignation, that flashed in his +eyes, tremblingly assured him, that Montoni was not at home, and entreated he +would endeavour to moderate his resentment. At the tremulous accents of her +voice, his eyes softened instantly from wildness into tenderness. “You +are ill, Emily,” said he, “they will destroy us both! Forgive me, +that I dared to doubt your affection.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily no longer opposed him, as he led her into an adjoining parlour; the +manner, in which he had named Montoni, had so much alarmed her for his own +safety, that she was now only anxious to prevent the consequences of his just +resentment. He listened to her entreaties, with attention, but replied to them +only with looks of despondency and tenderness, concealing, as much as possible, +the sentiments he felt towards Montoni, that he might soothe the apprehensions, +which distressed her. But she saw the veil he had spread over his resentment, +and, his assumed tranquillity only alarming her more, she urged, at length, the +impolicy of forcing an interview with Montoni, and of taking any measure, which +might render their separation irremediable. Valancourt yielded to these +remonstrances, and her affecting entreaties drew from him a promise, that, +however Montoni might persist in his design of disuniting them, he would not +seek to redress his wrongs by violence. “For my sake,” said Emily, +“let the consideration of what I should suffer deter you from such a mode +of revenge!” “For your sake, Emily,” replied Valancourt, his +eyes filling with tears of tenderness and grief, while he gazed upon her. +“Yes—yes—I shall subdue myself. But, though I have given you +my solemn promise to do this, do not expect, that I can tamely submit to the +authority of Montoni; if I could, I should be unworthy of you. Yet, O Emily! +how long may he condemn me to live without you,—how long may it be before +you return to France!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily endeavoured to sooth him with assurances of her unalterable affection, +and by representing, that, in little more than a year, she should be her own +mistress, as far as related to her aunt, from whose guardianship her age would +then release her; assurances, which gave little consolation to Valancourt, who +considered, that she would then be in Italy and in the power of those, whose +dominion over her would not cease with their rights; but he affected to be +consoled by them. Emily, comforted by the promise she had obtained, and by his +apparent composure, was about to leave him, when her aunt entered the room. She +threw a glance of sharp reproof upon her niece, who immediately withdrew, and +of haughty displeasure upon Valancourt. +</p> + +<p> +“This is not the conduct I should have expected from you, sir;” +said she, “I did not expect to see you in my house, after you had been +informed, that your visits were no longer agreeable, much less, that you would +seek a clandestine interview with my niece, and that she would grant +one.” +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt, perceiving it necessary to vindicate Emily from such a design, +explained, that the purpose of his own visit had been to request an interview +with Montoni, and he then entered upon the subject of it, with the tempered +spirit which the sex, rather than the respectability, of Madame Montoni, +demanded. +</p> + +<p> +His expostulations were answered with severe rebuke; she lamented again, that +her prudence had ever yielded to what she termed compassion, and added, that +she was so sensible of the folly of her former consent, that, to prevent the +possibility of a repetition, she had committed the affair entirely to the +conduct of Signor Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +The feeling eloquence of Valancourt, however, at length, made her sensible in +some measure of her unworthy conduct, and she became susceptible to shame, but +not remorse: she hated Valancourt, who awakened her to this painful sensation, +and, in proportion as she grew dissatisfied with herself, her abhorrence of him +increased. This was also the more inveterate, because his tempered words and +manner were such as, without accusing her, compelled her to accuse herself, and +neither left her a hope, that the odious portrait was the caricature of his +prejudice, or afforded her an excuse for expressing the violent resentment, +with which she contemplated it. At length, her anger rose to such a height, +that Valancourt was compelled to leave the house abruptly, lest he should +forfeit his own esteem by an intemperate reply. He was then convinced, that +from Madame Montoni he had nothing to hope, for what of either pity, or justice +could be expected from a person, who could feel the pain of guilt, without the +humility of repentance? +</p> + +<p> +To Montoni he looked with equal despondency, since it was nearly evident, that +this plan of separation originated with him, and it was not probable, that he +would relinquish his own views to entreaties, or remonstrances, which he must +have foreseen and have been prepared to resist. Yet, remembering his promise to +Emily, and more solicitous, concerning his love, than jealous of his +consequence, Valancourt was careful to do nothing that might unnecessarily +irritate Montoni, he wrote to him, therefore, not to demand an interview, but +to solicit one, and, having done this, he endeavoured to wait with calmness his +reply. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Clairval was passive in the affair. When she gave her approbation to +Valancourt’s marriage, it was in the belief, that Emily would be the +heiress of Madame Montoni’s fortune; and, though, upon the nuptials of +the latter, when she perceived the fallacy of this expectation, her conscience +had withheld her from adopting any measure to prevent the union, her +benevolence was not sufficiently active to impel her towards any step, that +might now promote it. She was, on the contrary, secretly pleased, that +Valancourt was released from an engagement, which she considered to be as +inferior, in point of fortune, to his merit, as his alliance was thought by +Montoni to be humiliating to the beauty of Emily; and, though her pride was +wounded by this rejection of a member of her family, she disdained to show +resentment otherwise, than by silence. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said, that as an interview could neither +remove the objections of the one, nor overcome the wishes of the other, it would +serve only to produce useless altercation between them. He, therefore, thought +proper to refuse it. +</p> + +<p> +In consideration of the policy, suggested by Emily, and of his promise to her, +Valancourt restrained the impulse, that urged him to the house of Montoni, to +demand what had been denied to his entreaties. He only repeated his +solicitations to see him; seconding them with all the arguments his situation +could suggest. Thus several days passed, in remonstrance, on one side, and +inflexible denial, on the other; for, whether it was fear, or shame, or the +hatred, which results from both, that made Montoni shun the man he had injured, +he was peremptory in his refusal, and was neither softened to pity by the +agony, which Valancourt’s letters portrayed, nor awakened to a repentance +of his own injustice by the strong remonstrances he employed. At length, +Valancourt’s letters were returned unopened, and then, in the first +moments of passionate despair, he forgot every promise to Emily, except the +solemn one, which bound him to avoid violence, and hastened to Montoni’s +château, determined to see him by whatever other means might be necessary. +Montoni was denied, and Valancourt, when he afterwards enquired for Madame, and +Ma’amselle St. Aubert, was absolutely refused admittance by the servants. +Not choosing to submit himself to a contest with these, he, at length, +departed, and, returning home in a state of mind approaching to frenzy, wrote +to Emily of what had passed, expressed without restraint all the agony of his +heart, and entreated, that, since he must not otherwise hope to see her +immediately, she would allow him an interview unknown to Montoni. Soon after he +had dispatched this, his passions becoming more temperate, he was sensible of +the error he had committed in having given Emily a new subject of distress in +the strong mention of his own suffering, and would have given half the world, +had it been his, to recover the letter. Emily, however, was spared the pain she +must have received from it by the suspicious policy of Madame Montoni, who had +ordered, that all letters, addressed to her niece, should be delivered to +herself, and who, after having perused this and indulged the expressions of +resentment, which Valancourt’s mention of Montoni provoked, had consigned +it to the flames. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni, meanwhile, every day more impatient to leave France, gave repeated +orders for dispatch to the servants employed in preparations for the journey, +and to the persons, with whom he was transacting some particular business. He +preserved a steady silence to the letters in which Valancourt, despairing of +greater good, and having subdued the passion, that had transgressed against his +policy, solicited only the indulgence of being allowed to bid Emily farewell. +But when Valancourt learned that she was really to set out in a very few days, +and that it was designed he should see her no more, forgetting every +consideration of prudence, he dared, in a second letter to Emily, to propose a +clandestine marriage. This also was transmitted to Madame Montoni, and the last +day of Emily’s stay at Thoulouse arrived, without affording Valancourt +even a line to sooth his sufferings, or a hope, that he should be allowed a +parting interview. +</p> + +<p> +During this period of torturing suspense to Valancourt, Emily was sunk into +that kind of stupor, with which sudden and irremediable misfortune sometimes +overwhelms the mind. Loving him with the tenderest affection, and having long +been accustomed to consider him as the friend and companion of all her future +days, she had no ideas of happiness, that were not connected with him. What, +then, must have been her suffering, when thus suddenly they were to be +separated, perhaps, for ever, certainly to be thrown into distant parts of the +world, where they could scarcely hear of each other’s existence; and all +this in obedience to the will of a stranger, for such as Montoni, and of a +person, who had but lately been anxious to hasten their nuptials! It was in +vain, that she endeavoured to subdue her grief, and resign herself to an event, +which she could not avoid. The silence of Valancourt afflicted more than it +surprised her, since she attributed it to its just occasion; but, when the day, +preceding that, on which she was to quit Thoulouse, arrived, and she had heard +no mention of his being permitted to take leave of her, grief overcame every +consideration, that had made her reluctant to speak of him, and she enquired of +Madame Montoni, whether this consolation had been refused. Her aunt informed +her that it had, adding, that, after the provocation she had herself received +from Valancourt, in their last interview, and the persecution, which the Signor +had suffered from his letters, no entreaties should avail to procure it. +</p> + +<p> +“If the chevalier expected this favour from us,” said she, +“he should have conducted himself in a very different manner; he should +have waited patiently, till he knew whether we were disposed to grant it, and +not have come and reproved me, because I did not think proper to bestow my +niece upon him, and then have persisted in troubling the Signor, because he did +not think proper to enter into any dispute about so childish an affair. His +behaviour throughout has been extremely presumptuous and impertinent, and I +desire, that I may never hear his name repeated, and that you will get the +better of those foolish sorrows and whims, and look like other people, and not +appear with that dismal countenance, as if you were ready to cry. For, though +you say nothing, you cannot conceal your grief from my penetration. I can see +you are ready to cry at this moment, though I am reproving you for it; aye, +even now, in spite of my commands.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, having turned away to hide her tears, quitted the room to indulge them, +and the day was passed in an intensity of anguish, such as she had, perhaps, +never known before. When she withdrew to her chamber for the night, she +remained in the chair where she had placed herself, on entering the room, +absorbed in her grief, till long after every member of the family, except +herself, was retired to rest. She could not divest herself of a belief, that +she had parted with Valancourt to meet no more; a belief, which did not arise +merely from foreseen circumstances, for, though the length of the journey she +was about to commence, the uncertainty as to the period of her return, together +with the prohibitions she had received, seemed to justify it, she yielded also +to an impression, which she mistook for a presentiment, that she was going +from Valancourt for ever. How dreadful to her imagination, too, was the +distance that would separate them—the Alps, those tremendous barriers! +would rise, and whole countries extend between the regions where each must +exist! To live in adjoining provinces, to live even in the same country, though +without seeing him, was comparative happiness to the conviction of this +dreadful length of distance. +</p> + +<p> +Her mind was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of her state, +and the belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last time, that she +suddenly became very faint, and, looking round the chamber for something, that +might revive her, she observed the casements, and had just strength to throw +one open, near which she seated herself. The air recalled her spirits, and the +still moonlight, that fell upon the elms of a long avenue, fronting the +window, somewhat soothed them, and determined her to try whether exercise and +the open air would not relieve the intense pain that bound her temples. In the +château all was still; and, passing down the great staircase into the hall, +from whence a passage led immediately to the garden, she softly and unheard, as +she thought, unlocked the door, and entered the avenue. Emily passed on with +steps now hurried, and now faltering, as, deceived by the shadows among the +trees, she fancied she saw some person move in the distant perspective, and +feared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni. Her desire, however, to revisit +the pavilion, where she had passed so many happy hours with Valancourt, and had +admired with him the extensive prospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony, +overcame her apprehension of being observed, and she moved on towards the +terrace, which, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole of the +lower one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble steps, that +terminated the avenue. +</p> + +<p> +Having reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for her distance +from the château now increased the fear, which the stillness and obscurity of +the hour had awakened. But, perceiving nothing that could justify it, she +ascended to the terrace, where the moonlight showed the long broad walk, with +the pavilion at its extremity, while the rays silvered the foliage of the high +trees and shrubs, that bordered it on the right, and the tufted summits of +those, that rose to a level with the balustrade on the left, from the garden +below. Her distance from the château again alarming her, she paused to listen; +the night was so calm, that no sound could have escaped her, but she heard only +the plaintive sweetness of the nightingale, with the light shiver of the +leaves, and she pursued her way towards the pavilion, having reached which, its +obscurity did not prevent the emotion, that a fuller view of its well-known +scene would have excited. The lattices were thrown back, and showed beyond +their embowered arch the moonlight landscape, shadowy and soft; its groves, +and plains extending gradually and indistinctly to the eye, its distant +mountains catching a stronger gleam, and the nearer river reflecting the moon, +and trembling to her rays. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, as she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features of this +scene only as they served to bring Valancourt more immediately to her fancy. +“Ah!” said she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw herself into a +chair by the window, “how often have we sat together in this +spot—often have looked upon that landscape! Never, never more shall we +view it together—never—never more, perhaps, shall we look upon each +other!” +</p> + +<p> +Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror—a voice spoke near her in the +pavilion; she shrieked—it spoke again, and she distinguished the +well-known tones of Valancourt. It was indeed Valancourt who supported her in +his arms! For some moments their emotion would not suffer either to speak. +“Emily,” said Valancourt at length, as he pressed her hand in his. +“Emily!” and he was again silent, but the accent, in which he had +pronounced her name, expressed all his tenderness and sorrow. +</p> + +<p> +“O my Emily!” he resumed, after a long pause, “I do then see +you once again, and hear again the sound of that voice! I have haunted this +place—these gardens, for many—many nights, with a faint, very faint +hope of seeing you. This was the only chance that remained to me, and thank +Heaven! it has at length succeeded—I am not condemned to absolute +despair!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive of her unalterable +affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation of his mind; but Valancourt +could for some time only utter incoherent expressions of his emotions; and, +when he was somewhat more composed, he said, “I came hither, soon after +sunset, and have been watching in the gardens, and in this pavilion ever +since; for, though I had now given up all hope of seeing you, I could not +resolve to tear myself from a place so near to you, and should probably have +lingered about the château till morning dawned. O how heavily the moments have +passed, yet with what various emotion have they been marked, as I sometimes +thought I heard footsteps, and fancied you were approaching, and then +again—perceived only a dead and dreary silence! But, when you opened the +door of the pavilion, and the darkness prevented my distinguishing with +certainty, whether it was my love—my heart beat so strongly with hopes +and fears, that I could not speak. The instant I heard the plaintive accents of +your voice, my doubts vanished, but not my fears, till you spoke of me; then, +losing the apprehension of alarming you in the excess of my emotion, I could no +longer be silent. O Emily! these are moments, in which joy and grief struggle +so powerfully for pre-eminence, that the heart can scarcely support the +contest!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joy she +felt on thus meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she was lamenting, +that they must probably meet no more, soon melted into grief, as reflection +stole over her thoughts, and imagination prompted visions of the future. She +struggled to recover the calm dignity of mind, which was necessary to support +her through this last interview, and which Valancourt found it utterly +impossible to attain, for the transports of his joy changed abruptly into those +of suffering, and he expressed in the most impassioned language his horror of +this separation, and his despair of their ever meeting again. Emily wept +silently as she listened to him, and then, trying to command her own distress, +and to sooth his, she suggested every circumstance that could lead to hope. But +the energy of his fears led him instantly to detect the friendly fallacies, +which she endeavoured to impose on herself and him, and also to conjure up +illusions too powerful for his reason. +</p> + +<p> +“You are going from me,” said he, “to a distant country, O +how distant!—to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too, +who will try to make you forget me, and to promote new connections! How can I +know this, and not know, that you will never return for me—never can be +mine.” His voice was stifled by sighs. +</p> + +<p> +“You believe, then,” said Emily, “that the pangs I suffer +proceed from a trivial and temporary interest; you believe—” +</p> + +<p> +“Suffer!” interrupted Valancourt, “suffer for me! O +Emily—how sweet—how bitter are those words; what comfort, what +anguish do they give! I ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection, +yet such is the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to +suspicion, however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the +object of its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel revived, as by a new +conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to you; and, wanting these, I +relapse into doubt, and too often into despondency.” Then seeming to +recollect himself, he exclaimed, “But what a wretch am I, thus to torture +you, and in these moments, too! I, who ought to support and comfort you!” +</p> + +<p> +This reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing into +despondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again this cruel +separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that Emily could no longer +struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth his. Valancourt, between these +emotions of love and pity, lost the power, and almost the wish, of repressing +his agitation; and, in the intervals of convulsive sobs, he, at one moment, +kissed away her tears, then told her cruelly, that possibly she might never +again weep for him, and then tried to speak more calmly, but only exclaimed, +“O Emily—my heart will break!—I cannot—cannot leave +you! Now—I gaze upon that countenance, now I hold you in my arms! a +little while, and all this will appear a dream. I shall look, and cannot see +you; shall try to recollect your features—and the impression will be fled +from my imagination;—to hear the tones of your voice, and even memory +will be silent!—I cannot, cannot leave you! Why should we confide the +happiness of our whole lives to the will of people, who have no right to +interrupt, and, except in giving you to me, have no power to promote it? O +Emily! venture to trust your own heart, venture to be mine for ever!” His +voice trembled, and he was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was silent +also, when Valancourt proceeded to propose an immediate marriage, and that at +an early hour on the following morning, she should quit Madame Montoni’s +house, and be conducted by him to the church of the Augustines, where a friar +should await to unite them. +</p> + +<p> +The silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love and +despair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely possible for her to +oppose it;—when her heart was softened by the sorrows of a separation, +that might be eternal, and her reason obscured by the illusions of love and +terror, encouraged him to hope, that it would not be rejected. “Speak, my +Emily!” said Valancourt eagerly, “let me hear your voice, let me +hear you confirm my fate.” she spoke not; her cheek was cold, and her +senses seemed to fail her, but she did not faint. To Valancourt’s +terrified imagination she appeared to be dying; he called upon her name, rose +to go to the château for assistance, and then, recollecting her situation, +feared to go, or to leave her for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +After a few minutes, she drew a deep sigh, and began to revive. The conflict +she had suffered, between love and the duty she at present owed to her +father’s sister; her repugnance to a clandestine marriage, her fear of +emerging on the world with embarrassments, such as might ultimately involve the +object of her affection in misery and repentance;—all this various +interest was too powerful for a mind, already enervated by sorrow, and her +reason had suffered a transient suspension. But duty, and good sense, however +hard the conflict, at length, triumphed over affection and mournful +presentiment; above all, she dreaded to involve Valancourt in obscurity and +vain regret, which she saw, or thought she saw, must be the too certain +consequence of a marriage in their present circumstances; and she acted, +perhaps, with somewhat more than female fortitude, when she resolved to endure +a present, rather than provoke a distant misfortune. +</p> + +<p> +With a candour, that proved how truly she esteemed and loved him, and which +endeared her to him, if possible, more than ever, she told Valancourt all her +reasons for rejecting his proposals. Those, which influenced her concerning his +future welfare, he instantly refuted, or rather contradicted; but they awakened +tender considerations for her, which the frenzy of passion and despair had +concealed before, and love, which had but lately prompted him to propose a +clandestine and immediate marriage, now induced him to renounce it. The triumph +was almost too much for his heart; for Emily’s sake, he endeavoured to +stifle his grief, but the swelling anguish would not be restrained. “O +Emily!” said he, “I must leave you—I <i>must</i> leave you, +and I know it is for ever!” +</p> + +<p> +Convulsive sobs again interrupted his words, and they wept together in silence, +till Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered, and the impropriety of +prolonging an interview, which might subject her to censure, summoned all her +fortitude to utter a last farewell. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay!” said Valancourt, “I conjure you stay, for I have much +to tell you. The agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak only on +the subject that occupied it;—I have forborne to mention a doubt of much +importance, partly, lest it should appear as if I told it with an ungenerous +view of alarming you into a compliance with my late proposal.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from the +pavilion, and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as follows: +</p> + +<p> +“This Montoni: I have heard some strange hints concerning him. Are you +certain he is of Madame Quesnel’s family, and that his fortune is what it +appears to be?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no reason to doubt either,” replied Emily, in a voice of +alarm. “Of the first, indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no certain means +of judging of the latter, and I entreat you will tell me all you have +heard.” +</p> + +<p> +“That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactory +information. I gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was speaking to +another person of this Montoni. They were talking of his marriage; the Italian +said, that if he was the person he meant, he was not likely to make Madame +Cheron happy. He proceeded to speak of him in general terms of dislike, and +then gave some particular hints, concerning his character, that excited my +curiosity, and I ventured to ask him a few questions. He was reserved in his +replies, but, after hesitating for some time, he owned, that he had understood +abroad, that Montoni was a man of desperate fortune and character. He said +something of a castle of Montoni’s, situated among the Apennines, and of +some strange circumstances, that might be mentioned, as to his former mode of +life. I pressed him to inform me further, but I believe the strong interest I +felt was visible in my manner, and alarmed him; for no entreaties could prevail +with him to give any explanation of the circumstances he had alluded to, or to +mention anything further concerning Montoni. I observed to him, that, if +Montoni was possessed of a castle in the Apennines, it appeared from such a +circumstance, that he was of some family, and also seemed to contradict the +report, that he was a man of entirely broken fortunes. He shook his head, and +looked as if he could have said a great deal, but made no reply. +</p> + +<p> +“A hope of learning something more satisfactory, or more positive, +detained me in his company a considerable time, and I renewed the subject +repeatedly, but the Italian wrapped himself up in reserve, said—that what +he had mentioned he had caught only from a floating report, and that reports +frequently arose from personal malice, and were very little to be depended +upon. I forbore to press the subject farther, since it was obvious that he was +alarmed for the consequence of what he had already said, and I was compelled to +remain in uncertainty on a point where suspense is almost intolerable. Think, +Emily, what I must suffer to see you depart for a foreign country, committed to +the power of a man of such doubtful character as is this Montoni! But I will +not alarm you unnecessarily;—it is possible, as the Italian said, at +first, that this is not the Montoni he alluded to. Yet, Emily, consider well +before you resolve to commit yourself to him. O! I must not trust myself to +speak—or I shall renounce all the motives, which so lately influenced me +to resign the hope of your becoming mine immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emily remained +leaning on the balustrade in deep thought. The information she had just +received excited, perhaps, more alarm than it could justify, and raised once +more the conflict of contrasted interests. She had never liked Montoni. The +fire and keenness of his eye, its proud exultation, its bold fierceness, its +sullen watchfulness, as occasion, and even slight occasion, had called forth +the latent soul, she had often observed with emotion; while from the usual +expression of his countenance she had always shrunk. From such observations she +was the more inclined to believe, that it was this Montoni, of whom the Italian +had uttered his suspicious hints. The thought of being solely in his power, in +a foreign land, was terrifying to her, but it was not by terror alone that she +was urged to an immediate marriage with Valancourt. The tenderest love had +already pleaded his cause, but had been unable to overcome her opinion, as to +her duty, her disinterested considerations for Valancourt, and the delicacy, +which made her revolt from a clandestine union. It was not to be expected, that +a vague terror would be more powerful, than the united influence of love and +grief. But it recalled all their energy, and rendered a second conquest +necessary. +</p> + +<p> +With Valancourt, whose imagination was now awake to the suggestion of every +passion; whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength by the mere +mention of them, and became every instant more powerful, as his mind brooded +over them—with Valancourt no second conquest was attainable. He thought +he saw in the clearest light, and love assisted the fear, that this journey to +Italy would involve Emily in misery; he determined, therefore, to persevere in +opposing it, and in conjuring her to bestow upon him the title of her lawful +protector. +</p> + +<p> +“Emily!” said he, with solemn earnestness, “this is no time +for scrupulous distinctions, for weighing the dubious and comparatively +trifling circumstances, that may affect our future comfort. I now see, much +more clearly than before, the train of serious dangers you are going to +encounter with a man of Montoni’s character. Those dark hints of the +Italian spoke much, but not more than the idea I have of Montoni’s +disposition, as exhibited even in his countenance. I think I see at this moment +all that could have been hinted, written there. He is the Italian, whom I fear, +and I conjure you for your own sake, as well as for mine, to prevent the evils +I shudder to foresee. O Emily! let my tenderness, my arms withhold you from +them—give me the right to defend you!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate and to entreat +with all the energy that love and apprehension could inspire. But, as his +imagination magnified to her the possible evils she was going to meet, the +mists of her own fancy began to dissipate, and allowed her to distinguish the +exaggerated images, which imposed on his reason. She considered, that there was +no proof of Montoni being the person, whom the stranger had meant; that, even +if he was so, the Italian had noticed his character and broken fortunes merely +from report; and that, though the countenance of Montoni seemed to give +probability to a part of the rumour, it was not by such circumstances that an +implicit belief of it could be justified. These considerations would probably +not have arisen so distinctly to her mind, at this time, had not the terrors of +Valancourt presented to her such obvious exaggerations of her danger, as +incited her to distrust the fallacies of passion. But, while she endeavoured in +the gentlest manner to convince him of his error, she plunged him into a new +one. His voice and countenance changed to an expression of dark despair. +“Emily!” said he, “this, this moment is the bitterest that is +yet come to me. You do not—cannot love me!—It would be impossible +for you to reason thus coolly, thus deliberately, if you did. I, <i>I</i> am +torn with anguish at the prospect of our separation, and of the evils that may +await you in consequence of it; I would encounter any hazards to prevent +it—to save you. No! Emily, no!—you cannot love me.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have now little time to waste in exclamation, or assertion,” +said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion: “if you are yet to learn +how dear you are, and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of mine can give +you conviction.” +</p> + +<p> +The last words faltered on her lips, and her tears flowed fast. These words and +tears brought, once more, and with instantaneous force, conviction of her love +to Valancourt. He could only exclaim, “Emily! Emily!” and weep over +the hand he pressed to his lips; but she, after some moments, again roused +herself from the indulgence of sorrow, and said, “I must leave you; it is +late, and my absence from the château may be discovered. Think of me—love +me—when I am far away; the belief of this will be my comfort!” +</p> + +<p> +“Think of you!—love you!” exclaimed Valancourt. +</p> + +<p> +“Try to moderate these transports,” said Emily, “for my sake, +try.” +</p> + +<p> +“For your sake!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, for my sake,” replied Emily, in a tremulous voice, “I +cannot leave you thus!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then do not leave me!” said Valancourt, with quickness. “Why +should we part, or part for longer than till tomorrow?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am, indeed I am, unequal to these moments,” replied Emily, +“you tear my heart, but I never can consent to this hasty, imprudent +proposal!” +</p> + +<p> +“If we could command our time, my Emily, it should not be thus hasty; we +must submit to circumstances.” +</p> + +<p> +“We must indeed! I have already told you all my heart—my spirits +are gone. You allowed the force of my objections, till your tenderness called +up vague terrors, which have given us both unnecessary anguish. Spare me! do +not oblige me to repeat the reasons I have already urged.” +</p> + +<p> +“Spare you!” cried Valancourt, “I am a wretch—a very +wretch, that have felt only for myself!—I! who ought to have shown the +fortitude of a man, who ought to have supported you, I have increased your +sufferings by the conduct of a child! Forgive me, Emily! think of the +distraction of my mind now that I am about to part with all that is dear to +me—and forgive me! When you are gone, I shall recollect with bitter +remorse what I have made you suffer, and shall wish in vain that I could see +you, if only for a moment, that I might sooth your grief.” +</p> + +<p> +Tears again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him. “I will show +myself more worthy of your love,” said Valancourt, at length; “I +will not prolong these moments. My Emily—my own Emily! never forget me! +God knows when we shall meet again! I resign you to his care.—O +God!—O God!—protect and bless her!” +</p> + +<p> +He pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunk almost lifeless on his bosom, and +neither wept, nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding his own distress, tried to +comfort and reassure her, but she appeared totally unaffected by what he said, +and a sigh, which she uttered, now and then, was all that proved she had not +fainted. +</p> + +<p> +He supported her slowly towards the château, weeping and speaking to her; but +she answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate, that terminated the +avenue, she seemed to have recovered her consciousness, and, looking round, +perceived how near they were to the château. “We must part here,” +said she, stopping, “Why prolong these moments? Teach me the fortitude I +have forgot.” +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt struggled to assume a composed air. “Farewell, my love!” +said he, in a voice of solemn tenderness—“trust me we shall meet +again—meet for each other—meet to part no more!” His voice +faltered, but, recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer tone. “You know +not what I shall suffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no opportunity of +conveying to you my letters, yet I tremble to think how few may occur. And +trust me, love, for your dear sake, I will try to bear this absence with +fortitude. O how little I have shown tonight!” +</p> + +<p> +“Farewell!” said Emily faintly. “When you are gone, I shall +think of many things I would have said to you.” “And I of +many—many!” said Valancourt; “I never left you yet, that I +did not immediately remember some question, or some entreaty, or some +circumstance, concerning my love, that I earnestly wished to mention, and feel +wretched because I could not. O Emily! this countenance, on which I now +gaze—will, in a moment, be gone from my eyes, and not all the efforts of +fancy will be able to recall it with exactness. O! what an infinite difference +between this moment and the next!—<i>now</i>, I am in your presence, can +behold you! <i>then</i>, all will be a dreary blank—and I shall be a +wanderer, exiled from my only home!” +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt again pressed her to his heart, and held her there in silence, +weeping. Tears once again calmed her oppressed mind. They again bade each other +farewell, lingered a moment, and then parted. Valancourt seemed to force +himself from the spot; he passed hastily up the avenue, and Emily, as she moved +slowly towards the château, heard his distant steps. She listened to the +sounds, as they sunk fainter and fainter, till the melancholy stillness of +night alone remained; and then hurried to her chamber, to seek repose, which, +alas! was fled from her wretchedness. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="part02"></a>VOLUME 2</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a> CHAPTER I </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Where’er I roam, whatever realms I see,<br/> +My heart untravell’d still shall turn to thee.<br/> + GOLDSMITH +</p> + +<p> +The carriages were at the gates at an early hour; the bustle of the domestics, +passing to and fro in the galleries, awakened Emily from harassing slumbers: +her unquiet mind had, during the night, presented her with terrific images and +obscure circumstances, concerning her affection and her future life. She now +endeavoured to chase away the impressions they had left on her fancy; but from +imaginary evils she awoke to the consciousness of real ones. Recollecting that +she had parted with Valancourt, perhaps for ever, her heart sickened as memory +revived. But she tried to dismiss the dismal forebodings that crowded on her +mind, and to restrain the sorrow which she could not subdue; efforts which +diffused over the settled melancholy of her countenance an expression of +tempered resignation, as a thin veil, thrown over the features of beauty, +renders them more interesting by a partial concealment. But Madame Montoni +observed nothing in this countenance except its usual paleness, which attracted +her censure. She told her niece, that she had been indulging in fanciful +sorrows, and begged she would have more regard for decorum, than to let the +world see that she could not renounce an improper attachment; at which +Emily’s pale cheek became flushed with crimson, but it was the blush of +pride, and she made no answer. Soon after, Montoni entered the breakfast room, +spoke little, and seemed impatient to be gone. +</p> + +<p> +The windows of this room opened upon the garden. As Emily passed them, she saw +the spot where she had parted with Valancourt on the preceding night: the +remembrance pressed heavily on her heart, and she turned hastily away from the +object that had awakened it. +</p> + +<p> +The baggage being at length adjusted, the travellers entered their carriages, +and Emily would have left the château without one sigh of regret, had it not +been situated in the neighbourhood of Valancourt’s residence. +</p> + +<p> +From a little eminence she looked back upon Thoulouse, and the far-seen plains +of Gascony, beyond which the broken summits of the Pyrenees appeared on the +distant horizon, lighted up by a morning sun. “Dear pleasant +mountains!” said she to herself, “how long may it be ere I see ye +again, and how much may happen to make me miserable in the interval! Oh, could +I now be certain, that I should ever return to ye, and find that Valancourt +still lived for me, I should go in peace! He will still gaze on ye, gaze when I +am far away!” +</p> + +<p> +The trees, that impended over the high banks of the road and formed a line of +perspective with the distant country, now threatened to exclude the view of +them; but the bluish mountains still appeared beyond the dark foliage, and +Emily continued to lean from the coach window, till at length the closing +branches shut them from her sight. +</p> + +<p> +Another object soon caught her attention. She had scarcely looked at a person +who walked along the bank, with his hat, in which was the military feather, +drawn over his eyes, before, at the sound of wheels, he suddenly turned, and +she perceived that it was Valancourt himself, who waved his hand, sprung into +the road, and through the window of the carriage put a letter into her hand. He +endeavoured to smile through the despair that overspread his countenance as she +passed on. The remembrance of that smile seemed impressed on Emily’s mind +for ever. She leaned from the window, and saw him on a knoll of the broken +bank, leaning against the high trees that waved over him, and pursuing the +carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and she continued to gaze till +distance confused his figure, and at length another turn of the road entirely +separated him from her sight. +</p> + +<p> +Having stopped to take up Signor Cavigni at a château on the road, the +travellers, of whom Emily was disrespectfully seated with Madame +Montoni’s woman in a second carriage, pursued their way over the plains +of Languedoc. The presence of this servant restrained Emily from reading +Valancourt’s letter, for she did not choose to expose the emotions it +might occasion to the observation of any person. Yet such was her wish to read +this his last communication, that her trembling hand was every moment on the +point of breaking the seal. +</p> + +<p> +At length they reached the village, where they staid only to change horses, +without alighting, and it was not till they stopped to dine, that Emily had an +opportunity of reading the letter. Though she had never doubted the sincerity +of Valancourt’s affection, the fresh assurances she now received of it +revived her spirits; she wept over his letter in tenderness, laid it by to be +referred to when they should be particularly depressed, and then thought of him +with much less anguish than she had done since they parted. Among some other +requests, which were interesting to her, because expressive of his tenderness, +and because a compliance with them seemed to annihilate for a while the pain of +absence, he entreated she would always think of him at sunset. “You will +then meet me in thought,” said he; “I shall constantly watch the +sunset, and I shall be happy in the belief, that your eyes are fixed upon the +same object with mine, and that our minds are conversing. You know not, Emily, +the comfort I promise myself from these moments; but I trust you will +experience it.” +</p> + +<p> +It is unnecessary to say with what emotion Emily, on this evening, watched the +declining sun, over a long extent of plains, on which she saw it set without +interruption, and sink towards the province which Valancourt inhabited. After +this hour her mind became far more tranquil and resigned, than it had been +since the marriage of Montoni and her aunt. +</p> + +<p> +During several days the travellers journeyed over the plains of Languedoc; and +then entering Dauphiny, and winding for some time among the mountains of that +romantic province, they quitted their carriages and began to ascend the Alps. +And here such scenes of sublimity opened upon them as no colours of language +must dare to paint! Emily’s mind was even so much engaged with new and +wonderful images, that they sometimes banished the idea of Valancourt, though +they more frequently revived it. These brought to her recollection the +prospects among the Pyrenees, which they had admired together, and had believed +nothing could excel in grandeur. How often did she wish to express to him the +new emotions which this astonishing scenery awakened, and that he could partake +of them! Sometimes too she endeavoured to anticipate his remarks, and almost +imagined him present. She seemed to have arisen into another world, and to have +left every trifling thought, every trifling sentiment, in that below; those +only of grandeur and sublimity now dilated her mind, and elevated the +affections of her heart. +</p> + +<p> +With what emotions of sublimity, softened by tenderness, did she meet +Valancourt in thought, at the customary hour of sunset, when, wandering among +the Alps, she watched the glorious orb sink amid their summits, his last tints +die away on their snowy points, and a solemn obscurity steal over the scene! +And when the last gleam had faded, she turned her eyes from the west with +somewhat of the melancholy regret that is experienced after the departure of a +beloved friend; while these lonely feelings were heightened by the spreading +gloom, and by the low sounds, heard only when darkness confines attention, +which make the general stillness more impressive—leaves shook by the air, +the last sigh of the breeze that lingers after sunset, or the murmur of +distant streams. +</p> + +<p> +During the first days of this journey among the Alps, the scenery exhibited a +wonderful mixture of solitude and inhabitation, of cultivation and barrenness. +On the edge of tremendous precipices, and within the hollow of the cliffs, +below which the clouds often floated, were seen villages, spires, and convent +towers; while green pastures and vineyards spread their hues at the feet of +perpendicular rocks of marble, or of granite, whose points, tufted with alpine +shrubs, or exhibiting only massy crags, rose above each other, till they +terminated in the snowtopped mountain, whence the torrent fell, that thundered +along the valley. +</p> + +<p> +The snow was not yet melted on the summit of Mount Cenis, over which the +travellers passed; but Emily, as she looked upon its clear lake and extended +plain, surrounded by broken cliffs, saw, in imagination, the verdant beauty it +would exhibit when the snows should be gone, and the shepherds, leading up the +midsummer flocks from Piedmont, to pasture on its flowery summit, should add +Arcadian figures to Arcadian landscape. +</p> + +<p> +As she descended on the Italian side, the precipices became still more +tremendous, and the prospects still more wild and majestic, over which the +shifting lights threw all the pomp of colouring. Emily delighted to observe the +snowy tops of the mountains under the passing influence of the day, blushing +with morning, glowing with the brightness of noon, or just tinted with the +purple evening. The haunt of man could now only be discovered by the simple hut +of the shepherd and the hunter, or by the rough pine bridge thrown across the +torrent, to assist the latter in his chase of the chamois over crags where, but +for this vestige of man, it would have been believed only the chamois or the +wolf dared to venture. As Emily gazed upon one of these perilous bridges, with +the cataract foaming beneath it, some images came to her mind, which she +afterwards combined in the following +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +STORIED SONNET<br/><br/> + +The weary traveller, who all night long<br/> +Has climb’d among the Alps’ tremendous steeps,<br/> +Skirting the pathless precipice, where throng<br/> +Wild forms of danger; as he onward creeps<br/> +If, chance, his anxious eye at distance sees<br/> +The mountain-shepherd’s solitary home,<br/> +Peeping from forth the moon-illumin’d trees,<br/> +What sudden transports to his bosom come!<br/> +But, if between some hideous chasm yawn,<br/> +Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge displays,<br/> +In dreadful silence, on the brink, forlorn<br/> +He stands, and views in the faint rays<br/> +Far, far below, the torrent’s rising surge,<br/> +And listens to the wild impetuous roar;<br/> +Still eyes the depth, still shudders on the verge,<br/> +Fears to return, nor dares to venture o’er.<br/> +Desperate, at length the tottering plank he tries,<br/> +His weak steps slide, he shrieks, he sinks—he dies! +</p> + +<p> +Emily, often as she travelled among the clouds, watched in silent awe their +billowy surges rolling below; sometimes, wholly closing upon the scene, they +appeared like a world of chaos, and, at others, spreading thinly, they opened +and admitted partial catches of the landscape—the torrent, whose +astounding roar had never failed, tumbling down the rocky chasm, huge cliffs +white with snow, or the dark summits of the pine forests, that stretched +mid-way down the mountains. But who may describe her rapture, when, having +passed through a sea of vapour, she caught a first view of Italy; when, from +the ridge of one of those tremendous precipices that hang upon Mount Cenis and +guard the entrance of that enchanting country, she looked down through the +lower clouds, and, as they floated away, saw the grassy vales of Piedmont at +her feet, and, beyond, the plains of Lombardy extending to the farthest +distance, at which appeared, on the faint horizon, the doubtful towers of +Turin? +</p> + +<p> +The solitary grandeur of the objects that immediately surrounded her, the +mountain-region towering above, the deep precipices that fell beneath, the +waving blackness of the forests of pine and oak, which skirted their feet, or +hung within their recesses, the headlong torrents that, dashing among their +cliffs, sometimes appeared like a cloud of mist, at others like a sheet of +ice—these were features which received a higher character of sublimity +from the reposing beauty of the Italian landscape below, stretching to the wide +horizon, where the same melting blue tint seemed to unite earth and sky. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Montoni only shuddered as she looked down precipices near whose edge the +chairmen trotted lightly and swiftly, almost, as the chamois bounded, and from +which Emily too recoiled; but with her fears were mingled such various emotions +of delight, such admiration, astonishment, and awe, as she had never +experienced before. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the carriers, having come to a landing-place, stopped to rest, and +the travellers being seated on the point of a cliff, Montoni and Cavigni +renewed a dispute concerning Hannibal’s passage over the Alps, Montoni +contending that he entered Italy by way of Mount Cenis, and Cavigni, that he +passed over Mount St. Bernard. The subject brought to Emily’s imagination +the disasters he had suffered in this bold and perilous adventure. She saw his +vast armies winding among the defiles, and over the tremendous cliffs of the +mountains, which at night were lighted up by his fires, or by the torches which +he caused to be carried when he pursued his indefatigable march. In the eye of +fancy, she perceived the gleam of arms through the duskiness of night, the +glitter of spears and helmets, and the banners floating dimly on the twilight; +while now and then the blast of a distant trumpet echoed along the defile, and +the signal was answered by a momentary clash of arms. She looked with horror +upon the mountaineers, perched on the higher cliffs, assailing the troops below +with broken fragments of the mountain; on soldiers and elephants tumbling +headlong down the lower precipices; and, as she listened to the rebounding +rocks, that followed their fall, the terrors of fancy yielded to those of +reality, and she shuddered to behold herself on the dizzy height, whence she +had pictured the descent of others. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Montoni, meantime, as she looked upon Italy, was contemplating in +imagination the splendour of palaces and the grandeur of castles, such as she +believed she was going to be mistress of at Venice and in the Apennine, and she +became, in idea, little less than a princess. Being no longer under the alarms +which had deterred her from giving entertainments to the beauties of Thoulouse, +whom Montoni had mentioned with more <i>eclât</i> to his own vanity than credit +to their discretion, or regard to truth, she determined to give concerts, +though she had neither ear nor taste for music; <i>conversazione</i>, though +she had no talents for conversation; and to outvie, if possible, in the +gaieties of her parties and the magnificence of her liveries, all the noblesse +of Venice. This blissful reverie was somewhat obscured, when she recollected +the Signor, her husband, who, though he was not averse to the profit which +sometimes results from such parties, had always shown a contempt of the +frivolous parade that sometimes attends them; till she considered that his +pride might be gratified by displaying, among his own friends, in his native +city, the wealth which he had neglected in France; and she courted again the +splendid illusions that had charmed her before. +</p> + +<p> +The travellers, as they descended, gradually, exchanged the region of winter +for the genial warmth and beauty of spring. The sky began to assume that serene +and beautiful tint peculiar to the climate of Italy; patches of young verdure, +fragrant shrubs and flowers looked gaily among the rocks, often fringing their +rugged brows, or hanging in tufts from their broken sides; and the buds of the +oak and mountain ash were expanding into foliage. Descending lower, the orange +and the myrtle, every now and then, appeared in some sunny nook, with their +yellow blossoms peeping from among the dark green of their leaves, and mingling +with the scarlet flowers of the pomegranate and the paler ones of the arbutus, +that ran mantling to the crags above; while, lower still, spread the pastures +of Piedmont, where early flocks were cropping the luxuriant herbage of spring. +</p> + +<p> +The river Doria, which, rising on the summit of Mount Cenis, had dashed for +many leagues over the precipices that bordered the road, now began to assume a +less impetuous, though scarcely less romantic character, as it approached the +green valleys of Piedmont, into which the travellers descended with the evening +sun; and Emily found herself once more amid the tranquil beauty of pastoral +scenery; among flocks and herds, and slopes tufted with woods of lively verdure +and with beautiful shrubs, such as she had often seen waving luxuriantly over +the alps above. The verdure of the pasturage, now varied with the hues of early +flowers, among which were yellow ranunculuses and pansey violets of delicious +fragrance, she had never seen excelled.—Emily almost wished to become a +peasant of Piedmont, to inhabit one of the pleasant embowered cottages which +she saw peeping beneath the cliffs, and to pass her careless hours among these +romantic landscapes. To the hours, the months, she was to pass under the +dominion of Montoni, she looked with apprehension; while those which were +departed she remembered with regret and sorrow. +</p> + +<p> +In the present scenes her fancy often gave her the figure of Valancourt, whom +she saw on a point of the cliffs, gazing with awe and admiration on the imagery +around him; or wandering pensively along the vale below, frequently pausing to +look back upon the scenery, and then, his countenance glowing with the +poet’s fire, pursuing his way to some overhanging heights. When she again +considered the time and the distance that were to separate them, that every +step she now took lengthened this distance, her heart sunk, and the surrounding +landscape charmed her no more. +</p> + +<p> +The travellers, passing Novalesa, reached, after the evening had closed, the +small and ancient town of Susa, which had formerly guarded this pass of the +Alps into Piedmont. The heights which command it had, since the invention of +artillery, rendered its fortifications useless; but these romantic heights, +seen by moonlight, with the town below, surrounded by its walls and +watchtowers, and partially illumined, exhibited an interesting picture to +Emily. Here they rested for the night at an inn, which had little accommodation +to boast of; but the travellers brought with them the hunger that gives +delicious flavour to the coarsest viands, and the weariness that ensures +repose; and here Emily first caught a strain of Italian music, on Italian +ground. As she sat after supper at a little window, that opened upon the +country, observing an effect of the moonlight on the broken surface of the +mountains, and remembering that on such a night as this she once had sat with +her father and Valancourt, resting upon a cliff of the Pyrenees, she heard from +below the long-drawn notes of a violin, of such tone and delicacy of +expression, as harmonised exactly with the tender emotions she was indulging, +and both charmed and surprised her. Cavigni, who approached the window, smiled +at her surprise. “This is nothing extraordinary,” said he, +“you will hear the same, perhaps, at every inn on our way. It is one of +our landlord’s family who plays, I doubt not,” Emily, as she +listened, thought he could be scarcely less than a professor of music whom she +heard; and the sweet and plaintive strains soon lulled her into a reverie, from +which she was very unwillingly roused by the raillery of Cavigni, and by the +voice of Montoni, who gave orders to a servant to have the carriages ready at +an early hour on the following morning; and added, that he meant to dine at +Turin. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Montoni was exceedingly rejoiced to be once more on level ground; and, +after giving a long detail of the various terrors she had suffered, which she +forgot that she was describing to the companions of her dangers, she added a +hope, that she should soon be beyond the view of these horrid mountains, +“which all the world,” said she, “should not tempt me to +cross again.” Complaining of fatigue she soon retired to rest, and Emily +withdrew to her own room, when she understood from Annette, her aunt’s +woman, that Cavigni was nearly right in his conjecture concerning the musician, +who had awakened the violin with so much taste, for that he was the son of a +peasant inhabiting the neighbouring valley. “He is going to the Carnival +at Venice,” added Annette, “for they say he has a fine hand at +playing, and will get a world of money; and the Carnival is just going to +begin: but for my part, I should like to live among these pleasant woods and +hills, better than in a town; and they say Ma’amselle, we shall see no +woods, or hills, or fields, at Venice, for that it is built in the very middle +of the sea.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily agreed with the talkative Annette, that this young man was making a +change for the worse, and could not forbear silently lamenting, that he should +be drawn from the innocence and beauty of these scenes, to the corrupt ones of +that voluptuous city. +</p> + +<p> +When she was alone, unable to sleep, the landscapes of her native home, with +Valancourt, and the circumstances of her departure, haunted her fancy; she drew +pictures of social happiness amidst the grand simplicity of nature, such as she +feared she had bade farewell to for ever; and then, the idea of this young +Piedmontese, thus ignorantly sporting with his happiness, returned to her +thoughts, and, glad to escape a while from the pressure of nearer interests, +she indulged her fancy in composing the following lines. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +THE PIEDMONTESE<br/><br/> + +Ah, merry swain, who laugh’d along the vales,<br/> +And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring,<br/> +Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gales,<br/> +And friends belov’d, for aught that wealth can bring?<br/> +He goes to wake o’er moonlight seas the string,<br/> +Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails!<br/> +Yet oft of home his simple carols sing,<br/> +And his steps pause, as the last Alp he scales.<br/> +Once more he turns to view his native scene—<br/> +Far, far below, as roll the clouds away,<br/> +He spies his cabin ’mid the pine-tops green,<br/> +The well-known woods, clear brook, and pastures gay;<br/> +And thinks of friends and parents left behind,<br/> +Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song;<br/> +And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind;<br/> +And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong!<br/> +Thus went the swain, till mountain-shadows fell,<br/> +And dimm’d the landscape to his aching sight;<br/> +And must he leave the vales he loves so well!<br/> +Can foreign wealth, and shows, his heart delight?<br/> +No, happy vales! your wild rocks still shall hear<br/> +His pipe, light sounding on the morning breeze;<br/> +Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear,<br/> +And watch at eve beneath the western trees.<br/> +Away, Venetian gold—your charm is o’er!<br/> +And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow’rs,<br/> +Where, through the leaves, his cottage light <i>once more</i><br/> +Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours.<br/> +Ah, merry swain! that laugh along the vales,<br/> +And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring,<br/> +Your cot, your woods, your thymy-scented gales—<br/> +And friends belov’d, more joy than wealth can bring!<br/> +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a> CHAPTER II </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +<i>Titania</i>. If you will patiently dance in our round,<br/> +And see our moonlight revels, go with us.<br/> + MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM +</p> + +<p> +Early on the following morning, the travellers set out for Turin. The luxuriant +plain, that extends from the feet of the Alps to that magnificent city, was not +then, as now, shaded by an avenue of trees nine miles in length; but +plantations of olives, mulberry and palms, festooned with vines, mingled with +the pastoral scenery, through with the rapid Po, after its descent from the +mountains, wandered to meet the humble Doria at Turin. As they advanced towards +this city, the Alps, seen at some distance, began to appear in all their awful +sublimity; chain rising over chain in long succession, their higher points +darkened by the hovering clouds, sometimes hid, and at others seen shooting up +far above them; while their lower steeps, broken into fantastic forms, were +touched with blue and purplish tints, which, as they changed in light and +shade, seemed to open new scenes to the eye. To the east stretched the plains +of Lombardy, with the towers of Turin rising at a distance; and beyond, the +Apennines, bounding the horizon. +</p> + +<p> +The general magnificence of that city, with its vistas of churches and palaces, +branching from the grand square, each opening to a landscape of the distant +Alps or Apennines, was not only such as Emily had never seen in France, but +such as she had never imagined. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni, who had been often at Turin, and cared little about views of any kind, +did not comply with his wife’s request, that they might survey some of +the palaces; but staying only till the necessary refreshments could be +obtained, they set forward for Venice with all possible rapidity. +Montoni’s manner, during this journey, was grave, and even haughty; and +towards Madame Montoni he was more especially reserved; but it was not the +reserve of respect so much as of pride and discontent. Of Emily he took little +notice. With Cavigni his conversations were commonly on political or military +topics, such as the convulsed state of their country rendered at this time +particularly interesting, Emily observed, that, at the mention of any daring +exploit, Montoni’s eyes lost their sullenness, and seemed instantaneously +to gleam with fire; yet they still retained somewhat of a lurking cunning, and +she sometimes thought that their fire partook more of the glare of malice than +the brightness of valour, though the latter would well have harmonised with the +high chivalric air of his figure, in which Cavigni, with all his gay and +gallant manners, was his inferior. +</p> + +<p> +On entering the Milanese, the gentlemen exchanged their French hats for the +Italian cap of scarlet cloth, embroidered; and Emily was somewhat surprised to +observe, that Montoni added to his the military plume, while Cavigni retained +only the feather: which was usually worn with such caps: but she at length +concluded, that Montoni assumed this ensign of a soldier for convenience, as a +means of passing with more safety through a country over-run with parties of +the military. +</p> + +<p> +Over the beautiful plains of this country the devastations of war were +frequently visible. Where the lands had not been suffered to lie uncultivated, +they were often tracked with the steps of the spoiler; the vines were torn down +from the branches that had supported them, the olives trampled upon the ground, +and even the groves of mulberry trees had been hewn by the enemy to light fires +that destroyed the hamlets and villages of their owners. Emily turned her eyes +with a sigh from these painful vestiges of contention, to the Alps of the +Grison, that overlooked them to the north, whose awful solitudes seemed to +offer to persecuted man a secure asylum. +</p> + +<p> +The travellers frequently distinguished troops of soldiers moving at a +distance; and they experienced, at the little inns on the road, the scarcity of +provision and other inconveniences, which are a part of the consequence of +intestine war; but they had never reason to be much alarmed for their immediate +safety, and they passed on to Milan with little interruption of any kind, where +they staid not to survey the grandeur of the city, or even to view its vast +cathedral, which was then building. +</p> + +<p> +Beyond Milan, the country wore the aspect of a ruder devastation; and though +everything seemed now quiet, the repose was like that of death, spread over +features, which retain the impression of the last convulsions. +</p> + +<p> +It was not till they had passed the eastern limits of the Milanese, that the +travellers saw any troops since they had left Milan, when, as the evening was +drawing to a close, they descried what appeared to be an army winding onward +along the distant plains, whose spears and other arms caught the last rays of +the sun. As the column advanced through a part of the road, contracted between +two hillocks, some of the commanders, on horseback, were distinguished on a +small eminence, pointing and making signals for the march; while several of the +officers were riding along the line directing its progress, according to the +signs communicated by those above; and others, separating from the vanguard, +which had emerged from the pass, were riding carelessly along the plains at +some distance to the right of the army. +</p> + +<p> +As they drew nearer, Montoni, distinguishing the feathers that waved in their +caps, and the banners and liveries of the bands that followed them, thought he +knew this to be the small army commanded by the famous captain Utaldo, with +whom, as well as with some of the other chiefs, he was personally acquainted. +He, therefore, gave orders that the carriages should draw up by the side of the +road, to await their arrival, and give them the pass. A faint strain of martial +music now stole by, and, gradually strengthening as the troops approached, +Emily distinguished the drums and trumpets, with the clash of cymbals and of +arms, that were struck by a small party, in time to the march. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni being now certain that these were the bands of the victorious Utaldo, +leaned from the carriage window, and hailed their general by waving his cap in +the air; which compliment the chief returned by raising his spear, and then +letting it down again suddenly, while some of his officers, who were riding at +a distance from the troops, came up to the carriage, and saluted Montoni as an +old acquaintance. The captain himself soon after arriving, his bands halted +while he conversed with Montoni, whom he appeared much rejoiced to see; and +from what he said, Emily understood that this was a victorious army, returning +into their own principality; while the numerous waggons, that accompanied them, +contained the rich spoils of the enemy, their own wounded soldiers, and the +prisoners they had taken in battle, who were to be ransomed when the peace, +then negociating between the neighbouring states, should be ratified. The +chiefs on the following day were to separate, and each, taking his share of the +spoil, was to return with his own band to his castle. This was therefore to be +an evening of uncommon and general festivity, in commemoration of the victory +they had accomplished together, and of the farewell which the commanders were +about to take of each other. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, as these officers conversed with Montoni, observed with admiration, +tinctured with awe, their high martial air, mingled with the haughtiness of the +noblesse of those days, and heightened by the gallantry of their dress, by the +plumes towering on their caps, the armorial coat, Persian sash, and ancient +Spanish cloak. Utaldo, telling Montoni that his army were going to encamp for +the night near a village at only a few miles distance, invited him to turn back +and partake of their festivity, assuring the ladies also, that they should be +pleasantly accommodated; but Montoni excused himself, adding, that it was his +design to reach Verona that evening; and, after some conversation concerning +the state of the country towards that city, they parted. +</p> + +<p> +The travellers proceeded without any interruption; but it was some hours after +sunset before they arrived at Verona, whose beautiful environs were therefore +not seen by Emily till the following morning; when, leaving that pleasant town +at an early hour, they set off for Padua, where they embarked on the Brenta for +Venice. Here the scene was entirely changed; no vestiges of war, such as had +deformed the plains of the Milanese, appeared; on the contrary, all was peace +and elegance. The verdant banks of the Brenta exhibited a continued landscape +of beauty, gaiety, and splendour. Emily gazed with admiration on the villas of +the Venetian noblesse, with their cool porticos and colonnades, overhung with +poplars and cypresses of majestic height and lively verdure; on their rich +orangeries, whose blossoms perfumed the air, and on the luxuriant willows, that +dipped their light leaves in the wave, and sheltered from the sun the gay +parties whose music came at intervals on the breeze. The Carnival did, indeed, +appear to extend from Venice along the whole line of these enchanting shores; +the river was gay with boats passing to that city, exhibiting the fantastic +diversity of a masquerade in the dresses of the people within them; and, +towards evening, groups of dancers frequently were seen beneath the trees. +</p> + +<p> +Cavigni, meanwhile, informed her of the names of the noblemen to whom the +several villas they passed belonged, adding light sketches of their characters, +such as served to amuse rather than to inform, exhibiting his own wit instead +of the delineation of truth. Emily was sometimes diverted by his conversation; +but his gaiety did not entertain Madame Montoni, as it had formerly done; she +was frequently grave, and Montoni retained his usual reserve. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing could exceed Emily’s admiration on her first view of Venice, with +its islets, palaces, and towers rising out of the sea, whose clear surface +reflected the tremulous picture in all its colours. The sun, sinking in the +west, tinted the waves and the lofty mountains of Friuli, which skirt the +northern shores of the Adriatic, with a saffron glow, while on the marble +porticos and colonnades of St. Mark were thrown the rich lights and shades of +evening. As they glided on, the grander features of this city appeared more +distinctly: its terraces, crowned with airy yet majestic fabrics, touched, as +they now were, with the splendour of the setting sun, appeared as if they had +been called up from the ocean by the wand of an enchanter, rather than reared +by mortal hands. +</p> + +<p> +The sun, soon after, sinking to the lower world, the shadow of the earth stole +gradually over the waves, and then up the towering sides of the mountains of +Friuli, till it extinguished even the last upward beams that had lingered on +their summits, and the melancholy purple of evening drew over them, like a thin +veil. How deep, how beautiful was the tranquillity that wrapped the scene! All +nature seemed to repose; the finest emotions of the soul were alone awake. +Emily’s eyes filled with tears of admiration and sublime devotion, as she +raised them over the sleeping world to the vast heavens, and heard the notes of +solemn music, that stole over the waters from a distance. She listened in still +rapture, and no person of the party broke the charm by an enquiry. The sounds +seemed to grow on the air; for so smoothly did the barge glide along, that its +motion was not perceivable, and the fairy city appeared approaching to welcome +the strangers. They now distinguished a female voice, accompanied by a few +instruments, singing a soft and mournful air; and its fine expression, as +sometimes it seemed pleading with the impassioned tenderness of love, and then +languishing into the cadence of hopeless grief, declared, that it flowed from +no feigned sensibility. Ah! thought Emily, as she sighed and remembered +Valancourt, those strains come from the heart! +</p> + +<p> +She looked round, with anxious enquiry; the deep twilight, that had fallen over +the scene, admitted only imperfect images to the eye, but, at some distance on +the sea, she thought she perceived a gondola: a chorus of voices and +instruments now swelled on the air—so sweet, so solemn! it seemed like +the hymn of angels descending through the silence of night! Now it died away, +and fancy almost beheld the holy choir reascending towards heaven; then again +it swelled with the breeze, trembled awhile, and again died into silence. It +brought to Emily’s recollection some lines of her late father, and she +repeated in a low voice, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Oft I hear,<br/> +Upon the silence of the midnight air,<br/> +Celestial voices swell in holy chorus<br/> +That bears the soul to heaven! +</p> + +<p> +The deep stillness, that succeeded, was as expressive as the strain that had +just ceased. It was uninterrupted for several minutes, till a general sigh +seemed to release the company from their enchantment. Emily, however, long +indulged the pleasing sadness, that had stolen upon her spirits; but the gay +and busy scene that appeared, as the barge approached St. Mark’s Place, +at length roused her attention. The rising moon, which threw a shadowy light +upon the terraces, and illumined the porticos and magnificent arcades that +crowned them, discovered the various company, whose light steps, soft guitars, +and softer voices, echoed through the colonnades. +</p> + +<p> +The music they heard before now passed Montoni’s barge, in one of the +gondolas, of which several were seen skimming along the moonlight sea, full of +gay parties, catching the cool breeze. Most of these had music, made sweeter by +the waves over which it floated, and by the measured sound of oars, as they +dashed the sparkling tide. Emily gazed, and listened, and thought herself in a +fairy scene; even Madame Montoni was pleased; Montoni congratulated himself on +his return to Venice, which he called the first city in the world, and Cavigni +was more gay and animated than ever. +</p> + +<p> +The barge passed on to the grand canal, where Montoni’s mansion was +situated. And here, other forms of beauty and of grandeur, such as her +imagination had never painted, were unfolded to Emily in the palaces of +Sansovino and Palladio, as she glided along the waves. The air bore no sounds, +but those of sweetness, echoing along each margin of the canal, and from +gondolas on its surface, while groups of masks were seen dancing on the +moonlight terraces, and seemed almost to realise the romance of fairyland. +</p> + +<p> +The barge stopped before the portico of a large house, from whence a servant of +Montoni crossed the terrace, and immediately the party disembarked. From the +portico they passed a noble hall to a staircase of marble, which led to a +saloon, fitted up in a style of magnificence that surprised Emily. The walls +and ceilings were adorned with historical and allegorical paintings, in +<i>fresco</i>; silver tripods, depending from chains of the same metal, +illumined the apartment, the floor of which was covered with Indian mats +painted in a variety of colours and devices; the couches and drapery of the +lattices were of pale green silk, embroidered and fringed with green and gold. +Balcony lattices opened upon the grand canal, whence rose a confusion of voices +and of musical instruments, and the breeze that gave freshness to the +apartment. Emily, considering the gloomy temper of Montoni, looked upon the +splendid furniture of this house with surprise, and remembered the report of +his being a man of broken fortune, with astonishment. “Ah!” said +she to herself, “if Valancourt could but see this mansion, what peace +would it give him! He would then be convinced that the report was +groundless.” +</p> + +<p> +Madame Montoni seemed to assume the air of a princess; but Montoni was restless +and discontented, and did not even observe the civility of bidding her welcome +to her home. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after his arrival, he ordered his gondola, and, with Cavigni, went out to +mingle in the scenes of the evening. Madame then became serious and thoughtful. +Emily, who was charmed with everything she saw, endeavoured to enliven her; +but reflection had not, with Madame Montoni, subdued caprice and ill-humour, +and her answers discovered so much of both, that Emily gave up the attempt of +diverting her, and withdrew to a lattice, to amuse herself with the scene +without, so new and so enchanting. +</p> + +<p> +The first object that attracted her notice was a group of dancers on the +terrace below, led by a guitar and some other instruments. The girl, who struck +the guitar, and another, who flourished a tambourine, passed on in a dancing +step, and with a light grace and gaiety of heart, that would have subdued the +goddess of spleen in her worst humour. After these came a group of fantastic +figures, some dressed as gondolieri, others as minstrels, while others seemed +to defy all description. They sung in parts, their voices accompanied by a few +soft instruments. At a little distance from the portico they stopped, and Emily +distinguished the verses of Ariosto. They sung of the wars of the Moors against +Charlemagne, and then of the woes of Orlando: afterwards the measure changed, +and the melancholy sweetness of Petrarch succeeded. The magic of his grief was +assisted by all that Italian music and Italian expression, heightened by the +enchantments of Venetian moonlight, could give. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, as she listened, caught the pensive enthusiasm; her tears flowed +silently, while her fancy bore her far away to France and to Valancourt. Each +succeeding sonnet, more full of charming sadness than the last, seemed to bind +the spell of melancholy: with extreme regret she saw the musicians move on, and +her attention followed the strain till the last faint warble died in air. She +then remained sunk in that pensive tranquillity which soft music leaves on the +mind—a state like that produced by the view of a beautiful landscape by +moonlight, or by the recollection of scenes marked with the tenderness of +friends lost for ever, and with sorrows, which time has mellowed into mild +regret. Such scenes are indeed, to the mind, like “those faint traces +which the memory bears of music that is past.” +</p> + +<p> +Other sounds soon awakened her attention: it was the solemn harmony of horns, +that swelled from a distance; and, observing the gondolas arrange themselves +along the margin of the terraces, she threw on her veil, and, stepping into the +balcony, discerned, in the distant perspective of the canal, something like a +procession, floating on the light surface of the water: as it approached, the +horns and other instruments mingled sweetly, and soon after the fabled deities +of the city seemed to have arisen from the ocean; for Neptune, with Venice +personified as his queen, came on the undulating waves, surrounded by tritons +and sea-nymphs. The fantastic splendour of this spectacle, together with the +grandeur of the surrounding palaces, appeared like the vision of a poet +suddenly embodied, and the fanciful images, which it awakened in Emily’s +mind, lingered there long after the procession had passed away. She indulged +herself in imagining what might be the manners and delights of a sea-nymph, +till she almost wished to throw off the habit of mortality, and plunge into the +green wave to participate them. +</p> + +<p> +“How delightful,” said she, “to live amidst the coral bowers +and crystal caverns of the ocean, with my sister nymphs, and listen to the +sounding waters above, and to the soft shells of the tritons! and then, after +sunset, to skim on the surface of the waves round wild rocks and along +sequestered shores, where, perhaps, some pensive wanderer comes to weep! Then +would I soothe his sorrows with my sweet music, and offer him from a shell some +of the delicious fruit that hangs round Neptune’s palace.” +</p> + +<p> +She was recalled from her reverie to a mere mortal supper, and could not +forbear smiling at the fancies she had been indulging, and at her conviction of +the serious displeasure, which Madame Montoni would have expressed, could she +have been made acquainted with them. +</p> + +<p> +After supper, her aunt sat late, but Montoni did not return, and she at length +retired to rest. If Emily had admired the magnificence of the saloon, she was +not less surprised, on observing the half-furnished and forlorn appearance of +the apartments she passed in the way to her chamber, whither she went through +long suites of noble rooms, that seemed, from their desolate aspect, to have +been unoccupied for many years. On the walls of some were the faded remains of +tapestry; from others, painted in fresco, the damps had almost withdrawn both +colours and design. At length she reached her own chamber, spacious, desolate, +and lofty, like the rest, with high lattices that opened towards the Adriatic. +It brought gloomy images to her mind, but the view of the Adriatic soon gave +her others more airy, among which was that of the sea-nymph, whose delights she +had before amused herself with picturing; and, anxious to escape from serious +reflections, she now endeavoured to throw her fanciful ideas into a train, and +concluded the hour with composing the following lines: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +THE SEA-NYMPH<br/><br/> + +Down, down a thousand fathom deep,<br/> +Among the sounding seas I go;<br/> +Play round the foot of ev’ry steep<br/> +Whose cliffs above the ocean grow.<br/><br/> + +There, within their secret cares,<br/> +I hear the mighty rivers roar;<br/> +And guide their streams through Neptune’s waves<br/> +To bless the green earth’s inmost shore:<br/><br/> + +And bid the freshen’d waters glide,<br/> +For fern-crown’d nymphs of lake, or brook,<br/> +Through winding woods and pastures wide,<br/> +And many a wild, romantic nook.<br/><br/> + +For this the nymphs, at fall of eave,<br/> +Oft dance upon the flow’ry banks,<br/> +And sing my name, and garlands weave<br/> +To bear beneath the wave their thanks.<br/><br/> + +In coral bow’rs I love to lie,<br/> +And hear the surges roll above,<br/> +And through the waters view on high<br/> +The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move.<br/><br/> + +And oft at midnight’s stillest hour,<br/> +When summer seas the vessel lave,<br/> +I love to prove my charmful pow’r<br/> +While floating on the moonlight wave.<br/><br/> + +And when deep sleep the crew has bound,<br/> +And the sad lover musing leans<br/> +O’er the ship’s side, I breathe around<br/> +Such strains as speak no mortal means!<br/><br/> + +O’er the dim waves his searching eye<br/> +Sees but the vessel’s lengthen’d shade;<br/> +Above—the moon and azure sky;<br/> +Entranc’d he hears, and half afraid!<br/><br/> + +Sometimes, a single note I swell,<br/> +That, softly sweet, at distance dies;<br/> +Then wake the magic of my shell,<br/> +And choral voices round me rise!<br/><br/> + +The trembling youth, charm’d by my strain,<br/> +Calls up the crew, who, silent, bend<br/> +O’er the high deck, but list in vain;<br/> +My song is hush’d, my wonders end!<br/><br/> + +Within the mountain’s woody bay,<br/> +Where the tall bark at anchor rides,<br/> +At twilight hour, with tritons gay,<br/> +I dance upon the lapsing tides:<br/><br/> + +And with my sister-nymphs I sport,<br/> +Till the broad sun looks o’er the floods;<br/> +Then, swift we seek our crystal court,<br/> +Deep in the wave, ’mid Neptune’s woods.<br/><br/> + +In cool arcades and glassy halls<br/> +We pass the sultry hours of noon,<br/> +Beyond wherever sunbeam falls,<br/> +Weaving sea-flowers in gay festoon.<br/><br/> + +The while we chant our ditties sweet<br/> +To some soft shell that warbles near;<br/> +Join’d by the murmuring currents, fleet,<br/> +That glide along our halls so clear.<br/><br/> + +There, the pale pearl and sapphire blue,<br/> +And ruby red, and em’rald green,<br/> +Dart from the domes a changing hue,<br/> +And sparry columns deck the scene.<br/><br/> + +When the dark storm scowls o’er the deep,<br/> +And long, long peals of thunder sound,<br/> +On some high cliff my watch I keep<br/> +O’er all the restless seas around:<br/><br/> + +Till on the ridgy wave afar<br/> +Comes the lone vessel, labouring slow,<br/> +Spreading the white foam in the air,<br/> +With sail and top-mast bending low.<br/><br/> + +Then, plunge I ’mid the ocean’s roar,<br/> +My way by quiv’ring lightnings shown,<br/> +To guide the bark to peaceful shore,<br/> +And hush the sailor’s fearful groan.<br/><br/> + +And if too late I reach its side<br/> +To save it from the ’whelming surge,<br/> +I call my dolphins o’er the tide,<br/> +To bear the crew where isles emerge.<br/><br/> + +Their mournful spirits soon I cheer,<br/> +While round the desert coast I go,<br/> +With warbled songs they faintly hear,<br/> +Oft as the stormy gust sinks low.<br/><br/> + +My music leads to lofty groves,<br/> +That wild upon the sea-bank wave;<br/> +Where sweet fruits bloom, and fresh spring roves,<br/> +And closing boughs the tempest brave.<br/><br/> + +Then, from the air spirits obey<br/> +My potent voice they love so well,<br/> +And, on the clouds, paint visions gay,<br/> +While strains more sweet at distance swell.<br/><br/> + +And thus the lonely hours I cheat,<br/> +Soothing the ship-wreck’d sailor’s heart,<br/> +Till from the waves the storms retreat,<br/> +And o’er the east the day-beams dart.<br/><br/> + +Neptune for this oft binds me fast<br/> +To rocks below, with coral chain,<br/> +Till all the tempest’s over-past,<br/> +And drowning seamen cry in vain.<br/><br/> + +Whoe’er ye are that love my lay,<br/> +Come, when red sunset tints the wave,<br/> +To the still sands, where fairies play;<br/> +There, in cool seas, I love to lave. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a> CHAPTER III </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +He is a great observer, and he looks<br/> +Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays,<br/> +....................he hears no music;<br/> +Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,<br/> +As if he mock’d himself, and scorn’d his spirit<br/> +that could be mov’d to smile at anything.<br/> +Such men as he be never at heart’s ease,<br/> +While they behold a greater than themselves.<br/> + JULIUS CÆSAR +</p> + +<p> +Montoni and his companion did not return home, till many hours after the dawn +had blushed upon the Adriatic. The airy groups, which had danced all night +along the colonnade of St. Mark, dispersed before the morning, like so many +spirits. Montoni had been otherwise engaged; his soul was little susceptible of +light pleasures. He delighted in the energies of the passions; the difficulties +and tempests of life, which wreck the happiness of others, roused and +strengthened all the powers of his mind, and afforded him the highest +enjoyments, of which his nature was capable. Without some object of strong +interest, life was to him little more than a sleep; and, when pursuits of real +interest failed, he substituted artificial ones, till habit changed their +nature, and they ceased to be unreal. Of this kind was the habit of gaming, +which he had adopted, first, for the purpose of relieving him from the languor +of inaction, but had since pursued with the ardour of passion. In this +occupation he had passed the night with Cavigni and a party of young men, who +had more money than rank, and more vice than either. Montoni despised the +greater part of these for the inferiority of their talents, rather than for +their vicious inclinations, and associated with them only to make them the +instruments of his purposes. Among these, however, were some of superior +abilities, and a few whom Montoni admitted to his intimacy, but even towards +these he still preserved a decisive and haughty air, which, while it imposed +submission on weak and timid minds, roused the fierce hatred of strong ones. He +had, of course, many and bitter enemies; but the rancour of their hatred proved +the degree of his power; and, as power was his chief aim, he gloried more in +such hatred, than it was possible he could in being esteemed. A feeling so +tempered as that of esteem, he despised, and would have despised himself also +had he thought himself capable of being flattered by it. +</p> + +<p> +Among the few whom he distinguished, were the Signors Bertolini, Orsino, and +Verezzi. The first was a man of gay temper, strong passions, dissipated, and of +unbounded extravagance, but generous, brave, and unsuspicious. Orsino was +reserved, and haughty; loving power more than ostentation; of a cruel and +suspicious temper; quick to feel an injury, and relentless in avenging it; +cunning and unsearchable in contrivance, patient and indefatigable in the +execution of his schemes. He had a perfect command of feature and of his +passions, of which he had scarcely any, but pride, revenge and avarice; and, in +the gratification of these, few considerations had power to restrain him, few +obstacles to withstand the depth of his stratagems. This man was the chief +favourite of Montoni. Verezzi was a man of some talent, of fiery imagination, +and the slave of alternate passions. He was gay, voluptuous, and daring; yet +had neither perseverance nor true courage, and was meanly selfish in all his +aims. Quick to form schemes, and sanguine in his hope of success, he was the +first to undertake, and to abandon, not only his own plans, but those adopted +from other persons. Proud and impetuous, he revolted against all subordination; +yet those who were acquainted with his character, and watched the turn of his +passions, could lead him like a child. +</p> + +<p> +Such were the friends whom Montoni introduced to his family and his table, on +the day after his arrival at Venice. There were also of the party a Venetian +nobleman, Count Morano, and a Signora Livona, whom Montoni had introduced to +his wife, as a lady of distinguished merit, and who, having called in the +morning to welcome her to Venice, had been requested to be of the dinner party. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Montoni received with a very ill grace, the compliments of the Signors. +She disliked them, because they were the friends of her husband; hated them, +because she believed they had contributed to detain him abroad till so late an +hour of the preceding morning; and envied them, since, conscious of her own +want of influence, she was convinced, that he preferred their society to her +own. The rank of Count Morano procured him that distinction which she refused +to the rest of the company. The haughty sullenness of her countenance and +manner, and the ostentatious extravagance of her dress, for she had not yet +adopted the Venetian habit, were strikingly contrasted by the beauty, modesty, +sweetness and simplicity of Emily, who observed, with more attention than +pleasure, the party around her. The beauty and fascinating manners of Signora +Livona, however, won her involuntary regard; while the sweetness of her accents +and her air of gentle kindness awakened with Emily those pleasing affections, +which so long had slumbered. +</p> + +<p> +In the cool of the evening the party embarked in Montoni’s gondola, and +rowed out upon the sea. The red glow of sunset still touched the waves, and +lingered in the west, where the melancholy gleam seemed slowly expiring, while +the dark blue of the upper æther began to twinkle with stars. Emily sat, given +up to pensive and sweet emotions. The smoothness of the water, over which she +glided, its reflected images—a new heaven and trembling stars below the +waves, with shadowy outlines of towers and porticos, conspired with the +stillness of the hour, interrupted only by the passing wave, or the notes of +distant music, to raise those emotions to enthusiasm. As she listened to the +measured sound of the oars, and to the remote warblings that came in the +breeze, her softened mind returned to the memory of St. Aubert and to +Valancourt, and tears stole to her eyes. The rays of the moon, strengthening as +the shadows deepened, soon after threw a silvery gleam upon her countenance, +which was partly shaded by a thin black veil, and touched it with inimitable +softness. Hers was the <i>contour</i> of a Madona, with the sensibility of a +Magdalen; and the pensive uplifted eye, with the tear that glittered on her +cheek, confirmed the expression of the character. +</p> + +<p> +The last strain of distant music now died in air, for the gondola was far upon +the waves, and the party determined to have music of their own. The Count +Morano, who sat next to Emily, and who had been observing her for some time in +silence, snatched up a lute, and struck the chords with the finger of harmony +herself, while his voice, a fine tenor, accompanied them in a rondeau full of +tender sadness. To him, indeed, might have been applied that beautiful +exhortation of an English poet, had it then existed: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Strike up, my master,<br/> +But touch the strings with a religious softness!<br/> +Teach sounds to languish through the night’s dull ear<br/> +Till Melancholy starts from off her couch,<br/> +And Carelessness grows concert to attention! +</p> + +<p> +With such powers of expression the Count sung the following +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +RONDEAU<br/><br/> + +Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps<br/> +Upon the ocean’s trembling tide;<br/> +Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps<br/> +Yon sad, that swells in stately pride:<br/><br/> + +Soft as the surge’s stealing note,<br/> +That dies along the distant shores,<br/> +Or warbled strain, that sinks remote—<br/> +So soft the sigh my bosom pours!<br/><br/> + +True as the wave to Cynthia’s ray,<br/> +True as the vessel to the breeze,<br/> +True as the soul to music’s sway,<br/> +Or music to Venetian seas:<br/><br/> + +Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep<br/> +Upon the ocean’s trembling breast;<br/> +So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep,<br/> +So soft, so true, with <i>thee</i> shall rest. +</p> + +<p> +The cadence with which he returned from the last stanza to a repetition of the +first; the fine modulation in which his voice stole upon the first line, and +the pathetic energy with which it pronounced the last, were such as only +exquisite taste could give. When he had concluded, he gave the lute with a sigh +to Emily, who, to avoid any appearance of affectation, immediately began to +play. She sung a melancholy little air, one of the popular songs of her native +province, with a simplicity and pathos that made it enchanting. But its +well-known melody brought so forcibly to her fancy the scenes and the persons, +among which she had often heard it, that her spirits were overcome, her voice +trembled and ceased—and the strings of the lute were struck with a +disordered hand; till, ashamed of the emotion she had betrayed, she suddenly +passed on to a song so gay and airy, that the steps of the dance seemed almost +to echo to the notes. <i>Bravissimo!</i> burst instantly from the lips of her +delighted auditors, and she was compelled to repeat the air. Among the +compliments that followed, those of the Count were not the least audible, and +they had not concluded, when Emily gave the instrument to Signora Livona, whose +voice accompanied it with true Italian taste. +</p> + +<p> +Afterwards, the Count, Emily, Cavigni, and the Signora, sung +<i>canzonettes</i>, accompanied by a couple of lutes and a few other +instruments. Sometimes the instruments suddenly ceased, and the voices dropped +from the full swell of harmony into a low chant; then, after a deep pause, they +rose by degrees, the instruments one by one striking up, till the loud and full +chorus soared again to heaven! +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Montoni, who was weary of this harmony, was considering how he might +disengage himself from his party, or withdraw with such of it as would be +willing to play, to a Casino. In a pause of the music, he proposed returning to +shore, a proposal which Orsino eagerly seconded, but which the Count and the +other gentlemen as warmly opposed. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni still meditated how he might excuse himself from longer attendance upon +the Count, for to him only he thought excuse necessary, and how he might get to +land, till the gondolieri of an empty boat, returning to Venice, hailed his +people. Without troubling himself longer about an excuse, he seized this +opportunity of going thither, and, committing the ladies to the care of his +friends, departed with Orsino, while Emily, for the first time, saw him go with +regret; for she considered his presence a protection, though she knew not what +she should fear. He landed at St. Mark’s, and, hurrying to a Casino, was +soon lost amidst a crowd of gamesters. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, the Count having secretly dispatched a servant in Montoni’s +boat, for his own gondola and musicians, Emily heard, without knowing his +project, the gay song of gondolieri approaching, as they sat on the stern of +the boat, and saw the tremulous gleam of the moonlight wave, which their oars +disturbed. Presently she heard the sound of instruments, and then a full +symphony swelled on the air, and, the boats meeting, the gondolieri hailed each +other. The Count then explaining himself, the party removed into his gondola, +which was embellished with all that taste could bestow. +</p> + +<p> +While they partook of a collation of fruits and ice, the whole band, following +at a distance in the other boat, played the most sweet and enchanting strains, +and the Count, who had again seated himself by Emily, paid her unremitted +attention, and sometimes, in a low but impassioned voice, uttered compliments +which she could not misunderstand. To avoid them she conversed with Signora +Livona, and her manner to the Count assumed a mild reserve, which, though +dignified, was too gentle to repress his assiduities: he could see, hear, speak +to no person, but Emily while Cavigni observed him now and then, with a look of +displeasure, and Emily, with one of uneasiness. She now wished for nothing so +much as to return to Venice, but it was near midnight before the gondolas +approached St. Mark’s Place, where the voice of gaiety and song was loud. +The busy hum of mingling sounds was heard at a considerable distance on the +water, and, had not a bright moonlight discovered the city, with its terraces +and towers, a stranger would almost have credited the fabled wonders of +Neptune’s court, and believed, that the tumult arose from beneath the +waves. +</p> + +<p> +They landed at St. Mark’s, where the gaiety of the colonnades and the +beauty of the night, made Madame Montoni willingly submit to the Count’s +solicitations to join the promenade, and afterwards to take a supper with the +rest of the party, at his Casino. If anything could have dissipated +Emily’s uneasiness, it would have been the grandeur, gaiety, and novelty +of the surrounding scene, adorned with Palladio’s palaces, and busy with +parties of masqueraders. +</p> + +<p> +At length they withdrew to the Casino, which was fitted up with infinite taste, +and where a splendid banquet was prepared; but here Emily’s reserve made +the Count perceive, that it was necessary for his interest to win the favour of +Madame Montoni, which, from the condescension she had already shown to him, +appeared to be an achievement of no great difficulty. He transferred, +therefore, part of his attention from Emily to her aunt, who felt too much +flattered by the distinction even to disguise her emotion; and before the party +broke up, he had entirely engaged the esteem of Madame Montoni. Whenever he +addressed her, her ungracious countenance relaxed into smiles, and to whatever +he proposed she assented. He invited her, with the rest of the party, to take +coffee, in his box at the opera, on the following evening, and Emily heard the +invitation accepted, with strong anxiety, concerning the means of excusing +herself from attending Madame Montoni thither. +</p> + +<p> +It was very late before their gondola was ordered, and Emily’s surprise +was extreme, when, on quitting the Casino, she beheld the broad sun rising out +of the Adriatic, while St. Mark’s Place was yet crowded with company. +Sleep had long weighed heavily on her eyes, but now the fresh sea-breeze +revived her, and she would have quitted the scene with regret, had not the +Count been present, performing the duty, which he had imposed upon himself, of +escorting them home. There they heard that Montoni was not yet returned; and +his wife, retiring in displeasure to her apartment, at length released Emily +from the fatigue of further attendance. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni came home late in the morning, in a very ill humour, having lost +considerably at play, and, before he withdrew to rest, had a private conference +with Cavigni, whose manner, on the following day, seemed to tell, that the +subject of it had not been pleasing to him. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, Madame Montoni, who, during the day, had observed a sullen +silence towards her husband, received visits from some Venetian ladies, with +whose sweet manners Emily was particularly charmed. They had an air of ease and +kindness towards the strangers, as if they had been their familiar friends for +years; and their conversation was by turns tender, sentimental and gay. Madame, +though she had no taste for such conversation, and whose coarseness and +selfishness sometimes exhibited a ludicrous contrast to their excessive +refinement, could not remain wholly insensible to the captivations of their +manner. +</p> + +<p> +In a pause of conversation, a lady who was called Signora Herminia took up a +lute, and began to play and sing, with as much easy gaiety, as if she had been +alone. Her voice was uncommonly rich in tone, and various in expression; yet +she appeared to be entirely unconscious of its powers, and meant nothing less +than to display them. She sung from the gaiety of her heart, as she sat with +her veil half thrown back, holding gracefully the lute, under the spreading +foliage and flowers of some plants, that rose from baskets, and interlaced one +of the lattices of the saloon. Emily, retiring a little from the company, +sketched her figure, with the miniature scenery around her, and drew a very +interesting picture, which, though it would not, perhaps, have borne criticism, +had spirit and taste enough to awaken both the fancy and the heart. When she +had finished it, she presented it to the beautiful original, who was delighted +with the offering, as well as the sentiment it conveyed, and assured Emily, +with a smile of captivating sweetness, that she should preserve it as a pledge +of her friendship. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening Cavigni joined the ladies, but Montoni had other engagements; +and they embarked in the gondola for St. Mark’s, where the same gay +company seemed to flutter as on the preceding night. The cool breeze, the +glassy sea, the gentle sound of its waves, and the sweeter murmur of distant +music; the lofty porticos and arcades, and the happy groups that sauntered +beneath them; these, with every feature and circumstance of the scene, united +to charm Emily, no longer teased by the officious attentions of Count Morano. +But, as she looked upon the moonlight sea, undulating along the walls of St. +Mark, and, lingering for a moment over those walls, caught the sweet and +melancholy song of some gondolier as he sat in his boat below, waiting for his +master, her softened mind returned to the memory of her home, of her friends, +and of all that was dear in her native country. +</p> + +<p> +After walking some time, they sat down at the door of a Casino, and, while +Cavigni was accommodating them with coffee and ice, were joined by Count +Morano. He sought Emily with a look of impatient delight, who, remembering all +the attention he had shown her on the preceding evening, was compelled, as +before, to shrink from his assiduities into a timid reserve, except when she +conversed with Signora Herminia and the other ladies of her party. +</p> + +<p> +It was near midnight before they withdrew to the opera, where Emily was not so +charmed but that, when she remembered the scene she had just quitted, she felt +how infinitely inferior all the splendour of art is to the sublimity of nature. +Her heart was not now affected, tears of admiration did not start to her eyes, +as when she viewed the vast expanse of ocean, the grandeur of the heavens, and +listened to the rolling waters, and to the faint music that, at intervals, +mingled with their roar. Remembering these, the scene before her faded into +insignificance. +</p> + +<p> +Of the evening, which passed on without any particular incident, she wished the +conclusion, that she might escape from the attentions of the Count; and, as +opposite qualities frequently attract each other in our thoughts, thus Emily, +when she looked on Count Morano, remembered Valancourt, and a sigh sometimes +followed the recollection. +</p> + +<p> +Several weeks passed in the course of customary visits, during which nothing +remarkable occurred. Emily was amused by the manners and scenes that surrounded +her, so different from those of France, but where Count Morano, too frequently +for her comfort, contrived to introduce himself. His manner, figure and +accomplishments, which were generally admired, Emily would, perhaps, have +admired also, had her heart been disengaged from Valancourt, and had the Count +forborne to persecute her with officious attentions, during which she observed +some traits in his character, that prejudiced her against whatever might +otherwise be good in it. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after his arrival at Venice, Montoni received a packet from M. Quesnel, in +which the latter mentioned the death of his wife’s uncle, at his villa on +the Brenta; and that, in consequence of this event, he should hasten to take +possession of that estate and of other effects bequeathed to him. This uncle +was the brother of Madame Quesnel’s late mother; Montoni was related to +her by the father’s side, and though he could have had neither claim nor +expectation concerning these possessions, he could scarcely conceal the envy +which M. Quesnel’s letter excited. +</p> + +<p> +Emily had observed with concern, that, since they left France, Montoni had not +even affected kindness towards her aunt, and that, after treating her, at +first, with neglect, he now met her with uniform ill-humour and reserve. She +had never supposed, that her aunt’s foibles could have escaped the +discernment of Montoni, or that her mind or figure were of a kind to deserve +his attention. Her surprise, therefore, at this match, had been extreme; but +since he had made the choice, she did not suspect that he would so openly have +discovered his contempt of it. But Montoni, who had been allured by the seeming +wealth of Madame Cheron, was now severely disappointed by her comparative +poverty, and highly exasperated by the deceit she had employed to conceal it, +till concealment was no longer necessary. He had been deceived in an affair, +wherein he meant to be the deceiver; out-witted by the superior cunning of a +woman, whose understanding he despised, and to whom he had sacrificed his pride +and his liberty, without saving himself from the ruin, which had impended over +his head. Madame Montoni had contrived to have the greatest part of what she +really did possess, settled upon herself: what remained, though it was totally +inadequate both to her husband’s expectations, and to his necessities, he +had converted into money, and brought with him to Venice, that he might a +little longer delude society, and make a last effort to regain the fortunes he +had lost. +</p> + +<p> +The hints which had been thrown out to Valancourt, concerning Montoni’s +character and condition, were too true; but it was now left to time and +occasion, to unfold the circumstances, both of what had, and of what had not +been hinted, and to time and occasion we commit them. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Montoni was not of a nature to bear injuries with meekness, or to resent +them with dignity: her exasperated pride displayed itself in all the violence +and acrimony of a little, or at least of an ill-regulated mind. She would not +acknowledge, even to herself, that she had in any degree provoked contempt by +her duplicity, but weakly persisted in believing, that she alone was to be +pitied, and Montoni alone to be censured; for, as her mind had naturally little +perception of moral obligation, she seldom understood its force but when it +happened to be violated towards herself: her vanity had already been severely +shocked by a discovery of Montoni’s contempt; it remained to be farther +reproved by a discovery of his circumstances. His mansion at Venice, though its +furniture discovered a part of the truth to unprejudiced persons, told nothing +to those who were blinded by a resolution to believe whatever they wished. +Madame Montoni still thought herself little less than a princess, possessing a +palace at Venice, and a castle among the Apennines. To the castle di Udolpho, +indeed, Montoni sometimes talked of going for a few weeks to examine into its +condition, and to receive some rents; for it appeared that he had not been +there for two years, and that, during this period, it had been inhabited only +by an old servant, whom he called his steward. +</p> + +<p> +Emily listened to the mention of this journey with pleasure, for she not only +expected from it new ideas, but a release from the persevering assiduities of +Count Morano. In the country, too, she would have leisure to think of +Valancourt, and to indulge the melancholy, which his image, and a recollection +of the scenes of La Vallée, always blessed with the memory of her parents, +awakened. The ideal scenes were dearer, and more soothing to her heart, than +all the splendour of gay assemblies; they were a kind of talisman that expelled +the poison of temporary evils, and supported her hopes of happy days: they +appeared like a beautiful landscape, lighted up by a gleam of sunshine, and +seen through a perspective of dark and rugged rocks. +</p> + +<p> +But Count Morano did not long confine himself to silent assiduities; he +declared his passion to Emily, and made proposals to Montoni, who encouraged, +though Emily rejected, him: with Montoni for his friend, and an abundance of +vanity to delude him, he did not despair of success. Emily was astonished and +highly disgusted at his perseverance, after she had explained her sentiments +with a frankness that would not allow him to misunderstand them. +</p> + +<p> +He now passed the greater part of his time at Montoni’s, dining there +almost daily, and attending Madame and Emily wherever they went; and all this, +notwithstanding the uniform reserve of Emily, whose aunt seemed as anxious as +Montoni to promote this marriage; and would never dispense with her attendance +at any assembly where the Count proposed to be present. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni now said nothing of his intended journey, of which Emily waited +impatiently to hear; and he was seldom at home but when the Count, or Signor +Orsino, was there, for between himself and Cavigni a coolness seemed to +subsist, though the latter remained in his house. With Orsino, Montoni was +frequently closeted for hours together, and, whatever might be the business, +upon which they consulted, it appeared to be of consequence, since Montoni +often sacrificed to it his favourite passion for play, and remained at home the +whole night. There was somewhat of privacy, too, in the manner of +Orsino’s visits, which had never before occurred, and which excited not +only surprise, but some degree of alarm in Emily’s mind, who had +unwillingly discovered much of his character when he had most endeavoured to +disguise it. After these visits, Montoni was often more thoughtful than usual; +sometimes the deep workings of his mind entirely abstracted him from +surrounding objects, and threw a gloom over his visage that rendered it +terrible; at others, his eyes seemed almost to flash fire, and all the energies +of his soul appeared to be roused for some great enterprise. Emily observed +these written characters of his thoughts with deep interest, and not without +some degree of awe, when she considered that she was entirely in his power; but +forbore even to hint her fears, or her observations, to Madame Montoni, who +discerned nothing in her husband, at these times, but his usual sternness. +</p> + +<p> +A second letter from M. Quesnel announced the arrival of himself and his lady +at the Villa Miarenti; stated several circumstances of his good fortune, +respecting the affair that had brought him into Italy; and concluded with an +earnest request to see Montoni, his wife and niece, at his new estate. +</p> + +<p> +Emily received, about the same period, a much more interesting letter, and +which soothed for a while every anxiety of her heart. Valancourt, hoping she +might be still at Venice, had trusted a letter to the ordinary post, that told +her of his health, and of his unceasing and anxious affection. He had lingered +at Thoulouse for some time after her departure, that he might indulge the +melancholy pleasure of wandering through the scenes where he had been +accustomed to behold her, and had thence gone to his brother’s château, +which was in the neighbourhood of La Vallée. Having mentioned this, he added, +“If the duty of attending my regiment did not require my departure, I +know not when I should have resolution enough to quit the neighbourhood of a +place which is endeared by the remembrance of you. The vicinity to La Vallée +has alone detained me thus long at Estuvière: I frequently ride thither early +in the morning, that I may wander, at leisure, through the day, among scenes, +which were once your home, where I have been accustomed to see you, and to hear +you converse. I have renewed my acquaintance with the good old Theresa, who +rejoiced to see me, that she might talk of you: I need not say how much this +circumstance attached me to her, or how eagerly I listened to her upon her +favourite subject. You will guess the motive that first induced me to make +myself known to Theresa: it was, indeed, no other than that of gaining +admittance into the château and gardens, which my Emily had so lately +inhabited: here, then, I wander, and meet your image under every shade: but +chiefly I love to sit beneath the spreading branches of your favourite plane, +where once, Emily, we sat together; where I first ventured to tell you, that I +loved. O Emily! the remembrance of those moments overcomes me—I sit lost +in reverie—I endeavour to see you dimly through my tears, in all the +heaven of peace and innocence, such as you then appeared to me; to hear again +the accents of that voice, which then thrilled my heart with tenderness and +hope. I lean on the wall of the terrace, where we together watched the rapid +current of the Garonne below, while I described the wild scenery about its +source, but thought only of you. O Emily! are these moments passed for +ever—will they never more return?” +</p> + +<p> +In another part of his letter he wrote thus. “You see my letter is dated +on many different days, and, if you look back to the first, you will perceive, +that I began to write soon after your departure from France. To write was, +indeed, the only employment that withdrew me from my own melancholy, and +rendered your absence supportable, or rather, it seemed to destroy absence; +for, when I was conversing with you on paper, and telling you every sentiment +and affection of my heart, you almost appeared to be present. This employment +has been from time to time my chief consolation, and I have deferred sending +off my packet, merely for the comfort of prolonging it, though it was certain, +that what I had written, was written to no purpose till you received it. +Whenever my mind has been more than usually depressed I have come to pour forth +its sorrows to you, and have always found consolation; and, when any little +occurrence has interested my heart, and given a gleam of joy to my spirits, I +have hastened to communicate it to you, and have received reflected +satisfaction. Thus, my letter is a kind of picture of my life and of my +thoughts for the last month, and thus, though it has been deeply interesting to +me, while I wrote it, and I dare hope will, for the same reason, be not +indifferent to you, yet to other readers it would seem to abound only in +frivolities. Thus it is always, when we attempt to describe the finer movements +of the heart, for they are too fine to be discerned, they can only be +experienced, and are therefore passed over by the indifferent observer, while +the interested one feels, that all description is imperfect and unnecessary, +except as it may prove the sincerity of the writer, and sooth his own +sufferings. You will pardon all this egotism—for I am a lover.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have just heard of a circumstance, which entirely destroys all my +fairy paradise of ideal delight, and which will reconcile me to the necessity +of returning to my regiment, for I must no longer wander beneath the beloved +shades, where I have been accustomed to meet you in thought.—La Vallée is +let! I have reason to believe this is without your knowledge, from what Theresa +told me this morning, and, therefore, I mention the circumstance. She shed +tears, while she related, that she was going to leave the service of her dear +mistress, and the château where she had lived so many happy years; and all +this, added she, without even a letter from Mademoiselle to soften the news; +but it is all Mons. Quesnel’s doings, and I dare say she does not even +know what is going forward.” +</p> + +<p> +“Theresa added, That she had received a letter from him, informing her +the château was let, and that, as her services would no longer be required, she +must quit the place, on that day week, when the new tenant would arrive.” +</p> + +<p> +“Theresa had been surprised by a visit from M. Quesnel, some time before +the receipt of this letter, who was accompanied by a stranger that viewed the +premises with much curiosity.” +</p> + +<p> +Towards the conclusion of his letter, which is dated a week after this +sentence, Valancourt adds, “I have received a summons from my regiment, +and I join it without regret, since I am shut out from the scenes that are so +interesting to my heart. I rode to La Vallée this morning, and heard that the +new tenant was arrived, and that Theresa was gone. I should not treat the +subject thus familiarly if I did not believe you to be uninformed of this +disposal of your house; for your satisfaction I have endeavoured to learn +something of the character and fortune of your tenant, but without success. He +is a gentleman, they say, and this is all I can hear. The place, as I wandered +round the boundaries, appeared more melancholy to my imagination, than I had +ever seen it. I wished earnestly to have got admittance, that I might have +taken another leave of your favourite plane-tree, and thought of you once more +beneath its shade: but I forbore to tempt the curiosity of strangers: the +fishing-house in the woods, however, was still open to me; thither I went, and +passed an hour, which I cannot even look back upon without emotion. O Emily! +surely we are not separated for ever—surely we shall live for each +other!” +</p> + +<p> +This letter brought many tears to Emily’s eyes; tears of tenderness and +satisfaction on learning that Valancourt was well, and that time and absence +had in no degree effaced her image from his heart. There were passages in this +letter which particularly affected her, such as those describing his visits to +La Vallée, and the sentiments of delicate affection that its scenes had +awakened. It was a considerable time before her mind was sufficiently +abstracted from Valancourt to feel the force of his intelligence concerning La +Vallée. That Mons. Quesnel should let it, without even consulting her on the +measure, both surprised and shocked her, particularly as it proved the absolute +authority he thought himself entitled to exercise in her affairs. It is true, +he had proposed, before she left France, that the château should be let, during +her absence, and to the economical prudence of this she had nothing to object; +but the committing what had been her father’s villa to the power and +caprice of strangers, and the depriving herself of a sure home, should any +unhappy circumstances make her look back to her home as an asylum, were +considerations that made her, even then, strongly oppose the measure. Her +father, too, in his last hour, had received from her a solemn promise never to +dispose of La Vallée; and this she considered as in some degree violated if she +suffered the place to be let. But it was now evident with how little respect M. +Quesnel had regarded these objections, and how insignificant he considered +every obstacle to pecuniary advantage. It appeared, also, that he had not even +condescended to inform Montoni of the step he had taken, since no motive was +evident for Montoni’s concealing the circumstance from her, if it had +been made known to him: this both displeased and surprised her; but the chief +subjects of her uneasiness were—the temporary disposal of La Vallée, and +the dismission of her father’s old and faithful +servant.—“Poor Theresa,” said Emily, “thou hadst not +saved much in thy servitude, for thou wast always tender towards the poor, and +believd’st thou shouldst die in the family, where thy best years had been +spent. Poor Theresa!—now thou art turned out in thy old age to seek thy +bread!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily wept bitterly as these thoughts passed over her mind, and she determined +to consider what could be done for Theresa, and to talk very explicitly to M. +Quesnel on the subject; but she much feared that his cold heart could feel only +for itself. She determined also to enquire whether he had made any mention of +her affairs, in his letter to Montoni, who soon gave her the opportunity she +sought, by desiring that she would attend him in his study. She had little +doubt, that the interview was intended for the purpose of communicating to her +a part of M. Quesnel’s letter concerning the transactions at La Vallée, +and she obeyed him immediately. Montoni was alone. +</p> + +<p> +“I have just been writing to Mons. Quesnel,” said he when Emily +appeared, “in reply to the letter I received from him a few days ago, and +I wished to talk to you upon a subject that occupied part of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I also wished to speak with you on this topic, sir,” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a subject of some interest to you, undoubtedly,” rejoined +Montoni, “and I think you must see it in the light that I do; indeed it +will not bear any other. I trust you will agree with me, that any objection +founded on sentiment, as they call it, ought to yield to circumstances of solid +advantage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Granting this, sir,” replied Emily, modestly, “those of +humanity ought surely to be attended to. But I fear it is now too late to +deliberate upon this plan, and I must regret, that it is no longer in my power +to reject it.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is too late,” said Montoni; “but since it is so, I am +pleased to observe, that you submit to reason and necessity without indulging +useless complaint. I applaud this conduct exceedingly, the more, perhaps, since +it discovers a strength of mind seldom observable in your sex. When you are +older you will look back with gratitude to the friends who assisted in rescuing +you from the romantic illusions of sentiment, and will perceive, that they are +only the snares of childhood, and should be vanquished the moment you escape +from the nursery. I have not closed my letter, and you may add a few lines to +inform your uncle of your acquiescence. You will soon see him, for it is my +intention to take you, with Madame Montoni, in a few days to Miarenti, and you +can then talk over the affair.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily wrote on the opposite page of the paper as follows: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“It is now useless, sir, for me to remonstrate upon the circumstances of +which Signor Montoni informs me that he has written. I could have wished, at +least, that the affair had been concluded with less precipitation, that I might +have taught myself to subdue some prejudices, as the Signor calls them, which +still linger in my heart. As it is, I submit. In point of prudence nothing +certainly can be objected; but, though I submit, I have yet much to say on some +other points of the subject, when I shall have the honour of seeing you. In the +meantime I entreat you will take care of Theresa, for the sake of,<br/> + “Sir,<br/> + “Your affectionate niece,<br/> + “EMILY ST. AUBERT.” +</p> + +<p> +Montoni smiled satirically at what Emily had written, but did not object to it, +and she withdrew to her own apartment, where she sat down to begin a letter to +Valancourt, in which she related the particulars of her journey, and her +arrival at Venice, described some of the most striking scenes in the passage +over the Alps; her emotions on her first view of Italy; the manners and +characters of the people around her, and some few circumstances of +Montoni’s conduct. But she avoided even naming Count Morano, much more +the declaration he had made, since she well knew how tremblingly alive to fear +is real love, how jealously watchful of every circumstance that may affect its +interest; and she scrupulously avoided to give Valancourt even the slightest +reason for believing he had a rival. +</p> + +<p> +On the following day Count Morano dined again at Montoni’s. He was in an +uncommon flow of spirits, and Emily thought there was somewhat of exultation in +his manner of addressing her, which she had never observed before. She +endeavoured to repress this by more than her usual reserve, but the cold +civility of her air now seemed rather to encourage than to depress him. He +appeared watchful of an opportunity of speaking with her alone, and more than +once solicited this; but Emily always replied, that she could hear nothing from +him which he would be unwilling to repeat before the whole company. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, Madame Montoni and her party went out upon the sea, and as the +Count led Emily to his <i>zendaletto</i>, he carried her hand to his lips, and +thanked her for the condescension she had shown him. Emily, in extreme surprise +and displeasure, hastily withdrew her hand, and concluded that he had spoken +ironically; but, on reaching the steps of the terrace, and observing by the +livery, that it was the Count’s <i>zendaletto</i> which waited below, +while the rest of the party, having arranged themselves in the gondolas, were +moving on, she determined not to permit a separate conversation, and, wishing +him a good evening, returned to the portico. The Count followed to expostulate +and entreat, and Montoni, who then came out, rendered solicitation unnecessary, +for, without condescending to speak, he took her hand, and led her to the +<i>zendaletto</i>. Emily was not silent; she entreated Montoni, in a low voice, +to consider the impropriety of these circumstances, and that he would spare her +the mortification of submitting to them; he, however, was inflexible. +</p> + +<p> +“This caprice is intolerable,” said he, “and shall not be +indulged: there is no impropriety in the case.” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment, Emily’s dislike of Count Morano rose to abhorrence. That +he should, with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her, notwithstanding all she +had expressed on the subject of his addresses, and think, as it was evident he +did, that her opinion of him was of no consequence, so long as his pretensions +were sanctioned by Montoni, added indignation to the disgust which she had felt +towards him. She was somewhat relieved by observing that Montoni was to be of +the party, who seated himself on one side of her, while Morano placed himself +on the other. There was a pause for some moments as the gondolieri prepared +their oars, and Emily trembled from apprehension of the discourse that might +follow this silence. At length she collected courage to break it herself, in +the hope of preventing fine speeches from Morano, and reproof from Montoni. To +some trivial remark which she made, the latter returned a short and disobliging +reply; but Morano immediately followed with a general observation, which he +contrived to end with a particular compliment, and, though Emily passed it +without even the notice of a smile, he was not discouraged. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been impatient,” said he, addressing Emily, “to +express my gratitude; to thank you for your goodness; but I must also thank +Signor Montoni, who has allowed me this opportunity of doing so.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily regarded the Count with a look of mingled astonishment and displeasure. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” continued he, “should you wish to diminish the delight +of this moment by that air of cruel reserve?—Why seek to throw me again +into the perplexities of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict the +kindness of your late declaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity, the ardour +of my passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charming Emily! surely unnecessary, +any longer to attempt a disguise of your sentiments.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I ever had disguised them, sir,” said Emily, with recollected +spirit, “it would certainly be unnecessary any longer to do so. I had +hoped, sir, that you would have spared me any farther necessity of alluding to +them; but, since you do not grant this, hear me declare, and for the last time, +that your perseverance has deprived you even of the esteem, which I was +inclined to believe you merited.” +</p> + +<p> +“Astonishing!” exclaimed Montoni: “this is beyond even my +expectation, though I have hitherto done justice to the caprice of the sex! But +you will observe, Mademoiselle Emily, that I am no lover, though Count Morano +is, and that I will not be made the amusement of your capricious moments. Here +is the offer of an alliance, which would do honour to any family; yours, you +will recollect, is not noble; you long resisted my remonstrances, but my honour +is now engaged, and it shall not be trifled with.—You shall adhere to the +declaration, which you have made me an agent to convey to the Count.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must certainly mistake you, sir,” said Emily; “my answers +on the subject have been uniform; it is unworthy of you to accuse me of +caprice. If you have condescended to be my agent, it is an honour I did not +solicit. I myself have constantly assured Count Morano, and you also, sir, that +I never can accept the honour he offers me, and I now repeat the +declaration.” +</p> + +<p> +The Count looked with an air of surprise and enquiry at Montoni, whose +countenance also was marked with surprise, but it was surprise mingled with +indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is confidence, as well as caprice!” said the latter. +“Will you deny your own words, Madam?” +</p> + +<p> +“Such a question is unworthy of an answer, sir;” said Emily +blushing; “you will recollect yourself, and be sorry that you have asked +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Speak to the point,” rejoined Montoni, in a voice of increasing +vehemence. “Will you deny your own words; will you deny, that you +acknowledged, only a few hours ago, that it was too late to recede from your +engagements, and that you accepted the Count’s hand?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will deny all this, for no words of mine ever imported it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Astonishing! Will you deny what you wrote to Mons. Quesnel, your uncle? +If you do, your own hand will bear testimony against you. What have you now to +say?” continued Montoni, observing the silence and confusion of Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“I now perceive, sir, that you are under a very great error, and that I +have been equally mistaken.” +</p> + +<p> +“No more duplicity, I entreat; be open and candid, if it be +possible.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have always been so, sir; and can claim no merit in such conduct, for +I have had nothing to conceal.” +</p> + +<p> +“How is this, Signor?” cried Morano, with trembling emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“Suspend your judgment, Count,” replied Montoni, “the wiles +of a female heart are unsearchable. Now, Madame, your +<i>explanation</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Excuse me, sir, if I withhold my explanation till you appear willing to +give me your confidence; assertion as present can only subject me to +insult.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your explanation, I entreat you!” said Morano. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” rejoined Montoni, “I give you my confidence; +let us hear this explanation.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me lead to it then, by asking a question.” +</p> + +<p> +“As many as you please,” said Montoni, contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +“What, then, was the subject of your letter to Mons. Quesnel?” +</p> + +<p> +“The same that was the subject of your note to him, certainly. You did +well to stipulate for my confidence before you demanded that question.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must beg you will be more explicit, sir; what was that subject?” +</p> + +<p> +“What could it be, but the noble offer of Count Morano,” said +Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, sir, we entirely misunderstood each other,” replied Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“We entirely misunderstood each other too, I suppose,” rejoined +Montoni, “in the conversation which preceded the writing of that note? I +must do you the justice to own, that you are very ingenious at this same art of +misunderstanding.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily tried to restrain the tears that came to her eyes, and to answer with +becoming firmness. “Allow me, sir, to explain myself fully, or to be +wholly silent.” +</p> + +<p> +“The explanation may now be dispensed with; it is anticipated. If Count +Morano still thinks one necessary, I will give him an honest one: you have +changed your intention since our last conversation; and, if he can have +patience and humility enough to wait till tomorrow, he will probably find it +changed again: but as I have neither the patience nor the humility, which you +expect from a lover, I warn you of the effect of my displeasure!” +</p> + +<p> +“Montoni, you are too precipitate,” said the Count, who had +listened to this conversation in extreme agitation and +impatience;—“Signora, I entreat your own explanation of this +affair!” +</p> + +<p> +“Signor Montoni has said justly,” replied Emily, “that all +explanation may now be dispensed with; after what has passed I cannot suffer +myself to give one. It is sufficient for me, and for you, sir, that I repeat my +late declaration; let me hope this is the last time it will be necessary for me +to repeat it—I never can accept the honour of your alliance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Charming Emily!” exclaimed the Count in an impassioned tone, +“let not resentment make you unjust; let me not suffer for the offence of +Montoni!—Revoke—” +</p> + +<p> +“Offence!” interrupted Montoni—“Count, this language is +ridiculous, this submission is childish!—speak as becomes a man, not as +the slave of a pretty tyrant.” +</p> + +<p> +“You distract me, Signor; suffer me to plead my own cause; you have +already proved insufficient to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“All conversation on this subject, sir,” said Emily, “is +worse than useless, since it can bring only pain to each of us: if you would +oblige me, pursue it no farther.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is impossible, Madam, that I can thus easily resign the object of a +passion, which is the delight and torment of my life.—I must still +love—still pursue you with unremitting ardour;—when you shall be +convinced of the strength and constancy of my passion, your heart must soften +into pity and repentance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is this generous, sir? is this manly? Can it either deserve or obtain +the esteem you solicit, thus to continue a persecution from which I have no +present means of escaping?” +</p> + +<p> +A gleam of moonlight that fell upon Morano’s countenance, revealed the +strong emotions of his soul; and, glancing on Montoni discovered the dark +resentment, which contrasted his features. +</p> + +<p> +“By Heaven this is too much!” suddenly exclaimed the Count; +“Signor Montoni, you treat me ill; it is from you that I shall look for +explanation.” +</p> + +<p> +“From me, sir! you shall have it;” muttered Montoni, “if your +discernment is indeed so far obscured by passion, as to make explanation +necessary. And for you, madam, you should learn, that a man of honour is not to +be trifled with, though you may, perhaps, with impunity, treat a <i>boy</i> +like a puppet.” +</p> + +<p> +This sarcasm roused the pride of Morano, and the resentment which he had felt +at the indifference of Emily, being lost in indignation of the insolence of +Montoni, he determined to mortify him, by defending her. +</p> + +<p> +“This also,” said he, replying to Montoni’s last words, +“this also, shall not pass unnoticed. I bid you learn, sir, that you have +a stronger enemy than a woman to contend with: I will protect Signora St. +Aubert from your threatened resentment. You have misled me, and would revenge +your disappointed views upon the innocent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Misled you!” retorted Montoni with quickness, “is my +conduct—my word”—then pausing, while he seemed endeavouring +to restrain the resentment, that flashed in his eyes, in the next moment he +added, in a subdued voice, “Count Morano, this is a language, a sort of +conduct to which I am not accustomed: it is the conduct of a passionate +boy—as such, I pass it over in contempt.” +</p> + +<p> +“In contempt, Signor?” +</p> + +<p> +“The respect I owe myself,” rejoined Montoni, “requires, that +I should converse more largely with you upon some points of the subject in +dispute. Return with me to Venice, and I will condescend to convince you of +your error.” +</p> + +<p> +“Condescend, sir! but I will not condescend to be so conversed +with.” +</p> + +<p> +Montoni smiled contemptuously; and Emily, now terrified for the consequences of +what she saw and heard, could no longer be silent. She explained the whole +subject upon which she had mistaken Montoni in the morning, declaring, that she +understood him to have consulted her solely concerning the disposal of La +Vallée, and concluding with entreating, that he would write immediately to M. +Quesnel, and rectify the mistake. +</p> + +<p> +But Montoni either was, or affected to be, still incredulous; and Count Morano +was still entangled in perplexity. While she was speaking, however, the +attention of her auditors had been diverted from the immediate occasion of +their resentment, and their passion consequently became less. Montoni desired +the Count would order his servants to row back to Venice, that he might have +some private conversation with him; and Morano, somewhat soothed by his +softened voice and manner, and eager to examine into the full extent of his +difficulties, complied. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, comforted by this prospect of release, employed the present moments in +endeavouring, with conciliating care, to prevent any fatal mischief between the +persons who so lately had persecuted and insulted her. +</p> + +<p> +Her spirits revived, when she heard once more the voice of song and laughter, +resounding from the grand canal, and at length entered again between its +stately piazzas. The <i>zendaletto</i> stopped at Montoni’s mansion, and +the Count hastily led her into the hall, where Montoni took his arm, and said +something in a low voice, on which Morano kissed the hand he held, +notwithstanding Emily’s effort to disengage it, and, wishing her a good +evening, with an accent and look she could not misunderstand, returned to his +<i>zendaletto</i> with Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, in her own apartment, considered with intense anxiety all the unjust and +tyrannical conduct of Montoni, the dauntless perseverance of Morano, and her +own desolate situation, removed from her friends and country. She looked in +vain to Valancourt, confined by his profession to a distant kingdom, as her +protector; but it gave her comfort to know, that there was, at least, one +person in the world, who would sympathise in her afflictions, and whose wishes +would fly eagerly to release her. Yet she determined not to give him unavailing +pain by relating the reasons she had to regret the having rejected his better +judgment concerning Montoni; reasons, however, which could not induce her to +lament the delicacy and disinterested affection that had made her reject his +proposal for a clandestine marriage. The approaching interview with her uncle +she regarded with some degree of hope, for she determined to represent to him +the distresses of her situation, and to entreat that he would allow her to +return to France with him and Madame Quesnel. Then, suddenly remembering that +her beloved La Vallée, her only home, was no longer at her command, her tears +flowed anew, and she feared that she had little pity to expect from a man who, +like M. Quesnel, could dispose of it without deigning to consult with her, and +could dismiss an aged and faithful servant, destitute of either support or +asylum. But, though it was certain, that she had herself no longer a home in +France, and few, very few friends there, she determined to return, if possible, +that she might be released from the power of Montoni, whose particularly +oppressive conduct towards herself, and general character as to others, were +justly terrible to her imagination. She had no wish to reside with her uncle, +M. Quesnel, since his behaviour to her late father and to herself, had been +uniformly such as to convince her, that in flying to him she could only obtain +an exchange of oppressors; neither had she the slightest intention of +consenting to the proposal of Valancourt for an immediate marriage, though this +would give her a lawful and a generous protector, for the chief reasons, which +had formerly influenced her conduct, still existed against it, while others, +which seemed to justify the step, would not be done away; and his interest, his +fame were at all times too dear to her, to suffer her to consent to a union, +which, at this early period of their lives, would probably defeat both. One +sure, and proper asylum, however, would still be open to her in France. She +knew that she could board in the convent, where she had formerly experienced so +much kindness, and which had an affecting and solemn claim upon her heart, +since it contained the remains of her late father. Here she could remain in +safety and tranquillity, till the term, for which La Vallée might be let, +should expire; or, till the arrangement of M. Motteville’s affairs +enabled her so far to estimate the remains of her fortune, as to judge whether +it would be prudent for her to reside there. +</p> + +<p> +Concerning Montoni’s conduct with respect to his letters to M. Quesnel, +she had many doubts; however he might be at first mistaken on the subject, she +much suspected that he wilfully persevered in his error, as a means of +intimidating her into a compliance with his wishes of uniting her to Count +Morano. Whether this was or was not the fact, she was extremely anxious to +explain the affair to M. Quesnel, and looked forward with a mixture of +impatience, hope and fear, to her approaching visit. +</p> + +<p> +On the following day, Madame Montoni, being alone with Emily, introduced the +mention of Count Morano, by expressing her surprise, that she had not joined +the party on the water the preceding evening, and at her abrupt departure to +Venice. Emily then related what had passed, expressed her concern for the +mutual mistake that had occurred between Montoni and herself, and solicited her +aunt’s kind offices in urging him to give a decisive denial to the +count’s further addresses; but she soon perceived, that Madame Montoni +had not been ignorant of the late conversation, when she introduced the +present. +</p> + +<p> +“You have no encouragement to expect from me,” said her aunt, +“in these notions. I have already given my opinion on the subject, and +think Signor Montoni right in enforcing, by any means, your consent. If young +persons will be blind to their interest, and obstinately oppose it, why, the +greatest blessings they can have are friends, who will oppose their folly. Pray +what pretensions of any kind do you think you have to such a match as is now +offered you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not any whatever, Madam,” replied Emily, “and, therefore, at +least, suffer me to be happy in my humility.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, niece, it cannot be denied, that you have pride enough; my poor +brother, your father, had his share of pride too; though, let me add, his +fortune did not justify it.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, somewhat embarrassed by the indignation, which this malevolent allusion +to her father excited, and by the difficulty of rendering her answer as +temperate as it should be reprehensive, hesitated for some moments, in a +confusion, which highly gratified her aunt. At length she said, “My +father’s pride, Madam, had a noble object—the happiness which he +knew could be derived only from goodness, knowledge and charity. As it never +consisted in his superiority, in point of fortune, to some persons, it was not +humbled by his inferiority, in that respect, to others. He never disdained +those, who were wretched by poverty and misfortune; he did sometimes despise +persons, who, with many opportunities of happiness, rendered themselves +miserable by vanity, ignorance and cruelty. I shall think it my highest glory +to emulate such pride.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not pretend to understand anything of these high-flown sentiments, +niece; you have all that glory to yourself: I would teach you a little plain +sense, and not have you so wise as to despise happiness.” +</p> + +<p> +“That would indeed not be wisdom, but folly,” said Emily, +“for wisdom can boast no higher attainment than happiness; but you will +allow, Madam, that our ideas of happiness may differ. I cannot doubt, that you +wish me to be happy, but I must fear you are mistaken in the means of making me +so.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot boast of a learned education, niece, such as your father +thought proper to give you, and, therefore, do not pretend to understand all +these fine speeches about happiness. I must be contented to understand only +common sense, and happy would it have been for you and your father, if that had +been included in his education.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was too much shocked by these reflections on her father’s memory, +to despise this speech as it deserved. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Montoni was about to speak, but Emily quitted the room, and retired to +her own, where the little spirit she had lately exerted yielded to grief and +vexation, and left her only to her tears. From every review of her situation +she could derive, indeed, only new sorrow. To the discovery, which had just +been forced upon her, of Montoni’s unworthiness, she had now to add, that +of the cruel vanity, for the gratification of which her aunt was about to +sacrifice her; of the effrontery and cunning, with which, at the time that she +meditated the sacrifice, she boasted of her tenderness, or insulted her victim; +and of the venomous envy, which, as it did not scruple to attack her +father’s character, could scarcely be expected to withhold from her own. +</p> + +<p> +During the few days that intervened between this conversation and the departure +for Miarenti, Montoni did not once address himself to Emily. His looks +sufficiently declared his resentment; but that he should forbear to renew a +mention of the subject of it, exceedingly surprised her, who was no less +astonished, that, during three days, Count Morano neither visited Montoni, nor +was named by him. Several conjectures arose in her mind. Sometimes she feared +that the dispute between them had been revived, and had ended fatally to the +Count. Sometimes she was inclined to hope, that weariness, or disgust at her +firm rejection of his suit had induced him to relinquish it; and, at others, +she suspected that he had now recourse to stratagem, and forbore his visits, +and prevailed with Montoni to forbear the repetition of his name, in the +expectation that gratitude and generosity would prevail with her to give him +the consent, which he could not hope from love. +</p> + +<p> +Thus passed the time in vain conjecture, and alternate hopes and fears, till +the day arrived when Montoni was to set out for the villa of Miarenti, which, +like the preceding ones, neither brought the Count, nor the mention of him. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni having determined not to leave Venice, till towards evening, that he +might avoid the heats, and catch the cool breezes of night, embarked about an +hour before sunset, with his family, in a barge, for the Brenta. Emily sat +alone near the stern of the vessel, and, as it floated slowly on, watched the +gay and lofty city lessening from her view, till its palaces seemed to sink in +the distant waves, while its loftier towers and domes, illumined by the +declining sun, appeared on the horizon, like those far-seen clouds which, in +more northern climes, often linger on the western verge, and catch the last +light of a summer’s evening. Soon after, even these grew dim, and faded +in distance from her sight; but she still sat gazing on the vast scene of +cloudless sky, and mighty waters, and listening in pleasing awe to the +deep-sounding waves, while, as her eyes glanced over the Adriatic, towards the +opposite shores, which were, however, far beyond the reach of sight, she +thought of Greece, and, a thousand classical remembrances stealing to her mind, +she experienced that pensive luxury which is felt on viewing the scenes of +ancient story, and on comparing their present state of silence and solitude +with that of their former grandeur and animation. The scenes of the Illiad +illapsed in glowing colours to her fancy—scenes, once the haunt of +heroes—now lonely, and in ruins; but which still shone, in the +poet’s strain, in all their youthful splendour. +</p> + +<p> +As her imagination painted with melancholy touches, the deserted plains of +Troy, such as they appeared in this after-day, she reanimated the landscape +with the following little story. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +STANZAS<br/><br/> + +O’er Ilion’s plains, where once the warrior bled,<br/> +And once the poet rais’d his deathless strain,<br/> +O’er Ilion’s plains a weary driver led<br/> +His stately camels: For the ruin’d fane<br/><br/> + +Wide round the lonely scene his glance he threw,<br/> +For now the red cloud faded in the west,<br/> +And twilight o’er the silent landscape drew<br/> +Her deep’ning veil; eastward his course he prest:<br/><br/> + +There, on the grey horizon’s glimm’ring bound,<br/> +Rose the proud columns of deserted Troy,<br/> +And wandering shepherds now a shelter found<br/> +Within those walls, where princes wont to joy.<br/><br/> + +Beneath a lofty porch the driver pass’d,<br/> +Then, from his camels heav’d the heavy load;<br/> +Partook with them the simple, cool repast,<br/> +And in short vesper gave himself to God.<br/><br/> + +From distant lands with merchandise he came,<br/> +His all of wealth his patient servants bore;<br/> +Oft deep-drawn sighs his anxious wish proclaim<br/> +To reach, again, his happy cottage door;<br/><br/> + +For there, his wife, his little children, dwell;<br/> +Their smiles shall pay the toil of many an hour:<br/> +Ev’n now warm tears to expectation swell,<br/> +As fancy o’er his mind extends her pow’r.<br/><br/> + +A death-like stillness reign’d, where once the song,<br/> +The song of heroes, wak’d the midnight air,<br/> +Save, when a solemn murmur roll’d along,<br/> +That seem’d to say—“for future worlds prepare.”<br/><br/> + +For Time’s imperious voice was frequent heard<br/> +Shaking the marble temple to its fall,<br/> +(By hands he long had conquer’d, vainly rear’d),<br/> +And distant ruins answer’d to his call.<br/><br/> + +While Hamet slept, his camels round him lay,<br/> +Beneath him, all his store of wealth was piled;<br/> +And here, his cruse and empty wallet lay,<br/> +And there, the flute that chear’d him in the wild.<br/><br/> + +The robber Tartar on his slumber stole,<br/> +For o’er the waste, at eve, he watch’d his train;<br/> +Ah! who his thirst of plunder shall control?<br/> +Who calls on him for mercy—calls in vain!<br/><br/> + +A poison’d poignard in his belt he wore,<br/> +A crescent sword depended at his side,<br/> +The deathful quiver at his back he bore,<br/> +And infants—at his very look had died!<br/><br/> + +The moon’s cold beam athwart the temple fell,<br/> +And to his sleeping prey the Tartar led;<br/> +But soft!—a startled camel shook his bell,<br/> +Then stretch’d his limbs, and rear’d his drowsy head.<br/><br/> + +Hamet awoke! the poignard glitter’d high!<br/> +Swift from his couch he sprung, and ’scap’d the blow;<br/> +When from an unknown hand the arrows fly,<br/> +That lay the ruffian, in his vengeance, low.<br/><br/> + +He groan’d, he died! from forth a column’d gate<br/> +A fearful shepherd, pale and silent, crept,<br/> +Who, as he watch’d his folded flock star-late,<br/> +Had mark’d the robber steal where Hamet slept.<br/><br/> + +He fear’d his own, and sav’d a stranger’s life!<br/> +Poor Hamet clasp’d him to his grateful heart;<br/> +Then, rous’d his camels for the dusty strife,<br/> +And, with the shepherd, hasten’d to depart.<br/><br/> + +And now, aurora breathes her fresh’ning gale,<br/> +And faintly trembles on the eastern cloud;<br/> +And now, the sun, from under twilight’s veil,<br/> +Looks gaily forth, and melts her airy shroud.<br/><br/> + +Wide o’er the level plains, his slanting beams<br/> +Dart their long lines on Ilion’s tower’d site;<br/> +The distant Hellespont with morning gleams,<br/> +And old Scamander winds his waves in light.<br/><br/> + +All merry sound the camel bells, so gay,<br/> +And merry beats fond Hamet’s heart, for he,<br/> +E’er the dim evening steals upon the day,<br/> +His children, wife and happy home shall see. +</p> + +<p> +As Emily approached the shores of Italy she began to discriminate the rich +features and varied colouring of the landscape—the purple hills, groves +of orange pine and cypress, shading magnificent villas, and towns rising among +vineyards and plantations. The noble Brenta, pouring its broad waves into the +sea, now appeared, and, when she reached its mouth, the barge stopped, that the +horses might be fastened which were now to tow it up the stream. This done, +Emily gave a last look to the Adriatic, and to the dim sail, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +that from the sky-mix’d wave<br/> +Dawns on the sight, +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and the barge slowly glided between the green and luxuriant slopes of the +river. The grandeur of the Palladian villas, that adorn these shores, was +considerably heightened by the setting rays, which threw strong contrasts of +light and shade upon the porticos and long arcades, and beamed a mellow lustre +upon the orangeries and the tall groves of pine and cypress, that overhung the +buildings. The scent of oranges, of flowering myrtles, and other odoriferous +plants was diffused upon the air, and often, from these embowered retreats, a +strain of music stole on the calm, and “softened into silence.” +</p> + +<p> +The sun now sunk below the horizon, twilight fell over the landscape, and +Emily, wrapt in musing silence, continued to watch its features gradually +vanishing into obscurity. She remembered her many happy evenings, when with St. +Aubert she had observed the shades of twilight steal over a scene as beautiful +as this, from the gardens of La Vallée, and a tear fell to the memory of her +father. Her spirits were softened into melancholy by the influence of the hour, +by the low murmur of the wave passing under the vessel, and the stillness of +the air, that trembled only at intervals with distant music:—why else +should she, at these moments, have looked on her attachment to Valancourt with +presages so very afflicting, since she had but lately received letters from +him, that had soothed for a while all her anxieties? It now seemed to her +oppressed mind, that she had taken leave of him for ever, and that the +countries, which separated them, would never more be retraced by her. She +looked upon Count Morano with horror, as in some degree the cause of this; but +apart from him, a conviction, if such that may be called, which arises from no +proof, and which she knew not how to account for, seized her mind—that +she should never see Valancourt again. Though she knew, that neither +Morano’s solicitations, nor Montoni’s commands had lawful power to +enforce her obedience, she regarded both with a superstitious dread, that they +would finally prevail. +</p> + +<p> +Lost in this melancholy reverie, and shedding frequent tears, Emily was at +length roused by Montoni, and she followed him to the cabin, where refreshments +were spread, and her aunt was seated alone. The countenance of Madame Montoni +was inflamed with resentment, that appeared to be the consequence of some +conversation she had held with her husband, who regarded her with a kind of +sullen disdain, and both preserved, for some time, a haughty silence. Montoni +then spoke to Emily of Mons. Quesnel: “You will not, I hope, persist in +disclaiming your knowledge of the subject of my letter to him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I had hoped, sir, that it was no longer necessary for me to disclaim +it,” said Emily, “I had hoped, from your silence, that you were +convinced of your error.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have hoped impossibilities then,” replied Montoni; “I +might as reasonably have expected to find sincerity and uniformity of conduct +in one of your sex, as you to convict me of error in this affair.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily blushed, and was silent; she now perceived too clearly, that she had +hoped an impossibility, for, where no mistake had been committed no conviction +could follow; and it was evident, that Montoni’s conduct had not been the +consequence of mistake, but of design. +</p> + +<p> +Anxious to escape from conversation, which was both afflicting and humiliating +to her, she soon returned to the deck, and resumed her station near the stern, +without apprehension of cold, for no vapour rose from the water, and the air +was dry and tranquil; here, at least, the benevolence of nature allowed her the +quiet which Montoni had denied her elsewhere. It was now past midnight. The +stars shed a kind of twilight, that served to show the dark outline of the +shores on either hand, and the grey surface of the river; till the moon rose +from behind a high palm grove, and shed her mellow lustre over the scene. The +vessel glided smoothly on: amid the stillness of the hour Emily heard, now and +then, the solitary voice of the barge-men on the bank, as they spoke to their +horses; while, from a remote part of the vessel, with melancholy song, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +The sailor sooth’d,<br/> +Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, meanwhile, anticipated her reception by Mons, and Madame Quesnel; +considered what she should say on the subject of La Vallée; and then, to +withhold her mind from more anxious topics, tried to amuse herself by +discriminating the faint-drawn features of the landscape, reposing in the +moonlight. While her fancy thus wandered, she saw, at a distance, a building +peeping between the moonlight trees, and, as the barge approached, heard +voices speaking, and soon distinguished the lofty portico of a villa, +overshadowed by groves of pine and sycamore, which she recollected to be the +same, that had formerly been pointed out to her, as belonging to Madame +Quesnel’s relative. +</p> + +<p> +The barge stopped at a flight of marble steps, which led up the bank to a lawn. +Lights appeared between some pillars beyond the portico. Montoni sent forward +his servant, and then disembarked with his family. They found Mons. and Madame +Quesnel, with a few friends, seated on sofas in the portico, enjoying the cool +breeze of the night, and eating fruits and ices, while some of their servants +at a little distance, on the river’s bank, were performing a simple +serenade. Emily was now accustomed to the way of living in this warm country, +and was not surprised to find Mons. and Madame Quesnel in their portico, two +hours after midnight. +</p> + +<p> +The usual salutations being over, the company seated themselves in the portico, +and refreshments were brought them from the adjoining hall, where a banquet was +spread, and servants attended. When the bustle of this meeting had subsided, +and Emily had recovered from the little flutter into which it had thrown her +spirits, she was struck with the singular beauty of the hall, so perfectly +accommodated to the luxuries of the season. It was of white marble, and the +roof, rising into an open cupola, was supported by columns of the same +material. Two opposite sides of the apartment, terminating in open porticos, +admitted to the hall a full view of the gardens, and of the river scenery; in +the centre a fountain continually refreshed the air, and seemed to heighten the +fragrance, that breathed from the surrounding orangeries, while its dashing +waters gave an agreeable and soothing sound. Etruscan lamps, suspended from the +pillars, diffused a brilliant light over the interior part of the hall, leaving +the remoter porticos to the softer lustre of the moon. +</p> + +<p> +Mons. Quesnel talked apart to Montoni of his own affairs, in his usual strain +of self-importance; boasted of his new acquisitions, and then affected to pity +some disappointments, which Montoni had lately sustained. Meanwhile, the +latter, whose pride at least enabled him to despise such vanity as this, and +whose discernment at once detected under this assumed pity, the frivolous +malignity of Quesnel’s mind, listened to him in contemptuous silence, +till he named his niece, and then they left the portico, and walked away into +the gardens. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, however, still attended to Madame Quesnel, who spoke of France (for even +the name of her native country was dear to her) and she found some pleasure in +looking at a person, who had lately been in it. That country, too, was +inhabited by Valancourt, and she listened to the mention of it, with a faint +hope, that he also would be named. Madame Quesnel, who, when she was in France, +had talked with rapture of Italy, now, that she was in Italy, talked with equal +praise of France, and endeavoured to excite the wonder and the envy of her +auditors by accounts of places, which they had not been happy enough to see. In +these descriptions she not only imposed upon them, but upon herself, for she +never thought a present pleasure equal to one, that was passed; and thus the +delicious climate, the fragrant orangeries and all the luxuries, which +surrounded her, slept unnoticed, while her fancy wandered over the distant +scenes of a northern country. +</p> + +<p> +Emily listened in vain for the name of Valancourt. Madame Montoni spoke in her +turn of the delights of Venice, and of the pleasure she expected from visiting +the fine castle of Montoni, on the Apennine; which latter mention, at least, +was merely a retaliating boast, for Emily well knew, that her aunt had no taste +for solitary grandeur, and, particularly, for such as the castle of Udolpho +promised. Thus the party continued to converse, and, as far as civility would +permit, to torture each other by mutual boasts, while they reclined on sofas in +the portico, and were environed with delights both from nature and art, by +which any honest minds would have been tempered to benevolence, and happy +imaginations would have been soothed into enchantment. +</p> + +<p> +The dawn, soon after, trembled in the eastern horizon, and the light tints of +morning, gradually expanding, showed the beautifully declining forms of the +Italian mountains and the gleaming landscapes, stretched at their feet. Then +the sunbeams, shooting up from behind the hills, spread over the scene that +fine saffron tinge, which seems to impart repose to all it touches. The +landscape no longer gleamed; all its glowing colours were revealed, except that +its remoter features were still softened and united in the mist of distance, +whose sweet effect was heightened to Emily by the dark verdure of the pines and +cypresses, that over-arched the foreground of the river. +</p> + +<p> +The market people, passing with their boats to Venice, now formed a moving +picture on the Brenta. Most of these had little painted awnings, to shelter +their owners from the sunbeams, which, together with the piles of fruit and +flowers, displayed beneath, and the tasteful simplicity of the peasant girls, +who watched the rural treasures, rendered them gay and striking objects. The +swift movement of the boats down the current, the quick glance of oars in the +water, and now and then the passing chorus of peasants, who reclined under the +sail of their little bark, or the tones of some rustic instrument, played by a +girl, as she sat near her sylvan cargo, heightened the animation and festivity +of the scene. +</p> + +<p> +When Montoni and M. Quesnel had joined the ladies, the party left the portico +for the gardens, where the charming scenery soon withdrew Emily’s +thoughts from painful subjects. The majestic forms and rich verdure of +cypresses she had never seen so perfect before: groves of cedar, lemon, and +orange, the spiry clusters of the pine and poplar, the luxuriant chesnut and +oriental plane, threw all their pomp of shade over these gardens; while bowers +of flowering myrtle and other spicy shrubs mingled their fragrance with that of +flowers, whose vivid and various colouring glowed with increased effect beneath +the contrasted umbrage of the groves. The air also was continually refreshed by +rivulets, which, with more taste than fashion, had been suffered to wander +among the green recesses. +</p> + +<p> +Emily often lingered behind the party, to contemplate the distant landscape, +that closed a vista, or that gleamed beneath the dark foliage of the +foreground;—the spiral summits of the mountains, touched with a purple +tint, broken and steep above, but shelving gradually to their base; the open +valley, marked by no formal lines of art; and the tall groves of cypress, pine +and poplar, sometimes embellished by a ruined villa, whose broken columns +appeared between the branches of a pine, that seemed to droop over their fall. +</p> + +<p> +From other parts of the gardens, the character of the view was entirely +changed, and the fine solitary beauty of the landscape shifted for the crowded +features and varied colouring of inhabitation. +</p> + +<p> +The sun was now gaining fast upon the sky, and the party quitted the gardens, +and retired to repose. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a> CHAPTER IV </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +And poor Misfortune feels the lash of Vice.<br/> + THOMSON +</p> + +<p> +Emily seized the first opportunity of conversing alone with Mons. Quesnel, +concerning La Vallée. His answers to her enquiries were concise, and delivered +with the air of a man, who is conscious of possessing absolute power and +impatient of hearing it questioned. He declared, that the disposal of the place +was a necessary measure; and that she might consider herself indebted to his +prudence for even the small income that remained for her. “But, +however,” added he, “when this Venetian Count (I have forgot his +name) marries you, your present disagreeable state of dependence will cease. As +a relation to you I rejoice in the circumstance, which is so fortunate for you, +and, I may add, so unexpected by your friends.” For some moments Emily +was chilled into silence by this speech; and, when she attempted to undeceive +him, concerning the purport of the note she had inclosed in Montoni’s +letter, he appeared to have some private reason for disbelieving her assertion, +and, for a considerable time, persevered in accusing her of capricious conduct. +Being, at length, however, convinced that she really disliked Morano and had +positively rejected his suit, his resentment was extravagant, and he expressed +it in terms equally pointed and inhuman; for, secretly flattered by the +prospect of a connection with a nobleman, whose title he had affected to +forget, he was incapable of feeling pity for whatever sufferings of his niece +might stand in the way of his ambition. +</p> + +<p> +Emily saw at once in his manner all the difficulties, that awaited her, and, +though no oppression could have power to make her renounce Valancourt for +Morano, her fortitude now trembled at an encounter with the violent passions of +her uncle. +</p> + +<p> +She opposed his turbulence and indignation only by the mild dignity of a +superior mind; but the gentle firmness of her conduct served to exasperate +still more his resentment, since it compelled him to feel his own inferiority, +and, when he left her, he declared, that, if she persisted in her folly, both +himself and Montoni would abandon her to the contempt of the world. +</p> + +<p> +The calmness she had assumed in his presence failed Emily, when alone, and she +wept bitterly, and called frequently upon the name of her departed father, +whose advice to her from his death-bed she then remembered. “Alas!” +said she, “I do indeed perceive how much more valuable is the strength of +fortitude than the grace of sensibility, and I will also endeavour to fulfil +the promise I then made; I will not indulge in unavailing lamentation, but will +try to endure, with firmness, the oppression I cannot elude.” +</p> + +<p> +Somewhat soothed by the consciousness of performing a part of St. +Aubert’s last request, and of endeavouring to pursue the conduct which he +would have approved, she overcame her tears, and, when the company met at +dinner, had recovered her usual serenity of countenance. +</p> + +<p> +In the cool of the evening, the ladies took the <i>fresco</i> along the bank of +the Brenta in Madame Quesnel’s carriage. The state of Emily’s mind +was in melancholy contrast with the gay groups assembled beneath the shades +that overhung this enchanting stream. Some were dancing under the trees, and +others reclining on the grass, taking ices and coffee and calmly enjoying the +effect of a beautiful evening, on a luxuriant landscape. Emily, when she looked +at the snow-capped Apennines, ascending in the distance, thought of +Montoni’s castle, and suffered some terror, lest he should convey her +thither, for the purpose of enforcing her obedience; but the thought vanished, +when she considered, that she was as much in his power at Venice as she could +be elsewhere. +</p> + +<p> +It was moonlight before the party returned to the villa, where supper was +spread in the airy hall, which had so much enchanted Emily’s fancy, on +the preceding night. The ladies seated themselves in the portico, till Mons. +Quesnel, Montoni, and other gentlemen should join them at table, and Emily +endeavoured to resign herself to the tranquillity of the hour. Presently, a +barge stopped at the steps that led into the gardens, and, soon after, she +distinguished the voices of Montoni and Quesnel, and then that of Morano, who, +in the next moment, appeared. His compliments she received in silence, and her +cold air seemed at first to discompose him; but he soon recovered his usual +gaiety of manner, though the officious kindness of M. and Madame Quesnel Emily +perceived disgusted him. Such a degree of attention she had scarcely believed +could be shown by M. Quesnel, for she had never before seen him otherwise than +in the presence of his inferiors or equals. +</p> + +<p> +When she could retire to her own apartment, her mind almost involuntarily dwelt +on the most probable means of prevailing with the Count to withdraw his suit, +and to her liberal mind none appeared more probable, than that of acknowledging +to him a prior attachment and throwing herself upon his generosity for a +release. When, however, on the following day, he renewed his addresses, she +shrunk from the adoption of the plan she had formed. There was something so +repugnant to her just pride, in laying open the secret of her heart to such a +man as Morano, and in suing to him for compassion, that she impatiently +rejected this design and wondered, that she could have paused upon it for a +moment. The rejection of his suit she repeated in the most decisive terms she +could select, mingling with it a severe censure of his conduct; but, though the +Count appeared mortified by this, he persevered in the most ardent professions +of admiration, till he was interrupted and Emily released by the presence of +Madame Quesnel. +</p> + +<p> +During her stay at this pleasant villa, Emily was thus rendered miserable by +the assiduities of Morano, together with the cruelly exerted authority of M. +Quesnel and Montoni, who, with her aunt, seemed now more resolutely determined +upon this marriage than they had even appeared to be at Venice. M. Quesnel, +finding, that both argument and menace were ineffectual in enforcing an +immediate conclusion to it, at length relinquished his endeavours, and trusted +to the power of Montoni and to the course of events at Venice. Emily, indeed, +looked to Venice with hope, for there she would be relieved in some measure +from the persecution of Morano, who would no longer be an inhabitant of the +same house with herself, and from that of Montoni, whose engagements would not +permit him to be continually at home. But amidst the pressure of her own +misfortunes, she did not forget those of poor Theresa, for whom she pleaded +with courageous tenderness to Quesnel, who promised, in slight and general +terms, that she should not be forgotten. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni, in a long conversation with M. Quesnel, arranged the plan to be +pursued respecting Emily, and M. Quesnel proposed to be at Venice, as soon as +he should be informed, that the nuptials were concluded. +</p> + +<p> +It was new to Emily to part with any person, with whom she was connected, +without feeling of regret; the moment, however, in which she took leave of M. +and Madame Quesnel, was, perhaps, the only satisfactory one she had known in +their presence. +</p> + +<p> +Morano returned in Montoni’s barge, and Emily, as she watched her gradual +approach to that magic city, saw at her side the only person, who occasioned +her to view it with less than perfect delight. They arrived there about +midnight, when Emily was released from the presence of the Count, who, with +Montoni, went to a Casino, and she was suffered to retire to her own apartment. +</p> + +<p> +On the following day, Montoni, in a short conversation, which he held with +Emily, informed her, that he would no longer be <i>trifled</i> with, and that, +since her marriage with the Count would be so highly advantageous to her, that +folly only could object to it, and folly of such extent as was incapable of +conviction, it should be celebrated without further delay, and, if that was +necessary, without her consent. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, who had hitherto tried remonstrance, had now recourse to supplication, +for distress prevented her from foreseeing, that, with a man of Montoni’s +disposition, supplication would be equally useless. She afterwards enquired by +what right he exerted this unlimited authority over her, a question, which her +better judgment would have withheld her, in a calmer moment, from making, since +it could avail her nothing, and would afford Montoni another opportunity of +triumphing over her defenceless condition. +</p> + +<p> +“By what right!” cried Montoni, with a malicious smile, “by +the right of my will; if you can elude that, I will not inquire by what right +you do so. I now remind you, for the last time, that you are a stranger, in a +foreign country, and that it is your interest to make me your friend; you know +the means; if you compel me to become your enemy—I will venture to tell +you, that the punishment shall exceed your expectation. You may know <i>I</i> +am not to be trifled with.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily continued, for some time after Montoni had left her, in a state of +despair, or rather stupefaction; a consciousness of misery was all that +remained in her mind. In this situation Madame Montoni found her, at the sound +of whose voice Emily looked up, and her aunt, somewhat softened by the +expression of despair, that fixed her countenance, spoke in a manner more kind +than she had ever yet done. Emily’s heart was touched; she shed tears, +and, after weeping for some time, recovered sufficient composure to speak on +the subject of her distress, and to endeavour to interest Madame Montoni in her +behalf. But, though the compassion of her aunt had been surprised, her ambition +was not to be overcome, and her present object was to be the aunt of a +Countess. Emily’s efforts, therefore, were as unsuccessful as they had +been with Montoni, and she withdrew to her apartment to think and weep alone. +How often did she remember the parting scene with Valancourt, and wish, that +the Italian had mentioned Montoni’s character with less reserve! When her +mind, however, had recovered from the first shock of this behaviour, she +considered, that it would be impossible for him to compel her alliance with +Morano, if she persisted in refusing to repeat any part of the marriage +ceremony; and she persevered in her resolution to await Montoni’s +threatened vengeance rather than give herself for life to a man, whom she must +have despised for his present conduct, had she never even loved Valancourt; yet +she trembled at the revenge she thus resolved to brave. +</p> + +<p> +An affair, however, soon after occurred, which somewhat called off +Montoni’s attention from Emily. The mysterious visits of Orsino were +renewed with more frequency since the return of the former to Venice. There +were others, also, besides Orsino, admitted to these midnight councils, and +among them Cavigni and Verezzi. Montoni became more reserved and austere in his +manner than ever; and Emily, if her own interests had not made her regardless +of his, might have perceived, that something extraordinary was working in his +mind. +</p> + +<p> +One night, on which a council was not held, Orsino came in great agitation of +spirits, and dispatched his confidential servant to Montoni, who was at a +Casino, desiring that he would return home immediately; but charging the +servant not to mention his name. Montoni obeyed the summons, and, on meeting +Orsino, was informed of the circumstances, that occasioned his visit and his +visible alarm, with a part of which he was already acquainted. +</p> + +<p> +A Venetian nobleman, who had, on some late occasion, provoked the hatred of +Orsino, had been way-laid and poniarded by hired assassins: and, as the +murdered person was of the first connections, the Senate had taken up the +affair. One of the assassins was now apprehended, who had confessed, that +Orsino was his employer in the atrocious deed; and the latter, informed of his +danger, had now come to Montoni to consult on the measures necessary to favour +his escape. He knew, that, at this time, the officers of the police were upon +the watch for him, all over the city; to leave it, at present, therefore, was +impracticable, and Montoni consented to secrete him for a few days till the +vigilance of justice should relax, and then to assist him in quitting Venice. +He knew the danger he himself incurred by permitting Orsino to remain in his +house, but such was the nature of his obligations to this man, that he did not +think it prudent to refuse him an asylum. +</p> + +<p> +Such was the person whom Montoni had admitted to his confidence, and for whom +he felt as much friendship as was compatible with his character. +</p> + +<p> +While Orsino remained concealed in his house, Montoni was unwilling to attract +public observation by the nuptials of Count Morano; but this obstacle was, in a +few days, overcome by the departure of his criminal visitor, and he then +informed Emily, that her marriage was to be celebrated on the following +morning. To her repeated assurances, that it should not take place, he replied +only by a malignant smile; and, telling her that the Count and a priest would +be at his house, early in the morning, he advised her no further to dare his +resentment, by opposition to his will and to her own interest. “I am now +going out for the evening,” said he, “remember, that I shall give +your hand to Count Morano in the morning.” Emily, having, ever since his +late threats, expected, that her trials would at length arrive to this crisis, +was less shocked by the declaration, that she otherwise would have been, and +she endeavoured to support herself by the belief, that the marriage could not +be valid, so long as she refused before the priest to repeat any part of the +ceremony. Yet, as the moment of trial approached, her long-harassed spirits +shrunk almost equally from the encounter of his vengeance, and from the hand of +Count Morano. She was not even perfectly certain of the consequence of her +steady refusal at the altar, and she trembled, more than ever, at the power of +Montoni, which seemed unlimited as his will, for she saw, that he would not +scruple to transgress any law, if, by so doing, he could accomplish his +project. +</p> + +<p> +While her mind was thus suffering and in a state little short of distraction, +she was informed that Morano asked permission to see her, and the servant had +scarcely departed with an excuse, before she repented that she had sent one. In +the next moment, reverting to her former design, and determining to try, +whether expostulation and entreaty would not succeed, where a refusal and a +just disdain had failed, she recalled the servant, and, sending a different +message, prepared to go down to the Count. +</p> + +<p> +The dignity and assumed composure with which she met him, and the kind of +pensive resignation, that softened her countenance, were circumstances not +likely to induce him to relinquish her, serving, as they did, to heighten a +passion, which had already intoxicated his judgment. He listened to all she +said with an appearance of complacency and of a wish to oblige her; but his +resolution remained invariably the same, and he endeavoured to win her +admiration by every insinuating art he so well knew how to practise. Being, at +length, assured, that she had nothing to hope from his justice, she repeated, +in a solemn and impressive manner, her absolute rejection of his suit, and +quitted him with an assurance, that her refusal would be effectually maintained +against every circumstance, that could be imagined for subduing it. A just +pride had restrained her tears in his presence, but now they flowed from the +fulness of her heart. She often called upon the name of her late father, and +often dwelt with unutterable anguish on the idea of Valancourt. +</p> + +<p> +She did not go down to supper, but remained alone in her apartment, sometimes +yielding to the influence of grief and terror, and, at others, endeavouring to +fortify her mind against them, and to prepare herself to meet, with composed +courage, the scene of the following morning, when all the stratagem of Morano +and the violence of Montoni would be united against her. +</p> + +<p> +The evening was far advanced, when Madame Montoni came to her chamber with some +bridal ornaments, which the Count had sent to Emily. She had, this day, +purposely avoided her niece; perhaps, because her usual insensibility failed +her, and she feared to trust herself with a view of Emily’s distress; or +possibly, though her conscience was seldom audible, it now reproached her with +her conduct to her brother’s orphan child, whose happiness had been +entrusted to her care by a dying father. +</p> + +<p> +Emily could not look at these presents, and made a last, though almost +hopeless, effort to interest the compassion of Madame Montoni, who, if she did +feel any degree of pity, or remorse, successfully concealed it, and reproached +her niece with folly in being miserable, concerning a marriage, which ought +only to make her happy. “I am sure,” said she, “if I was +unmarried, and the Count had proposed to me, I should have been flattered by +the distinction: and if I should have been so, I am sure, niece, you, who have +no fortune, ought to feel yourself highly honoured, and show a proper gratitude +and humility towards the Count, for his condescension. I am often surprised, I +must own, to observe how humbly he deports himself to you, notwithstanding the +haughty airs you give yourself; I wonder he has patience to humour you so: if I +was he, I know, I should often be ready to reprehend you, and make you know +yourself a little better. I would not have flattered you, I can tell you, for +it is this absurd flattery that makes you fancy yourself of so much +consequence, that you think nobody can deserve you, and I often tell the Count +so, for I have no patience to hear him pay you such extravagant compliments, +which you believe every word of!” +</p> + +<p> +“Your patience, madam, cannot suffer more cruelly on such occasions, than +my own,” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“O! that is all mere affectation,” rejoined her aunt. “I know +that his flattery delights you, and makes you so vain, that you think you may +have the whole world at your feet. But you are very much mistaken; I can assure +you, niece, you will not meet with many such suitors as the Count: every other +person would have turned upon his heel, and left you to repent at your leisure, +long ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“O that the Count had resembled every other person, then!” said +Emily, with a heavy sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“It is happy for you, that he does not,” rejoined Madame Montoni; +“and what I am now saying is from pure kindness. I am endeavouring to +convince you of your good fortune, and to persuade you to submit to necessity +with a good grace. It is nothing to me, you know, whether you like this +marriage or not, for it must be; what I say, therefore, is from pure kindness. +I wish to see you happy, and it is your own fault if you are not so. I would +ask you, now, seriously and calmly, what kind of a match you can expect, since +a Count cannot content your ambition?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no ambition whatever, madam,” replied Emily, “my only +wish is to remain in my present station.” +</p> + +<p> +“O! that is speaking quite from the purpose,” said her aunt, +“I see you are still thinking of Mons. Valancourt. Pray get rid of all +those fantastic notions about love, and this ridiculous pride, and be something +like a reasonable creature. But, however, this is nothing to the +purpose—for your marriage with the Count takes place tomorrow, you know, +whether you approve it or not. The Count will be trifled with no longer.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily made no attempt to reply to this curious speech; she felt it would be +mean, and she knew it would be useless. Madame Montoni laid the Count’s +presents upon the table, on which Emily was leaning, and then, desiring she +would be ready early in the morning, bade her good-night. “Good-night, +madam,” said Emily, with a deep sigh, as the door closed upon her aunt, +and she was left once more to her own sad reflections. For some time she sat so +lost in thought, as to be wholly unconscious where she was; at length, raising +her head, and looking round the room, its gloom and profound stillness awed +her. She fixed her eyes on the door, through which her aunt had disappeared, +and listened anxiously for some sound, that might relieve the deep dejection of +her spirits; but it was past midnight, and all the family except the servant, +who sat up for Montoni, had retired to bed. Her mind, long harassed by +distress, now yielded to imaginary terrors; she trembled to look into the +obscurity of her spacious chamber, and feared she knew not what; a state of +mind, which continued so long, that she would have called up Annette, her +aunt’s woman, had her fears permitted her to rise from her chair, and to +cross the apartment. +</p> + +<p> +These melancholy illusions at length began to disperse, and she retired to her +bed, not to sleep, for that was scarcely possible, but to try, at least, to +quiet her disturbed fancy, and to collect strength of spirits sufficient to +bear her through the scene of the approaching morning. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a> CHAPTER V </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Dark power! with shudd’ring, meek submitted thought<br/> +Be mine to read the visions old<br/> +Which thy awak’ning bards have told,<br/> +And, lest they meet my blasted view,<br/> +Hold each strange tale devoutly true.<br/> + COLLINS’ ODE TO FEAR +</p> + +<p> +Emily was recalled from a kind of slumber, into which she had, at length, sunk, +by a quick knocking at her chamber door. She started up in terror, for Montoni +and Count Morano instantly came to her mind; but, having listened in silence +for some time, and recognising the voice of Annette, she rose and opened the +door. “What brings you hither so early?” said Emily, trembling +excessively. She was unable to support herself, and sat down on the bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear ma’amselle!” said Annette, “do not look so pale. +I am quite frightened to see you. Here is a fine bustle below stairs, all the +servants running to and fro, and none of them fast enough! Here is a bustle, +indeed, all of a sudden, and nobody knows for what!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is below besides them?” said Emily, “Annette, do not +trifle with me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not for the world, ma’amselle, I would not trifle for the world; +but one cannot help making one’s remarks, and there is the Signor in such +a bustle, as I never saw him before; and he has sent me to tell you, +ma’am, to get ready immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good God support me!” cried Emily, almost fainting, “Count +Morano is below, then!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, ma’amselle, he is not below that I know of,” replied +Annette, “only his <i>Excellenza</i> sent me to desire you would get +ready directly to leave Venice, for that the gondolas would be at the steps of +the canal in a few minutes: but I must hurry back to my lady, who is just at +her wits’ end, and knows not which way to turn for haste.” +</p> + +<p> +“Explain, Annette, explain the meaning of all this before you go,” +said Emily, so overcome with surprise and timid hope, that she had scarcely +breath to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, ma’amselle, that is more than I can do. I only know that the +Signor is just come home in a very ill humour, that he has had us all called +out of our beds, and tells us we are all to leave Venice immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is Count Morano to go with the Signor?” said Emily, “and +whither are we going?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know neither, ma’am, for certain; but I heard Ludovico say +something about going, after we get to <i>Terra-firma</i>, to the +signor’s castle among some mountains, that he talked of.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Apennines!” said Emily, eagerly, “O! then I have little +to hope!” +</p> + +<p> +“That is the very place, ma’am. But cheer up, and do not take it so +much to heart, and think what a little time you have to get ready in, and how +impatient the Signor is. Holy St. Mark! I hear the oars on the canal; and now +they come nearer, and now they are dashing at the steps below; it is the +gondola, sure enough.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette hastened from the room; and Emily prepared for this unexpected flight, +as fast as her trembling hands would permit, not perceiving, that any change in +her situation could possibly be for the worse. She had scarcely thrown her +books and clothes into her travelling trunk, when, receiving a second summons, +she went down to her aunt’s dressing-room, where she found Montoni +impatiently reproving his wife for delay. He went out, soon after, to give some +further orders to his people, and Emily then enquired the occasion of this +hasty journey; but her aunt appeared to be as ignorant as herself, and to +undertake the journey with more reluctance. +</p> + +<p> +The family at length embarked, but neither Count Morano, nor Cavigni, was of +the party. Somewhat revived by observing this, Emily, when the gondolieri +dashed their oars in the water, and put off from the steps of the portico, felt +like a criminal, who receives a short reprieve. Her heart beat yet lighter, +when they emerged from the canal into the ocean, and lighter still, when they +skimmed past the walls of St. Mark, without having stopped to take up Count +Morano. +</p> + +<p> +The dawn now began to tint the horizon, and to break upon the shores of the +Adriatic. Emily did not venture to ask any questions of Montoni, who sat, for +some time, in gloomy silence, and then rolled himself up in his cloak, as if to +sleep, while Madame Montoni did the same; but Emily, who could not sleep, +undrew one of the little curtains of the gondola, and looked out upon the sea. +The rising dawn now enlightened the mountain-tops of Friuli, but their lower +sides, and the distant waves, that rolled at their feet, were still in deep +shadow. Emily, sunk in tranquil melancholy, watched the strengthening light +spreading upon the ocean, showing successively Venice and her islets, and the +shores of Italy, along which boats, with their pointed latin sails, began to +move. +</p> + +<p> +The gondolieri were frequently hailed, at this early hour, by the +market-people, as they glided by towards Venice, and the lagune soon displayed +a gay scene of innumerable little barks, passing from <i>Terra-firma</i> with +provisions. Emily gave a last look to that splendid city, but her mind was then +occupied by considering the probable events, that awaited her, in the scenes, +to which she was removing, and with conjectures, concerning the motive of this +sudden journey. It appeared, upon calmer consideration, that Montoni was +removing her to his secluded castle, because he could there, with more +probability of success, attempt to terrify her into obedience; or, that, should +its gloomy and sequestered scenes fail of this effect, her forced marriage with +the Count could there be solemnized with the secrecy, which was necessary to +the honour of Montoni. The little spirit, which this reprieve had recalled, now +began to fail, and, when Emily reached the shore, her mind had sunk into all +its former depression. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni did not embark on the Brenta, but pursued his way in carriages across +the country, towards the Apennine; during which journey, his manner to Emily +was so particularly severe, that this alone would have confirmed her late +conjecture, had any such confirmation been necessary. Her senses were now dead +to the beautiful country, through which she travelled. Sometimes she was +compelled to smile at the <i>naïveté</i> of Annette, in her remarks on what she +saw, and sometimes to sigh, as a scene of peculiar beauty recalled Valancourt +to her thoughts, who was indeed seldom absent from them, and of whom she could +never hope to hear in the solitude, to which she was hastening. +</p> + +<p> +At length, the travellers began to ascend among the Apennines. The immense +pine-forests, which, at that period, overhung these mountains, and between +which the road wound, excluded all view but of the cliffs aspiring above, +except, that, now and then, an opening through the dark woods allowed the eye a +momentary glimpse of the country below. The gloom of these shades, their +solitary silence, except when the breeze swept over their summits, the +tremendous precipices of the mountains, that came partially to the eye, each +assisted to raise the solemnity of Emily’s feelings into awe; she saw +only images of gloomy grandeur, or of dreadful sublimity, around her; other +images, equally gloomy and equally terrible, gleamed on her imagination. She +was going she scarcely knew whither, under the dominion of a person, from whose +arbitrary disposition she had already suffered so much, to marry, perhaps, a +man who possessed neither her affection, nor esteem; or to endure, beyond the +hope of succour, whatever punishment revenge, and that Italian revenge, might +dictate.—The more she considered what might be the motive of the journey, +the more she became convinced, that it was for the purpose of concluding her +nuptials with Count Morano, with that secrecy, which her resolute resistance +had made necessary to the honour, if not to the safety, of Montoni. From the +deep solitudes, into which she was emerging, and from the gloomy castle, of +which she had heard some mysterious hints, her sick heart recoiled in despair, +and she experienced, that, though her mind was already occupied by peculiar +distress, it was still alive to the influence of new and local circumstance; +why else did she shudder at the idea of this desolate castle? +</p> + +<p> +As the travellers still ascended among the pine forests, steep rose over steep, +the mountains seemed to multiply, as they went, and what was the summit of one +eminence proved to be only the base of another. At length, they reached a +little plain, where the drivers stopped to rest the mules, whence a scene of +such extent and magnificence opened below, as drew even from Madame Montoni a +note of admiration. Emily lost, for a moment, her sorrows, in the immensity of +nature. Beyond the amphitheatre of mountains, that stretched below, whose tops +appeared as numerous almost, as the waves of the sea, and whose feet were +concealed by the forests—extended the <i>campagna</i> of Italy, where +cities and rivers, and woods and all the glow of cultivation were mingled in +gay confusion. The Adriatic bounded the horizon, into which the Po and the +Brenta, after winding through the whole extent of the landscape, poured their +fruitful waves. Emily gazed long on the splendours of the world she was +quitting, of which the whole magnificence seemed thus given to her sight only +to increase her regret on leaving it; for her, Valancourt alone was in that +world; to him alone her heart turned, and for him alone fell her bitter tears. +</p> + +<p> +From this sublime scene the travellers continued to ascend among the pines, +till they entered a narrow pass of the mountains, which shut out every feature +of the distant country, and, in its stead, exhibited only tremendous crags, +impending over the road, where no vestige of humanity, or even of vegetation, +appeared, except here and there the trunk and scathed branches of an oak, that +hung nearly headlong from the rock, into which its strong roots had fastened. +This pass, which led into the heart of the Apennine, at length opened to day, +and a scene of mountains stretched in long perspective, as wild as any the +travellers had yet passed. Still vast pine-forests hung upon their base, and +crowned the ridgy precipice, that rose perpendicularly from the vale, while, +above, the rolling mists caught the sunbeams, and touched their cliffs with +all the magical colouring of light and shade. The scene seemed perpetually +changing, and its features to assume new forms, as the winding road brought +them to the eye in different attitudes; while the shifting vapours, now +partially concealing their minuter beauties and now illuminating them with +splendid tints, assisted the illusions of the sight. +</p> + +<p> +Though the deep valleys between these mountains were, for the most part, +clothed with pines, sometimes an abrupt opening presented a perspective of only +barren rocks, with a cataract flashing from their summit among broken cliffs, +till its waters, reaching the bottom, foamed along with unceasing fury; and +sometimes pastoral scenes exhibited their “green delights” in the +narrow vales, smiling amid surrounding horror. There herds and flocks of goats +and sheep, browsing under the shade of hanging woods, and the shepherd’s +little cabin, reared on the margin of a clear stream, presented a sweet picture +of repose. +</p> + +<p> +Wild and romantic as were these scenes, their character had far less of the +sublime, that had those of the Alps, which guard the entrance of Italy. Emily +was often elevated, but seldom felt those emotions of indescribable awe which +she had so continually experienced, in her passage over the Alps. +</p> + +<p> +Towards the close of day, the road wound into a deep valley. Mountains, whose +shaggy steeps appeared to be inaccessible, almost surrounded it. To the east, a +vista opened, that exhibited the Apennines in their darkest horrors; and the +long perspective of retiring summits, rising over each other, their ridges +clothed with pines, exhibited a stronger image of grandeur, than any that Emily +had yet seen. The sun had just sunk below the top of the mountains she was +descending, whose long shadow stretched athwart the valley, but his sloping +rays, shooting through an opening of the cliffs, touched with a yellow gleam +the summits of the forest, that hung upon the opposite steeps, and streamed in +full splendour upon the towers and battlements of a castle, that spread its +extensive ramparts along the brow of a precipice above. The splendour of these +illumined objects was heightened by the contrasted shade, which involved the +valley below. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several +hours, “is Udolpho.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she understood to be +Montoni’s; for, though it was now lighted up by the setting sun, the +gothic greatness of its features, and its mouldering walls of dark grey stone, +rendered it a gloomy and sublime object. As she gazed, the light died away on +its walls, leaving a melancholy purple tint, which spread deeper and deeper, as +the thin vapour crept up the mountain, while the battlements above were still +tipped with splendour. From those, too, the rays soon faded, and the whole +edifice was invested with the solemn duskiness of evening. Silent, lonely, and +sublime, it seemed to stand the sovereign of the scene, and to frown defiance +on all, who dared to invade its solitary reign. As the twilight deepened, its +features became more awful in obscurity, and Emily continued to gaze, till its +clustering towers were alone seen, rising over the tops of the woods, beneath +whose thick shade the carriages soon after began to ascend. +</p> + +<p> +The extent and darkness of these tall woods awakened terrific images in her +mind, and she almost expected to see banditti start up from under the trees. At +length, the carriages emerged upon a heathy rock, and, soon after, reached the +castle gates, where the deep tone of the portal bell, which was struck upon to +give notice of their arrival, increased the fearful emotions, that had assailed +Emily. While they waited till the servant within should come to open the gates, +she anxiously surveyed the edifice: but the gloom, that overspread it, allowed +her to distinguish little more than a part of its outline, with the massy walls +of the ramparts, and to know, that it was vast, ancient and dreary. From the +parts she saw, she judged of the heavy strength and extent of the whole. The +gateway before her, leading into the courts, was of gigantic size, and was +defended by two round towers, crowned by overhanging turrets, embattled, where, +instead of banners, now waved long grass and wild plants, that had taken root +among the mouldering stones, and which seemed to sigh, as the breeze rolled +past, over the desolation around them. The towers were united by a curtain, +pierced and embattled also, below which appeared the pointed arch of a huge +portcullis, surmounting the gates: from these, the walls of the ramparts +extended to other towers, overlooking the precipice, whose shattered outline, +appearing on a gleam, that lingered in the west, told of the ravages of +war.—Beyond these all was lost in the obscurity of evening. +</p> + +<p> +While Emily gazed with awe upon the scene, footsteps were heard within the +gates, and the undrawing of bolts; after which an ancient servant of the castle +appeared, forcing back the huge folds of the portal, to admit his lord. As the +carriage-wheels rolled heavily under the portcullis, Emily’s heart sunk, +and she seemed, as if she was going into her prison; the gloomy court, into +which she passed, served to confirm the idea, and her imagination, ever awake +to circumstance, suggested even more terrors, than her reason could justify. +</p> + +<p> +Another gate delivered them into the second court, grass-grown, and more wild +than the first, where, as she surveyed through the twilight its +desolation—its lofty walls, overtopped with briony, moss and nightshade, +and the embattled towers that rose above,—long-suffering and murder came +to her thoughts. One of those instantaneous and unaccountable convictions, +which sometimes conquer even strong minds, impressed her with its horror. The +sentiment was not diminished, when she entered an extensive gothic hall, +obscured by the gloom of evening, which a light, glimmering at a distance +through a long perspective of arches, only rendered more striking. As a servant +brought the lamp nearer partial gleams fell upon the pillars and the pointed +arches, forming a strong contrast with their shadows, that stretched along the +pavement and the walls. +</p> + +<p> +The sudden journey of Montoni had prevented his people from making any other +preparations for his reception, than could be had in the short interval, since +the arrival of the servant, who had been sent forward from Venice; and this, in +some measure, may account for the air of extreme desolation, that everywhere +appeared. +</p> + +<p> +The servant, who came to light Montoni, bowed in silence, and the muscles of +his countenance relaxed with no symptom of joy.—Montoni noticed the +salutation by a slight motion of his hand, and passed on, while his lady, +following, and looking round with a degree of surprise and discontent, which +she seemed fearful of expressing, and Emily, surveying the extent and grandeur +of the hall in timid wonder, approached a marble staircase. The arches here +opened to a lofty vault, from the centre of which hung a tripod lamp, which a +servant was hastily lighting; and the rich fret-work of the roof, a corridor, +leading into several upper apartments, and a painted window, stretching nearly +from the pavement to the ceiling of the hall, became gradually visible. +</p> + +<p> +Having crossed the foot of the staircase, and passed through an ante-room, +they entered a spacious apartment, whose walls, wainscoted with black +larch-wood, the growth of the neighbouring mountains, were scarcely +distinguishable from darkness itself. “Bring more light,” said +Montoni, as he entered. The servant, setting down his lamp, was withdrawing to +obey him, when Madame Montoni observing, that the evening air of this +mountainous region was cold, and that she should like a fire, Montoni ordered +that wood might be brought. +</p> + +<p> +While he paced the room with thoughtful steps, and Madame Montoni sat silently +on a couch, at the upper end of it, waiting till the servant returned, Emily +was observing the singular solemnity and desolation of the apartment, viewed, +as it now was, by the glimmer of the single lamp, placed near a large Venetian +mirror, that duskily reflected the scene, with the tall figure of Montoni +passing slowly along, his arms folded, and his countenance shaded by the plume, +that waved in his hat. +</p> + +<p> +From the contemplation of this scene, Emily’s mind proceeded to the +apprehension of what she might suffer in it, till the remembrance of +Valancourt, far, far distant! came to her heart, and softened it into sorrow. A +heavy sigh escaped her: but, trying to conceal her tears, she walked away to +one of the high windows, that opened upon the ramparts, below which, spread the +woods she had passed in her approach to the castle. But the night-shade sat +deeply on the mountains beyond, and their indented outline alone could be +faintly traced on the horizon, where a red streak yet glimmered in the west. +The valley between was sunk in darkness. +</p> + +<p> +The scene within, upon which Emily turned on the opening of the door, was +scarcely less gloomy. The old servant, who had received them at the gates, now +entered, bending under a load of pine-branches, while two of Montoni’s +Venetian servants followed with lights. +</p> + +<p> +“Your <i>Excellenza</i> is welcome to the castle,” said the old +man, as he raised himself from the hearth, where he had laid the wood: +“it has been a lonely place a long while; but you will excuse it, Signor, +knowing we had but short notice. It is near two years, come next feast of St. +Mark, since your <i>Excellenza</i> was within these walls.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have a good memory, old Carlo,” said Montoni: “it is +thereabout; and how hast thou contrived to live so long?” +</p> + +<p> +“A-well-a-day, sir, with much ado; the cold winds, that blow through the +castle in winter, are almost too much for me; and I thought sometimes of asking +your <i>Excellenza</i> to let me leave the mountains, and go down into the +lowlands. But I don’t know how it is—I am loth to quit these old +walls I have lived in so long.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, how have you gone on in the castle, since I left it?” said +Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +“Why much as usual, Signor, only it wants a good deal of repairing. There +is the north tower—some of the battlements have tumbled down, and had +liked one day to have knocked my poor wife (God rest her soul!) on the head. +Your <i>Excellenza</i> must know—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but the repairs,” interrupted Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, the repairs,” said Carlo: “a part of the roof of the +great hall has fallen in, and all the winds from the mountains rushed through +it last winter, and whistled through the whole castle so, that there was no +keeping one’s self warm, be where one would. There, my wife and I used to +sit shivering over a great fire in one corner of the little hall, ready to die +with cold, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“But there are no more repairs wanted,” said Montoni, impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“O Lord! Your <i>Excellenza</i>, yes—the wall of the rampart has +tumbled down in three places; then, the stairs, that lead to the west gallery, +have been a long time so bad, that it is dangerous to go up them; and the +passage leading to the great oak chamber, that overhangs the north +rampart—one night last winter I ventured to go there by myself, and your +<i>Excellenza</i>—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, enough of this,” said Montoni, with quickness: +“I will talk more with thee tomorrow.” +</p> + +<p> +The fire was now lighted; Carlo swept the hearth, placed chairs, wiped the dust +from a large marble table that stood near it, and then left the room. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni and his family drew round the fire. Madame Montoni made several +attempts at conversation, but his sullen answers repulsed her, while Emily sat +endeavouring to acquire courage enough to speak to him. At length, in a +tremulous voice, she said, “May I ask, sir, the motive of this sudden +journey?”—After a long pause, she recovered sufficient courage to +repeat the question. +</p> + +<p> +“It does not suit me to answer enquiries,” said Montoni, “nor +does it become you to make them; time may unfold them all: but I desire I may +be no further harassed, and I recommend it to you to retire to your chamber, +and to endeavour to adopt a more rational conduct, than that of yielding to +fancies, and to a sensibility, which, to call it by the gentlest name, is only +a weakness.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily rose to withdraw. “Good night, madam,” said she to her aunt, +with an assumed composure, that could not disguise her emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“Good night, my dear,” said Madame Montoni, in a tone of kindness, +which her niece had never before heard from her; and the unexpected endearment +brought tears to Emily’s eyes. She curtsied to Montoni, and was retiring; +“But you do not know the way to your chamber,” said her aunt. +Montoni called the servant, who waited in the ante-room, and bade him send +Madame Montoni’s woman, with whom, in a few minutes, Emily withdrew. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know which is my room?” said she to Annette, as they +crossed the hall. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I believe I do, ma’amselle; but this is such a strange +rambling place! I have been lost in it already: they call it the double +chamber, over the south rampart, and I went up this great staircase to it. My +lady’s room is at the other end of the castle.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily ascended the marble staircase, and came to the corridor, as they passed +through which, Annette resumed her chat—“What a wild lonely place +this is, ma’am! I shall be quite frightened to live in it. How often, and +often have I wished myself in France again! I little thought, when I came with +my lady to see the world, that I should ever be shut up in such a place as +this, or I would never have left my own country! This way, ma’amselle, +down this turning. I can almost believe in giants again, and such like, for +this is just like one of their castles; and, some night or other, I suppose I +shall see fairies too, hopping about in that great old hall, that looks more +like a church, with its huge pillars, than anything else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Emily, smiling, and glad to escape from more serious +thought, “if we come to the corridor, about midnight, and look down into +the hall, we shall certainly see it illuminated with a thousand lamps, and the +fairies tripping in gay circles to the sound of delicious music; for it is in +such places as this, you know, that they come to hold their revels. But I am +afraid, Annette, you will not be able to pay the necessary penance for such a +sight: and, if once they hear your voice, the whole scene will vanish in an +instant.” +</p> + +<p> +“O! if you will bear me company, ma’amselle, I will come to the +corridor, this very night, and I promise you I will hold my tongue; it shall +not be my fault if the show vanishes.—But do you think they will +come?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot promise that with certainty, but I will venture to say, it will +not be your fault if the enchantment should vanish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ma’amselle, that is saying more than I expected of you: but +I am not so much afraid of fairies, as of ghosts, and they say there are a +plentiful many of them about the castle: now I should be frightened to death, +if I should chance to see any of them. But hush! ma’amselle, walk softly! +I have thought, several times, something passed by me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ridiculous!” said Emily, “you must not indulge such +fancies.” +</p> + +<p> +“O ma’am! they are not fancies, for aught I know; Benedetto says +these dismal galleries and halls are fit for nothing but ghosts to live in; and +I verily believe, if I <i>live</i> long in them I shall turn to one +myself!” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope,” said Emily, “you will not suffer Signor Montoni to +hear of these weak fears; they would highly displease him.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, you know then, ma’amselle, all about it!” rejoined +Annette. “No, no, I do know better than to do so; though, if the Signor +can sleep sound, nobody else in the castle has any right to lie awake, I am +sure.” Emily did not appear to notice this remark. +</p> + +<p> +“Down this passage, ma’amselle; this leads to a back staircase. O! +if I see anything, I shall be frightened out of my wits!” +</p> + +<p> +“That will scarcely be possible,” said Emily smiling, as she +followed the winding of the passage, which opened into another gallery: and +then Annette, perceiving that she had missed her way, while she had been so +eloquently haranguing on ghosts and fairies, wandered about through other +passages and galleries, till, at length, frightened by their intricacies and +desolation, she called aloud for assistance: but they were beyond the hearing +of the servants, who were on the other side of the castle, and Emily now opened +the door of a chamber on the left. +</p> + +<p> +“O! do not go in there, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “you +will only lose yourself further.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bring the light forward,” said Emily, “we may possibly find +our way through these rooms.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette stood at the door, in an attitude of hesitation, with the light held up +to show the chamber, but the feeble rays spread through not half of it. +“Why do you hesitate?” said Emily, “let me see whither this +room leads.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette advanced reluctantly. It opened into a suite of spacious and ancient +apartments, some of which were hung with tapestry, and others wainscoted with +cedar and black larch-wood. What furniture there was, seemed to be almost as +old as the rooms, and retained an appearance of grandeur, though covered with +dust, and dropping to pieces with the damps, and with age. +</p> + +<p> +“How cold these rooms are, ma’amselle!” said Annette: +“nobody has lived in them for many, many years, they say. Do let us +go.” +</p> + +<p> +“They may open upon the great staircase, perhaps,” said Emily, +passing on till she came to a chamber, hung with pictures, and took the light +to examine that of a soldier on horseback in a field of battle.—He was +darting his spear upon a man, who lay under the feet of the horse, and who held +up one hand in a supplicating attitude. The soldier, whose beaver was up, +regarded him with a look of vengeance, and the countenance, with that +expression, struck Emily as resembling Montoni. She shuddered, and turned from +it. Passing the light hastily over several other pictures, she came to one +concealed by a veil of black silk. The singularity of the circumstance struck +her, and she stopped before it, wishing to remove the veil, and examine what +could thus carefully be concealed, but somewhat wanting courage. “Holy +Virgin! what can this mean?” exclaimed Annette. “This is surely the +picture they told me of at Venice.” +</p> + +<p> +“What picture?” said Emily. “Why a picture—a +picture,” replied Annette, hesitatingly—“but I never could +make out exactly what it was about, either.” +</p> + +<p> +“Remove the veil, Annette.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! I, ma’amselle!—I! not for the world!” Emily, +turning round, saw Annette’s countenance grow pale. “And pray, what +have you heard of this picture, to terrify you so, my good girl?” said +she. “Nothing, ma’amselle: I have heard nothing, only let us find +our way out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly: but I wish first to examine the picture; take the light, +Annette, while I lift the veil.” Annette took the light, and immediately +walked away with it, disregarding Emily’s call to stay, who, not choosing +to be left alone in the dark chamber, at length followed her. “What is +the reason of this, Annette?” said Emily, when she overtook her, +“what have you heard concerning that picture, which makes you so +unwilling to stay when I bid you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what is the reason, ma’amselle,” replied +Annette, “nor anything about the picture, only I have heard there is +something very dreadful belonging to it—and that it has been covered up +in black <i>ever since</i>—and that nobody has looked at it for a great +many years—and it somehow has to do with the owner of this castle before +Signor Montoni came to the possession of it—and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Annette,” said Emily, smiling, “I perceive it is as +you say—that you know nothing about the picture.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, nothing, indeed, ma’amselle, for they made me promise never to +tell:—but—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” rejoined Emily, who observed that she was struggling +between her inclination to reveal a secret, and her apprehension for the +consequence, “I will enquire no further—” +</p> + +<p> +“No, pray, ma’am, do not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lest you should tell all,” interrupted Emily. +</p> + +<p> +Annette blushed, and Emily smiled, and they passed on to the extremity of this +suite of apartments, and found themselves, after some further perplexity, once +more at the top of the marble staircase, where Annette left Emily, while she +went to call one of the servants of the castle to show them to the chamber, for +which they had been seeking. +</p> + +<p> +While she was absent, Emily’s thoughts returned to the picture; an +unwillingness to tamper with the integrity of a servant, had checked her +enquiries on this subject, as well as concerning some alarming hints, which +Annette had dropped respecting Montoni; though her curiosity was entirely +awakened, and she had perceived, that her questions might easily be answered. +She was now, however, inclined to go back to the apartment and examine the +picture; but the loneliness of the hour and of the place, with the melancholy +silence that reigned around her, conspired with a certain degree of awe, +excited by the mystery attending this picture, to prevent her. She determined, +however, when daylight should have reanimated her spirits, to go thither and +remove the veil. As she leaned from the corridor, over the staircase, and her +eyes wandered round, she again observed, with wonder, the vast strength of the +walls, now somewhat decayed, and the pillars of solid marble, that rose from +the hall, and supported the roof. +</p> + +<p> +A servant now appeared with Annette, and conducted Emily to her chamber, which +was in a remote part of the castle, and at the very end of the corridor, from +whence the suite of apartments opened, through which they had been wandering. +The lonely aspect of her room made Emily unwilling that Annette should leave +her immediately, and the dampness of it chilled her with more than fear. She +begged Caterina, the servant of the castle, to bring some wood and light a +fire. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, lady, it’s many a year since a fire was lighted here,” +said Caterina. +</p> + +<p> +“You need not tell us that, good woman,” said Annette; “every +room in the castle feels like a well. I wonder how you contrive to live here; +for my part, I wish myself at Venice again.” Emily waved her hand for +Caterina to fetch the wood. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder, ma’am, why they call this the double chamber?” +said Annette, while Emily surveyed it in silence and saw that it was lofty and +spacious, like the others she had seen, and, like many of them, too, had its +walls lined with dark larch-wood. The bed and other furniture was very ancient, +and had an air of gloomy grandeur, like all that she had seen in the castle. +One of the high casements, which she opened, overlooked a rampart, but the view +beyond was hid in darkness. +</p> + +<p> +In the presence of Annette, Emily tried to support her spirits, and to restrain +the tears, which, every now and then, came to her eyes. She wished much to +enquire when Count Morano was expected at the castle, but an unwillingness to +ask unnecessary questions, and to mention family concerns to a servant, +withheld her. Meanwhile, Annette’s thoughts were engaged upon another +subject: she dearly loved the marvellous, and had heard of a circumstance, +connected with the castle, that highly gratified this taste. Having been +enjoined not to mention it, her inclination to tell it was so strong, that she +was every instant on the point of speaking what she had heard. Such a strange +circumstance, too, and to be obliged to conceal it, was a severe punishment; +but she knew, that Montoni might impose one much severer, and she feared to +incur it by offending him. +</p> + +<p> +Caterina now brought the wood, and its bright blaze dispelled, for a while, the +gloom of the chamber. She told Annette, that her lady had enquired for her, and +Emily was once again left to her own sad reflections. Her heart was not yet +hardened against the stern manners of Montoni, and she was nearly as much +shocked now, as she had been when she first witnessed them. The tenderness and +affection, to which she had been accustomed, till she lost her parents, had +made her particularly sensible to any degree of unkindness, and such a reverse +as this no apprehension had prepared her to support. +</p> + +<p> +To call off her attention from subjects, that pressed heavily on her spirits, +she rose and again examined her room and its furniture. As she walked round it, +she passed a door, that was not quite shut, and, perceiving, that it was not +the one, through which she entered, she brought the light forward to discover +whither it led. She opened it, and, going forward, had nearly fallen down a +steep, narrow staircase that wound from it, between two stone walls. She +wished to know to what it led, and was the more anxious, since it communicated +so immediately with her apartment; but, in the present state of her spirits, +she wanted courage to venture into the darkness alone. Closing the door, +therefore, she endeavoured to fasten it, but, upon further examination, +perceived, that it had no bolts on the chamber side, though it had two on the +other. By placing a heavy chair against it, she in some measure remedied the +defect; yet she was still alarmed at the thought of sleeping in this remote +room alone, with a door opening she knew not whither, and which could not be +perfectly fastened on the inside. Sometimes she wished to entreat of Madame +Montoni, that Annette might have leave to remain with her all night, but was +deterred by an apprehension of betraying what would be thought childish fears, +and by an unwillingness to increase the apt terrors of Annette. +</p> + +<p> +Her gloomy reflections were, soon after, interrupted by a footstep in the +corridor, and she was glad to see Annette enter with some supper, sent by +Madame Montoni. Having a table near the fire, she made the good girl sit down +and sup with her; and, when their little repast was over, Annette, encouraged +by her kindness and stirring the wood into a blaze, drew her chair upon the +hearth, nearer to Emily, and said—“Did you ever hear, +ma’amselle, of the strange accident, that made the Signor lord of this +castle?” +</p> + +<p> +“What wonderful story have you now to tell?” said Emily, concealing +the curiosity, occasioned by the mysterious hints she had formerly heard on +that subject. +</p> + +<p> +“I have heard all about it, ma’amselle,” said Annette, +looking round the chamber and drawing closer to Emily; “Benedetto told it +me as we travelled together: says he, ‘Annette, you don’t know +about this castle here, that we are going to?’ ‘No,’ says I, +‘Mr. Benedetto, pray what do you know?’ But, ma’amselle, you +can keep a secret, or I would not tell it you for the world; for I promised +never to tell, and they say, that the Signor does not like to have it talked +of.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you promised to keep this secret,” said Emily, “you do +right not to mention it.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette paused a moment, and then said, “O, but to you, ma’amselle, +to you I may tell it safely, I know.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily smiled, “I certainly shall keep it as faithful as yourself, +Annette.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette replied very gravely, that would do, and proceeded—“This +castle, you must know, ma’amselle, is very old, and very strong, and has +stood out many sieges as they say. Now it was not Signor Montoni’s +always, nor his father’s; no; but, by some law or other, it was to come +to the Signor, if the lady died unmarried.” +</p> + +<p> +“What lady?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not come to that yet,” replied Annette, “it is the lady +I am going to tell you about, ma’amselle: but, as I was saying, this lady +lived in the castle, and had everything very grand about her, as you may +suppose, ma’amselle. The Signor used often to come to see her, and was in +love with her, and offered to marry her; for, though he was somehow related, +that did not signify. But she was in love with somebody else, and would not +have him, which made him very angry, as they say, and you know, +ma’amselle, what an ill-looking gentleman he is, when he is angry. +Perhaps she saw him in a passion, and therefore would not have him. But, as I +was saying, she was very melancholy and unhappy, and all that, for a long +while, and—Holy Virgin! what noise is that? did not you hear a sound, +ma’amselle?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was only the wind,” said Emily, “but do come to the end +of your story.” +</p> + +<p> +“As I was saying—O, where was I?—as I was saying—she +was very melancholy and unhappy a long while, and used to walk about upon the +terrace, there, under the windows, by herself, and cry so! it would have done +your heart good to hear her. That is—I don’t mean good, but it +would have made you cry too, as they tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but, Annette, do tell me the substance of your tale.” +</p> + +<p> +“All in good time, ma’am; all this I heard before at Venice, but +what is to come I never heard till today. This happened a great many years +ago, when Signor Montoni was quite a young man. The lady—they called her +Signora Laurentini, was very handsome, but she used to be in great passions, +too, sometimes, as well as the Signor. Finding he could not make her listen to +him—what does he do, but leave the castle, and never comes near it for a +long time! but it was all one to her; she was just as unhappy whether he was +here or not, till one evening, Holy St. Peter! ma’amselle,” cried +Annette, “look at that lamp, see how blue it burns!” She looked +fearfully round the chamber. “Ridiculous girl!” said Emily, +“why will you indulge those fancies? Pray let me hear the end of your +story, I am weary.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette still kept her eyes on the lamp, and proceeded in a lower voice. +“It was one evening, they say, at the latter end of the year, it might be +about the middle of September, I suppose, or the beginning of October; nay, for +that matter, it might be November, for that, too, is the latter end of the +year, but that I cannot say for certain, because they did not tell me for +certain themselves. However, it was at the latter end of the year, this grand +lady walked out of the castle into the woods below, as she had often done +before, all alone, only her maid was with her. The wind blew cold, and strewed +the leaves about, and whistled dismally among those great old chesnut trees, +that we passed, ma’amselle, as we came to the castle—for Benedetto +showed me the trees as he was talking—the wind blew cold, and her woman +would have persuaded her to return: but all would not do, for she was fond of +walking in the woods, at evening time, and, if the leaves were falling about +her, so much the better. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, they saw her go down among the woods, but night came, and she did +not return: ten o’clock, eleven o’clock, twelve o’clock came, +and no lady! Well, the servants thought to be sure, some accident had befallen +her, and they went out to seek her. They searched all night long, but could not +find her, or any trace of her; and, from that day to this, ma’amselle, +she has never been heard of.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is this true, Annette?” said Emily, in much surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“True, ma’am!” said Annette, with a look of horror, +“yes, it is true, indeed. But they do say,” she added, lowering her +voice, “they do say, that the Signora has been seen, several times since, +walking in the woods and about the castle in the night: several of the old +servants, who remained here some time after, declare they saw her; and, since +then, she has been seen by some of the vassals, who have happened to be in the +castle, at night. Carlo, the old steward, could tell such things, they say, if +he would.” +</p> + +<p> +“How contradictory is this, Annette!” said Emily, “you say +nothing has been since known of her, and yet she has been seen!” +</p> + +<p> +“But all this was told me for a great secret,” rejoined Annette, +without noticing the remark, “and I am sure, ma’am, you would not +hurt either me or Benedetto, so much as to go and tell it again.” Emily +remained silent, and Annette repeated her last sentence. +</p> + +<p> +“You have nothing to fear from my indiscretion,” replied Emily, +“and let me advise you, my good Annette, be discreet yourself, and never +mention what you have just told me to any other person. Signor Montoni, as you +say, may be angry if he hears of it. But what inquiries were made concerning +the lady?” +</p> + +<p> +“O! a great deal, indeed, ma’amselle, for the Signor laid claim to +the castle directly, as being the next heir, and they said, that is, the +judges, or the senators, or somebody of that sort, said, he could not take +possession of it till so many years were gone by, and then, if, after all, the +lady could not be found, why she would be as good as dead, and the castle would +be his own; and so it is his own. But the story went round, and many strange +reports were spread, so very strange, ma’amselle, that I shall not tell +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is stranger still, Annette,” said Emily, smiling, and rousing +herself from her reverie. “But, when Signora Laurentini was afterwards +seen in the castle, did nobody speak to her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Speak—speak to her!” cried Annette, with a look of terror; +“no, to be sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why not?” rejoined Emily, willing to hear further. +</p> + +<p> +“Holy Mother! speak to a spirit!” +</p> + +<p> +“But what reason had they to conclude it was a spirit, unless they had +approached, and spoken to it?” +</p> + +<p> +“O ma’amselle, I cannot tell. How can you ask such shocking +questions? But nobody ever saw it come in, or go out of the castle; and it was +in one place now, and then the next minute in quite another part of the castle; +and then it never spoke, and, if it was alive, what should it do in the castle +if it never spoke? Several parts of the castle have never been gone into since, +they say, for that very reason.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, because it never spoke?” said Emily, trying to laugh away +the fears that began to steal upon her. +</p> + +<p> +“No, ma’amselle, no;” replied Annette, rather angrily +“but because something has been seen there. They say, too, there is an +old chapel adjoining the west side of the castle, where, any time at midnight, +you may hear such groans!—it makes one shudder to think of +them!—and strange sights have been seen there—” +</p> + +<p> +“Pr’ythee, Annette, no more of these silly tales,” said +Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Silly tales, ma’amselle! O, but I will tell you one story about +this, if you please, that Caterina told me. It was one cold winter’s +night that Caterina (she often came to the castle then, she says, to keep old +Carlo and his wife company, and so he recommended her afterwards to the Signor, +and she has lived here ever since) Caterina was sitting with them in the little +hall, says Carlo, ‘I wish we had some of those figs to roast, that lie in +the store-closet, but it is a long way off, and I am loath to fetch them; do, +Caterina,’ says he, ‘for you are young and nimble, do bring us +some, the fire is in nice trim for roasting them; they lie,’ says he, +‘in such a corner of the store-room, at the end of the north-gallery; +here, take the lamp,’ says he, ‘and mind, as you go up the great +staircase, that the wind, through the roof, does not blow it out.’ So, +with that, Caterina took the lamp—Hush! ma’amselle, I surely heard +a noise!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, whom Annette had now infected with her own terrors, listened +attentively; but everything was still, and Annette proceeded: +</p> + +<p> +“Caterina went to the north-gallery, that is the wide gallery we passed, +ma’am, before we came to the corridor, here. As she went with the lamp in +her hand, thinking of nothing at all—There, again!” cried Annette +suddenly—“I heard it again!—it was not fancy, +ma’amselle!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush!” said Emily, trembling. They listened, and, continuing to +sit quite still, Emily heard a low knocking against the wall. It came +repeatedly. Annette then screamed loudly, and the chamber door slowly +opened.—It was Caterina, come to tell Annette, that her lady wanted her. +Emily, though she now perceived who it was, could not immediately overcome her +terror; while Annette, half laughing, half crying, scolded Caterina heartily +for thus alarming them; and was also terrified lest what she had told had been +overheard.—Emily, whose mind was deeply impressed by the chief +circumstance of Annette’s relation, was unwilling to be left alone, in +the present state of her spirits; but, to avoid offending Madame Montoni, and +betraying her own weakness, she struggled to overcome the illusions of fear, +and dismissed Annette for the night. +</p> + +<p> +When she was alone, her thoughts recurred to the strange history of Signora +Laurentini and then to her own strange situation, in the wild and solitary +mountains of a foreign country, in the castle, and the power of a man, to whom, +only a few preceding months, she was an entire stranger; who had already +exercised a usurped authority over her, and whose character she now regarded, +with a degree of terror, apparently justified by the fears of others. She knew, +that he had invention equal to the conception and talents to the execution of +any project, and she greatly feared he had a heart too void of feeling to +oppose the perpetration of whatever his interest might suggest. She had long +observed the unhappiness of Madame Montoni, and had often been witness to the +stern and contemptuous behaviour she received from her husband. To these +circumstances, which conspired to give her just cause for alarm, were now added +those thousand nameless terrors, which exist only in active imaginations, and +which set reason and examination equally at defiance. +</p> + +<p> +Emily remembered all that Valancourt had told her, on the eve of her departure +from Languedoc, respecting Montoni, and all that he had said to dissuade her +from venturing on the journey. His fears had often since appeared to her +prophetic—now they seemed confirmed. Her heart, as it gave her back the +image of Valancourt, mourned in vain regret, but reason soon came with a +consolation which, though feeble at first, acquired vigour from reflection. She +considered, that, whatever might be her sufferings, she had withheld from +involving him in misfortune, and that, whatever her future sorrows could be, +she was, at least, free from self-reproach. +</p> + +<p> +Her melancholy was assisted by the hollow sighings of the wind along the +corridor and round the castle. The cheerful blaze of the wood had long been +extinguished, and she sat with her eyes fixed on the dying embers, till a loud +gust, that swept through the corridor, and shook the doors and casements, +alarmed her, for its violence had moved the chair she had placed as a +fastening, and the door, leading to the private staircase stood half open. Her +curiosity and her fears were again awakened. She took the lamp to the top of +the steps, and stood hesitating whether to go down; but again the profound +stillness and the gloom of the place awed her, and, determining to enquire +further, when daylight might assist the search, she closed the door, and +placed against it a stronger guard. +</p> + +<p> +She now retired to her bed, leaving the lamp burning on the table; but its +gloomy light, instead of dispelling her fear, assisted it; for, by its +uncertain rays, she almost fancied she saw shapes flit past her curtains and +glide into the remote obscurity of her chamber.—The castle clock struck +one before she closed her eyes to sleep. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a> CHAPTER VI </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +I think it is the weakness of mine eyes,<br/> +That shapes this monstrous apparition.<br/> +It comes upon me!<br/> + JULIUS CÆSAR +</p> + +<p> +Daylight dispelled from Emily’s mind the glooms of superstition, but not +those of apprehension. The Count Morano was the first image that occurred to +her waking thoughts, and then came a train of anticipated evils, which she +could neither conquer, nor avoid. She rose, and, to relieve her mind from the +busy ideas, that tormented it, compelled herself to notice external objects. +From her casement she looked out upon the wild grandeur of the scene, closed +nearly on all sides by alpine steeps, whose tops, peeping over each other, +faded from the eye in misty hues, while the promontories below were dark with +woods, that swept down to their base, and stretched along the narrow valleys. +The rich pomp of these woods was particularly delightful to Emily; and she +viewed with astonishment the fortifications of the castle spreading along a +vast extent of rock, and now partly in decay, the grandeur of the ramparts +below, and the towers and battlements and various features of the fabric above. +From these her sight wandered over the cliffs and woods into the valley, along +which foamed a broad and rapid stream, seen falling among the crags of an +opposite mountain, now flashing in the sunbeams, and now shadowed by +over-arching pines, till it was entirely concealed by their thick foliage. +Again it burst from beneath this darkness in one broad sheet of foam, and fell +thundering into the vale. Nearer, towards the west, opened the mountain-vista, +which Emily had viewed with such sublime emotion, on her approach to the +castle: a thin dusky vapour, that rose from the valley, overspread its features +with a sweet obscurity. As this ascended and caught the sunbeams, it kindled +into a crimson tint, and touched with exquisite beauty the woods and cliffs, +over which it passed to the summit of the mountains; then, as the veil drew up, +it was delightful to watch the gleaming objects, that progressively disclosed +themselves in the valley—the green turf—dark woods—little +rocky recesses—a few peasants’ huts—the foaming +stream—a herd of cattle, and various images of pastoral beauty. Then, the +pine-forests brightened, and then the broad breast of the mountains, till, at +length, the mist settled round their summit, touching them with a ruddy glow. +The features of the vista now appeared distinctly, and the broad deep shadows, +that fell from the lower cliffs, gave strong effect to the streaming splendour +above; while the mountains, gradually sinking in the perspective, appeared to +shelve into the Adriatic sea, for such Emily imagined to be the gleam of +bluish light that terminated the view. +</p> + +<p> +Thus she endeavoured to amuse her fancy, and was not unsuccessful. The breezy +freshness of the morning, too, revived her. She raised her thoughts in prayer, +which she felt always most disposed to do, when viewing the sublimity of +nature, and her mind recovered its strength. +</p> + +<p> +When she turned from the casement, her eyes glanced upon the door she had so +carefully guarded, on the preceding night, and she now determined to examine +whither it led; but, on advancing to remove the chairs, she perceived, that +they were already moved a little way. Her surprise cannot be easily imagined, +when, in the next minute, she perceived that the door was fastened.—She +felt, as if she had seen an apparition. The door of the corridor was locked as +she had left it, but this door, which could be secured only on the outside, +must have been bolted, during the night. She became seriously uneasy at the +thought of sleeping again in a chamber, thus liable to intrusion, so remote, +too, as it was from the family, and she determined to mention the circumstance +to Madame Montoni, and to request a change. +</p> + +<p> +After some perplexity she found her way into the great hall, and to the room, +which she had left, on the preceding night, where breakfast was spread, and her +aunt was alone, for Montoni had been walking over the environs of the castle, +examining the condition of its fortifications, and talking for some time with +Carlo. Emily observed that her aunt had been weeping, and her heart softened +towards her, with an affection, that showed itself in her manner, rather than +in words, while she carefully avoided the appearance of having noticed, that +she was unhappy. She seized the opportunity of Montoni’s absence to +mention the circumstance of the door, to request that she might be allowed +another apartment, and to enquire again, concerning the occasion of their +sudden journey. On the first subject her aunt referred her to Montoni, +positively refusing to interfere in the affair; on the last, she professed +utter ignorance. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, then, with a wish of making her aunt more reconciled to her situation, +praised the grandeur of the castle and the surrounding scenery, and endeavoured +to soften every unpleasing circumstance attending it. But, though misfortune +had somewhat conquered the asperities of Madame Montoni’s temper, and, by +increasing her cares for herself, had taught her to feel in some degree for +others, the capricious love of rule, which nature had planted and habit had +nourished in her heart, was not subdued. She could not now deny herself the +gratification of tyrannising over the innocent and helpless Emily, by +attempting to ridicule the taste she could not feel. +</p> + +<p> +Her satirical discourse was, however, interrupted by the entrance of Montoni, +and her countenance immediately assumed a mingled expression of fear and +resentment, while he seated himself at the breakfast-table, as if unconscious +of there being any person but himself in the room. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, as she observed him in silence, saw, that his countenance was darker and +sterner than usual. “O could I know,” said she to herself, +“what passes in that mind; could I know the thoughts, that are known +there, I should no longer be condemned to this torturing suspense!” Their +breakfast passed in silence, till Emily ventured to request, that another +apartment might be allotted to her, and related the circumstance which made her +wish it. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no time to attend to these idle whims,” said Montoni, +“that chamber was prepared for you, and you must rest contented with it. +It is not probable, that any person would take the trouble of going to that +remote staircase, for the purpose of fastening a door. If it was not fastened, +when you entered the chamber, the wind, perhaps, shook the door and made the +bolts slide. But I know not why I should undertake to account for so trifling +an occurrence.” +</p> + +<p> +This explanation was by no means satisfactory to Emily, who had observed, that +the bolts were rusted, and consequently could not be thus easily moved; but she +forbore to say so, and repeated her request. +</p> + +<p> +“If you will not release yourself from the slavery of these fears,” +said Montoni, sternly, “at least forbear to torment others by the mention +of them. Conquer such whims, and endeavour to strengthen your mind. No +existence is more contemptible than that, which is embittered by fear.” +As he said this, his eye glanced upon Madame Montoni, who coloured highly, but +was still silent. Emily, wounded and disappointed, thought her fears were, in +this instance, too reasonable to deserve ridicule; but, perceiving, that, +however they might oppress her, she must endure them, she tried to withdraw her +attention from the subject. +</p> + +<p> +Carlo soon after entered with some fruit: +</p> + +<p> +“Your <i>Excellenza</i> is tired after your long ramble,” said he, +as he set the fruit upon the table; “but you have more to see after +breakfast. There is a place in the vaulted passage leading to—” +</p> + +<p> +Montoni frowned upon him, and waved his hand for him to leave the room. Carlo +stopped, looked down, and then added, as he advanced to the breakfast-table, +and took up the basket of fruit, “I made bold, your <i>Excellenza</i>, to +bring some cherries, here, for my honoured lady and my young mistress. Will +your ladyship taste them, madam?” said Carlo, presenting the basket, +“they are very fine ones, though I gathered them myself, and from an old +tree, that catches all the south sun; they are as big as plums, your +ladyship.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, old Carlo,” said Madame Montoni; “I am obliged to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the young Signora, too, she may like some of them,” rejoined +Carlo, turning with the basket to Emily, “it will do me good to see her +eat some.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Carlo,” said Emily, taking some cherries, and smiling +kindly. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come,” said Montoni, impatiently, “enough of this. +Leave the room, but be in waiting. I shall want you presently.” +</p> + +<p> +Carlo obeyed, and Montoni, soon after, went out to examine further into the +state of the castle; while Emily remained with her aunt, patiently enduring her +ill humour, and endeavouring, with much sweetness, to soothe her affliction, +instead of resenting its effect. +</p> + +<p> +When Madame Montoni retired to her dressing-room, Emily endeavoured to amuse +herself by a view of the castle. Through a folding door she passed from the +great hall to the ramparts, which extended along the brow of the precipice, +round three sides of the edifice; the fourth was guarded by the high walls of +the courts, and by the gateway, through which she had passed, on the preceding +evening. The grandeur of the broad ramparts, and the changing scenery they +overlooked, excited her high admiration; for the extent of the terraces allowed +the features of the country to be seen in such various points of view, that +they appeared to form new landscapes. She often paused to examine the gothic +magnificence of Udolpho, its proud irregularity, its lofty towers and +battlements, its high-arched casements, and its slender watch-towers, perched +upon the corners of turrets. Then she would lean on the wall of the terrace, +and, shuddering, measure with her eye the precipice below, till the dark +summits of the woods arrested it. Wherever she turned, appeared mountain-tops, +forests of pine and narrow glens, opening among the Apennines and retiring from +the sight into inaccessible regions. +</p> + +<p> +While she thus leaned, Montoni, followed by two men, appeared, ascending a +winding path, cut in the rock below. He stopped upon a cliff, and, pointing to +the ramparts, turned to his followers, and talked with much eagerness of +gesticulation.—Emily perceived, that one of these men was Carlo; the +other was in the dress of a peasant, and he alone seemed to be receiving the +directions of Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +She withdrew from the walls, and pursued her walk, till she heard at a distance +the sound of carriage wheels, and then the loud bell of the portal, when it +instantly occurred to her, that Count Morano was arrived. As she hastily passed +the folding doors from the terrace, towards her own apartment, several persons +entered the hall by an opposite door. She saw them at the extremities of the +arcades, and immediately retreated; but the agitation of her spirits, and the +extent and duskiness of the hall, had prevented her from distinguishing the +persons of the strangers. Her fears, however, had but one object, and they had +called up that object to her fancy:—she believed that she had seen Count +Morano. +</p> + +<p> +When she thought that they had passed the hall, she ventured again to the door, +and proceeded, unobserved, to her room, where she remained, agitated with +apprehensions, and listening to every distant sound. At length, hearing voices +on the rampart, she hastened to her window, and observed Montoni, with Signor +Cavigni, walking below, conversing earnestly, and often stopping and turning +towards each other, at which time their discourse seemed to be uncommonly +interesting. +</p> + +<p> +Of the several persons who had appeared in the hall, here was Cavigni alone: +but Emily’s alarm was soon after heightened by the steps of some one in +the corridor, who, she apprehended, brought a message from the Count. In the +next moment, Annette appeared. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! ma’amselle,” said she, “here is the Signor Cavigni +arrived! I am sure I rejoiced to see a christian person in this place; and then +he is so good natured too, he always takes so much notice of me!—And here +is also Signor Verezzi, and who do you think besides, ma’amselle?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot guess, Annette; tell me quickly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, ma’am, do guess once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then,” said Emily, with assumed composure, “it +is—Count Morano, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Holy Virgin!” cried Annette, “are you ill, ma’amselle? +you are going to faint! let me get some water.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily sunk into a chair. “Stay, Annette,” said she, feebly, +“do not leave me—I shall soon be better; open the +casement.—The Count, you say—he is come, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who, I!—the Count! No, ma’amselle, I did not say so.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is <i>not</i> come then?” said Emily eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, ma’amselle.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are sure of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord bless me!” said Annette, “you recover very suddenly, +ma’am! why, I thought you were dying, just now.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the Count—you are sure, is not come?” +</p> + +<p> +“O yes, quite sure of that, ma’amselle. Why, I was looking out +through the grate in the north turret, when the carriages drove into the +courtyard, and I never expected to see such a goodly sight in this dismal old +castle! but here are masters and servants, too, enough to make the place ring +again. O! I was ready to leap through the rusty old bars for joy!—O! who +would ever have thought of seeing a christian face in this huge dreary house? I +could have kissed the very horses that brought them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Annette, well, I am better now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’amselle, I see you are. O! all the servants will lead +merry lives here, now; we shall have singing and dancing in the little hall, +for the Signor cannot hear us there—and droll +stories—Ludovico’s come, ma’am; yes, there is Ludovico come +with them! You remember Ludovico, ma’am—a tall, handsome young +man—Signor Cavigni’s lacquey—who always wears his cloak with +such a grace, thrown round his left arm, and his hat set on so smartly, all on +one side, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Emily, who was wearied by her loquacity. +</p> + +<p> +“What, ma’amselle, don’t you remember Ludovico—who +rowed the Cavaliero’s gondola, at the last regatta, and won the prize? +And who used to sing such sweet verses about Orlandos and about the +Black-a-moors, too; and Charly—Charly—magne, yes, that was the +name, all under my lattice, in the west portico, on the moonlight nights at +Venice? O! I have listened to him!—” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear, to thy peril, my good Annette,” said Emily; “for it +seems his verses have stolen thy heart. But let me advise you; if it is so, +keep the secret; never let him know it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah—ma’amselle!—how can one keep such a secret as +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Annette, I am now so much better, that you may leave me.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, but, ma’amselle, I forgot to ask—how did you sleep in +this dreary old chamber last night?”—“As well as +usual.”—“Did you hear no +noises?”—“None.”—“Nor see +anything?”—“Nothing.”—“Well, that is +surprising!”—“Not in the least: and now tell me, why you ask +these questions.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, ma’amselle! I would not tell you for the world, nor all I have +heard about this chamber, either; it would frighten you so.” +</p> + +<p> +“If that is all, you have frightened me already, and may therefore tell +me what you know, without hurting your conscience.” +</p> + +<p> +“O Lord! they say the room is haunted, and has been so these many +years.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is by a ghost, then, who can draw bolts,” said Emily, +endeavouring to laugh away her apprehensions; “for I left the door open, +last night, and found it fastened this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette turned pale, and said not a word. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know whether any of the servants fastened this door in the +morning, before I rose?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, ma’am, that I will be bound they did not; but I don’t +know: shall I go and ask, ma’amselle?” said Annette, moving hastily +towards the corridor. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay, Annette, I have another question to ask; tell me what you have +heard concerning this room, and whither that staircase leads.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go and ask it all directly, ma’am; besides, I am sure my +lady wants me. I cannot stay now, indeed, ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +She hurried from the room, without waiting Emily’s reply, whose heart, +lightened by the certainty, that Morano was not arrived, allowed her to smile +at the superstitious terror, which had seized on Annette; for, though she +sometimes felt its influence herself, she could smile at it, when apparent in +other persons. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni having refused Emily another chamber, she determined to bear with +patience the evil she could not remove, and, in order to make the room as +comfortable as possible, unpacked her books, her sweet delight in happier days, +and her soothing resource in the hours of moderate sorrow: but there were hours +when even these failed of their effect; when the genius, the taste, the +enthusiasm of the sublimest writers were felt no longer. +</p> + +<p> +Her little library being arranged on a high chest, part of the furniture of the +room, she took out her drawing utensils, and was tranquil enough to be pleased +with the thought of sketching the sublime scenes, beheld from her windows; but +she suddenly checked this pleasure, remembering how often she had soothed +herself by the intention of obtaining amusement of this kind, and had been +prevented by some new circumstance of misfortune. +</p> + +<p> +“How can I suffer myself to be deluded by hope,” said she, +“and, because Count Morano is not yet arrived, feel a momentary +happiness? Alas! what is it to me, whether he is here today, or tomorrow, if +he comes at all?—and that he will come—it were weakness to +doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +To withdraw her thoughts, however, from the subject of her misfortunes, she +attempted to read, but her attention wandered from the page, and, at length, +she threw aside the book, and determined to explore the adjoining chambers of +the castle. Her imagination was pleased with the view of ancient grandeur, and +an emotion of melancholy awe awakened all its powers, as she walked through +rooms, obscure and desolate, where no footsteps had passed probably for many +years, and remembered the strange history of the former possessor of the +edifice. This brought to her recollection the veiled picture, which had +attracted her curiosity, on the preceding night, and she resolved to examine +it. As she passed through the chambers, that led to this, she found herself +somewhat agitated; its connection with the late lady of the castle, and the +conversation of Annette, together with the circumstance of the veil, throwing a +mystery over the subject, that excited a faint degree of terror. But a terror +of this nature, as it occupies and expands the mind, and elevates it to high +expectation, is purely sublime, and leads us, by a kind of fascination, to seek +even the object, from which we appear to shrink. +</p> + +<p> +Emily passed on with faltering steps, and having paused a moment at the door, +before she attempted to open it, she then hastily entered the chamber, and went +towards the picture, which appeared to be enclosed in a frame of uncommon size, +that hung in a dark part of the room. She paused again, and then, with a timid +hand, lifted the veil; but instantly let it fall—perceiving that what it +had concealed was no picture, and, before she could leave the chamber, she +dropped senseless on the floor. +</p> + +<p> +When she recovered her recollection, the remembrance of what she had seen had +nearly deprived her of it a second time. She had scarcely strength to remove +from the room, and regain her own; and, when arrived there, wanted courage to +remain alone. Horror occupied her mind, and excluded, for a time, all sense of +past, and dread of future misfortune: she seated herself near the casement, +because from thence she heard voices, though distant, on the terrace, and might +see people pass, and these, trifling as they were, were reviving circumstances. +When her spirits had recovered their tone, she considered, whether she should +mention what she had seen to Madame Montoni, and various and important motives +urged her to do so, among which the least was the hope of the relief, which an +overburdened mind finds in speaking of the subject of its interest. But she was +aware of the terrible consequences, which such a communication might lead to; +and, dreading the indiscretion of her aunt, at length, endeavoured to arm +herself with resolution to observe a profound silence on the subject. Montoni +and Verezzi soon after passed under the casement, speaking cheerfully, and +their voices revived her. Presently the Signors Bertolini and Cavigni joined +the party on the terrace, and Emily, supposing that Madame Montoni was then +alone, went to seek her; for the solitude of her chamber, and its proximity to +that where she had received so severe a shock, again affected her spirit. +</p> + +<p> +She found her aunt in her dressing-room, preparing for dinner. Emily’s +pale and affrighted countenance alarmed even Madame Montoni; but she had +sufficient strength of mind to be silent on the subject, that still made her +shudder, and which was ready to burst from her lips. In her aunt’s +apartment she remained till they both descended to dinner. There she met the +gentlemen lately arrived, who had a kind of busy seriousness in their looks, +which was somewhat unusual with them, while their thoughts seemed too much +occupied by some deep interest, to suffer them to bestow much attention either +on Emily or Madame Montoni. They spoke little, and Montoni less. Emily, as she +now looked on him, shuddered. The horror of the chamber rushed on her mind. +Several times the colour faded from her cheeks, and she feared, that illness +would betray her emotions, and compel her to leave the room; but the strength +of her resolution remedied the weakness of her frame; she obliged herself to +converse, and even tried to look cheerful. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni evidently laboured under some vexation, such as would probably have +agitated a weaker mind or a more susceptible heart, but which appeared, from +the sternness of his countenance, only to bend up his faculties to energy and +fortitude. +</p> + +<p> +It was a comfortless and silent meal. The gloom of the castle seemed to have +spread its contagion even over the gay countenance of Cavigni, and with this +gloom was mingled a fierceness such as she had seldom seen him indicate. Count +Morano was not named, and what conversation there was, turned chiefly upon the +wars + which at that time agitated the Italian states, the strength of the +Venetian armies, and the characters of their generals. +</p> + +<p> +After dinner, when the servants had withdrawn, Emily learned, that the +cavalier, who had drawn upon himself the vengeance of Orsino, had since died of +his wounds, and that strict search was still making for his murderer. The +intelligence seemed to disturb Montoni, who mused, and then enquired, where +Orsino had concealed himself. His guests, who all, except Cavigni, were +ignorant, that Montoni had himself assisted him to escape from Venice, replied, +that he had fled in the night with such precipitation and secrecy, that his +most intimate companions knew not whither. Montoni blamed himself for having +asked the question, for a second thought convinced him, that a man of +Orsino’s suspicious temper was not likely to trust any of the persons +present with the knowledge of his asylum. He considered himself, however, as +entitled to his utmost confidence, and did not doubt, that he should soon hear +of him. +</p> + +<p> +Emily retired with Madame Montoni, soon after the cloth was withdrawn, and left +the cavaliers to their secret councils, but not before the significant frowns +of Montoni had warned his wife to depart, who passed from the hall to the +ramparts, and walked, for some time, in silence, which Emily did not interrupt, +for her mind was also occupied by interests of its own. It required all her +resolution, to forbear communicating to Madame Montoni the terrible subject, +which still thrilled her every nerve with horror; and sometimes she was on the +point of doing so, merely to obtain the relief of a moment; but she knew how +wholly she was in the power of Montoni, and, considering, that the indiscretion +of her aunt might prove fatal to them both, she compelled herself to endure a +present and an inferior evil, rather than to tempt a future and a heavier one. +A strange kind of presentiment frequently, on this day, occurred to +her;—it seemed as if her fate rested here, and was by some invisible +means connected with this castle. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me not accelerate it,” said she to herself: “for +whatever I may be reserved, let me, at least, avoid self-reproach.” +</p> + +<p> +As she looked on the massy walls of the edifice, her melancholy spirits +represented it to be her prison; and she started as at a new suggestion, when +she considered how far distant she was from her native country, from her little +peaceful home, and from her only friend—how remote was her hope of +happiness, how feeble the expectation of again seeing him! Yet the idea of +Valancourt, and her confidence in his faithful love, had hitherto been her only +solace, and she struggled hard to retain them. A few tears of agony started to +her eyes, which she turned aside to conceal. +</p> + +<p> +While she afterwards leaned on the wall of the rampart, some peasants, at a +little distance, were seen examining a breach, before which lay a heap of +stones, as if to repair it, and a rusty old cannon, that appeared to have +fallen from its station above. Madame Montoni stopped to speak to the men, and +enquired what they were going to do. “To repair the fortifications, your +ladyship,” said one of them; a labour which she was somewhat surprised, +that Montoni should think necessary, particularly since he had never spoken of +the castle, as of a place, at which he meant to reside for any considerable +time; but she passed on towards a lofty arch, that led from the south to the +east rampart, and which adjoined the castle, on one side, while, on the other, +it supported a small watch-tower, that entirely commanded the deep valley +below. As she approached this arch, she saw, beyond it, winding along the woody +descent of a distant mountain, a long troop of horse and foot, whom she knew to +be soldiers, only by the glitter of their pikes and other arms, for the +distance did not allow her to discover the colour of their liveries. As she +gazed, the vanguard issued from the woods into the valley, but the train still +continued to pour over the remote summit of the mountain, in endless +succession; while, in the front, the military uniform became distinguishable, +and the commanders, riding first, and seeming, by their gestures, to direct the +march of those that followed, at length, approached very near to the castle. +</p> + +<p> +Such a spectacle, in these solitary regions, both surprised and alarmed Madame +Montoni, and she hastened towards some peasants, who were employed in raising +bastions before the south rampart, where the rock was less abrupt than +elsewhere. These men could give no satisfactory answers to her enquiries, but, +being roused by them, gazed in stupid astonishment upon the long cavalcade. +Madame Montoni, then thinking it necessary to communicate further the object of +her alarm, sent Emily to say, that she wished to speak to Montoni; an errand +her niece did not approve, for she dreaded his frowns, which she knew this +message would provoke; but she obeyed in silence. +</p> + +<p> +As she drew near the apartment, in which he sat with his guests, she heard them +in earnest and loud dispute, and she paused a moment, trembling at the +displeasure, which her sudden interruption would occasion. In the next, their +voices sunk all together; she then ventured to open the door, and, while +Montoni turned hastily and looked at her, without speaking, she delivered her +message. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell Madam Montoni I am engaged,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +Emily then thought it proper to mention the subject of her alarm. Montoni and +his companions rose instantly and went to the windows, but, these not affording +them a view of the troops, they at length proceeded to the ramparts, where +Cavigni conjectured it to be a legion of <i>condottieri</i>, on their march +towards Modena. +</p> + +<p> +One part of the cavalcade now extended along the valley, and another wound +among the mountains towards the north, while some troops still lingered on the +woody precipices, where the first had appeared, so that the great length of the +procession seemed to include a whole army. While Montoni and his family +watched its progress, they heard the sound of trumpets and the clash of cymbals +in the vale, and then others, answering from the heights. Emily listened with +emotion to the shrill blast, that woke the echoes of the mountains, and Montoni +explained the signals, with which he appeared to be well acquainted, and which +meant nothing hostile. The uniforms of the troops, and the kind of arms they +bore, confirmed to him the conjecture of Cavigni, and he had the satisfaction +to see them pass by, without even stopping to gaze upon his castle. He did not, +however, leave the rampart, till the bases of the mountains had shut them from +his view, and the last murmur of the trumpet floated away on the wind. Cavigni +and Verezzi were inspirited by this spectacle, which seemed to have roused all +the fire of their temper; Montoni turned into the castle in thoughtful silence. +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s mind had not yet sufficiently recovered from its late shock, to +endure the loneliness of her chamber, and she remained upon the ramparts; for +Madame Montoni had not invited her to her dressing-room, whither she had gone +evidently in low spirits, and Emily, from her late experience, had lost all +wish to explore the gloomy and mysterious recesses of the castle. The ramparts, +therefore, were almost her only retreat, and here she lingered, till the grey +haze of evening was again spread over the scene. +</p> + +<p> +The cavaliers supped by themselves, and Madame Montoni remained in her +apartment, whither Emily went, before she retired to her own. She found her +aunt weeping, and in much agitation. The tenderness of Emily was naturally so +soothing, that it seldom failed to give comfort to the drooping heart: but +Madame Montoni’s was torn, and the softest accents of Emily’s voice +were lost upon it. With her usual delicacy, she did not appear to observe her +aunt’s distress, but it gave an involuntary gentleness to her manners, +and an air of solicitude to her countenance, which Madame Montoni was vexed to +perceive, who seemed to feel the pity of her niece to be an insult to her +pride, and dismissed her as soon as she properly could. Emily did not venture +to mention again the reluctance she felt to her gloomy chamber, but she +requested that Annette might be permitted to remain with her till she retired +to rest; and the request was somewhat reluctantly granted. Annette, however, +was now with the servants, and Emily withdrew alone. +</p> + +<p> +With light and hasty steps she passed through the long galleries, while the +feeble glimmer of the lamp she carried only showed the gloom around her, and +the passing air threatened to extinguish it. The lonely silence, that reigned +in this part of the castle, awed her; now and then, indeed, she heard a faint +peal of laughter rise from a remote part of the edifice, where the servants +were assembled, but it was soon lost, and a kind of breathless stillness +remained. As she passed the suite of rooms which she had visited in the +morning, her eyes glanced fearfully on the door, and she almost fancied she +heard murmuring sounds within, but she paused not a moment to enquire. +</p> + +<p> +Having reached her own apartment, where no blazing wood on the hearth +dissipated the gloom, she sat down with a book, to enliven her attention, till +Annette should come, and a fire could be kindled. She continued to read till +her light was nearly expired, but Annette did not appear, and the solitude and +obscurity of her chamber again affected her spirits, the more, because of its +nearness to the scene of horror, that she had witnessed in the morning. Gloomy +and fantastic images came to her mind. She looked fearfully towards the door of +the staircase, and then, examining whether it was still fastened, found that +it was so. Unable to conquer the uneasiness she felt at the prospect of +sleeping again in this remote and insecure apartment, which some person seemed +to have entered during the preceding night, her impatience to see Annette, whom +she had bidden to enquire concerning this circumstance, became extremely +painful. She wished also to question her, as to the object, which had excited +so much horror in her own mind, and which Annette on the preceding evening had +appeared to be in part acquainted with, though her words were very remote from +the truth, and it appeared plainly to Emily, that the girl had been purposely +misled by a false report: above all she was surprised, that the door of the +chamber, which contained it, should be left unguarded. Such an instance of +negligence almost surpassed belief. But her light was now expiring; the faint +flashes it threw upon the walls called up all the terrors of fancy, and she +rose to find her way to the habitable part of the castle, before it was quite +extinguished. As she opened the chamber door, she heard remote voices, and, +soon after, saw a light issue upon the further end of the corridor, which +Annette and another servant approached. “I am glad you are come,” +said Emily: “what has detained you so long? Pray light me a fire +immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lady wanted me, ma’amselle,” replied Annette in some +confusion; “I will go and get the wood.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Caterina, “that is my business,” and left +the room instantly, while Annette would have followed; but, being called back, +she began to talk very loud, and laugh, and seemed afraid to trust a pause of +silence. +</p> + +<p> +Caterina soon returned with the wood, and then, when the cheerful blaze once +more animated the room, and this servant had withdrawn, Emily asked Annette, +whether she had made the enquiry she bade her. “Yes, +ma’amselle,” said Annette, “but not a soul knows anything +about the matter: and old Carlo—I watched him well, for they say he knows +strange things—old Carlo looked so as I don’t know how to tell, and +he asked me again and again, if I was sure the door was ever unfastened. Lord, +says I—am I sure I am alive? And as for me, ma’am, I am all +astounded, as one may say, and would no more sleep in this chamber, than I +would on the great cannon at the end of the east rampart.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what objection have you to that cannon, more than to any of the +rest?” said Emily smiling: “the best would be rather a hard +bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’amselle, any of them would be hard enough for that matter; +but they do say, that something has been seen in the dead of night, standing +beside the great cannon, as if to guard it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! my good Annette, the people who tell such stories, are happy in +having you for an auditor, for I perceive you believe them all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear ma’amselle! I will show you the very cannon; you can see it +from these windows!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Emily, “but that does not prove, that an +apparition guards it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! not if I show you the very cannon! Dear ma’am, you will +believe nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing probably upon this subject, but what I see,” said +Emily.—“Well, ma’am, but you shall see it, if you will only +step this way to the casement.”—Emily could not forbear laughing, +and Annette looked surprised. Perceiving her extreme aptitude to credit the +marvellous, Emily forbore to mention the subject she had intended, lest it +should overcome her with idle terrors, and she began to speak on a lively +topic—the regattas of Venice. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, ma’amselle, those rowing matches,” said Annette, +“and the fine moonlight nights, are all, that are worth seeing in +Venice. To be sure the moon is brighter than any I ever saw; and then to hear +such sweet music, too, as Ludovico has often and often sung under the lattice +by the west portico! Ma’amselle, it was Ludovico, that told me about that +picture, which you wanted so to look at last night, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“What picture?” said Emily, wishing Annette to explain herself. +</p> + +<p> +“O! that terrible picture with the black veil over it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You never saw it, then?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Who, I!—No, ma’amselle, I never did. But this +morning,” continued Annette, lowering her voice, and looking round the +room, “this morning, as it was broad daylight, do you know, ma’am, +I took a strange fancy to see it, as I had heard such odd hints about it, and I +got as far as the door, and should have opened it, if it had not been +locked!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, endeavouring to conceal the emotion this circumstance occasioned, +enquired at what hour she went to the chamber, and found, that it was soon +after herself had been there. She also asked further questions, and the answers +convinced her, that Annette, and probably her informer, were ignorant of the +terrible truth, though in Annette’s account something very like the +truth, now and then, mingled with the falsehood. Emily now began to fear, that +her visit to the chamber had been observed, since the door had been closed, so +immediately after her departure; and dreaded lest this should draw upon her the +vengeance of Montoni. Her anxiety, also, was excited to know whence, and for +what purpose, the delusive report, which had been imposed upon Annette, had +originated, since Montoni could only have wished for silence and secrecy; but +she felt, that the subject was too terrible for this lonely hour, and she +compelled herself to leave it, to converse with Annette, whose chat, simple as +it was, she preferred to the stillness of total solitude. +</p> + +<p> +Thus they sat, till near midnight, but not without many hints from Annette, +that she wished to go. The embers were now nearly burnt out; and Emily heard, +at a distance, the thundering sound of the hall doors, as they were shut for +the night. She, therefore, prepared for rest, but was still unwilling that +Annette should leave her. At this instant, the great bell of the portal +sounded. They listened in fearful expectation, when, after a long pause of +silence, it sounded again. Soon after, they heard the noise of carriage wheels +in the courtyard. Emily sunk almost lifeless in her chair; “It is the +Count,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“What, at this time of night, ma’am!” said Annette: +“no, my dear lady. But, for that matter, it is a strange time of night +for anybody to come!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, pr’ythee, good Annette, stay not talking,” said Emily +in a voice of agony—“Go, pr’ythee, go, and see who it +is.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette left the room, and carried with her the light, leaving Emily in +darkness, which a few moments before would have terrified her in this room, but +was now scarcely observed by her. She listened and waited, in breathless +expectation, and heard distant noises, but Annette did not return. Her +patience, at length, exhausted, she tried to find her way to the corridor, but +it was long before she could touch the door of the chamber, and, when she had +opened it, the total darkness without made her fear to proceed. Voices were now +heard, and Emily even thought she distinguished those of Count Morano and +Montoni. Soon after she heard steps approaching, and then a ray of light +streamed through the darkness, and Annette appeared, whom Emily went to meet. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’amselle,” said she, “you were right, it is the +Count sure enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is he!” exclaimed Emily, lifting her eyes towards heaven and +supporting herself by Annette’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Good Lord! my dear lady, don’t be in such a <i>fluster</i>, and +look so pale, we shall soon hear more.” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall, indeed!” said Emily, moving as fast as she was able +towards her apartment. “I am not well; give me air.” Annette opened +a casement, and brought water. The faintness soon left Emily, but she desired +Annette would not go till she heard from Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear ma’amselle! he surely will not disturb you at this time of +night; why he must think you are asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stay with me till I am so, then,” said Emily, who felt temporary +relief from this suggestion, which appeared probable enough, though her fears +had prevented its occurring to her. Annette, with secret reluctance, consented +to stay, and Emily was now composed enough to ask her some questions; among +others, whether she had seen the Count. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’am, I saw him alight, for I went from hence to the grate +in the north turret, that overlooks the inner courtyard, you know. There I saw +the Count’s carriage, and the Count in it, waiting at the great +door,—for the porter was just gone to bed—with several men on +horseback all by the light of the torches they carried.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was compelled to smile. “When the door was opened, the Count said +something, that I could not make out, and then got out, and another gentleman +with him. I thought, to be sure, the Signor was gone to bed, and I hastened +away to my lady’s dressing-room, to see what I could hear. But in the way +I met Ludovico, and he told me that the Signor was up, counselling with his +master and the other Signors, in the room at the end of the north gallery; and +Ludovico held up his finger, and laid it on his lips, as much as to +say—There is more going on, than you think of, Annette, but you must hold +your tongue. And so I did hold my tongue, ma’amselle, and came away to +tell you directly.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily enquired who the cavalier was, that accompanied the Count, and how +Montoni received them; but Annette could not inform her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ludovico,” she added, “had just been to call Signor +Montoni’s valet, that he might tell him they were arrived, when I met +him.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily sat musing, for some time, and then her anxiety was so much increased, +that she desired Annette would go to the servants’ hall, where it was +possible she might hear something of the Count’s intention, respecting +his stay at the castle. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’am,” said Annette with readiness; “but how am +I to find the way, if I leave the lamp with you?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily said she would light her, and they immediately quitted the chamber. When +they had reached the top of the great staircase, Emily recollected, that she +might be seen by the Count, and, to avoid the great hall, Annette conducted her +through some private passages to a back staircase, which led directly to that +of the servants. +</p> + +<p> +As she returned towards her chamber, Emily began to fear, that she might again +lose herself in the intricacies of the castle, and again be shocked by some +mysterious spectacle; and, though she was already perplexed by the numerous +turnings, she feared to open one of the many doors that offered. While she +stepped thoughtfully along, she fancied, that she heard a low moaning at no +great distance, and, having paused a moment, she heard it again and distinctly. +Several doors appeared on the right hand of the passage. She advanced, and +listened. When she came to the second, she heard a voice, apparently in +complaint, within, to which she continued to listen, afraid to open the door, +and unwilling to leave it. Convulsive sobs followed, and then the piercing +accents of an agonizing spirit burst forth. Emily stood appalled, and looked +through the gloom, that surrounded her, in fearful expectation. The +lamentations continued. Pity now began to subdue terror; it was possible she +might administer comfort to the sufferer, at least, by expressing sympathy, and +she laid her hand on the door. While she hesitated she thought she knew this +voice, disguised as it was by tones of grief. Having, therefore, set down the +lamp in the passage, she gently opened the door, within which all was dark, +except that from an inner apartment a partial light appeared; and she stepped +softly on. Before she reached it, the appearance of Madame Montoni, leaning on +her dressing-table, weeping, and with a handkerchief held to her eyes, struck +her, and she paused. +</p> + +<p> +Some person was seated in a chair by the fire, but who it was she could not +distinguish. He spoke, now and then, in a low voice, that did not allow Emily +to hear what was uttered, but she thought, that Madame Montoni, at those times, +wept the more, who was too much occupied by her own distress, to observe Emily, +while the latter, though anxious to know what occasioned this, and who was the +person admitted at so late an hour to her aunt’s dressing-room, forbore +to add to her sufferings by surprising her, or to take advantage of her +situation, by listening to a private discourse. She, therefore, stepped softly +back, and, after some further difficulty, found the way to her own chamber, +where nearer interests, at length, excluded the surprise and concern she had +felt, respecting Madame Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +Annette, however, returned without satisfactory intelligence, for the servants, +among whom she had been, were either entirely ignorant, or affected to be so, +concerning the Count’s intended stay at the castle. They could talk only +of the steep and broken road they had just passed, and of the numerous dangers +they had escaped and express wonder how their lord could choose to encounter +all these, in the darkness of night; for they scarcely allowed, that the +torches had served for any other purpose but that of showing the dreariness of +the mountains. Annette, finding she could gain no information, left them, +making noisy petitions, for more wood on the fire and more supper on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, ma’amselle,” added she, “I am so +sleepy!—I am sure, if you were so sleepy, you would not desire me to sit +up with you.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, indeed, began to think it was cruel to wish it; she had also waited so +long, without receiving a summons from Montoni, that it appeared he did not +mean to disturb her, at this late hour, and she determined to dismiss Annette. +But, when she again looked round her gloomy chamber, and recollected certain +circumstances, fear seized her spirits, and she hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet it were cruel of me to ask you to stay, till I am asleep, +Annette,” said she, “for I fear it will be very long before I +forget myself in sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dare say it will be very long, ma’amselle,” said Annette. +</p> + +<p> +“But, before you go,” rejoined Emily, “let me ask +you—Had Signor Montoni left Count Morano, when you quitted the +hall?” +</p> + +<p> +“O no, ma’am, they were alone together.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you been in my aunt’s dressing-room, since you left +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, ma’amselle, I called at the door as I passed, but it was +fastened; so I thought my lady was gone to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who, then, was with your lady just now?” said Emily, forgetting, +in surprise, her usual prudence. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody, I believe, ma’am,” replied Annette, “nobody +has been with her, I believe, since I left you.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily took no further notice of the subject, and, after some struggle with +imaginary fears, her good nature prevailed over them so far, that she dismissed +Annette for the night. She then sat, musing upon her own circumstances and +those of Madame Montoni, till her eye rested on the miniature picture, which +she had found, after her father’s death, among the papers he had enjoined +her to destroy. It was open upon the table, before her, among some loose +drawings, having, with them, been taken out of a little box by Emily, some +hours before. The sight of it called up many interesting reflections, but the +melancholy sweetness of the countenance soothed the emotions, which these had +occasioned. It was the same style of countenance as that of her late father, +and, while she gazed on it with fondness on this account, she even fancied a +resemblance in the features. But this tranquillity was suddenly interrupted, +when she recollected the words in the manuscript, that had been found with this +picture, and which had formerly occasioned her so much doubt and horror. At +length, she roused herself from the deep reverie, into which this remembrance +had thrown her; but, when she rose to undress, the silence and solitude, to +which she was left, at this midnight hour, for not even a distant sound was now +heard, conspired with the impression the subject she had been considering had +given to her mind, to appall her. Annette’s hints, too, concerning this +chamber, simple as they were, had not failed to affect her, since they followed +a circumstance of peculiar horror, which she herself had witnessed, and since +the scene of this was a chamber nearly adjoining her own. +</p> + +<p> +The door of the staircase was, perhaps, a subject of more reasonable alarm, +and she now began to apprehend, such was the aptitude of her fears, that this +staircase had some private communication with the apartment, which she +shuddered even to remember. Determined not to undress, she lay down to sleep in +her clothes, with her late father’s dog, the faithful <i>Manchon</i>, at +the foot of the bed, whom she considered as a kind of guard. +</p> + +<p> +Thus circumstanced, she tried to banish reflection, but her busy fancy would +still hover over the subjects of her interest, and she heard the clock of the +castle strike two, before she closed her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +From the disturbed slumber, into which she then sunk, she was soon awakened by +a noise, which seemed to arise within her chamber; but the silence, that +prevailed, as she fearfully listened, inclined her to believe, that she had +been alarmed by such sounds as sometimes occur in dreams, and she laid her head +again upon the pillow. +</p> + +<p> +A return of the noise again disturbed her; it seemed to come from that part of +the room, which communicated with the private staircase, and she instantly +remembered the odd circumstance of the door having been fastened, during the +preceding night, by some unknown hand. Her late alarming suspicion, concerning +its communication, also occurred to her. Her heart became faint with terror. +Half raising herself from the bed, and gently drawing aside the curtain, she +looked towards the door of the staircase, but the lamp, that burnt on the +hearth, spread so feeble a light through the apartment, that the remote parts +of it were lost in shadow. The noise, however, which, she was convinced, came +from the door, continued. It seemed like that made by the undrawing of rusty +bolts, and often ceased, and was then renewed more gently, as if the hand, that +occasioned it, was restrained by a fear of discovery. +</p> + +<p> +While Emily kept her eyes fixed on the spot, she saw the door move, and then +slowly open, and perceived something enter the room, but the extreme duskiness +prevented her distinguishing what it was. Almost fainting with terror, she had +yet sufficient command over herself, to check the shriek, that was escaping +from her lips, and, letting the curtain drop from her hand, continued to +observe in silence the motions of the mysterious form she saw. It seemed to +glide along the remote obscurity of the apartment, then paused, and, as it +approached the hearth, she perceived, in the stronger light, what appeared to +be a human figure. Certain remembrances now struck upon her heart, and almost +subdued the feeble remains of her spirits; she continued, however, to watch the +figure, which remained for some time motionless, but then, advancing slowly +towards the bed, stood silently at the feet, where the curtains, being a little +open, allowed her still to see it; terror, however, had now deprived her of the +power of discrimination, as well as of that of utterance. +</p> + +<p> +Having continued there a moment, the form retreated towards the hearth, when it +took the lamp, held it up, surveyed the chamber, for a few moments, and then +again advanced towards the bed. The light at that instant awakening the dog, +that had slept at Emily’s feet, he barked loudly, and, jumping to the +floor, flew at the stranger, who struck the animal smartly with a sheathed +sword, and, springing towards the bed, Emily discovered—Count Morano! +</p> + +<p> +She gazed at him for a moment in speechless affright, while he, throwing +himself on his knee at the bedside, besought her to fear nothing, and, having +thrown down his sword, would have taken her hand, when the faculties, that +terror had suspended, suddenly returned, and she sprung from the bed, in the +dress, which surely a kind of prophetic apprehension had prevented her, on this +night, from throwing aside. +</p> + +<p> +Morano rose, followed her to the door, through which he had entered, and caught +her hand, as she reached the top of the staircase, but not before she had +discovered, by the gleam of a lamp, another man half-way down the steps. She +now screamed in despair, and, believing herself given up by Montoni, saw, +indeed, no possibility of escape. +</p> + +<p> +The Count, who still held her hand, led her back into the chamber. +</p> + +<p> +“Why all this terror?” said he, in a tremulous voice. “Hear +me, Emily: I come not to alarm you; no, by Heaven! I love you too +well—too well for my own peace.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily looked at him for a moment, in fearful doubt. +</p> + +<p> +“Then leave me, sir,” said she, “leave me instantly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear me, Emily,” resumed Morano, “hear me! I love, and am in +despair—yes—in despair. How can I gaze upon you, and know, that it +is, perhaps, for the last time, without suffering all the frenzy of despair? +But it shall not be so; you shall be mine, in spite of Montoni and all his +villany.” +</p> + +<p> +“In spite of Montoni!” cried Emily eagerly: “what is it I +hear?” +</p> + +<p> +“You hear, that Montoni is a villain,” exclaimed Morano with +vehemence,—“a villain who would have sold you to my +love!—Who—” +</p> + +<p> +“And is he less, who would have bought me?” said Emily, fixing on +the Count an eye of calm contempt. “Leave the room, sir, +instantly,” she continued in a voice, trembling between joy and fear, +“or I will alarm the family, and you may receive that from Signor +Montoni’s vengeance, which I have vainly supplicated from his +pity.” But Emily knew, that she was beyond the hearing of those, who +might protect her. +</p> + +<p> +“You can never hope anything from his pity,” said Morano, +“he has used me infamously, and my vengeance shall pursue him. And for +you, Emily, for you, he has new plans more profitable than the last, no +doubt.” The gleam of hope, which the Count’s former speech had +revived, was now nearly extinguished by the latter; and, while Emily’s +countenance betrayed the emotions of her mind, he endeavoured to take advantage +of the discovery. +</p> + +<p> +“I lose time,” said he: “I came not to exclaim against +Montoni; I came to solicit, to plead—to Emily; to tell her all I suffer, +to entreat her to save me from despair, and herself from destruction. Emily! +the schemes of Montoni are insearchable, but, I warn you, they are terrible; he +has no principle, when interest, or ambition leads. Can I love you, and abandon +you to his power? Fly, then, fly from this gloomy prison, with a lover, who +adores you! I have bribed a servant of the castle to open the gates, and, +before tomorrow’s dawn, you shall be far on the way to Venice.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, overcome by the sudden shock she had received, at the moment, too, when +she had begun to hope for better days, now thought she saw destruction surround +her on every side. Unable to reply, and almost to think, she threw herself into +a chair, pale and breathless. That Montoni had formerly sold her to Morano, was +very probable; that he had now withdrawn his consent to the marriage, was +evident from the Count’s present conduct; and it was nearly certain, that +a scheme of stronger interest only could have induced the selfish Montoni to +forego a plan, which he had hitherto so strenuously pursued. These reflections +made her tremble at the hints, which Morano had just given, which she no longer +hesitated to believe; and, while she shrunk from the new scenes of misery and +oppression, that might await her in the castle of Udolpho, she was compelled to +observe, that almost her only means of escaping them was by submitting herself +to the protection of this man, with whom evils more certain and not less +terrible appeared,—evils, upon which she could not endure to pause for an +instant. +</p> + +<p> +Her silence, though it was that of agony, encouraged the hopes of Morano, who +watched her countenance with impatience, took again the resisting hand she had +withdrawn, and, as he pressed it to his heart, again conjured her to determine +immediately. “Every moment we lose, will make our departure more +dangerous,” said he: “these few moments lost may enable Montoni to +overtake us.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beseech you, sir, be silent,” said Emily faintly: “I am +indeed very wretched, and wretched I must remain. Leave me—I command you, +leave me to my fate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” cried the Count vehemently: “let me perish first! +But forgive my violence! the thought of losing you is madness. You cannot be +ignorant of Montoni’s character, you may be ignorant of his +schemes—nay, you must be so, or you would not hesitate between my love +and his power.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor do I hesitate,” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go, then,” said Morano, eagerly kissing her hand, and +rising, “my carriage waits, below the castle walls.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mistake me, sir,” said Emily. “Allow me to thank you for +the interest you express in my welfare, and to decide by my own choice. I shall +remain under the protection of Signor Montoni.” +</p> + +<p> +“Under his protection!” exclaimed Morano, proudly, “his +<i>protection!</i> Emily, why will you suffer yourself to be thus deluded? I +have already told you what you have to expect from his <i>protection</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“And pardon me, sir, if, in this instance, I doubt mere assertion, and, +to be convinced, require something approaching to proof.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have now neither the time, nor the means of adducing proof,” +replied the Count. +</p> + +<p> +“Nor have I, sir, the inclination to listen to it, if you had.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you trifle with my patience and my distress,” continued +Morano. “Is a marriage with a man, who adores you, so very terrible in +your eyes, that you would prefer to it all the misery, to which Montoni may +condemn you in this remote prison? Some wretch must have stolen those +affections, which ought to be mine, or you would not thus obstinately persist +in refusing an offer, that would place you beyond the reach of +oppression.” Morano walked about the room, with quick steps, and a +disturbed air. +</p> + +<p> +“This discourse, Count Morano, sufficiently proves, that my affections +ought not to be yours,” said Emily, mildly, “and this conduct, that +I should not be placed beyond the reach of oppression, so long as I remained in +your power. If you wish me to believe otherwise, cease to oppress me any longer +by your presence. If you refuse this, you will compel me to expose you to the +resentment of Signor Montoni.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, let him come,” cried Morano furiously, “and brave +<i>my</i> resentment! Let him dare to face once more the man he has so +courageously injured; danger shall teach him morality, and vengeance +justice—let him come, and receive my sword in his heart!” +</p> + +<p> +The vehemence, with which this was uttered, gave Emily new cause of alarm, who +arose from her chair, but her trembling frame refused to support her, and she +resumed her seat;—the words died on her lips, and, when she looked +wistfully towards the door of the corridor, which was locked, she considered it +was impossible for her to leave the apartment, before Morano would be apprised +of, and able to counteract, her intention. +</p> + +<p> +Without observing her agitation, he continued to pace the room in the utmost +perturbation of spirits. His darkened countenance expressed all the rage of +jealousy and revenge; and a person, who had seen his features under the smile +of ineffable tenderness, which he so lately assumed, would now scarcely have +believed them to be the same. +</p> + +<p> +“Count Morano,” said Emily, at length recovering her voice, +“calm, I entreat you, these transports, and listen to reason, if you will +not to pity. You have equally misplaced your love, and your hatred.—I +never could have returned the affection, with which you honour me, and +certainly have never encouraged it; neither has Signor Montoni injured you, for +you must have known, that he had no right to dispose of my hand, had he even +possessed the power to do so. Leave, then, leave the castle, while you may with +safety. Spare yourself the dreadful consequences of an unjust revenge, and the +remorse of having prolonged to me these moments of suffering.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it for mine, or for Montoni’s safety, that you are thus +alarmed?” said Morano, coldly, and turning towards her with a look of +acrimony. +</p> + +<p> +“For both,” replied Emily, in a trembling voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Unjust revenge!” cried the Count, resuming the abrupt tones of +passion. “Who, that looks upon that face, can imagine a punishment +adequate to the injury he would have done me? Yes, I will leave the castle; but +it shall not be alone. I have trifled too long. Since my prayers and my +sufferings cannot prevail, force shall. I have people in waiting, who shall +convey you to my carriage. Your voice will bring no succour; it cannot be heard +from this remote part of the castle; submit, therefore, in silence, to go with +me.” +</p> + +<p> +This was an unnecessary injunction, at present; for Emily was too certain, that +her call would avail her nothing; and terror had so entirely disordered her +thoughts, that she knew not how to plead to Morano, but sat, mute and +trembling, in her chair, till he advanced to lift her from it, when she +suddenly raised herself, and, with a repulsive gesture, and a countenance of +forced serenity, said, “Count Morano! I am now in your power; but you +will observe, that this is not the conduct which can win the esteem you appear +so solicitous to obtain, and that you are preparing for yourself a load of +remorse, in the miseries of a friendless orphan, which can never leave you. Do +you believe your heart to be, indeed, so hardened, that you can look without +emotion on the suffering, to which you would condemn me?—” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was interrupted by the growling of the dog, who now came again from the +bed, and Morano looked towards the door of the staircase, where no person +appearing, he called aloud, “Cesario!” +</p> + +<p> +“Emily,” said the Count, “why will you reduce me to adopt +this conduct? How much more willingly would I persuade, than compel you to +become my wife! but, by Heaven! I will not leave you to be sold by Montoni. Yet +a thought glances across my mind, that brings madness with it. I know not how +to name it. It is preposterous—it cannot be.—Yet you +tremble—you grow pale! It is! it is so;—you—you—love +Montoni!” cried Morano, grasping Emily’s wrist, and stamping his +foot on the floor. +</p> + +<p> +An involuntary air of surprise appeared on her countenance. “If you have +indeed believed so,” said she, “believe so still.” +</p> + +<p> +“That look, those words confirm it,” exclaimed Morano, furiously. +“No, no, no, Montoni had a richer prize in view, than gold. But he shall +not live to triumph over me!—This very instant—” +</p> + +<p> +He was interrupted by the loud barking of the dog. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay, Count Morano,” said Emily, terrified by his words, and by +the fury expressed in his eyes, “I will save you from this +error.—Of all men, Signor Montoni is not your rival; though, if I find +all other means of saving myself vain, I will try whether my voice may not +arouse his servants to my succour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Assertion,” replied Morano, “at such a moment, is not to be +depended upon. How could I suffer myself to doubt, even for an instant, that he +could see you, and not love?—But my first care shall be to convey you +from the castle. Cesario! ho,—Cesario!” +</p> + +<p> +A man now appeared at the door of the staircase, and other steps were heard +ascending. Emily uttered a loud shriek, as Morano hurried her across the +chamber, and, at the same moment, she heard a noise at the door, that opened +upon the corridor. The Count paused an instant, as if his mind was suspended +between love and the desire of vengeance; and, in that instant, the door gave +way, and Montoni, followed by the old steward and several other persons, burst +into the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Draw!” cried Montoni to the Count, who did not pause for a second +bidding, but, giving Emily into the hands of the people, that appeared from the +staircase, turned fiercely round. “This in thine heart, villain!” +said he, as he made a thrust at Montoni with his sword, who parried the blow, +and aimed another, while some of the persons, who had followed him into the +room, endeavoured to part the combatants, and others rescued Emily from the +hands of Morano’s servants. +</p> + +<p> +“Was it for this, Count Morano,” said Montoni, in a cool sarcastic +tone of voice, “that I received you under my roof, and permitted you, +though my declared enemy, to remain under it for the night? Was it, that you +might repay my hospitality with the treachery of a fiend, and rob me of my +niece?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who talks of treachery?” said Morano, in a tone of unrestrained +vehemence. “Let him that does, show an unblushing face of innocence. +Montoni, you are a villain! If there is treachery in this affair, look to +yourself as the author of it. <i>If</i>—do I say? <i>I</i>—whom you +have wronged with unexampled baseness, whom you have injured almost beyond +redress! But why do I use words?—Come on, coward, and receive justice at +my hands!” +</p> + +<p> +“Coward!” cried Montoni, bursting from the people who held him, and +rushing on the Count, when they both retreated into the corridor, where the +fight continued so desperately, that none of the spectators dared approach +them, Montoni swearing, that the first who interfered, should fall by his +sword. +</p> + +<p> +Jealousy and revenge lent all their fury to Morano, while the superior skill +and the temperance of Montoni enabled him to wound his adversary, whom his +servants now attempted to seize, but he would not be restrained, and, +regardless of his wound, continued to fight. He seemed to be insensible both of +pain and loss of blood, and alive only to the energy of his passions. Montoni, +on the contrary, persevered in the combat, with a fierce, yet wary, valour; he +received the point of Morano’s sword on his arm, but, almost in the same +instant, severely wounded and disarmed him. The Count then fell back into the +arms of his servant, while Montoni held his sword over him, and bade him ask +his life. Morano, sinking under the anguish of his wound, had scarcely replied +by a gesture, and by a few words, feebly articulated, that he would +not—when he fainted; and Montoni was then going to have plunged the sword +into his breast, as he lay senseless, but his arm was arrested by Cavigni. To +the interruption he yielded without much difficulty, but his complexion changed +almost to blackness, as he looked upon his fallen adversary, and ordered, that +he should be carried instantly from the castle. +</p> + +<p> +In the mean time, Emily, who had been withheld from leaving the chamber during +the affray, now came forward into the corridor, and pleaded a cause of common +humanity, with the feelings of the warmest benevolence, when she entreated +Montoni to allow Morano the assistance in the castle, which his situation +required. But Montoni, who had seldom listened to pity, now seemed rapacious of +vengeance, and, with a monster’s cruelty, again ordered his defeated +enemy to be taken from the castle, in his present state, though there were only +the woods, or a solitary neighbouring cottage, to shelter him from the night. +</p> + +<p> +The Count’s servants having declared, that they would not move him till +he revived, Montoni’s stood inactive, Cavigni remonstrating, and Emily, +superior to Montoni’s menaces, giving water to Morano, and directing the +attendants to bind up his wound. At length, Montoni had leisure to feel pain +from his own hurt, and he withdrew to examine it. +</p> + +<p> +The Count, meanwhile, having slowly recovered, the first object he saw, on +raising his eyes, was Emily, bending over him with a countenance strongly +expressive of solicitude. He surveyed her with a look of anguish. +</p> + +<p> +“I have deserved this,” said he, “but not from Montoni. It is +from you, Emily, that I have deserved punishment, yet I receive only +pity!” He paused, for he had spoken with difficulty. After a moment, he +proceeded. “I must resign you, but not to Montoni. Forgive me the +sufferings I have already occasioned you! But for <i>that</i> villain—his +infamy shall not go unpunished. Carry me from this place,” said he to his +servants. “I am in no condition to travel: you must, therefore, take me +to the nearest cottage, for I will not pass the night under his roof, although +I may expire on the way from it.” +</p> + +<p> +Cesario proposed to go out, and enquire for a cottage, that might receive his +master, before he attempted to remove him: but Morano was impatient to be gone; +the anguish of his mind seemed to be even greater than that of his wound, and +he rejected, with disdain, the offer of Cavigni to entreat Montoni, that he +might be suffered to pass the night in the castle. Cesario was now going to +call up the carriage to the great gate, but the Count forbade him. “I +cannot bear the motion of a carriage,” said he: “call some others +of my people, that they may assist in bearing me in their arms.” +</p> + +<p> +At length, however, Morano submitted to reason, and consented, that Cesario +should first prepare some cottage to receive him. Emily, now that he had +recovered his senses, was about to withdraw from the corridor, when a message +from Montoni commanded her to do so, and also that the Count, if he was not +already gone, should quit the castle immediately. Indignation flashed from +Morano’s eyes, and flushed his cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell Montoni,” said he, “that I shall go when it suits my +own convenience; that I quit the castle, he dares to call his, as I would the +nest of a serpent, and that this is not the last he shall hear from me. Tell +him, I will not leave <i>another</i> murder on his conscience, if I can help +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Count Morano! do you know what you say?” said Cavigni. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Signor, I know well what I say, and he will understand well what I +mean. His conscience will assist his understanding, on this occasion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Count Morano,” said Verezzi, who had hitherto silently observed +him, “dare again to insult my friend, and I will plunge this sword in +your body.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be an action worthy the friend of a villain!” said +Morano, as the strong impulse of his indignation enabled him to raise himself +from the arms of his servants; but the energy was momentary, and he sunk back, +exhausted by the effort. Montoni’s people, meanwhile, held Verezzi, who +seemed inclined, even in this instant, to execute his threat; and Cavigni, who +was not so depraved as to abet the cowardly malignity of Verezzi, endeavoured +to withdraw him from the corridor; and Emily, whom a compassionate interest had +thus long detained, was now quitting it in new terror, when the supplicating +voice of Morano arrested her, and, by a feeble gesture, he beckoned her to draw +nearer. She advanced with timid steps, but the fainting languor of his +countenance again awakened her pity, and overcame her terror. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going from hence for ever,” said he: “perhaps, I shall +never see you again. I would carry with me your forgiveness, Emily; nay +more—I would also carry your good wishes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have my forgiveness, then,” said Emily, “and my sincere +wishes for your recovery.” +</p> + +<p> +“And only for my recovery?” said Morano, with a sigh. “For +your general welfare,” added Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I ought to be contented with this,” he resumed; “I +certainly have not deserved more; but I would ask you, Emily, sometimes to +think of me, and, forgetting my offence, to remember only the passion which +occasioned it. I would ask, alas! impossibilities: I would ask you to love me! +At this moment, when I am about to part with you, and that, perhaps, for ever, +I am scarcely myself. Emily—may you never know the torture of a passion +like mine! What do I say? O, that, for me, you might be sensible of such a +passion!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily looked impatient to be gone. “I entreat you, Count, to consult your +own safety,” said she, “and linger here no longer. I tremble for +the consequences of Signor Verezzi’s passion, and of Montoni’s +resentment, should he learn that you are still here.” +</p> + +<p> +Morano’s face was overspread with a momentary crimson, his eyes sparkled, +but he seemed endeavouring to conquer his emotion, and replied in a calm voice, +“Since you are interested for my safety, I will regard it, and be gone. +But, before I go, let me again hear you say, that you wish me well,” said +he, fixing on her an earnest and mournful look. +</p> + +<p> +Emily repeated her assurances. He took her hand, which she scarcely attempted +to withdraw, and put it to his lips. “Farewell, Count Morano!” said +Emily; and she turned to go, when a second message arrived from Montoni, and +she again conjured Morano, as he valued his life, to quit the castle +immediately. He regarded her in silence, with a look of fixed despair. But she +had no time to enforce her compassionate entreaties, and, not daring to disobey +the second command of Montoni, she left the corridor, to attend him. +</p> + +<p> +He was in the cedar parlour, that adjoined the great hall, laid upon a couch, +and suffering a degree of anguish from his wound, which few persons could have +disguised, as he did. His countenance, which was stern, but calm, expressed the +dark passion of revenge, but no symptom of pain; bodily pain, indeed, he had +always despised, and had yielded only to the strong and terrible energies of +the soul. He was attended by old Carlo and by Signor Bertolini, but Madame +Montoni was not with him. +</p> + +<p> +Emily trembled, as she approached and received his severe rebuke, for not +having obeyed his first summons; and perceived, also, that he attributed her +stay in the corridor to a motive, that had not even occurred to her artless +mind. +</p> + +<p> +“This is an instance of female caprice,” said he, “which I +ought to have foreseen. Count Morano, whose suit you obstinately rejected, so +long as it was countenanced by me, you favour, it seems, since you find I have +dismissed him.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily looked astonished. “I do not comprehend you, sir,” said she, +“You certainly do not mean to imply, that the design of the Count to +visit the double-chamber, was founded upon any approbation of mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“To that I reply nothing,” said Montoni; “but it must +certainly be a more than common interest, that made you plead so warmly in his +cause, and that could detain you thus long in his presence, contrary to my +express order—in the presence of a man, whom you have hitherto, on all +occasions, most scrupulously shunned!” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear, sir, it was a more than common interest, that detained +me,” said Emily calmly; “for of late I have been inclined to think, +that of compassion is an uncommon one. But how could I, could <i>you</i>, sir, +witness Count Morano’s deplorable condition, and not wish to relieve +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“You add hypocrisy to caprice,” said Montoni, frowning, “and +an attempt at satire, to both; but, before you undertake to regulate the morals +of other persons, you should learn and practise the virtues, which are +indispensable to a woman—sincerity, uniformity of conduct and +obedience.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, who had always endeavoured to regulate her conduct by the nicest laws, +and whose mind was finely sensible, not only of what is just in morals, but of +whatever is beautiful in the female character, was shocked by these words; yet, +in the next moment, her heart swelled with the consciousness of having deserved +praise, instead of censure, and she was proudly silent. Montoni, acquainted +with the delicacy of her mind, knew how keenly she would feel his rebuke; but +he was a stranger to the luxury of conscious worth, and, therefore, did not +foresee the energy of that sentiment, which now repelled his satire. Turning to +a servant who had lately entered the room, he asked whether Morano had quitted +the castle. The man answered, that his servants were then removing him, on a +couch, to a neighbouring cottage. Montoni seemed somewhat appeased, on hearing +this; and, when Ludovico appeared, a few moments after, and said, that Morano +was gone, he told Emily she might retire to her apartment. +</p> + +<p> +She withdrew willingly from his presence; but the thought of passing the +remainder of the night in a chamber, which the door from the staircase made +liable to the intrusion of any person, now alarmed her more than ever, and she +determined to call at Madame Montoni’s room, and request, that Annette +might be permitted to be with her. +</p> + +<p> +On reaching the great gallery, she heard voices seemingly in dispute, and, her +spirits now apt to take alarm, she paused, but soon distinguished some words of +Cavigni and Verezzi, and went towards them, in the hope of conciliating their +difference. They were alone. Verezzi’s face was still flushed with rage; +and, as the first object of it was now removed from him, he appeared willing to +transfer his resentment to Cavigni, who seemed to be expostulating, rather than +disputing, with him. +</p> + +<p> +Verezzi was protesting, that he would instantly inform Montoni of the insult, +which Morano had thrown out against him, and above all, that, wherein he had +accused him of murder. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no answering,” said Cavigni, “for the words of a +man in a passion; little serious regard ought to be paid to them. If you +persist in your resolution, the consequences may be fatal to both. We have now +more serious interests to pursue, than those of a petty revenge.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily joined her entreaties to Cavigni’s arguments, and they, at length, +prevailed so far, as that Verezzi consented to retire, without seeing Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +On calling at her aunt’s apartment, she found it fastened. In a few +minutes, however, it was opened by Madame Montoni herself. +</p> + +<p> +It may be remembered, that it was by a door leading into the bedroom from a +back passage, that Emily had secretly entered a few hours preceding. She now +conjectured, by the calmness of Madame Montoni’s air, that she was not +apprised of the accident, which had befallen her husband, and was beginning to +inform her of it, in the tenderest manner she could, when her aunt interrupted +her, by saying, she was acquainted with the whole affair. +</p> + +<p> +Emily knew indeed, that she had little reason to love Montoni, but could +scarcely have believed her capable of such perfect apathy, as she now +discovered towards him; having obtained permission, however, for Annette to +sleep in her chamber, she went thither immediately. +</p> + +<p> +A track of blood appeared along the corridor, leading to it; and on the spot, +where the Count and Montoni had fought, the whole floor was stained. Emily +shuddered, and leaned on Annette, as she passed. When she reached her +apartment, she instantly determined, since the door of the staircase had been +left open, and that Annette was now with her, to explore whither it +led,—a circumstance now materially connected with her own safety. Annette +accordingly, half curious and half afraid, proposed to descend the stairs; but, +on approaching the door, they perceived, that it was already fastened without, +and their care was then directed to the securing it on the inside also, by +placing against it as much of the heavy furniture of the room, as they could +lift. Emily then retired to bed, and Annette continued on a chair by the +hearth, where some feeble embers remained. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a> CHAPTER VII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Of aery tongues, that syllable men’s names<br/> +On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.<br/> + MILTON +</p> + +<p> +It is now necessary to mention some circumstances, which could not be related +amidst the events of Emily’s hasty departure from Venice, or together +with those, which so rapidly succeeded to her arrival in the castle. +</p> + +<p> +On the morning of her journey, Count Morano had gone at the appointed hour to +the mansion of Montoni, to demand his bride. When he reached it, he was +somewhat surprised by the silence and solitary air of the portico, where +Montoni’s lacqueys usually loitered; but surprise was soon changed to +astonishment, and astonishment to the rage of disappointment, when the door was +opened by an old woman, who told his servants, that her master and his family +had left Venice, early in the morning, for <i>Terra-firma</i>. Scarcely +believing what his servants told, he left his gondola, and rushed into the hall +to enquire further. The old woman, who was the only person left in care of the +mansion, persisted in her story, which the silent and deserted apartments soon +convinced him was no fiction. He then seized her with a menacing air, as if he +meant to wreak all his vengeance upon her, at the same time asking her twenty +questions in a breath, and all these with a gesticulation so furious, that she +was deprived of the power of answering them; then suddenly letting her go, he +stamped about the hall, like a madman, cursing Montoni and his own folly. +</p> + +<p> +When the good woman was at liberty, and had somewhat recovered from her fright, +she told him all she knew of the affair, which was, indeed, very little, but +enough to enable Morano to discover, that Montoni was gone to his castle on the +Apennine. Thither he followed, as soon as his servants could complete the +necessary preparation for the journey, accompanied by a friend, and attended by +a number of his people, determined to obtain Emily, or a full revenge on +Montoni. When his mind had recovered from the first effervescence of rage, and +his thoughts became less obscured, his conscience hinted to him certain +circumstances, which, in some measure, explained the conduct of Montoni: but +how the latter could have been led to suspect an intention, which, he had +believed, was known only to himself, he could not even guess. On this occasion, +however, he had been partly betrayed by that sympathetic intelligence, which +may be said to exist between bad minds, and which teaches one man to judge what +another will do in the same circumstances. Thus it was with Montoni, who had +now received indisputable proof of a truth, which he had some time +suspected—that Morano’s circumstances, instead of being affluent, +as he had been bidden to believe, were greatly involved. Montoni had been +interested in his suit, by motives entirely selfish, those of avarice and +pride; the last of which would have been gratified by an alliance with a +Venetian nobleman, the former by Emily’s estate in Gascony, which he had +stipulated, as the price of his favour, should be delivered up to him from the +day of her marriage. In the meantime, he had been led to suspect the +consequence of the Count’s boundless extravagance; but it was not till +the evening, preceding the intended nuptials, that he obtained certain +information of his distressed circumstances. He did not hesitate then to infer, +that Morano designed to defraud him of Emily’s estate; and in this +supposition he was confirmed, and with apparent reason, by the subsequent +conduct of the Count, who, after having appointed to meet him on that night, +for the purpose of signing the instrument, which was to secure to him his +reward, failed in his engagement. Such a circumstance, indeed, in a man of +Morano’s gay and thoughtless character, and at a time when his mind was +engaged by the bustle of preparation for his nuptials, might have been +attributed to a cause less decisive, than design; but Montoni did not hesitate +an instant to interpret it his own way, and, after vainly waiting the +Count’s arrival, for several hours, he gave orders for his people to be +in readiness to set off at a moment’s notice. By hastening to Udolpho he +intended to remove Emily from the reach of Morano, as well as to break off the +affair, without submitting himself to useless altercation: and, if the Count +meant what he called honourably, he would doubtless follow Emily, and sign the +writings in question. If this was done, so little consideration had Montoni for +her welfare, that he would not have scrupled to sacrifice her to a man of +ruined fortune, since by that means he could enrich himself; and he forbore to +mention to her the motive of his sudden journey, lest the hope it might revive +should render her more intractable, when submission would be required. +</p> + +<p> +With these considerations, he had left Venice; and, with others totally +different, Morano had, soon after, pursued his steps across the rugged +Apennines. When his arrival was announced at the castle, Montoni did not +believe, that he would have presumed to show himself, unless he had meant to +fulfil his engagement, and he, therefore, readily admitted him; but the enraged +countenance and expressions of Morano, as he entered the apartment, instantly +undeceived him; and, when Montoni had explained, in part, the motives of his +abrupt departure from Venice, the Count still persisted in demanding Emily, and +reproaching Montoni, without even naming the former stipulation. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni, at length, weary of the dispute, deferred the settling of it till the +morrow, and Morano retired with some hope, suggested by Montoni’s +apparent indecision. When, however, in the silence of his own apartment, he +began to consider the past conversation, the character of Montoni, and some +former instances of his duplicity, the hope, which he had admitted, vanished, +and he determined not to neglect the present possibility of obtaining Emily by +other means. To his confidential valet he told his design of carrying away +Emily, and sent him back to Montoni’s servants to find out one among +them, who might enable him to execute it. The choice of this person he +entrusted to the fellow’s own discernment, and not imprudently; for he +discovered a man, whom Montoni had, on some former occasion, treated harshly, +and who was now ready to betray him. This man conducted Cesario round the +castle, through a private passage, to the staircase, that led to Emily’s +chamber; then showed him a short way out of the building, and afterwards +procured him the keys, that would secure his retreat. The man was well rewarded +for his trouble; how the Count was rewarded for his treachery, had already +appeared. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, old Carlo had overheard two of Morano’s servants, who had been +ordered to be in waiting with the carriage, beyond the castle walls, expressing +their surprise at their master’s sudden, and secret departure, for the +valet had entrusted them with no more of Morano’s designs, than it was +necessary for them to execute. They, however, indulged themselves in surmises, +and in expressing them to each other; and from these Carlo had drawn a just +conclusion. But, before he ventured to disclose his apprehensions to Montoni, +he endeavoured to obtain further confirmation of them, and, for this purpose, +placed himself, with one of his fellow-servants, at the door of Emily’s +apartment, that opened upon the corridor. He did not watch long in vain, though +the growling of the dog had once nearly betrayed him. When he was convinced, +that Morano was in the room, and had listened long enough to his conversation, +to understand his scheme, he immediately alarmed Montoni, and thus rescued +Emily from the designs of the Count. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni, on the following morning, appeared as usual, except that he wore his +wounded arm in a sling; he went out upon the ramparts; overlooked the men +employed in repairing them; gave orders for additional workmen, and then came +into the castle to give audience to several persons, who were just arrived, and +who were shown into a private apartment, where he communicated with them, for +near an hour. Carlo was then summoned, and ordered to conduct the strangers to +a part of the castle, which, in former times, had been occupied by the upper +servants of the family, and to provide them with every necessary +refreshment.—When he had done this, he was bidden to return to his +master. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, the Count remained in a cottage in the skirts of the woods below, +suffering under bodily and mental pain, and meditating deep revenge against +Montoni. His servant, whom he had dispatched for a surgeon to the nearest town, +which was, however, at a considerable distance, did not return till the +following day, when, his wounds being examined and dressed, the practitioner +refused to deliver any positive opinion, concerning the degree of danger +attending them; but giving his patient a composing draught and ordering him to +be quiet, remained at the cottage to watch the event. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, for the remainder of the late eventful night, had been suffered to +sleep, undisturbed; and, when her mind recovered from the confusion of slumber, +and she remembered, that she was now released from the addresses of Count +Morano, her spirits were suddenly relieved from a part of the terrible anxiety, +that had long oppressed them; that which remained, arose chiefly from a +recollection of Morano’s assertions, concerning the schemes of Montoni. +He had said, that plans of the latter, concerning Emily, were insearchable, yet +that he knew them to be terrible. At the time he uttered this, she almost +believed it to be designed for the purpose of prevailing with her to throw +herself into his protection, and she still thought it might be chiefly so +accounted for; but his assertions had left an impression on her mind, which a +consideration of the character and former conduct of Montoni did not contribute +to efface. She, however, checked her propensity to anticipate evil; and, +determined to enjoy this respite from actual misfortune, tried to dismiss +thought, took her instruments for drawing, and placed herself at a window, to +select into a landscape some features of the scenery without. +</p> + +<p> +As she was thus employed, she saw, walking on the rampart below, the men, who +had so lately arrived at the castle. The sight of strangers surprised her, but +still more, of strangers such as these. There was a singularity in their dress, +and a certain fierceness in their air, that fixed all her attention. She +withdrew from the casement, while they passed, but soon returned to observe +them further. Their figures seemed so well suited to the wildness of the +surrounding objects, that, as they stood surveying the castle, she sketched +them for banditti, amid the mountain-view of her picture, when she had finished +which, she was surprised to observe the spirit of her group. But she had copied +from nature. +</p> + +<p> +Carlo, when he had placed refreshment before these men in the apartment +assigned to them, returned, as he was ordered, to Montoni, who was anxious to +discover by what servant the keys of the castle had been delivered to Morano, +on the preceding night. But this man, though he was too faithful to his master +quietly to see him injured, would not betray a fellow-servant even to justice; +he, therefore, pretended to be ignorant who it was, that had conspired with +Count Morano, and related, as before, that he had only overheard some of the +strangers describing the plot. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni’s suspicions naturally fell upon the porter, whom he ordered now +to attend. Carlo hesitated, and then with slow steps went to seek him. +</p> + +<p> +Barnardine, the porter, denied the accusation with a countenance so steady and +undaunted, that Montoni could scarcely believe him guilty, though he knew not +how to think him innocent. At length, the man was dismissed from his presence, +and, though the real offender, escaped detection. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni then went to his wife’s apartment, whither Emily followed soon +after, but, finding them in high dispute, was instantly leaving the room, when +her aunt called her back, and desired her to stay.—“You shall be a +witness,” said she, “of my opposition. Now, sir, repeat the +command, I have so often refused to obey.” +</p> + +<p> +Montoni turned, with a stern countenance, to Emily, and bade her quit the +apartment, while his wife persisted in desiring, that she would stay. Emily was +eager to escape from this scene of contention, and anxious, also, to serve her +aunt; but she despaired of conciliating Montoni, in whose eyes the rising +tempest of his soul flashed terribly. +</p> + +<p> +“Leave the room,” said he, in a voice of thunder. Emily obeyed, +and, walking down to the rampart, which the strangers had now left, continued +to meditate on the unhappy marriage of her father’s sister, and on her +own desolate situation, occasioned by the ridiculous imprudence of her, whom +she had always wished to respect and love. Madame Montoni’s conduct had, +indeed, rendered it impossible for Emily to do either; but her gentle heart was +touched by her distress, and, in the pity thus awakened, she forgot the +injurious treatment she had received from her. +</p> + +<p> +As she sauntered on the rampart, Annette appeared at the hall door, looked +cautiously round, and then advanced to meet her. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear ma’amselle, I have been looking for you all over the +castle,” said she. “If you will step this way, I will show you a +picture.” +</p> + +<p> +“A picture!” exclaimed Emily, and shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’am, a picture of the late lady of this place. Old Carlo +just now told me it was her, and I thought you would be curious to see it. As +to my lady, you know, ma’amselle, one cannot talk about such things to +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so,” said Emily smilingly, “as you must talk of them to +somebody—” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes, ma’amselle; what can one do in such a place as this, if +one must not talk? If I was in a dungeon, if they would let me talk—it +would be some comfort; nay, I would talk, if it was only to the walls. But +come, ma’amselle, we lose time—let me show you the picture.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it veiled?” said Emily, pausing. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear ma’amselle!” said Annette, fixing her eyes on +Emily’s face, “what makes you look so pale?—are you +ill?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Annette, I am well enough, but I have no desire to see this picture; +return into the hall.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! ma’am, not to see the lady of this castle?” said the +girl; “the lady, who disappeared to strangely? Well! now, I would have +run to the furthest mountain we can see, yonder, to have got a sight of such a +picture; and, to speak my mind, that strange story is all, that makes me care +about this old castle, though it makes me thrill all over, as it were, whenever +I think of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Annette, you love the wonderful; but do you know, that, unless you +guard against this inclination, it will lead you into all the misery of +superstition?” +</p> + +<p> +Annette might have smiled in her turn, at this sage observation of Emily, who +could tremble with ideal terrors, as much as herself, and listen almost as +eagerly to the recital of a mysterious story. Annette urged her request. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure it is a picture?” said Emily, “Have you seen +it?—Is it veiled?” +</p> + +<p> +“Holy Maria! ma’amselle, yes, no, yes. I am sure it is a +picture—I have seen it, and it is not veiled!” +</p> + +<p> +The tone and look of surprise, with which this was uttered, recalled +Emily’s prudence; who concealed her emotion under a smile, and bade +Annette lead her to the picture. It was in an obscure chamber, adjoining that +part of the castle, allotted to the servants. Several other portraits hung on +the walls, covered, like this, with dust and cobweb. +</p> + +<p> +“That is it, ma’amselle,” said Annette, in a low voice, and +pointing. Emily advanced, and surveyed the picture. It represented a lady in +the flower of youth and beauty; her features were handsome and noble, full of +strong expression, but had little of the captivating sweetness, that Emily had +looked for, and still less of the pensive mildness she loved. It was a +countenance, which spoke the language of passion, rather than that of +sentiment; a haughty impatience of misfortune—not the placid melancholy +of a spirit injured, yet resigned. +</p> + +<p> +“How many years have passed, since this lady disappeared, Annette?” +said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty years, ma’amselle, or thereabout, as they tell me; I know +it is a long while ago.” Emily continued to gaze upon the portrait. +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” resumed Annette, “the Signor would do well to hang +it in a better place, than this old chamber. Now, in my mind, he ought to place +the picture of a lady, who gave him all these riches, in the handsomest room in +the castle. But he may have good reasons for what he does: and some people do +say that he has lost his riches, as well as his gratitude. But hush, +ma’am, not a word!” added Annette, laying her finger on her lips. +Emily was too much absorbed in thought, to hear what she said. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis a handsome lady, I am sure,” continued Annette: +“the Signor need not be ashamed to put her in the great apartment, where +the veiled picture hangs.” Emily turned round. “But for that +matter, she would be as little seen there, as here, for the door is always +locked, I find.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us leave this chamber,” said Emily: “and let me caution +you again, Annette; be guarded in your conversation, and never tell, that you +know anything of that picture.” +</p> + +<p> +“Holy Mother!” exclaimed Annette, “it is no secret; why all +the servants have seen it already!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily started. “How is this?” said she—“Have seen it! +When?—how?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear, ma’amselle, there is nothing surprising in that; we had all +a little more <i>curiousness</i> than you had.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you told me, the door was kept locked?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“If that was the case, ma’amselle,” replied Annette, looking +about her, “how could we get here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you mean <i>this</i> picture,” said Emily, with returning +calmness. “Well, Annette, here is nothing more to engage my attention; we +will go.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, as she passed to her own apartment, saw Montoni go down to the hall, and +she turned into her aunt’s dressing-room, whom she found weeping and +alone, grief and resentment struggling on her countenance. Pride had hitherto +restrained complaint. Judging of Emily’s disposition from her own, and +from a consciousness of what her treatment of her deserved, she had believed, +that her griefs would be cause of triumph to her niece, rather than of +sympathy; that she would despise, not pity her. But she knew not the tenderness +and benevolence of Emily’s heart, that had always taught her to forget +her own injuries in the misfortunes of her enemy. The sufferings of others, +whoever they might be, called forth her ready compassion, which dissipated at +once every obscuring cloud to goodness, that passion or prejudice might have +raised in her mind. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Montoni’s sufferings, at length, rose above her pride, and, when +Emily had before entered the room, she would have told them all, had not her +husband prevented her; now that she was no longer restrained by his presence, +she poured forth all her complaints to her niece. +</p> + +<p> +“O Emily!” she exclaimed, “I am the most wretched of +women—I am indeed cruelly treated! Who, with my prospects of happiness, +could have foreseen such a wretched fate as this?—who could have thought, +when I married such a man as the Signor, I should ever have to bewail my lot? +But there is no judging what is for the best—there is no knowing what is +for our good! The most flattering prospects often change—the best +judgments may be deceived—who could have foreseen, when I married the +Signor, that I should ever repent my <i>generosity?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +Emily thought she might have foreseen it, but this was not a thought of +triumph. She placed herself in a chair near her aunt, took her hand, and, with +one of those looks of soft compassion, which might characterise the countenance +of a guardian angel, spoke to her in the tenderest accents. But these did not +sooth Madame Montoni, whom impatience to talk made unwilling to listen. She +wanted to complain, not to be consoled; and it was by exclamations of complaint +only, that Emily learned the particular circumstances of her affliction. +</p> + +<p> +“Ungrateful man!” said Madame Montoni, “he has deceived me in +every respect; and now he has taken me from my country and friends, to shut me +up in this old castle; and, here he thinks he can compel me to do whatever he +designs! But he shall find himself mistaken, he shall find that no threats can +alter—But who would have believed! who would have supposed, that a man of +his family and apparent wealth had absolutely no fortune?—no, scarcely a +sequin of his own! I did all for the best; I thought he was a man of +consequence, of great property, or I am sure I would never have married +him,—ungrateful, artful man!” She paused to take breath. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Madam, be composed,” said Emily: “the Signor may not be +so rich as you had reason to expect, but surely he cannot be very poor, since +this castle and the mansion at Venice are his. May I ask what are the +circumstances, that particularly affect you?” +</p> + +<p> +“What are the circumstances!” exclaimed Madame Montoni with +resentment: “why is it not sufficient, that he had long ago ruined his +own fortune by play, and that he has since lost what I brought him—and +that now he would compel me to sign away my settlement (it was well I had the +chief of my property settled on myself!) that he may lose this also, or throw +it away in wild schemes, which nobody can understand but himself? And, +and—is not all this sufficient?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is, indeed,” said Emily, “but you must recollect, dear +madam, that I knew nothing of all this.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and is it not sufficient,” rejoined her aunt, “that he +is also absolutely ruined, that he is sunk deeply in debt, and that neither +this castle, nor the mansion at Venice, is his own, if all his debts, +honourable and dishonourable, were paid!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am shocked by what you tell me, madam,” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“And is it not enough,” interrupted Madame Montoni, “that he +has treated me with neglect, with cruelty, because I refused to relinquish my +settlements, and, instead of being frightened by his menaces, resolutely defied +him, and upbraided him with his shameful conduct? But I bore all +meekly,—you know, niece, I never uttered a word of complaint, till now; +no! That such a disposition as mine should be so imposed upon! That I, whose +only faults are too much kindness, too much generosity, should be chained for +life to such a vile, deceitful, cruel monster!” +</p> + +<p> +Want of breath compelled Madame Montoni to stop. If anything could have made +Emily smile in these moments, it would have been this speech of her aunt, +delivered in a voice very little below a scream, and with a vehemence of +gesticulation and of countenance, that turned the whole into burlesque. Emily +saw, that her misfortunes did not admit of real consolation, and, contemning +the commonplace terms of superficial comfort, she was silent; while Madame +Montoni, jealous of her own consequence, mistook this for the silence of +indifference, or of contempt, and reproached her with want of duty and feeling. +</p> + +<p> +“O! I suspected what all this boasted sensibility would prove to +be!” rejoined she; “I thought it would not teach you to feel either +duty, or affection, for your relations, who have treated you like their own +daughter!” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, madam,” said Emily, mildly, “it is not natural to +me to boast, and if it was, I am sure I would not boast of sensibility—a +quality, perhaps, more to be feared, than desired.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, niece, I will not dispute with you. But, as I said, Montoni +threatens me with violence, if I any longer refuse to sign away my settlements, +and this was the subject of our contest, when you came into the room before. +Now, I am determined no power on earth shall make me do this. Neither will I +bear all this tamely. He shall hear his true character from me; I will tell him +all he deserves, in spite of his threats and cruel treatment.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily seized a pause of Madame Montoni’s voice, to speak. “Dear +madam,” said she, “but will not this serve to irritate the Signor +unnecessarily? will it not provoke the harsh treatment you dread?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not care,” replied Madame Montoni, “it does not +signify: I will not submit to such usage. You would have me give up my +settlements, too, I suppose!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, madam, I do not exactly mean that.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it you do mean then?” +</p> + +<p> +“You spoke of reproaching the Signor,”—said Emily, with +hesitation. “Why, does he not deserve reproaches?” said her aunt. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly he does; but will it be prudent in you, madam, to make +them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Prudent!” exclaimed Madame Montoni. “Is this a time to talk +of prudence, when one is threatened with all sorts of violence?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is to avoid that violence, that prudence is necessary.” said +Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Of prudence!” continued Madame Montoni, without attending to her, +“of prudence towards a man, who does not scruple to break all the common +ties of humanity in his conduct to me! And is it for me to consider prudence in +my behaviour towards him! I am not so mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is for your own sake, not for the Signor’s, madam,” said +Emily modestly, “that you should consult prudence. Your reproaches, +however just, cannot punish him, but they may provoke him to further violence +against you.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! would you have me submit, then, to whatever he +commands—would you have me kneel down at his feet, and thank him for his +cruelties? Would you have me give up my settlements?” +</p> + +<p> +“How much you mistake me, madam!” said Emily, “I am unequal +to advise you on a point so important as the last: but you will pardon me for +saying, that, if you consult your own peace, you will try to conciliate Signor +Montoni, rather than to irritate him by reproaches.” +</p> + +<p> +“Conciliate indeed! I tell you, niece, it is utterly impossible; I +disdain to attempt it.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was shocked to observe the perverted understanding and obstinate temper +of Madame Montoni; but, not less grieved for her sufferings, she looked round +for some alleviating circumstance to offer her. “Your situation is, +perhaps, not so desperate, dear madam,” said Emily, “as you may +imagine. The Signor may represent his affairs to be worse than they are, for +the purpose of pleading a stronger necessity for his possession of your +settlement. Besides, so long as you keep this, you may look forward to it as a +resource, at least, that will afford you a competence, should the +Signor’s future conduct compel you to sue for separation.” +</p> + +<p> +Madame Montoni impatiently interrupted her. “Unfeeling, cruel +girl!” said she, “and so you would persuade me, that I have no +reason to complain; that the Signor is in very flourishing circumstances, that +my future prospects promise nothing but comfort, and that my griefs are as +fanciful and romantic as your own! Is it the way to console me, to endeavour to +persuade me out of my senses and my feelings, because you happen to have no +feelings yourself? I thought I was opening my heart to a person, who could +sympathise in my distress, but I find, that your people of sensibility can feel +for nobody but themselves! You may retire to your chamber.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, without replying, immediately left the room, with a mingled emotion of +pity and contempt, and hastened to her own, where she yielded to the mournful +reflections, which a knowledge of her aunt’s situation had occasioned. +The conversation of the Italian with Valancourt, in France, again occurred to +her. His hints, respecting the broken fortunes of Montoni, were now completely +justified; those, also, concerning his character, appeared not less so, though +the particular circumstances, connected with his fame, to which the stranger +had alluded, yet remained to be explained. Notwithstanding, that her own +observations and the words of Count Morano had convinced her, that +Montoni’s situation was not what it formerly appeared to be, the +intelligence she had just received from her aunt on this point, struck her with +all the force of astonishment, which was not weakened, when she considered the +present style of Montoni’s living, the number of servants he maintained, +and the new expences he was incurring, by repairing and fortifying his castle. +Her anxiety for her aunt and for herself increased with reflection. Several +assertions of Morano, which, on the preceding night, she had believed were +prompted either by interest, or by resentment, now returned to her mind with +the strength of truth. She could not doubt, that Montoni had formerly agreed to +give her to the Count, for a pecuniary reward;—his character, and his +distressed circumstances justified the belief; these, also, seemed to confirm +Morano’s assertion, that he now designed to dispose of her, more +advantageously for himself, to a richer suitor. +</p> + +<p> +Amidst the reproaches, which Morano had thrown out against Montoni, he had +said—he would not quit the castle <i>he dared to call his</i>, nor +willingly leave <i>another</i> murder on his conscience—hints, which +might have no other origin than the passion of the moment: but Emily was now +inclined to account for them more seriously, and she shuddered to think, that +she was in the hands of a man, to whom it was even possible they could apply. +At length, considering, that reflection could neither release her from her +melancholy situation, nor enable her to bear it with greater fortitude, she +tried to divert her anxiety, and took down from her little library a volume of +her favourite Ariosto; but his wild imagery and rich invention could not long +enchant her attention; his spells did not reach her heart, and over her +sleeping fancy they played, without awakening it. +</p> + +<p> +She now put aside the book, and took her lute, for it was seldom that her +sufferings refused to yield to the magic of sweet sounds; when they did so, she +was oppressed by sorrow, that came from excess of tenderness and regret; and +there were times, when music had increased such sorrow to a degree, that was +scarcely endurable; when, if it had not suddenly ceased, she might have lost +her reason. Such was the time, when she mourned for her father, and heard the +midnight strains, that floated by her window near the convent in Languedoc, on +the night that followed his death. +</p> + +<p> +She continued to play, till Annette brought dinner into her chamber, at which +Emily was surprised, and enquired whose order she obeyed. “My +lady’s, ma’amselle,” replied Annette: “the Signor +ordered her dinner to be carried to her own apartment, and so she has sent you +yours. There have been sad doings between them, worse than ever, I +think.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, not appearing to notice what she said, sat down to the little table, +that was spread for her. But Annette was not to be silenced thus easily. While +she waited, she told of the arrival of the men, whom Emily had observed on the +ramparts, and expressed much surprise at their strange appearance, as well as +at the manner, in which they had been attended by Montoni’s order. +“Do they dine with the Signor, then?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“No, ma’amselle, they dined long ago, in an apartment at the north +end of the castle, but I know not when they are to go, for the Signor told old +Carlo to see them provided with everything necessary. They have been walking +all about the castle, and asking questions of the workmen on the ramparts. I +never saw such strange-looking men in my life; I am frightened whenever I see +them.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily enquired, if she had heard of Count Morano, and whether he was likely to +recover: but Annette only knew, that he was lodged in a cottage in the wood +below, and that everybody said he must die. Emily’s countenance +discovered her emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear ma’amselle,” said Annette, “to see how young +ladies will disguise themselves, when they are in love! I thought you hated the +Count, or I am sure I would not have told you; and I am sure you have cause +enough to hate him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope I hate nobody,” replied Emily, trying to smile; “but +certainly I do not love Count Morano. I should be shocked to hear of any person +dying by violent means.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’amselle, but it is his own fault.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily looked displeased; and Annette, mistaking the cause of her displeasure, +immediately began to excuse the Count, in her way. “To be sure, it was +very ungenteel behaviour,” said she, “to break into a lady’s +room, and then, when he found his discoursing was not agreeable to her, to +refuse to go; and then, when the gentleman of the castle comes to desire him to +walk about his business—to turn round, and draw his sword, and swear +he’ll run him through the body! To be sure it was very ungenteel +behaviour, but then he was disguised in love, and so did not know what he was +about.” +</p> + +<p> +“Enough of this,” said Emily, who now smiled without an effort; and +Annette returned to a mention of the disagreement between Montoni, and her +lady. “It is nothing new,” said she: “we saw and heard enough +of this at Venice, though I never told you of it, ma’amselle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Annette, it was very prudent of you not to mention it then: be as +prudent now; the subject is an unpleasant one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah dear, ma’amselle!—to see now how considerate you can be +about some folks, who care so little about you! I cannot bear to see you so +deceived, and I must tell you. But it is all for your own good, and not to +spite my lady, though, to speak truth, I have little reason to love her; +but—” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not speaking thus of my aunt, I hope, Annette?” said +Emily, gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’amselle, but I am, though; and if you knew as much as I +do, you would not look so angry. I have often, and often, heard the Signor and +her talking over your marriage with the Count, and she always advised him never +to give up to your foolish whims, as she was pleased to call them, but to be +resolute, and compel you to be obedient, whether you would, or no. And I am +sure, my heart has ached a thousand times, and I have thought, when she was so +unhappy herself, she might have felt a little for other people, +and—” +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you for your pity, Annette,” said Emily, interrupting her: +“but my aunt was unhappy then, and that disturbed her temper perhaps, or +I think—I am sure—You may take away, Annette, I have done.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear ma’amselle, you have eat nothing at all! Do try, and take a +little bit more. Disturbed her temper truly! why, her temper is always +disturbed, I think. And at Thoulouse I have heard my lady talking of you and +Mons. Valancourt to Madame Merveille and Madame Vaison, often and often, in a +very ill-natured way, as I thought, telling them what a deal of trouble she had +to keep you in order, and what a fatigue and distress it was to her, and that +she believed you would run away with Mons. Valancourt, if she was not to watch +you closely; and that you connived at his coming about the house at night, +and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, blushing deeply, “it is surely +impossible my aunt could thus have represented me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, ma’am, I say nothing more than the truth, and not all of +that. But I thought, myself, she might have found something better to discourse +about, than the faults of her own niece, even if you had been in fault, +ma’amselle; but I did not believe a word of what she said. But my lady +does not care what she says against anybody, for that matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“However that may be, Annette,” interrupted Emily, recovering her +composure, “it does not become you to speak of the faults of my aunt to +me. I know you have meant well, but—say no more.—I have quite +dined.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette blushed, looked down, and then began slowly to clear the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this, then, the reward of my ingenuousness?” said Emily, when +she was alone; “the treatment I am to receive from a relation—an +aunt—who ought to have been the guardian, not the slanderer of my +reputation,—who, as a woman, ought to have respected the delicacy of +female honour, and, as a relation, should have protected mine! But, to utter +falsehoods on so nice a subject—to repay the openness, and, I may say +with honest pride, the propriety of my conduct, with slanders—required a +depravity of heart, such as I could scarcely have believed existed, such as I +weep to find in a relation. O! what a contrast does her character present to +that of my beloved father; while envy and low cunning form the chief traits of +hers, his was distinguished by benevolence and philosophic wisdom! But now, let +me only remember, if possible, that she is unfortunate.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily threw her veil over her, and went down to walk upon the ramparts, the +only walk, indeed, which was open to her, though she often wished, that she +might be permitted to ramble among the woods below, and still more, that she +might sometimes explore the sublime scenes of the surrounding country. But, as +Montoni would not suffer her to pass the gates of the castle, she tried to be +contented with the romantic views she beheld from the walls. The peasants, who +had been employed on the fortifications, had left their work, and the ramparts +were silent and solitary. Their lonely appearance, together with the gloom of a +lowering sky, assisted the musings of her mind, and threw over it a kind of +melancholy tranquillity, such as she often loved to indulge. She turned to +observe a fine effect of the sun, as his rays, suddenly streaming from behind a +heavy cloud, lighted up the west towers of the castle, while the rest of the +edifice was in deep shade, except, that, through a lofty gothic arch, adjoining +the tower, which led to another terrace, the beams darted in full splendour, +and showed the three strangers she had observed in the morning. Perceiving +them, she started, and a momentary fear came over her, as she looked up the +long rampart, and saw no other persons. While she hesitated, they approached. +The gate at the end of the terrace, whither they were advancing, she knew, was +always locked, and she could not depart by the opposite extremity, without +meeting them; but, before she passed them, she hastily drew a thin veil over +her face, which did, indeed, but ill conceal her beauty. They looked earnestly +at her, and spoke to each other in bad Italian, of which she caught only a few +words; but the fierceness of their countenances, now that she was near enough +to discriminate them, struck her yet more than the wild singularity of their +air and dress had formerly done. It was the countenance and figure of him, who +walked between the other two, that chiefly seized her attention, which +expressed a sullen haughtiness and a kind of dark watchful villany, that gave a +thrill of horror to her heart. All this was so legibly written on his features, +as to be seen by a single glance, for she passed the group swiftly, and her +timid eyes scarcely rested on them a moment. Having reached the terrace, she +stopped, and perceived the strangers standing in the shadow of one of the +turrets, gazing after her, and seemingly, by their action, in earnest +conversation. She immediately left the rampart, and retired to her apartment. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, Montoni sat late, carousing with his guests in the cedar +chamber. His recent triumph over Count Morano, or, perhaps, some other +circumstance, contributed to elevate his spirits to an unusual height. He +filled the goblet often, and gave a loose to merriment and talk. The gaiety of +Cavigni, on the contrary, was somewhat clouded by anxiety. He kept a watchful +eye upon Verezzi, whom, with the utmost difficulty, he had hitherto restrained +from exasperating Montoni further against Morano, by a mention of his late +taunting words. +</p> + +<p> +One of the company exultingly recurred to the event of the preceding evening. +Verezzi’s eyes sparkled. The mention of Morano led to that of Emily, of +whom they were all profuse in the praise, except Montoni, who sat silent, and +then interrupted the subject. +</p> + +<p> +When the servants had withdrawn, Montoni and his friends entered into close +conversation, which was sometimes checked by the irascible temper of Verezzi, +but in which Montoni displayed his conscious superiority, by that decisive look +and manner, which always accompanied the vigour of his thought, and to which +most of his companions submitted, as to a power, that they had no right to +question, though of each other’s self-importance they were jealously +scrupulous. Amidst this conversation, one of them imprudently introduced again +the name of Morano; and Verezzi, now more heated by wine, disregarded the +expressive looks of Cavigni, and gave some dark hints of what had passed on the +preceding night. These, however, Montoni did not appear to understand, for he +continued silent in his chair, without discovering any emotion, while, the +choler of Verezzi increasing with the apparent insensibility of Montoni, he at +length told the suggestion of Morano, that this castle did not lawfully belong +to him, and that he would not willingly leave another murder on his conscience. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I to be insulted at my own table, and by my own friends?” said +Montoni, with a countenance pale in anger. “Why are the words of that +madman repeated to me?” Verezzi, who had expected to hear Montoni’s +indignation poured forth against Morano, and answered by thanks to himself, +looked with astonishment at Cavigni, who enjoyed his confusion. “Can you +be weak enough to credit the assertions of a madman?” rejoined Montoni, +“or, what is the same thing, a man possessed by the spirit of vengeance? +But he has succeeded too well; you believe what he said.” +</p> + +<p> +“Signor,” said Verezzi, “we believe only what we +know.”—“How!” interrupted Montoni, sternly: +“produce your proof.” +</p> + +<p> +“We believe only what we know,” repeated Verezzi, “and we +know nothing of what Morano asserts.” Montoni seemed to recover himself. +“I am hasty, my friends,” said he, “with respect to my +honour; no man shall question it with impunity—you did not mean to +question it. These foolish words are not worth your remembrance, or my +resentment. Verezzi, here is to your first exploit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Success to your first exploit,” re-echoed the whole company. +</p> + +<p> +“Noble Signor,” replied Verezzi, glad to find he had escaped +Montoni’s resentment, “with my good will, you shall build your +ramparts of gold.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pass the goblet,” cried Montoni. “We will drink to Signora +St. Aubert,” said Cavigni. “By your leave we will first drink to +the lady of the castle.” said Bertolini.—Montoni was silent. +“To the lady of the castle,” said his guests. He bowed his head. +</p> + +<p> +“It much surprises me, Signor,” said Bertolini, “that you +have so long neglected this castle; it is a noble edifice.” +</p> + +<p> +“It suits our purpose,” replied Montoni, “and <i>is</i> a +noble edifice. You know not, it seems, by what mischance it came to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was a lucky mischance, be it what it may, Signor,” replied +Bertolini, smiling. “I would, that one so lucky had befallen me.” +</p> + +<p> +Montoni looked gravely at him. “If you will attend to what I say,” +he resumed, “you shall hear the story.” +</p> + +<p> +The countenances of Bertolini and Verezzi expressed something more than +curiosity; Cavigni, who seemed to feel none, had probably heard the relation +before. +</p> + +<p> +“It is now near twenty years,” said Montoni, “since this +castle came into my possession. I inherit it by the female line. The lady, my +predecessor, was only distantly related to me; I am the last of her family. She +was beautiful and rich; I wooed her; but her heart was fixed upon another, and +she rejected me. It is probable, however, that she was herself rejected of the +person, whoever he might be, on whom she bestowed her favour, for a deep and +settled melancholy took possession of her; and I have reason to believe she put +a period to her own life. I was not at the castle at the time; but, as there +are some singular and mysterious circumstances attending that event, I shall +repeat them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Repeat them!” said a voice. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni was silent; the guests looked at each other, to know who spoke; but +they perceived, that each was making the same enquiry. Montoni, at length, +recovered himself. “We are overheard,” said he: “we will +finish this subject another time. Pass the goblet.” +</p> + +<p> +The cavaliers looked round the wide chamber. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is no person, but ourselves,” said Verezzi: “pray, +Signor, proceed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you hear anything?” said Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +“We did,” said Bertolini. +</p> + +<p> +“It could be only fancy,” said Verezzi, looking round again. +“We see no person besides ourselves; and the sound I thought I heard +seemed within the room. Pray, Signor, go on.” +</p> + +<p> +Montoni paused a moment, and then proceeded in a lowered voice, while the +cavaliers drew nearer to attend. +</p> + +<p> +“Ye are to know, Signors, that the Lady Laurentini had for some months +shown symptoms of a dejected mind, nay, of a disturbed imagination. Her mood +was very unequal; sometimes she was sunk in calm melancholy, and, at others, as +I have been told, she betrayed all the symptoms of frantic madness. It was one +night in the month of October, after she had recovered from one of those fits +of excess, and had sunk again into her usual melancholy, that she retired alone +to her chamber, and forbade all interruption. It was the chamber at the end of +the corridor, Signors, where we had the affray, last night. From that hour, she +was seen no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“How! seen no more!” said Bertolini, “was not her body found +in the chamber?” +</p> + +<p> +“Were her remains never found?” cried the rest of the company all +together. +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” replied Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +“What reasons were there to suppose she destroyed herself, then?” +said Bertolini.—“Aye, what reasons?” said +Verezzi.—“How happened it, that her remains were never found? +Although she killed herself, she could not bury herself.” Montoni looked +indignantly at Verezzi, who began to apologise. +</p> + +<p> +“Your pardon, Signor,” said he: “I did not consider, that the +lady was your relative, when I spoke of her so lightly.” +</p> + +<p> +Montoni accepted the apology. +</p> + +<p> +“But the Signor will oblige us with the reasons, which urged him to +believe, that the lady committed suicide.” +</p> + +<p> +“Those I will explain hereafter,” said Montoni: “at present +let me relate a most extraordinary circumstance. This conversation goes no +further, Signors. Listen, then, to what I am going to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen!” said a voice. +</p> + +<p> +They were all again silent, and the countenance of Montoni changed. “This +is no illusion of the fancy,” said Cavigni, at length breaking the +profound silence.—“No,” said Bertolini; “I heard it +myself, now. Yet here is no person in the room but ourselves!” +</p> + +<p> +“This is very extraordinary,” said Montoni, suddenly rising. +“This is not to be borne; here is some deception, some trick. I will know +what it means.” +</p> + +<p> +All the company rose from their chairs in confusion. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very odd!” said Bertolini. “Here is really no stranger +in the room. If it is a trick, Signor, you will do well to punish the author of +it severely.” +</p> + +<p> +“A trick! what else can it be?” said Cavigni, affecting a laugh. +</p> + +<p> +The servants were now summoned, and the chamber was searched, but no person was +found. The surprise and consternation of the company increased. Montoni was +discomposed. “We will leave this room,” said he, “and the +subject of our conversation also; it is too solemn.” His guests were +equally ready to quit the apartment; but the subject had roused their +curiosity, and they entreated Montoni to withdraw to another chamber, and +finish it; no entreaties could, however, prevail with him. Notwithstanding his +efforts to appear at ease, he was visibly and greatly disordered. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Signor, you are not superstitious,” cried Verezzi, jeeringly; +“you, who have so often laughed at the credulity of others!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not superstitious,” replied Montoni, regarding him with stern +displeasure, “though I know how to despise the common-place sentences, +which are frequently uttered against superstition. I will enquire further into +this affair.” He then left the room; and his guests, separating for the +night, retired to their respective apartments. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a> CHAPTER VIII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +He wears the rose of youth upon his cheek.<br/> + SHAKESPEARE +</p> + +<p> +We now return to Valancourt, who, it may be remembered, remained at Thoulouse, +some time after the departure of Emily, restless and miserable. Each morrow +that approached, he designed should carry him from thence; yet tomorrow and +tomorrow came, and still saw him lingering in the scene of his former +happiness. He could not immediately tear himself from the spot, where he had +been accustomed to converse with Emily, or from the objects they had viewed +together, which appeared to him memorials of her affection, as well as a kind +of surety for its faithfulness; and, next to the pain of bidding her adieu, was +that of leaving the scenes which so powerfully awakened her image. Sometimes he +had bribed a servant, who had been left in the care of Madame Montoni’s +château, to permit him to visit the gardens, and there he would wander, for +hours together, rapt in a melancholy, not unpleasing. The terrace, and the +pavilion at the end of it, where he had taken leave of Emily, on the eve of her +departure from Thoulouse, were his most favourite haunts. There, as he walked, +or leaned from the window of the building, he would endeavour to recollect all +she had said, on that night; to catch the tones of her voice, as they faintly +vibrated on his memory, and to remember the exact expression of her +countenance, which sometimes came suddenly to his fancy, like a vision; that +beautiful countenance, which awakened, as by instantaneous magic, all the +tenderness of his heart, and seemed to tell with irresistible +eloquence—that he had lost her for ever! At these moments, his hurried +steps would have discovered to a spectator the despair of his heart. The +character of Montoni, such as he had received from hints, and such as his fears +represented it, would rise to his view, together with all the dangers it seemed +to threaten to Emily and to his love. He blamed himself, that he had not urged +these more forcibly to her, while it might have been in his power to detain +her, and that he had suffered an absurd and criminal delicacy, as he termed it, +to conquer so soon the reasonable arguments he had opposed to this journey. Any +evil, that might have attended their marriage, seemed so inferior to those, +which now threatened their love, or even to the sufferings, that absence +occasioned, that he wondered how he could have ceased to urge his suit, till he +had convinced her of its propriety; and he would certainly now have followed +her to Italy, if he could have been spared from his regiment for so long a +journey. His regiment, indeed, soon reminded him, that he had other duties to +attend, than those of love. +</p> + +<p> +A short time after his arrival at his brother’s house, he was summoned to +join his brother officers, and he accompanied a battalion to Paris; where a +scene of novelty and gaiety opened upon him, such as, till then, he had only a +faint idea of. But gaiety disgusted, and company fatigued, his sick mind; and +he became an object of unceasing raillery to his companions, from whom, +whenever he could steal an opportunity, he escaped, to think of Emily. The +scenes around him, however, and the company with whom he was obliged to mingle, +engaged his attention, though they failed to amuse his fancy, and thus +gradually weakened the habit of yielding to lamentation, till it appeared less +a duty to his love to indulge it. Among his brother-officers were many, who +added to the ordinary character of a French soldier’s gaiety some of +those fascinating qualities, which too frequently throw a veil over folly, and +sometimes even soften the features of vice into smiles. To these men the +reserved and thoughtful manners of Valancourt were a kind of tacit censure on +their own, for which they rallied him when present, and plotted against him +when absent; they gloried in the thought of reducing him to their own level, +and, considering it to be a spirited frolic, determined to accomplish it. +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt was a stranger to the gradual progress of scheme and intrigue, +against which he could not be on his guard. He had not been accustomed to +receive ridicule, and he could ill endure its sting; he resented it, and this +only drew upon him a louder laugh. To escape from such scenes, he fled into +solitude, and there the image of Emily met him, and revived the pangs of love +and despair. He then sought to renew those tasteful studies, which had been the +delight of his early years; but his mind had lost the tranquillity, which is +necessary for their enjoyment. To forget himself and the grief and anxiety, +which the idea of her recalled, he would quit his solitude, and again mingle in +the crowd—glad of a temporary relief, and rejoicing to snatch amusement +for the moment. +</p> + +<p> +Thus passed weeks after weeks, time gradually softening his sorrow, and habit +strengthening his desire of amusement, till the scenes around him seemed to +awaken into a new character, and Valancourt, to have fallen among them from the +clouds. +</p> + +<p> +His figure and address made him a welcome visitor, wherever he had been +introduced, and he soon frequented the most gay and fashionable circles of +Paris. Among these, was the assembly of the Countess Lacleur, a woman of +eminent beauty and captivating manners. She had passed the spring of youth, but +her wit prolonged the triumph of its reign, and they mutually assisted the fame +of each other; for those, who were charmed by her loveliness, spoke with +enthusiasm of her talents; and others, who admired her playful imagination, +declared, that her personal graces were unrivalled. But her imagination was +merely playful, and her wit, if such it could be called, was brilliant, rather +than just; it dazzled, and its fallacy escaped the detection of the moment; for +the accents, in which she pronounced it, and the smile, that accompanied them, +were a spell upon the judgment of the auditors. Her <i>petits soupers</i> were +the most tasteful of any in Paris, and were frequented by many of the second +class of literati. She was fond of music, was herself a scientific performer, +and had frequently concerts at her house. Valancourt, who passionately loved +music, and who sometimes assisted at these concerts, admired her execution, but +remembered with a sigh the eloquent simplicity of Emily’s songs and the +natural expression of her manner, which waited not to be approved by the +judgment, but found their way at once to the heart. +</p> + +<p> +Madame <i>La Comtesse</i> had often deep play at her house, which she affected +to restrain, but secretly encouraged; and it was well known among her friends, +that the splendour of her establishment was chiefly supplied from the profits +of her tables. But her <i>petits soupers</i> were the most charming imaginable! +Here were all the delicacies of the four quarters of the world, all the wit and +the lighter efforts of genius, all the graces of conversation—the smiles +of beauty, and the charm of music; and Valancourt passed his pleasantest, as +well as most dangerous hours in these parties. +</p> + +<p> +His brother, who remained with his family in Gascony, had contented himself +with giving him letters of introduction to such of his relations, residing at +Paris, as the latter was not already known to. All these were persons of some +distinction; and, as neither the person, mind, nor manners of Valancourt the +younger threatened to disgrace their alliance, they received him with as much +kindness as their nature, hardened by uninterrupted prosperity, would admit of; +but their attentions did not extend to acts of real friendship; for they were +too much occupied by their own pursuits, to feel any interest in his; and thus +he was set down in the midst of Paris, in the pride of youth, with an open, +unsuspicious temper and ardent affections, without one friend, to warn him of +the dangers, to which he was exposed. Emily, who, had she been present, would +have saved him from these evils by awakening his heart, and engaging him in +worthy pursuits, now only increased his danger;—it was to lose the grief, +which the remembrance of her occasioned, that he first sought amusement; and +for this end he pursued it, till habit made it an object of abstract interest. +</p> + +<p> +There was also a Marchioness Champfort, a young widow, at whose assemblies he +passed much of his time. She was handsome, still more artful, gay and fond of +intrigue. The society, which she drew round her, was less elegant and more +vicious, than that of the Countess Lacleur: but, as she had address enough to +throw a veil, though but a slight one, over the worst part of her character, +she was still visited by many persons of what is called distinction. Valancourt +was introduced to her parties by two of his brother officers, whose late +ridicule he had now forgiven so far, that he could sometimes join in the laugh, +which a mention of his former manners would renew. +</p> + +<p> +The gaiety of the most splendid court in Europe, the magnificence of the +palaces, entertainments, and equipages, that surrounded him—all conspired +to dazzle his imagination, and reanimate his spirits, and the example and +maxims of his military associates to delude his mind. Emily’s image, +indeed, still lived there; but it was no longer the friend, the monitor, that +saved him from himself, and to which he retired to weep the sweet, yet +melancholy, tears of tenderness. When he had recourse to it, it assumed a +countenance of mild reproach, that wrung his soul, and called forth tears of +unmixed misery; his only escape from which was to forget the object of it, and +he endeavoured, therefore, to think of Emily as seldom as he could. +</p> + +<p> +Thus dangerously circumstanced was Valancourt, at the time, when Emily was +suffering at Venice, from the persecuting addresses of Count Morano, and the +unjust authority of Montoni; at which period we leave him. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a> CHAPTER IX </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +The image of a wicked, heinous fault<br/> +Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his<br/> +Does show the mood of a much-troubled breast.<br/> + KING JOHN +</p> + +<p> +Leaving the gay scenes of Paris, we return to those of the gloomy Apennine, +where Emily’s thoughts were still faithful to Valancourt. Looking to him +as to her only hope, she recollected, with jealous exactness, every assurance +and every proof she had witnessed of his affection; read again and again the +letters she had received from him; weighed, with intense anxiety, the force of +every word, that spoke of his attachment; and dried her tears, as she trusted +in his truth. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni, meanwhile, had made strict enquiry concerning the strange circumstance +of his alarm, without obtaining information; and was, at length, obliged to +account for it by the reasonable supposition, that it was a mischievous trick +played off by one of his domestics. His disagreements with Madame Montoni, on +the subject of her settlements, were now more frequent than ever; he even +confined her entirely to her own apartment, and did not scruple to threaten her +with much greater severity, should she persevere in a refusal. +</p> + +<p> +Reason, had she consulted it, would now have perplexed her in the choice of a +conduct to be adopted. It would have pointed out the danger of irritating by +further opposition a man, such as Montoni had proved himself to be, and to +whose power she had so entirely committed herself; and it would also have told +her, of what extreme importance to her future comfort it was, to reserve for +herself those possessions, which would enable her to live independently of +Montoni, should she ever escape from his immediate control. But she was +directed by a more decisive guide than reason—the spirit of revenge, +which urged her to oppose violence to violence, and obstinacy to obstinacy. +</p> + +<p> +Wholly confined to the solitude of her apartment, she was now reduced to +solicit the society she had lately rejected; for Emily was the only person, +except Annette, with whom she was permitted to converse. +</p> + +<p> +Generously anxious for her peace, Emily, therefore, tried to persuade, when she +could not convince, and sought by every gentle means to induce her to forbear +that asperity of reply, which so greatly irritated Montoni. The pride of her +aunt did sometimes soften to the soothing voice of Emily, and there even were +moments, when she regarded her affectionate attentions with goodwill. +</p> + +<p> +The scenes of terrible contention, to which Emily was frequently compelled to +be witness, exhausted her spirits more than any circumstances, that had +occurred since her departure from Thoulouse. The gentleness and goodness of her +parents, together with the scenes of her early happiness, often stole on her +mind, like the visions of a higher world; while the characters and +circumstances, now passing beneath her eye, excited both terror and surprise. +She could scarcely have imagined, that passions so fierce and so various, as +those which Montoni exhibited, could have been concentrated in one individual; +yet what more surprised her, was, that, on great occasions, he could bend these +passions, wild as they were, to the cause of his interest, and generally could +disguise in his countenance their operation on his mind; but she had seen him +too often, when he had thought it unnecessary to conceal his nature, to be +deceived on such occasions. +</p> + +<p> +Her present life appeared like the dream of a distempered imagination, or like +one of those frightful fictions, in which the wild genius of the poets +sometimes delighted. Reflection brought only regret, and anticipation terror. +How often did she wish to “steal the lark’s wing, and mount the +swiftest gale,” that Languedoc and repose might once more be hers! +</p> + +<p> +Of Count Morano’s health she made frequent enquiry; but Annette heard +only vague reports of his danger, and that his surgeon had said he would never +leave the cottage alive; while Emily could not but be shocked to think, that +she, however innocently, might be the means of his death; and Annette, who did +not fail to observe her emotion, interpreted it in her own way. +</p> + +<p> +But a circumstance soon occurred, which entirely withdrew Annette’s +attention from this subject, and awakened the surprise and curiosity so natural +to her. Coming one day to Emily’s apartment, with a countenance full of +importance, “What can all this mean, ma’amselle?” said she. +“Would I was once safe in Languedoc again, they should never catch me +going on my travels any more! I must think it a fine thing, truly, to come +abroad, and see foreign parts! I little thought I was coming to be catched up +in an old castle, among such dreary mountains, with the chance of being +murdered, or, what is as good, having my throat cut!” +</p> + +<p> +“What can all this mean, indeed, Annette?” said Emily, in +astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, ma’amselle, you may look surprised; but you won’t +believe it, perhaps, till they have murdered you, too. You would not believe +about the ghost I told you of, though I showed you the very place, where it +used to appear!—You will believe nothing, ma’amselle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not till you speak more reasonably, Annette; for Heaven’s sake, +explain your meaning. You spoke of murder!” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, ma’amselle, they are coming to murder us all, perhaps; but +what signifies explaining?—you will not believe.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily again desired her to relate what she had seen, or heard. +</p> + +<p> +“O, I have seen enough, ma’am, and heard too much, as Ludovico can +prove. Poor soul! they will murder him, too! I little thought, when he sung +those sweet verses under my lattice, at Venice!”—Emily looked +impatient and displeased. “Well, ma’amselle, as I was saying, these +preparations about the castle, and these strange-looking people, that are +calling here every day, and the Signor’s cruel usage of my lady, and his +odd goings-on—all these, as I told Ludovico, can bode no good. And he bid +me hold my tongue. So, says I, the Signor’s strangely altered, Ludovico, +in this gloomy castle, to what he was in France; there, all so gay! Nobody so +gallant to my lady, then; and he could smile, too, upon a poor servant, +sometimes, and jeer her, too, good-naturedly enough. I remember once, when he +said to me, as I was going out of my lady’s dressing-room—Annette, +says he—” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind what the Signor said,” interrupted Emily; “but +tell me, at once, the circumstance, which has thus alarmed you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, ma’amselle,” rejoined Annette, “that is just what +Ludovico said: says he, Never mind what the Signor says to you. So I told him +what I thought about the Signor. He is so strangely altered, said I: for now he +is so haughty, and so commanding, and so sharp with my lady; and, if he meets +one, he’ll scarcely look at one, unless it be to frown. So much the +better, says Ludovico, so much the better. And to tell you the truth, +ma’amselle, I thought this was a very ill-natured speech of Ludovico: but +I went on. And then, says I, he is always knitting his brows; and if one speaks +to him, he does not hear; and then he sits up counselling so, of a night, with +the other Signors—there they are, till long past midnight, discoursing +together! Aye, but says Ludovico, you don’t know what they are +counselling about. No, said I, but I can guess—it is about my young lady. +Upon that, Ludovico burst out a-laughing, quite loud; so he put me in a huff, +for I did not like that either I or you, ma’amselle, should be laughed +at; and I turned away quick, but he stopped me. ‘Don’t be +affronted, Annette,’ said he, ‘but I cannot help laughing;’ +and with that he laughed again. ‘What!’ says he, ‘do you +think the Signors sit up, night after night, only to counsel about thy young +lady! No, no, there is something more in the wind than that. And these repairs +about the castle, and these preparations about the ramparts—they are not +making about young ladies.’ Why, surely, said I, the Signor, my master, +is not going to make war? ‘Make war!’ said Ludovico, ‘what, +upon the mountains and the woods? for here is no living soul to make war upon +that I see.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What are these preparations for, then?’ said I; why surely nobody +is coming to take away my master’s castle! ‘Then there are so many +ill-looking fellows coming to the castle every day,’ says Ludovico, +without answering my question, ‘and the Signor sees them all, and talks +with them all, and they all stay in the neighbourhood! By holy St. Marco! some +of them are the most cut-throat-looking dogs I ever set my eyes upon.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I asked Ludovico again, if he thought they were coming to take away my +master’s castle; and he said, No, he did not think they were, but he did +not know for certain. ‘Then yesterday,’ said he, but you must not +tell this, ma’amselle, ‘yesterday, a party of these men came, and +left all their horses in the castle stables, where, it seems, they are to stay, +for the Signor ordered them all to be entertained with the best provender in +the manger; but the men are, most of them, in the neighbouring cottages.’ +</p> + +<p> +“So, ma’amselle, I came to tell you all this, for I never heard +anything so strange in my life. But what can these ill-looking men be come +about, if it is not to murder us? And the Signor knows this, or why should he +be so civil to them? And why should he fortify the castle, and counsel so much +with the other Signors, and be so thoughtful?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is this all you have to tell, Annette?” said Emily. “Have +you heard nothing else, that alarms you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing else, ma’amselle!” said Annette; “why, is not +this enough?” “Quite enough for my patience, Annette, but not quite +enough to convince me we are all to be murdered, though I acknowledge here is +sufficient food for curiosity.” She forbore to speak her apprehensions, +because she would not encourage Annette’s wild terrors; but the present +circumstances of the castle both surprised, and alarmed her. Annette, having +told her tale, left the chamber, on the wing for new wonders. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, Emily had passed some melancholy hours with Madame Montoni, and +was retiring to rest, when she was alarmed by a strange and loud knocking at +her chamber door, and then a heavy weight fell against it, that almost burst it +open. She called to know who was there, and receiving no answer, repeated the +call; but a chilling silence followed. It occurred to her—for, at this +moment, she could not reason on the probability of circumstances—that +some one of the strangers, lately arrived at the castle, had discovered her +apartment, and was come with such intent, as their looks rendered too +possible—to rob, perhaps to murder, her. The moment she admitted this +possibility, terror supplied the place of conviction, and a kind of instinctive +remembrance of her remote situation from the family heightened it to a degree, +that almost overcame her senses. She looked at the door, which led to the +staircase, expecting to see it open, and listening, in fearful silence, for a +return of the noise, till she began to think it had proceeded from this door, +and a wish of escaping through the opposite one rushed upon her mind. She went +to the gallery door, and then, fearing to open it, lest some person might be +silently lurking for her without, she stopped, but with her eyes fixed in +expectation upon the opposite door of the staircase. As thus she stood, she +heard a faint breathing near her, and became convinced, that some person was on +the other side of the door, which was already locked. She sought for other +fastening, but there was none. +</p> + +<p> +While she yet listened, the breathing was distinctly heard, and her terror was +not soothed, when, looking round her wide and lonely chamber, she again +considered her remote situation. As she stood hesitating whether to call for +assistance, the continuance of the stillness surprised her; and her spirits +would have revived, had she not continued to hear the faint breathing, that +convinced her, the person, whoever it was, had not quitted the door. +</p> + +<p> +At length, worn out with anxiety, she determined to call loudly for assistance +from her casement, and was advancing to it, when, whether the terror of her +mind gave her ideal sounds, or that real ones did come, she thought footsteps +were ascending the private staircase; and, expecting to see its door unclose, +she forgot all other cause of alarm, and retreated towards the corridor. Here +she endeavoured to make her escape, but, on opening the door, was very near +falling over a person, who lay on the floor without. She screamed, and would +have passed, but her trembling frame refused to support her; and the moment, in +which she leaned against the wall of the gallery, allowed her leisure to +observe the figure before her, and to recognise the features of Annette. Fear +instantly yielded to surprise. She spoke in vain to the poor girl, who remained +senseless on the floor, and then, losing all consciousness of her own weakness, +hurried to her assistance. +</p> + +<p> +When Annette recovered, she was helped by Emily into the chamber, but was still +unable to speak, and looked round her, as if her eyes followed some person in +the room. Emily tried to sooth her disturbed spirits, and forbore, at present, +to ask her any questions; but the faculty of speech was never long withheld +from Annette, and she explained, in broken sentences, and in her tedious way, +the occasion of her disorder. She affirmed, and with a solemnity of conviction, +that almost staggered the incredulity of Emily, that she had seen an +apparition, as she was passing to her bedroom, through the corridor. +</p> + +<p> +“I had heard strange stories of that chamber before,” said Annette: +“but as it was so near yours, ma’amselle, I would not tell them to +you, because they would frighten you. The servants had told me, often and +often, that it was haunted, and that was the reason why it was shut up: nay, +for that matter, why the whole string of these rooms, here, are shut up. I +quaked whenever I went by, and I must say, I did sometimes think I heard odd +noises within it. But, as I said, as I was passing along the corridor, and not +thinking a word about the matter, or even of the strange voice that the Signors +heard the other night, all of a sudden comes a great light, and, looking behind +me, there was a tall figure, (I saw it as plainly, ma’amselle, as I see +you at this moment), a tall figure gliding along (Oh! I cannot describe how!) +into the room, that is always shut up, and nobody has the key of it but the +Signor, and the door shut directly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it doubtless was the Signor,” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“O no, ma’amselle, it could not be him, for I left him busy +a-quarrelling in my lady’s dressing-room!” +</p> + +<p> +“You bring me strange tales, Annette,” said Emily: “it was +but this morning, that you would have terrified me with the apprehension of +murder; and now you would persuade me, you have seen a ghost! These wonderful +stories come too quickly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, ma’amselle, I will say no more, only, if I had not been +frightened, I should not have fainted dead away so. I ran as fast as I could, +to get to your door; but, what was worst of all, I could not call out; then I +thought something must be strangely the matter with me, and directly I dropt +down.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was it the chamber where the black veil hangs?” said Emily. +“O! no, ma’amselle, it was one nearer to this. What shall I do, to +get to my room? I would not go out into the corridor again, for the whole +world!” Emily, whose spirits had been severely shocked, and who, +therefore, did not like the thought of passing the night alone, told her she +might sleep where she was. “O, no, ma’amselle,” replied +Annette, “I would not sleep in the room now for a thousand +sequins!” +</p> + +<p> +Wearied and disappointed, Emily first ridiculed, though she shared, her fears, +and then tried to sooth them; but neither attempt succeeded, and the girl +persisted in believing and affirming, that what she had seen was nothing human. +It was not till some time after Emily had recovered her composure, that she +recollected the steps she had heard on the staircase—a remembrance, +however, which made her insist that Annette should pass the night with her, +and, with much difficulty, she, at length, prevailed, assisted by that part of +the girl’s fear, which concerned the corridor. +</p> + +<p> +Early on the following morning, as Emily crossed the hall to the ramparts, she +heard a noisy bustle in the courtyard, and the clatter of horses’ hoofs. +Such unusual sounds excited her curiosity; and, instead of going to the +ramparts, she went to an upper casement, from whence she saw, in the court +below, a large party of horsemen, dressed in a singular, but uniform, habit, +and completely, though variously, armed. They wore a kind of short jacket, +composed of black and scarlet, and several of them had a cloak, of plain black, +which, covering the person entirely, hung down to the stirrups. As one of these +cloaks glanced aside, she saw, beneath, daggers, apparently of different sizes, +tucked into the horseman’s belt. She further observed, that these were +carried, in the same manner, by many of the horsemen without cloaks, most of +whom bore also pikes, or javelins. On their heads, were the small Italian caps, +some of which were distinguished by black feathers. Whether these caps gave a +fierce air to the countenance, or that the countenances they surmounted had +naturally such an appearance, Emily thought she had never, till then, seen an +assemblage of faces so savage and terrific. While she gazed, she almost fancied +herself surrounded by banditti; and a vague thought glanced athwart her +fancy—that Montoni was the captain of the group before her, and that this +castle was to be the place of rendezvous. The strange and horrible supposition +was but momentary, though her reason could supply none more probable, and +though she discovered, among the band, the strangers she had formerly noticed +with so much alarm, who were now distinguished by the black plume. +</p> + +<p> +While she continued gazing, Cavigni, Verezzi, and Bertolini came forth from the +hall, habited like the rest, except that they wore hats, with a mixed plume of +black and scarlet, and that their arms differed from those of the rest of the +party. As they mounted their horses, Emily was struck with the exulting joy, +expressed on the visage of Verezzi, while Cavigni was gay, yet with a shade of +thought on his countenance; and, as he managed his horse with dexterity, his +graceful and commanding figure, which exhibited the majesty of a hero, had +never appeared to more advantage. Emily, as she observed him, thought he +somewhat resembled Valancourt, in the spirit and dignity of his person; but she +looked in vain for the noble, benevolent countenance—the soul’s +intelligence, which overspread the features of the latter. +</p> + +<p> +As she was hoping, she scarcely knew why, that Montoni would accompany the +party, he appeared at the hall door, but un-accoutred. Having carefully +observed the horsemen, conversed awhile with the cavaliers, and bidden them +farewell, the band wheeled round the court, and, led by Verezzi, issued forth +under the portcullis; Montoni following to the portal, and gazing after them +for some time. Emily then retired from the casement, and, now certain of being +unmolested, went to walk on the ramparts, from whence she soon after saw the +party winding among the mountains to the west, appearing and disappearing +between the woods, till distance confused their figures, consolidated their +numbers, and only a dingy mass appeared moving along the heights. +</p> + +<p> +Emily observed, that no workmen were on the ramparts, and that the repairs of +the fortifications seemed to be completed. While she sauntered thoughtfully on, +she heard distant footsteps, and, raising her eyes, saw several men lurking +under the castle walls, who were evidently not workmen, but looked as if they +would have accorded well with the party which was gone. Wondering where +Annette had hid herself so long, who might have explained some of the late +circumstances, and then considering that Madame Montoni was probably risen, she +went to her dressing-room, where she mentioned what had occurred; but Madame +Montoni either would not, or could not, give any explanation of the event. The +Signor’s reserve to his wife, on this subject, was probably nothing more +than usual; yet, to Emily, it gave an air of mystery to the whole affair, that +seemed to hint there was danger, if not villany, in his schemes. +</p> + +<p> +Annette presently came, and, as usual, was full of alarm; to her lady’s +eager enquiries of what she had heard among the servants, she replied: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, madam! nobody knows what it is all about, but old Carlo; he knows +well enough, I dare say, but he is as close as his master. Some say the Signor +is going out to frighten the enemy, as they call it: but where is the enemy? +Then others say, he is going to take away somebody’s castle: but I am +sure he has room enough in his own, without taking other people’s; and I +am sure I should like it a great deal better, if there were more people to fill +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! you will soon have your wish, I fear,” replied Madame Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +“No, madam, but such ill-looking fellows are not worth having. I mean +such gallant, smart, merry fellows as Ludovico, who is always telling droll +stories, to make one laugh. It was but yesterday, he told me such a +<i>humoursome</i> tale! I can’t help laughing at it now.—Says +he—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we can dispense with the story,” said her lady. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” continued Annette, “he sees a great way further than +other people! Now he sees into all the Signor’s meaning, without knowing +a word about the matter!” +</p> + +<p> +“How is that?” said Madame Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +“Why he says—but he made me promise not to tell, and I would not +disoblige him for the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it he made you promise not to tell?” said her lady, +sternly. “I insist upon knowing immediately—what is it he made you +promise?” +</p> + +<p> +“O madam,” cried Annette, “I would not tell for the +universe!” +</p> + +<p> +“I insist upon your telling this instant,” said Madame Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +“O dear madam! I would not tell for a hundred sequins! You would not have +me forswear myself madam!” exclaimed Annette. +</p> + +<p> +“I will not wait another moment,” said Madame Montoni. Annette was +silent. +</p> + +<p> +“The Signor shall be informed of this directly,” rejoined her +mistress; “he will make you discover all.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is Ludovico, who has discovered,” said Annette: “but for +mercy’s sake, madam, don’t tell the Signor, and you shall know all +directly.” Madame Montoni said, that she would not. +</p> + +<p> +“Well then, madam, Ludovico says, that the Signor, my master, +is—is—that is, he only thinks so, and anybody, you know, madam, is +free to think—that the Signor, my master, is—is—” +</p> + +<p> +“Is what?” said her lady, impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“That the Signor, my master, is going to be—a great +robber—that is—he is going to rob on his own account;—to be, +(but I am sure I don’t understand what he means) to be a—captain +of—robbers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Art thou in thy senses, Annette?” said Madame Montoni; “or +is this a trick to deceive me? Tell me, this instant, what Ludovico <i>did</i> +say to thee;—no equivocation;—this instant.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, madam,” cried Annette, “if this is all I am to get for +having told the secret—” Her mistress thus continued to insist, and +Annette to protest, till Montoni, himself, appeared, who bade the latter leave +the room, and she withdrew, trembling for the fate of her story. Emily also was +retiring, but her aunt desired she would stay; and Montoni had so often made +her a witness of their contention, that he no longer had scruples on that +account. +</p> + +<p> +“I insist upon knowing this instant, Signor, what all this means:” +said his wife—“what are all these armed men, whom they tell me of, +gone out about?” Montoni answered her only with a look of scorn; and +Emily whispered something to her. “It does not signify,” said her +aunt: “I will know; and I will know, too, what the castle has been +fortified for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come,” said Montoni, “other business brought me here. +I must be trifled with no longer. I have immediate occasion for what I +demand—those estates must be given up, without further contention; or I +may find a way—” +</p> + +<p> +“They never shall be given up,” interrupted Madame Montoni: +“they never shall enable you to carry on your wild schemes;—but +what are these? I will know. Do you expect the castle to be attacked? Do you +expect enemies? Am I to be shut up here, to be killed in a siege?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sign the writings,” said Montoni, “and you shall know +more.” +</p> + +<p> +“What enemy can be coming?” continued his wife. “Have you +entered into the service of the state? Am I to be blocked up here to +die?” +</p> + +<p> +“That may possibly happen,” said Montoni, “unless you yield +to my demand: for, come what may, you shall not quit the castle till +then.” Madame Montoni burst into loud lamentation, which she as suddenly +checked, considering, that her husband’s assertions might be only +artifices, employed to extort her consent. She hinted this suspicion, and, in +the next moment, told him also, that his designs were not so honourable as to +serve the state, and that she believed he had only commenced a captain of +banditti, to join the enemies of Venice, in plundering and laying waste the +surrounding country. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni looked at her for a moment with a steady and stern countenance; while +Emily trembled, and his wife, for once, thought she had said too much. +“You shall be removed, this night,” said he, “to the east +turret: there, perhaps, you may understand the danger of offending a man, who +has an unlimited power over you.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily now fell at his feet, and, with tears of terror, supplicated for her +aunt, who sat, trembling with fear, and indignation; now ready to pour forth +execrations, and now to join the intercessions of Emily. Montoni, however, soon +interrupted these entreaties with a horrible oath; and, as he burst from +Emily, leaving his cloak, in her hand, she fell to the floor, with a force, +that occasioned her a severe blow on the forehead. But he quitted the room, +without attempting to raise her, whose attention was called from herself, by a +deep groan from Madame Montoni, who continued otherwise unmoved in her chair, +and had not fainted. Emily, hastening to her assistance, saw her eyes rolling, +and her features convulsed. +</p> + +<p> +Having spoken to her, without receiving an answer, she brought water, and +supported her head, while she held it to her lips; but the increasing +convulsions soon compelled Emily to call for assistance. On her way through the +hall, in search of Annette, she met Montoni, whom she told what had happened, +and conjured to return and comfort her aunt; but he turned silently away, with +a look of indifference, and went out upon the ramparts. At length she found old +Carlo and Annette, and they hastened to the dressing-room, where Madame Montoni +had fallen on the floor, and was lying in strong convulsions. Having lifted her +into the adjoining room, and laid her on the bed, the force of her disorder +still made all their strength necessary to hold her, while Annette trembled and +sobbed, and old Carlo looked silently and piteously on, as his feeble hands +grasped those of his mistress, till, turning his eyes upon Emily, he exclaimed, +“Good God! Signora, what is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily looked calmly at him, and saw his enquiring eyes fixed on her: and +Annette, looking up, screamed loudly; for Emily’s face was stained with +blood, which continued to fall slowly from her forehead: but her attention had +been so entirely occupied by the scene before her, that she had felt no pain +from the wound. She now held a handkerchief to her face, and, notwithstanding +her faintness, continued to watch Madame Montoni, the violence of whose +convulsions was abating, till at length they ceased, and left her in a kind of +stupor. +</p> + +<p> +“My aunt must remain quiet,” said Emily. “Go, good Carlo; if +we should want your assistance, I will send for you. In the mean time, if you +have an opportunity, speak kindly of your mistress to your master.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas!” said Carlo, “I have seen too much! I have little +influence with the Signor. But do, dear young lady, take some care of yourself; +that is an ugly wound, and you look sadly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, my friend, for your consideration,” said Emily, smiling +kindly: “the wound is trifling, it came by a fall.” +</p> + +<p> +Carlo shook his head, and left the room; and Emily, with Annette, continued to +watch by her aunt. “Did my lady tell the Signor what Ludovico said, +ma’amselle?” asked Annette in a whisper; but Emily quieted her +fears on the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought what this quarrelling would come to,” continued Annette: +“I suppose the Signor has been beating my lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Annette, you are totally mistaken, nothing extraordinary has +happened.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, extraordinary things happen here so often, ma’amselle, that +there is nothing in them. Here is another legion of those ill-looking fellows, +come to the castle, this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! Annette, you will disturb my aunt; we will talk of that by and +bye.” +</p> + +<p> +They continued watching silently, till Madame Montoni uttered a low sigh, when +Emily took her hand, and spoke soothingly to her; but the former gazed with +unconscious eyes, and it was long before she knew her niece. Her first words +then enquired for Montoni; to which Emily replied by an entreaty, that she +would compose her spirits, and consent to be kept quiet, adding, that, if she +wished any message to be conveyed to him, she would herself deliver it. +“No,” said her aunt faintly, “no—I have nothing new to +tell him. Does he persist in saying I shall be removed from my chamber?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily replied that he had not spoken on the subject since Madame Montoni +heard him; and then she tried to divert her attention to some other topic; but +her aunt seemed to be inattentive to what she said, and lost in secret +thoughts. Emily, having brought her some refreshment, now left her to the care +of Annette, and went in search of Montoni, whom she found on a remote part of +the rampart, conversing among a group of the men described by Annette. They +stood round him with fierce, yet subjugated, looks, while he, speaking +earnestly, and pointing to the walls, did not perceive Emily, who remained at +some distance, waiting till he should be at leisure, and observing +involuntarily the appearance of one man, more savage than his fellows, who +stood resting on his pike, and looking, over the shoulders of a comrade, at +Montoni, to whom he listened with uncommon earnestness. This man was apparently +of low condition; yet his looks appeared not to acknowledge the superiority of +Montoni, as did those of his companions; and sometimes they even assumed an air +of authority, which the decisive manner of the Signor could not repress. Some +few words of Montoni then passed in the wind; and, as the men were separating, +she heard him say, “This evening, then, begin the watch at +sunset.” +</p> + +<p> +“At sunset, Signor,” replied one or two of them, and walked away; +while Emily approached Montoni, who appeared desirous of avoiding her: but, +though she observed this, she had courage to proceed. She endeavoured to +intercede once more for her aunt, represented to him her sufferings, and urged +the danger of exposing her to a cold apartment in her present state. “She +suffers by her own folly,” said Montoni, “and is not to be +pitied;—she knows how she may avoid these sufferings in future—if +she is removed to the turret, it will be her own fault. Let her be obedient, +and sign the writings you heard of, and I will think no more of it.” +</p> + +<p> +When Emily ventured still to plead, he sternly silenced and rebuked her for +interfering in his domestic affairs, but, at length, dismissed her with this +concession—That he would not remove Madame Montoni, on the ensuing night, +but allow her till the next to consider, whether she would resign her +settlements, or be imprisoned in the east turret of the castle, “where +she shall find,” he added, “a punishment she may not expect.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily then hastened to inform her aunt of this short respite and of the +alternative, that awaited her, to which the latter made no reply, but appeared +thoughtful, while Emily, in consideration of her extreme languor, wished to +sooth her mind by leading it to less interesting topics: and, though these +efforts were unsuccessful, and Madame Montoni became peevish, her resolution, +on the contended point, seemed somewhat to relax, and Emily recommended, as her +only means of safety, that she should submit to Montoni’s demand. +“You know not what you advise,” said her aunt. “Do you +understand, that these estates will descend to you at my death, if I persist in +a refusal?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was ignorant of that circumstance, madam,” replied Emily, +“but the knowledge of it cannot withhold me from advising you to adopt +the conduct, which not only your peace, but, I fear, your safety requires, and +I entreat, that you will not suffer a consideration comparatively so trifling, +to make you hesitate a moment in resigning them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sincere, niece?” “Is it possible you can doubt it, +madam?” Her aunt appeared to be affected. “You are not unworthy of +these estates, niece,” said she: “I would wish to keep them for +your sake—you show a virtue I did not expect.” +</p> + +<p> +“How have I deserved this reproof, madam?” said Emily sorrowfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Reproof!” replied Madame Montoni: “I meant to praise your +virtue.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! here is no exertion of virtue,” rejoined Emily, “for +here is no temptation to be overcome.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet Monsieur Valancourt—” said her aunt. “O, +madam!” interrupted Emily, anticipating what she would have said, +“do not let me glance on that subject: do not let my mind be stained with +a wish so shockingly self-interested.” She immediately changed the topic, +and continued with Madame Montoni, till she withdrew to her apartment for the +night. +</p> + +<p> +At that hour, the castle was perfectly still, and every inhabitant of it, +except herself, seemed to have retired to rest. As she passed along the wide +and lonely galleries, dusky and silent, she felt forlorn and apprehensive +of—she scarcely knew what; but when, entering the corridor, she +recollected the incident of the preceding night, a dread seized her, lest a +subject of alarm, similar to that, which had befallen Annette, should occur to +her, and which, whether real, or ideal, would, she felt, have an almost equal +effect upon her weakened spirits. The chamber, to which Annette had alluded, +she did not exactly know, but understood it to be one of those she must pass in +the way to her own; and, sending a fearful look forward into the gloom, she +stepped lightly and cautiously along, till, coming to a door, from whence +issued a low sound, she hesitated and paused; and, during the delay of that +moment, her fears so much increased, that she had no power to move from the +spot. Believing, that she heard a human voice within, she was somewhat revived; +but, in the next moment, the door was opened, and a person, whom she conceived +to be Montoni, appeared, who instantly started back, and closed it, though not +before she had seen, by the light that burned in the chamber, another person, +sitting in a melancholy attitude by the fire. Her terror vanished, but her +astonishment only began, which was now roused by the mysterious secrecy of +Montoni’s manner, and by the discovery of a person, whom he thus visited +at midnight, in an apartment, which had long been shut up, and of which such +extraordinary reports were circulated. +</p> + +<p> +While she thus continued hesitating, strongly prompted to watch Montoni’s +motions, yet fearing to irritate him by appearing to notice them, the door was +again opened cautiously, and as instantly closed as before. She then stepped +softly to her chamber, which was the next but one to this, but, having put down +her lamp, returned to an obscure corner of the corridor, to observe the +proceedings of this half-seen person, and to ascertain, whether it was indeed +Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +Having waited in silent expectation for a few minutes, with her eyes fixed on +the door, it was again opened, and the same person appeared, whom she now knew +to be Montoni. He looked cautiously round, without perceiving her, then, +stepping forward, closed the door, and left the corridor. Soon after, Emily +heard the door fastened on the inside, and she withdrew to her chamber, +wondering at what she had witnessed. +</p> + +<p> +It was now twelve o’clock. As she closed her casement, she heard +footsteps on the terrace below, and saw imperfectly, through the gloom, several +persons advancing, who passed under the casement. She then heard the clink of +arms, and, in the next moment, the watch-word; when, recollecting the command +she had overheard from Montoni, and the hour of the night, she understood, that +these men were, for the first time, relieving guard in the castle. Having +listened till all was again still, she retired to sleep. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a> CHAPTER X </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +And shall no lay of death<br/> +With pleasing murmur sooth<br/> +Her parted soul?<br/> +Shall no tear wet her grave?<br/> + SAYERS +</p> + +<p> +On the following morning, Emily went early to the apartment of Madame Montoni, +who had slept well, and was much recovered. Her spirits had also returned with +her health, and her resolution to oppose Montoni’s demands revived, +though it yet struggled with her fears, which Emily, who trembled for the +consequence of further opposition, endeavoured to confirm. +</p> + +<p> +Her aunt, as has been already shown, had a disposition, which delighted in +contradiction, and which taught her, when unpleasant circumstances were offered +to her understanding, not to enquire into their truth, but to seek for +arguments, by which she might make them appear false. Long habit had so +entirely confirmed this natural propensity, that she was not conscious of +possessing it. Emily’s remonstrances and representations, therefore, +roused her pride, instead of alarming, or convincing her judgment, and she +still relied upon the discovery of some means, by which she might yet avoid +submitting to the demand of her husband. Considering, that, if she could once +escape from his castle, she might defy his power, and, obtaining a decisive +separation, live in comfort on the estates, that yet remained for her, she +mentioned this to her niece, who accorded with her in the wish, but differed +from her, as to the probability of its completion. She represented the +impossibility of passing the gates, secured and guarded as they were, and the +extreme danger of committing her design to the discretion of a servant, who +might either purposely betray, or accidentally disclose +it.—Montoni’s vengeance would also disdain restraint, if her +intention was detected: and, though Emily wished, as fervently as she could do, +to regain her freedom, and return to France, she consulted only Madame +Montoni’s safety, and persevered in advising her to relinquish her +settlement, without braving further outrage. +</p> + +<p> +The struggle of contrary emotions, however, continued to rage in her +aunt’s bosom, and she still brooded over the chance of effecting an +escape. While she thus sat, Montoni entered the room, and, without noticing his +wife’s indisposition, said, that he came to remind her of the impolicy of +trifling with him, and that he gave her only till the evening to determine, +whether she would consent to his demand, or compel him, by a refusal, to remove +her to the east turret. He added, that a party of cavaliers would dine with +him, that day, and that he expected that she would sit at the head of the +table, where Emily, also, must be present. Madame Montoni was now on the point +of uttering an absolute refusal, but, suddenly considering, that her liberty, +during this entertainment, though circumscribed, might favour her further +plans, she acquiesced, with seeming reluctance, and Montoni, soon after, left +the apartment. His command struck Emily with surprise and apprehension, who +shrank from the thought of being exposed to the gaze of strangers, such as her +fancy represented these to be, and the words of Count Morano, now again +recollected, did not sooth her fears. +</p> + +<p> +When she withdrew to prepare for dinner, she dressed herself with even more +simplicity than usual, that she might escape observation—a policy, which +did not avail her, for, as she repassed to her aunt’s apartment, she was +met by Montoni, who censured what he called her prudish appearance, and +insisted, that she should wear the most splendid dress she had, even that, +which had been prepared for her intended nuptials with Count Morano, and which, +it now appeared, her aunt had carefully brought with her from Venice. This was +made, not in the Venetian, but, in the Neapolitan fashion, so as to set off the +shape and figure, to the utmost advantage. In it, her beautiful chestnut +tresses were negligently bound up in pearls, and suffered to fall back again on +her neck. The simplicity of a better taste, than Madame Montoni’s, was +conspicuous in this dress, splendid as it was, and Emily’s unaffected +beauty never had appeared more captivatingly. She had now only to hope, that +Montoni’s order was prompted, not by any extraordinary design, but by an +ostentation of displaying his family, richly attired, to the eyes of strangers; +yet nothing less than his absolute command could have prevailed with her to +wear a dress, that had been designed for such an offensive purpose, much less +to have worn it on this occasion. As she descended to dinner, the emotion of +her mind threw a faint blush over her countenance, and heightened its +interesting expression; for timidity had made her linger in her apartment, till +the utmost moment, and, when she entered the hall, in which a kind of state +dinner was spread, Montoni and his guests were already seated at the table. She +was then going to place herself by her aunt; but Montoni waved his hand, and +two of the cavaliers rose, and seated her between them. +</p> + +<p> +The eldest of these was a tall man, with strong Italian features, an aquiline +nose, and dark penetrating eyes, that flashed with fire, when his mind was +agitated, and, even in its state of rest, retained somewhat of the wildness of +the passions. His visage was long and narrow, and his complexion of a sickly +yellow. +</p> + +<p> +The other, who appeared to be about forty, had features of a different cast, +yet Italian, and his look was slow, subtle and penetrating; his eyes, of a dark +grey, were small, and hollow; his complexion was a sun-burnt brown, and the +contour of his face, though inclined to oval, was irregular and ill-formed. +</p> + +<p> +Eight other guests sat round the table, who were all dressed in a uniform, and +had all an expression, more or less, of wild fierceness, of subtle design, or +of licentious passions. As Emily timidly surveyed them, she remembered the +scene of the preceding morning, and again almost fancied herself surrounded by +banditti; then, looking back to the tranquillity of her early life, she felt +scarcely less astonishment, than grief, at her present situation. The scene, in +which they sat, assisted the illusion; it was an ancient hall, gloomy from the +style of its architecture, from its great extent, and because almost the only +light it received was from one large gothic window, and from a pair of folding +doors, which, being open, admitted likewise a view of the west rampart, with +the wild mountains of the Apennine beyond. +</p> + +<p> +The middle compartment of this hall rose into a vaulted roof, enriched with +fretwork, and supported, on three sides, by pillars of marble; beyond these, +long colonnades retired in gloomy grandeur, till their extent was lost in +twilight. The lightest footsteps of the servants, as they advanced through +these, were returned in whispering echoes, and their figures, seen at a +distance imperfectly through the dusk, frequently awakened Emily’s +imagination. She looked alternately at Montoni, at his guests and on the +surrounding scene; and then, remembering her dear native province, her pleasant +home and the simplicity and goodness of the friends, whom she had lost, grief +and surprise again occupied her mind. +</p> + +<p> +When her thoughts could return from these considerations, she fancied she +observed an air of authority towards his guests, such as she had never before +seen him assume, though he had always been distinguished by a haughty +carriage; there was something also in the manners of the strangers, that seemed +perfectly, though not servilely, to acknowledge his superiority. +</p> + +<p> +During dinner, the conversation was chiefly on war and politics. They talked +with energy of the state of Venice, its dangers, the character of the reigning +Doge and of the chief senators; and then spoke of the state of Rome. When the +repast was over, they rose, and, each filling his goblet with wine from the +gilded ewer, that stood beside him, drank “Success to our +exploits!” Montoni was lifting his goblet to his lips to drink this +toast, when suddenly the wine hissed, rose to the brim, and, as he held the +glass from him, it burst into a thousand pieces. +</p> + +<p> +To him, who constantly used that sort of Venice glass, which had the quality of +breaking, upon receiving poisoned liquor, a suspicion, that some of his guests +had endeavoured to betray him, instantly occurred, and he ordered all the gates +to be closed, drew his sword, and, looking round on them, who stood in silent +amazement, exclaimed, “Here is a traitor among us; let those, that are +innocent, assist in discovering the guilty.” +</p> + +<p> +Indignation flashed from the eyes of the cavaliers, who all drew their swords; +and Madame Montoni, terrified at what might ensue, was hastening from the hall, +when her husband commanded her to stay; but his further words could not now be +distinguished, for the voice of every person rose together. His order, that all +the servants should appear, was at length obeyed, and they declared their +ignorance of any deceit—a protestation which could not be believed; for +it was evident, that, as Montoni’s liquor, and his only, had been +poisoned, a deliberate design had been formed against his life, which could not +have been carried so far towards its accomplishment, without the connivance of +the servant, who had the care of the wine ewers. +</p> + +<p> +This man, with another, whose face betrayed either the consciousness of guilt, +or the fear of punishment, Montoni ordered to be chained instantly, and +confined in a strong room, which had formerly been used as a prison. Thither, +likewise, he would have sent all his guests, had he not foreseen the +consequence of so bold and unjustifiable a proceeding. As to those, therefore, +he contented himself with swearing, that no man should pass the gates, till +this extraordinary affair had been investigated, and then sternly bade his wife +retire to her apartment, whither he suffered Emily to attend her. +</p> + +<p> +In about half an hour, he followed to the dressing-room; and Emily observed, +with horror, his dark countenance and quivering lip, and heard him denounce +vengeance on her aunt. +</p> + +<p> +“It will avail you nothing,” said he to his wife, “to deny +the fact; I have proof of your guilt. Your only chance of mercy rests on a full +confession;—there is nothing to hope from sullenness, or falsehood; your +accomplice has confessed all.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s fainting spirits were roused by astonishment, as she heard her +aunt accused of a crime so atrocious, and she could not, for a moment, admit +the possibility of her guilt. Meanwhile Madame Montoni’s agitation did +not permit her to reply; alternately her complexion varied from livid paleness +to a crimson flush; and she trembled,—but, whether with fear, or with +indignation, it were difficult to decide. +</p> + +<p> +“Spare your words,” said Montoni, seeing her about to speak, +“your countenance makes full confession of your crime.—You shall be +instantly removed to the east turret.” +</p> + +<p> +“This accusation,” said Madame Montoni, speaking with difficulty, +“is used only as an excuse for your cruelty; I disdain to reply to it. +You do not believe me guilty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Signor!” said Emily solemnly, “this dreadful charge, I would +answer with my life, is false. Nay, Signor,” she added, observing the +severity of his countenance, “this is no moment for restraint, on my +part; I do not scruple to tell you, that you are deceived—most wickedly +deceived, by the suggestion of some person, who aims at the ruin of my +aunt:—it is impossible, that you could yourself have imagined a crime so +hideous.” +</p> + +<p> +Montoni, his lips trembling more than before, replied only, “If you value +your own safety,” addressing Emily, “you will be silent. I shall +know how to interpret your remonstrances, should you persevere in them.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily raised her eyes calmly to heaven. “Here is, indeed, then, nothing +to hope!” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“Peace!” cried Montoni, “or you shall find there is something +to fear.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned to his wife, who had now recovered her spirits, and who vehemently +and wildly remonstrated upon this mysterious suspicion: but Montoni’s +rage heightened with her indignation, and Emily, dreading the event of it, +threw herself between them, and clasped his knees in silence, looking up in his +face with an expression, that might have softened the heart of a fiend. Whether +his was hardened by a conviction of Madame Montoni’s guilt, or that a +bare suspicion of it made him eager to exercise vengeance, he was totally and +alike insensible to the distress of his wife, and to the pleading looks of +Emily, whom he made no attempt to raise, but was vehemently menacing both, when +he was called out of the room by some person at the door. As he shut the door, +Emily heard him turn the lock and take out the key; so that Madame Montoni and +herself were now prisoners; and she saw that his designs became more and more +terrible. Her endeavours to explain his motives for this circumstance were +almost as ineffectual as those to sooth the distress of her aunt, whose +innocence she could not doubt; but she, at length, accounted for +Montoni’s readiness to suspect his wife by his own consciousness of +cruelty towards her, and for the sudden violence of his present conduct against +both, before even his suspicions could be completely formed, by his general +eagerness to effect suddenly whatever he was led to desire and his carelessness +of justice, or humanity, in accomplishing it. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Montoni, after some time, again looked round, in search of a possibility +of escape from the castle, and conversed with Emily on the subject, who was now +willing to encounter any hazard, though she forbore to encourage a hope in her +aunt, which she herself did not admit. How strongly the edifice was secured, +and how vigilantly guarded, she knew too well; and trembled to commit their +safety to the caprice of the servant, whose assistance they must solicit. Old +Carlo was compassionate, but he seemed to be too much in his master’s +interest to be trusted by them; Annette could of herself do little, and Emily +knew Ludovico only from her report. At present, however, these considerations +were useless, Madame Montoni and her niece being shut up from all intercourse, +even with the persons, whom there might be these reasons to reject. +</p> + +<p> +In the hall, confusion and tumult still reigned. Emily, as she listened +anxiously to the murmur, that sounded along the gallery, sometimes fancied she +heard the clashing of swords, and, when she considered the nature of the +provocation, given by Montoni, and his impetuosity, it appeared probable, that +nothing less than arms would terminate the contention. Madame Montoni, having +exhausted all her expressions of indignation, and Emily, hers of comfort, they +remained silent, in that kind of breathless stillness, which, in nature, often +succeeds to the uproar of conflicting elements; a stillness, like the morning, +that dawns upon the ruins of an earthquake. +</p> + +<p> +An uncertain kind of terror pervaded Emily’s mind; the circumstances of +the past hour still came dimly and confusedly to her memory; and her thoughts +were various and rapid, though without tumult. +</p> + +<p> +From this state of waking visions she was recalled by a knocking at the +chamber-door, and, enquiring who was there, heard the whispering voice of +Annette. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear madam, let me come in, I have a great deal to say,” said the +poor girl. +</p> + +<p> +“The door is locked,” answered the lady. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’am, but do pray open it.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Signor has the key,” said Madame Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +“O blessed Virgin! what will become of us?” exclaimed Annette. +</p> + +<p> +“Assist us to escape,” said her mistress. “Where is +Ludovico?” +</p> + +<p> +“Below in the hall, ma’am, amongst them all, fighting with the best +of them!” +</p> + +<p> +“Fighting! Who are fighting?” cried Madame Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +“Why the Signor, ma’am, and all the Signors, and a great many +more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is any person much hurt?” said Emily, in a tremulous voice. +“Hurt! Yes, ma’amselle,—there they lie bleeding, and the +swords are clashing, and—O holy saints! Do let me in, ma’am, they +are coming this way—I shall be murdered!” +</p> + +<p> +“Fly!” cried Emily, “fly! we cannot open the door.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette repeated, that they were coming, and in the same moment fled. +</p> + +<p> +“Be calm, madam,” said Emily, turning to her aunt, “I entreat +you to be calm, I am not frightened—not frightened in the least, do not +you be alarmed.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can scarcely support yourself,” replied her aunt; +“Merciful God! what is it they mean to do with us?” +</p> + +<p> +“They come, perhaps, to liberate us,” said Emily, “Signor +Montoni perhaps is—is conquered.” +</p> + +<p> +The belief of his death gave her spirits a sudden shock, and she grew faint as +she saw him in imagination, expiring at her feet. +</p> + +<p> +“They are coming!” cried Madame Montoni—“I hear their +steps—they are at the door!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily turned her languid eyes to the door, but terror deprived her of +utterance. The key sounded in the lock; the door opened, and Montoni appeared, +followed by three ruffian-like men. “Execute your orders,” said he, +turning to them, and pointing to his wife, who shrieked, but was immediately +carried from the room; while Emily sunk, senseless, on a couch, by which she +had endeavoured to support herself. When she recovered, she was alone, and +recollected only, that Madame Montoni had been there, together with some +unconnected particulars of the preceding transaction, which were, however, +sufficient to renew all her terror. She looked wildly round the apartment, as +if in search of some means of intelligence, concerning her aunt, while neither +her own danger, nor an idea of escaping from the room, immediately occurred. +</p> + +<p> +When her recollection was more complete, she raised herself and went, but with +only a faint hope, to examine whether the door was unfastened. It was so, and +she then stepped timidly out into the gallery, but paused there, uncertain +which way she should proceed. Her first wish was to gather some information, as +to her aunt, and she, at length, turned her steps to go to the lesser hall, +where Annette and the other servants usually waited. +</p> + +<p> +Everywhere, as she passed, she heard, from a distance, the uproar of +contention, and the figures and faces, which she met, hurrying along the +passages, struck her mind with dismay. Emily might now have appeared, like an +angel of light, encompassed by fiends. At length, she reached the lesser hall, +which was silent and deserted, but, panting for breath, she sat down to recover +herself. The total stillness of this place was as awful as the tumult, from +which she had escaped: but she had now time to recall her scattered thoughts, +to remember her personal danger, and to consider of some means of safety. She +perceived, that it was useless to seek Madame Montoni, through the wide extent +and intricacies of the castle, now, too, when every avenue seemed to be beset +by ruffians; in this hall she could not resolve to stay, for she knew not how +soon it might become their place of rendezvous; and, though she wished to go to +her chamber, she dreaded again to encounter them on the way. +</p> + +<p> +Thus she sat, trembling and hesitating, when a distant murmur broke on the +silence, and grew louder and louder, till she distinguished voices and steps +approaching. She then rose to go, but the sounds came along the only passage, +by which she could depart, and she was compelled to await in the hall, the +arrival of the persons, whose steps she heard. As these advanced, she +distinguished groans, and then saw a man borne slowly along by four others. Her +spirits faltered at the sight, and she leaned against the wall for support. The +bearers, meanwhile, entered the hall, and, being too busily occupied to detain, +or even notice Emily, she attempted to leave it, but her strength failed, and +she again sat down on the bench. A damp chillness came over her; her sight +became confused; she knew not what had passed, or where she was, yet the groans +of the wounded person still vibrated on her heart. In a few moments, the tide +of life seemed again to flow; she began to breathe more freely, and her senses +revived. She had not fainted, nor had ever totally lost her consciousness, but +had contrived to support herself on the bench; still without courage to turn +her eyes upon the unfortunate object, which remained near her, and about whom +the men were yet too much engaged to attend to her. +</p> + +<p> +When her strength returned, she rose, and was suffered to leave the hall, +though her anxiety, having produced some vain enquiries, concerning Madame +Montoni, had thus made a discovery of herself. Towards her chamber she now +hastened, as fast as her steps would bear her, for she still perceived, upon +her passage, the sounds of confusion at a distance, and she endeavoured, by +taking her way through some obscure rooms, to avoid encountering the persons, +whose looks had terrified her before, as well as those parts of the castle, +where the tumult might still rage. +</p> + +<p> +At length, she reached her chamber, and, having secured the door of the +corridor, felt herself, for a moment, in safety. A profound stillness reigned +in this remote apartment, which not even the faint murmur of the most distant +sounds now reached. She sat down, near one of the casements, and, as she gazed +on the mountain-view beyond, the deep repose of its beauty struck her with all +the force of contrast, and she could scarcely believe herself so near a scene +of savage discord. The contending elements seemed to have retired from their +natural spheres, and to have collected themselves into the minds of men, for +there alone the tempest now reigned. +</p> + +<p> +Emily tried to tranquillize her spirits, but anxiety made her constantly listen +for some sound, and often look out upon the ramparts, where all, however, was +lonely and still. As a sense of her own immediate danger had decreased, her +apprehension concerning Madame Montoni heightened, who, she remembered, had +been fiercely threatened with confinement in the east turret, and it was +possible, that her husband had satisfied his present vengeance with this +punishment. She, therefore, determined, when night should return, and the +inhabitants of the castle should be asleep, to explore the way to the turret, +which, as the direction it stood in was mentioned, appeared not very difficult +to be done. She knew, indeed, that although her aunt might be there, she could +afford her no effectual assistance, but it might give her some comfort even to +know, that she was discovered, and to hear the sound of her niece’s +voice; for herself, any certainty, concerning Madame Montoni’s fate, +appeared more tolerable, than this exhausting suspense. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Annette did not appear, and Emily was surprised, and somewhat +alarmed for her, whom, in the confusion of the late scene, various accidents +might have befallen, and it was improbable, that she would have failed to come +to her apartment, unless something unfortunate had happened. +</p> + +<p> +Thus the hours passed in solitude, in silence, and in anxious conjecturing. +Being not once disturbed by a message, or a sound, it appeared, that Montoni +had wholly forgotten her, and it gave her some comfort to find, that she could +be so unnoticed. She endeavoured to withdraw her thoughts from the anxiety, +that preyed upon them, but they refused control; she could neither read, nor +draw, and the tones of her lute were so utterly discordant with the present +state of her feelings, that she could not endure them for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +The sun, at length, set behind the western mountains; his fiery beams faded +from the clouds, and then a dun melancholy purple drew over them, and gradually +involved the features of the country below. Soon after, the sentinels passed on +the rampart to commence the watch. +</p> + +<p> +Twilight had now spread its gloom over every object; the dismal obscurity of +her chamber recalled fearful thoughts, but she remembered, that to procure a +light she must pass through a great extent of the castle, and, above all, +through the halls, where she had already experienced so much horror. Darkness, +indeed, in the present state of her spirits, made silence and solitude terrible +to her; it would also prevent the possibility of her finding her way to the +turret, and condemn her to remain in suspense, concerning the fate of her aunt; +yet she dared not to venture forth for a lamp. +</p> + +<p> +Continuing at the casement, that she might catch the last lingering gleam of +evening, a thousand vague images of fear floated on her fancy. “What if +some of these ruffians,” said she, “should find out the private +staircase, and in the darkness of night steal into my chamber!” Then, +recollecting the mysterious inhabitant of the neighbouring apartment, her +terror changed its object. “He is not a prisoner,” said she, +“though he remains in one chamber, for Montoni did not fasten the door, +when he left it; the unknown person himself did this; it is certain, therefore, +he can come out when he pleases.” +</p> + +<p> +She paused, for, notwithstanding the terrors of darkness, she considered it to +be very improbable, whoever he was, that he could have any interest in +intruding upon her retirement; and again the subject of her emotion changed, +when, remembering her nearness to the chamber, where the veil had formerly +disclosed a dreadful spectacle, she doubted whether some passage might not +communicate between it and the insecure door of the staircase. +</p> + +<p> +It was now entirely dark, and she left the casement. As she sat with her eyes +fixed on the hearth, she thought she perceived there a spark of light; it +twinkled and disappeared, and then again was visible. At length, with much +care, she fanned the embers of a wood fire, that had been lighted in the +morning, into flame, and, having communicated it to a lamp, which always stood +in her room, felt a satisfaction not to be conceived, without a review of her +situation. Her first care was to guard the door of the staircase, for which +purpose she placed against it all the furniture she could move, and she was +thus employed, for some time, at the end of which she had another instance how +much more oppressive misfortune is to the idle, than to the busy; for, having +then leisure to think over all the circumstances of her present afflictions, +she imagined a thousand evils for futurity, and these real and ideal subjects +of distress alike wounded her mind. +</p> + +<p> +Thus heavily moved the hours till midnight, when she counted the sullen notes +of the great clock, as they rolled along the rampart, unmingled with any sound, +except the distant foot-fall of a sentinel, who came to relieve guard. She now +thought she might venture towards the turret, and, having gently opened the +chamber door to examine the corridor, and to listen if any person was stirring +in the castle, found all around in perfect stillness. Yet no sooner had she +left the room, than she perceived a light flash on the walls of the corridor, +and, without waiting to see by whom it was carried, she shrunk back, and closed +her door. No one approaching, she conjectured, that it was Montoni going to pay +his midnight visit to her unknown neighbour, and she determined to wait, till +he should have retired to his own apartment. +</p> + +<p> +When the chimes had tolled another half hour, she once more opened the door, +and, perceiving that no person was in the corridor, hastily crossed into a +passage, that led along the south side of the castle towards the staircase, +whence she believed she could easily find her way to the turret. Often pausing +on her way, listening apprehensively to the murmurs of the wind, and looking +fearfully onward into the gloom of the long passages, she, at length, reached +the staircase; but there her perplexity began. Two passages appeared, of which +she knew not how to prefer one, and was compelled, at last, to decide by +chance, rather than by circumstances. That she entered, opened first into a +wide gallery, along which she passed lightly and swiftly; for the lonely aspect +of the place awed her, and she started at the echo of her own steps. +</p> + +<p> +On a sudden, she thought she heard a voice, and, not distinguishing from whence +it came, feared equally to proceed, or to return. For some moments, she stood +in an attitude of listening expectation, shrinking almost from herself and +scarcely daring to look round her. The voice came again, but, though it was now +near her, terror did not allow her to judge exactly whence it proceeded. She +thought, however, that it was the voice of complaint, and her belief was soon +confirmed by a low moaning sound, that seemed to proceed from one of the +chambers, opening into the gallery. It instantly occurred to her, that Madame +Montoni might be there confined, and she advanced to the door to speak, but was +checked by considering, that she was, perhaps, going to commit herself to a +stranger, who might discover her to Montoni; for, though this person, whoever +it was, seemed to be in affliction, it did not follow, that he was a prisoner. +</p> + +<p> +While these thoughts passed over her mind, and left her still in hesitation, +the voice spoke again, and, calling “Ludovico,” she then perceived +it to be that of Annette; on which, no longer hesitating, she went in joy to +answer her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ludovico!” cried Annette, sobbing—“Ludovico!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not Ludovico, it is I—Mademoiselle Emily.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette ceased sobbing, and was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“If you can open the door, let me in,” said Emily, “here is +no person to hurt you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ludovico!—O, Ludovico!” cried Annette. +</p> + +<p> +Emily now lost her patience, and her fear of being overheard increasing, she +was even nearly about to leave the door, when she considered, that Annette +might, possibly, know something of the situation of Madame Montoni, or direct +her to the turret. At length, she obtained a reply, though little satisfactory, +to her questions, for Annette knew nothing of Madame Montoni, and only conjured +Emily to tell her what was become of Ludovico. Of him she had no information to +give, and she again asked who had shut Annette up. +</p> + +<p> +“Ludovico,” said the poor girl, “Ludovico shut me up. When I +ran away from the dressing-room door today, I went I scarcely knew where, for +safety; and, in this gallery, here, I met Ludovico, who hurried me into this +chamber, and locked me up to keep me out of harm, as he said. But he was in +such a hurry himself, he hardly spoke ten words, but he told me he would come, +and let me out, when all was quiet, and he took away the key with him. Now all +these hours are passed, and I have neither seen, nor heard a word of him; they +have murdered him—I know they have!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily suddenly remembered the wounded person, whom she had seen borne into the +servants’ hall, and she scarcely doubted, that he was Ludovico, but she +concealed the circumstance from Annette, and endeavoured to comfort her. Then, +impatient to learn something of her aunt, she again enquired the way to the +turret. +</p> + +<p> +“O! you are not going, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “for +Heaven’s sake, do not go, and leave me here by myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Annette, you do not think I can wait in the gallery all +night,” replied Emily. “Direct me to the turret; in the morning I +will endeavour to release you.” +</p> + +<p> +“O holy Mary!” exclaimed Annette, “am I to stay here by +myself all night! I shall be frightened out of my senses, and I shall die of +hunger; I have had nothing to eat since dinner!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily could scarcely forbear smiling at the heterogeneous distresses of +Annette, though she sincerely pitied them, and said what she could to sooth +her. At length, she obtained something like a direction to the east turret, and +quitted the door, from whence, after many intricacies and perplexities, she +reached the steep and winding stairs of the turret, at the foot of which she +stopped to rest, and to reanimate her courage with a sense of her duty. As she +surveyed this dismal place, she perceived a door on the opposite side of the +staircase, and, anxious to know whether it would lead her to Madame Montoni, +she tried to undraw the bolts, which fastened it. A fresher air came to her +face, as she unclosed the door, which opened upon the east rampart, and the +sudden current had nearly extinguished her light, which she now removed to a +distance; and again, looking out upon the obscure terrace, she perceived only +the faint outline of the walls and of some towers, while, above, heavy clouds, +borne along the wind, seemed to mingle with the stars, and wrap the night in +thicker darkness. As she gazed, now willing to defer the moment of certainty, +from which she expected only confirmation of evil, a distant footstep reminded +her, that she might be observed by the men on watch, and, hastily closing the +door, she took her lamp, and passed up the staircase. Trembling came upon her, +as she ascended through the gloom. To her melancholy fancy this seemed to be a +place of death, and the chilling silence, that reigned, confirmed its +character. Her spirits faltered. “Perhaps,” said she, “I am +come hither only to learn a dreadful truth, or to witness some horrible +spectacle; I feel that my senses would not survive such an addition of +horror.” +</p> + +<p> +The image of her aunt murdered—murdered, perhaps, by the hand of Montoni, +rose to her mind; she trembled, gasped for breath—repented that she had +dared to venture hither, and checked her steps. But, after she had paused a few +minutes, the consciousness of her duty returned, and she went on. Still all was +silent. At length a track of blood, upon a stair, caught her eye; and instantly +she perceived, that the wall and several other steps were stained. She paused, +again struggled to support herself, and the lamp almost fell from her trembling +hand. Still no sound was heard, no living being seemed to inhabit the turret; a +thousand times she wished herself again in her chamber; dreaded to enquire +farther—dreaded to encounter some horrible spectacle, and yet could not +resolve, now that she was so near the termination of her efforts, to desist +from them. Having again collected courage to proceed, after ascending about +half way up the turret, she came to another door, but here again she stopped in +hesitation; listened for sounds within, and then, summoning all her resolution, +unclosed it, and entered a chamber, which, as her lamp shot its feeble rays +through the darkness, seemed to exhibit only dew-stained and deserted walls. As +she stood examining it, in fearful expectation of discovering the remains of +her unfortunate aunt, she perceived something lying in an obscure corner of the +room, and, struck with a horrible conviction, she became, for an instant, +motionless and nearly insensible. Then, with a kind of desperate resolution, +she hurried towards the object that excited her terror, when, perceiving the +clothes of some person, on the floor, she caught hold of them, and found in her +grasp the old uniform of a soldier, beneath which appeared a heap of pikes and +other arms. Scarcely daring to trust her sight, she continued, for some +moments, to gaze on the object of her late alarm, and then left the chamber, so +much comforted and occupied by the conviction, that her aunt was not there, +that she was going to descend the turret, without enquiring farther; when, on +turning to do so, she observed upon some steps on the second flight an +appearance of blood, and remembering, that there was yet another chamber to be +explored, she again followed the windings of the ascent. Still, as she +ascended, the track of blood glared upon the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +It led her to the door of a landing-place, that terminated them, but she was +unable to follow it farther. Now that she was so near the sought-for certainty, +she dreaded to know it, even more than before, and had not fortitude sufficient +to speak, or to attempt opening the door. +</p> + +<p> +Having listened, in vain, for some sound, that might confirm, or destroy her +fears, she, at length, laid her hand on the lock, and, finding it fastened, +called on Madame Montoni; but only a chilling silence ensued. +</p> + +<p> +“She is dead!” she cried,—“murdered!—her blood is +on the stairs!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily grew very faint; could support herself no longer, and had scarcely +presence of mind to set down the lamp, and place herself on a step. +</p> + +<p> +When her recollection returned, she spoke again at the door, and again +attempted to open it, and, having lingered for some time, without receiving any +answer, or hearing a sound, she descended the turret, and, with all the +swiftness her feebleness would permit, sought her own apartment. +</p> + +<p> +As she turned into the corridor, the door of a chamber opened, from whence +Montoni came forth; but Emily, more terrified than ever to behold him, shrunk +back into the passage soon enough to escape being noticed, and heard him close +the door, which she had perceived was the same she formerly observed. Having +here listened to his departing steps, till their faint sound was lost in +distance, she ventured to her apartment, and, securing it once again, retired +to her bed, leaving the lamp burning on the hearth. But sleep was fled from her +harassed mind, to which images of horror alone occurred. She endeavoured to +think it possible, that Madame Montoni had not been taken to the turret; but, +when she recollected the former menaces of her husband and the terrible spirit +of vengeance, which he had displayed on a late occasion; when she remembered +his general character, the looks of the men, who had forced Madame Montoni from +her apartment, and the written traces on the stairs of the turret—she +could not doubt, that her aunt had been carried thither, and could scarcely +hope, that she had not been carried to be murdered. +</p> + +<p> +The grey of morning had long dawned through her casements, before Emily closed +her eyes in sleep; when wearied nature, at length, yielded her a respite from +suffering. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a> CHAPTER XI </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Who rears the bloody hand?<br/> + SAYERS +</p> + +<p> +Emily remained in her chamber, on the following morning, without receiving any +notice from Montoni, or seeing a human being, except the armed men, who +sometimes passed on the terrace below. Having tasted no food since the dinner +of the preceding day, extreme faintness made her feel the necessity of quitting +the asylum of her apartment to obtain refreshment, and she was also very +anxious to procure liberty for Annette. Willing, however, to defer venturing +forth, as long as possible, and considering, whether she should apply to +Montoni, or to the compassion of some other person, her excessive anxiety +concerning her aunt, at length, overcame her abhorrence of his presence, and +she determined to go to him, and to entreat, that he would suffer her to see +Madame Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, it was too certain, from the absence of Annette, that some accident +had befallen Ludovico, and that she was still in confinement; Emily, therefore, +resolved also to visit the chamber, where she had spoken to her, on the +preceding night, and, if the poor girl was yet there, to inform Montoni of her +situation. +</p> + +<p> +It was near noon, before she ventured from her apartment, and went first to the +south gallery, whither she passed without meeting a single person, or hearing a +sound, except, now and then, the echo of a distant footstep. +</p> + +<p> +It was unnecessary to call Annette, whose lamentations were audible upon the +first approach to the gallery, and who, bewailing her own and Ludovico’s +fate, told Emily, that she should certainly be starved to death, if she was not +let out immediately. Emily replied, that she was going to beg her release of +Montoni; but the terrors of hunger now yielded to those of the Signor, and, +when Emily left her, she was loudly entreating, that her place of refuge might +be concealed from him. +</p> + +<p> +As Emily drew near the great hall, the sounds she heard and the people she met +in the passages renewed her alarm. The latter, however, were peaceable, and did +not interrupt her, though they looked earnestly at her, as she passed, and +sometimes spoke. On crossing the hall towards the cedar room, where Montoni +usually sat, she perceived, on the pavement, fragments of swords, some tattered +garments stained with blood, and almost expected to have seen among them a dead +body; but from such a spectacle she was, at present, spared. As she approached +the room, the sound of several voices issued from within, and a dread of +appearing before many strangers, as well as of irritating Montoni by such an +intrusion, made her pause and falter from her purpose. She looked up through +the long arcades of the hall, in search of a servant, who might bear a message, +but no one appeared, and the urgency of what she had to request made her still +linger near the door. The voices within were not in contention, though she +distinguished those of several of the guests of the preceding day; but still +her resolution failed, whenever she would have tapped at the door, and she had +determined to walk in the hall, till some person should appear, who might call +Montoni from the room, when, as she turned from the door, it was suddenly +opened by himself. Emily trembled, and was confused, while he almost started +with surprise, and all the terrors of his countenance unfolded themselves. She +forgot all she would have said, and neither enquired for her aunt, nor entreated +for Annette, but stood silent and embarrassed. +</p> + +<p> +After closing the door he reproved her for a meanness, of which she had not +been guilty, and sternly questioned her what she had overheard; an accusation, +which revived her recollection so far, that she assured him she had not come +thither with an intention to listen to his conversation, but to entreat his +compassion for her aunt, and for Annette. Montoni seemed to doubt this +assertion, for he regarded her with a scrutinizing look; and the doubt +evidently arose from no trifling interest. Emily then further explained +herself, and concluded with entreating him to inform her, where her aunt was +placed, and to permit, that she might visit her; but he looked upon her only +with a malignant smile, which instantaneously confirmed her worst fears for her +aunt, and, at that moment, she had not courage to renew her entreaties. +</p> + +<p> +“For Annette,” said he,—“if you go to Carlo, he will +release the girl; the foolish fellow, who shut her up, died yesterday.” +Emily shuddered.—“But my aunt, Signor”—said she, +“O tell me of my aunt!” +</p> + +<p> +“She is taken care of,” replied Montoni hastily, “I have no +time to answer idle questions.” +</p> + +<p> +He would have passed on, but Emily, in a voice of agony, that could not be +wholly resisted, conjured him to tell her, where Madame Montoni was; while he +paused, and she anxiously watched his countenance, a trumpet sounded, and, in +the next moment, she heard the heavy gates of the portal open, and then the +clattering of horses’ hoofs in the court, with the confusion of many +voices. She stood for a moment hesitating whether she should follow Montoni, +who, at the sound of the trumpet, had passed through the hall, and, turning her +eyes whence it came, she saw through the door, that opened beyond a long +perspective of arches into the courts, a party of horsemen, whom she judged, as +well as the distance and her embarrassment would allow, to be the same she had +seen depart, a few days before. But she staid not to scrutinize, for, when the +trumpet sounded again, the chevaliers rushed out of the cedar room, and men +came running into the hall from every quarter of the castle. Emily once more +hurried for shelter to her own apartment. Thither she was still pursued by +images of horror. She reconsidered Montoni’s manner and words, when he +had spoken of his wife, and they served only to confirm her most terrible +suspicions. Tears refused any longer to relieve her distress, and she had sat +for a considerable time absorbed in thought, when a knocking at the chamber +door aroused her, on opening which she found old Carlo. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear young lady,” said he, “I have been so flurried, I never +once thought of you till just now. I have brought you some fruit and wine, and +I am sure you must stand in need of them by this time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Carlo,” said Emily, “this is very good of you. +Did the Signor remind you of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Signora,” replied Carlo, “his <i>Excellenza</i> has +business enough on his hands.” Emily then renewed her enquiries, +concerning Madame Montoni, but Carlo had been employed at the other end of the +castle, during the time, that she was removed, and he had heard nothing since, +concerning her. +</p> + +<p> +While he spoke, Emily looked steadily at him, for she scarcely knew whether he +was really ignorant, or concealed his knowledge of the truth from a fear of +offending his master. To several questions, concerning the contentions of +yesterday, he gave very limited answers; but told, that the disputes were now +amicably settled, and that the Signor believed himself to have been mistaken in +his suspicions of his guests. “The fighting was about that, +Signora,” said Carlo; “but I trust I shall never see such another +day in this castle, though strange things are about to be done.” +</p> + +<p> +On her enquiring his meaning, “Ah, Signora!” added he, “it is +not for me to betray secrets, or tell all I think, but time will tell.” +</p> + +<p> +She then desired him to release Annette, and, having described the chamber in +which the poor girl was confined, he promised to obey her immediately, and was +departing, when she remembered to ask who were the persons just arrived. Her +late conjecture was right; it was Verezzi, with his party. +</p> + +<p> +Her spirits were somewhat soothed by this short conversation with Carlo; for, +in her present circumstances, it afforded some comfort to hear the accents of +compassion, and to meet the look of sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +An hour passed before Annette appeared, who then came weeping and sobbing. +“O Ludovico—Ludovico!” cried she. +</p> + +<p> +“My poor Annette!” said Emily, and made her sit down. +</p> + +<p> +“Who could have foreseen this, ma’amselle? O miserable, wretched, +day—that ever I should live to see it!” and she continued to moan +and lament, till Emily thought it necessary to check her excess of grief. +“We are continually losing dear friends by death,” said she, with a +sigh, that came from her heart. “We must submit to the will of +Heaven—our tears, alas! cannot recall the dead!” +</p> + +<p> +Annette took the handkerchief from her face. +</p> + +<p> +“You will meet Ludovico in a better world, I hope,” added Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—yes,—ma’amselle,” sobbed Annette, “but +I hope I shall meet him again in this—though he is so wounded!” +</p> + +<p> +“Wounded!” exclaimed Emily, “does he live?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’am, but—but he has a terrible wound, and could not +come to let me out. They thought him dead, at first, and he has not been +rightly himself, till within this hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Annette, I rejoice to hear he lives.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lives! Holy Saints! why he will not die, surely!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily said she hoped not, but this expression of hope Annette thought implied +fear, and her own increased in proportion, as Emily endeavoured to encourage +her. To enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, she could give no satisfactory +answers. +</p> + +<p> +“I quite forgot to ask among the servants, ma’amselle,” said +she, “for I could think of nobody but poor Ludovico.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette’s grief was now somewhat assuaged, and Emily sent her to make +enquiries, concerning her lady, of whom, however, she could obtain no +intelligence, some of the people she spoke with being really ignorant of her +fate, and others having probably received orders to conceal it. +</p> + +<p> +This day passed with Emily in continued grief and anxiety for her aunt; but she +was unmolested by any notice from Montoni; and, now that Annette was liberated, +she obtained food, without exposing herself to danger, or impertinence. +</p> + +<p> +Two following days passed in the same manner, unmarked by any occurrence, +during which she obtained no information of Madame Montoni. On the evening of +the second, having dismissed Annette, and retired to bed, her mind became +haunted by the most dismal images, such as her long anxiety, concerning her +aunt, suggested; and, unable to forget herself, for a moment, or to vanquish +the phantoms, that tormented her, she rose from her bed, and went to one of the +casements of her chamber, to breathe a freer air. +</p> + +<p> +All without was silent and dark, unless that could be called light, which was +only the faint glimmer of the stars, showing imperfectly the outline of the +mountains, the western towers of the castle and the ramparts below, where a +solitary sentinel was pacing. What an image of repose did this scene present! +The fierce and terrible passions, too, which so often agitated the inhabitants +of this edifice, seemed now hushed in sleep;—those mysterious workings, +that rouse the elements of man’s nature into tempest—were calm. +Emily’s heart was not so; but her sufferings, though deep, partook of the +gentle character of her mind. Hers was a silent anguish, weeping, yet enduring; +not the wild energy of passion, inflaming imagination, bearing down the +barriers of reason and living in a world of its own. +</p> + +<p> +The air refreshed her, and she continued at the casement, looking on the +shadowy scene, over which the planets burned with a clear light, amid the deep +blue æther, as they silently moved in their destined course. She remembered +how often she had gazed on them with her dear father, how often he had pointed +out their way in the heavens, and explained their laws; and these reflections +led to others, which, in an almost equal degree, awakened her grief and +astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +They brought a retrospect of all the strange and mournful events, which had +occurred since she lived in peace with her parents. And to Emily, who had been +so tenderly educated, so tenderly loved, who once knew only goodness and +happiness—to her, the late events and her present situation—in a +foreign land—in a remote castle—surrounded by vice and +violence—seemed more like the visions of a distempered imagination, than +the circumstances of truth. She wept to think of what her parents would have +suffered, could they have foreseen the events of her future life. +</p> + +<p> +While she raised her streaming eyes to heaven, she observed the same planet, +which she had seen in Languedoc, on the night, preceding her father’s +death, rise above the eastern towers of the castle, while she remembered the +conversation, which has passed, concerning the probable state of departed +souls; remembered, also, the solemn music she had heard, and to which the +tenderness of her spirits had, in spite of her reason, given a superstitious +meaning. At these recollections she wept again, and continued musing, when +suddenly the notes of sweet music passed on the air. A superstitious dread +stole over her; she stood listening, for some moments, in trembling +expectation, and then endeavoured to recollect her thoughts, and to reason +herself into composure; but human reason cannot establish her laws on subjects, +lost in the obscurity of imagination, any more than the eye can ascertain the +form of objects, that only glimmer through the dimness of night. +</p> + +<p> +Her surprise, on hearing such soothing and delicious sounds, was, at least, +justifiable; for it was long—very long, since she had listened to +anything like melody. The fierce trumpet and the shrill fife were the only +instruments she had heard, since her arrival at Udolpho. +</p> + +<p> +When her mind was somewhat more composed, she tried to ascertain from what +quarter the sounds proceeded, and thought they came from below; but whether +from a room of the castle, or from the terrace, she could not with certainty +judge. Fear and surprise now yielded to the enchantment of a strain, that +floated on the silent night, with the most soft and melancholy sweetness. +Suddenly, it seemed removed to a distance, trembled faintly, and then entirely +ceased. +</p> + +<p> +She continued to listen, sunk in that pleasing repose, which soft music leaves +on the mind—but it came no more. Upon this strange circumstance her +thoughts were long engaged, for strange it certainly was to hear music at +midnight, when every inhabitant of the castle had long since retired to rest, +and in a place, where nothing like harmony had been heard before, probably, for +many years. Long suffering had made her spirits peculiarly sensible to terror, +and liable to be affected by the illusions of superstition.—It now seemed +to her, as if her dead father had spoken to her in that strain, to inspire her +with comfort and confidence, on the subject, which had then occupied her mind. +Yet reason told her, that this was a wild conjecture, and she was inclined to +dismiss it; but, with the inconsistency so natural, when imagination guides the +thoughts, she then wavered towards a belief as wild. She remembered the +singular event, connected with the castle, which had given it into the +possession of its present owner; and, when she considered the mysterious +manner, in which its late possessor had disappeared, and that she had never +since been heard of, her mind was impressed with a high degree of solemn awe; +so that, though there appeared no clue to connect that event with the late +music, she was inclined fancifully to think they had some relation to each +other. At this conjecture, a sudden chillness ran through her frame; she looked +fearfully upon the duskiness of her chamber, and the dead silence, that +prevailed there, heightened to her fancy its gloomy aspect. +</p> + +<p> +At length, she left the casement, but her steps faltered, as she approached the +bed, and she stopped and looked round. The single lamp, that burned in her +spacious chamber, was expiring; for a moment, she shrunk from the darkness +beyond; and then, ashamed of the weakness, which, however, she could not wholly +conquer, went forward to the bed, where her mind did not soon know the +soothings of sleep. She still mused on the late occurrence, and looked with +anxiety to the next night, when, at the same hour, she determined to watch +whether the music returned. “If those sounds were human,” said she, +“I shall probably hear them again.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a> CHAPTER XII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Then, oh, you blessed ministers above,<br/> +Keep me in patience; and, in ripen’d time,<br/> +Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up<br/> +In countenance.<br/> + SHAKESPEARE +</p> + +<p> +Annette came almost breathless to Emily’s apartment in the morning. +“O ma’amselle!” said she, in broken sentences, “what +news I have to tell! I have found out who the prisoner is—but he was no +prisoner, neither;—he that was shut up in the chamber I told you of. I +must think him a ghost, forsooth!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was the prisoner?” enquired Emily, while her thoughts glanced +back to the circumstance of the preceding night. +</p> + +<p> +“You mistake, ma’am,” said Annette; “he was not a +prisoner, after all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is the person, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Holy Saints!” rejoined Annette; “How I was surprised! I met +him just now, on the rampart below, there. I never was so surprised in my life! +Ah! ma’amselle! this is a strange place! I should never have done +wondering, if I was to live here a hundred years. But, as I was saying, I met +him just now on the rampart, and I was thinking of nobody less than of +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“This trifling is insupportable,” said Emily; +“pr’ythee, Annette, do not torture my patience any longer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, ma’amselle, guess—guess who it was; it was somebody you +know very well.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot guess,” said Emily impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, ma’amselle, I’ll tell you something to guess by—A +tall Signor, with a longish face, who walks so stately, and used to wear such a +high feather in his hat; and used often to look down upon the ground, when +people spoke to him; and to look at people from under his eyebrows, as it were, +all so dark and frowning. You have seen him, often and often, at Venice, +ma’am. Then he was so intimate with the Signor, too. And, now I think of +it, I wonder what he could be afraid of in this lonely old castle, that he +should shut himself up for. But he is come abroad now, for I met him on the +rampart just this minute. I trembled when I saw him, for I always was afraid of +him, somehow; but I determined I would not let him see it; so I went up to him, +and made him a low curtesy, ‘You are welcome to the castle, Signor +Orsino,’ said I.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, it was Signor Orsino, then!” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’amselle, Signor Orsino, himself, who caused that Venetian +gentleman to be killed, and has been popping about from place to place, ever +since, as I hear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, recovering from the shock of this +intelligence; “and is <i>he</i> come to Udolpho! He does well to +endeavour to conceal himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’amselle, but if that was all, this desolate place would +conceal him, without his shutting himself up in one room. Who would think of +coming to look for him here? I am sure I should as soon think of going to look +for anybody in the other world.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is some truth in that,” said Emily, who would now have +concluded it was Orsino’s music, which she had heard, on the preceding +night, had she not known, that he had neither taste, nor skill in the art. But, +though she was unwilling to add to the number of Annette’s surprises, by +mentioning the subject of her own, she enquired, whether any person in the +castle played on a musical instrument? +</p> + +<p> +“O yes, ma’amselle! there is Benedetto plays the great drum to +admiration; and then, there is Launcelot the trumpeter; nay, for that matter, +Ludovico himself can play on the trumpet;—but he is ill now. I remember +once—” +</p> + +<p> +Emily interrupted her; “Have you heard no other music since you came to +the castle—none last night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, did <i>you</i> hear any last night, ma’amselle?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily evaded this question, by repeating her own. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, no, ma’am,” replied Annette; “I never heard any +music here, I must say, but the drums and the trumpet; and, as for last night, +I did nothing but dream I saw my late lady’s ghost.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your <i>late</i> lady’s,” said Emily in a tremulous voice; +“you have heard more, then. Tell me—tell me all, Annette, I +entreat; tell me the worst at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, ma’amselle, you know the worst already.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing,” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you do, ma’amselle; you know, that nobody knows anything +about her; and it is plain, therefore, she is gone, the way of the first lady +of the castle—nobody ever knew anything about her.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily leaned her head upon her hand, and was, for some time, silent; then, +telling Annette she wished to be alone, the latter left the room. +</p> + +<p> +The remark of Annette had revived Emily’s terrible suspicion, concerning +the fate of Madame Montoni; and she resolved to make another effort to obtain +certainty on this subject, by applying to Montoni once more. +</p> + +<p> +When Annette returned, a few hours after, she told Emily, that the porter of +the castle wished very much to speak with her, for that he had something of +importance to say; her spirits had, however, of late been so subject to alarm, +that any new circumstance excited it; and this message from the porter, when +her first surprise was over, made her look round for some lurking danger, the +more suspiciously, perhaps, because she had frequently remarked the unpleasant +air and countenance of this man. She now hesitated, whether to speak with him, +doubting even, that this request was only a pretext to draw her into some +danger; but a little reflection showed her the improbability of this, and she +blushed at her weak fears. +</p> + +<p> +“I will speak to him, Annette,” said she; “desire him to come +to the corridor immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette departed, and soon after returned. +</p> + +<p> +“Barnardine, ma’amselle,” said she, “dare not come to +the corridor, lest he should be discovered, it is so far from his post; and he +dare not even leave the gates for a moment now; but, if you will come to him at +the portal, through some roundabout passages he told me of, without crossing +the courts, he has that to tell, which will surprise you. But you must not come +through the courts, lest the Signor should see you.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, neither approving these “roundabout passage,” nor the other +part of the request, now positively refused to go. “Tell him,” said +she, “if he has anything of consequence to impart, I will hear him in +the corridor, whenever he has an opportunity of coming thither.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette went to deliver this message, and was absent a considerable time. When +she returned, “It won’t do, ma’amselle,” said she. +“Barnardine has been considering all this time what can be done, for it +is as much as his place is worth to leave his post now. But, if you will come +to the east rampart in the dusk of the evening, he can, perhaps, steal away, +and tell you all he has to say.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was surprised and alarmed, at the secrecy which this man seemed to think +so necessary, and hesitated whether to meet him, till, considering, that he +might mean to warn her of some serious danger, she resolved to go. +</p> + +<p> +“Soon after sunset,” said she, “I will be at the end of the +east rampart. But then the watch will be set,” she added, recollecting +herself, “and how can Barnardine pass unobserved?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is just what I said to him, ma’am, and he answered me, that +he had the key of the gate, at the end of the rampart, that leads towards the +courts, and could let himself through that way; and as for the sentinels, there +were none at this end of the terrace, because the place is guarded enough by +the high walls of the castle, and the east turret; and he said those at the +other end were too far off to see him, if it was pretty duskyish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Emily, “I must hear what he has to tell; and, +therefore, desire you will go with me to the terrace, this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“He desired it might be pretty duskyish, ma’amselle,” +repeated Annette, “because of the watch.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily paused, and then said she would be on the terrace, an hour after +sunset;—“and tell Barnardine,” she added, “to be +punctual to the time; for that I, also, may be observed by Signor Montoni. +Where is the Signor? I would speak with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is in the cedar chamber, ma’am, counselling with the other +Signors. He is going to give them a sort of treat today, to make up for what +passed at the last, I suppose; the people are all very busy in the +kitchen.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily now enquired, if Montoni expected any new guests? and Annette believed +that he did not. “Poor Ludovico!” added she, “he would be as +merry as the best of them, if he was well; but he may recover yet. Count Morano +was wounded as bad, as he, and he is got well again, and is gone back to +Venice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he so?” said Emily, “when did you hear this?” +</p> + +<p> +“I heard it last night, ma’amselle, but I forgot to tell +it.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily asked some further questions, and then, desiring Annette would observe +and inform her, when Montoni was alone, the girl went to deliver her message to +Barnardine. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni was, however, so much engaged, during the whole day, that Emily had no +opportunity of seeking a release from her terrible suspense, concerning her +aunt. Annette was employed in watching his steps, and in attending upon +Ludovico, whom she, assisted by Caterina, nursed with the utmost care; and +Emily was, of course, left much alone. Her thoughts dwelt often on the message +of the porter, and were employed in conjecturing the subject, that occasioned +it, which she sometimes imagined concerned the fate of Madame Montoni; at +others, that it related to some personal danger, which threatened herself. The +cautious secrecy which Barnardine observed in his conduct, inclined her to +believe the latter. +</p> + +<p> +As the hour of appointment drew near, her impatience increased. At length, the +sun set; she heard the passing steps of the sentinels going to their posts; and +waited only for Annette to accompany her to the terrace, who, soon after, came, +and they descended together. When Emily expressed apprehensions of meeting +Montoni, or some of his guests, “O, there is no fear of that, +ma’amselle,” said Annette, “they are all set in to feasting +yet, and that Barnardine knows.” +</p> + +<p> +They reached the first terrace, where the sentinels demanded who passed; and +Emily, having answered, walked on to the east rampart, at the entrance of which +they were again stopped; and, having again replied, were permitted to proceed. +But Emily did not like to expose herself to the discretion of these men, at +such an hour; and, impatient to withdraw from the situation, she stepped +hastily on in search of Barnardine. He was not yet come. She leaned pensively +on the wall of the rampart, and waited for him. The gloom of twilight sat deep +on the surrounding objects, blending in soft confusion the valley, the +mountains, and the woods, whose tall heads, stirred by the evening breeze, gave +the only sounds, that stole on silence, except a faint, faint chorus of distant +voices, that arose from within the castle. +</p> + +<p> +“What voices are those?” said Emily, as she fearfully listened. +</p> + +<p> +“It is only the Signor and his guests, carousing,” replied Annette. +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!” thought Emily, “can this man’s heart be so +gay, when he has made another being so wretched; if, indeed, my aunt is yet +suffered to feel her wretchedness? O! whatever are my own sufferings, may my +heart never, never be hardened against those of others!” +</p> + +<p> +She looked up, with a sensation of horror, to the east turret, near which she +then stood; a light glimmered through the grates of the lower chamber, but +those of the upper one were dark. Presently, she perceived a person moving with +a lamp across the lower room; but this circumstance revived no hope, concerning +Madame Montoni, whom she had vainly sought in that apartment, which had +appeared to contain only soldiers’ accoutrements. Emily, however, +determined to attempt the outer door of the turret, as soon as Barnardine +should withdraw; and, if it was unfastened, to make another effort to discover +her aunt. +</p> + +<p> +The moments passed, but still Barnardine did not appear; and Emily, becoming +uneasy, hesitated whether to wait any longer. She would have sent Annette to +the portal to hasten him, but feared to be left alone, for it was now almost +dark, and a melancholy streak of red, that still lingered in the west, was the +only vestige of departed day. The strong interest, however, which +Barnardine’s message had awakened, overcame other apprehensions, and +still detained her. +</p> + +<p> +While she was conjecturing with Annette what could thus occasion his absence, +they heard a key turn in the lock of the gate near them, and presently saw a +man advancing. It was Barnardine, of whom Emily hastily enquired what he had to +communicate, and desired, that he would tell her quickly, “for I am +chilled with this evening air,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“You must dismiss your maid, lady,” said the man in a voice, the +deep tone of which shocked her, “what I have to tell is to you +only.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, after some hesitation, desired Annette to withdraw to a little distance. +“Now, my friend, what would you say?” +</p> + +<p> +He was silent a moment, as if considering, and then said,— +</p> + +<p> +“That which would cost me my place, at least, if it came to the +Signor’s ears. You must promise, lady, that nothing shall ever make you +tell a syllable of the matter; I have been trusted in this affair, and, if it +was known, that I betrayed my trust, my life, perhaps, might answer it. But I +was concerned for you, lady, and I resolved to tell you.” He +paused.— +</p> + +<p> +Emily thanked him, assured him that he might repose on her discretion, and +entreated him to dispatch. +</p> + +<p> +“Annette told us in the hall how unhappy you were about Signora Montoni, +and how much you wished to know what was become of her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Most true,” said Emily eagerly, “and you can inform me. I +conjure you tell me the worst, without hesitation.” She rested her +trembling arm upon the wall. +</p> + +<p> +“I can tell you,” said Barnardine, and paused.— +</p> + +<p> +Emily had no power to enforce her entreaties. +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>can</i> tell you,” resumed +Barnardine,—“but—” +</p> + +<p> +“But what?” exclaimed Emily, recovering her resolution. +</p> + +<p> +“Here I am, ma’amselle,” said Annette, who, having heard the +eager tone, in which Emily pronounced these words, came running towards her. +</p> + +<p> +“Retire!” said Barnardine, sternly; “you are not +wanted;” and, as Emily said nothing, Annette obeyed. +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>can</i> tell you,” repeated the porter,—“but I +know not how—you were afflicted before.—” +</p> + +<p> +“I am prepared for the worst, my friend,” said Emily, in a firm and +solemn voice. “I can support any certainty better than this +suspense.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Signora, if that is the case, you shall hear.—You know, I +suppose, that the Signor and his lady used sometimes to disagree. It is none of +my concerns to enquire what it was about, but I believe you know it was +so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Emily, “proceed.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Signor, it seems, had lately been very wrath against her. I saw all, +and heard all,—a great deal more than people thought for; but it was none +of my business, so I said nothing. A few days ago, the Signor sent for me. +‘Barnardine,’ says he, ‘you are—an honest man, I think +I can trust you.’ I assured his <i>Excellenza</i> that he could. +‘Then,’ says he, as near as I can remember, ‘I have an affair +in hand, which I want you to assist me in.’—Then he told me what I +was to do; but that I shall say nothing about—it concerned only the +Signora.” +</p> + +<p> +“O Heavens!” exclaimed Emily—“what have you +done?” +</p> + +<p> +Barnardine hesitated, and was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“What fiend could tempt him, or you, to such an act!” cried Emily, +chilled with horror, and scarcely able to support her fainting spirits. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a fiend,” said Barnardine in a gloomy tone of voice. They +were now both silent;—Emily had not courage to enquire further, and +Barnardine seemed to shrink from telling more. At length he said, “It is +of no use to think of the past; the Signor was cruel enough, but he would be +obeyed. What signified my refusing? He would have found others, who had no +scruples.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have murdered her, then!” said Emily, in a hollow and inward +voice—“I am talking with a murderer!” Barnardine stood +silent; while Emily turned from him, and attempted to leave the place. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay, lady!” said he, “You deserve to think so +still—since you can believe me capable of such a deed.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you are innocent, tell me quickly,” said Emily, in faint +accents, “for I feel I shall not be able to hear you long.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you no more,” said he, and walked away. Emily had just +strength enough to bid him stay, and then to call Annette, on whose arm she +leaned, and they walked slowly up the rampart, till they heard steps behind +them. It was Barnardine again. +</p> + +<p> +“Send away the girl,” said he, “and I will tell you +more.” +</p> + +<p> +“She must not go,” said Emily; “what you have to say, she may +hear.” +</p> + +<p> +“May she so, lady?” said he. “You shall know no more, +then;” and he was going, though slowly, when Emily’s anxiety, +overcoming the resentment and fear, which the man’s behaviour had roused, +she desired him to stay, and bade Annette retire. +</p> + +<p> +“The Signora is alive,” said he, “for me. She is my prisoner, +though; his <i>Excellenza</i> has shut her up in the chamber over the great +gates of the court, and I have the charge of her. I was going to have told you, +you might see her—but now—” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, relieved from an unutterable load of anguish by this speech, had now +only to ask Barnardine’s forgiveness, and to conjure, that he would let +her visit her aunt. +</p> + +<p> +He complied with less reluctance, than she expected, and told her, that, if she +would repair, on the following night, when the Signor was retired to rest, to +the postern-gate of the castle, she should, perhaps, see Madame Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +Amid all the thankfulness, which Emily felt for this concession, she thought +she observed a malicious triumph in his manner, when he pronounced the last +words; but, in the next moment, she dismissed the thought, and, having again +thanked him, commended her aunt to his pity, and assured him, that she would +herself reward him, and would be punctual to her appointment, she bade him good +night, and retired, unobserved, to her chamber. It was a considerable time, +before the tumult of joy, which Barnardine’s unexpected intelligence had +occasioned, allowed Emily to think with clearness, or to be conscious of the +real dangers, that still surrounded Madame Montoni and herself. When this +agitation subsided, she perceived, that her aunt was yet the prisoner of a man, +to whose vengeance, or avarice, she might fall a sacrifice; and, when she +further considered the savage aspect of the person, who was appointed to guard +Madame Montoni, her doom appeared to be already sealed, for the countenance of +Barnardine seemed to bear the stamp of a murderer; and, when she had looked +upon it, she felt inclined to believe, that there was no deed, however black, +which he might not be prevailed upon to execute. These reflections brought to +her remembrance the tone of voice, in which he had promised to grant her +request to see his prisoner; and she mused upon it long in uneasiness and +doubt. Sometimes, she even hesitated, whether to trust herself with him at the +lonely hour he had appointed; and once, and only once, it struck her, that +Madame Montoni might be already murdered, and that this ruffian was appointed +to decoy herself to some secret place, where her life also was to be sacrificed +to the avarice of Montoni, who then would claim securely the contested estates +in Languedoc. The consideration of the enormity of such guilt did, at length, +relieve her from the belief of its probability, but not from all the doubts and +fears, which a recollection of Barnardine’s manner had occasioned. From +these subjects, her thoughts, at length, passed to others; and, as the evening +advanced, she remembered, with somewhat more than surprise, the music she had +heard, on the preceding night, and now awaited its return, with more than +curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +She distinguished, till a late hour, the distant carousals of Montoni and his +companions—the loud contest, the dissolute laugh and the choral song, +that made the halls re-echo. At length, she heard the heavy gates of the castle +shut for the night, and those sounds instantly sunk into a silence, which was +disturbed only by the whispering steps of persons, passing through the +galleries to their remote rooms. Emily now judging it to be about the time, +when she had heard the music, on the preceding night, dismissed Annette, and +gently opened the casement to watch for its return. The planet she had so +particularly noticed, at the recurrence of the music, was not yet risen; but, +with superstitious weakness, she kept her eyes fixed on that part of the +hemisphere, where it would rise, almost expecting, that, when it appeared, the +sounds would return. At length, it came, serenely bright, over the eastern +towers of the castle. Her heart trembled, when she perceived it, and she had +scarcely courage to remain at the casement, lest the returning music should +confirm her terror, and subdue the little strength she yet retained. The clock +soon after struck one, and, knowing this to be about the time, when the sounds +had occurred, she sat down in a chair, near the casement, and endeavoured to +compose her spirits; but the anxiety of expectation yet disturbed them. +Everything, however, remained still; she heard only the solitary step of a +sentinel, and the lulling murmur of the woods below, and she again leaned from +the casement, and again looked, as if for intelligence, to the planet, which +was now risen high above the towers. +</p> + +<p> +Emily continued to listen, but no music came. “Those were surely no +mortal sounds!” said she, recollecting their entrancing melody. “No +inhabitant of this castle could utter such; and, where is the feeling, that +could modulate such exquisite expression? We all know, that it has been +affirmed celestial sounds have sometimes been heard on earth. Father Pierre and +Father Antoine declared, that they had sometimes heard them in the stillness of +night, when they alone were waking to offer their orisons to heaven. Nay, my +dear father himself, once said, that, soon after my mother’s death, as he +lay watchful in grief, sounds of uncommon sweetness called him from his bed; +and, on opening his window, he heard lofty music pass along the midnight air. +It soothed him, he said; he looked up with confidence to heaven, and resigned +her to his God.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily paused to weep at this recollection. “Perhaps,” resumed she, +“perhaps, those strains I heard were sent to comfort,—to encourage +me! Never shall I forget those I heard, at this hour, in Languedoc! Perhaps, my +father watches over me, at this moment!” She wept again in tenderness. +Thus passed the hour in watchfulness and solemn thought; but no sounds +returned; and, after remaining at the casement, till the light tint of dawn +began to edge the mountain-tops and steal upon the night-shade, she concluded, +that they would not return, and retired reluctantly to repose. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="part03"></a>VOLUME 3</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a> CHAPTER I </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +I will advise you where to plant yourselves;<br/> +Acquaint you with the perfect spy o’ the time,<br/> +The moment on ’t; for ’t must be done tonight.<br/> + MACBETH +</p> + +<p> +Emily was somewhat surprised, on the following day, to find that Annette had +heard of Madame Montoni’s confinement in the chamber over the portal, as +well as of her purposed visit there, on the approaching night. That the +circumstance, which Barnardine had so solemnly enjoined her to conceal, he had +himself told to so indiscreet a hearer as Annette, appeared very improbable, +though he had now charged her with a message, concerning the intended +interview. He requested, that Emily would meet him, unattended, on the terrace, +at a little after midnight, when he himself would lead her to the place he had +promised; a proposal, from which she immediately shrunk, for a thousand vague +fears darted athwart her mind, such as had tormented her on the preceding +night, and which she neither knew how to trust, nor to dismiss. It frequently +occurred to her, that Barnardine might have deceived her, concerning Madame +Montoni, whose murderer, perhaps, he really was; and that he had deceived her +by order of Montoni, the more easily to draw her into some of the desperate +designs of the latter. The terrible suspicion, that Madame Montoni no longer +lived, thus came, accompanied by one not less dreadful for herself. Unless the +crime, by which the aunt had suffered, was instigated merely by resentment, +unconnected with profit, a motive, upon which Montoni did not appear very +likely to act, its object must be unattained, till the niece was also dead, to +whom Montoni knew that his wife’s estates must descend. Emily remembered +the words, which had informed her, that the contested estates in France would +devolve to her, if Madame Montoni died, without consigning them to her husband, +and the former obstinate perseverance of her aunt made it too probable, that +she had, to the last, withheld them. At this instant, recollecting +Barnardine’s manner, on the preceding night, she now believed, what she +had then fancied, that it expressed malignant triumph. She shuddered at the +recollection, which confirmed her fears, and determined not to meet him on the +terrace. Soon after, she was inclined to consider these suspicions as the +extravagant exaggerations of a timid and harassed mind, and could not believe +Montoni liable to such preposterous depravity as that of destroying, from one +motive, his wife and her niece. She blamed herself for suffering her romantic +imagination to carry her so far beyond the bounds of probability, and +determined to endeavour to check its rapid flights, lest they should sometimes +extend into madness. Still, however, she shrunk from the thought of meeting +Barnardine, on the terrace, at midnight; and still the wish to be relieved from +this terrible suspense, concerning her aunt, to see her, and to sooth her +sufferings, made her hesitate what to do. +</p> + +<p> +“Yet how is it possible, Annette, I can pass to the terrace at that +hour?” said she, recollecting herself, “the sentinels will stop me, +and Signor Montoni will hear of the affair.” +</p> + +<p> +“O ma’amselle! that is well thought of,” replied Annette. +“That is what Barnardine told me about. He gave me this key, and bade me +say it unlocks the door at the end of the vaulted gallery, that opens near the +end of the east rampart, so that you need not pass any of the men on watch. He +bade me say, too, that his reason for requesting you to come to the terrace +was, because he could take you to the place you want to go to, without opening +the great doors of the hall, which grate so heavily.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s spirits were somewhat calmed by this explanation, which seemed to +be honestly given to Annette. “But why did he desire I would come alone, +Annette?” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“Why that was what I asked him myself, ma’amselle. Says I, +‘Why is my young lady to come alone?—Surely I may come with +her!—What harm can <i>I</i> do?’ But he said +‘No—no—I tell you not,’ in his gruff way. Nay, says I, +I have been trusted in as great affairs as this, I warrant, and it’s a +hard matter if I can’t keep a secret now. Still he would say nothing +but—‘No—no—no.’ Well, says I, if you will only +trust me, I will tell you a great secret, that was told me a month ago, and I +have never opened my lips about it yet—so you need not be afraid of +telling me. But all would not do. Then, ma’amselle, I went so far as to +offer him a beautiful new sequin, that Ludovico gave me for a keepsake, and I +would not have parted with it for all St. Marco’s Place; but even that +would not do! Now what can be the reason of this? But I know, you know, +ma’am, who you are going to see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray did Barnardine tell you this?” +</p> + +<p> +“He! No, ma’amselle, that he did not.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily enquired who did, but Annette showed, that she <i>could</i> keep a +secret. +</p> + +<p> +During the remainder of the day, Emily’s mind was agitated with doubts +and fears and contrary determinations, on the subject of meeting this +Barnardine on the rampart, and submitting herself to his guidance, she scarcely +knew whither. Pity for her aunt and anxiety for herself alternately swayed her +determination, and night came, before she had decided upon her conduct. She +heard the castle clock strike eleven—twelve—and yet her mind +wavered. The time, however, was now come, when she could hesitate no longer: +and then the interest she felt for her aunt overcame other considerations, and, +bidding Annette follow her to the outer door of the vaulted gallery, and there +await her return, she descended from her chamber. The castle was perfectly +still, and the great hall, where so lately she had witnessed a scene of +dreadful contention, now returned only the whispering footsteps of the two +solitary figures gliding fearfully between the pillars, and gleamed only to the +feeble lamp they carried. Emily, deceived by the long shadows of the pillars +and by the catching lights between, often stopped, imagining she saw some +person, moving in the distant obscurity of the perspective; and, as she passed +these pillars, she feared to turn her eyes toward them, almost expecting to see +a figure start out from behind their broad shaft. She reached, however, the +vaulted gallery, without interruption, but unclosed its outer door with a +trembling hand, and, charging Annette not to quit it and to keep it a little +open, that she might be heard if she called, she delivered to her the lamp, +which she did not dare to take herself because of the men on watch, and, alone, +stepped out upon the dark terrace. Everything was so still, that she feared, +lest her own light steps should be heard by the distant sentinels, and she +walked cautiously towards the spot, where she had before met Barnardine, +listening for a sound, and looking onward through the gloom in search of him. +At length, she was startled by a deep voice, that spoke near her, and she +paused, uncertain whether it was his, till it spoke again, and she then +recognised the hollow tones of Barnardine, who had been punctual to the moment, +and was at the appointed place, resting on the rampart wall. After chiding her +for not coming sooner, and saying that he had been waiting nearly half an +hour, he desired Emily, who made no reply, to follow him to the door through +which he had entered the terrace. +</p> + +<p> +While he unlocked it, she looked back to that she had left, and, observing the +rays of the lamp stream through a small opening, was certain, that Annette was +still there. But her remote situation could little befriend Emily, after she +had quitted the terrace; and, when Barnardine unclosed the gate, the dismal +aspect of the passage beyond, shown by a torch burning on the pavement, made +her shrink from following him alone, and she refused to go, unless Annette +might accompany her. This, however, Barnardine absolutely refused to permit, +mingling at the same time with his refusal such artful circumstances to +heighten the pity and curiosity of Emily towards her aunt, that she, at length, +consented to follow him alone to the portal. +</p> + +<p> +He then took up the torch, and led her along the passage, at the extremity of +which he unlocked another door, whence they descended, a few steps, into a +chapel, which, as Barnardine held up the torch to light her, Emily observed to +be in ruins, and she immediately recollected a former conversation of Annette, +concerning it, with very unpleasant emotions. She looked fearfully on the +almost roofless walls, green with damps, and on the gothic points of the +windows, where the ivy and the briony had long supplied the place of glass, and +ran mantling among the broken capitals of some columns, that had once supported +the roof. Barnardine stumbled over the broken pavement, and his voice, as he +uttered a sudden oath, was returned in hollow echoes, that made it more +terrific. Emily’s heart sunk; but she still followed him, and he turned +out of what had been the principal aisle of the chapel. “Down these +steps, lady,” said Barnardine, as he descended a flight, which appeared +to lead into the vaults; but Emily paused on the top, and demanded, in a +tremulous tone, whither he was conducting her. +</p> + +<p> +“To the portal,” said Barnardine. +</p> + +<p> +“Cannot we go through the chapel to the portal?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Signora, that leads to the inner court, which I don’t choose +to unlock. This way, and we shall reach the outer court presently.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily still hesitated; fearing not only to go on, but, since she had gone thus +far, to irritate Barnardine by refusing to go further. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, lady,” said the man, who had nearly reached the bottom of +the flight, “make a little haste; I cannot wait here all night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whither do these steps lead?” said Emily, yet pausing. +</p> + +<p> +“To the portal,” repeated Barnardine, in an angry tone, “I +will wait no longer.” As he said this, he moved on with the light, and +Emily, fearing to provoke him by further delay, reluctantly followed. From the +steps, they proceeded through a passage, adjoining the vaults, the walls of +which were dropping with unwholesome dews, and the vapours, that crept along +the ground, made the torch burn so dimly, that Emily expected every moment to +see it extinguished, and Barnardine could scarcely find his way. As they +advanced, these vapours thickened, and Barnardine, believing the torch was +expiring, stopped for a moment to trim it. As he then rested against a pair of +iron gates, that opened from the passage, Emily saw, by uncertain flashes of +light, the vaults beyond, and, near her, heaps of earth, that seemed to +surround an open grave. Such an object, in such a scene, would, at any time, +have disturbed her; but now she was shocked by an instantaneous presentiment, +that this was the grave of her unfortunate aunt, and that the treacherous +Barnardine was leading herself to destruction. The obscure and terrible place, +to which he had conducted her, seemed to justify the thought; it was a place +suited for murder, a receptacle for the dead, where a deed of horror might be +committed, and no vestige appear to proclaim it. Emily was so overwhelmed with +terror, that, for a moment, she was unable to determine what conduct to pursue. +She then considered that it would be vain to attempt an escape from +Barnardine by flight, since the length and the intricacy of the way she had +passed would soon enable him to overtake her, who was unacquainted with the +turnings, and whose feebleness would not suffer her to run long with swiftness. +She feared equally to irritate him by a disclosure of her suspicions, which a +refusal to accompany him further certainly would do; and, since she was already +as much in his power as it was possible she could be, if she proceeded, she, at +length, determined to suppress, as far as she could, the appearance of +apprehension, and to follow silently whither he designed to lead her. Pale with +horror and anxiety, she now waited till Barnardine had trimmed the torch, and, +as her sight glanced again upon the grave, she could not forbear enquiring, for +whom it was prepared. He took his eyes from the torch, and fixed them upon her +face without speaking. She faintly repeated the question, but the man, shaking +the torch, passed on; and she followed, trembling, to a second flight of steps, +having ascended which, a door delivered them into the first court of the +castle. As they crossed it, the light showed the high black walls around them, +fringed with long grass and dank weeds, that found a scanty soil among the +mouldering stones; the heavy buttresses, with, here and there, between them, a +narrow grate, that admitted a freer circulation of air to the court, the massy +iron gates, that led to the castle, whose clustering turrets appeared above, +and, opposite, the huge towers and arch of the portal itself. In this scene the +large, uncouth person of Barnardine, bearing the torch, formed a characteristic +figure. This Barnardine was wrapt in a long dark cloak, which scarcely allowed +the kind of half-boots, or sandals, that were laced upon his legs, to appear, +and showed only the point of a broad sword, which he usually wore, slung in a +belt across his shoulders. On his head was a heavy flat velvet cap, somewhat +resembling a turban, in which was a short feather; the visage beneath it showed +strong features, and a countenance furrowed with the lines of cunning and +darkened by habitual discontent. +</p> + +<p> +The view of the court, however, reanimated Emily, who, as she crossed silently +towards the portal, began to hope, that her own fears, and not the treachery of +Barnardine, had deceived her. She looked anxiously up at the first casement, +that appeared above the lofty arch of the portcullis; but it was dark, and she +enquired, whether it belonged to the chamber where Madame Montoni was +confined. Emily spoke low, and Barnardine, perhaps, did not hear her question, +for he returned no answer; and they, soon after, entered the postern door of +the gateway, which brought them to the foot of a narrow staircase that wound +up one of the towers. +</p> + +<p> +“Up this staircase the Signora lies,” said Barnardine. +</p> + +<p> +“Lies!” repeated Emily faintly, as she began to ascend. +</p> + +<p> +“She lies in the upper chamber,” said Barnardine. +</p> + +<p> +As they passed up, the wind, which poured through the narrow cavities in the +wall, made the torch flare, and it threw a stronger gleam upon the grim and +sallow countenance of Barnardine, and discovered more fully the desolation of +the place—the rough stone walls, the spiral stairs, black with age, and a +suit of ancient armour, with an iron visor, that hung upon the walls, and +appeared a trophy of some former victory. +</p> + +<p> +Having reached a landing-place, “You may wait here, lady,” said he, +applying a key to the door of a chamber, “while I go up, and tell the +Signora you are coming.” +</p> + +<p> +“That ceremony is unnecessary,” replied Emily, “my aunt will +rejoice to see me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not so sure of that,” said Barnardine, pointing to the room +he had opened: “Come in here, lady, while I step up.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, surprised and somewhat shocked, did not dare to oppose him further, but, +as he was turning away with the torch, desired he would not leave her in +darkness. He looked around, and, observing a tripod lamp, that stood on the +stairs, lighted and gave it to Emily, who stepped forward into a large old +chamber, and he closed the door. As she listened anxiously to his departing +steps, she thought he descended, instead of ascending, the stairs; but the +gusts of wind, that whistled round the portal, would not allow her to hear +distinctly any other sound. Still, however, she listened, and, perceiving no +step in the room above, where he had affirmed Madame Montoni to be, her anxiety +increased, though she considered, that the thickness of the floor in this +strong building might prevent any sound reaching her from the upper chamber. +The next moment, in a pause of the wind, she distinguished Barnardine’s +step descending to the court, and then thought she heard his voice; but, the +rising gust again overcoming other sounds, Emily, to be certain on this point, +moved softly to the door, which, on attempting to open it, she discovered was +fastened. All the horrid apprehensions, that had lately assailed her, returned +at this instant with redoubled force, and no longer appeared like the +exaggerations of a timid spirit, but seemed to have been sent to warn her of +her fate. She now did not doubt, that Madame Montoni had been murdered, perhaps +in this very chamber; or that she herself was brought hither for the same +purpose. The countenance, the manners and the recollected words of Barnardine, +when he had spoken of her aunt, confirmed her worst fears. For some moments, +she was incapable of considering of any means, by which she might attempt an +escape. Still she listened, but heard footsteps neither on the stairs, nor in +the room above; she thought, however, that she again distinguished +Barnardine’s voice below, and went to a grated window, that opened upon +the court, to enquire further. Here, she plainly heard his hoarse accents, +mingling with the blast, that swept by, but they were lost again so quickly, +that their meaning could not be interpreted; and then the light of a torch, +which seemed to issue from the portal below, flashed across the court, and the +long shadow of a man, who was under the arch-way, appeared upon the pavement. +Emily, from the hugeness of this sudden portrait, concluded it to be that of +Barnardine; but other deep tones, which passed in the wind, soon convinced her +he was not alone, and that his companion was not a person very liable to pity. +</p> + +<p> +When her spirits had overcome the first shock of her situation, she held up the +lamp to examine, if the chamber afforded a possibility of an escape. It was a +spacious room, whose walls, wainscoted with rough oak, showed no casement but +the grated one, which Emily had left, and no other door than that, by which she +had entered. The feeble rays of the lamp, however, did not allow her to see at +once its full extent; she perceived no furniture, except, indeed, an iron +chair, fastened in the centre of the chamber, immediately over which, depending +on a chain from the ceiling, hung an iron ring. Having gazed upon these, for +some time, with wonder and horror, she next observed iron bars below, made for +the purpose of confining the feet, and on the arms of the chair were rings of +the same metal. As she continued to survey them, she concluded, that they were +instruments of torture, and it struck her, that some poor wretch had once been +fastened in this chair, and had there been starved to death. She was chilled by +the thought; but, what was her agony, when, in the next moment, it occurred to +her, that her aunt might have been one of these victims, and that she herself +might be the next! An acute pain seized her head, she was scarcely able to hold +the lamp, and, looking round for support, was seating herself, unconsciously, +in the iron chair itself; but suddenly perceiving where she was, she started +from it in horror, and sprung towards a remote end of the room. Here again she +looked round for a seat to sustain her, and perceived only a dark curtain, +which, descending from the ceiling to the floor, was drawn along the whole side +of the chamber. Ill as she was, the appearance of this curtain struck her, and +she paused to gaze upon it, in wonder and apprehension. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to conceal a recess of the chamber; she wished, yet dreaded, to lift +it, and to discover what it veiled: twice she was withheld by a recollection of +the terrible spectacle her daring hand had formerly unveiled in an apartment of +the castle, till, suddenly conjecturing, that it concealed the body of her +murdered aunt, she seized it, in a fit of desperation, and drew it aside. +Beyond, appeared a corpse, stretched on a kind of low couch, which was +crimsoned with human blood, as was the floor beneath. The features, deformed by +death, were ghastly and horrible, and more than one livid wound appeared in the +face. Emily, bending over the body, gazed, for a moment, with an eager, +frenzied eye; but, in the next, the lamp dropped from her hand, and she fell +senseless at the foot of the couch. +</p> + +<p> +When her senses returned, she found herself surrounded by men, among whom was +Barnardine, who were lifting her from the floor, and then bore her along the +chamber. She was sensible of what passed, but the extreme languor of her +spirits did not permit her to speak, or move, or even to feel any distinct +fear. They carried her down the staircase, by which she had ascended; when, +having reached the arch-way, they stopped, and one of the men, taking the torch +from Barnardine, opened a small door, that was cut in the great gate, and, as +he stepped out upon the road, the light he bore showed several men on +horseback, in waiting. Whether it was the freshness of the air, that revived +Emily, or that the objects she now saw roused the spirit of alarm, she suddenly +spoke, and made an ineffectual effort to disengage herself from the grasp of +the ruffians, who held her. +</p> + +<p> +Barnardine, meanwhile, called loudly for the torch, while distant voices +answered, and several persons approached, and, in the same instant, a light +flashed upon the court of the castle. Again he vociferated for the torch, and +the men hurried Emily through the gate. At a short distance, under the shelter +of the castle walls, she perceived the fellow, who had taken the light from the +porter, holding it to a man, busily employed in altering the saddle of a horse, +round which were several horsemen, looking on, whose harsh features received +the full glare of the torch; while the broken ground beneath them, the opposite +walls, with the tufted shrubs, that overhung their summits, and an embattled +watch-tower above, were reddened with the gleam, which, fading gradually away, +left the remoter ramparts and the woods below to the obscurity of night. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you waste time for, there?” said Barnardine with an oath, +as he approached the horsemen. “Dispatch—dispatch!” +</p> + +<p> +“The saddle will be ready in a minute,” replied the man who was +buckling it, at whom Barnardine now swore again, for his negligence, and Emily, +calling feebly for help, was hurried towards the horses, while the ruffians +disputed on which to place her, the one designed for her not being ready. At +this moment a cluster of lights issued from the great gates, and she +immediately heard the shrill voice of Annette above those of several other +persons, who advanced. In the same moment, she distinguished Montoni and +Cavigni, followed by a number of ruffian-faced fellows, to whom she no longer +looked with terror, but with hope, for, at this instant, she did not tremble at +the thought of any dangers, that might await her within the castle, whence so +lately, and so anxiously she had wished to escape. Those, which threatened her +from without, had engrossed all her apprehensions. +</p> + +<p> +A short contest ensued between the parties, in which that of Montoni, however, +were presently victors, and the horsemen, perceiving that numbers were against +them, and being, perhaps, not very warmly interested in the affair they had +undertaken, galloped off, while Barnardine had run far enough to be lost in the +darkness, and Emily was led back into the castle. As she repassed the courts, +the remembrance of what she had seen in the portal-chamber came, with all its +horror, to her mind; and when, soon after, she heard the gate close, that shut +her once more within the castle walls, she shuddered for herself, and, almost +forgetting the danger she had escaped, could scarcely think, that anything +less precious than liberty and peace was to be found beyond them. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni ordered Emily to await him in the cedar parlour, whither he soon +followed, and then sternly questioned her on this mysterious affair. Though she +now viewed him with horror, as the murderer of her aunt, and scarcely knew what +she said in reply to his impatient enquiries, her answers and her manner +convinced him, that she had not taken a voluntary part in the late scheme, and +he dismissed her upon the appearance of his servants, whom he had ordered to +attend, that he might enquire further into the affair, and discover those, who +had been accomplices in it. +</p> + +<p> +Emily had been some time in her apartment, before the tumult of her mind +allowed her to remember several of the past circumstances. Then, again, the +dead form, which the curtain in the portal-chamber had disclosed, came to her +fancy, and she uttered a groan, which terrified Annette the more, as Emily +forbore to satisfy her curiosity, on the subject of it, for she feared to trust +her with so fatal a secret, lest her indiscretion should call down the +immediate vengeance of Montoni on herself. +</p> + +<p> +Thus compelled to bear within her own mind the whole horror of the secret, that +oppressed it, her reason seemed to totter under the intolerable weight. She +often fixed a wild and vacant look on Annette, and, when she spoke, either did +not hear her, or answered from the purpose. Long fits of abstraction succeeded; +Annette spoke repeatedly, but her voice seemed not to make any impression on +the sense of the long agitated Emily, who sat fixed and silent, except that, +now and then, she heaved a heavy sigh, but without tears. +</p> + +<p> +Terrified at her condition, Annette, at length, left the room, to inform +Montoni of it, who had just dismissed his servants, without having made any +discoveries on the subject of his enquiry. The wild description, which this +girl now gave of Emily, induced him to follow her immediately to the chamber. +</p> + +<p> +At the sound of his voice, Emily turned her eyes, and a gleam of recollection +seemed to shoot athwart her mind, for she immediately rose from her seat, and +moved slowly to a remote part of the room. He spoke to her in accents somewhat +softened from their usual harshness, but she regarded him with a kind of half +curious, half terrified look, and answered only “yes,” to whatever +he said. Her mind still seemed to retain no other impression, than that of +fear. +</p> + +<p> +Of this disorder Annette could give no explanation, and Montoni, having +attempted, for some time, to persuade Emily to talk, retired, after ordering +Annette to remain with her, during the night, and to inform him, in the +morning, of her condition. +</p> + +<p> +When he was gone, Emily again came forward, and asked who it was, that had been +there to disturb her. Annette said it was the Signor—Signor Montoni. +Emily repeated the name after her, several times, as if she did not recollect +it, and then suddenly groaned, and relapsed into abstraction. +</p> + +<p> +With some difficulty, Annette led her to the bed, which Emily examined with an +eager, frenzied eye, before she lay down, and then, pointing, turned with +shuddering emotion, to Annette, who, now more terrified, went towards the door, +that she might bring one of the female servants to pass the night with them; +but Emily, observing her going, called her by name, and then in the naturally +soft and plaintive tone of her voice, begged, that she, too, would not forsake +her.—“For since my father died,” added she, sighing, +“everybody forsakes me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your father, ma’amselle!” said Annette, “he was dead +before you knew me.” +</p> + +<p> +“He was, indeed!” rejoined Emily, and her tears began to flow. She +now wept silently and long, after which, becoming quite calm, she at length +sunk to sleep, Annette having had discretion enough not to interrupt her tears. +This girl, as affectionate as she was simple, lost in these moments all her +former fears of remaining in the chamber, and watched alone by Emily, during +the whole night. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a> CHAPTER II </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +unfold<br/> +What worlds, or what vast regions, hold<br/> +Th’ immortal mind, that hath forsook<br/> +Her mansion in this fleshly nook!<br/> + IL PENSEROSO +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s mind was refreshed by sleep. On waking in the morning, she looked +with surprise on Annette, who sat sleeping in a chair beside the bed, and then +endeavoured to recollect herself; but the circumstances of the preceding night +were swept from her memory, which seemed to retain no trace of what had passed, +and she was still gazing with surprise on Annette, when the latter awoke. +</p> + +<p> +“O dear ma’amselle! do you know me?” cried she. +</p> + +<p> +“Know you! Certainly,” replied Emily, “you are Annette; but +why are you sitting by me thus?” +</p> + +<p> +“O you have been very ill, ma’amselle,—very ill indeed! and I +am sure I thought—” +</p> + +<p> +“This is very strange!” said Emily, still trying to recollect the +past.—“But I think I do remember, that my fancy has been haunted by +frightful dreams. Good God!” she added, suddenly +starting—“surely it was nothing more than a dream!” +</p> + +<p> +She fixed a terrified look upon Annette, who, intending to quiet her, said +“Yes, ma’amselle, it was more than a dream, but it is all over +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“She <i>is</i> murdered, then!” said Emily in an inward voice, and +shuddering instantaneously. Annette screamed; for, being ignorant of the +circumstance to which Emily referred, she attributed her manner to a disordered +fancy; but, when she had explained to what her own speech alluded, Emily, +recollecting the attempt that had been made to carry her off, asked if the +contriver of it had been discovered. Annette replied, that he had not, though +he might easily be guessed at; and then told Emily she might thank her for her +deliverance, who, endeavouring to command the emotion, which the remembrance of +her aunt had occasioned, appeared calmly to listen to Annette, though, in +truth, she heard scarcely a word that was said. +</p> + +<p> +“And so, ma’amselle,” continued the latter, “I was +determined to be even with Barnardine for refusing to tell me the secret, by +finding it out myself; so I watched you, on the terrace, and, as soon as he had +opened the door at the end, I stole out from the castle, to try to follow you; +for, says I, I am sure no good can be planned, or why all this secrecy? So, +sure enough, he had not bolted the door after him, and, when I opened it, I +saw, by the glimmer of the torch, at the other end of the passage, which way +you were going. I followed the light, at a distance, till you came to the +vaults of the chapel, and there I was afraid to go further, for I had heard +strange things about these vaults. But then, again, I was afraid to go back, +all in darkness, by myself; so by the time Barnardine had trimmed the light, I +had resolved to follow you, and I did so, till you came to the great court, and +there I was afraid he would see me; so I stopped at the door again, and watched +you across to the gates, and, when you were gone up the stairs, I whipt after. +There, as I stood under the gateway, I heard horses’ feet without, and +several men talking; and I heard them swearing at Barnardine for not bringing +you out, and just then, he had like to have caught me, for he came down the +stairs again, and I had hardly time to get out of his way. But I had heard +enough of his secret now, and I determined to be even with him, and to save +you, too, ma’amselle, for I guessed it to be some new scheme of Count +Morano, though he was gone away. I ran into the castle, but I had hard work to +find my way through the passage under the chapel, and what is very strange, I +quite forgot to look for the ghosts they had told me about, though I would not +go into that place again by myself for all the world! Luckily the Signor and +Signor Cavigni were up, so we had soon a train at our heels, sufficient to +frighten that Barnardine and his rogues, all together.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette ceased to speak, but Emily still appeared to listen. At length she +said, suddenly, “I think I will go to him myself;—where is +he?” +</p> + +<p> +Annette asked who was meant. +</p> + +<p> +“Signor Montoni,” replied Emily. “I would speak with +him;” and Annette, now remembering the order he had given, on the +preceding night, respecting her young lady, rose, and said she would seek him +herself. +</p> + +<p> +This honest girl’s suspicions of Count Morano were perfectly just; Emily, +too, when she thought on the scheme, had attributed it to him; and Montoni, who +had not a doubt on this subject, also, began to believe, that it was by the +direction of Morano, that poison had formerly been mingled with his wine. +</p> + +<p> +The professions of repentance, which Morano had made to Emily, under the +anguish of his wound, was sincere at the moment he offered them; but he had +mistaken the subject of his sorrow, for, while he thought he was condemning the +cruelty of his late design, he was lamenting only the state of suffering, to +which it had reduced him. As these sufferings abated, his former views revived, +till, his health being re-established, he again found himself ready for +enterprise and difficulty. The porter of the castle, who had served him, on a +former occasion, willingly accepted a second bribe; and, having concerted the +means of drawing Emily to the gates, Morano publicly left the hamlet, whither +he had been carried after the affray, and withdrew with his people to another +at several miles distance. From thence, on a night agreed upon by Barnardine, +who had discovered from the thoughtless prattle of Annette, the most probable +means of decoying Emily, the Count sent back his servants to the castle, while +he awaited her arrival at the hamlet, with an intention of carrying her +immediately to Venice. How this, his second scheme, was frustrated, has already +appeared; but the violent, and various passions with which this Italian lover +was now agitated, on his return to that city, can only be imagined. +</p> + +<p> +Annette having made her report to Montoni of Emily’s health and of her +request to see him, he replied, that she might attend him in the cedar room, in +about an hour. It was on the subject, that pressed so heavily on her mind, that +Emily wished to speak to him, yet she did not distinctly know what good purpose +this could answer, and sometimes she even recoiled in horror from the +expectation of his presence. She wished, also, to petition, though she scarcely +dared to believe the request would be granted, that he would permit her, since +her aunt was no more, to return to her native country. +</p> + +<p> +As the moment of interview approached, her agitation increased so much, that +she almost resolved to excuse herself under what could scarcely be called a +pretence of illness; and, when she considered what could be said, either +concerning herself, or the fate of her aunt, she was equally hopeless as to the +event of her entreaty, and terrified as to its effect upon the vengeful spirit +of Montoni. Yet, to pretend ignorance of her death, appeared, in some degree, +to be sharing its criminality, and, indeed, this event was the only ground, on +which Emily could rest her petition for leaving Udolpho. +</p> + +<p> +While her thoughts thus wavered, a message was brought, importing, that Montoni +could not see her, till the next day; and her spirits were then relieved, for a +moment, from an almost intolerable weight of apprehension. Annette said, she +fancied the Chevaliers were going out to the wars again, for the courtyard was +filled with horses, and she heard, that the rest of the party, who went out +before, were expected at the castle. “And I heard one of the soldiers, +too,” added she, “say to his comrade, that he would warrant +they’d bring home a rare deal of booty.—So, thinks I, if the Signor +can, with a safe conscience, send his people out a-robbing—why it is no +business of mine. I only wish I was once safe out of this castle; and, if it +had not been for poor Ludovico’s sake, I would have let Count +Morano’s people run away with us both, for it would have been serving you +a good turn, ma’amselle, as well as myself.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette might have continued thus talking for hours for any interruption she +would have received from Emily, who was silent, inattentive, absorbed in +thought, and passed the whole of this day in a kind of solemn tranquillity, +such as is often the result of faculties overstrained by suffering. +</p> + +<p> +When night returned, Emily recollected the mysterious strains of music, that +she had lately heard, in which she still felt some degree of interest, and of +which she hoped to hear again the soothing sweetness. The influence of +superstition now gained on the weakness of her long-harassed mind; she looked, +with enthusiastic expectation, to the guardian spirit of her father, and, +having dismissed Annette for the night, determined to watch alone for their +return. It was not yet, however, near the time when she had heard the music on +a former night, and anxious to call off her thoughts from distressing subjects, +she sat down with one of the few books, that she had brought from France; but +her mind, refusing control, became restless and agitated, and she went often +to the casement to listen for a sound. Once, she thought she heard a voice, but +then, everything without the casement remaining still, she concluded, that her +fancy had deceived her. +</p> + +<p> +Thus passed the time, till twelve o’clock, soon after which the distant +sounds, that murmured through the castle, ceased, and sleep seemed to reign +over all. Emily then seated herself at the casement, where she was soon +recalled from the reverie, into which she sunk, by very unusual sounds, not of +music, but like the low mourning of some person in distress. As she listened, +her heart faltered in terror, and she became convinced, that the former sound +was more than imaginary. Still, at intervals, she heard a kind of feeble +lamentation, and sought to discover whence it came. There were several rooms +underneath, adjoining the rampart, which had been long shut up, and, as the +sound probably rose from one of these, she leaned from the casement to observe, +whether any light was visible there. The chambers, as far as she could +perceive, were quite dark, but, at a little distance, on the rampart below, she +thought she saw something moving. +</p> + +<p> +The faint twilight, which the stars shed, did not enable her to distinguish +what it was; but she judged it to be a sentinel, on watch, and she removed her +light to a remote part of the chamber, that she might escape notice, during her +further observation. +</p> + +<p> +The same object still appeared. Presently, it advanced along the rampart, +towards her window, and she then distinguished something like a human form, but +the silence, with which it moved, convinced her it was no sentinel. As it drew +near, she hesitated whether to retire; a thrilling curiosity inclined her to +stay, but a dread of she scarcely knew what warned her to withdraw. +</p> + +<p> +While she paused, the figure came opposite to her casement, and was stationary. +Everything remained quiet; she had not heard even a foot-fall; and the +solemnity of this silence, with the mysterious form she saw, subdued her +spirits, so that she was moving from the casement, when, on a sudden, she +observed the figure start away, and glide down the rampart, after which it was +soon lost in the obscurity of night. Emily continued to gaze, for some time, on +the way it had passed, and then retired within her chamber, musing on this +strange circumstance, and scarcely doubting, that she had witnessed a +supernatural appearance. +</p> + +<p> +When her spirits recovered composure, she looked round for some other +explanation. Remembering what she had heard of the daring enterprises of +Montoni, it occurred to her, that she had just seen some unhappy person, who, +having been plundered by his banditti, was brought hither a captive; and that +the music she had formerly heard, came from him. Yet, if they had plundered +him, it still appeared improbable, that they should have brought him to the +castle, and it was also more consistent with the manners of banditti to murder +those they rob, than to make them prisoners. But what, more than any other +circumstance, contradicted the supposition, that it was a prisoner, was that it +wandered on the terrace, without a guard: a consideration, which made her +dismiss immediately her first surmise. +</p> + +<p> +Afterwards, she was inclined to believe, that Count Morano had obtained +admittance into the castle; but she soon recollected the difficulties and +dangers, that must have opposed such an enterprise, and that, if he had so far +succeeded, to come alone and in silence to her casement at midnight was not the +conduct he would have adopted, particularly since the private staircase, +communicating with her apartment, was known to him; neither would he have +uttered the dismal sounds she had heard. +</p> + +<p> +Another suggestion represented, that this might be some person, who had designs +upon the castle; but the mournful sounds destroyed, also, that probability. +Thus, enquiry only perplexed her. Who, or what, it could be that haunted this +lonely hour, complaining in such doleful accents and in such sweet music (for +she was still inclined to believe, that the former strains and the late +appearance were connected), she had no means of ascertaining; and imagination +again assumed her empire, and roused the mysteries of superstition. +</p> + +<p> +She determined, however, to watch on the following night, when her doubts +might, perhaps, be cleared up; and she almost resolved to address the figure, +if it should appear again. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a> CHAPTER III </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp,<br/> +Oft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchres,<br/> +Lingering, and sitting, by a new-made grave.<br/> + MILTON +</p> + +<p> +On the following day, Montoni sent a second excuse to Emily, who was surprised +at the circumstance. “This is very strange!” said she to herself. +“His conscience tells him the purport of my visit, and he defers it, to +avoid an explanation.” She now almost resolved to throw herself in his +way, but terror checked the intention, and this day passed, as the preceding +one, with Emily, except that a degree of awful expectation, concerning the +approaching night, now somewhat disturbed the dreadful calmness that had +pervaded her mind. +</p> + +<p> +Towards evening, the second part of the band, which had made the first +excursion among the mountains, returned to the castle, where, as they entered +the courts, Emily, in her remote chamber, heard their loud shouts and strains +of exultation, like the orgies of furies over some horrid sacrifice. She even +feared they were about to commit some barbarous deed; a conjecture from which, +however, Annette soon relieved her, by telling, that the people were only +exulting over the plunder they had brought with them. This circumstance still +further confirmed her in the belief, that Montoni had really commenced to be a +captain of banditti, and meant to retrieve his broken fortunes by the plunder +of travellers! Indeed, when she considered all the circumstances of his +situation—in an armed, and almost inaccessible castle, retired far among +the recesses of wild and solitary mountains, along whose distant skirts were +scattered towns, and cities, whither wealthy travellers were continually +passing—this appeared to be the situation of all others most suited for +the success of schemes of rapine, and she yielded to the strange thought, that +Montoni was become a captain of robbers. His character also, unprincipled, +dauntless, cruel and enterprising, seemed to fit him for the situation. +Delighting in the tumult and in the struggles of life, he was equally a +stranger to pity and to fear; his very courage was a sort of animal ferocity; +not the noble impulse of a principle, such as inspirits the mind against the +oppressor, in the cause of the oppressed; but a constitutional hardiness of +nerve, that cannot feel, and that, therefore, cannot fear. +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s supposition, however natural, was in part erroneous, for she was +a stranger to the state of this country and to the circumstances, under which +its frequent wars were partly conducted. The revenues of the many states of +Italy being, at that time, insufficient to the support of standing armies, even +during the short periods, which the turbulent habits both of the governments +and the people permitted to pass in peace, an order of men arose not known in +our age, and but faintly described in the history of their own. Of the +soldiers, disbanded at the end of every war, few returned to the safe, but +unprofitable occupations, then usual in peace. Sometimes they passed into other +countries, and mingled with armies, which still kept the field. Sometimes they +formed themselves into bands of robbers, and occupied remote fortresses, where +their desperate character, the weakness of the governments which they offended, +and the certainty, that they could be recalled to the armies, when their +presence should be again wanted, prevented them from being much pursued by the +civil power; and, sometimes, they attached themselves to the fortunes of a +popular chief, by whom they were led into the service of any state, which could +settle with him the price of their valour. From this latter practice arose +their name—<i>Condottieri</i>; a term formidable all over Italy, for a +period, which concluded in the earlier part of the seventeenth century, but of +which it is not so easy to ascertain the commencement. +</p> + +<p> +Contests between the smaller states were then, for the most part, affairs of +enterprise alone, and the probabilities of success were estimated, not from the +skill, but from the personal courage of the general, and the soldiers. The +ability, which was necessary to the conduct of tedious operations, was little +valued. It was enough to know how a party might be led towards their enemies, +with the greatest secrecy, or conducted from them in the compactest order. The +officer was to precipitate himself into a situation, where, but for his +example, the soldiers might not have ventured; and, as the opposed parties knew +little of each other’s strength, the event of the day was frequently +determined by the boldness of the first movements. In such services the +<i>Condottieri</i> were eminent, and in these, where plunder always followed +success, their characters acquired a mixture of intrepidity and profligacy, +which awed even those whom they served. +</p> + +<p> +When they were not thus engaged, their chief had usually his own fortress, in +which, or in its neighbourhood, they enjoyed an irksome rest; and, though their +wants were, at one time, partly supplied from the property of the inhabitants, +the lavish distribution of their plunder at others, prevented them from being +obnoxious; and the peasants of such districts gradually shared the character of +their warlike visitors. The neighbouring governments sometimes professed, but +seldom endeavoured, to suppress these military communities; both because it was +difficult to do so, and because a disguised protection of them ensured, for the +service of their wars, a body of men, who could not otherwise be so cheaply +maintained, or so perfectly qualified. The commanders sometimes even relied so +far upon this policy of the several powers, as to frequent their capitals; and +Montoni, having met them in the gaming parties of Venice and Padua, conceived a +desire to emulate their characters, before his ruined fortunes tempted him to +adopt their practices. It was for the arrangement of his present plan of life, +that the midnight councils were held at his mansion in Venice, and at which +Orsino and some other members of the present community then assisted with +suggestions, which they had since executed with the wreck of their fortunes. +</p> + +<p> +On the return of night, Emily resumed her station at the casement. There was +now a moon; and, as it rose over the tufted woods, its yellow light served to +show the lonely terrace and the surrounding objects, more distinctly, than the +twilight of the stars had done, and promised Emily to assist her observations, +should the mysterious form return. On this subject, she again wavered in +conjecture, and hesitated whether to speak to the figure, to which a strong and +almost irresistible interest urged her; but terror, at intervals, made her +reluctant to do so. +</p> + +<p> +“If this is a person who has designs upon the castle,” said she, +“my curiosity may prove fatal to me; yet the mysterious music, and the +lamentations I heard, must surely have proceeded from him: if so, he cannot be +an enemy.” +</p> + +<p> +She then thought of her unfortunate aunt, and, shuddering with grief and +horror, the suggestions of imagination seized her mind with all the force of +truth, and she believed, that the form she had seen was supernatural. She +trembled, breathed with difficulty, an icy coldness touched her cheeks, and her +fears for a while overcame her judgment. Her resolution now forsook her, and +she determined, if the figure should appear, not to speak to it. +</p> + +<p> +Thus the time passed, as she sat at her casement, awed by expectation, and by +the gloom and stillness of midnight; for she saw obscurely in the moonlight +only the mountains and woods, a cluster of towers, that formed the west angle +of the castle, and the terrace below; and heard no sound, except, now and then, +the lonely watch-word, passed by the sentinels on duty, and afterwards the +steps of the men who came to relieve guard, and whom she knew at a distance on +the rampart by their pikes, that glittered in the moonbeam, and then, by the +few short words, in which they hailed their fellows of the night. Emily retired +within her chamber, while they passed the casement. When she returned to it, +all was again quiet. It was now very late, she was wearied with watching, and +began to doubt the reality of what she had seen on the preceding night; but she +still lingered at the window, for her mind was too perturbed to admit of sleep. +The moon shone with a clear lustre, that afforded her a complete view of the +terrace; but she saw only a solitary sentinel, pacing at one end of it; and, at +length, tired with expectation, she withdrew to seek rest. +</p> + +<p> +Such, however, was the impression, left on her mind by the music, and the +complaining she had formerly heard, as well as by the figure, which she fancied +she had seen, that she determined to repeat the watch, on the following night. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni, on the next day, took no notice of Emily’s appointed visit, but +she, more anxious than before to see him, sent Annette to enquire, at what hour +he would admit her. He mentioned eleven o’clock, and Emily was punctual +to the moment; at which she called up all her fortitude to support the shock of +his presence and the dreadful recollections it enforced. He was with several of +his officers, in the cedar room; on observing whom she paused; and her +agitation increased, while he continued to converse with them, apparently not +observing her, till some of his officers, turning round, saw Emily, and uttered +an exclamation. She was hastily retiring, when Montoni’s voice arrested +her, and, in a faultering accent, she said,—“I would speak with +you, Signor Montoni, if you are at leisure.” +</p> + +<p> +“These are my friends,” he replied, “whatever you would say, +they may hear.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, without replying, turned from the rude gaze of the chevaliers, and +Montoni then followed her to the hall, whence he led her to a small room, of +which he shut the door with violence. As she looked on his dark countenance, +she again thought she saw the murderer of her aunt; and her mind was so +convulsed with horror, that she had not power to recall thought enough to +explain the purport of her visit; and to trust herself with the mention of +Madame Montoni was more than she dared. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni at length impatiently enquired what she had to say? “I have no +time for trifling,” he added, “my moments are important.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily then told him, that she wished to return to France, and came to beg, that +he would permit her to do so.—But when he looked surprised, and enquired +for the motive of the request, she hesitated, became paler than before, +trembled, and had nearly sunk at his feet. He observed her emotion, with +apparent indifference, and interrupted the silence by telling her, he must be +gone. Emily, however, recalled her spirits sufficiently to enable her to repeat +her request. And, when Montoni absolutely refused it, her slumbering mind was +roused. +</p> + +<p> +“I can no longer remain here with propriety, sir,” said she, +“and I may be allowed to ask, by what right you detain me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is my will that you remain here,” said Montoni, laying his hand +on the door to go; “let that suffice you.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, considering that she had no appeal from this will, forbore to dispute +his right, and made a feeble effort to persuade him to be just. “While my +aunt lived, sir,” said she, in a tremulous voice, “my residence +here was not improper; but now, that she is no more, I may surely be permitted +to depart. My stay cannot benefit you, sir, and will only distress me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who told you, that Madame Montoni was dead?” said Montoni, with an +inquisitive eye. Emily hesitated, for nobody had told her so, and she did not +dare to avow the having seen that spectacle in the portal-chamber, which had +compelled her to the belief. +</p> + +<p> +“Who told you so?” he repeated, more sternly. +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! I know it too well,” replied Emily: “spare me on this +terrible subject!” +</p> + +<p> +She sat down on a bench to support herself. +</p> + +<p> +“If you wish to see her,” said Montoni, “you may; she lies in +the east turret.” +</p> + +<p> +He now left the room, without awaiting her reply, and returned to the cedar +chamber, where such of the chevaliers as had not before seen Emily, began to +rally him, on the discovery they had made; but Montoni did not appear disposed +to bear this mirth, and they changed the subject. +</p> + +<p> +Having talked with the subtle Orsino, on the plan of an excursion, which he +meditated for a future day, his friend advised, that they should lie in wait +for the enemy, which Verezzi impetuously opposed, reproached Orsino with want +of spirit, and swore, that, if Montoni would let him lead on fifty men, he +would conquer all that should oppose him. +</p> + +<p> +Orsino smiled contemptuously; Montoni smiled too, but he also listened. Verezzi +then proceeded with vehement declamation and assertion, till he was stopped by +an argument of Orsino, which he knew not how to answer better than by +invective. His fierce spirit detested the cunning caution of Orsino, whom he +constantly opposed, and whose inveterate, though silent, hatred he had long ago +incurred. And Montoni was a calm observer of both, whose different +qualifications he knew, and how to bend their opposite character to the +perfection of his own designs. But Verezzi, in the heat of opposition, now did +not scruple to accuse Orsino of cowardice, at which the countenance of the +latter, while he made no reply, was overspread with a livid paleness; and +Montoni, who watched his lurking eye, saw him put his hand hastily into his +bosom. But Verezzi, whose face, glowing with crimson, formed a striking +contrast to the complexion of Orsino, remarked not the action, and continued +boldly declaiming against cowards to Cavigni, who was slily laughing at his +vehemence, and at the silent mortification of Orsino, when the latter, retiring +a few steps behind, drew forth a stilletto to stab his adversary in the back. +Montoni arrested his half-extended arm, and, with a significant look, made him +return the poniard into his bosom, unseen by all except himself; for most of +the party were disputing at a distant window, on the situation of a dell where +they meant to form an ambuscade. +</p> + +<p> +When Verezzi had turned round, the deadly hatred, expressed on the features of +his opponent, raising, for the first time, a suspicion of his intention, he +laid his hand on his sword, and then, seeming to recollect himself, strode up +to Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +“Signor,” said he, with a significant look at Orsino, “we are +not a band of assassins; if you have business for brave men, employ me on this +expedition: you shall have the last drop of my blood; if you have only work for +cowards—keep him,” pointing to Orsino, “and let me quit +Udolpho.” +</p> + +<p> +Orsino, still more incensed, again drew forth his stilletto, and rushed towards +Verezzi, who, at the same instant, advanced with his sword, when Montoni and +the rest of the party interfered and separated them. +</p> + +<p> +“This is the conduct of a boy,” said Montoni to Verezzi, “not +of a man: be more moderate in your speech.” +</p> + +<p> +“Moderation is the virtue of cowards,” retorted Verezzi; +“they are moderate in everything—but in fear.” +</p> + +<p> +“I accept your words,” said Montoni, turning upon him with a fierce +and haughty look, and drawing his sword out of the scabbard. +</p> + +<p> +“With all my heart,” cried Verezzi, “though I did not mean +them for you.” +</p> + +<p> +He directed a pass at Montoni; and, while they fought, the villain Orsino made +another attempt to stab Verezzi, and was again prevented. +</p> + +<p> +The combatants were, at length, separated; and, after a very long and violent +dispute, reconciled. Montoni then left the room with Orsino, whom he detained +in private consultation for a considerable time. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, meanwhile, stunned by the last words of Montoni, forgot, for the moment, +his declaration, that she should continue in the castle, while she thought of +her unfortunate aunt, who, he had said, was laid in the east turret. In +suffering the remains of his wife to lie thus long unburied, there appeared a +degree of brutality more shocking than she had suspected even Montoni could +practise. +</p> + +<p> +After a long struggle, she determined to accept his permission to visit the +turret, and to take a last look of her ill-fated aunt: with which design she +returned to her chamber, and, while she waited for Annette to accompany her, +endeavoured to acquire fortitude sufficient to support her through the +approaching scene; for, though she trembled to encounter it, she knew that to +remember the performance of this last act of duty would hereafter afford her +consoling satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +Annette came, and Emily mentioned her purpose, from which the former +endeavoured to dissuade her, though without effect, and Annette was, with much +difficulty, prevailed upon to accompany her to the turret; but no consideration +could make her promise to enter the chamber of death. +</p> + +<p> +They now left the corridor, and, having reached the foot of the staircase, +which Emily had formerly ascended, Annette declared she would go no further, +and Emily proceeded alone. When she saw the track of blood, which she had +before observed, her spirits fainted, and, being compelled to rest on the +stairs, she almost determined to proceed no further. The pause of a few moments +restored her resolution, and she went on. +</p> + +<p> +As she drew near the landing-place, upon which the upper chamber opened, she +remembered, that the door was formerly fastened, and apprehended, that it might +still be so. In this expectation, however, she was mistaken; for the door +opened at once, into a dusky and silent chamber, round which she fearfully +looked, and then slowly advanced, when a hollow voice spoke. Emily, who was +unable to speak, or to move from the spot, uttered no sound of terror. The +voice spoke again; and, then, thinking that it resembled that of Madame +Montoni, Emily’s spirits were instantly roused; she rushed towards a bed, +that stood in a remote part of the room, and drew aside the curtains. Within, +appeared a pale and emaciated face. She started back, then again advanced, +shuddered as she took up the skeleton hand, that lay stretched upon the quilt; +then let it drop, and then viewed the face with a long, unsettled gaze. It was +that of Madame Montoni, though so changed by illness, that the resemblance of +what it had been, could scarcely be traced in what it now appeared. She was +still alive, and, raising her heavy eyes, she turned them on her niece. +</p> + +<p> +“Where have you been so long?” said she, in the same tone, “I +thought you had forsaken me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you indeed live,” said Emily, at length, “or is this but +a terrible apparition?” She received no answer, and again she snatched up +the hand. “This is substance,” she exclaimed, “but it is +cold—cold as marble!” She let it fall. “O, if you really +live, speak!” said Emily, in a voice of desperation, “that I may +not lose my senses—say you know me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I do live,” replied Madame Montoni, “but—I feel that I +am about to die.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily clasped the hand she held, more eagerly, and groaned. They were both +silent for some moments. Then Emily endeavoured to soothe her, and enquired +what had reduced her to this present deplorable state. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni, when he removed her to the turret under the improbable suspicion of +having attempted his life, had ordered the men employed on the occasion, to +observe a strict secrecy concerning her. To this he was influenced by a double +motive. He meant to debar her from the comfort of Emily’s visits, and to +secure an opportunity of privately dispatching her, should any new +circumstances occur to confirm the present suggestions of his suspecting mind. +His consciousness of the hatred he deserved it was natural enough should at +first lead him to attribute to her the attempt that had been made upon his +life; and, though there was no other reason to believe that she was concerned +in that atrocious design, his suspicions remained; he continued to confine her +in the turret, under a strict guard; and, without pity or remorse, had suffered +her to lie, forlorn and neglected, under a raging fever, till it had reduced +her to the present state. +</p> + +<p> +The track of blood, which Emily had seen on the stairs, had flowed from the +unbound wound of one of the men employed to carry Madame Montoni, and which he +had received in the late affray. At night these men, having contented +themselves with securing the door of their prisoner’s room, had retired +from guard; and then it was, that Emily, at the time of her first enquiry, had +found the turret so silent and deserted. +</p> + +<p> +When she had attempted to open the door of the chamber, her aunt was sleeping, +and this occasioned the silence, which had contributed to delude her into a +belief, that she was no more; yet had her terror permitted her to persevere +longer in the call, she would probably have awakened Madame Montoni, and have +been spared much suffering. The spectacle in the portal-chamber, which +afterwards confirmed Emily’s horrible suspicion, was the corpse of a man, +who had fallen in the affray, and the same which had been borne into the +servants’ hall, where she took refuge from the tumult. This man had +lingered under his wounds for some days; and, soon after his death, his body +had been removed on the couch, on which he died, for interment in the vault +beneath the chapel, through which Emily and Barnardine had passed to the +chamber. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, after asking Madame Montoni a thousand questions concerning herself, +left her, and sought Montoni; for the more solemn interest she felt for her +aunt, made her now regardless of the resentment her remonstrances might draw +upon herself, and of the improbability of his granting what she meant to +entreat. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame Montoni is now dying, sir,” said Emily, as soon as she saw +him—“Your resentment, surely will not pursue her to the last +moment! Suffer her to be removed from that forlorn room to her own apartment, +and to have necessary comforts administered.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of what service will that be, if she is dying?” said Montoni, with +apparent indifference. +</p> + +<p> +“The service, at leave, of saving you, sir, from a few of those pangs of +conscience you must suffer, when you shall be in the same situation,” +said Emily, with imprudent indignation, of which Montoni soon made her +sensible, by commanding her to quit his presence. Then, forgetting her +resentment, and impressed only by compassion for the piteous state of her aunt, +dying without succour, she submitted to humble herself to Montoni, and to adopt +every persuasive means, that might induce him to relent towards his wife. +</p> + +<p> +For a considerable time he was proof against all she said, and all she looked; +but at length the divinity of pity, beaming in Emily’s eyes, seemed to +touch his heart. He turned away, ashamed of his better feelings, half sullen +and half relenting; but finally consented, that his wife should be removed to +her own apartment, and that Emily should attend her. Dreading equally, that +this relief might arrive too late, and that Montoni might retract his +concession, Emily scarcely staid to thank him for it, but, assisted by Annette, +she quickly prepared Madame Montoni’s bed, and they carried her a +cordial, that might enable her feeble frame to sustain the fatigue of a +removal. +</p> + +<p> +Madame was scarcely arrived in her own apartment, when an order was given by +her husband, that she should remain in the turret; but Emily, thankful that she +had made such dispatch, hastened to inform him of it, as well as that a second +removal would instantly prove fatal, and he suffered his wife to continue where +she was. +</p> + +<p> +During this day, Emily never left Madame Montoni, except to prepare such little +nourishing things as she judged necessary to sustain her, and which Madame +Montoni received with quiet acquiescence, though she seemed sensible that they +could not save her from approaching dissolution, and scarcely appeared to wish +for life. Emily meanwhile watched over her with the most tender solicitude, no +longer seeing her imperious aunt in the poor object before her, but the sister +of her late beloved father, in a situation that called for all her compassion +and kindness. When night came, she determined to sit up with her aunt, but this +the latter positively forbade, commanding her to retire to rest, and Annette +alone to remain in her chamber. Rest was, indeed, necessary to Emily, whose +spirits and frame were equally wearied by the occurrences and exertions of the +day; but she would not leave Madame Montoni, till after the turn of midnight, a +period then thought so critical by the physicians. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after twelve, having enjoined Annette to be wakeful, and to call her, +should any change appear for the worse, Emily sorrowfully bade Madame Montoni +good night, and withdrew to her chamber. Her spirits were more than usually +depressed by the piteous condition of her aunt, whose recovery she scarcely +dared to expect. To her own misfortunes she saw no period, inclosed as she was, +in a remote castle, beyond the reach of any friends, had she possessed such, +and beyond the pity even of strangers; while she knew herself to be in the +power of a man capable of any action, which his interest, or his ambition, +might suggest. +</p> + +<p> +Occupied by melancholy reflections and by anticipations as sad, she did not +retire immediately to rest, but leaned thoughtfully on her open casement. The +scene before her of woods and mountains, reposing in the moonlight, formed a +regretted contrast with the state of her mind; but the lonely murmur of these +woods, and the view of this sleeping landscape, gradually soothed her emotions +and softened her to tears. +</p> + +<p> +She continued to weep, for some time, lost to everything, but to a gentle +sense of her misfortunes. When she, at length, took the handkerchief from her +eyes, she perceived, before her, on the terrace below, the figure she had +formerly observed, which stood fixed and silent, immediately opposite to her +casement. On perceiving it, she started back, and terror for some time overcame +curiosity;—at length, she returned to the casement, and still the figure +was before it, which she now compelled herself to observe, but was utterly +unable to speak, as she had formerly intended. The moon shone with a clear +light, and it was, perhaps, the agitation of her mind, that prevented her +distinguishing, with any degree of accuracy, the form before her. It was still +stationary, and she began to doubt, whether it was really animated. +</p> + +<p> +Her scattered thoughts were now so far returned as to remind her, that her +light exposed her to dangerous observation, and she was stepping back to remove +it, when she perceived the figure move, and then wave what seemed to be its +arm, as if to beckon her; and, while she gazed, fixed in fear, it repeated the +action. She now attempted to speak, but the words died on her lips, and she +went from the casement to remove her light; as she was doing which, she heard, +from without, a faint groan. Listening, but not daring to return, she presently +heard it repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!—what can this mean!” said she. +</p> + +<p> +Again she listened, but the sound came no more; and, after a long interval of +silence, she recovered courage enough to go to the casement, when she again saw +the same appearance! It beckoned again, and again uttered a low sound. +</p> + +<p> +“That groan was surely human!” said she. “I <i>will</i> +speak.” “Who is it,” cried Emily in a faint voice, +“that wanders at this late hour?” +</p> + +<p> +The figure raised its head but suddenly started away, and glided down the +terrace. She watched it, for a long while, passing swiftly in the moonlight, +but heard no footstep, till a sentinel from the other extremity of the rampart +walked slowly along. The man stopped under her window, and, looking up, called +her by name. She was retiring precipitately, but, a second summons inducing her +to reply, the soldier then respectfully asked if she had seen anything pass. +On her answering, that she had; he said no more, but walked away down the +terrace, Emily following him with her eyes, till he was lost in the distance. +But, as he was on guard, she knew he could not go beyond the rampart, and, +therefore, resolved to await his return. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after, his voice was heard, at a distance, calling loudly; and then a +voice still more distant answered, and, in the next moment, the watch-word was +given, and passed along the terrace. As the soldiers moved hastily under the +casement, she called to enquire what had happened, but they passed without +regarding her. +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s thoughts returning to the figure she had seen, “It cannot +be a person, who has designs upon the castle,” said she; “such a +one would conduct himself very differently. He would not venture where +sentinels were on watch, nor fix himself opposite to a window, where he +perceived he must be observed; much less would he beckon, or utter a sound of +complaint. Yet it cannot be a prisoner, for how could he obtain the opportunity +to wander thus?” +</p> + +<p> +If she had been subject to vanity, she might have supposed this figure to be +some inhabitant of the castle, who wandered under her casement in the hope of +seeing her, and of being allowed to declare his admiration; but this opinion +never occurred to Emily, and, if it had, she would have dismissed it as +improbable, on considering, that, when the opportunity of speaking had +occurred, it had been suffered to pass in silence; and that, even at the moment +in which she had spoken, the form had abruptly quitted the place. +</p> + +<p> +While she mused, two sentinels walked up the rampart in earnest conversation, +of which she caught a few words, and learned from these, that one of their +comrades had fallen down senseless. Soon after, three other soldiers appeared +slowly advancing from the bottom of the terrace, but she heard only a low +voice, that came at intervals. As they drew near, she perceived this to be the +voice of him, who walked in the middle, apparently supported by his comrades; +and she again called to them, enquiring what had happened. At the sound of her +voice, they stopped, and looked up, while she repeated her question, and was +told, that Roberto, their fellow of the watch, had been seized with a fit, and +that his cry, as he fell, had caused a false alarm. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he subject to fits?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Signora,” replied Roberto; “but if I had not, what I +saw was enough to have frightened the Pope himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was it?” enquired Emily, trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell what it was, lady, or what I saw, or how it +vanished,” replied the soldier, who seemed to shudder at the +recollection. +</p> + +<p> +“Was it the person, whom you followed down the rampart, that has +occasioned you this alarm?” said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her own. +</p> + +<p> +“Person!” exclaimed the man,—“it was the devil, and +this is not the first time I have seen him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor will it be the last,” observed one of his comrades, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, I warrant not,” said another. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” rejoined Roberto, “you may be as merry now, as you +please; you were none so jocose the other night, Sebastian, when you were on +watch with Launcelot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Launcelot need not talk of that,” replied Sebastian, “let +him remember how he stood trembling, and unable to give the <i>word</i>, till +the man was gone. If the man had not come so silently upon us, I would have +seized him, and soon made him tell who he was.” +</p> + +<p> +“What man?” enquired Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“It was no man, lady,” said Launcelot, who stood by, “but the +devil himself, as my comrade says. What man, who does not live in the castle, +could get within the walls at midnight? Why, I might just as well pretend to +march to Venice, and get among all the Senators, when they are counselling; and +I warrant I should have more chance of getting out again alive, than any +fellow, that we should catch within the gates after dark. So I think I have +proved plainly enough, that this can be nobody that lives out of the castle; +and now I will prove, that it can be nobody that lives in the castle—for, +if he did—why should he be afraid to be seen? So after this, I hope +nobody will pretend to tell me it was anybody. No, I say again, by holy Pope! +it was the devil, and Sebastian, there, knows this is not the first time we +have seen him.” +</p> + +<p> +“When did you see the figure, then, before?” said Emily half +smiling, who, though she thought the conversation somewhat too much, felt an +interest, which would not permit her to conclude it. +</p> + +<p> +“About a week ago, lady,” said Sebastian, taking up the story. +</p> + +<p> +“And where?” +</p> + +<p> +“On the rampart, lady, higher up.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you pursue it, that it fled?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Signora. Launcelot and I were on watch together, and everything was +so still, you might have heard a mouse stir, when, suddenly, Launcelot +says—Sebastian! do you see nothing? I turned my head a little to the +left, as it might be—thus. No, says I. Hush! said Launcelot,—look +yonder—just by the last cannon on the rampart! I looked, and then thought +I did see something move; but there being no light, but what the stars gave, I +could not be certain. We stood quite silent, to watch it, and presently saw +something pass along the castle wall just opposite to us!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you not seize it, then?” cried a soldier, who had scarcely +spoken till now. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, why did you not seize it?” said Roberto. +</p> + +<p> +“You should have been there to have done that,” replied Sebastian. +“You would have been bold enough to have taken it by the throat, though +it had been the devil himself; we could not take such a liberty, perhaps, +because we are not so well acquainted with him, as you are. But, as I was +saying, it stole by us so quickly, that we had not time to get rid of our +surprise, before it was gone. Then, we knew it was in vain to follow. We kept +constant watch all that night, but we saw it no more. Next morning, we told +some of our comrades, who were on duty on other parts of the ramparts, what we +had seen; but they had seen nothing, and laughed at us, and it was not till +tonight, that the same figure walked again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you lose it, friend?” said Emily to Roberto. +</p> + +<p> +“When I left you, lady,” replied the man, “you might see me +go down the rampart, but it was not till I reached the east terrace, that I saw +anything. Then, the moon shining bright, I saw something like a shadow +flitting before me, as it were, at some distance. I stopped, when I turned the +corner of the east tower, where I had seen this figure not a moment +before,—but it was gone! As I stood, looking through the old arch which +leads to the east rampart, and where I am sure it had passed, I heard, all of a +sudden, such a sound!—it was not like a groan, or a cry, or a shout, or +anything I ever heard in my life. I heard it only once, and that was enough +for me; for I know nothing that happened after, till I found my comrades, here, +about me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said Sebastian, “let us go to our posts—the +moon is setting. Good night, lady!” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, let us go,” rejoined Roberto. “Good night, lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good night; the holy mother guard you!” said Emily, as she closed +her casement and retired to reflect upon the strange circumstance that had just +occurred, connecting which with what had happened on former nights, she +endeavoured to derive from the whole something more positive, than conjecture. +But her imagination was inflamed, while her judgment was not enlightened, and +the terrors of superstition again pervaded her mind. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a> CHAPTER IV </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +There is one within,<br/> +Besides the things that we have heard and seen,<br/> +Recounts most horrid sights, seen by the watch.<br/> + JULIUS CÆSAR +</p> + +<p> +In the morning, Emily found Madame Montoni nearly in the same condition, as on +the preceding night; she had slept little, and that little had not refreshed +her; she smiled on her niece, and seemed cheered by her presence, but spoke +only a few words, and never named Montoni, who, however, soon after, entered +the room. His wife, when she understood that he was there, appeared much +agitated, but was entirely silent, till Emily rose from a chair at the +bedside, when she begged, in a feeble voice, that she would not leave her. +</p> + +<p> +The visit of Montoni was not to sooth his wife, whom he knew to be dying, or to +console, or to ask her forgiveness, but to make a last effort to procure that +signature, which would transfer her estates in Languedoc, after her death, to +him rather than to Emily. This was a scene, that exhibited, on his part, his +usual inhumanity, and, on that of Madame Montoni, a persevering spirit, +contending with a feeble frame; while Emily repeatedly declared to him her +willingness to resign all claim to those estates, rather than that the last +hours of her aunt should be disturbed by contention. Montoni, however, did not +leave the room, till his wife, exhausted by the obstinate dispute, had fainted, +and she lay so long insensible, that Emily began to fear that the spark of life +was extinguished. At length, she revived, and, looking feebly up at her niece, +whose tears were falling over her, made an effort to speak, but her words were +unintelligible, and Emily again apprehended she was dying. Afterwards, however, +she recovered her speech, and, being somewhat restored by a cordial, conversed +for a considerable time, on the subject of her estates in France, with +clearness and precision. She directed her niece where to find some papers +relative to them, which she had hitherto concealed from the search of Montoni, +and earnestly charged her never to suffer these papers to escape her. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after this conversation, Madame Montoni sunk into a dose, and continued +slumbering, till evening, when she seemed better than she had been since her +removal from the turret. Emily never left her, for a moment, till long after +midnight, and even then would not have quitted the room, had not her aunt +entreated, that she would retire to rest. She then obeyed, the more willingly, +because her patient appeared somewhat recruited by sleep; and, giving Annette +the same injunction, as on the preceding night, she withdrew to her own +apartment. But her spirits were wakeful and agitated, and, finding it +impossible to sleep, she determined to watch, once more, for the mysterious +appearance, that had so much interested and alarmed her. +</p> + +<p> +It was now the second watch of the night, and about the time when the figure +had before appeared. Emily heard the passing steps of the sentinels, on the +rampart, as they changed guard; and, when all was again silent, she took her +station at the casement, leaving her lamp in a remote part of the chamber, that +she might escape notice from without. The moon gave a faint and uncertain +light, for heavy vapours surrounded it, and, often rolling over the disk, left +the scene below in total darkness. It was in one of these moments of obscurity, +that she observed a small and lambent flame, moving at some distance on the +terrace. While she gazed, it disappeared, and, the moon again emerging from the +lurid and heavy thunder clouds, she turned her attention to the heavens, where +the vivid lightnings darted from cloud to cloud, and flashed silently on the +woods below. She loved to catch, in the momentary gleam, the gloomy landscape. +Sometimes, a cloud opened its light upon a distant mountain, and, while the +sudden splendour illumined all its recesses of rock and wood, the rest of the +scene remained in deep shadow; at others, partial features of the castle were +revealed by the glimpse—the ancient arch leading to the east rampart, the +turret above, or the fortifications beyond; and then, perhaps, the whole +edifice with all its towers, its dark massy walls and pointed casements would +appear, and vanish in an instant. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, looking again upon the rampart, perceived the flame she had seen before; +it moved onward; and, soon after, she thought she heard a footstep. The light +appeared and disappeared frequently, while, as she watched, it glided under her +casements, and, at the same instant, she was certain, that a footstep passed, +but the darkness did not permit her to distinguish any object except the flame. +It moved away, and then, by a gleam of lightning, she perceived some person on +the terrace. All the anxieties of the preceding night returned. This person +advanced, and the playing flame alternately appeared and vanished. Emily wished +to speak, to end her doubts, whether this figure were human or supernatural; +but her courage failed as often as she attempted utterance, till the light +moved again under the casement, and she faintly demanded, who passed. +</p> + +<p> +“A friend,” replied a voice. +</p> + +<p> +“What friend?” said Emily, somewhat encouraged “who are you, +and what is that light you carry?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am Anthonio, one of the Signor’s soldiers,” replied the +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“And what is that tapering light you bear?” said Emily, “see +how it darts upwards,—and now it vanishes!” +</p> + +<p> +“This light, lady,” said the soldier, “has appeared tonight +as you see it, on the point of my lance, ever since I have been on watch; but +what it means I cannot tell.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is very strange!” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“My fellow-guard,” continued the man, “has the same flame on +his arms; he says he has sometimes seen it before. I never did; I am but lately +come to the castle, for I have not been long a soldier.” +</p> + +<p> +“How does your comrade account for it?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“He says it is an omen, lady, and bodes no good.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what harm can it bode?” rejoined Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“He knows not so much as that, lady.” +</p> + +<p> +Whether Emily was alarmed by this omen, or not, she certainly was relieved from +much terror by discovering this man to be only a soldier on duty, and it +immediately occurred to her, that it might be he, who had occasioned so much +alarm on the preceding night. There were, however, some circumstances, that +still required explanation. As far as she could judge by the faint moonlight, +that had assisted her observation, the figure she had seen did not resemble +this man either in shape or size; besides, she was certain it had carried no +arms. The silence of its steps, if steps it had, the moaning sounds, too, which +it had uttered, and its strange disappearance, were circumstances of mysterious +import, that did not apply, with probability, to a soldier engaged in the duty +of his guard. +</p> + +<p> +She now enquired of the sentinel, whether he had seen any person besides his +fellow watch, walking on the terrace, about midnight; and then briefly related +what she had herself observed. +</p> + +<p> +“I was not on guard that night, lady,” replied the man, “but +I heard of what happened. There are amongst us, who believe strange things. +Strange stories, too, have long been told of this castle, but it is no business +of mine to repeat them; and, for my part, I have no reason to complain; our +Chief does nobly by us.” +</p> + +<p> +“I commend your prudence,” said Emily. “Good night, and +accept this from me,” she added, throwing him a small piece of coin, and +then closing the casement to put an end to the discourse. +</p> + +<p> +When he was gone, she opened it again, listened with a gloomy pleasure to the +distant thunder, that began to murmur among the mountains, and watched the +arrowy lightnings, which broke over the remoter scene. The pealing thunder +rolled onward, and then, reverbed by the mountains, other thunder seemed to +answer from the opposite horizon; while the accumulating clouds, entirely +concealing the moon, assumed a red sulphureous tinge, that foretold a violent +storm. +</p> + +<p> +Emily remained at her casement, till the vivid lightning, that now, every +instant, revealed the wide horizon and the landscape below, made it no longer +safe to do so, and she went to her couch; but, unable to compose her mind to +sleep, still listened in silent awe to the tremendous sounds, that seemed to +shake the castle to its foundation. +</p> + +<p> +She had continued thus for a considerable time, when, amidst the uproar of the +storm, she thought she heard a voice, and, raising herself to listen, saw the +chamber door open, and Annette enter with a countenance of wild affright. +</p> + +<p> +“She is dying, ma’amselle, my lady is dying!” said she. +</p> + +<p> +Emily started up, and ran to Madame Montoni’s room. When she entered, her +aunt appeared to have fainted, for she was quite still, and insensible; and +Emily with a strength of mind, that refused to yield to grief, while any duty +required her activity, applied every means that seemed likely to restore her. +But the last struggle was over—she was gone for ever. +</p> + +<p> +When Emily perceived, that all her efforts were ineffectual, she interrogated +the terrified Annette, and learned, that Madame Montoni had fallen into a doze +soon after Emily’s departure, in which she had continued, until a few +minutes before her death. +</p> + +<p> +“I wondered, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “what was the +reason my lady did not seem frightened at the thunder, when I was so terrified, +and I went often to the bed to speak to her, but she appeared to be asleep; +till presently I heard a strange noise, and, on going to her, saw she was +dying.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, at this recital, shed tears. She had no doubt but that the violent +change in the air, which the tempest produced, had effected this fatal one, on +the exhausted frame of Madame Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +After some deliberation, she determined that Montoni should not be informed of +this event till the morning, for she considered, that he might, perhaps, utter +some inhuman expressions, such as in the present temper of her spirits she +could not bear. With Annette alone, therefore, whom she encouraged by her own +example, she performed some of the last solemn offices for the dead, and +compelled herself to watch during the night, by the body of her deceased aunt. +During this solemn period, rendered more awful by the tremendous storm that +shook the air, she frequently addressed herself to Heaven for support and +protection, and her pious prayers, we may believe, were accepted of the God, +that giveth comfort. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a> CHAPTER V </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +The midnight clock has toll’d; and hark, the bell<br/> +Of death beats slow! heard ye the note profound?<br/> +It pauses now; and now with rising knell<br/> +Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound.<br/> + MASON +</p> + +<p> +When Montoni was informed of the death of his wife, and considered that she had +died without giving him the signature so necessary to the accomplishment of his +wishes, no sense of decency restrained the expression of his resentment. Emily +anxiously avoided his presence, and watched, during two days and two nights, +with little intermission, by the corpse of her late aunt. Her mind deeply +impressed with the unhappy fate of this object, she forgot all her faults, her +unjust and imperious conduct to herself; and, remembering only her sufferings, +thought of her only with tender compassion. Sometimes, however, she could not +avoid musing upon the strange infatuation that had proved so fatal to her aunt, +and had involved herself in a labyrinth of misfortune, from which she saw no +means of escaping,—the marriage with Montoni. But, when she considered +this circumstance, it was “more in sorrow than in +anger,”—more for the purpose of indulging lamentation, than +reproach. +</p> + +<p> +In her pious cares she was not disturbed by Montoni, who not only avoided the +chamber, where the remains of his wife were laid, but that part of the castle +adjoining to it, as if he had apprehended a contagion in death. He seemed to +have given no orders respecting the funeral, and Emily began to fear he meant +to offer a new insult to the memory of Madame Montoni; but from this +apprehension she was relieved, when, on the evening of the second day, Annette +informed her, that the interment was to take place that night. She knew, that +Montoni would not attend; and it was so very grievous to her to think that the +remains of her unfortunate aunt would pass to the grave without one relative, +or friend to pay them the last decent rites, that she determined to be deterred +by no considerations for herself, from observing this duty. She would otherwise +have shrunk from the circumstance of following them to the cold vault, to which +they were to be carried by men whose air and countenances seemed to stamp them +for murderers, at the midnight hour of silence and privacy, which Montoni had +chosen for committing, if possible, to oblivion the reliques of a woman, whom +his harsh conduct had, at least, contributed to destroy. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, shuddering with emotions of horror and grief, assisted by Annette, +prepared the corpse for interment; and, having wrapt it in cerements, and +covered it with a winding-sheet, they watched beside it, till past midnight, +when they heard the approaching footsteps of the men, who were to lay it in its +earthy bed. It was with difficulty that Emily overcame her emotion, when, the +door of the chamber being thrown open, their gloomy countenances were seen by +the glare of the torch they carried, and two of them, without speaking, lifted +the body on their shoulders, while the third preceding them with the light, +descended through the castle towards the grave, which was in the lower vault of +the chapel within the castle walls. +</p> + +<p> +They had to cross two courts, towards the east wing of the castle, which, +adjoining the chapel, was, like it, in ruins: but the silence and gloom of +these courts had now little power over Emily’s mind, occupied as it was, +with more mournful ideas; and she scarcely heard the low and dismal hooting of +the night-birds, that roosted among the ivied battlements of the ruin, or +perceived the still flittings of the bat, which frequently crossed her way. +But, when, having entered the chapel, and passed between the mouldering pillars +of the aisles, the bearers stopped at a flight of steps, that led down to a low +arched door, and, their comrade having descended to unlock it, she saw +imperfectly the gloomy abyss beyond;—saw the corpse of her aunt carried +down these steps, and the ruffian-like figure, that stood with a torch at the +bottom to receive it—all her fortitude was lost in emotions of +inexpressible grief and terror. She turned to lean upon Annette, who was cold +and trembling like herself, and she lingered so long on the summit of the +flight, that the gleam of the torch began to die away on the pillars of the +chapel, and the men were almost beyond her view. Then, the gloom around her +awakening other fears, and a sense of what she considered to be her duty +overcoming her reluctance, she descended to the vaults, following the echo of +footsteps and the faint ray, that pierced the darkness, till the harsh grating +of a distant door, that was opened to receive the corpse, again appalled her. +</p> + +<p> +After the pause of a moment, she went on, and, as she entered the vaults, saw +between the arches, at some distance, the men lay down the body near the edge +of an open grave, where stood another of Montoni’s men and a priest, whom +she did not observe, till he began the burial service; then, lifting her eyes +from the ground, she saw the venerable figure of the friar, and heard him in a +low voice, equally solemn and affecting, perform the service for the dead. At +the moment, in which they let down the body into the earth, the scene was such +as only the dark pencil of a Domenichino, perhaps, could have done justice to. +The fierce features and wild dress of the <i>condottieri</i>, bending with +their torches over the grave, into which the corpse was descending, were +contrasted by the venerable figure of the monk, wrapt in long black garments, +his cowl thrown back from his pale face, on which the light gleaming strongly +showed the lines of affliction softened by piety, and the few grey locks, which +time had spared on his temples: while, beside him, stood the softer form of +Emily, who leaned for support upon Annette; her face half averted, and shaded +by a thin veil, that fell over her figure; and her mild and beautiful +countenance fixed in grief so solemn as admitted not of tears, while she thus +saw committed untimely to the earth her last relative and friend. The gleams, +thrown between the arches of the vaults, where, here and there, the broken +ground marked the spots in which other bodies had been recently interred, and +the general obscurity beyond were circumstances, that alone would have led on +the imagination of a spectator to scenes more horrible than even that which +was pictured at the grave of the misguided and unfortunate Madame Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +When the service was over, the friar regarded Emily with attention and +surprise, and looked as if he wished to speak to her, but was restrained by the +presence of the <i>condottieri</i>, who, as they now led the way to the courts, +amused themselves with jokes upon his holy order, which he endured in silence, +demanding only to be conducted safely to his convent, and to which Emily +listened with concern and even horror. When they reached the court, the monk +gave her his blessing, and, after a lingering look of pity, turned away to the +portal, whither one of the men carried a torch; while Annette, lighting +another, preceded Emily to her apartment. The appearance of the friar and the +expression of tender compassion, with which he had regarded her, had interested +Emily, who, though it was at her earnest supplication, that Montoni had +consented to allow a priest to perform the last rites for his deceased wife, +knew nothing concerning this person, till Annette now informed her, that he +belonged to a monastery, situated among the mountains at a few miles distance. +The Superior, who regarded Montoni and his associates, not only with aversion, +but with terror, had probably feared to offend him by refusing his request, and +had, therefore, ordered a monk to officiate at the funeral, who, with the meek +spirit of a christian, had overcome his reluctance to enter the walls of such a +castle, by the wish of performing what he considered to be his duty, and, as +the chapel was built on consecrated ground, had not objected to commit to it +the remains of the late unhappy Madame Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +Several days passed with Emily in total seclusion, and in a state of mind +partaking both of terror for herself, and grief for the departed. She, at +length, determined to make other efforts to persuade Montoni to permit her +return to France. Why he should wish to detain her, she could scarcely dare to +conjecture; but it was too certain that he did so, and the absolute refusal he +had formerly given to her departure allowed her little hope, that he would now +consent to it. But the horror, which his presence inspired, made her defer, +from day to day, the mention of this subject; and at last she was awakened from +her inactivity only by a message from him, desiring her attendance at a certain +hour. She began to hope he meant to resign, now that her aunt was no more, the +authority he had usurped over her; till she recollected, that the estates, +which had occasioned so much contention, were now hers, and she then feared +Montoni was about to employ some stratagem for obtaining them, and that he +would detain her his prisoner, till he succeeded. This thought, instead of +overcoming her with despondency, roused all the latent powers of her fortitude +into action; and the property, which she would willingly have resigned to +secure the peace of her aunt, she resolved, that no common sufferings of her +own should ever compel her to give to Montoni. For Valancourt’s sake also +she determined to preserve these estates, since they would afford that +competency, by which she hoped to secure the comfort of their future lives. As +she thought of this, she indulged the tenderness of tears, and anticipated the +delight of that moment, when, with affectionate generosity, she might tell him +they were his own. She saw the smile, that lighted up his features—the +affectionate regard, which spoke at once his joy and thanks; and, at this +instant, she believed she could brave any suffering, which the evil spirit of +Montoni might be preparing for her. Remembering then, for the first time since +her aunt’s death, the papers relative to the estates in question, she +determined to search for them, as soon as her interview with Montoni was over. +</p> + +<p> +With these resolutions she met him at the appointed time, and waited to hear +his intention before she renewed her request. With him were Orsino and another +officer, and both were standing near a table, covered with papers, which he +appeared to be examining. +</p> + +<p> +“I sent for you, Emily,” said Montoni, raising his head, +“that you might be a witness in some business, which I am transacting +with my friend Orsino. All that is required of you will be to sign your name to +this paper:” he then took one up, hurried unintelligibly over some lines, +and, laying it before her on the table, offered her a pen. She took it, and was +going to write—when the design of Montoni came upon her mind like a flash +of lightning; she trembled, let the pen fall, and refused to sign what she had +not read. Montoni affected to laugh at her scruples, and, taking up the paper, +again pretended to read; but Emily, who still trembled on perceiving her +danger, and was astonished, that her own credulity had so nearly betrayed her, +positively refused to sign any paper whatever. Montoni, for some time, +persevered in affecting to ridicule this refusal; but, when he perceived by her +steady perseverance, that she understood his design, he changed his manner, and +bade her follow him to another room. There he told her, that he had been +willing to spare himself and her the trouble of useless contest, in an affair, +where his will was justice, and where she should find it law; and had, +therefore, endeavoured to persuade, rather than to compel, her to the practice +of her duty. +</p> + +<p> +“I, as the husband of the late Signora Montoni,” he added, +“am the heir of all she possessed; the estates, therefore, which she +refused to me in her life-time, can no longer be withheld, and, for your own +sake, I would undeceive you, respecting a foolish assertion she once made to +you in my hearing—that these estates would be yours, if she died without +resigning them to me. She knew at that moment, she had no power to withhold +them from me, after her decease; and I think you have more sense, than to +provoke my resentment by advancing an unjust claim. I am not in the habit of +flattering, and you will, therefore, receive, as sincere, the praise I bestow, +when I say, that you possess an understanding superior to that of your sex; and +that you have none of those contemptible foibles, that frequently mark the +female character—such as avarice and the love of power, which latter +makes women delight to contradict and to tease, when they cannot conquer. If I +understand your disposition and your mind, you hold in sovereign contempt these +common failings of your sex.” +</p> + +<p> +Montoni paused; and Emily remained silent and expecting; for she knew him too +well, to believe he would condescend to such flattery, unless he thought it +would promote his own interest; and, though he had forborne to name vanity +among the foibles of women, it was evident, that he considered it to be a +predominant one, since he designed to sacrifice to hers the character and +understanding of her whole sex. +</p> + +<p> +“Judging as I do,” resumed Montoni, “I cannot believe you +will oppose, where you know you cannot conquer, or, indeed, that you would wish +to conquer, or be avaricious of any property, when you have not justice on your +side. I think it proper, however, to acquaint you with the alternative. If you +have a just opinion of the subject in question, you shall be allowed a safe +conveyance to France, within a short period; but, if you are so unhappy as to +be misled by the late assertion of the Signora, you shall remain my prisoner, +till you are convinced of your error.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily calmly said, +</p> + +<p> +“I am not so ignorant, Signor, of the laws on this subject, as to be +misled by the assertion of any person. The law, in the present instance, gives +me the estates in question, and my own hand shall never betray my right.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been mistaken in my opinion of you, it appears,” rejoined +Montoni, sternly. “You speak boldly, and presumptuously, upon a subject, +which you do not understand. For once, I am willing to pardon the conceit of +ignorance; the weakness of your sex, too, from which, it seems, you are not +exempt, claims some allowance; but, if you persist in this strain—you +have everything to fear from my justice.” +</p> + +<p> +“From your justice, Signor,” rejoined Emily, “I have nothing +to fear—I have only to hope.” +</p> + +<p> +Montoni looked at her with vexation, and seemed considering what to say. +“I find that you are weak enough,” he resumed, “to credit the +idle assertion I alluded to! For your own sake I lament this; as to me, it is +of little consequence. Your credulity can punish only yourself; and I must pity +the weakness of mind, which leads you to so much suffering as you are +compelling me to prepare for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You may find, perhaps, Signor,” said Emily, with mild dignity, +“that the strength of my mind is equal to the justice of my cause; and +that I can endure with fortitude, when it is in resistance of +oppression.” +</p> + +<p> +“You speak like a heroine,” said Montoni, contemptuously; “we +shall see whether you can suffer like one.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was silent, and he left the room. +</p> + +<p> +Recollecting, that it was for Valancourt’s sake she had thus resisted, +she now smiled complacently upon the threatened sufferings, and retired to the +spot, which her aunt had pointed out as the repository of the papers, relative +to the estates, where she found them as described; and, since she knew of no +better place of concealment, than this, returned them, without examining their +contents, being fearful of discovery, while she should attempt a perusal. +</p> + +<p> +To her own solitary chamber she once more returned, and there thought again of +the late conversation with Montoni, and of the evil she might expect from +opposition to his will. But his power did not appear so terrible to her +imagination, as it was wont to do: a sacred pride was in her heart, that taught +it to swell against the pressure of injustice, and almost to glory in the quiet +sufferance of ills, in a cause, which had also the interest of Valancourt for +its object. For the first time, she felt the full extent of her own superiority +to Montoni, and despised the authority, which, till now, she had only feared. +</p> + +<p> +As she sat musing, a peal of laughter rose from the terrace, and, on going to +the casement, she saw, with inexpressible surprise, three ladies, dressed in +the gala habit of Venice, walking with several gentlemen below. She gazed in an +astonishment that made her remain at the window, regardless of being observed, +till the group passed under it; and, one of the strangers looking up, she +perceived the features of Signora Livona, with whose manners she had been so +much charmed, the day after her arrival at Venice, and who had been there +introduced at the table of Montoni. This discovery occasioned her an emotion of +doubtful joy; for it was matter of joy and comfort to know, that a person, of a +mind so gentle, as that of Signora Livona seemed to be, was near her; yet there +was something so extraordinary in her being at this castle, circumstanced as it +now was, and evidently, by the gaiety of her air, with her own consent, that a +very painful surmise arose, concerning her character. But the thought was so +shocking to Emily, whose affection the fascinating manners of the Signora had +won, and appeared so improbable, when she remembered these manners, that she +dismissed it almost instantly. +</p> + +<p> +On Annette’s appearance, however, she enquired, concerning these +strangers; and the former was as eager to tell, as Emily was to learn. +</p> + +<p> +“They are just come, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “with +two Signors from Venice, and I was glad to see such Christian faces once +again.—But what can they mean by coming here? They must surely be stark +mad to come freely to such a place as this! Yet they do come freely, for they +seem merry enough, I am sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“They were taken prisoners, perhaps?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Taken prisoners!” exclaimed Annette; “no, indeed, +ma’amselle, not they. I remember one of them very well at Venice: she +came two or three times, to the Signor’s you know, ma’amselle, and +it was said, but I did not believe a word of it—it was said, that the +Signor liked her better than he should do. Then why, says I, bring her to my +lady? Very true, said Ludovico; but he looked as if he knew more, too.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily desired Annette would endeavour to learn who these ladies were, as well +as all she could concerning them; and she then changed the subject, and spoke +of distant France. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, ma’amselle! we shall never see it more!” said Annette, +almost weeping.—“I must come on my travels, forsooth!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily tried to sooth and to cheer her, with a hope, in which she scarcely +herself indulged. +</p> + +<p> +“How—how, ma’amselle, could you leave France, and leave Mons. +Valancourt, too?” said Annette, sobbing. “I—I—am sure, +if Ludovico had been in France, I would never have left it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you lament quitting France, then?” said Emily, trying to +smile, “since, if you had remained there, you would not have found +Ludovico.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, ma’amselle! I only wish I was out of this frightful castle, +serving you in France, and I would care about nothing else!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, my good Annette, for your affectionate regard; the time will +come, I hope, when you may remember the expression of that wish with +pleasure.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette departed on her business, and Emily sought to lose the sense of her own +cares, in the visionary scenes of the poet; but she had again to lament the +irresistible force of circumstances over the taste and powers of the mind; and +that it requires a spirit at ease to be sensible even to the abstract pleasures +of pure intellect. The enthusiasm of genius, with all its pictured scenes, now +appeared cold, and dim. As she mused upon the book before her, she +involuntarily exclaimed, “Are these, indeed, the passages, that have so +often given me exquisite delight? Where did the charm exist?—Was it in my +mind, or in the imagination of the poet? It lived in each,” said she, +pausing. “But the fire of the poet is vain, if the mind of his reader is +not tempered like his own, however it may be inferior to his in power.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily would have pursued this train of thinking, because it relieved her from +more painful reflection, but she found again, that thought cannot always be +controlled by will; and hers returned to the consideration of her own +situation. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, not choosing to venture down to the ramparts, where she would +be exposed to the rude gaze of Montoni’s associates, she walked for air +in the gallery, adjoining her chamber; on reaching the further end of which she +heard distant sounds of merriment and laughter. It was the wild uproar of riot, +not the cheering gaiety of tempered mirth; and seemed to come from that part of +the castle, where Montoni usually was. Such sounds, at this time, when her aunt +had been so few days dead, particularly shocked her, consistent as they were +with the late conduct of Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +As she listened, she thought she distinguished female voices mingling with the +laughter, and this confirmed her worst surmise, concerning the character of +Signora Livona and her companions. It was evident, that they had not been +brought hither by compulsion; and she beheld herself in the remote wilds of the +Apennine, surrounded by men, whom she considered to be little less than +ruffians, and their worst associates, amid scenes of vice, from which her soul +recoiled in horror. It was at this moment, when the scenes of the present and +the future opened to her imagination, that the image of Valancourt failed in +its influence, and her resolution shook with dread. She thought she understood +all the horrors, which Montoni was preparing for her, and shrunk from an +encounter with such remorseless vengeance, as he could inflict. The disputed +estates she now almost determined to yield at once, whenever he should again +call upon her, that she might regain safety and freedom; but then, the +remembrance of Valancourt would steal to her heart, and plunge her into the +distractions of doubt. +</p> + +<p> +She continued walking in the gallery, till evening threw its melancholy +twilight through the painted casements, and deepened the gloom of the oak +wainscoting around her; while the distant perspective of the corridor was so +much obscured, as to be discernible only by the glimmering window, that +terminated it. +</p> + +<p> +Along the vaulted halls and passages below, peals of laughter echoed faintly, +at intervals, to this remote part of the castle, and seemed to render the +succeeding stillness more dreary. Emily, however, unwilling to return to her +more forlorn chamber, whither Annette was not yet come, still paced the +gallery. As she passed the door of the apartment, where she had once dared to +lift the veil, which discovered to her a spectacle so horrible, that she had +never after remembered it, but with emotions of indescribable awe, this +remembrance suddenly recurred. It now brought with it reflections more +terrible, than it had yet done, which the late conduct of Montoni occasioned; +and, hastening to quit the gallery, while she had power to do so, she heard a +sudden step behind her.—It might be that of Annette; but, turning +fearfully to look, she saw, through the gloom, a tall figure following her, and +all the horrors of that chamber rushed upon her mind. In the next moment, she +found herself clasped in the arms of some person, and heard a deep voice murmur +in her ear. +</p> + +<p> +When she had power to speak, or to distinguish articulated sounds, she demanded +who detained her. +</p> + +<p> +“It is I,” replied the voice—“Why are you thus +alarmed?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked on the face of the person who spoke, but the feeble light, that +gleamed through the high casement at the end of the gallery, did not permit her +to distinguish the features. +</p> + +<p> +“Whoever you are,” said Emily, in a trembling voice, “for +heaven’s sake let me go!” +</p> + +<p> +“My charming Emily,” said the man, “why will you shut +yourself up in this obscure place, when there is so much gaiety below? Return +with me to the cedar parlour, where you will be the fairest ornament of the +party;—you shall not repent the exchange.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily disdained to reply, and still endeavoured to liberate herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Promise, that you will come,” he continued, “and I will +release you immediately; but first give me a reward for so doing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you?” demanded Emily, in a tone of mingled terror and +indignation, while she still struggled for liberty—“who are you, +that have the cruelty thus to insult me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why call me cruel?” said the man, “I would remove you from +this dreary solitude to a merry party below. Do you not know me?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily now faintly remembered, that he was one of the officers who were with +Montoni when she attended him in the morning. “I thank you for the +kindness of your intention,” she replied, without appearing to understand +him, “but I wish for nothing so much as that you would leave me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Charming Emily!” said he, “give up this foolish whim for +solitude, and come with me to the company, and eclipse the beauties who make +part of it; you, only, are worthy of my love.” He attempted to kiss her +hand, but the strong impulse of her indignation gave her power to liberate +herself, and she fled towards the chamber. She closed the door, before he +reached it, having secured which, she sunk in a chair, overcome by terror and +by the exertion she had made, while she heard his voice, and his attempts to +open the door, without having the power to raise herself. At length, she +perceived him depart, and had remained, listening, for a considerable time, and +was somewhat revived by not hearing any sound, when suddenly she remembered the +door of the private staircase, and that he might enter that way, since it was +fastened only on the other side. She then employed herself in endeavouring to +secure it, in the manner she had formerly done. It appeared to her, that +Montoni had already commenced his scheme of vengeance, by withdrawing from her +his protection, and she repented of the rashness, that had made her brave the +power of such a man. To retain the estates seemed to be now utterly impossible, +and to preserve her life, perhaps her honour, she resolved, if she should +escape the horrors of this night, to give up all claims to the estates, on the +morrow, provided Montoni would suffer her to depart from Udolpho. +</p> + +<p> +When she had come to this decision, her mind became more composed, though she +still anxiously listened, and often started at ideal sounds, that appeared to +issue from the staircase. +</p> + +<p> +Having sat in darkness for some hours, during all which time Annette did not +appear, she began to have serious apprehensions for her; but, not daring to +venture down into the castle, was compelled to remain in uncertainty, as to the +cause of this unusual absence. +</p> + +<p> +Emily often stole to the staircase door to listen if any step approached, but +still no sound alarmed her: determining, however, to watch, during the night, +she once more rested on her dark and desolate couch, and bathed the pillow with +innocent tears. She thought of her deceased parents and then of the absent +Valancourt, and frequently called upon their names; for the profound stillness, +that now reigned, was propitious to the musing sorrow of her mind. +</p> + +<p> +While she thus remained, her ear suddenly caught the notes of distant music, to +which she listened attentively, and, soon perceiving this to be the instrument +she had formerly heard at midnight, she rose, and stepped softly to the +casement, to which the sounds appeared to come from a lower room. +</p> + +<p> +In a few moments, their soft melody was accompanied by a voice so full of +pathos, that it evidently sang not of imaginary sorrows. Its sweet and peculiar +tones she thought she had somewhere heard before; yet, if this was not fancy, +it was, at most, a very faint recollection. It stole over her mind, amidst the +anguish of her present suffering, like a celestial strain, soothing, and +reassuring her;—“Pleasant as the gale of spring, that sighs on the +hunter’s ear, when he awakens from dreams of joy, and has heard the music +of the spirits of the hill.”* +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +(*Note: Ossian. [A. R.]) +</p> + +<p> +But her emotion can scarcely be imagined, when she heard sung, with the taste +and simplicity of true feeling, one of the popular airs of her native province, +to which she had so often listened with delight, when a child, and which she +had so often heard her father repeat! To this well-known song, never, till now, +heard but in her native country, her heart melted, while the memory of past +times returned. The pleasant, peaceful scenes of Gascony, the tenderness and +goodness of her parents, the taste and simplicity of her former life—all +rose to her fancy, and formed a picture, so sweet and glowing, so strikingly +contrasted with the scenes, the characters and the dangers, which now +surrounded her—that her mind could not bear to pause upon the retrospect, +and shrunk at the acuteness of its own sufferings. +</p> + +<p> +Her sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to the strain, +that had so often charmed her to tranquillity, and she withdrew from the +casement to a remote part of the chamber. But she was not yet beyond the reach +of the music; she heard the measure change, and the succeeding air called her +again to the window, for she immediately recollected it to be the same she had +formerly heard in the fishing-house in Gascony. Assisted, perhaps, by the +mystery, which had then accompanied this strain, it had made so deep an +impression on her memory, that she had never since entirely forgotten it; and +the manner, in which it was now sung, convinced her, however unaccountable the +circumstances appeared, that this was the same voice she had then heard. +Surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a thought darted, like lightning, upon +her mind, which discovered a train of hopes, that revived all her spirits. Yet +these hopes were so new, so unexpected, so astonishing, that she did not dare +to trust, though she could not resolve to discourage them. She sat down by the +casement, breathless, and overcome with the alternate emotions of hope and +fear; then rose again, leaned from the window, that she might catch a nearer +sound, listened, now doubting and then believing, softly exclaimed the name of +Valancourt, and then sunk again into the chair. Yes, it was possible, that +Valancourt was near her, and she recollected circumstances, which induced her +to believe it was his voice she had just heard. She remembered he had more than +once said that the fishing-house, where she had formerly listened to this voice +and air, and where she had seen pencilled sonnets, addressed to herself, had +been his favourite haunt, before he had been made known to her; there, too, she +had herself unexpectedly met him. It appeared, from these circumstances, more +than probable, that he was the musician, who had formerly charmed her +attention, and the author of the lines, which had expressed such tender +admiration;—who else, indeed, could it be? She was unable, at that time, +to form a conjecture, as to the writer, but, since her acquaintance with +Valancourt, whenever he had mentioned the fishing-house to have been known to +him, she had not scrupled to believe that he was the author of the sonnets. +</p> + +<p> +As these considerations passed over her mind, joy, fear and tenderness +contended at her heart; she leaned again from the casement to catch the sounds, +which might confirm, or destroy her hope, though she did not recollect to have +ever heard him sing; but the voice, and the instrument, now ceased. +</p> + +<p> +She considered for a moment whether she should venture to speak: then, not +choosing, lest it should be he, to mention his name, and yet too much +interested to neglect the opportunity of enquiring, she called from the +casement, “Is that song from Gascony?” Her anxious attention was +not cheered by any reply; everything remained silent. Her impatience +increasing with her fears, she repeated the question; but still no sound was +heard, except the sighings of the wind among the battlements above; and she +endeavoured to console herself with a belief, that the stranger, whoever he +was, had retired, before she had spoken, beyond the reach of her voice, which, +it appeared certain, had Valancourt heard and recognised, he would instantly +have replied to. Presently, however, she considered, that a motive of prudence, +and not an accidental removal, might occasion his silence; but the surmise +that led to this reflection, suddenly changed her hope and joy to terror and +grief; for, if Valancourt were in the castle, it was too probable that he was +here a prisoner, taken with some of his countrymen, many of whom were at that +time engaged in the wars of Italy, or intercepted in some attempt to reach her. +Had he even recollected Emily’s voice, he would have feared, in these +circumstances, to reply to it, in the presence of the men, who guarded his +prison. +</p> + +<p> +What so lately she had eagerly hoped she now believed she +dreaded;—dreaded to know, that Valancourt was near her; and, while she +was anxious to be relieved from her apprehension for his safety, she still was +unconscious, that a hope of soon seeing him, struggled with the fear. +</p> + +<p> +She remained listening at the casement, till the air began to freshen, and one +high mountain in the east to glimmer with the morning; when, wearied with +anxiety, she retired to her couch, where she found it utterly impossible to +sleep, for joy, tenderness, doubt and apprehension, distracted her during the +whole night. Now she rose from the couch, and opened the casement to listen; +then she would pace the room with impatient steps, and, at length, return with +despondence to her pillow. Never did hours appear to move so heavily, as those +of this anxious night; after which she hoped that Annette might appear, and +conclude her present state of torturing suspense. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a> CHAPTER VI </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Might we but hear<br/> +The folded flocks penn’d in their wattled cotes,<br/> +Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops,<br/> +Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock<br/> +Count the night watches to his feathery dames,<br/> +’Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering<br/> +In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs.<br/> + MILTON +</p> + +<p> +In the morning Emily was relieved from her fears for Annette, who came at an +early hour. +</p> + +<p> +“Here were fine doings in the castle, last night, +ma’amselle,” said she, as soon as she entered the +room,—“fine doings, indeed! Were you not frightened, +ma’amselle, at not seeing me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was alarmed both on your account and on my own,” replied +Emily—“What detained you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, I said so, I told him so; but it would not do. It was not my fault, +indeed, ma’amselle, for I could not get out. That rogue Ludovico locked +me up again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Locked you up!” said Emily, with displeasure, “Why do you +permit Ludovico to lock you up?” +</p> + +<p> +“Holy Saints!” exclaimed Annette, “how can I help it! If he +will lock the door, ma’amselle, and take away the key, how am I to get +out, unless I jump through the window? But that I should not mind so much, if +the casements here were not all so high; one can hardly scramble up to them on +the inside, and one should break one’s neck, I suppose, going down on the +outside. But you know, I dare say, ma’am, what a hurly-burly the castle +was in last night; you must have heard some of the uproar.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, were they disputing, then?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“No, ma’amselle, nor fighting, but almost as good, for I believe +there was not one of the Signors sober; and what is more, not one of those fine +ladies sober, either. I thought, when I saw them first, that all those fine +silks and fine veils,—why, ma’amselle, their veils were worked with +silver! and fine trimmings—boded no good—I guessed what they +were!” +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, “what will become of me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, ma’am, Ludovico said much the same thing of me. ‘Good +God!’ said he, ‘Annette, what is to become of you, if you are to go +running about the castle among all these drunken Signors?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘O!’ says I, ‘for that matter, I only want to go to my +young lady’s chamber, and I have only to go, you know, along the vaulted +passage and across the great hall and up the marble staircase and along the +north gallery and through the west wing of the castle and I am in the corridor +in a minute.’ ‘Are you so?’ says he, ‘and what is to +become of you, if you meet any of those noble cavaliers in the way?’ +‘Well,’ says I, ‘if you think there is danger, then, go with +me, and guard me; I am never afraid when you are by.’ ‘What!’ +says he, ‘when I am scarcely recovered of one wound, shall I put myself +in the way of getting another? for if any of the cavaliers meet you, they will +fall a-fighting with me directly. No, no,’ says he, ‘I will cut the +way shorter, than through the vaulted passage and up the marble staircase, and +along the north gallery and through the west wing of the castle, for you shall +stay here, Annette; you shall not go out of this room, tonight.’ So, with +that I says—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said Emily, impatiently, and anxious to enquire on +another subject,—“so he locked you up?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he did indeed, ma’amselle, notwithstanding all I could say to +the contrary; and Caterina and I and he staid there all night. And in a few +minutes after I was not so vexed, for there came Signor Verezzi roaring along +the passage, like a mad bull, and he mistook Ludovico’s hall, for old +Carlo’s; so he tried to burst open the door, and called out for more +wine, for that he had drunk all the flasks dry, and was dying of thirst. So we +were all as still as night, that he might suppose there was nobody in the room; +but the Signor was as cunning as the best of us, and kept calling out at the +door, ‘Come forth, my ancient hero!’ said he, ‘here is no +enemy at the gate, that you need hide yourself: come forth, my valorous Signor +Steward!’ Just then old Carlo opened his door, and he came with a flask +in his hand; for, as soon as the Signor saw him, he was as tame as could be, +and followed him away as naturally as a dog does a butcher with a piece of meat +in his basket. All this I saw through the key-hole. ‘Well, +Annette,’ said Ludovico, jeeringly, ‘shall I let you out +now?’ ‘O no,’ says I, ‘I would not—’” +</p> + +<p> +“I have some questions to ask you on another subject,” interrupted +Emily, quite wearied by this story. “Do you know whether there are any +prisoners in the castle, and whether they are confined at this end of the +edifice?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was not in the way, ma’amselle,” replied Annette, +“when the first party came in from the mountains, and the last party is +not come back yet, so I don’t know, whether there are any prisoners; but +it is expected back tonight, or tomorrow, and I shall know then, +perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily enquired if she had ever heard the servants talk of prisoners. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah ma’amselle!” said Annette archly, “now I dare say +you are thinking of Monsieur Valancourt, and that he may have come among the +armies, which, they say, are come from our country, to fight against this +state, and that he has met with some of <i>our</i> people, and is taken +captive. O Lord! how glad I should be, if it was so!” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you, indeed, be glad?” said Emily, in a tone of mournful +reproach. +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure I should, ma’am,” replied Annette, “and +would not you be glad too, to see Signor Valancourt? I don’t know any +chevalier I like better, I have a very great regard for the Signor, +truly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your regard for him cannot be doubted,” said Emily, “since +you wish to see him a prisoner.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why no, ma’amselle, not a prisoner either; but one must be glad to +see him, you know. And it was only the other night I dreamt—I dreamt I +saw him drive into the castle-yard all in a coach and six, and dressed out, +with a laced coat and a sword, like a lord as he is.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily could not forbear smiling at Annette’s ideas of Valancourt, and +repeated her enquiry, whether she had heard the servants talk of prisoners. +</p> + +<p> +“No, ma’amselle,” replied she, “never; and lately they +have done nothing but talk of the apparition, that has been walking about of a +night on the ramparts, and that frightened the sentinels into fits. It came +among them like a flash of fire, they say, and they all fell down in a row, +till they came to themselves again; and then it was gone, and nothing to be +seen but the old castle walls; so they helped one another up again as fast as +they could. You would not believe, ma’amselle, though I showed you the +very cannon, where it used to appear.” +</p> + +<p> +“And are you, indeed, so simple, Annette,” said Emily, smiling at +this curious exaggeration of the circumstances she had witnessed, “as to +credit these stories?” +</p> + +<p> +“Credit them, ma’amselle! why all the world could not persuade me +out of them. Roberto and Sebastian and half a dozen more of them went into +fits! To be sure, there was no occasion for that; I said, myself, there was no +need of that, for, says I, when the enemy comes, what a pretty figure they will +cut, if they are to fall down in fits, all of a row! The enemy won’t be +so civil, perhaps, as to walk off, like the ghost, and leave them to help one +another up, but will fall to, cutting and slashing, till he makes them all rise +up dead men. No, no, says I, there is reason in all things: though I might have +fallen down in a fit that was no rule for them, being, because it is no +business of mine to look gruff, and fight battles.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily endeavoured to correct the superstitious weakness of Annette, though she +could not entirely subdue her own; to which the latter only replied, +“Nay, ma’amselle, you will believe nothing; you are almost as bad +as the Signor himself, who was in a great passion when they told of what had +happened, and swore that the first man, who repeated such nonsense, should be +thrown into the dungeon under the east turret. This was a hard punishment too, +for only talking nonsense, as he called it, but I dare say he had other reasons +for calling it so, than you have, ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily looked displeased, and made no reply. As she mused upon the recollected +appearance, which had lately so much alarmed her, and considered the +circumstances of the figure having stationed itself opposite to her casement, +she was for a moment inclined to believe it was Valancourt, whom she had seen. +Yet, if it was he, why did he not speak to her, when he had the opportunity of +doing so—and, if he was a prisoner in the castle, and he could be here in +no other character, how could he obtain the means of walking abroad on the +rampart? Thus she was utterly unable to decide, whether the musician and the +form she had observed, were the same, or, if they were, whether this was +Valancourt. She, however, desired that Annette would endeavour to learn whether +any prisoners were in the castle, and also their names. +</p> + +<p> +“O dear, ma’amselle!” said Annette, “I forget to tell +you what you bade me ask about, the ladies, as they call themselves, who are +lately come to Udolpho. Why that Signora Livona, that the Signor brought to see +my late lady at Venice, is his mistress now, and was little better then, I dare +say. And Ludovico says (but pray be secret, ma’am) that his +<i>Excellenza</i> introduced her only to impose upon the world, that had begun +to make free with her character. So when people saw my lady notice her, they +thought what they had heard must be scandal. The other two are the mistresses +of Signor Verezzi and Signor Bertolini; and Signor Montoni invited them all to +the castle; and so, yesterday, he gave a great entertainment; and there they +were, all drinking Tuscany wine and all sorts, and laughing and singing, till +they made the castle ring again. But I thought they were dismal sounds, so soon +after my poor lady’s death too; and they brought to my mind what she +would have thought, if she had heard them—but she cannot hear them now, +poor soul! said I.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily turned away to conceal her emotion, and then desired Annette to go, and +make enquiry, concerning the prisoners, that might be in the castle, but +conjured her to do it with caution, and on no account to mention her name, or +that of Monsieur Valancourt. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I think of it, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “I do +believe there are prisoners, for I overheard one of the Signor’s men, +yesterday, in the servants hall, talking something about ransoms, and saying +what a fine thing it was for his <i>Excellenza</i> to catch up men, and they +were as good booty as any other, because of the ransoms. And the other man was +grumbling, and saying it was fine enough for the Signor, but none so fine for +his soldiers, because, said he, we don’t go shares there.” +</p> + +<p> +This information heightened Emily’s impatience to know more, and Annette +immediately departed on her enquiry. +</p> + +<p> +The late resolution of Emily to resign her estates to Montoni, now gave way to +new considerations; the possibility, that Valancourt was near her, revived her +fortitude, and she determined to brave the threatened vengeance, at least, till +she could be assured whether he was really in the castle. She was in this +temper of mind, when she received a message from Montoni, requiring her +attendance in the cedar parlour, which she obeyed with trembling, and, on her +way thither, endeavoured to animate her fortitude with the idea of Valancourt. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni was alone. “I sent for you,” said he, “to give you +another opportunity of retracting your late mistaken assertions concerning the +Languedoc estates. I will condescend to advise, where I may command.—If +you are really deluded by an opinion, that you have any right to these estates, +at least, do not persist in the error—an error, which you may perceive, +too late, has been fatal to you. Dare my resentment no further, but sign the +papers.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I have no right in these estates, sir,” said Emily, “of +what service can it be to you, that I should sign any papers, concerning them? +If the lands are yours by law, you certainly may possess them, without my +interference, or my consent.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will have no more argument,” said Montoni, with a look that made +her tremble. “What had I but trouble to expect, when I condescended to +reason with a baby! But I will be trifled with no longer: let the recollection +of your aunt’s sufferings, in consequence of her folly and obstinacy, +teach you a lesson.—Sign the papers.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s resolution was for a moment awed:—she shrunk at the +recollections he revived, and from the vengeance he threatened; but then, the +image of Valancourt, who so long had loved her, and who was now, perhaps, so +near her, came to her heart, and, together with the strong feelings of +indignation, with which she had always, from her infancy, regarded an act of +injustice, inspired her with a noble, though imprudent, courage. +</p> + +<p> +“Sign the papers,” said Montoni, more impatiently than before. +</p> + +<p> +“Never, sir,” replied Emily; “that request would have proved +to me the injustice of your claim, had I even been ignorant of my right.” +</p> + +<p> +Montoni turned pale with anger, while his quivering lip and lurking eye made +her almost repent the boldness of her speech. +</p> + +<p> +“Then all my vengeance falls upon you,” he exclaimed, with a +horrible oath. “And think not it shall be delayed. Neither the estates in +Languedoc, nor Gascony, shall be yours; you have dared to question my +right,—now dare to question my power. I have a punishment which you think +not of; it is terrible! This night—this very night—” +</p> + +<p> +“This night!” repeated another voice. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni paused, and turned half round, but, seeming to recollect himself, he +proceeded in a lower tone. +</p> + +<p> +“You have lately seen one terrible example of obstinacy and folly; yet +this, it appears, has not been sufficient to deter you.—I could tell you +of others—I could make you tremble at the bare recital.” +</p> + +<p> +He was interrupted by a groan, which seemed to rise from underneath the chamber +they were in; and, as he threw a glance round it, impatience and rage flashed +from his eyes, yet something like a shade of fear passed over his countenance. +Emily sat down in a chair, near the door, for the various emotions she had +suffered, now almost overcame her; but Montoni paused scarcely an instant, and, +commanding his features, resumed his discourse in a lower, yet sterner voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, I could give you other instances of my power and of my character, +which it seems you do not understand, or you would not defy me.—I could +tell you, that, when once my resolution is taken—but I am talking to a +baby. Let me, however, repeat, that terrible as are the examples I could +recite, the recital could not now benefit you; for, though your repentance +would put an immediate end to opposition, it would not now appease my +indignation.—I will have vengeance as well as justice.” +</p> + +<p> +Another groan filled the pause which Montoni made. +</p> + +<p> +“Leave the room instantly!” said he, seeming not to notice this +strange occurrence. Without power to implore his pity, she rose to go, but +found that she could not support herself; awe and terror overcame her, and she +sunk again into the chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Quit my presence!” cried Montoni. “This affectation of fear +ill becomes the heroine who has just dared to brave my indignation.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you hear nothing, Signor?” said Emily, trembling, and still +unable to leave the room. +</p> + +<p> +“I heard my own voice,” rejoined Montoni, sternly. +</p> + +<p> +“And nothing else?” said Emily, speaking with +difficulty.—“There again! Do you hear nothing now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Obey my order,” repeated Montoni. “And for these +fool’s tricks—I will soon discover by whom they are +practised.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily again rose, and exerted herself to the utmost to leave the room, while +Montoni followed her; but, instead of calling aloud to his servants to search +the chamber, as he had formerly done on a similar occurrence, passed to the +ramparts. +</p> + +<p> +As, in her way to the corridor, she rested for a moment at an open casement, +Emily saw a party of Montoni’s troops winding down a distant mountain, +whom she noticed no further than as they brought to her mind the wretched +prisoners they were, perhaps, bringing to the castle. At length, having reached +her apartment, she threw herself upon the couch, overcome with the new horrors +of her situation. Her thoughts lost in tumult and perplexity, she could neither +repent of, nor approve, her late conduct; she could only remember, that she was +in the power of a man, who had no principle of action—but his will; and +the astonishment and terrors of superstition, which had, for a moment, so +strongly assailed her, now yielded to those of reason. +</p> + +<p> +She was, at length, roused from the reverie which engaged her, by a confusion +of distant voices, and a clattering of hoofs, that seemed to come, on the wind, +from the courts. A sudden hope, that some good was approaching, seized her +mind, till she remembered the troops she had observed from the casement, and +concluded this to be the party, which Annette had said were expected at +Udolpho. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after, she heard voices faintly from the halls, and the noise of +horses’ feet sunk away in the wind; silence ensued. Emily listened +anxiously for Annette’s step in the corridor, but a pause of total +stillness continued, till again the castle seemed to be all tumult and +confusion. She heard the echoes of many footsteps, passing to and fro in the +halls and avenues below, and then busy tongues were loud on the rampart. Having +hurried to her casement, she perceived Montoni, with some of his officers, +leaning on the walls, and pointing from them; while several soldiers were +employed at the further end of the rampart about some cannon; and she continued +to observe them, careless of the passing time. +</p> + +<p> +Annette at length appeared, but brought no intelligence of Valancourt, +“For, ma’amselle,” said she, “all the people pretend to +know nothing about any prisoners. But here is a fine piece of business! The +rest of the party are just arrived, ma’am; they came scampering in, as if +they would have broken their necks; one scarcely knew whether the man, or his +horse would get within the gates first. And they have brought word—and +such news! they have brought word, that a party of the enemy, as they call +them, are coming towards the castle; so we shall have all the officers of +justice, I suppose, besieging it! all those terrible-looking fellows one used +to see at Venice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God!” exclaimed Emily, fervently, “there is yet a hope +left for me, then!” +</p> + +<p> +“What mean you, ma’amselle? Do you wish to fall into the hands of +those sad-looking men! Why I used to shudder as I passed them, and should have +guessed what they were, if Ludovico had not told me.” +</p> + +<p> +“We cannot be in worse hands than at present,” replied Emily, +unguardedly; “but what reason have you to suppose these are officers of +justice?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why <i>our</i> people, ma’am, are all in such a fright, and a +fuss; and I don’t know anything but the fear of justice, that could make +them so. I used to think nothing on earth could fluster them, unless, indeed, +it was a ghost, or so; but now, some of them are for hiding down in the vaults +under the castle; but you must not tell the Signor this, ma’amselle, and +I overheard two of them talking—Holy Mother! what makes you look so sad, +ma’amselle? You don’t hear what I say!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do, Annette; pray proceed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ma’amselle, all the castle is in such hurly-burly. Some of +the men are loading the cannon, and some are examining the great gates, and the +walls all round, and are hammering and patching up, just as if all those +repairs had never been made, that were so long about. But what is to become of +me and you, ma’amselle, and Ludovico? O! when I hear the sound of the +cannon, I shall die with fright. If I could but catch the great gate open for +one minute, I would be even with it for shutting me within these walls so +long!—it should never see me again.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily caught the latter words of Annette. “O! if you could find it open, +but for one moment!” she exclaimed, “my peace might yet be +saved!” The heavy groan she uttered, and the wildness of her look, +terrified Annette, still more than her words; who entreated Emily to explain +the meaning of them, to whom it suddenly occurred, that Ludovico might be of +some service, if there should be a possibility of escape, and who repeated the +substance of what had passed between Montoni and herself, but conjured her to +mention this to no person except to Ludovico. “It may, perhaps, be in his +power,” she added, “to effect our escape. Go to him, Annette, tell +him what I have to apprehend, and what I have already suffered; but entreat him +to be secret, and to lose no time in attempting to release us. If he is willing +to undertake this he shall be amply rewarded. I cannot speak with him myself, +for we might be observed, and then effectual care would be taken to prevent our +flight. But be quick, Annette, and, above all, be discreet—I will await +your return in this apartment.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl, whose honest heart had been much affected by the recital, was now as +eager to obey, as Emily was to employ her, and she immediately quitted the +room. +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s surprise increased, as she reflected upon Annette’s +intelligence. “Alas!” said she, “what can the officers of +justice do against an armed castle? these cannot be such.” Upon further +consideration, however, she concluded, that, Montoni’s bands having +plundered the country round, the inhabitants had taken arms, and were coming +with the officers of police and a party of soldiers, to force their way into +the castle. “But they know not,” thought she, “its strength, +or the armed numbers within it. Alas! except from flight, I have nothing to +hope!” +</p> + +<p> +Montoni, though not precisely what Emily apprehended him to be—a captain +of banditti—had employed his troops in enterprises not less daring, or +less atrocious, than such a character would have undertaken. They had not only +pillaged, whenever opportunity offered, the helpless traveller, but had +attacked, and plundered the villas of several persons, which, being situated +among the solitary recesses of the mountains, were totally unprepared for +resistance. In these expeditions the commanders of the party did not appear, +and the men, partly disguised, had sometimes been mistaken for common robbers, +and, at others, for bands of the foreign enemy, who, at that period, invaded +the country. But, though they had already pillaged several mansions, and +brought home considerable treasures, they had ventured to approach only one +castle, in the attack of which they were assisted by other troops of their own +order; from this, however, they were vigorously repulsed, and pursued by some +of the foreign enemy, who were in league with the besieged. Montoni’s +troops fled precipitately towards Udolpho, but were so closely tracked over the +mountains, that, when they reached one of the heights in the neighbourhood of +the castle, and looked back upon the road, they perceived the enemy winding +among the cliffs below, and at not more than a league distant. Upon this +discovery, they hastened forward with increased speed, to prepare Montoni for +the enemy; and it was their arrival, which had thrown the castle into such +confusion and tumult. +</p> + +<p> +As Emily awaited anxiously some information from below, she now saw from her +casements a body of troops pour over the neighbouring heights; and, though +Annette had been gone a very short time, and had a difficult and dangerous +business to accomplish, her impatience for intelligence became painful: she +listened; opened her door; and often went out upon the corridor to meet her. +</p> + +<p> +At length, she heard a footstep approach her chamber; and, on opening the door, +saw, not Annette, but old Carlo! New fears rushed upon her mind. He said he +came from the Signor, who had ordered him to inform her, that she must be ready +to depart from Udolpho immediately, for that the castle was about to be +besieged; and that mules were preparing to convey her, with her guides, to a +place of safety. +</p> + +<p> +“Of safety!” exclaimed Emily, thoughtlessly; “has, then, the +Signor so much consideration for me?” +</p> + +<p> +Carlo looked upon the ground, and made no reply. A thousand opposite emotions +agitated Emily, successively, as she listened to old Carlo; those of joy, +grief, distrust and apprehension, appeared, and vanished from her mind, with +the quickness of lightning. One moment, it seemed impossible, that Montoni +could take this measure merely for her preservation; and so very strange was +his sending her from the castle at all, that she could attribute it only to the +design of carrying into execution the new scheme of vengeance, with which he +had menaced her. In the next instant, it appeared so desirable to quit the +castle, under any circumstances, that she could not but rejoice in the +prospect, believing that change must be for the better, till she remembered the +probability of Valancourt being detained in it, when sorrow and regret usurped +her mind, and she wished, much more fervently than she had yet done, that it +might not be his voice which she had heard. +</p> + +<p> +Carlo having reminded her, that she had no time to lose, for that the enemy +were within sight of the castle, Emily entreated him to inform her whither she +was to go; and, after some hesitation, he said he had received no orders to +tell; but, on her repeating the question, replied, that he believed she was to +be carried into Tuscany. +</p> + +<p> +“To Tuscany!” exclaimed Emily—“and why thither?” +</p> + +<p> +Carlo answered, that he knew nothing further, than that she was to be lodged in +a cottage on the borders of Tuscany, at the feet of the +Apennines—“Not a day’s journey distant,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +Emily now dismissed him; and, with trembling hands, prepared the small package, +that she meant to take with her; while she was employed about which Annette +returned. +</p> + +<p> +“O ma’amselle!” said she, “nothing can be done! +Ludovico says the new porter is more watchful even than Barnardine was, and we +might as well throw ourselves in the way of a dragon, as in his. Ludovico is +almost as broken-hearted as you are, ma’am, on my account, he says, and I +am sure I shall never live to hear the cannon fire twice!” +</p> + +<p> +She now began to weep, but revived upon hearing of what had just occurred, and +entreated Emily to take her with her. +</p> + +<p> +“That I will do most willingly,” replied Emily, “if Signor +Montoni permits it;” to which Annette made no reply, but ran out of the +room, and immediately sought Montoni, who was on the terrace, surrounded by his +officers, where she began her petition. He sharply bade her go into the castle, +and absolutely refused her request. Annette, however, not only pleaded for +herself, but for Ludovico; and Montoni had ordered some of his men to take her +from his presence, before she would retire. +</p> + +<p> +In an agony of disappointment, she returned to Emily, who foreboded little good +towards herself, from this refusal to Annette, and who, soon after, received a +summons to repair to the great court, where the mules, with her guides, were in +waiting. Emily here tried in vain to sooth the weeping Annette, who persisted +in saying, that she should never see her dear young lady again; a fear, which +her mistress secretly thought too well justified, but which she endeavoured to +restrain, while, with apparent composure, she bade this affectionate servant +farewell. Annette, however, followed to the courts, which were now thronged +with people, busy in preparation for the enemy; and, having seen her mount her +mule and depart, with her attendants, through the portal, turned into the +castle and wept again. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, meanwhile, as she looked back upon the gloomy courts of the castle, no +longer silent as when she had first entered them, but resounding with the noise +of preparation for their defence, as well as crowded with soldiers and workmen, +hurrying to and fro; and, when she passed once more under the huge portcullis, +which had formerly struck her with terror and dismay, and, looking round, saw +no walls to confine her steps—felt, in spite of anticipation, the sudden +joy of a prisoner, who unexpectedly finds himself at liberty. This emotion +would not suffer her now to look impartially on the dangers that awaited her +without; on mountains infested by hostile parties, who seized every opportunity +for plunder; and on a journey commenced under the guidance of men, whose +countenances certainly did not speak favourably of their dispositions. In the +present moments, she could only rejoice, that she was liberated from those +walls, which she had entered with such dismal forebodings; and, remembering the +superstitious presentiment, which had then seized her, she could now smile at +the impression it had made upon her mind. +</p> + +<p> +As she gazed, with these emotions, upon the turrets of the castle, rising high +over the woods, among which she wound, the stranger, whom she believed to be +confined there, returned to her remembrance, and anxiety and apprehension, lest +he should be Valancourt, again passed like a cloud upon her joy. She +recollected every circumstance, concerning this unknown person, since the +night, when she had first heard him play the song of her native +province;—circumstances, which she had so often recollected, and compared +before, without extracting from them anything like conviction, and which still +only prompted her to believe, that Valancourt was a prisoner at Udolpho. It was +possible, however, that the men, who were her conductors, might afford her +information, on this subject; but, fearing to question them immediately, lest +they should be unwilling to discover any circumstance to her in the presence of +each other, she watched for an opportunity of speaking with them separately. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after, a trumpet echoed faintly from a distance; the guides stopped, and +looked toward the quarter whence it came, but the thick woods, which surrounded +them, excluding all view of the country beyond, one of the men rode on to the +point of an eminence, that afforded a more extensive prospect, to observe how +near the enemy, whose trumpet he guessed this to be, were advanced; the other, +meanwhile, remained with Emily, and to him she put some questions, concerning +the stranger at Udolpho. Ugo, for this was his name, said, that there were +several prisoners in the castle, but he neither recollected their persons, nor +the precise time of their arrival, and could therefore give her no information. +There was a surliness in his manner, as he spoke, that made it probable he +would not have satisfied her enquiries, even if he could have done so. +</p> + +<p> +Having asked him what prisoners had been taken, about the time, as nearly as +she could remember, when she had first heard the music, “All that +week,” said Ugo, “I was out with a party, upon the mountains, and +knew nothing of what was doing at the castle. We had enough upon our hands, we +had warm work of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Bertrand, the other man, being now returned, Emily enquired no further, and, +when he had related to his companion what he had seen, they travelled on in +deep silence; while Emily often caught, between the opening woods, partial +glimpses of the castle above—the west towers, whose battlements were now +crowded with archers, and the ramparts below, where soldiers were seen hurrying +along, or busy upon the walls, preparing the cannon. +</p> + +<p> +Having emerged from the woods, they wound along the valley in an opposite +direction to that, from whence the enemy were approaching. Emily now had a full +view of Udolpho, with its grey walls, towers and terraces, high over-topping +the precipices and the dark woods, and glittering partially with the arms of +the <i>Condottieri</i>, as the sun’s rays, streaming through an autumnal +cloud, glanced upon a part of the edifice, whose remaining features stood in +darkened majesty. She continued to gaze, through her tears, upon walls that, +perhaps, confined Valancourt, and which now, as the cloud floated away, were +lighted up with sudden splendour, and then, as suddenly were shrouded in gloom; +while the passing gleam fell on the wood-tops below, and heightened the first +tints of autumn, that had begun to steal upon the foliage. The winding +mountains, at length, shut Udolpho from her view, and she turned, with mournful +reluctance, to other objects. The melancholy sighing of the wind among the +pines, that waved high over the steeps, and the distant thunder of a torrent +assisted her musings, and conspired with the wild scenery around, to diffuse +over her mind emotions solemn, yet not unpleasing, but which were soon +interrupted by the distant roar of cannon, echoing among the mountains. The +sounds rolled along the wind, and were repeated in faint and fainter +reverberation, till they sunk in sullen murmurs. This was a signal, that the +enemy had reached the castle, and fear for Valancourt again tormented Emily. +She turned her anxious eyes towards that part of the country, where the edifice +stood, but the intervening heights concealed it from her view; still, however, +she saw the tall head of a mountain, which immediately fronted her late +chamber, and on this she fixed her gaze, as if it could have told her of all +that was passing in the scene it overlooked. The guides twice reminded her, +that she was losing time and that they had far to go, before she could turn +from this interesting object, and, even when she again moved onward, she often +sent a look back, till only its blue point, brightening in a gleam of sunshine, +appeared peeping over other mountains. +</p> + +<p> +The sound of the cannon affected Ugo, as the blast of the trumpet does the +war-horse; it called forth all the fire of his nature; he was impatient to be +in the midst of the fight, and uttered frequent execrations against Montoni for +having sent him to a distance. The feelings of his comrade seemed to be very +opposite, and adapted rather to the cruelties, than to the dangers of war. +</p> + +<p> +Emily asked frequent questions, concerning the place of her destination, but +could only learn, that she was going to a cottage in Tuscany; and, whenever she +mentioned the subject, she fancied she perceived, in the countenances of these +men, an expression of malice and cunning, that alarmed her. +</p> + +<p> +It was afternoon, when they had left the castle. During several hours, they +travelled through regions of profound solitude, where no bleat of sheep, or +bark of watch-dog, broke on silence, and they were now too far off to hear even +the faint thunder of the cannon. Towards evening, they wound down precipices, +black with forests of cypress, pine and cedar, into a glen so savage and +secluded, that, if Solitude ever had local habitation, this might have been +“her place of dearest residence.” To Emily it appeared a spot +exactly suited for the retreat of banditti, and, in her imagination, she +already saw them lurking under the brow of some projecting rock, whence their +shadows, lengthened by the setting sun, stretched across the road, and warned +the traveller of his danger. She shuddered at the idea, and, looking at her +conductors, to observe whether they were armed, thought she saw in them the +banditti she dreaded! +</p> + +<p> +It was in this glen, that they proposed to alight, “For,” said Ugo, +“night will come on presently, and then the wolves will make it dangerous +to stop.” This was a new subject of alarm to Emily, but inferior to what +she suffered from the thought of being left in these wilds, at midnight, with +two such men as her present conductors. Dark and dreadful hints of what might +be Montoni’s purpose in sending her hither, came to her mind. She +endeavoured to dissuade the men from stopping, and enquired, with anxiety, how +far they had yet to go. +</p> + +<p> +“Many leagues yet,” replied Bertrand. “As for you, Signora, +you may do as you please about eating, but for us, we will make a hearty +supper, while we can. We shall have need of it, I warrant, before we finish our +journey. The sun’s going down apace; let us alight under that rock, +yonder.” +</p> + +<p> +His comrade assented, and, turning the mules out of the road, they advanced +towards a cliff, overhung with cedars, Emily following in trembling silence. +They lifted her from her mule, and, having seated themselves on the grass, at +the foot of the rocks, drew some homely fare from a wallet, of which Emily +tried to eat a little, the better to disguise her apprehensions. +</p> + +<p> +The sun was now sunk behind the high mountains in the west, upon which a purple +haze began to spread, and the gloom of twilight to draw over the surrounding +objects. To the low and sullen murmur of the breeze, passing among the woods, +she no longer listened with any degree of pleasure, for it conspired with the +wildness of the scene and the evening hour, to depress her spirits. +</p> + +<p> +Suspense had so much increased her anxiety, as to the prisoner at Udolpho, +that, finding it impracticable to speak alone with Bertrand, on that subject, +she renewed her questions in the presence of Ugo; but he either was, or +pretended to be entirely ignorant, concerning the stranger. When he had +dismissed the question, he talked with Ugo on some subject, which led to the +mention of Signor Orsino and of the affair that had banished him from Venice; +respecting which Emily had ventured to ask a few questions. Ugo appeared to be +well acquainted with the circumstances of that tragical event, and related some +minute particulars, that both shocked and surprised her; for it appeared very +extraordinary how such particulars could be known to any, but to persons, +present when the assassination was committed. +</p> + +<p> +“He was of rank,” said Bertrand, “or the State would not have +troubled itself to enquire after his assassins. The Signor has been lucky +hitherto; this is not the first affair of the kind he has had upon his hands; +and to be sure, when a gentleman has no other way of getting redress—why +he must take this.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” said Ugo, “and why is not this as good as another? +This is the way to have justice done at once, without more ado. If you go to +law, you must stay till the judges please, and may lose your cause, at last. +Why the best way, then, is to make sure of your right, while you can, and +execute justice yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” rejoined Bertrand, “if you wait till justice is +done you—you may stay long enough. Why if I want a friend of mine +properly served, how am I to get my revenge? Ten to one they will tell me he is +in the right, and I am in the wrong. Or, if a fellow has got possession of +property, which I think ought to be mine, why I may wait, till I starve, +perhaps, before the law will give it me, and then, after all, the judge may +say—the estate is his. What is to be done then?—Why the case is +plain enough, I must take it at last.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s horror at this conversation was heightened by a suspicion, that +the latter part of it was pointed against herself, and that these men had been +commissioned by Montoni to execute a similar kind of <i>justice</i>, in his +cause. +</p> + +<p> +“But I was speaking of Signor Orsino,” resumed Bertrand, “he +is one of those, who love to do justice at once. I remember, about ten years +ago, the Signor had a quarrel with a cavaliero of Milan. The story was told me +then, and it is still fresh in my head. They quarrelled about a lady, that the +Signor liked, and she was perverse enough to prefer the gentleman of Milan, and +even carried her whim so far as to marry him. This provoked the Signor, as well +it might, for he had tried to talk reason to her a long while, and used to send +people to serenade her, under her windows, of a night; and used to make verses +about her, and would swear she was the handsomest lady in Milan—But all +would not do—nothing would bring her to reason; and, as I said, she went +so far at last, as to marry this other cavaliero. This made the Signor wrath, +with a vengeance; he resolved to be even with her though, and he watched his +opportunity, and did not wait long, for, soon after the marriage, they set out +for Padua, nothing doubting, I warrant, of what was preparing for them. The +cavaliero thought, to be sure, he was to be called to no account, but was to go +off triumphant; but he was soon made to know another sort of story.” +</p> + +<p> +“What then, the lady had promised to have Signor Orsino?” said Ugo. +</p> + +<p> +“Promised! No,” replied Bertrand, “she had not wit enough +even to tell him she liked him, as I heard, but the contrary, for she used to +say, from the first, she never meant to have him. And this was what provoked +the Signor, so, and with good reason, for, who likes to be told that he is +disagreeable? and this was saying as good. It was enough to tell him this; she +need not have gone, and married another.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, she married, then, on purpose to plague the Signor?” said +Ugo. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know as for that,” replied Bertrand, “they +said, indeed, that she had had a regard for the other gentleman a great while; +but that is nothing to the purpose, she should not have married him, and then +the Signor would not have been so much provoked. She might have expected what +was to follow; it was not to be supposed he would bear her ill usage tamely, +and she might thank herself for what happened. But, as I said, they set out for +Padua, she and her husband, and the road lay over some barren mountains like +these. This suited the Signor’s purpose well. He watched the time of +their departure, and sent his men after them, with directions what to do. They +kept their distance, till they saw their opportunity, and this did not happen, +till the second day’s journey, when, the gentleman having sent his +servants forward to the next town, maybe to have horses in readiness, the +Signor’s men quickened their pace, and overtook the carriage, in a +hollow, between two mountains, where the woods prevented the servants from +seeing what passed, though they were then not far off. When we came up, we +fired our tromboni, but missed.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily turned pale, at these words, and then hoped she had mistaken them; while +Bertrand proceeded: +</p> + +<p> +“The gentleman fired again, but he was soon made to alight, and it was as +he turned to call his people, that he was struck. It was the most dexterous +feat you ever saw—he was struck in the back with three stillettos at +once. He fell, and was dispatched in a minute; but the lady escaped, for the +servants had heard the firing, and came up before she could be taken care of. +‘Bertrand,’ said the Signor, when his men returned—” +</p> + +<p> +“Bertrand!” exclaimed Emily, pale with horror, on whom not a +syllable of this narrative had been lost. +</p> + +<p> +“Bertrand, did I say?” rejoined the man, with some +confusion—“No, Giovanni. But I have forgot where I +was;—‘Bertrand,’ said the Signor— +</p> + +<p> +“Bertrand, again!” said Emily, in a faltering voice, “Why do +you repeat that name?” +</p> + +<p> +Bertrand swore. “What signifies it,” he proceeded, “what the +man was called—Bertrand, or Giovanni—or Roberto? it’s all one +for that. You have put me out twice with that—question. Bertrand, or +Giovanni—or what you will—‘Bertrand,’ said the Signor, +‘if your comrades had done their duty, as well as you, I should not have +lost the lady. Go, my honest fellow, and be happy with this.’ He gave him +a purse of gold—and little enough too, considering the service he had +done him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye,” said Ugo, “little enough—little +enough.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily now breathed with difficulty, and could scarcely support herself. When +first she saw these men, their appearance and their connection with Montoni had +been sufficient to impress her with distrust; but now, when one of them had +betrayed himself to be a murderer, and she saw herself, at the approach of +night, under his guidance, among wild and solitary mountains, and going she +scarcely knew whither, the most agonizing terror seized her, which was the less +supportable from the necessity she found herself under of concealing all +symptoms of it from her companions. Reflecting on the character and the menaces +of Montoni, it appeared not improbable, that he had delivered her to them, for +the purpose of having her murdered, and of thus securing to himself, without +further opposition, or delay, the estates, for which he had so long and so +desperately contended. Yet, if this was his design, there appeared no necessity +for sending her to such a distance from the castle; for, if any dread of +discovery had made him unwilling to perpetrate the deed there, a much nearer +place might have sufficed for the purpose of concealment. These considerations, +however, did not immediately occur to Emily, with whom so many circumstances +conspired to rouse terror, that she had no power to oppose it, or to enquire +coolly into its grounds; and, if she had done so, still there were many +appearances which would too well have justified her most terrible +apprehensions. She did not now dare to speak to her conductors, at the sound of +whose voices she trembled; and when, now and then, she stole a glance at them, +their countenances, seen imperfectly through the gloom of evening, served to +confirm her fears. +</p> + +<p> +The sun had now been set some time; heavy clouds, whose lower skirts were +tinged with sulphureous crimson, lingered in the west, and threw a reddish tint +upon the pine forests, which sent forth a solemn sound, as the breeze rolled +over them. The hollow moan struck upon Emily’s heart, and served to +render more gloomy and terrific every object around her,—the mountains, +shaded in twilight—the gleaming torrent, hoarsely roaring—the black +forests, and the deep glen, broken into rocky recesses, high overshadowed by +cypress and sycamore and winding into long obscurity. To this glen, Emily, as +she sent forth her anxious eye, thought there was no end; no hamlet, or even +cottage, was seen, and still no distant bark of watch-dog, or even faint, +far-off halloo came on the wind. In a tremulous voice, she now ventured to +remind the guides, that it was growing late, and to ask again how far they had +to go: but they were too much occupied by their own discourse to attend to her +question, which she forbore to repeat, lest it should provoke a surly answer. +Having, however, soon after, finished their supper, the men collected the +fragments into their wallet, and proceeded along this winding glen, in gloomy +silence; while Emily again mused upon her own situation, and concerning the +motives of Montoni for involving her in it. That it was for some evil purpose +towards herself, she could not doubt; and it seemed, that, if he did not intend +to destroy her, with a view of immediately seizing her estates, he meant to +reserve her a while in concealment, for some more terrible design, for one that +might equally gratify his avarice and still more his deep revenge. At this +moment, remembering Signor Brochio and his behaviour in the corridor, a few +preceding nights, the latter supposition, horrible as it was, strengthened in +her belief. Yet, why remove her from the castle, where deeds of darkness had, +she feared, been often executed with secrecy?—from chambers, perhaps +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +With many a foul, and midnight murder stain’d. +</p> + +<p> +The dread of what she might be going to encounter was now so excessive, that it +sometimes threatened her senses; and, often as she went, she thought of her +late father and of all he would have suffered, could he have foreseen the +strange and dreadful events of her future life; and how anxiously he would have +avoided that fatal confidence, which committed his daughter to the care of a +woman so weak as was Madame Montoni. So romantic and improbable, indeed, did +her present situation appear to Emily herself, particularly when she compared +it with the repose and beauty of her early days, that there were moments, when +she could almost have believed herself the victim of frightful visions, glaring +upon a disordered fancy. +</p> + +<p> +Restrained by the presence of her guides from expressing her terrors, their +acuteness was, at length, lost in gloomy despair. The dreadful view of what +might await her hereafter rendered her almost indifferent to the surrounding +dangers. She now looked, with little emotion, on the wild dingles, and the +gloomy road and mountains, whose outlines were only distinguishable through the +dusk;—objects, which but lately had affected her spirits so much, as to +awaken horrid views of the future, and to tinge these with their own gloom. +</p> + +<p> +It was now so nearly dark, that the travellers, who proceeded only by the +slowest pace, could scarcely discern their way. The clouds, which seemed +charged with thunder, passed slowly along the heavens, showing, at intervals, +the trembling stars; while the groves of cypress and sycamore, that overhung +the rocks, waved high in the breeze, as it swept over the glen, and then rushed +among the distant woods. Emily shivered as it passed. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the torch?” said Ugo, “it grows dark.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not so dark yet,” replied Bertrand, “but we may find our +way, and ’tis best not light the torch, before we can help, for it may +betray us, if any straggling party of the enemy is abroad.” +</p> + +<p> +Ugo muttered something, which Emily did not understand, and they proceeded in +darkness, while she almost wished, that the enemy might discover them; for from +change there was something to hope, since she could scarcely imagine any +situation more dreadful than her present one. +</p> + +<p> +As they moved slowly along, her attention was surprised by a thin tapering +flame, that appeared, by fits, at the point of the pike, which Bertrand +carried, resembling what she had observed on the lance of the sentinel, the +night Madame Montoni died, and which he had said was an omen. The event +immediately following it appeared to justify the assertion, and a superstitious +impression had remained on Emily’s mind, which the present appearance +confirmed. She thought it was an omen of her own fate, and watched it +successively vanish and return, in gloomy silence, which was at length +interrupted by Bertrand. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us light the torch,” said he, “and get under shelter of +the woods;—a storm is coming on—look at my lance.” +</p> + +<p> +He held it forth, with the flame tapering at its point.* +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +(*Note: See the Abbé Berthelon on Electricity. [A. R.]) +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” said Ugo, “you are not one of those, that believe in +omens: we have left cowards at the castle, who would turn pale at such a sight. +I have often seen it before a thunder-storm, it is an omen of that, and one is +coming now, sure enough. The clouds flash fast already.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was relieved by this conversation from some of the terrors of +superstition, but those of reason increased, as, waiting while Ugo searched for +a flint, to strike fire, she watched the pale lightning gleam over the woods +they were about to enter, and illumine the harsh countenances of her +companions. Ugo could not find a flint, and Bertrand became impatient, for the +thunder sounded hollowly at a distance, and the lightning was more frequent. +Sometimes, it revealed the nearer recesses of the woods, or, displaying some +opening in their summits, illumined the ground beneath with partial splendour, +the thick foliage of the trees preserving the surrounding scene in deep shadow. +</p> + +<p> +At length, Ugo found a flint, and the torch was lighted. The men then +dismounted, and, having assisted Emily, led the mules towards the woods, that +skirted the glen, on the left, over broken ground, frequently interrupted with +brush-wood and wild plants, which she was often obliged to make a circuit to +avoid. +</p> + +<p> +She could not approach these woods, without experiencing keener sense of her +danger. Their deep silence, except when the wind swept among their branches, +and impenetrable glooms shown partially by the sudden flash, and then, by the +red glare of the torch, which served only to make “darkness +visible,” were circumstances, that contributed to renew all her most +terrible apprehensions; she thought, too, that, at this moment, the +countenances of her conductors displayed more than their usual fierceness, +mingled with a kind of lurking exultation, which they seemed endeavouring to +disguise. To her affrighted fancy it occurred, that they were leading her into +these woods to complete the will of Montoni by her murder. The horrid +suggestion called a groan from her heart, which surprised her companions, who +turned round quickly towards her, and she demanded why they led her thither, +beseeching them to continue their way along the open glen, which she +represented to be less dangerous than the woods, in a thunder-storm. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said Bertrand, “we know best where the danger lies. +See how the clouds open over our heads. Besides, we can glide under cover of +the woods with less hazard of being seen, should any of the enemy be wandering +this way. By holy St. Peter and all the rest of them, I’ve as stout a +heart as the best, as many a poor devil could tell, if he were alive +again—but what can we do against numbers?” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you whining about?” said Ugo, contemptuously, “who +fears numbers! Let them come, though they were as many as the Signor’s +castle could hold; I would show the knaves what fighting is. For you—I +would lay you quietly in a dry ditch, where you might peep out, and see me put +the rogues to flight.—Who talks of fear!” +</p> + +<p> +Bertrand replied, with a horrible oath, that he did not like such jesting, and +a violent altercation ensued, which was, at length, silenced by the thunder, +whose deep volley was heard afar, rolling onward till it burst over their heads +in sounds, that seemed to shake the earth to its centre. The ruffians paused, +and looked upon each other. Between the boles of the trees, the blue lightning +flashed and quivered along the ground, while, as Emily looked under the boughs, +the mountains beyond, frequently appeared to be clothed in livid flame. At this +moment, perhaps, she felt less fear of the storm, than did either of her +companions, for other terrors occupied her mind. +</p> + +<p> +The men now rested under an enormous chesnut-tree, and fixed their pikes in the +ground, at some distance, on the iron points of which Emily repeatedly observed +the lightning play, and then glide down them into the earth. +</p> + +<p> +“I would we were well in the Signor’s castle!” said Bertrand, +“I know not why he should send us on this business. Hark! how it rattles +above, there! I could almost find in my heart to turn priest, and pray. Ugo, +hast got a rosary?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Ugo, “I leave it to cowards like thee, to carry +rosaries—I carry a sword.” +</p> + +<p> +“And much good may it do thee in fighting against the storm!” said +Bertrand. +</p> + +<p> +Another peal, which was reverberated in tremendous echoes among the mountains, +silenced them for a moment. As it rolled away, Ugo proposed going on. “We +are only losing time here,” said he, “for the thick boughs of the +woods will shelter us as well as this chesnut-tree.” +</p> + +<p> +They again led the mules forward, between the boles of the trees, and over +pathless grass, that concealed their high knotted roots. The rising wind was +now heard contending with the thunder, as it rushed furiously among the +branches above, and brightened the red flame of the torch, which threw a +stronger light forward among the woods, and showed their gloomy recesses to be +suitable resorts for the wolves, of which Ugo had formerly spoken. +</p> + +<p> +At length, the strength of the wind seemed to drive the storm before it, for +the thunder rolled away into distance, and was only faintly heard. After +travelling through the woods for nearly an hour, during which the elements +seemed to have returned to repose, the travellers, gradually ascending from the +glen, found themselves upon the open brow of a mountain, with a wide valley, +extending in misty moonlight, at their feet, and above, the blue sky, +trembling through the few thin clouds, that lingered after the storm, and were +sinking slowly to the verge of the horizon. +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s spirits, now that she had quitted the woods, began to revive; for +she considered, that, if these men had received an order to destroy her, they +would probably have executed their barbarous purpose in the solitary wild, from +whence they had just emerged, where the deed would have been shrouded from +every human eye. Reassured by this reflection, and by the quiet demeanour of +her guides, Emily, as they proceeded silently, in a kind of sheep track, that +wound along the skirts of the woods, which ascended on the right, could not +survey the sleeping beauty of the vale, to which they were declining, without a +momentary sensation of pleasure. It seemed varied with woods, pastures, and +sloping grounds, and was screened to the north and the east by an amphitheatre +of the Apennines, whose outline on the horizon was here broken into varied and +elegant forms; to the west and the south, the landscape extended indistinctly +into the lowlands of Tuscany. +</p> + +<p> +“There is the sea yonder,” said Bertrand, as if he had known that +Emily was examining the twilight view, “yonder in the west, though we +cannot see it.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily already perceived a change in the climate, from that of the wild and +mountainous tract she had left; and, as she continued descending, the air +became perfumed by the breath of a thousand nameless flowers among the grass, +called forth by the late rain. So soothingly beautiful was the scene around +her, and so strikingly contrasted to the gloomy grandeur of those, to which she +had long been confined, and to the manners of the people, who moved among them, +that she could almost have fancied herself again at La Vallée, and, wondering +why Montoni had sent her hither, could scarcely believe, that he had selected +so enchanting a spot for any cruel design. It was, however, probably not the +spot, but the persons, who happened to inhabit it, and to whose care he could +safely commit the execution of his plans, whatever they might be, that had +determined his choice. +</p> + +<p> +She now ventured again to enquire, whether they were near the place of their +destination, and was answered by Ugo, that they had not far to go. “Only +to the wood of chesnuts in the valley yonder,” said he, “there, by +the brook, that sparkles with the moon; I wish I was once at rest there, with a +flask of good wine, and a slice of Tuscany bacon.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s spirits revived, when she heard, that the journey was so nearly +concluded, and saw the wood of chesnuts in an open part of the vale, on the +margin of the stream. +</p> + +<p> +In a short time they reached the entrance of the wood, and perceived, between +the twinkling leaves, a light, streaming from a distant cottage window. They +proceeded along the edge of the brook to where the trees, crowding over it, +excluded the moonbeams, but a long line of light, from the cottage above, was +seen on its dark tremulous surface. Bertrand now stepped on first, and Emily +heard him knock, and call loudly at the door. As she reached it, the small +upper casement, where the light appeared, was unclosed by a man, who, having +enquired what they wanted, immediately descended, let them into a neat rustic +cot, and called up his wife to set refreshments before the travellers. As this +man conversed, rather apart, with Bertrand, Emily anxiously surveyed him. He +was a tall, but not robust, peasant, of a sallow complexion, and had a shrewd +and cunning eye; his countenance was not of a character to win the ready +confidence of youth, and there was nothing in his manner, that might conciliate +a stranger. +</p> + +<p> + +Ugo called impatiently for supper, and in a tone as if he knew his authority +here to be unquestionable. “I expected you an hour ago,” said the +peasant, “for I have had Signor Montoni’s letter these three hours, +and I and my wife had given you up, and gone to bed. How did you fare in the +storm?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ill enough,” replied Ugo, “ill enough and we are like to +fare ill enough here, too, unless you will make more haste. Get us more wine, +and let us see what you have to eat.” +</p> + +<p> +The peasant placed before them all that his cottage afforded—ham, wine, +figs, and grapes of such size and flavour, as Emily had seldom tasted. +</p> + +<p> +After taking refreshment, she was shown by the peasant’s wife to her +little bed-chamber, where she asked some questions concerning Montoni, to which +the woman, whose name was Dorina, gave reserved answers, pretending ignorance +of his <i>Excellenza</i>’s intention in sending Emily hither, but +acknowledging that her husband had been apprized of the circumstance. +Perceiving that she could obtain no intelligence concerning her destination, +Emily dismissed Dorina, and retired to repose; but all the busy scenes of her +past and the anticipated ones of the future came to her anxious mind, and +conspired with the sense of her new situation to banish sleep. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a> CHAPTER VII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Was nought around but images of rest,<br/> +Sleep-soothing groves and quiet lawns between,<br/> +And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kept,<br/> +From poppies breath’d, and banks of pleasant green,<br/> +Where never yet was creeping creature seen.<br/> +Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets play’d,<br/> +And hurled everywhere their water’s sheen,<br/> +That, as they bicker’d through the sunny glade,<br/> +Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.<br/> + THOMSON +</p> + +<p> +When Emily, in the morning, opened her casement, she was surprised to observe +the beauties, that surrounded it. The cottage was nearly embowered in the +woods, which were chiefly of chesnut intermixed with some cypress, larch and +sycamore. Beneath the dark and spreading branches appeared to the north and +to the east the woody Apennines, rising in majestic amphitheatre, not black +with pines, as she had been accustomed to see them, but their loftiest summits +crowned with ancient forests of chesnut, oak, and oriental plane, now animated +with the rich tints of autumn, and which swept downward to the valley +uninterruptedly, except where some bold rocky promontory looked out from among +the foliage, and caught the passing gleam. Vineyards stretched along the feet +of the mountains, where the elegant villas of the Tuscan nobility frequently +adorned the scene, and overlooked slopes clothed with groves of olive, +mulberry, orange and lemon. The plain, to which these declined, was coloured +with the riches of cultivation, whose mingled hues were mellowed into harmony +by an Italian sun. Vines, their purple clusters blushing between the russet +foliage, hung in luxuriant festoons from the branches of standard fig and +cherry trees, while pastures of verdure, such as Emily had seldom seen in +Italy, enriched the banks of a stream that, after descending from the +mountains, wound along the landscape, which it reflected, to a bay of the sea. +There, far in the west, the waters, fading into the sky, assumed a tint of the +faintest purple, and the line of separation between them was, now and then, +discernible only by the progress of a sail, brightened with the sunbeam, along +the horizon. +</p> + +<p> +The cottage, which was shaded by the woods from the intenser rays of the sun, +and was open only to his evening light, was covered entirely with vines, +fig-trees and jessamine, whose flowers surpassed in size and fragrance any that +Emily had seen. These and ripening clusters of grapes hung round her little +casement. The turf, that grew under the woods, was inlaid with a variety of +wild flowers and perfumed herbs, and, on the opposite margin of the stream, +whose current diffused freshness beneath the shades, rose a grove of lemon and +orange trees. This, though nearly opposite to Emily’s window, did not +interrupt her prospect, but rather heightened, by its dark verdure, the effect +of the perspective; and to her this spot was a bower of sweets, whose charms +communicated imperceptibly to her mind somewhat of their own serenity. +</p> + +<p> +She was soon summoned to breakfast, by the peasant’s daughter, a girl +about seventeen, of a pleasant countenance, which, Emily was glad to observe, +seemed animated with the pure affections of nature, though the others, that +surrounded her, expressed, more or less, the worst qualities—cruelty, +ferocity, cunning and duplicity; of the latter style of countenance, +especially, were those of the peasant and his wife. Maddelina spoke little, but +what she said was in a soft voice, and with an air of modesty and complacency, +that interested Emily, who breakfasted at a separate table with Dorina, while +Ugo and Bertrand were taking a repast of Tuscany bacon and wine with their +host, near the cottage door; when they had finished which, Ugo, rising hastily, +enquired for his mule, and Emily learned that he was to return to Udolpho, +while Bertrand remained at the cottage; a circumstance, which, though it did +not surprise, distressed her. +</p> + +<p> +When Ugo was departed, Emily proposed to walk in the neighbouring woods; but, +on being told, that she must not quit the cottage, without having Bertrand for +her attendant, she withdrew to her own room. There, as her eyes settled on the +towering Apennines, she recollected the terrific scenery they had exhibited and +the horrors she had suffered, on the preceding night, particularly at the +moment when Bertrand had betrayed himself to be an assassin; and these +remembrances awakened a train of images, which, since they abstracted her from +a consideration of her own situation, she pursued for some time, and then +arranged in the following lines; pleased to have discovered any innocent means, +by which she could beguile an hour of misfortune. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +THE PILGRIM*<br/><br/> + +Slow o’er the Apennine, with bleeding feet,<br/> +A patient Pilgrim wound his lonely way,<br/> +To deck the Lady of Loretto’s seat<br/> +With all the little wealth his zeal could pay.<br/> +From mountain-tops cold died the evening ray,<br/> +And, stretch’d in twilight, slept the vale below;<br/> +And now the last, last purple streaks of day<br/> +Along the melancholy West fade slow.<br/> +High o’er his head, the restless pines complain,<br/> +As on their summit rolls the breeze of night;<br/> +Beneath, the hoarse stream chides the rocks in vain:<br/> +The Pilgrim pauses on the dizzy height.<br/> +Then to the vale his cautious step he press’d,<br/> +For there a hermit’s cross was dimly seen,<br/> +Cresting the rock, and there his limbs might rest,<br/> +Cheer’d in the good man’s cave, by faggot’s sheen,<br/> +On leafy beds, nor guile his sleep molest.<br/> +Unhappy Luke! he trusts a treacherous clue!<br/> +Behind the cliff the lurking robber stood;<br/> +No friendly moon his giant shadow threw<br/> +Athwart the road, to save the Pilgrim’s blood;<br/> +On as he went a vesper-hymn he sang,<br/> +The hymn, that nightly sooth’d him to repose.<br/> +Fierce on his harmless prey the ruffian sprang!<br/> +The Pilgrim bleeds to death, his eye-lids close.<br/> +Yet his meek spirit knew no vengeful care,<br/> +But, dying, for his murd’rer breath’d—a sainted pray’r! +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +(*Note: This poem and that entitled <i>The Traveller</i> in vol. ii, have +already appeared in a periodical publication. [A. R.]) +</p> + +<p> +Preferring the solitude of her room to the company of the persons below stairs, +Emily dined above, and Maddelina was suffered to attend her, from whose simple +conversation she learned, that the peasant and his wife were old inhabitants of +this cottage, which had been purchased for them by Montoni, in reward of some +service, rendered him, many years before, by Marco, to whom Carlo, the steward +at the castle, was nearly related. “So many years ago, Signora,” +added Maddelina, “that I know nothing about it; but my father did the +Signor a great good, for my mother has often said to him, this cottage was the +least he ought to have had.” +</p> + +<p> +To the mention of this circumstance Emily listened with a painful interest, +since it appeared to give a frightful colour to the character of Marco, whose +service, thus rewarded by Montoni, she could scarcely doubt have been criminal; +and, if so, had too much reason to believe, that she had been committed into +his hands for some desperate purpose. “Did you ever hear how many years +it is,” said Emily, who was considering of Signora Laurentini’s +disappearance from Udolpho, “since your father performed the services you +spoke of?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was a little before he came to live at the cottage, Signora,” +replied Maddelina, “and that is about eighteen years ago.” +</p> + +<p> +This was near the period, when Signora Laurentini had been said to disappear, +and it occurred to Emily, that Marco had assisted in that mysterious affair, +and, perhaps, had been employed in a murder! This horrible suggestion fixed her +in such profound reverie, that Maddelina quitted the room, unperceived by her, +and she remained unconscious of all around her, for a considerable time. Tears, +at length, came to her relief, after indulging which, her spirits becoming +calmer, she ceased to tremble at a view of evils, that might never arrive; and +had sufficient resolution to endeavour to withdraw her thoughts from the +contemplation of her own interests. Remembering the few books, which even in +the hurry of her departure from Udolpho she had put into her little package, +she sat down with one of them at her pleasant casement, whence her eyes often +wandered from the page to the landscape, whose beauty gradually soothed her +mind into gentle melancholy. +</p> + +<p> +Here, she remained alone, till evening, and saw the sun descend the western +sky, throw all his pomp of light and shadow upon the mountains, and gleam upon +the distant ocean and the stealing sails, as he sunk amidst the waves. Then, at +the musing hour of twilight, her softened thoughts returned to Valancourt; she +again recollected every circumstance, connected with the midnight music, and +all that might assist her conjecture, concerning his imprisonment at the +castle, and, becoming confirmed in the supposition, that it was his voice she +had heard there, she looked back to that gloomy abode with emotions of grief +and momentary regret. +</p> + +<p> +Refreshed by the cool and fragrant air, and her spirits soothed to a state of +gentle melancholy by the still murmur of the brook below and of the woods +around, she lingered at her casement long after the sun had set, watching the +valley sinking into obscurity, till only the grand outline of the surrounding +mountains, shadowed upon the horizon, remained visible. But a clear moonlight, +that succeeded, gave to the landscape, what time gives to the scenes of past +life, when it softens all their harsher features, and throws over the whole the +mellowing shade of distant contemplation. The scenes of La Vallée, in the early +morn of her life, when she was protected and beloved by parents equally loved, +appeared in Emily’s memory tenderly beautiful, like the prospect before +her, and awakened mournful comparisons. Unwilling to encounter the coarse +behaviour of the peasant’s wife, she remained supperless in her room, +while she wept again over her forlorn and perilous situation, a review of which +entirely overcame the small remains of her fortitude, and, reducing her to +temporary despondence, she wished to be released from the heavy load of life, +that had so long oppressed her, and prayed to Heaven to take her, in its mercy, +to her parents. +</p> + +<p> +Wearied with weeping, she, at length, lay down on her mattress, and sunk to +sleep, but was soon awakened by a knocking at her chamber door, and, starting +up in terror, she heard a voice calling her. The image of Bertrand, with a +stilletto in his hand, appeared to her alarmed fancy, and she neither opened +the door nor answered, but listened in profound silence, till, the voice +repeating her name in the same low tone, she demanded who called. “It is +I, Signora,” replied the voice, which she now distinguished to be +Maddelina’s, “pray open the door. Don’t be frightened, it is +I.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what brings you here so late, Maddelina?” said Emily, as she +let her in. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! signora, for heaven’s sake hush!—if we are overheard I +shall never be forgiven. My father and mother and Bertrand are all gone to +bed,” continued Maddelina, as she gently shut the door, and crept +forward, “and I have brought you some supper, for you had none, you know, +Signora, below stairs. Here are some grapes and figs and half a cup of +wine.” Emily thanked her, but expressed apprehension lest this kindness +should draw upon her the resentment of Dorina, when she perceived the fruit was +gone. “Take it back, therefore, Maddelina,” added Emily, “I +shall suffer much less from the want of it, than I should do, if this act of +good-nature was to subject you to your mother’s displeasure.” +</p> + +<p> +“O Signora! there is no danger of that,” replied Maddelina, +“my mother cannot miss the fruit, for I saved it from my own supper. You +will make me very unhappy, if you refuse to take it, Signora.” Emily was +so much affected by this instance of the good girl’s generosity, that she +remained for some time unable to reply, and Maddelina watched her in silence, +till, mistaking the cause of her emotion, she said, “Do not weep so, +Signora! My mother, to be sure, is a little cross, sometimes, but then it is +soon over,—so don’t take it so much to heart. She often scolds me, +too, but then I have learned to bear it, and, when she has done, if I can but +steal out into the woods, and play upon my sticcado, I forget it all +directly.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, smiling through her tears, told Maddelina, that she was a good girl, and +then accepted her offering. She wished anxiously to know, whether Bertrand and +Dorina had spoken of Montoni, or of his designs, concerning herself, in the +presence of Maddelina, but disdained to tempt the innocent girl to a conduct so +mean, as that of betraying the private conversations of her parents. When she +was departing, Emily requested, that she would come to her room as often as she +dared, without offending her mother, and Maddelina, after promising that she +would do so, stole softly back again to her own chamber. +</p> + +<p> +Thus several days passed, during which Emily remained in her own room, +Maddelina attending her only at her repast, whose gentle countenance and +manners soothed her more than any circumstance she had known for many months. +Of her pleasant embowered chamber she now became fond, and began to experience +in it those feelings of security, which we naturally attach to home. In this +interval also, her mind, having been undisturbed by any new circumstance of +disgust, or alarm, recovered its tone sufficiently to permit her the enjoyment +of her books, among which she found some unfinished sketches of landscapes, +several blank sheets of paper, with her drawing instruments, and she was thus +enabled to amuse herself with selecting some of the lovely features of the +prospect, that her window commanded, and combining them in scenes, to which her +tasteful fancy gave a last grace. In these little sketches she generally placed +interesting groups, characteristic of the scenery they animated, and often +contrived to tell, with perspicuity, some simple and affecting story, when, as +a tear fell over the pictured griefs, which her imagination drew, she would +forget, for a moment, her real sufferings. Thus innocently she beguiled the +heavy hours of misfortune, and, with meek patience, awaited the events of +futurity. +</p> + +<p> +A beautiful evening, that had succeeded to a sultry day, at length induced +Emily to walk, though she knew that Bertrand must attend her, and, with +Maddelina for her companion, she left the cottage, followed by Bertrand, who +allowed her to choose her own way. The hour was cool and silent, and she could +not look upon the country around her without delight. How lovely, too, +appeared the brilliant blue that coloured all the upper region of the air, +and, thence fading downward, was lost in the saffron glow of the horizon! Nor +less so were the varied shades and warm colouring of the Apennines, as the +evening sun threw his slanting rays athwart their broken surface. Emily +followed the course of the stream, under the shades, that overhung its grassy +margin. On the opposite banks, the pastures were animated with herds of cattle +of a beautiful cream-colour; and, beyond, were groves of lemon and orange, with +fruit glowing on the branches, frequent almost as the leaves, which partly +concealed it. She pursued her way towards the sea, which reflected the warm +glow of sunset, while the cliffs, that rose over its edge, were tinted with +the last rays. The valley was terminated on the right by a lofty promontory, +whose summit, impending over the waves, was crowned with a ruined tower, now +serving for the purpose of a beacon, whose shattered battlements and the +extended wings of some sea-fowl, that circled near it, were still illumined by +the upward beams of the sun, though his disk was now sunk beneath the horizon; +while the lower part of the ruin, the cliff on which it stood and the waves at +its foot, were shaded with the first tints of twilight. +</p> + +<p> +Having reached this headland, Emily gazed with solemn pleasure on the cliffs, +that extended on either hand along the sequestered shores, some crowned with +groves of pine, and others exhibiting only barren precipices of greyish marble, +except where the crags were tufted with myrtle and other aromatic shrubs. The +sea slept in a perfect calm; its waves, dying in murmurs on the shores, flowed +with the gentlest undulation, while its clear surface reflected in softened +beauty the vermeil tints of the west. Emily, as she looked upon the ocean, +thought of France and of past times, and she wished, Oh! how ardently, and +vainly—wished! that its waves would bear her to her distant native home! +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! that vessel,” said she, “that vessel, which glides along +so stately, with its tall sails reflected in the water is, perhaps, bound for +France! Happy—happy bark!” She continued to gaze upon it, with warm +emotion, till the grey of twilight obscured the distance, and veiled it from +her view. The melancholy sound of the waves at her feet assisted the +tenderness, that occasioned her tears, and this was the only sound, that broke +upon the hour, till, having followed the windings of the beach, for some time, +a chorus of voices passed her on the air. She paused a moment, wishing to hear +more, yet fearing to be seen, and, for the first time, looked back to Bertrand, +as her protector, who was following, at a short distance, in company with some +other person. Reassured by this circumstance, she advanced towards the sounds, +which seemed to arise from behind a high promontory, that projected athwart the +beach. There was now a sudden pause in the music, and then one female voice was +heard to sing in a kind of chant. Emily quickened her steps, and, winding round +the rock, saw, within the sweeping bay, beyond, which was hung with woods from +the borders of the beach to the very summit of the cliffs, two groups of +peasants, one seated beneath the shades, and the other standing on the edge of +the sea, round the girl, who was singing, and who held in her hand a chaplet of +flowers, which she seemed about to drop into the waves. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, listening with surprise and attention, distinguished the following +invocation delivered in the pure and elegant tongue of Tuscany, and accompanied +by a few pastoral instruments. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +TO A SEA-NYMPH<br/><br/> + +O nymph! who loves to float on the green wave,<br/> +When Neptune sleeps beneath the moonlight hour,<br/> +Lull’d by the music’s melancholy pow’r,<br/> +O nymph, arise from out thy pearly cave!<br/><br/> + +For Hesper beams amid the twilight shade,<br/> +And soon shall Cynthia tremble o’er the tide,<br/> +Gleam on these cliffs, that bound the ocean’s pride,<br/> +And lonely silence all the air pervade.<br/><br/> + +Then, let thy tender voice at distance swell,<br/> +And steal along this solitary shore,<br/> +Sink on the breeze, till dying—heard no more—<br/> +Thou wak’st the sudden magic of thy shell.<br/><br/> + +While the long coast in echo sweet replies,<br/> +Thy soothing strains the pensive heart beguile,<br/> +And bid the visions of the future smile,<br/> +O nymph! from out thy pearly cave—arise!<br/><br/> + +(Chorus)—<i>Arise!</i><br/> +(Semi-chorus)—<i>Arise!</i> +</p> + +<p> +The last words being repeated by the surrounding group, the garland of flowers +was thrown into the waves, and the chorus, sinking gradually into a chant, died +away in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“What can this mean, Maddelina?” said Emily, awakening from the +pleasing trance, into which the music had lulled her. “This is the eve of +a festival, Signora,” replied Maddelina; “and the peasants then +amuse themselves with all kinds of sports.” +</p> + +<p> +“But they talked of a sea-nymph,” said Emily: “how came these +good people to think of a sea-nymph?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, Signora,” rejoined Maddelina, mistaking the reason of +Emily’s surprise, “nobody <i>believes</i> in such things, but our +old songs tell of them, and, when we are at our sports, we sometimes sing to +them, and throw garlands into the sea.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily had been early taught to venerate Florence as the seat of literature and +of the fine arts; but, that its taste for classic story should descend to the +peasants of the country, occasioned her both surprise and admiration. The +Arcadian air of the girls next attracted her attention. Their dress was a very +short full petticoat of light green, with a boddice of white silk; the sleeves +loose, and tied up at the shoulders with ribbons and bunches of flowers. Their +hair, falling in ringlets on their necks, was also ornamented with flowers, and +with a small straw hat, which, set rather backward and on one side of the head, +gave an expression of gaiety and smartness to the whole figure. When the song +had concluded, several of these girls approached Emily, and, inviting her to +sit down among them, offered her, and Maddelina, whom they knew, grapes and +figs. +</p> + +<p> +Emily accepted their courtesy, much pleased with the gentleness and grace of +their manners, which appeared to be perfectly natural to them; and when +Bertrand, soon after, approached, and was hastily drawing her away, a peasant, +holding up a flask, invited him to drink; a temptation, which Bertrand was +seldom very valiant in resisting. +</p> + +<p> +“Let the young lady join in the dance, my friend,” said the +peasant, “while we empty this flask. They are going to begin directly. +Strike up! my lads, strike up your tambourines and merry flutes!” +</p> + +<p> +They sounded gaily; and the younger peasants formed themselves into a circle, +which Emily would readily have joined, had her spirits been in unison with +their mirth. Maddelina, however, tripped it lightly, and Emily, as she looked +on the happy group, lost the sense of her misfortunes in that of a benevolent +pleasure. But the pensive melancholy of her mind returned, as she sat rather +apart from the company, listening to the mellow music, which the breeze +softened as it bore it away, and watching the moon, stealing its tremulous +light over the waves and on the woody summits of the cliffs, that wound along +these Tuscan shores. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Bertrand was so well pleased with his first flask, that he very +willingly commenced the attack on a second, and it was late before Emily, not +without some apprehension, returned to the cottage. +</p> + +<p> +After this evening, she frequently walked with Maddelina, but was never +unattended by Bertrand; and her mind became by degrees as tranquil as the +circumstances of her situation would permit. The quiet, in which she was +suffered to live, encouraged her to hope, that she was not sent hither with an +evil design; and, had it not appeared probable, that Valancourt was at this +time an inhabitant of Udolpho, she would have wished to remain at the cottage, +till an opportunity should offer of returning to her native country. But, +concerning Montoni’s motive for sending her into Tuscany, she was more +than ever perplexed, nor could she believe that any consideration for her +safety had influenced him on this occasion. +</p> + +<p> +She had been some time at the cottage, before she recollected, that, in the +hurry of leaving Udolpho, she had forgotten the papers committed to her by her +late aunt, relative to the Languedoc estates; but, though this remembrance +occasioned her much uneasiness, she had some hope, that, in the obscure place, +where they were deposited, they would escape the detection of Montoni. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a> CHAPTER VIII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.<br/> +I play the torturer, by small and small,<br/> +To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken.<br/> + RICHARD II +</p> + +<p> +We now return, for a moment, to Venice, where Count Morano was suffering under +an accumulation of misfortunes. Soon after his arrival in that city, he had +been arrested by order of the Senate, and, without knowing of what he was +suspected, was conveyed to a place of confinement, whither the most strenuous +enquiries of his friends had been unable to trace him. Who the enemy was, that +had occasioned him this calamity, he had not been able to guess, unless, +indeed, it was Montoni, on whom his suspicions rested, and not only with much +apparent probability, but with justice. +</p> + +<p> +In the affair of the poisoned cup, Montoni had suspected Morano; but, being +unable to obtain the degree of proof, which was necessary to convict him of a +guilty intention, he had recourse to means of other revenge, than he could hope +to obtain by prosecution. He employed a person, in whom he believed he might +confide, to drop a letter of accusation into the <i>Denunzie secrete</i>, or +lions’ mouths, which are fixed in a gallery of the Doge’s palace, +as receptacles for anonymous information, concerning persons, who may be +disaffected towards the state. As, on these occasions, the accuser is not +confronted with the accused, a man may falsely impeach his enemy, and +accomplish an unjust revenge, without fear of punishment, or detection. That +Montoni should have recourse to these diabolical means of ruining a person, +whom he suspected of having attempted his life, is not in the least surprising. +In the letter, which he had employed as the instrument of his revenge, he +accused Morano of designs against the state, which he attempted to prove, with +all the plausible simplicity of which he was master; and the Senate, with whom +a suspicion was, at that time, almost equal to a proof, arrested the Count, in +consequence of this accusation; and, without even hinting to him his crime, +threw him into one of those secret prisons, which were the terror of the +Venetians, and in which persons often languished, and sometimes died, without +being discovered by their friends. +</p> + +<p> +Morano had incurred the personal resentment of many members of the state; his +habits of life had rendered him obnoxious to some; and his ambition, and the +bold rivalship, which he discovered, on several public occasions,—to +others; and it was not to be expected, that mercy would soften the rigour of a +law, which was to be dispensed from the hands of his enemies. +</p> + +<p> +Montoni, meantime, was beset by dangers of another kind. His castle was +besieged by troops, who seemed willing to dare everything, and to suffer +patiently any hardships in pursuit of victory. The strength of the fortress, +however, withstood their attack, and this, with the vigorous defence of the +garrison and the scarcity of provision on these wild mountains, soon compelled +the assailants to raise the siege. +</p> + +<p> +When Udolpho was once more left to the quiet possession of Montoni, he +dispatched Ugo into Tuscany for Emily, whom he had sent from considerations of +her personal safety, to a place of greater security, than a castle, which was, +at that time, liable to be overrun by his enemies. Tranquillity being once more +restored to Udolpho, he was impatient to secure her again under his roof, and +had commissioned Ugo to assist Bertrand in guarding her back to the castle. +Thus compelled to return, Emily bade the kind Maddelina farewell, with regret, +and, after about a fortnight’s stay in Tuscany, where she had experienced +an interval of quiet, which was absolutely necessary to sustain her +long-harassed spirits, began once more to ascend the Apennines, from whose +heights she gave a long and sorrowful look to the beautiful country, that +extended at their feet, and to the distant Mediterranean, whose waves she had +so often wished would bear her back to France. The distress she felt, on her +return towards the place of her former sufferings, was, however, softened by a +conjecture, that Valancourt was there, and she found some degree of comfort in +the thought of being near him, notwithstanding the consideration, that he was +probably a prisoner. +</p> + +<p> +It was noon when she had left the cottage, and the evening was closed, long +before she came within the neighbourhood of Udolpho. There was a moon, but it +shone only at intervals, for the night was cloudy, and, lighted by the torch, +which Ugo carried, the travellers paced silently along, Emily musing on her +situation, and Bertrand and Ugo anticipating the comforts of a flask of wine +and a good fire, for they had perceived for some time the difference between +the warm climate of the lowlands of Tuscany and the nipping air of these upper +regions. Emily was, at length, roused from her reverie by the far-off sound of +the castle clock, to which she listened not without some degree of awe, as it +rolled away on the breeze. Another and another note succeeded, and died in +sullen murmur among the mountains:—to her mournful imagination it seemed +a knell measuring out some fateful period for her. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, there is the old clock,” said Bertrand, “there he is +still; the cannon have not silenced him!” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” answered Ugo, “he crowed as loud as the best of them in +the midst of it all. There he was roaring out in the hottest fire I have seen +this many a day! I said that some of them would have a hit at the old fellow, +but he escaped, and the tower too.” +</p> + +<p> +The road winding round the base of a mountain, they now came within view of the +castle, which was shown in the perspective of the valley by a gleam of +moonshine, and then vanished in shade; while even a transient view of it had +awakened the poignancy of Emily’s feelings. Its massy and gloomy walls +gave her terrible ideas of imprisonment and suffering: yet, as she advanced, +some degree of hope mingled with her terror; for, though this was certainly the +residence of Montoni, it was possibly, also, that of Valancourt, and she could +not approach a place, where he might be, without experiencing somewhat of the +joy of hope. +</p> + +<p> +They continued to wind along the valley, and, soon after, she saw again the old +walls and moonlit towers, rising over the woods: the strong rays enabled her, +also, to perceive the ravages, which the siege had made,—with the broken +walls, and shattered battlements, for they were now at the foot of the steep, +on which Udolpho stood. Massy fragments had rolled down among the woods, +through which the travellers now began to ascend, and there mingled with the +loose earth, and pieces of rock they had brought with them. The woods, too, had +suffered much from the batteries above, for here the enemy had endeavoured to +screen themselves from the fire of the ramparts. Many noble trees were levelled +with the ground, and others, to a wide extent, were entirely stripped of their +upper branches. “We had better dismount,” said Ugo, “and lead +the mules up the hill, or we shall get into some of the holes, which the balls +have left. Here are plenty of them. Give me the torch,” continued Ugo, +after they had dismounted, “and take care you don’t stumble over +anything, that lies in your way, for the ground is not yet cleared of the +enemy.” +</p> + +<p> +“How!” exclaimed Emily, “are any of the enemy here, +then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I don’t know for that, now,” he replied, “but +when I came away I saw one or two of them lying under the trees.” +</p> + +<p> +As they proceeded, the torch threw a gloomy light upon the ground, and far +among the recesses of the woods, and Emily feared to look forward, lest some +object of horror should meet her eye. The path was often strewn with broken +heads of arrows, and with shattered remains of armour, such as at that period +was mingled with the lighter dress of the soldiers. “Bring the light +hither,” said Bertrand, “I have stumbled over something, that +rattles loud enough.” Ugo holding up the torch, they perceived a steel +breastplate on the ground, which Bertrand raised, and they saw, that it was +pierced through, and that the lining was entirely covered with blood; but upon +Emily’s earnest entreaties that they would proceed, Bertrand, uttering +some joke upon the unfortunate person, to whom it had belonged, threw it hard +upon the ground, and they passed on. +</p> + +<p> +At every step she took, Emily feared to see some vestige of death. Coming soon +after to an opening in the woods, Bertrand stopped to survey the ground, which +was encumbered with massy trunks and branches of the trees, that had so lately +adorned it, and seemed to have been a spot particularly fatal to the besiegers; +for it was evident from the destruction of the trees, that here the hottest +fire of the garrison had been directed. As Ugo held again forth the torch, +steel glittered between the fallen trees; the ground beneath was covered with +broken arms, and with the torn vestments of soldiers, whose mangled forms Emily +almost expected to see; and she again entreated her companions to proceed, who +were, however, too intent in their examination, to regard her, and she turned +her eyes from this desolated scene to the castle above, where she observed +lights gliding along the ramparts. Presently, the castle clock struck twelve, +and then a trumpet sounded, of which Emily enquired the occasion. +</p> + +<p> +“O! they are only changing watch,” replied Ugo. “I do not +remember this trumpet,” said Emily, “it is a new custom.” +“It is only an old one revived, lady; we always use it in time of war. We +have sounded it, at midnight, ever since the place was besieged.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hark!” said Emily, as the trumpet sounded again; and, in the next +moment, she heard a faint clash of arms, and then the watchword passed along +the terrace above, and was answered from a distant part of the castle; after +which all was again still. She complained of cold, and begged to go on. +“Presently, lady,” said Bertrand, turning over some broken arms +with the pike he usually carried. “What have we here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hark!” cried Emily, “what noise was that?” +</p> + +<p> +“What noise was it?” said Ugo, starting up and listening. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush!” repeated Emily. “It surely came from the ramparts +above:” and, on looking up, they perceived a light moving along the +walls, while, in the next instant, the breeze swelling, the voice sounded +louder than before. +</p> + +<p> +“Who goes yonder?” cried a sentinel of the castle. “Speak or +it will be worse for you.” Bertrand uttered a shout of joy. “Hah! +my brave comrade, is it you?” said he, and he blew a shrill whistle, +which signal was answered by another from the soldier on watch; and the party, +then passing forward, soon after emerged from the woods upon the broken road, +that led immediately to the castle gates, and Emily saw, with renewed terror, +the whole of that stupendous structure. “Alas!” said she to +herself, “I am going again into my prison!” +</p> + +<p> +“Here has been warm work, by St. Marco!” cried Bertrand, waving a +torch over the ground; “the balls have torn up the earth here with a +vengeance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” replied Ugo, “they were fired from that redoubt, +yonder, and rare execution they did. The enemy made a furious attack upon the +great gates; but they might have guessed they could never carry it there; for, +besides the cannon from the walls, our archers, on the two round towers, +showered down upon them at such a rate, that, by holy Peter! there was no +standing it. I never saw a better sight in my life; I laughed, till my sides +aked, to see how the knaves scampered. Bertrand, my good fellow, thou shouldst +have been among them; I warrant thou wouldst have won the race!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hah! you are at your old tricks again,” said Bertrand in a surly +tone. “It is well for thee thou art so near the castle; thou knowest I +have killed my man before now.” Ugo replied only by a laugh, and then +gave some further account of the siege, to which as Emily listened, she was +struck by the strong contrast of the present scene with that which had so +lately been acted here. +</p> + +<p> +The mingled uproar of cannon, drums, and trumpets, the groans of the conquered, +and the shouts of the conquerors were now sunk into a silence so profound, that +it seemed as if death had triumphed alike over the vanquished and the victor. +The shattered condition of one of the towers of the great gates by no means +confirmed the <i>valiant</i> account just given by Ugo of the scampering party, +who, it was evident, had not only made a stand, but had done much mischief +before they took to flight; for this tower appeared, as far as Emily could +judge by the dim moonlight that fell upon it, to be laid open, and the +battlements were nearly demolished. While she gazed, a light glimmered through +one of the lower loop-holes, and disappeared; but, in the next moment, she +perceived through the broken wall, a soldier, with a lamp, ascending the narrow +staircase, that wound within the tower, and, remembering that it was the same +she had passed up, on the night, when Barnardine had deluded her with a promise +of seeing Madame Montoni, fancy gave her somewhat of the terror she had then +suffered. She was now very near the gates, over which the soldier having opened +the door of the portal-chamber, the lamp he carried gave her a dusky view of +that terrible apartment, and she almost sunk under the recollected horrors of +the moment, when she had drawn aside the curtain, and discovered the object it +was meant to conceal. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” said she to herself, “it is now used for a similar +purpose; perhaps, that soldier goes, at this dead hour, to watch over the +corpse of his friend!” The little remains of her fortitude now gave way +to the united force of remembered and anticipated horrors, for the melancholy +fate of Madame Montoni appeared to foretell her own. She considered, that, +though the Languedoc estates, if she relinquished them, would satisfy +Montoni’s avarice, they might not appease his vengeance, which was seldom +pacified but by a terrible sacrifice; and she even thought, that, were she to +resign them, the fear of justice might urge him either to detain her a +prisoner, or to take away her life. +</p> + +<p> +They were now arrived at the gates, where Bertrand, observing the light glimmer +through a small casement of the portal-chamber, called aloud; and the soldier, +looking out, demanded who was there. “Here, I have brought you a +prisoner,” said Ugo, “open the gate, and let us in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me first who it is, that demands entrance,” replied the +soldier. “What! my old comrade,” cried Ugo, “don’t you +know me? not know Ugo? I have brought home a prisoner here, bound hand and +foot—a fellow, who has been drinking Tuscany wine, while we here have +been fighting.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will not rest till you meet with your match,” said Bertrand +sullenly. “Hah! my comrade, is it you?” said the +soldier—“I’ll be with you directly.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily presently heard his steps descending the stairs within, and then the +heavy chain fall, and the bolts undraw of a small postern door, which he opened +to admit the party. He held the lamp low, to show the step of the gate, and she +found herself once more beneath the gloomy arch, and heard the door close, that +seemed to shut her from the world for ever. In the next moment, she was in the +first court of the castle, where she surveyed the spacious and solitary area, +with a kind of calm despair; while the dead hour of the night, the gothic gloom +of the surrounding buildings, and the hollow and imperfect echoes, which they +returned, as Ugo and the soldier conversed together, assisted to increase the +melancholy forebodings of her heart. Passing on to the second court, a distant +sound broke feebly on the silence, and gradually swelling louder, as they +advanced, Emily distinguished voices of revelry and laughter, but they were to +her far other than sounds of joy. “Why, you have got some Tuscany wine +among you, <i>here</i>,” said Bertrand, “if one may judge by the +uproar that is going forward. Ugo has taken a larger share of that than of +fighting, I’ll be sworn. Who is carousing at this late hour?” +</p> + +<p> +“His <i>Excellenza</i> and the Signors,” replied the soldier: +“it is a sign you are a stranger at the castle, or you would not need to +ask the question. They are brave spirits, that do without sleep—they +generally pass the night in good cheer; would that we, who keep the watch, had +a little of it! It is cold work, pacing the ramparts so many hours of the +night, if one has no good liquor to warm one’s heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“Courage, my lad, courage ought to warm your heart,” said Ugo. +“Courage!” replied the soldier sharply, with a menacing air, which +Ugo perceiving, prevented his saying more, by returning to the subject of the +carousal. “This is a new custom,” said he; “when I left the +castle, the Signors used to sit up counselling.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, and for that matter, carousing too,” replied the soldier, +“but, since the siege, they have done nothing but make merry: and if I +was they, I would settle accounts with myself, for all my hard fighting, the +same way.” +</p> + +<p> +They had now crossed the second court, and reached the hall door, when the +soldier, bidding them good night, hastened back to his post; and, while they +waited for admittance, Emily considered how she might avoid seeing Montoni, and +retire unnoticed to her former apartment, for she shrunk from the thought of +encountering either him, or any of his party, at this hour. The uproar within +the castle was now so loud, that, though Ugo knocked repeatedly at the hall +door, he was not heard by any of the servants, a circumstance, which increased +Emily’s alarm, while it allowed her time to deliberate on the means of +retiring unobserved; for, though she might, perhaps, pass up the great +staircase unseen, it was impossible she could find the way to her chamber, +without a light, the difficulty of procuring which, and the danger of wandering +about the castle, without one, immediately struck her. Bertrand had only a +torch, and she knew, that the servants never brought a taper to the door, for +the hall was sufficiently lighted by the large tripod lamp, which hung in the +vaulted roof; and, while she should wait till Annette could bring a taper, +Montoni, or some of his companions, might discover her. +</p> + +<p> +The door was now opened by Carlo; and Emily, having requested him to send +Annette immediately with a light to the great gallery, where she determined to +await her, passed on with hasty steps towards the staircase; while Bertrand +and Ugo, with the torch, followed old Carlo to the servants’ hall, +impatient for supper and the warm blaze of a wood fire. Emily, lighted only by +the feeble rays, which the lamp above threw between the arches of this +extensive hall, endeavoured to find her way to the staircase, now hid in +obscurity; while the shouts of merriment, that burst from a remote apartment, +served, by heightening her terror, to increase her perplexity, and she +expected, every instant, to see the door of that room open, and Montoni and his +companions issue forth. Having, at length, reached the staircase, and found +her way to the top, she seated herself on the last stair, to await the arrival +of Annette; for the profound darkness of the gallery deterred her from +proceeding farther, and, while she listened for her footstep, she heard only +distant sounds of revelry, which rose in sullen echoes from among the arcades +below. Once she thought she heard a low sound from the dark gallery behind her; +and, turning her eyes, fancied she saw something luminous move in it; and, +since she could not, at this moment, subdue the weakness that caused her fears, +she quitted her seat, and crept softly down a few stairs lower. +</p> + +<p> +Annette not yet appearing, Emily now concluded, that she was gone to bed, and +that nobody chose to call her up; and the prospect, that presented itself, of +passing the night in darkness, in this place, or in some other equally forlorn +(for she knew it would be impracticable to find her way through the intricacies +of the galleries to her chamber), drew tears of mingled terror and despondency +from her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +While thus she sat, she fancied she heard again an odd sound from the gallery, +and she listened, scarcely daring to breathe, but the increasing voices below +overcame every other sound. Soon after, she heard Montoni and his companions +burst into the hall, who spoke, as if they were much intoxicated, and seemed to +be advancing towards the staircase. She now remembered, that they must come +this way to their chambers, and, forgetting all the terrors of the gallery, +hurried towards it with an intention of secreting herself in some of the +passages, that opened beyond, and of endeavouring, when the Signors were +retired, to find her way to her own room, or to that of Annette, which was in a +remote part of the castle. +</p> + +<p> +With extended arms, she crept along the gallery, still hearing the voices of +persons below, who seemed to stop in conversation at the foot of the +staircase, and then pausing for a moment to listen, half fearful of going +further into the darkness of the gallery, where she still imagined, from the +noise she had heard, that some person was lurking, “They are already +informed of my arrival,” said she, “and Montoni is coming himself +to seek me! In the present state of his mind, his purpose must be +desperate.” Then, recollecting the scene, that had passed in the +corridor, on the night preceding her departure from the castle, “O +Valancourt!” said she, “I must then resign you for ever. To brave +any longer the injustice of Montoni, would not be fortitude, but +rashness.” Still the voices below did not draw nearer, but they became +louder, and she distinguished those of Verezzi and Bertolini above the rest, +while the few words she caught made her listen more anxiously for others. The +conversation seemed to concern herself; and, having ventured to step a few +paces nearer to the staircase, she discovered, that they were disputing about +her, each seeming to claim some former promise of Montoni, who appeared, at +first, inclined to appease and to persuade them to return to their wine, but +afterwards to be weary of the dispute, and, saying that he left them to settle +it as they could, was returning with the rest of the party to the apartment he +had just quitted. Verezzi then stopped him. “Where is she? Signor,” +said he, in a voice of impatience: “tell us where she is.” “I +have already told you that I do not know,” replied Montoni, who seemed to +be somewhat overcome with wine; “but she is most probably gone to her +apartment.” Verezzi and Bertolini now desisted from their enquiries, and +sprang to the staircase together, while Emily, who, during this discourse, had +trembled so excessively, that she had with difficulty supported herself, seemed +inspired with new strength, the moment she heard the sound of their steps, and +ran along the gallery, dark as it was, with the fleetness of a fawn. But, long +before she reached its extremity, the light, which Verezzi carried, flashed +upon the walls; both appeared, and, instantly perceiving Emily, pursued her. At +this moment, Bertolini, whose steps, though swift, were not steady, and whose +impatience overcame what little caution he had hitherto used, stumbled, and +fell at his length. The lamp fell with him, and was presently expiring on the +floor; but Verezzi, regardless of saving it, seized the advantage this accident +gave him over his rival, and followed Emily, to whom, however, the light had +shown one of the passages that branched from the gallery, and she instantly +turned into it. Verezzi could just discern the way she had taken, and this he +pursued; but the sound of her steps soon sunk in distance, while he, less +acquainted with the passage, was obliged to proceed through the dark, with +caution, lest he should fall down a flight of steps, such as in this extensive +old castle frequently terminated an avenue. This passage at length brought +Emily to the corridor, into which her own chamber opened, and, not hearing any +footstep, she paused to take breath, and consider what was the safest design to +be adopted. She had followed this passage, merely because it was the first that +appeared, and now that she had reached the end of it, was as perplexed as +before. Whither to go, or how further to find her way in the dark, she knew +not; she was aware only that she must not seek her apartment, for there she +would certainly be sought, and her danger increased every instant, while she +remained near it. Her spirits and her breath, however, were so much exhausted, +that she was compelled to rest, for a few minutes, at the end of the passage, +and still she heard no steps approaching. As thus she stood, light glimmered +under an opposite door of the gallery, and, from its situation, she knew, that +it was the door of that mysterious chamber, where she had made a discovery so +shocking, that she never remembered it but with the utmost horror. That there +should be light in this chamber, and at this hour, excited her strong surprise, +and she felt a momentary terror concerning it, which did not permit her to look +again, for her spirits were now in such a state of weakness, that she almost +expected to see the door slowly open, and some horrible object appear at it. +Still she listened for a step along the passage, and looked up it, where, not a +ray of light appearing, she concluded, that Verezzi had gone back for the lamp; +and, believing that he would shortly be there, she again considered which way +she should go, or rather which way she could find in the dark. +</p> + +<p> +A faint ray still glimmered under the opposite door, but so great, and, +perhaps, so just was her horror of that chamber, that she would not again have +tempted its secrets, though she had been certain of obtaining the light so +important to her safety. She was still breathing with difficulty, and resting +at the end of the passage, when she heard a rustling sound, and then a low +voice, so very near her, that it seemed close to her ear; but she had presence +of mind to check her emotions, and to remain quite still; in the next moment, +she perceived it to be the voice of Verezzi, who did not appear to know, that +she was there, but to have spoken to himself. “The air is fresher +here,” said he: “this should be the corridor.” Perhaps, he +was one of those heroes, whose courage can defy an enemy better than darkness, +and he tried to rally his spirits with the sound of his own voice. However this +might be, he turned to the right, and proceeded, with the same stealing steps, +towards Emily’s apartment, apparently forgetting, that, in darkness, she +could easily elude his search, even in her chamber; and, like an intoxicated +person, he followed pertinaciously the one idea, that had possessed his +imagination. +</p> + +<p> +The moment she heard his steps steal away, she left her station and moved +softly to the other end of the corridor, determined to trust again to chance, +and to quit it by the first avenue she could find; but, before she could effect +this, light broke upon the walls of the gallery, and, looking back, she saw +Verezzi crossing it towards her chamber. She now glided into a passage, that +opened on the left, without, as she thought, being perceived; but, in the next +instant, another light, glimmering at the further end of this passage, threw +her into new terror. While she stopped and hesitated which way to go, the pause +allowed her to perceive, that it was Annette, who advanced, and she hurried to +meet her: but her imprudence again alarmed Emily, on perceiving whom, she burst +into a scream of joy, and it was some minutes, before she could be prevailed +with to be silent, or to release her mistress from the ardent clasp, in which +she held her. When, at length, Emily made Annette comprehend her danger, they +hurried towards Annette’s room, which was in a distant part of the +castle. No apprehensions, however, could yet silence the latter. “Oh dear +ma’amselle,” said she, as they passed along, “what a +terrified time have I had of it! Oh! I thought I should have died a hundred +times! I never thought I should live to see you again! and I never was so glad +to see anybody in my whole life, as I am to see you now.” +“Hark!” cried Emily, “we are pursued; that was the echo of +steps!” “No, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “it was +only the echo of a door shutting; sound runs along these vaulted passages so, +that one is continually deceived by it; if one does but speak, or cough, it +makes a noise as loud as a cannon.” “Then there is the greater +necessity for us to be silent,” said Emily: “pr’ythee say no +more, till we reach your chamber.” Here, at length, they arrived, without +interruption, and, Annette having fastened the door, Emily sat down on her +little bed, to recover breath and composure. To her enquiry, whether Valancourt +was among the prisoners in the castle, Annette replied, that she had not been +able to hear, but that she knew there were several persons confined. She then +proceeded, in her tedious way, to give an account of the siege, or rather a +detail of her terrors and various sufferings, during the attack. +“But,” added she, “when I heard the shouts of victory from +the ramparts, I thought we were all taken, and gave myself up for lost, instead +of which, <i>we</i> had driven the enemy away. I went then to the north +gallery, and saw a great many of them scampering away among the mountains; but +the rampart walls were all in ruins, as one may say, and there was a dismal +sight to see down among the woods below, where the poor fellows were lying in +heaps, but were carried off presently by their comrades. While the siege was +going on, the Signor was here, and there, and everywhere, at the same time, as +Ludovico told me, for he would not let me see anything hardly, and locked me +up, as he has often done before, in a room in the middle of the castle, and +used to bring me food, and come and talk with me as often as he could; and I +must say, if it had not been for Ludovico, I should have died outright.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Annette,” said Emily, “and how have affairs gone on, +since the siege?” +</p> + +<p> +“O! sad hurly-burly doings, ma’amselle,” replied Annette; +“the Signors have done nothing but sit and drink and game, ever since. +They sit up, all night, and play among themselves, for all those riches and +fine things, they brought in, some time since, when they used to go out +a-robbing, or as good, for days together; and then they have dreadful quarrels +about who loses, and who wins. That fierce Signor Verezzi is always losing, as +they tell me, and Signor Orsino wins from him, and this makes him very wroth, +and they have had several hard set-to’s about it. Then, all those fine +ladies are at the castle still; and I declare I am frighted, whenever I meet +any of them in the passages—” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely, Annette,” said Emily starting, “I heard a noise: +listen.” After a long pause, “No, ma’amselle,” said +Annette, “it was only the wind in the gallery; I often hear it, when it +shakes the old doors, at the other end. But won’t you go to bed, +ma’amselle? you surely will not sit up starving, all night.” Emily +now laid herself down on the mattress, and desired Annette to leave the lamp +burning on the hearth; having done which, the latter placed herself beside +Emily, who, however, was not suffered to sleep, for she again thought she heard +a noise from the passage; and Annette was again trying to convince her, that it +was only the wind, when footsteps were distinctly heard near the door. Annette +was now starting from the bed, but Emily prevailed with her to remain there, +and listened with her in a state of terrible expectation. The steps still +loitered at the door, when presently an attempt was made on the lock, and, in +the next instant, a voice called. “For heaven’s sake, Annette, do +not answer,” said Emily softly, “remain quite still; but I fear we +must extinguish the lamp, or its glare will betray us.” “Holy +Virgin!” exclaimed Annette, forgetting her discretion, “I would not +be in darkness now for the whole world.” While she spoke, the voice +became louder than before, and repeated Annette’s name; “Blessed +Virgin!” cried she suddenly, “it is only Ludovico.” She rose +to open the door, but Emily prevented her, till they should be more certain, +that it was he alone; with whom Annette, at length, talked for some time, and +learned, that he was come to enquire after herself, whom he had let out of her +room to go to Emily, and that he was now returned to lock her in again. Emily, +fearful of being overheard, if they conversed any longer through the door, +consented that it should be opened, and a young man appeared, whose open +countenance confirmed the favourable opinion of him, which his care of Annette +had already prompted her to form. She entreated his protection, should Verezzi +make this requisite; and Ludovico offered to pass the night in an old chamber, +adjoining, that opened from the gallery, and, on the first alarm, to come to +their defence. +</p> + +<p> +Emily was much soothed by this proposal; and Ludovico, having lighted his lamp, +went to his station, while she, once more, endeavoured to repose on her +mattress. But a variety of interests pressed upon her attention, and prevented +sleep. She thought much on what Annette had told her of the dissolute manners +of Montoni and his associates, and more of his present conduct towards herself, +and of the danger, from which she had just escaped. From the view of her +present situation she shrunk, as from a new picture of terror. She saw herself +in a castle, inhabited by vice and violence, seated beyond the reach of law or +justice, and in the power of a man, whose perseverance was equal to every +occasion, and in whom passions, of which revenge was not the weakest, entirely +supplied the place of principles. She was compelled, once more, to acknowledge, +that it would be folly, and not fortitude, any longer to dare his power; and, +resigning all hopes of future happiness with Valancourt, she determined, that, +on the following morning, she would compromise with Montoni, and give up her +estates, on condition, that he would permit her immediate return to France. +Such considerations kept her waking for many hours; but, the night passed, +without further alarm from Verezzi. +</p> + +<p> +On the next morning, Emily had a long conversation with Ludovico, in which she +heard circumstances concerning the castle, and received hints of the designs of +Montoni, that considerably increased her alarms. On expressing her surprise, +that Ludovico, who seemed to be so sensible of the evils of his situation, +should continue in it, he informed her, that it was not his intention to do so, +and she then ventured to ask him, if he would assist her to escape from the +castle. Ludovico assured her of his readiness to attempt this, but strongly +represented the difficulty of the enterprise, and the certain destruction which +must ensue, should Montoni overtake them, before they had passed the mountains; +he, however, promised to be watchful of every circumstance, that might +contribute to the success of the attempt, and to think upon some plan of +departure. +</p> + +<p> +Emily now confided to him the name of Valancourt, and begged he would enquire +for such a person among the prisoners in the castle; for the faint hope, which +this conversation awakened, made her now recede from her resolution of an +immediate compromise with Montoni. She determined, if possible, to delay this, +till she heard further from Ludovico, and, if his designs were found to be +impracticable, to resign the estates at once. Her thoughts were on this +subject, when Montoni, who was now recovered from the intoxication of the +preceding night, sent for her, and she immediately obeyed the summons. He was +alone. “I find,” said he, “that you were not in your chamber, +last night; where were you?” Emily related to him some circumstances of +her alarm, and entreated his protection from a repetition of them. “You +know the terms of my protection,” said he; “if you really value +this, you will secure it.” His open declaration, that he would only +conditionally protect her, while she remained a prisoner in the castle, showed +Emily the necessity of an immediate compliance with his terms; but she first +demanded, whether he would permit her immediately to depart, if she gave up her +claim to the contested estates. In a very solemn manner he then assured her, +that he would, and immediately laid before her a paper, which was to transfer +the right of those estates to himself. +</p> + +<p> +She was, for a considerable time, unable to sign it, and her heart was torn +with contending interests, for she was about to resign the happiness of all her +future years—the hope, which had sustained her in so many hours of +adversity. +</p> + +<p> +After hearing from Montoni a recapitulation of the conditions of her +compliance, and a remonstrance, that his time was valuable, she put her hand to +the paper; when she had done which, she fell back in her chair, but soon +recovered, and desired, that he would give orders for her departure, and that +he would allow Annette to accompany her. Montoni smiled. “It was +necessary to deceive you,” said he,—“there was no other way +of making you act reasonably; you shall go, but it must not be at present. I +must first secure these estates by possession: when that is done, you may +return to France if you will.” +</p> + +<p> +The deliberate villany, with which he violated the solemn engagement he had +just entered into, shocked Emily as much, as the certainty, that she had made a +fruitless sacrifice, and must still remain his prisoner. She had no words to +express what she felt, and knew, that it would have been useless, if she had. +As she looked piteously at Montoni, he turned away, and at the same time +desired she would withdraw to her apartment; but, unable to leave the room, she +sat down in a chair near the door, and sighed heavily. She had neither words +nor tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Why will you indulge this childish grief?” said he. +“Endeavour to strengthen your mind, to bear patiently what cannot now be +avoided; you have no real evil to lament; be patient, and you will be sent back +to France. At present retire to your apartment.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dare not go, sir,” said she, “where I shall be liable to +the intrusion of Signor Verezzi.” “Have I not promised to protect +you?” said Montoni. “You have promised, sir,”—replied +Emily, after some hesitation. “And is not my promise sufficient?” +added he sternly. “You will recollect your former promise, Signor,” +said Emily, trembling, “and may determine for me, whether I ought to rely +upon this.” “Will you provoke me to declare to you, that I will not +protect you then?” said Montoni, in a tone of haughty displeasure. +“If that will satisfy you, I will do it immediately. Withdraw to your +chamber, before I retract my promise; you have nothing to fear there.” +Emily left the room, and moved slowly into the hall, where the fear of meeting +Verezzi, or Bertolini, made her quicken her steps, though she could scarcely +support herself; and soon after she reached once more her own apartment. Having +looked fearfully round her, to examine if any person was there, and having +searched every part of it, she fastened the door, and sat down by one of the +casements. Here, while she looked out for some hope to support her fainting +spirits, which had been so long harassed and oppressed, that, if she had not +now struggled much against misfortune, they would have left her, perhaps, for +ever, she endeavoured to believe, that Montoni did really intend to permit her +return to France as soon as he had secured her property, and that he would, in +the mean time, protect her from insult; but her chief hope rested with +Ludovico, who, she doubted not, would be zealous in her cause, though he seemed +almost to despair of success in it. One circumstance, however, she had to +rejoice in. Her prudence, or rather her fears, had saved her from mentioning +the name of Valancourt to Montoni, which she was several times on the point of +doing, before she signed the paper, and of stipulating for his release, if he +should be really a prisoner in the castle. Had she done this, Montoni’s +jealous fears would now probably have loaded Valancourt with new severities, +and have suggested the advantage of holding him a captive for life. +</p> + +<p> +Thus passed the melancholy day, as she had before passed many in this same +chamber. When night drew on, she would have withdrawn herself to +Annette’s bed, had not a particular interest inclined her to remain in +this chamber, in spite of her fears; for, when the castle should be still, and +the customary hour arrived, she determined to watch for the music, which she +had formerly heard. Though its sounds might not enable her positively to +determine, whether Valancourt was there, they would perhaps strengthen her +opinion that he was, and impart the comfort, so necessary to her present +support. But, on the other hand, if all should be silent! She hardly dared to +suffer her thoughts to glance that way, but waited, with impatient expectation, +the approaching hour. +</p> + +<p> +The night was stormy; the battlements of the castle appeared to rock in the +wind, and, at intervals, long groans seemed to pass on the air, such as those, +which often deceive the melancholy mind, in tempests, and amidst scenes of +desolation. Emily heard, as formerly, the sentinels pass along the terrace to +their posts, and, looking out from her casement, observed, that the watch was +doubled; a precaution, which appeared necessary enough, when she threw her eyes +on the walls, and saw their shattered condition. The well-known sounds of the +soldiers’ march, and of their distant voices, which passed her in the +wind, and were lost again, recalled to her memory the melancholy sensation she +had suffered, when she formerly heard the same sounds; and occasioned almost +involuntary comparisons between her present, and her late situation. But this +was no subject for congratulations, and she wisely checked the course of her +thoughts, while, as the hour was not yet come, in which she had been accustomed +to hear the music, she closed the casement, and endeavoured to await it in +patience. The door of the staircase she tried to secure, as usual, with some +of the furniture of the room; but this expedient her fears now represented to +her to be very inadequate to the power and perseverance of Verezzi; and she +often looked at a large and heavy chest, that stood in the chamber, with wishes +that she and Annette had strength enough to move it. While she blamed the long +stay of this girl, who was still with Ludovico and some other of the servants, +she trimmed her wood fire, to make the room appear less desolate, and sat down +beside it with a book, which her eyes perused, while her thoughts wandered to +Valancourt, and her own misfortunes. As she sat thus, she thought, in a pause +of the wind, she distinguished music, and went to the casement to listen, but +the loud swell of the gust overcame every other sound. When the wind sunk +again, she heard distinctly, in the deep pause that succeeded, the sweet +strings of a lute; but again the rising tempest bore away the notes, and again +was succeeded by a solemn pause. Emily, trembling with hope and fear, opened +her casement to listen, and to try whether her own voice could be heard by the +musician; for to endure any longer this state of torturing suspense concerning +Valancourt, seemed to be utterly impossible. There was a kind of breathless +stillness in the chambers, that permitted her to distinguish from below the +tender notes of the very lute she had formerly heard, and with it, a plaintive +voice, made sweeter by the low rustling sound, that now began to creep along +the wood-tops, till it was lost in the rising wind. Their tall heads then began +to wave, while, through a forest of pine, on the left, the wind, groaning +heavily, rolled onward over the woods below, bending them almost to their +roots; and, as the long-resounding gale swept away, other woods, on the right, +seemed to answer the “loud lament;” then, others, further still, +softened it into a murmur, that died into silence. Emily listened, with mingled +awe and expectation, hope and fear; and again the melting sweetness of the lute +was heard, and the same solemn-breathing voice. Convinced that these came from +an apartment underneath, she leaned far out of her window, that she might +discover whether any light was there; but the casements below, as well as those +above, were sunk so deep in the thick walls of the castle, that she could not +see them, or even the faint ray, that probably glimmered through their bars. +She then ventured to call; but the wind bore her voice to the other end of the +terrace, and then the music was heard as before, in the pause of the gust. +Suddenly, she thought she heard a noise in her chamber, and she drew herself +within the casement; but, in a moment after, distinguishing Annette’s +voice at the door, she concluded it was her she had heard before, and she let +her in. “Move softly, Annette, to the casement,” said she, +“and listen with me; the music is returned.” They were silent till, +the measure changing, Annette exclaimed, “Holy Virgin! I know that song +well; it is a French song, one of the favourite songs of my dear +country.” This was the ballad Emily had heard on a former night, though +not the one she had first listened to from the fishing-house in Gascony. +“O! it is a Frenchman, that sings,” said Annette: “it must be +Monsieur Valancourt.” “Hark! Annette, do not speak so loud,” +said Emily, “we may be overheard.” “What! by the +Chevalier?” said Annette. “No,” replied Emily mournfully, +“but by somebody, who may report us to the Signor. What reason have you +to think it is Monsieur Valancourt, who sings? But hark! now the voice swells +louder! Do you recollect those tones? I fear to trust my own judgment.” +“I never happened to hear the Chevalier sing, Mademoiselle,” +replied Annette, who, as Emily was disappointed to perceive, had no stronger +reason for concluding this to be Valancourt, than that the musician must be a +Frenchman. Soon after, she heard the song of the fishing-house, and +distinguished her own name, which was repeated so distinctly, that Annette had +heard it also. She trembled, sunk into a chair by the window, and Annette +called aloud, “Monsieur Valancourt! Monsieur Valancourt!” while +Emily endeavoured to check her, but she repeated the call more loudly than +before, and the lute and the voice suddenly stopped. Emily listened, for some +time, in a state of intolerable suspense; but, no answer being returned, +“It does not signify, Mademoiselle,” said Annette; “it is the +Chevalier, and I will speak to him.” “No, Annette,” said +Emily, “I think I will speak myself; if it is he, he will know my voice, +and speak again.” “Who is it,” said she, “that sings at +this late hour?” +</p> + +<p> +A long silence ensued, and, having repeated the question, she perceived some +faint accents, mingling in the blast, that swept by; but the sounds were so +distant, and passed so suddenly, that she could scarcely hear them, much less +distinguish the words they uttered, or recognise the voice. After another +pause, Emily called again; and again they heard a voice, but as faintly as +before; and they perceived, that there were other circumstances, besides the +strength, and direction of the wind, to content with; for the great depth, at +which the casements were fixed in the castle walls, contributed, still more +than the distance, to prevent articulated sounds from being understood, though +general ones were easily heard. Emily, however, ventured to believe, from the +circumstance of her voice alone having been answered, that the stranger was +Valancourt, as well as that he knew her, and she gave herself up to speechless +joy. Annette, however, was not speechless. She renewed her calls, but received +no answer; and Emily, fearing, that a further attempt, which certainly was, as +present, highly dangerous, might expose them to the guards of the castle, while +it could not perhaps terminate her suspense, insisted on Annette’s +dropping the enquiry for this night; though she determined herself to question +Ludovico, on the subject, in the morning, more urgently than she had yet done. +She was now enabled to say, that the stranger, whom she had formerly heard, was +still in the castle, and to direct Ludovico to that part of it, in which he was +confined. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, attended by Annette, continued at the casement, for some time, but all +remained still; they heard neither lute nor voice again, and Emily was now as +much oppressed by anxious joy, as she lately was by a sense of her misfortunes. +With hasty steps she paced the room, now half calling on Valancourt’s +name, then suddenly stopping, and now going to the casement and listening, +where, however, she heard nothing but the solemn waving of the woods. Sometimes +her impatience to speak to Ludovico prompted her to send Annette to call him; +but a sense of the impropriety of this at midnight restrained her. Annette, +meanwhile, as impatient as her mistress, went as often to the casement to +listen, and returned almost as much disappointed. She, at length, mentioned +Signor Verezzi, and her fear, lest he should enter the chamber by the +staircase, door. “But the night is now almost past, Mademoiselle,” +said she, recollecting herself; “there is the morning light, beginning to +peep over those mountains yonder in the east.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily had forgotten, till this moment, that such a person existed as Verezzi, +and all the danger that had appeared to threaten her; but the mention of his +name renewed her alarm, and she remembered the old chest, that she had wished +to place against the door, which she now, with Annette, attempted to move, but +it was so heavy, that they could not lift it from the floor. “What is in +this great old chest, Mademoiselle,” said Annette, “that makes it +so weighty?” Emily having replied, “that she found it in the +chamber, when she first came to the castle, and had never examined +it.”—“Then I will, ma’amselle,” said Annette, and +she tried to lift the lid; but this was held by a lock, for which she had no +key, and which, indeed, appeared, from its peculiar construction, to open with +a spring. The morning now glimmered through the casements, and the wind had +sunk into a calm. Emily looked out upon the dusky woods, and on the twilight +mountains, just stealing in the eye, and saw the whole scene, after the storm, +lying in profound stillness, the woods motionless, and the clouds above, +through which the dawn trembled, scarcely appearing to move along the heavens. +One soldier was pacing the terrace beneath, with measured steps; and two, more +distant, were sunk asleep on the walls, wearied with the night’s watch. +Having inhaled, for a while, the pure spirit of the air, and of vegetation, +which the late rains had called forth; and having listened, once more, for a +note of music, she now closed the casement, and retired to rest. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a> CHAPTER IX </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Thus on the chill Lapponian’s dreary land,<br/> +For many a long month lost in snow profound,<br/> +When Sol from Cancer sends the seasons bland,<br/> +And in their northern cave the storms hath bound;<br/> +From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,<br/> +Torrents are hurl’d, green hills emerge, and lo,<br/> +The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown’d;<br/> +Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go;<br/> +And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant’s heart o’erflow.<br/> + BEATTIE +</p> + +<p> +Several of her succeeding days passed in suspense, for Ludovico could only +learn from the soldiers, that there was a prisoner in the apartment, described +to him by Emily, and that he was a Frenchman, whom they had taken in one of +their skirmishes, with a party of his countrymen. During this interval, Emily +escaped the persecutions of Bertolini, and Verezzi, by confining herself to her +apartment; except that sometimes, in an evening, she ventured to walk in the +adjoining corridor. Montoni appeared to respect his last promise, though he had +prophaned his first; for to his protection only could she attribute her present +repose; and in this she was now so secure, that she did not wish to leave the +castle, till she could obtain some certainty concerning Valancourt; for which +she waited, indeed, without any sacrifice of her own comfort, since no +circumstance had occurred to make her escape probable. +</p> + +<p> +On the fourth day, Ludovico informed her, that he had hopes of being admitted +to the presence of the prisoner; it being the turn of a soldier, with whom he +had been for some time familiar, to attend him on the following night. He was +not deceived in his hope; for, under pretence of carrying in a pitcher of +water, he entered the prison, though, his prudence having prevented him from +telling the sentinel the real motive of his visit, he was obliged to make his +conference with the prisoner a very short one. +</p> + +<p> +Emily awaited the result in her own apartment, Ludovico having promised to +accompany Annette to the corridor, in the evening; where, after several hours +impatiently counted, he arrived. Emily, having then uttered the name of +Valancourt, could articulate no more, but hesitated in trembling expectation. +“The Chevalier would not entrust me with his name, Signora,” +replied Ludovico; “but, when I just mentioned yours, he seemed +overwhelmed with joy, though he was not so much surprised as I expected.” +“Does he then remember me?” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“O! it is Mons. Valancourt,” said Annette, and looked impatiently +at Ludovico, who understood her look, and replied to Emily: “Yes, lady, +the Chevalier does, indeed, remember you, and, I am sure, has a very great +regard for you, and I made bold to say you had for him. He then enquired how +you came to know he was in the castle, and whether you ordered me to speak to +him. The first question I could not answer, but the second I did; and then he +went off into his ecstasies again. I was afraid his joy would have betrayed him +to the sentinel at the door.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how does he look, Ludovico?” interrupted Emily: “is he +not melancholy and ill with this long confinement?”—“Why, as +to melancholy, I saw no symptom of that, lady, while I was with him, for he +seemed in the finest spirits I ever saw anybody in, in all my life. His +countenance was all joy, and, if one may judge from that, he was very well; but +I did not ask him.” “Did he send me no message?” said Emily. +“O yes, Signora, and something besides,” replied Ludovico, who +searched his pockets. “Surely, I have not lost it,” added he. +“The Chevalier said, he would have written, madam, if he had had pen and +ink, and was going to have sent a very long message, when the sentinel entered +the room, but not before he had give me this.” Ludovico then drew forth a +miniature from his bosom, which Emily received with a trembling hand, and +perceived to be a portrait of herself—the very picture, which her mother +had lost so strangely in the fishing-house at La Vallée. +</p> + +<p> +Tears of mingled joy and tenderness flowed to her eyes, while Ludovico +proceeded—“‘Tell your lady,’ said the Chevalier, as he +gave me the picture, ‘that this has been my companion, and only solace in +all my misfortunes. Tell her, that I have worn it next my heart, and that I +sent it her as the pledge of an affection, which can never die; that I would +not part with it, but to her, for the wealth of worlds, and that I now part +with it, only in the hope of soon receiving it from her hands. Tell +her—’ Just then, Signora, the sentinel came in, and the Chevalier +said no more; but he had before asked me to contrive an interview for him with +you; and when I told him, how little hope I had of prevailing with the guard to +assist me, he said, that was not, perhaps, of so much consequence as I +imagined, and bade me contrive to bring back your answer, and he would inform +me of more than he chose to do then. So this, I think, lady, is the whole of +what passed.” +</p> + +<p> +“How, Ludovico, shall I reward you for your zeal?” said Emily: +“but, indeed, I do not now possess the means. When can you see the +Chevalier again?” “That is uncertain, Signora,” replied he. +“It depends upon who stands guard next: there are not more than one or +two among them, from whom I would dare to ask admittance to the +prison-chamber.” +</p> + +<p> +“I need not bid you remember, Ludovico,” resumed Emily, “how +very much interested I am in your seeing the Chevalier soon; and, when you do +so, tell him, that I have received the picture, and, with the sentiments he +wished. Tell him I have suffered much, and still suffer—” She +paused. “But shall I tell him you will see him, lady?” said +Ludovico. “Most certainly I will,” replied Emily. “But when, +Signora, and where?” “That must depend upon circumstances,” +returned Emily. “The place, and the hour, must be regulated by his +opportunities.” +</p> + +<p> +“As to the place, mademoiselle,” said Annette, “there is no +other place in the castle, besides this corridor, where <i>we</i> can see him +in safety, you know; and, as for the hour,—it must be when all the +Signors are asleep, if that ever happens!” “You may mention these +circumstances to the Chevalier, Ludovico,” said she, checking the +flippancy of Annette, “and leave them to his judgment and opportunity. +Tell him, my heart is unchanged. But, above all, let him see you again as soon +as possible; and, Ludovico, I think it is needless to tell you I shall very +anxiously look for you.” Having then wished her good night, Ludovico +descended the staircase, and Emily retired to rest, but not to sleep, for joy +now rendered her as wakeful, as she had ever been from grief. Montoni and his +castle had all vanished from her mind, like the frightful vision of a +necromancer, and she wandered, once more, in fairy scenes of unfading happiness: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +As when, beneath the beam<br/> +Of summer moons, the distant woods among,<br/> +Or by some flood, all silver’d with the gleam,<br/> +The soft embodied Fays thro’ airy portals stream. +</p> + +<p> +A week elapsed, before Ludovico again visited the prison; for the sentinels, +during that period, were men, in whom he could not confide, and he feared to +awaken curiosity, by asking to see their prisoner. In this interval, he +communicated to Emily terrific reports of what was passing in the castle; of +riots, quarrels, and of carousals more alarming than either; while from some +circumstances, which he mentioned, she not only doubted, whether Montoni meant +ever to release her, but greatly feared, that he had designs, concerning +her,—such as she had formerly dreaded. Her name was frequently mentioned +in the conversations, which Bertolini and Verezzi held together, and, at those +times, they were frequently in contention. Montoni had lost large sums to +Verezzi, so that there was a dreadful possibility of his designing her to be a +substitute for the debt; but, as she was ignorant, that he had formerly +encouraged the hopes of Bertolini also, concerning herself, after the latter +had done him some signal service, she knew not how to account for these +contentions between Bertolini and Verezzi. The cause of them, however, appeared +to be of little consequence, for she thought she saw destruction approaching in +many forms, and her entreaties to Ludovico to contrive an escape and to see the +prisoner again, were more urgent than ever. +</p> + +<p> +At length, he informed her, that he had again visited the Chevalier, who had +directed him to confide in the guard of the prison, from whom he had already +received some instances of kindness, and who had promised to permit his going +into the castle for half an hour, on the ensuing night, when Montoni and his +companions should be engaged at their carousals. “This was kind, to be +sure,” added Ludovico: “but Sebastian knows he runs no risk in +letting the Chevalier out, for, if he can get beyond the bars and iron doors of +the castle, he must be cunning indeed. But the Chevalier desired me, Signora, +to go to you immediately, and to beg you would allow him to visit you, this +night, if it was only for a moment, for that he could no longer live under the +same roof, without seeing you; the hour, he said, he could not mention, for it +must depend on circumstances (just as you said, Signora); and the place he +desired you would appoint, as knowing which was best for your own +safety.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was now so much agitated by the near prospect of meeting Valancourt, that +it was some time, before she could give any answer to Ludovico, or consider of +the place of meeting; when she did, she saw none, that promised so much +security, as the corridor, near her own apartment, which she was checked from +leaving, by the apprehension of meeting any of Montoni’s guests, on their +way to their rooms; and she dismissed the scruples, which delicacy opposed, now +that a serious danger was to be avoided by encountering them. It was settled, +therefore, that the Chevalier should meet her in the corridor, at that hour of +the night, which Ludovico, who was to be upon the watch, should judge safest: +and Emily, as may be imagined, passed this interval in a tumult of hope and +joy, anxiety and impatience. Never, since her residence in the castle, had she +watched, with so much pleasure, the sun set behind the mountains, and twilight +shade, and darkness veil the scene, as on this evening. She counted the notes +of the great clock, and listened to the steps of the sentinels, as they changed +the watch, only to rejoice, that another hour was gone. “O, +Valancourt!” said she, “after all I have suffered; after our long, +long separation, when I thought I should never—never see you +more—we are still to meet again! O! I have endured grief, and anxiety, +and terror, and let me, then, not sink beneath this joy!” These were +moments, when it was impossible for her to feel emotions of regret, or +melancholy, for any ordinary interests;—even the reflection, that she had +resigned the estates, which would have been a provision for herself and +Valancourt for life, threw only a light and transient shade upon her spirits. +The idea of Valancourt, and that she should see him so soon, alone occupied her +heart. +</p> + +<p> +At length the clock struck twelve; she opened the door to listen, if any noise +was in the castle, and heard only distant shouts of riot and laughter, echoed +feebly along the gallery. She guessed, that the Signor and his guests were at +the banquet. “They are now engaged for the night,” said she; +“and Valancourt will soon be here.” Having softly closed the door, +she paced the room with impatient steps, and often went to the casement to +listen for the lute; but all was silent, and, her agitation every moment +increasing, she was at length unable to support herself, and sat down by the +window. Annette, whom she detained, was, in the meantime, as loquacious as +usual; but Emily heard scarcely anything she said, and having at length risen +to the casement, she distinguished the chords of the lute, struck with an +expressive hand, and then the voice, she had formerly listened to, accompanied +it. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Now rising love they fann’d, now pleasing dole<br/> +They breath’d in tender musings through the heart;<br/> +And now a graver, sacred strain they stole,<br/> +As when seraphic hands a hymn impart! +</p> + +<p> +Emily wept in doubtful joy and tenderness; and, when the strain ceased, she +considered it as a signal, that Valancourt was about to leave the prison. Soon +after, she heard steps in the corridor;—they were the light, quick steps +of hope; she could scarcely support herself, as they approached, but opening +the door of the apartment, she advanced to meet Valancourt, and, in the next +moment, sunk in the arms of a stranger. His voice—his countenance +instantly convinced her, and she fainted away. +</p> + +<p> +On reviving, she found herself supported by the stranger, who was watching over +her recovery, with a countenance of ineffable tenderness and anxiety. She had +no spirits for reply, or enquiry; she asked no questions, but burst into tears, +and disengaged herself from his arms; when the expression of his countenance +changed to surprise and disappointment, and he turned to Ludovico, for an +explanation; Annette soon gave the information, which Ludovico could not. +“O, sir!” said she, in a voice, interrupted with sobs; “O, +sir! you are not the other Chevalier. We expected Monsieur Valancourt, but you +are not he! O Ludovico! how could you deceive us so? my poor lady will never +recover it—never!” The stranger, who now appeared much agitated, +attempted to speak, but his words faltered; and then striking his hand against +his forehead, as if in sudden despair, he walked abruptly to the other end of +the corridor. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly, Annette dried her tears, and spoke to Ludovico. “But, +perhaps,” said she, “after all, the other Chevalier is not this: +perhaps the Chevalier Valancourt is still below.” Emily raised her head. +“No,” replied Ludovico, “Monsieur Valancourt never was below, +if this gentleman is not he.” “If you, sir,” said Ludovico, +addressing the stranger, “would but have had the goodness to trust me +with your name, this mistake had been avoided.” “Most true,” +replied the stranger, speaking in broken Italian, “but it was of the +utmost consequence to me, that my name should be concealed from Montoni. +Madam,” added he then, addressing Emily in French, “will you permit +me to apologise for the pain I have occasioned you, and to explain to you alone +my name, and the circumstance, which has led me into this error? I am of +France;—I am your countryman;—we are met in a foreign land.” +Emily tried to compose her spirits; yet she hesitated to grant his request. At +length, desiring, that Ludovico would wait on the staircase, and detaining +Annette, she told the stranger, that her woman understood very little Italian, +and begged he would communicate what he wished to say, in that +language.—Having withdrawn to a distant part of the corridor, he said, +with a long-drawn sigh, “You, madam, are no stranger to me, though I am +so unhappy as to be unknown to you.—My name is Du Pont; I am of France, +of Gascony, your native province, and have long admired,—and, why should +I affect to disguise it?—have long loved you.” He paused, but, in +the next moment, proceeded. “My family, madam, is probably not unknown to +you, for we lived within a few miles of La Vallée, and I have, sometimes, had +the happiness of meeting you, on visits in the neighbourhood. I will not offend +you by repeating how much you interested me; how much I loved to wander in the +scenes you frequented; how often I visited your favourite fishing-house, and +lamented the circumstance, which, at that time, forbade me to reveal my +passion. I will not explain how I surrendered to temptation, and became +possessed of a treasure, which was to me inestimable; a treasure, which I +committed to your messenger, a few days ago, with expectations very different +from my present ones. I will say nothing of these circumstances, for I know +they will avail me little; let me only supplicate from you forgiveness, and the +picture, which I so unwarily returned. Your generosity will pardon the theft, +and restore the prize. My crime has been my punishment; for the portrait I +stole has contributed to nourish a passion, which must still be my +torment.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily now interrupted him. “I think, sir, I may leave it to your +integrity to determine, whether, after what has just appeared, concerning Mons. +Valancourt, I ought to return the picture. I think you will acknowledge, that +this would not be generosity; and you will allow me to add, that it would be +doing myself an injustice. I must consider myself honoured by your good +opinion, but”—and she hesitated,—“the mistake of this +evening makes it unnecessary for me to say more.” +</p> + +<p> +“It does, madam,—alas! it does!” said the stranger, who, +after a long pause, proceeded.—“But you will allow me to show my +disinterestedness, though not my love, and will accept the services I offer. +Yet, alas! what services can I offer? I am myself a prisoner, a sufferer, like +you. But, dear as liberty is to me, I would not seek it through half the +hazards I would encounter to deliver you from this recess of vice. Accept the +offered services of a friend; do not refuse me the reward of having, at least, +attempted to deserve your thanks.” +</p> + +<p> +“You deserve them already, sir,” said Emily; “the wish +deserves my warmest thanks. But you will excuse me for reminding you of the +danger you incur by prolonging this interview. It will be a great consolation +to me to remember, whether your friendly attempts to release me succeed or not, +that I have a countryman, who would so generously protect +me.”—Monsieur Du Pont took her hand, which she but feebly attempted +to withdraw, and pressed it respectfully to his lips. “Allow me to +breathe another fervent sigh for your happiness,” said he, “and to +applaud myself for an affection, which I cannot conquer.” As he said +this, Emily heard a noise from her apartment, and, turning round, saw the door +from the staircase open, and a man rush into her chamber. “I will teach +you to conquer it,” cried he, as he advanced into the corridor, and drew +a stiletto, which he aimed at Du Pont, who was unarmed, but who, stepping back, +avoided the blow, and then sprung upon Verezzi, from whom he wrenched the +stiletto. While they struggled in each other’s grasp, Emily, followed by +Annette, ran further into the corridor, calling on Ludovico, who was, however, +gone from the staircase, and, as she advanced, terrified and uncertain what to +do, a distant noise, that seemed to arise from the hall, reminded her of the +danger she was incurring; and, sending Annette forward in search of Ludovico, +she returned to the spot where Du Pont and Verezzi were still struggling for +victory. It was her own cause which was to be decided with that of the former, +whose conduct, independently of this circumstance, would, however, have +interested her in his success, even had she not disliked and dreaded Verezzi. +She threw herself in a chair, and supplicated them to desist from further +violence, till, at length, Du Pont forced Verezzi to the floor, where he lay +stunned by the violence of his fall; and she then entreated Du Pont to escape +from the room, before Montoni, or his party, should appear; but he still +refused to leave her unprotected; and, while Emily, now more terrified for him, +than for herself, enforced the entreaty, they heard steps ascending the private +staircase. +</p> + +<p> +“O you are lost!” cried she, “these are Montoni’s +people.” Du Pont made no reply, but supported Emily, while, with a +steady, though eager, countenance, he awaited their appearance, and, in the +next moment, Ludovico, alone, mounted the landing-place. Throwing a hasty +glance round the chamber, “Follow me,” said he, “as you value +your lives; we have not an instant to lose!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily enquired what had occurred, and whither they were to go? +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot stay to tell you now, Signora,” replied Ludovico: +“fly! fly!” +</p> + +<p> +She immediately followed him, accompanied by Mons. Du Pont, down the +staircase, and along a vaulted passage, when suddenly she recollected Annette, +and enquired for her. “She awaits us further on, Signora,” said +Ludovico, almost breathless with haste; “the gates were open, a moment +since, to a party just come in from the mountains: they will be shut, I fear, +before we can reach them! Through this door, Signora,” added Ludovico, +holding down the lamp, “take care, here are two steps.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily followed, trembling still more, than before she had understood, that her +escape from the castle, depended upon the present moment; while Du Pont +supported her, and endeavoured, as they passed along, to cheer her spirits. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak low, Signor,” said Ludovico, “these passages send +echoes all round the castle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Take care of the light,” cried Emily, “you go so fast, that +the air will extinguish it.” +</p> + +<p> +Ludovico now opened another door, where they found Annette, and the party then +descended a short flight of steps into a passage, which, Ludovico said, led +round the inner court of the castle, and opened into the outer one. As they +advanced, confused and tumultuous sounds, that seemed to come from the inner +court, alarmed Emily. “Nay, Signora,” said Ludovico, “our +only hope is in that tumult; while the Signor’s people are busied about +the men, who are just arrived, we may, perhaps, pass unnoticed through the +gates. But hush!” he added, as they approached the small door, that +opened into the outer court, “if you will remain here a moment, I will go +to see whether the gates are open, and anybody is in the way. Pray extinguish +the light, Signor, if you hear me talking,” continued Ludovico, +delivering the lamp to Du Pont, “and remain quite still.” +</p> + +<p> +Saying this, he stepped out upon the court, and they closed the door, listening +anxiously to his departing steps. No voice, however, was heard in the court, +which he was crossing, though a confusion of many voices yet issued from the +inner one. “We shall soon be beyond the walls,” said Du Pont softly +to Emily, “support yourself a little longer, Madam, and all will be +well.” +</p> + +<p> +But soon they heard Ludovico speaking loud, and the voice also of some other +person, and Du Pont immediately extinguished the lamp. “Ah! it is too +late!” exclaimed Emily, “what is to become of us?” They +listened again, and then perceived, that Ludovico was talking with a sentinel, +whose voices were heard also by Emily’s favourite dog, that had followed +her from the chamber, and now barked loudly. “This dog will betray +us!” said Du Pont, “I will hold him.” “I fear he has +already betrayed us!” replied Emily. Du Pont, however, caught him up, +and, again listening to what was going on without, they heard Ludovico say, +“I’ll watch the gates the while.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stay a minute,” replied the sentinel, “and you need not have +the trouble, for the horses will be sent round to the outer stables, then the +gates will be shut, and I can leave my post.” “I don’t mind +the trouble, comrade,” said Ludovico, “you will do such another +good turn for me, some time. Go—go, and fetch the wine; the rogues, that +are just come in, will drink it all else.” +</p> + +<p> +The soldier hesitated, and then called aloud to the people in the second court, +to know why they did not send out the horses, that the gates might be shut; but +they were too much engaged, to attend to him, even if they had heard his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye—aye,” said Ludovico, “they know better than that; +they are sharing it all among them; if you wait till the horses come out, you +must wait till the wine is drunk. I have had my share already, but, since you +do not care about yours, I see no reason why I should not have that too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hold, hold, not so fast,” cried the sentinel, “do watch +then, for a moment: I’ll be with you presently.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t hurry yourself,” said Ludovico, coolly, “I have +kept guard before now. But you may leave me your trombone,* that, if the castle +should be attacked, you know, I may be able to defend the pass, like a +hero.” +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +(*Note: A kind of blunderbuss. [A. R.]) +</p> + +<p> +“There, my good fellow,” returned the soldier, “there, take +it—it has seen service, though it could do little in defending the +castle. I’ll tell you a good story, though, about this same +trombone.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll tell it better when you have had the wine,” said +Ludovico. “There! they are coming out from the court already.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll have the wine, though,” said the sentinel, running off. +“I won’t keep you a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +“Take your time, I am in no haste,” replied Ludovico, who was +already hurrying across the court, when the soldier came back. “Whither +so fast, friend—whither so fast?” said the latter. “What! is +this the way you keep watch! I must stand to my post myself, I see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, well,” replied Ludovico, “you have saved me the trouble +of following you further, for I wanted to tell you, if you have a mind to drink +the Tuscany wine, you must go to Sebastian, he is dealing it out; the other +that Federico has, is not worth having. But you are not likely to have any, I +see, for they are all coming out.” +</p> + +<p> +“By St. Peter! so they are,” said the soldier, and again ran off, +while Ludovico, once more at liberty, hastened to the door of the passage, +where Emily was sinking under the anxiety this long discourse had occasioned; +but, on his telling them the court was clear, they followed him to the gates, +without waiting another instant, yet not before he had seized two horses, that +had strayed from the second court, and were picking a scanty meal among the +grass, which grew between the pavement of the first. +</p> + +<p> +They passed, without interruption, the dreadful gates, and took the road that +led down among the woods, Emily, Monsieur Du Pont and Annette on foot, and +Ludovico, who was mounted on one horse, leading the other. Having reached them, +they stopped, while Emily and Annette were placed on horseback with their two +protectors, when, Ludovico leading the way, they set off as fast as the broken +road, and the feeble light, which a rising moon threw among the foliage, would +permit. +</p> + +<p> +Emily was so much astonished by this sudden departure, that she scarcely dared +to believe herself awake; and she yet much doubted whether this adventure would +terminate in escape,—a doubt, which had too much probability to justify +it; for, before they quitted the woods, they heard shouts in the wind, and, on +emerging from them, saw lights moving quickly near the castle above. Du Pont +whipped his horse, and with some difficulty compelled him to go faster. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! poor beast,” said Ludovico, “he is weary +enough;—he has been out all day; but, Signor, we must fly for it, now; +for yonder are lights coming this way.” +</p> + +<p> +Having given his own horse a lash, they now both set off on a full gallop; and, +when they again looked back, the lights were so distant as scarcely to be +discerned, and the voices were sunk into silence. The travellers then abated +their pace, and, consulting whither they should direct their course, it was +determined they should descend into Tuscany, and endeavour to reach the +Mediterranean, where they could readily embark for France. Thither Du Pont +meant to attend Emily, if he should learn, that the regiment he had accompanied +into Italy, was returned to his native country. +</p> + +<p> +They were now in the road, which Emily had travelled with Ugo and Bertrand; but +Ludovico, who was the only one of the party, acquainted with the passes of +these mountains, said, that, a little further on, a by-road, branching from +this, would lead them down into Tuscany with very little difficulty; and that, +at a few leagues distance, was a small town, where necessaries could be +procured for their journey. +</p> + +<p> +“But, I hope,” added he, “we shall meet with no straggling +parties of banditti; some of them are abroad, I know. However, I have got a +good trombone, which will be of some service, if we should encounter any of +those brave spirits. You have no arms, Signor?” “Yes,” +replied Du Pont, “I have the villain’s stilletto, who would have +stabbed me—but let us rejoice in our escape from Udolpho, nor torment +ourselves with looking out for dangers, that may never arrive.” +</p> + +<p> +The moon was now risen high over the woods, that hung upon the sides of the +narrow glen, through which they wandered, and afforded them light sufficient to +distinguish their way, and to avoid the loose and broken stones, that +frequently crossed it. They now travelled leisurely, and in profound silence; +for they had scarcely yet recovered from the astonishment, into which this +sudden escape had thrown them.—Emily’s mind, especially, was sunk, +after the various emotions it had suffered, into a kind of musing stillness, +which the reposing beauty of the surrounding scene and the creeping murmur of +the night-breeze among the foliage above contributed to prolong. She thought of +Valancourt and of France, with hope, and she would have thought of them with +joy, had not the first events of this evening harassed her spirits too much, to +permit her now to feel so lively a sensation. Meanwhile, Emily was alone the +object of Du Pont’s melancholy consideration; yet, with the despondency +he suffered, as he mused on his recent disappointment, was mingled a sweet +pleasure, occasioned by her presence, though they did not now exchange a single +word. Annette thought of this wonderful escape, of the bustle in which Montoni +and his people must be, now that their flight was discovered; of her native +country, whither she hoped she was returning, and of her marriage with +Ludovico, to which there no longer appeared any impediment, for poverty she did +not consider such. Ludovico, on his part, congratulated himself, on having +rescued his Annette and Signora Emily from the danger, that had surrounded +them; on his own liberation from people, whose manners he had long detested; on +the freedom he had given to Monsieur Du Pont; on his prospect of happiness with +the object of his affections, and not a little on the address, with which he +had deceived the sentinel, and conducted the whole of this affair. +</p> + +<p> +Thus variously engaged in thought, the travellers passed on silently, for above +an hour, a question only being, now and then, asked by Du Pont, concerning the +road, or a remark uttered by Annette, respecting objects, seen imperfectly in +the twilight. At length, lights were perceived twinkling on the side of a +mountain, and Ludovico had no doubt, that they proceeded from the town he had +mentioned, while his companions, satisfied by this assurance, sunk again into +silence. Annette was the first who interrupted this. “Holy Peter!” +said she, “What shall we do for money on our journey? for I know neither +I, nor my lady, have a single sequin; the Signor took care of that!” +</p> + +<p> +This remark produced a serious enquiry, which ended in as serious an +embarrassment, for Du Pont had been rifled of nearly all his money, when he was +taken prisoner; the remainder he had given to the sentinel, who had enabled him +occasionally to leave his prison-chamber; and Ludovico, who had for some time +found a difficulty, in procuring any part of the wages due to him, had now +scarcely cash sufficient to procure necessary refreshment at the first town, in +which they should arrive. +</p> + +<p> +Their poverty was the more distressing, since it would detain them among the +mountains, where, even in a town, they could scarcely consider themselves safe +from Montoni. The travellers, however, had only to proceed and dare the future; +and they continued their way through lonely wilds and dusky valleys, where the +overhanging foliage now admitted, and then excluded the moonlight; wilds so +desolate, that they appeared, on the first glance, as if no human being had +ever trod them before. Even the road, in which the party were, did but +slightly contradict this error, for the high grass and other luxuriant +vegetation, with which it was overgrown, told how very seldom the foot of a +traveller had passed it. +</p> + +<p> +At length, from a distance, was heard the faint tinkling of a sheep-bell; and, +soon after, the bleat of flocks, and the party then knew, that they were near +some human habitation, for the light, which Ludovico had fancied to proceed +from a town, had long been concealed by intervening mountains. Cheered by this +hope, they quickened their pace along the narrow pass they were winding, and it +opened upon one of those pastoral valleys of the Apennines, which might be +painted for a scene of Arcadia, and whose beauty and simplicity are finely +contrasted by the grandeur of the snowtopped mountains above. +</p> + +<p> +The morning light, now glimmering in the horizon, showed faintly, at a little +distance, upon the brow of a hill, which seemed to peep from “under the +opening eye-lids of the morn,” the town they were in search of, and which +they soon after reached. It was not without some difficulty, that they there +found a house, which could afford shelter for themselves and their horses; and +Emily desired they might not rest longer than was necessary for refreshment. +Her appearance excited some surprise, for she was without a hat, having had +time only to throw on her veil before she left the castle, a circumstance, that +compelled her to regret again the want of money, without which it was +impossible to procure this necessary article of dress. +</p> + +<p> +Ludovico, on examining his purse, found it even insufficient to supply present +refreshment, and Du Pont, at length, ventured to inform the landlord, whose +countenance was simple and honest, of their exact situation, and requested, +that he would assist them to pursue their journey; a purpose, which he promised +to comply with, as far as he was able, when he learned that they were prisoners +escaping from Montoni, whom he had too much reason to hate. But, though he +consented to lend them fresh horses to carry them to the next town, he was too +poor himself to trust them with money, and they were again lamenting their +poverty, when Ludovico, who had been with his tired horses to the hovel, which +served for a stable, entered the room, half frantic with joy, in which his +auditors soon participated. On removing the saddle from one of the horses, he +had found beneath it a small bag, containing, no doubt, the booty of one of the +<i>Condottieri</i>, who had returned from a plundering excursion, just before +Ludovico left the castle, and whose horse having strayed from the inner court, +while his master was engaged in drinking, had brought away the treasure, which +the ruffian had considered the reward of his exploit. +</p> + +<p> +On counting over this, Du Pont found, that it would be more than sufficient to +carry them all to France, where he now determined to accompany Emily, whether +he should obtain intelligence of his regiment, or not; for, though he had as +much confidence in the integrity of Ludovico, as his small knowledge of him +allowed, he could not endure the thought of committing her to his care for the +voyage; nor, perhaps, had he resolution enough to deny himself the dangerous +pleasure, which he might derive from her presence. +</p> + +<p> +He now consulted them, concerning the sea-port, to which they should direct +their way, and Ludovico, better informed of the geography of the country, said, +that Leghorn was the nearest port of consequence, which Du Pont knew also to be +the most likely of any in Italy to assist their plan, since from thence vessels +of all nations were continually departing. Thither, therefore, it was +determined, that they should proceed. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, having purchased a little straw hat, such as was worn by the peasant +girls of Tuscany, and some other little necessary equipments for the journey, +and the travellers, having exchanged their tired horses for others better able +to carry them, recommenced their joyous way, as the sun was rising over the +mountains, and, after travelling through this romantic country, for several +hours, began to descend into the vale of Arno. And here Emily beheld all the +charms of sylvan and pastoral landscape united, adorned with the elegant villas +of the Florentine nobles, and diversified with the various riches of +cultivation. How vivid the shrubs that embowered the slopes, with the woods, +that stretched amphitheatrically along the mountains! and, above all, how +elegant the outline of these waving Apennines, now softening from the wildness, +which their interior regions exhibited! At a distance, in the east, Emily +discovered Florence, with its towers rising on the brilliant horizon, and its +luxuriant plain, spreading to the feet of the Apennines, speckled with gardens +and magnificent villas, or coloured with groves of orange and lemon, with +vines, corn, and plantations of olives and mulberry; while, to the west, the +vale opened to the waters of the Mediterranean, so distant, that they were +known only by a bluish line, that appeared upon the horizon, and by the light +marine vapour, which just stained the æther above. +</p> + +<p> +With a full heart, Emily hailed the waves, that were to bear her back to her +native country, the remembrance of which, however, brought with it a pang; for +she had there no home to receive, no parents to welcome her, but was going, +like a forlorn pilgrim, to weep over the sad spot, where he, who <i>was</i> her +father, lay interred. Nor were her spirits cheered, when she considered how +long it would probably be before she should see Valancourt, who might be +stationed with his regiment in a distant part of France, and that, when they +did meet, it would be only to lament the successful villany of Montoni; yet, +still she would have felt inexpressible delight at the thought of being once +more in the same country with Valancourt, had it even been certain, that she +could not see him. +</p> + +<p> +The intense heat, for it was now noon, obliged the travellers to look out for a +shady recess, where they might rest, for a few hours, and the neighbouring +thickets, abounding with wild grapes, raspberries, and figs, promised them +grateful refreshment. Soon after, they turned from the road into a grove, whose +thick foliage entirely excluded the sunbeams, and where a spring, gushing from +the rock, gave coolness to the air; and, having alighted and turned the horses +to graze, Annette and Ludovico ran to gather fruit from the surrounding +thickets, of which they soon returned with an abundance. The travellers, seated +under the shade of a pine and cypress grove and on turf, enriched with such a +profusion of fragrant flowers, as Emily had scarcely ever seen, even among the +Pyrenees, took their simple repast, and viewed, with new delight, beneath the +dark umbrage of gigantic pines, the glowing landscape stretching to the sea. +</p> + +<p> +Emily and Du Pont gradually became thoughtful and silent; but Annette was all +joy and loquacity, and Ludovico was gay, without forgetting the respectful +distance, which was due to his companions. The repast being over, Du Pont +recommended Emily to endeavour to sleep, during these sultry hours, and, +desiring the servants would do the same, said he would watch the while; but +Ludovico wished to spare him this trouble; and Emily and Annette, wearied with +travelling, tried to repose, while he stood guard with his trombone. +</p> + +<p> +When Emily, refreshed by slumber, awoke, she found the sentinel asleep on his +post and Du Pont awake, but lost in melancholy thought. As the sun was yet too +high to allow them to continue their journey, and as it was necessary, that +Ludovico, after the toils and trouble he had suffered, should finish his sleep, +Emily took this opportunity of enquiring by what accident Du Pont became +Montoni’s prisoner, and he, pleased with the interest this enquiry +expressed and with the excuse it gave him for talking to her of himself, +immediately answered her curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +“I came into Italy, madam,” said Du Pont, “in the service of +my country. In an adventure among the mountains our party, engaging with the +bands of Montoni, was routed, and I, with a few of my comrades, was taken +prisoner. When they told me, whose captive I was, the name of Montoni struck +me, for I remembered, that Madame Cheron, your aunt, had married an Italian of +that name, and that you had accompanied them into Italy. It was not, however, +till some time after, that I became convinced this was the same Montoni, or +learned that you, madam, was under the same roof with myself. I will not pain +you by describing what were my emotions upon this discovery, which I owed to a +sentinel, whom I had so far won to my interest, that he granted me many +indulgences, one of which was very important to me, and somewhat dangerous to +himself; but he persisted in refusing to convey any letter, or notice of my +situation to you, for he justly dreaded a discovery and the consequent +vengeance of Montoni. He however enabled me to see you more than once. You are +surprised, madam, and I will explain myself. My health and spirits suffered +extremely from want of air and exercise, and, at length, I gained so far upon +the pity, or the avarice of the man, that he gave me the means of walking on +the terrace.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily now listened, with very anxious attention, to the narrative of Du Pont, +who proceeded: +</p> + +<p> +“In granting this indulgence, he knew, that he had nothing to apprehend +from a chance of my escaping from a castle, which was vigilantly guarded, and +the nearest terrace of which rose over a perpendicular rock; he showed me +also,” continued Du Pont, “a door concealed in the cedar wainscot +of the apartment where I was confined, which he instructed me how to open; and +which, leading into a passage, formed within the thickness of the wall, that +extended far along the castle, finally opened in an obscure corner of the +eastern rampart. I have since been informed, that there are many passages of +the same kind concealed within the prodigious walls of that edifice, and which +were, undoubtedly, contrived for the purpose of facilitating escapes in time of +war. Through this avenue, at the dead of night, I often stole to the terrace, +where I walked with the utmost caution, lest my steps should betray me to the +sentinels on duty in distant parts; for this end of it, being guarded by high +buildings, was not watched by soldiers. In one of these midnight wanderings, I +saw light in a casement that overlooked the rampart, and which, I observed, was +immediately over my prison-chamber. It occurred to me, that you might be in +that apartment, and, with the hope of seeing you, I placed myself opposite to +the window.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, remembering the figure that had formerly appeared on the terrace, and +which had occasioned her so much anxiety, exclaimed, “It was you then, +Monsieur Du Pont, who occasioned me much foolish terror; my spirits were, at +that time, so much weakened by long suffering, that they took alarm at every +hint.” Du Pont, after lamenting, that he had occasioned her any +apprehension, added, “As I rested on the wall, opposite to your casement, +the consideration of your melancholy situation and of my own called from me +involuntary sounds of lamentation, which drew you, I fancy, to the casement; I +saw there a person, whom I believed to be you. O! I will say nothing of my +emotion at that moment; I wished to speak, but prudence restrained me, till the +distant foot-step of a sentinel compelled me suddenly to quit my station. +</p> + +<p> +“It was some time, before I had another opportunity of walking, for I +could only leave my prison, when it happened to be the turn of one man to guard +me; meanwhile I became convinced from some circumstances related by him, that +your apartment was over mine, and, when again I ventured forth, I returned to +your casement, where again I saw you, but without daring to speak. I waved my +hand, and you suddenly disappeared; then it was, that I forgot my prudence, and +yielded to lamentation; again you appeared—you spoke—I heard the +well-known accent of your voice! and, at that moment, my discretion would have +forsaken me again, had I not heard also the approaching steps of a soldier, +when I instantly quitted the place, though not before the man had seen me. He +followed down the terrace and gained so fast upon me, that I was compelled to +make use of a stratagem, ridiculous enough, to save myself. I had heard of the +superstition of many of these men, and I uttered a strange noise, with a hope, +that my pursuer would mistake it for something supernatural, and desist from +pursuit. Luckily for myself I succeeded; the man, it seems, was subject to +fits, and the terror he suffered threw him into one, by which accident I +secured my retreat. A sense of the danger I had escaped, and the increased +watchfulness, which my appearance had occasioned among the sentinels, deterred +me ever after from walking on the terrace; but, in the stillness of night, I +frequently beguiled myself with an old lute, procured for me by a soldier, +which I sometimes accompanied with my voice, and sometimes, I will acknowledge, +with a hope of making myself heard by you; but it was only a few evenings ago, +that this hope was answered. I then thought I heard a voice in the wind, +calling me; yet, even then I feared to reply, lest the sentinel at the prison +door should hear me. Was I right, madam, in this conjecture—was it you +who spoke?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Emily, with an involuntary sigh, “you were right +indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +Du Pont, observing the painful emotions, which this question revived, now +changed the subject. “In one of my excursions through the passage, which +I have mentioned, I overheard a singular conversation,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“In the passage!” said Emily, with surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“I heard it in the passage,” said Du Pont, “but it proceeded +from an apartment, adjoining the wall, within which the passage wound, and the +shell of the wall was there so thin, and was also somewhat decayed, that I +could distinctly hear every word, spoken on the other side. It happened that +Montoni and his companions were assembled in the room, and Montoni began to +relate the extraordinary history of the lady, his predecessor, in the castle. +He did, indeed, mention some very surprising circumstances, and whether they +were strictly true, his conscience must decide; I fear it will determine +against him. But you, madam, have doubtless heard the report, which he designs +should circulate, on the subject of that lady’s mysterious fate.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have, sir,” replied Emily, “and I perceive, that you doubt +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I doubted it before the period I am speaking of,” rejoined Du +Pont;—“but some circumstances, mentioned by Montoni, greatly +contributed to my suspicions. The account I then heard, almost convinced me, +that he was a murderer. I trembled for you;—the more so that I had heard +the guests mention your name in a manner, that threatened your repose; and, +knowing, that the most impious men are often the most superstitious, I +determined to try whether I could not awaken their consciences, and awe them +from the commission of the crime I dreaded. I listened closely to Montoni, and, +in the most striking passages of his story, I joined my voice, and repeated his +last words, in a disguised and hollow tone.” +</p> + +<p> +“But were you not afraid of being discovered?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“I was not,” replied Du Pont; “for I knew, that, if Montoni +had been acquainted with the secret of this passage, he would not have confined +me in the apartment, to which it led. I knew also, from better authority, that +he was ignorant of it. The party, for some time, appeared inattentive to my +voice; but, at length, were so much alarmed, that they quitted the apartment; +and, having heard Montoni order his servants to search it, I returned to my +prison, which was very distant from this part of the passage.” “I +remember perfectly to have heard of the conversation you mention,” said +Emily; “it spread a general alarm among Montoni’s people, and I +will own I was weak enough to partake of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur Du Pont and Emily thus continued to converse of Montoni, and then of +France, and of the plan of their voyage; when Emily told him, that it was her +intention to retire to a convent in Languedoc, where she had been formerly +treated with much kindness, and from thence to write to her relation Monsieur +Quesnel, and inform him of her conduct. There, she designed to wait, till La +Vallée should again be her own, whither she hoped her income would some time +permit her to return; for Du Pont now taught her to expect, that the estate, of +which Montoni had attempted to defraud her, was not irrecoverably lost, and he +again congratulated her on her escape from Montoni, who, he had not a doubt, +meant to have detained her for life. The possibility of recovering her +aunt’s estates for Valancourt and herself lighted up a joy in +Emily’s heart, such as she had not known for many months; but she +endeavoured to conceal this from Monsieur Du Pont, lest it should lead him to a +painful remembrance of his rival. +</p> + +<p> +They continued to converse, till the sun was declining in the west, when Du +Pont awoke Ludovico, and they set forward on their journey. Gradually +descending the lower slopes of the valley, they reached the Arno, and wound +along its pastoral margin, for many miles, delighted with the scenery around +them, and with the remembrances, which its classic waves revived. At a +distance, they heard the gay song of the peasants among the vineyards, and +observed the setting sun tint the waves with yellow lustre, and twilight draw a +dusky purple over the mountains, which, at length, deepened into night. Then +the <i>lucciola</i>, the fire-fly of Tuscany, was seen to flash its sudden +sparks among the foliage, while the <i>cicala</i>, with its shrill note, became +more clamorous than even during the noon-day heat, loving best the hour when +the English beetle, with less offensive sound, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +winds<br/> +His small but sullen horn,<br/> +As oft he rises ’midst the twilight path,<br/> +Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.<br/> + COLLINS +</p> + +<p> +The travellers crossed the Arno by moonlight, at a ferry, and, learning that +Pisa was distant only a few miles down the river, they wished to have proceeded +thither in a boat, but, as none could be procured, they set out on their +wearied horses for that city. As they approached it, the vale expanded into a +plain, variegated with vineyards, corn, olives and mulberry groves; but it was +late, before they reached its gates, where Emily was surprised to hear the busy +sound of footsteps and the tones of musical instruments, as well as to see the +lively groups, that filled the streets, and she almost fancied herself again at +Venice; but here was no moonlight sea—no gay gondolas, dashing the +waves,—no <i>Palladian</i> palaces, to throw enchantment over the fancy +and lead it into the wilds of fairy story. The Arno rolled through the town, +but no music trembled from balconies over its waters; it gave only the busy +voices of sailors on board vessels just arrived from the Mediterranean; the +melancholy heaving of the anchor, and the shrill boatswain’s +whistle;—sounds, which, since that period, have there sunk almost into +silence. They then served to remind Du Pont, that it was probable he might hear +of a vessel, sailing soon to France from this port, and thus be spared the +trouble of going to Leghorn. As soon as Emily had reached the inn, he went +therefore to the quay, to make his enquiries; but, after all the endeavours of +himself and Ludovico, they could hear of no bark, destined immediately for +France, and the travellers returned to their resting-place. Here also, Du Pont +endeavoured to learn where his regiment then lay, but could acquire no +information concerning it. The travellers retired early to rest, after the +fatigues of this day; and, on the following, rose early, and, without pausing +to view the celebrated antiquities of the place, or the wonders of its hanging +tower, pursued their journey in the cooler hours, through a charming country, +rich with wine, and corn and oil. The Apennines, no longer awful, or even +grand, here softened into the beauty of sylvan and pastoral landscape; and +Emily, as she descended them, looked down delighted on Leghorn, and its +spacious bay, filled with vessels, and crowned with these beautiful hills. +</p> + +<p> +She was no less surprised and amused, on entering this town, to find it crowded +with persons in the dresses of all nations; a scene, which reminded her of a +Venetian masquerade, such as she had witnessed at the time of the Carnival; but +here was bustle without gaiety, and noise instead of music, while elegance +was to be looked for only in the waving outlines of the surrounding hills. +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur Du Pont, immediately on their arrival, went down to the quay, where he +heard of several French vessels, and of one, that was to sail, in a few days, +for Marseilles, from whence another vessel could be procured, without +difficulty, to take them across the gulf of Lyons towards Narbonne, on the +coast not many leagues from which city he understood the convent was seated, to +which Emily wished to retire. He, therefore, immediately engaged with the +captain to take them to Marseilles, and Emily was delighted to hear, that her +passage to France was secured. Her mind was now relieved from the terror of +pursuit, and the pleasing hope of soon seeing her native country—that +country which held Valancourt, restored to her spirits a degree of +cheerfulness, such as she had scarcely known, since the death of her father. At +Leghorn also, Du Pont heard of his regiment, and that it had embarked for +France; a circumstance, which gave him great satisfaction, for he could now +accompany Emily thither, without reproach to his conscience, or apprehension of +displeasure from his commander. During these days, he scrupulously forbore to +distress her by a mention of his passion, and she was compelled to esteem and +pity, though she could not love him. He endeavoured to amuse her by showing the +environs of the town, and they often walked together on the sea-shore, and on +the busy quays, where Emily was frequently interested by the arrival and +departure of vessels, participating in the joy of meeting friends, and, +sometimes, shedding a sympathetic tear to the sorrow of those, that were +separating. It was after having witnessed a scene of the latter kind, that she +arranged the following stanzas: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +THE MARINER<br/><br/> + +Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow’d the tide;<br/> +And blue the heaven in its mirror smil’d;<br/> +The white sail trembled, swell’d, expanded wide,<br/> +The busy sailors at the anchor toil’d.<br/><br/> + +With anxious friends, that shed the parting tear,<br/> +The deck was throng’d—how swift the moments fly!<br/> +The vessel heaves, the farewell signs appear;<br/> +Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!<br/><br/> + +The last dread moment comes!—The sailor youth<br/> +Hides the big drop, then smiles amid his pain,<br/> +Sooths his sad bride, and vows eternal truth,<br/> +“Farewell, my love—we shall—shall meet again!”<br/><br/> + +Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood;<br/> +The crowded shore sinks, lessening, from his view,<br/> +As gradual glides the bark along the flood;<br/> +His bride is seen no more—“Adieu!—adieu!”<br/><br/> + +The breeze of Eve moans low, her smile is o’er,<br/> +Dim steals her twilight down the crimson’d west,<br/> +He climbs the top-most mast, to seek once more<br/> +The far-seen coast, where all his wishes rest.<br/><br/> + +He views its dark line on the distant sky,<br/> +And Fancy leads him to his little home,<br/> +He sees his weeping love, he hears her sigh,<br/> +He sooths her griefs, and tells of joys to come.<br/><br/> + +Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales,<br/> +In one vast shade the seas and shores repose;<br/> +He turns his aching eyes,—his spirit fails,<br/> +The chill tear falls;—sad to the deck he goes!<br/><br/> + +The storm of midnight swells, the sails are furl’d,<br/> +Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly shore,<br/> +Fast o’er the waves the wretched bark is hurl’d,<br/> +“O Ellen, Ellen! we must meet no more!”<br/><br/> + +Lightnings, that show the vast and foamy deep,<br/> +The rending thunders, as they onward roll,<br/> +The loud, loud winds, that o’er the billows sweep—<br/> +Shake the firm nerve, appall the bravest soul!<br/><br/> + +Ah! what avails the seamen’s toiling care!<br/> +The straining cordage bursts, the mast is riv’n;<br/> +The sounds of terror groan along the air,<br/> +Then sink afar;—the bark on rocks is driv’n!<br/><br/> + +Fierce o’er the wreck the whelming waters pass’d,<br/> +The helpless crew sunk in the roaring main!<br/> +Henry’s faint accents trembled in the blast—<br/> +“Farewell, my love!—we ne’er shall meet again!”<br/><br/> + +Oft, at the calm and silent evening hour,<br/> +When summer-breezes linger on the wave,<br/> +A melancholy voice is heard to pour<br/> +Its lonely sweetness o’er poor Henry’s grave!<br/><br/> + +And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard<br/> +Around the grove, where Ellen’s form is laid;<br/> +Nor is the dirge by village-maidens fear’d,<br/> +For lovers’ spirits guard the holy shade! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a> CHAPTER X </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Oh! the joy<br/> +Of young ideas painted on the mind<br/> +In the warm glowing colours fancy spreads<br/> +On objects not yet known, when all is new,<br/> +And all is lovely!<br/> + SACRED DRAMAS +</p> + +<p> +We now return to Languedoc and to the mention of Count De Villefort, the +nobleman, who succeeded to an estate of the Marquis De Villeroi situated near +the monastery of St. Claire. It may be recollected, that this château was +uninhabited, when St. Aubert and his daughter were in the neighbourhood, and +that the former was much affected on discovering himself to be so near +Château-le-Blanc, a place, concerning which the good old La Voisin afterwards +dropped some hints, that had alarmed Emily’s curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +It was in the year 1584, the beginning of that, in which St. Aubert died, that +Francis Beauveau, Count De Villefort, came into possession of the mansion and +extensive domain called Château-le-Blanc, situated in the province of +Languedoc, on the shore of the Mediterranean. This estate, which, during some +centuries, had belonged to his family, now descended to him, on the decease of +his relative, the Marquis De Villeroi, who had been latterly a man of reserved +manners and austere character; circumstances, which, together with the duties +of his profession, that often called him into the field, had prevented any +degree of intimacy with his cousin, the Count De Villefort. For many years, +they had known little of each other, and the Count received the first +intelligence of his death, which happened in a distant part of France, together +with the instruments, that gave him possession of the domain Château-le-Blanc; +but it was not till the following year, that he determined to visit that +estate, when he designed to pass the autumn there. The scenes of +Château-le-Blanc often came to his remembrance, heightened by the touches, +which a warm imagination gives to the recollection of early pleasures; for, +many years before, in the life-time of the Marchioness, and at that age when +the mind is particularly sensible to impressions of gaiety and delight, he had +once visited this spot, and, though he had passed a long intervening period +amidst the vexations and tumults of public affairs, which too frequently +corrode the heart, and vitiate the taste, the shades of Languedoc and the +grandeur of its distant scenery had never been remembered by him with +indifference. +</p> + +<p> +During many years, the château had been abandoned by the late Marquis, and, +being inhabited only by an old steward and his wife, had been suffered to fall +much into decay. To superintend the repairs, that would be requisite to make it +a comfortable residence, had been a principal motive with the Count for passing +the autumnal months in Languedoc; and neither the remonstrances, nor the tears +of the Countess, for, on urgent occasions, she could weep, were powerful enough +to overcome his determination. She prepared, therefore, to obey the command, +which she could not conquer, and to resign the gay assemblies of +Paris,—where her beauty was generally unrivalled and won the applause, to +which her wit had but feeble claim—for the twilight canopy of woods, the +lonely grandeur of mountains and the solemnity of gothic halls and of long, +long galleries, which echoed only the solitary step of a domestic, or the +measured clink, that ascended from the great clock—the ancient monitor of +the hall below. From these melancholy expectations she endeavoured to relieve +her spirits by recollecting all that she had ever heard, concerning the joyous +vintage of the plains of Languedoc; but there, alas! no airy forms would bound +to the gay melody of Parisian dances, and a view of the rustic festivities of +peasants could afford little pleasure to a heart, in which even the feelings of +ordinary benevolence had long since decayed under the corruptions of luxury. +</p> + +<p> +The Count had a son and a daughter, the children of a former marriage, who, he +designed, should accompany him to the south of France; Henri, who was in his +twentieth year, was in the French service; and Blanche, who was not yet +eighteen, had been hitherto confined to the convent, where she had been placed +immediately on her father’s second marriage. The present Countess, who +had neither sufficient ability, nor inclination, to superintend the education of +her daughter-in-law, had advised this step, and the dread of superior beauty +had since urged her to employ every art, that might prevail on the Count to +prolong the period of Blanche’s seclusion; it was, therefore, with +extreme mortification, that she now understood he would no longer submit on +this subject, yet it afforded her some consolation to consider, that, though +the Lady Blanche would emerge from her convent, the shades of the country +would, for some time, veil her beauty from the public eye. +</p> + +<p> +On the morning, which commenced the journey, the postillions stopped at the +convent, by the Count’s order, to take up Blanche, whose heart beat with +delight, at the prospect of novelty and freedom now before her. As the time of +her departure drew nigh, her impatience had increased, and the last night, +during which she counted every note of every hour, had appeared the most +tedious of any she had ever known. The morning light, at length, dawned; the +matin-bell rang; she heard the nuns descending from their chambers, and she +started from a sleepless pillow to welcome the day, which was to emancipate her +from the severities of a cloister, and introduce her to a world, where pleasure +was ever smiling, and goodness ever blessed—where, in short, nothing but +pleasure and goodness reigned! When the bell of the great gate rang, and the +sound was followed by that of carriage wheels, she ran, with a palpitating +heart, to her lattice, and, perceiving her father’s carriage in the court +below, danced, with airy steps, along the gallery, where she was met by a nun +with a summons from the abbess. In the next moment, she was in the parlour, and +in the presence of the Countess who now appeared to her as an angel, that was +to lead her into happiness. But the emotions of the Countess, on beholding her, +were not in unison with those of Blanche, who had never appeared so lovely as +at this moment, when her countenance, animated by the lightning smile of joy, +glowed with the beauty of happy innocence. +</p> + +<p> +After conversing for a few minutes with the abbess, the Countess rose to go. +This was the moment, which Blanche had anticipated with such eager expectation, +the summit from which she looked down upon the fairy-land of happiness, and +surveyed all its enchantment; was it a moment, then, for tears of regret? Yet +it was so. She turned, with an altered and dejected countenance, to her young +companions, who were come to bid her farewell, and wept! Even my lady abbess, +so stately and so solemn, she saluted with a degree of sorrow, which, an hour +before, she would have believed it impossible to feel, and which may be +accounted for by considering how reluctantly we all part, even with unpleasing +objects, when the separation is consciously for ever. Again, she kissed the +poor nuns and then followed the Countess from that spot with tears, which she +expected to leave only with smiles. +</p> + +<p> +But the presence of her father and the variety of objects, on the road, soon +engaged her attention, and dissipated the shade, which tender regret had thrown +upon her spirits. Inattentive to a conversation, which was passing between the +Countess and a Mademoiselle Bearn, her friend, Blanche sat, lost in pleasing +reverie, as she watched the clouds floating silently along the blue expanse, +now veiling the sun and stretching their shadows along the distant scene, and +then disclosing all his brightness. The journey continued to give Blanche +inexpressible delight, for new scenes of nature were every instant opening to +her view, and her fancy became stored with gay and beautiful imagery. +</p> + +<p> +It was on the evening of the seventh day, that the travellers came within view +of Château-le-Blanc, the romantic beauty of whose situation strongly impressed +the imagination of Blanche, who observed, with sublime astonishment, the +Pyrenean mountains, which had been seen only at a distance during the day, now +rising within a few leagues, with their wild cliffs and immense precipices, +which the evening clouds, floating round them, now disclosed, and again veiled. +The setting rays, that tinged their snowy summits with a roseate hue, touched +their lower points with various colouring, while the bluish tint, that +pervaded their shadowy recesses, gave the strength of contrast to the splendour +of light. The plains of Languedoc, blushing with the purple vine and +diversified with groves of mulberry, almond and olives, spread far to the north +and the east; to the south, appeared the Mediterranean, clear as crystal, and +blue as the heavens it reflected, bearing on its bosom vessels, whose white +sails caught the sunbeams, and gave animation to the scene. On a high +promontory, washed by the waters of the Mediterranean, stood her father’s +mansion, almost secluded from the eye by woods of intermingled pine, oak and +chesnut, which crowned the eminence, and sloped towards the plains, on one +side; while, on the other, they extended to a considerable distance along the +sea-shores. +</p> + +<p> +As Blanche drew nearer, the gothic features of this ancient mansion +successively appeared—first an embattled turret, rising above the +trees—then the broken arch of an immense gateway, retiring beyond them; +and she almost fancied herself approaching a castle, such as is often +celebrated in early story, where the knights look out from the battlements on +some champion below, who, clothed in black armour, comes, with his companions, +to rescue the fair lady of his love from the oppression of his rival; a sort of +legends, to which she had once or twice obtained access in the library of her +convent, that, like many others, belonging to the monks, was stored with these +reliques of romantic fiction. +</p> + +<p> +The carriages stopped at a gate, which led into the domain of the château, but +which was now fastened; and the great bell, that had formerly served to +announce the arrival of strangers, having long since fallen from its station, a +servant climbed over a ruined part of the adjoining wall, to give notice to +those within of the arrival of their lord. +</p> + +<p> +As Blanche leaned from the coach window, she resigned herself to the sweet and +gentle emotions, which the hour and the scenery awakened. The sun had now left +the earth, and twilight began to darken the mountains; while the distant +waters, reflecting the blush that still glowed in the west, appeared like a +line of light, skirting the horizon. The low murmur of waves, breaking on the +shore, came in the breeze, and, now and then, the melancholy dashing of oars +was feebly heard from a distance. She was suffered to indulge her pensive mood, +for the thoughts of the rest of the party were silently engaged upon the +subjects of their several interests. Meanwhile, the Countess, reflecting, with +regret, upon the gay parties she had left at Paris, surveyed, with disgust, +what she thought the gloomy woods and solitary wildness of the scene; and, +shrinking from the prospect of being shut up in an old castle, was prepared to +meet every object with displeasure. The feelings of Henri were somewhat similar +to those of the Countess; he gave a mournful sigh to the delights of the +capital, and to the remembrance of a lady, who, he believed, had engaged his +affections, and who had certainly fascinated his imagination; but the +surrounding country, and the mode of life, on which he was entering, had, for +him, at least, the charm of novelty, and his regret was softened by the gay +expectations of youth. The gates being at length unbarred, the carriage moved +slowly on, under spreading chesnuts, that almost excluded the remains of day, +following what had been formerly a road, but which now, overgrown with +luxuriant vegetation, could be traced only by the boundary, formed by trees, on +either side, and which wound for near half a mile among the woods, before it +reached the château. This was the very avenue that St. Aubert and Emily had +formerly entered, on their first arrival in the neighbourhood, with the hope of +finding a house, that would receive them, for the night, and had so abruptly +quitted, on perceiving the wildness of the place, and a figure, which the +postillion had fancied was a robber. +</p> + +<p> +“What a dismal place is this!” exclaimed the Countess, as the +carriage penetrated the deeper recesses of the woods. “Surely, my lord, +you do not mean to pass all the autumn in this barbarous spot! One ought to +bring hither a cup of the waters of Lethe, that the remembrance of pleasanter +scenes may not heighten, at least, the natural dreariness of these.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be governed by circumstances, madam,” said the Count, +“this barbarous spot was inhabited by my ancestors.” +</p> + +<p> +The carriage now stopped at the château, where, at the door of the great hall, +appeared the old steward and the Parisian servants, who had been sent to +prepare the château, waiting to receive their lord. Lady Blanche now perceived, +that the edifice was not built entirely in the gothic style, but that it had +additions of a more modern date; the large and gloomy hall, however, into which +she now entered, was entirely gothic, and sumptuous tapestry, which it was now +too dark to distinguish, hung upon the walls, and depictured scenes from some +of the ancient Provençal romances. A vast gothic window, embroidered with +<i>clematis</i> and eglantine, that ascended to the south, led the eye, now +that the casements were thrown open, through this verdant shade, over a sloping +lawn, to the tops of dark woods, that hung upon the brow of the promontory. +Beyond, appeared the waters of the Mediterranean, stretching far to the south, +and to the east, where they were lost in the horizon; while, to the north-east, +they were bounded by the luxuriant shores of Languedoc and Provence, enriched +with wood, and gay with vines and sloping pastures; and, to the south-west, by +the majestic Pyrenees, now fading from the eye, beneath the gradual gloom. +</p> + +<p> +Blanche, as she crossed the hall, stopped a moment to observe this lovely +prospect, which the evening twilight obscured, yet did not conceal. But she was +quickly awakened from the complacent delight, which this scene had diffused +upon her mind, by the Countess, who, discontented with every object around, and +impatient for refreshment and repose, hastened forward to a large parlour, +whose cedar wainscot, narrow, pointed casements, and dark ceiling of carved +cypress wood, gave it an aspect of peculiar gloom, which the dingy green velvet +of the chairs and couches, fringed with tarnished gold, had once been designed +to enliven. +</p> + +<p> +While the Countess enquired for refreshment, the Count, attended by his son, +went to look over some part of the château, and Lady Blanche reluctantly +remained to witness the discontent and ill-humour of her step-mother. +</p> + +<p> +“How long have you lived in this desolate place?” said her +ladyship, to the old housekeeper, who came to pay her duty. +</p> + +<p> +“Above twenty years, your ladyship, on the next feast of St. +Jerome.” +</p> + +<p> +“How happened it, that you have lived here so long, and almost alone, +too? I understood, that the château had been shut up for some years?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, madam, it was for many years after my late lord, the Count, went to +the wars; but it is above twenty years, since I and my husband came into his +service. The place is so large, and has of late been so lonely, that we were +lost in it, and, after some time, we went to live in a cottage at the end of +the woods, near some of the tenants, and came to look after the château, every +now and then. When my lord returned to France from the wars, he took a dislike +to the place, and never came to live here again, and so he was satisfied with +our remaining at the cottage. Alas—alas! how the château is changed from +what it once was! What delight my late lady used to take in it! I well remember +when she came here a bride, and how fine it was. Now, it has been neglected so +long, and is gone into such decay! I shall never see those days again!” +</p> + +<p> +The Countess appearing to be somewhat offended by the thoughtless simplicity, +with which the old woman regretted former times, Dorothée +added—“But the château will now be inhabited, and cheerful again; +not all the world could tempt me to live in it alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the experiment will not be made, I believe,” said the +Countess, displeased that her own silence had been unable to awe the loquacity +of this rustic old housekeeper, now spared from further attendance by the +entrance of the Count, who said he had been viewing part of the château, and +found, that it would require considerable repairs and some alterations, before +it would be perfectly comfortable, as a place of residence. “I am sorry +to hear it, my lord,” replied the Countess. “And why sorry, +madam?” “Because the place will ill repay your trouble; and were it +even a paradise, it would be insufferable at such a distance from Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +The Count made no reply, but walked abruptly to a window. “There are +windows, my lord, but they neither admit entertainment, nor light; they show +only a scene of savage nature.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am at a loss, madam,” said the Count, “to conjecture what +you mean by savage nature. Do those plains, or those woods, or that fine +expanse of water, deserve the name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Those mountains certainly do, my lord,” rejoined the Countess, +pointing to the Pyrenees, “and this château, though not a work of rude +nature, is, to my taste, at least, one of savage art.” The Count coloured +highly. “This place, madam, was the work of my ancestors,” said he, +“and you must allow me to say, that your present conversation discovers +neither good taste, nor good manners.” Blanche, now shocked at an +altercation, which appeared to be increasing to a serious disagreement, rose to +leave the room, when her mother’s woman entered it; and the Countess, +immediately desiring to be shown to her own apartment, withdrew, attended by +Mademoiselle Bearn. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Blanche, it being not yet dark, took this opportunity of exploring new +scenes, and, leaving the parlour, she passed from the hall into a wide gallery, +whose walls were decorated by marble pilasters, which supported an arched roof, +composed of a rich mosaic work. Through a distant window, that seemed to +terminate the gallery, were seen the purple clouds of evening and a landscape, +whose features, thinly veiled in twilight, no longer appeared distinctly, but, +blended into one grand mass, stretched to the horizon, coloured only with a +tint of solemn grey. +</p> + +<p> +The gallery terminated in a saloon, to which the window she had seen through an +open door, belonged; but the increasing dusk permitted her only an imperfect +view of this apartment, which seemed to be magnificent and of modern +architecture; though it had been either suffered to fall into decay, or had +never been properly finished. The windows, which were numerous and large, +descended low, and afforded a very extensive, and what Blanche’s fancy +represented to be, a very lovely prospect; and she stood for some time, +surveying the grey obscurity and depicturing imaginary woods and mountains, +valleys and rivers, on this scene of night; her solemn sensations rather +assisted, than interrupted, by the distant bark of a watch-dog, and by the +breeze, as it trembled upon the light foliage of the shrubs. Now and then, +appeared for a moment, among the woods, a cottage light; and, at length, was +heard, afar off, the evening bell of a convent, dying on the air. When she +withdrew her thoughts from these subjects of fanciful delight, the gloom and +silence of the saloon somewhat awed her; and, having sought the door of the +gallery, and pursued, for a considerable time, a dark passage, she came to a +hall, but one totally different from that she had formerly seen. By the +twilight, admitted through an open portico, she could just distinguish this +apartment to be of very light and airy architecture, and that it was paved with +white marble, pillars of which supported the roof, that rose into arches built +in the Moorish style. While Blanche stood on the steps of this portico, the +moon rose over the sea, and gradually disclosed, in partial light, the beauties +of the eminence, on which she stood, whence a lawn, now rude and overgrown with +high grass, sloped to the woods, that, almost surrounding the château, extended +in a grand sweep down the southern sides of the promontory to the very margin +of the ocean. Beyond the woods, on the north-side, appeared a long tract of the +plains of Languedoc; and, to the east, the landscape she had before dimly seen, +with the towers of a monastery, illumined by the moon, rising over dark groves. +</p> + +<p> +The soft and shadowy tint, that overspread the scene, the waves, undulating in +the moonlight, and their low and measured murmurs on the beach, were +circumstances, that united to elevate the unaccustomed mind of Blanche to +enthusiasm. +</p> + +<p> +“And have I lived in this glorious world so long,” said she, +“and never till now beheld such a prospect—never experienced these +delights! Every peasant girl, on my father’s domain, has viewed from her +infancy the face of nature; has ranged, at liberty, her romantic wilds, while I +have been shut in a cloister from the view of these beautiful appearances, +which were designed to enchant all eyes, and awaken all hearts. How can the +poor nuns and friars feel the full fervour of devotion, if they never see the +sun rise, or set? Never, till this evening, did I know what true devotion is; +for, never before did I see the sun sink below the vast earth! Tomorrow, for +the first time in my life, I will see it rise. O, who would live in Paris, to +look upon black walls and dirty streets, when, in the country, they might gaze +on the blue heavens, and all the green earth!” +</p> + +<p> +This enthusiastic soliloquy was interrupted by a rustling noise in the hall; +and, while the loneliness of the place made her sensible to fear, she thought +she perceived something moving between the pillars. For a moment, she continued +silently observing it, till, ashamed of her ridiculous apprehensions, she +recollected courage enough to demand who was there. “O my young lady, is +it you?” said the old housekeeper, who was come to shut the windows, +“I am glad it is you.” The manner, in which she spoke this, with a +faint breath, rather surprised Blanche, who said, “You seemed frightened, +Dorothée, what is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not frightened, ma’amselle,” replied Dorothée, +hesitating and trying to appear composed, “but I am old, and—a +little matter startles me.” The Lady Blanche smiled at the distinction. +“I am glad, that my lord the Count is come to live at the château, +ma’amselle,” continued Dorothée, “for it has been many a year +deserted, and dreary enough; now, the place will look a little as it used to +do, when my poor lady was alive.” Blanche enquired how long it was, since +the Marchioness died? “Alas! my lady,” replied Dorothée, “so +long—that I have ceased to count the years! The place, to my mind, has +mourned ever since, and I am sure my lord’s vassals have! But you have +lost yourself, ma’amselle,—shall I show you to the other side of +the château?” +</p> + +<p> +Blanche enquired how long this part of the edifice had been built. “Soon +after my lord’s marriage, ma’am,” replied Dorothée. +“The place was large enough without this addition, for many rooms of the +old building were even then never made use of, and my lord had a princely +household too; but he thought the ancient mansion gloomy, and gloomy enough it +is!” Lady Blanche now desired to be shown to the inhabited part of the +château; and, as the passages were entirely dark, Dorothée conducted her along +the edge of the lawn to the opposite side of the edifice, where, a door opening +into the great hall, she was met by Mademoiselle Bearn. “Where have you +been so long?” said she, “I had begun to think some wonderful +adventure had befallen you, and that the giant of this enchanted castle, or the +ghost, which, no doubt, haunts it, had conveyed you through a trap-door into +some subterranean vault, whence you were never to return.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Blanche, laughingly, “you seem to love +adventures so well, that I leave them for you to achieve.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am willing to achieve them, provided I am allowed to describe +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Mademoiselle Bearn,” said Henri, as he met her at the door +of the parlour, “no ghost of these days would be so savage as to impose +silence on you. Our ghosts are more civilized than to condemn a lady to a +purgatory severer even, than their own, be it what it may.” +</p> + +<p> +Mademoiselle Bearn replied only by a laugh; and, the Count now entering the +room, supper was served, during which he spoke little, frequently appeared to +be abstracted from the company, and more than once remarked, that the place was +greatly altered, since he had last seen it. “Many years have intervened +since that period,” said he; “and, though the grand features of the +scenery admit of no change, they impress me with sensations very different from +those I formerly experienced.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did these scenes, sir,” said Blanche, “ever appear more +lovely, than they do now? To me this seems hardly possible.” The Count, +regarding her with a melancholy smile, said, “They once were as +delightful to me, as they are now to you; the landscape is not changed, but +time has changed me; from my mind the illusion, which gave spirit to the +colouring of nature, is fading fast! If you live, my dear Blanche, to revisit +this spot, at the distance of many years, you will, perhaps, remember and +understand the feelings of your father.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Blanche, affected by these words, remained silent; she looked forward to +the period, which the Count anticipated, and considering, that he, who now +spoke, would then probably be no more, her eyes, bent to the ground, were filed +with tears. She gave her hand to her father, who, smiling affectionately, rose +from his chair, and went to a window to conceal his emotion. +</p> + +<p> +The fatigues of the day made the party separate at an early hour, when Blanche +retired through a long oak gallery to her chamber, whose spacious and lofty +walls, high antiquated casements, and, what was the effect of these, its gloomy +air, did not reconcile her to its remote situation, in this ancient building. +The furniture, also, was of ancient date; the bed was of blue damask, trimmed +with tarnished gold lace, and its lofty tester rose in the form of a canopy, +whence the curtains descended, like those of such tents as are sometimes +represented in old pictures, and, indeed, much resembling those, exhibited on +the faded tapestry, with which the chamber was hung. To Blanche, every object +here was matter of curiosity; and, taking the light from her woman to examine +the tapestry, she perceived, that it represented scenes from the wars of Troy, +though the almost colourless worsted now mocked the glowing actions they once +had painted. She laughed at the ludicrous absurdity she observed, till, +recollecting, that the hands, which had wove it, were, like the poet, whose +thoughts of fire they had attempted to express, long since mouldered into dust, +a train of melancholy ideas passed over her mind, and she almost wept. +</p> + +<p> +Having given her woman a strict injunction to awaken her, before sunrise, she +dismissed her; and then, to dissipate the gloom, which reflection had cast upon +her spirits, opened one of the high casements, and was again cheered by the +face of living nature. The shadowy earth, the air, and ocean—all was +still. Along the deep serene of the heavens, a few light clouds floated slowly, +through whose skirts the stars now seemed to tremble, and now to emerge with +purer splendour. Blanche’s thoughts arose involuntarily to the Great +Author of the sublime objects she contemplated, and she breathed a prayer of +finer devotion, than any she had ever uttered beneath the vaulted roof of a +cloister. At this casement, she remained till the glooms of midnight were +stretched over the prospect. She then retired to her pillow, and, “with +gay visions of tomorrow,” to those sweet slumbers, which health and +happy innocence only know. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Tomorrow, to fresh woods and pastures new. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a> CHAPTER XI </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +What transport to retrace our early plays,<br/> +Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied<br/> +The woods, the mountains and the warbling maze<br/> +Of the wild brooks!<br/> + THOMSON +</p> + +<p> +Blanche’s slumbers continued, till long after the hour, which she had so +impatiently anticipated, for her woman, fatigued with travelling, did not call +her, till breakfast was nearly ready. Her disappointment, however, was +instantly forgotten, when, on opening the casement, she saw, on one hand, the +wide sea sparkling in the morning rays, with its stealing sails and glancing +oars; and, on the other, the fresh woods, the plains far-stretching and the +blue mountains, all glowing with the splendour of day. +</p> + +<p> +As she inspired the pure breeze, health spread a deeper blush upon her +countenance, and pleasure danced in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Who could first invent convents!” said she, “and who could +first persuade people to go into them? and to make religion a pretence, too, +where all that should inspire it, is so carefully shut out! God is best pleased +with the homage of a grateful heart, and, when we view his glories, we feel +most grateful. I never felt so much devotion, during the many dull years I was +in the convent, as I have done in the few hours, that I have been here, where I +need only look on all around me—to adore God in my inmost heart!” +</p> + +<p> +Saying this, she left the window, bounded along the gallery, and, in the next +moment, was in the breakfast room, where the Count was already seated. The +cheerfulness of a bright sunshine had dispersed the melancholy glooms of his +reflections, a pleasant smile was on his countenance, and he spoke in an +enlivening voice to Blanche, whose heart echoed back the tones. Henri and, soon +after, the Countess with Mademoiselle Bearn appeared, and the whole party +seemed to acknowledge the influence of the scene; even the Countess was so much +reanimated as to receive the civilities of her husband with complacency, and +but once forgot her good-humour, which was when she asked whether they had any +neighbours, who were likely to make <i>this barbarous spot </i> more tolerable, +and whether the Count believed it possible for her to exist here, without some +amusement? +</p> + +<p> +Soon after breakfast the party dispersed; the Count, ordering his steward to +attend him in the library, went to survey the condition of his premises, and to +visit some of his tenants; Henri hastened with alacrity to the shore to examine +a boat, that was to bear them on a little voyage in the evening and to +superintend the adjustment of a silk awning; while the Countess, attended by +Mademoiselle Bearn, retired to an apartment on the modern side of the château, +which was fitted up with airy elegance; and, as the windows opened upon +balconies, that fronted the sea, she was there saved from a view of the +<i>horrid</i> Pyrenees. Here, while she reclined on a sofa, and, casting her +languid eyes over the ocean, which appeared beyond the wood-tops, indulged in +the luxuries of <i>ennui</i>, her companion read aloud a sentimental novel, on +some fashionable system of philosophy, for the Countess was herself somewhat of +a <i>philosopher</i>, especially as to <i>infidelity</i>, and among a certain +circle her opinions were waited for with impatience, and received as doctrines. +</p> + +<p> +The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, hastened to indulge, amidst the wild wood-walks +around the château, her new enthusiasm, where, as she wandered under the +shades, her gay spirits gradually yielded to pensive complacency. Now, she +moved with solemn steps, beneath the gloom of thickly interwoven branches, +where the fresh dew still hung upon every flower, that peeped from among the +grass; and now tripped sportively along the path, on which the sunbeams darted +and the checquered foliage trembled—where the tender greens of the beech, +the acacia and the mountain-ash, mingling with the solemn tints of the cedar, +the pine and cypress, exhibited as fine a contrast of colouring, as the +majestic oak and oriental plane did of form, to the feathery lightness of the +cork tree and the waving grace of the poplar. +</p> + +<p> +Having reached a rustic seat, within a deep recess of the woods, she rested +awhile, and, as her eyes caught, through a distant opening, a glimpse of the +blue waters of the Mediterranean, with the white sail, gliding on its bosom, or +of the broad mountain, glowing beneath the mid-day sun, her mind experienced +somewhat of that exquisite delight, which awakens the fancy, and leads to +poetry. The hum of bees alone broke the stillness around her, as, with other +insects of various hues, they sported gaily in the shade, or sipped sweets from +the fresh flowers: and, while Blanche watched a butter-fly, flitting from bud +to bud, she indulged herself in imagining the pleasures of its short day, till +she had composed the following stanzas. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +THE BUTTER-FLY TO HIS LOVE<br/><br/> + +What bowery dell, with fragrant breath,<br/> +Courts thee to stay thy airy flight;<br/> +Nor seek again the purple heath,<br/> +So oft the scene of gay delight?<br/><br/> + +Long I’ve watch’d i’ the lily’s bell,<br/> +Whose whiteness stole the morning’s beam;<br/> +No fluttering sounds thy coming tell,<br/> +No waving wings, at distance, gleam.<br/><br/> + +But fountain fresh, nor breathing grove,<br/> +Nor sunny mead, nor blossom’d tree,<br/> +So sweet as lily’s cell shall prove,—<br/> +The bower of constant love and me.<br/><br/> + +When April buds begin to blow,<br/> +The prim-rose, and the hare-bell blue,<br/> +That on the verdant moss bank grow,<br/> +With violet cups, that weep in dew;<br/><br/> + +When wanton gales breathe through the shade,<br/> +And shake the blooms, and steal their sweets,<br/> +And swell the song of ev’ry glade,<br/> +I range the forest’s green retreats:<br/><br/> + +There, through the tangled wood-walks play,<br/> +Where no rude urchin paces near,<br/> +Where sparely peeps the sultry day,<br/> +And light dews freshen all the air.<br/><br/> + +High on a sunbeam oft I sport<br/> +O’er bower and fountain, vale and hill;<br/> +Oft ev’ry blushing flow’ret court,<br/> +That hangs its head o’er winding rill.<br/><br/> + +But these I’ll leave to be thy guide,<br/> +And show thee, where the jasmine spreads<br/> +Her snowy leaf, where may-flow’rs hide,<br/> +And rose-buds rear their peeping heads.<br/><br/> + +With me the mountain’s summit scale,<br/> +And taste the wild-thyme’s honied bloom,<br/> +Whose fragrance, floating on the gale,<br/> +Oft leads me to the cedar’s gloom.<br/><br/> + +Yet, yet, no sound comes in the breeze!<br/> +What shade thus dares to tempt thy stay?<br/> +Once, me alone thou wish’d to please,<br/> +And with me only thou wouldst stray.<br/><br/> + +But, while thy long delay I mourn,<br/> +And chide the sweet shades for their guile,<br/> +Thou may’st be true, and they forlorn,<br/> +And fairy favours court thy smile.<br/><br/> + +The tiny queen of fairy-land,<br/> +Who knows thy speed, hath sent thee far,<br/> +To bring, or ere the night-watch stand,<br/> +Rich essence for her shadowy car:<br/><br/> + +Perchance her acorn-cups to fill<br/> +With nectar from the Indian rose,<br/> +Or gather, near some haunted rill,<br/> +May-dews, that lull to sleep Love’s woes:<br/><br/> + +Or, o’er the mountains, bade thee fly,<br/> +To tell her fairy love to speed,<br/> +When ev’ning steals upon the sky,<br/> +To dance along the twilight mead.<br/><br/> + +But now I see thee sailing low,<br/> +Gay as the brightest flow’rs of spring,<br/> +Thy coat of blue and jet I know,<br/> +And well thy gold and purple wing.<br/><br/> + +Borne on the gale, thou com’st to me;<br/> +O! welcome, welcome to my home!<br/> +In lily’s cell we’ll live in glee,<br/> +Together o’er the mountains roam! +</p> + +<p> +When Lady Blanche returned to the château, instead of going to the apartment of +the Countess, she amused herself with wandering over that part of the edifice, +which she had not yet examined, of which the most ancient first attracted her +curiosity; for, though what she had seen of the modern was gay and elegant, +there was something in the former more interesting to her imagination. Having +passed up the great staircase, and through the oak gallery, she entered upon a +long suite of chambers, whose walls were either hung with tapestry, or +wainscoted with cedar, the furniture of which looked almost as ancient as the +rooms themselves; the spacious fire-places, where no mark of social cheer +remained, presented an image of cold desolation; and the whole suite had so +much the air of neglect and desertion, that it seemed, as if the venerable +persons, whose portraits hung upon the walls, had been the last to inhabit +them. +</p> + +<p> +On leaving these rooms, she found herself in another gallery, one end of which +was terminated by a back staircase, and the other by a door, that seemed to +communicate with the north-side of the château, but which being fastened, she +descended the staircase, and, opening a door in the wall, a few steps down, +found herself in a small square room, that formed part of the west turret of +the castle. Three windows presented each a separate and beautiful prospect; +that to the north, overlooking Languedoc; another to the west, the hills +ascending towards the Pyrenees, whose awful summits crowned the landscape; and +a third, fronting the south, gave the Mediterranean, and a part of the wild +shores of Rousillon, to the eye. +</p> + +<p> +Having left the turret, and descended the narrow staircase, she found herself +in a dusky passage, where she wandered, unable to find her way, till impatience +yielded to apprehension, and she called for assistance. Presently steps +approached, and light glimmered through a door at the other extremity of the +passage, which was opened with caution by some person, who did not venture +beyond it, and whom Blanche observed in silence, till the door was closing, +when she called aloud, and, hastening towards it, perceived the old +housekeeper. “Dear ma’amselle! is it you?” said Dorothée, +“How could you find your way hither?” Had Blanche been less +occupied by her own fears, she would probably have observed the strong +expressions of terror and surprise on Dorothée’s countenance, who now led +her through a long succession of passages and rooms, that looked as if they had +been uninhabited for a century, till they reached that appropriated to the +housekeeper, where Dorothée entreated she would sit down and take refreshment. +Blanche accepted the sweet meats, offered to her, mentioned her discovery of +the pleasant turret, and her wish to appropriate it to her own use. Whether +Dorothée’s taste was not so sensible to the beauties of landscape as her +young lady’s, or that the constant view of lovely scenery had deadened +it, she forbore to praise the subject of Blanche’s enthusiasm, which, +however, her silence did not repress. To Lady Blanche’s enquiry of +whither the door she had found fastened at the end of the gallery led, she +replied, that it opened to a suite of rooms, which had not been entered, during +many years, “For,” added she, “my late lady died in one of +them, and I could never find in my heart to go into them since.” +</p> + +<p> +Blanche, though she wished to see these chambers, forbore, on observing that +Dorothée’s eyes were filled with tears, to ask her to unlock them, and, +soon after, went to dress for dinner, at which the whole party met in good +spirits and good humour, except the Countess, whose vacant mind, overcome by +the languor of idleness, would neither suffer her to be happy herself, nor to +contribute to the happiness of others. Mademoiselle Bearn, attempting to be +witty, directed her badinage against Henri, who answered, because he could not +well avoid it, rather than from any inclination to notice her, whose liveliness +sometimes amused, but whose conceit and insensibility often disgusted him. +</p> + +<p> +The cheerfulness, with which Blanche rejoined the party, vanished, on her +reaching the margin of the sea; she gazed with apprehension upon the immense +expanse of waters, which, at a distance, she had beheld only with delight and +astonishment, and it was by a strong effort, that she so far overcame her fears +as to follow her father into the boat. +</p> + +<p> +As she silently surveyed the vast horizon, bending round the distant verge of +the ocean, an emotion of sublimest rapture struggled to overcome a sense of +personal danger. A light breeze played on the water, and on the silk awning of +the boat, and waved the foliage of the receding woods, that crowned the cliffs, +for many miles, and which the Count surveyed with the pride of conscious +property, as well as with the eye of taste. +</p> + +<p> +At some distance, among these woods, stood a pavilion, which had once been the +scene of social gaiety, and which its situation still made one of romantic +beauty. Thither, the Count had ordered coffee and other refreshment to be +carried, and thither the sailors now steered their course, following the +windings of the shore round many a woody promontory and circling bay; while the +pensive tones of horns and other wind instruments, played by the attendants in +a distant boat, echoed among the rocks, and died along the waves. Blanche had +now subdued her fears; a delightful tranquillity stole over her mind, and held +her in silence; and she was too happy even to remember the convent, or her +former sorrows, as subjects of comparison with her present felicity. +</p> + +<p> +The Countess felt less unhappy than she had done, since the moment of her +leaving Paris; for her mind was now under some degree of restraint; she feared +to indulge its wayward humours, and even wished to recover the Count’s +good opinion. On his family, and on the surrounding scene, he looked with +tempered pleasure and benevolent satisfaction, while his son exhibited the gay +spirits of youth, anticipating new delights, and regretless of those, that were +passed. +</p> + +<p> +After near an hour’s rowing, the party landed, and ascended a little +path, overgrown with vegetation. At a little distance from the point of the +eminence, within the shadowy recess of the woods, appeared the pavilion, which +Blanche perceived, as she caught a glimpse of its portico between the trees, to +be built of variegated marble. As she followed the Countess, she often turned +her eyes with rapture towards the ocean, seen beneath the dark foliage, far +below, and from thence upon the deep woods, whose silence and impenetrable +gloom awakened emotions more solemn, but scarcely less delightful. +</p> + +<p> +The pavilion had been prepared, as far as was possible, on a very short notice, +for the reception of its visitors; but the faded colours of its painted walls +and ceiling, and the decayed drapery of its once magnificent furniture, +declared how long it had been neglected, and abandoned to the empire of the +changing seasons. While the party partook of a collation of fruit and coffee, +the horns, placed in a distant part of the woods, where an echo sweetened and +prolonged their melancholy tones, broke softly on the stillness of the scene. +This spot seemed to attract even the admiration of the Countess, or, perhaps, +it was merely the pleasure of planning furniture and decorations, that made her +dwell so long on the necessity of repairing and adorning it; while the Count, +never happier than when he saw her mind engaged by natural and simple objects, +acquiesced in all her designs, concerning the pavilion. The paintings on the +walls and coved ceiling were to be renewed, the canopies and sofas were to be +of light green damask; marble statues of wood-nymphs, bearing on their heads +baskets of living flowers, were to adorn the recesses between the windows, +which, descending to the ground, were to admit to every part of the room, and +it was of octagonal form, the various landscape. One window opened upon a +romantic glade, where the eye roved among the woody recesses, and the scene was +bounded only by a lengthened pomp of groves; from another, the woods receding +disclosed the distant summits of the Pyrenees; a third fronted an avenue, +beyond which the grey towers of Château-le-Blanc, and a picturesque part of its +ruin were seen partially among the foliage; while a fourth gave, between the +trees, a glimpse of the green pastures and villages, that diversify the banks +of the Aude. The Mediterranean, with the bold cliffs, that overlooked its +shores, were the grand objects of a fifth window, and the others gave, in +different points of view, the wild scenery of the woods. +</p> + +<p> +After wandering, for some time, in these, the party returned to the shore and +embarked; and, the beauty of the evening tempting them to extend their +excursion, they proceeded further up the bay. A dead calm had succeeded the +light breeze, that wafted them hither, and the men took to their oars. Around, +the waters were spread into one vast expanse of polished mirror, reflecting the +grey cliffs and feathery woods, that over-hung its surface, the glow of the +western horizon and the dark clouds, that came slowly from the east. Blanche +loved to see the dipping oars imprint the water, and to watch the spreading +circles they left, which gave a tremulous motion to the reflected landscape, +without destroying the harmony of its features. +</p> + +<p> +Above the darkness of the woods, her eye now caught a cluster of high towers, +touched with the splendour of the setting rays; and, soon after, the horns +being then silent, she heard the faint swell of choral voices from a distance. +</p> + +<p> +“What voices are those, upon the air?” said the Count, looking +round, and listening; but the strain had ceased. “It seemed to be a +vesper-hymn, which I have often heard in my convent,” said Blanche. +</p> + +<p> +“We are near the monastery, then,” observed the Count; and, the +boat soon after doubling a lofty head-land, the monastery of St. Claire +appeared, seated near the margin of the sea, where the cliffs, suddenly +sinking, formed a low shore within a small bay, almost encircled with woods, +among which partial features of the edifice were seen;—the great gate and +gothic window of the hall, the cloisters and the side of a chapel more remote; +while a venerable arch, which had once led to a part of the fabric, now +demolished, stood a majestic ruin detached from the main building, beyond which +appeared a grand perspective of the woods. On the grey walls, the moss had +fastened, and, round the pointed windows of the chapel, the ivy and the briony +hung in many a fantastic wreath. +</p> + +<p> +All without was silent and forsaken; but, while Blanche gazed with admiration +on this venerable pile, whose effect was heightened by the strong lights and +shadows thrown athwart it by a cloudy sunset, a sound of many voices, slowly +chanting, arose from within. The Count bade his men rest on their oars. The +monks were singing the hymn of vespers, and some female voices mingled with the +strain, which rose by soft degrees, till the high organ and the choral sounds +swelled into full and solemn harmony. The strain, soon after, dropped into +sudden silence, and was renewed in a low and still more solemn key, till, at +length, the holy chorus died away, and was heard no more.—Blanche sighed, +tears trembled in her eyes, and her thoughts seemed wafted with the sounds to +heaven. While a rapt stillness prevailed in the boat, a train of friars, and +then of nuns, veiled in white, issued from the cloisters, and passed, under the +shade of the woods, to the main body of the edifice. +</p> + +<p> +The Countess was the first of her party to awaken from this pause of silence. +</p> + +<p> +“These dismal hymns and friars make one quite melancholy,” said +she; “twilight is coming on; pray let us return, or it will be dark +before we get home.” +</p> + +<p> +The count, looking up, now perceived, that the twilight of evening was +anticipated by an approaching storm. In the east a tempest was collecting; a +heavy gloom came on, opposing and contrasting the glowing splendour of the +setting sun. The clamorous sea-fowl skimmed in fleet circles upon the surface +of the sea, dipping their light pinions in the wave, as they fled away in +search of shelter. The boatmen pulled hard at their oars; but the thunder, that +now muttered at a distance, and the heavy drops, that began to dimple the +water, made the Count determine to put back to the monastery for shelter, and +the course of the boat was immediately changed. As the clouds approached the +west, their lurid darkness changed to a deep ruddy glow, which, by reflection, +seemed to fire the tops of the woods and the shattered towers of the monastery. +</p> + +<p> +The appearance of the heavens alarmed the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, +whose expressions of apprehension distressed the Count, and perplexed his men; +while Blanche continued silent, now agitated with fear, and now with +admiration, as she viewed the grandeur of the clouds, and their effect on the +scenery, and listened to the long, long peals of thunder, that rolled through +the air. +</p> + +<p> +The boat having reached the lawn before the monastery, the Count sent a servant +to announce his arrival, and to entreat shelter of the Superior, who, soon +after, appeared at the great gate, attended by several monks, while the servant +returned with a message, expressive at once of hospitality and pride, but of +pride disguised in submission. The party immediately disembarked, and, having +hastily crossed the lawn—for the shower was now heavy—were received +at the gate by the Superior, who, as they entered, stretched forth his hands +and gave his blessing; and they passed into the great hall, where the lady +abbess waited, attended by several nuns, clothed, like herself, in black, and +veiled in white. The veil of the abbess was, however, thrown half back, and +discovered a countenance, whose chaste dignity was sweetened by the smile of +welcome, with which she addressed the Countess, whom she led, with Blanche and +Mademoiselle Bearn, into the convent parlour, while the Count and Henri were +conducted by the Superior to the refectory. +</p> + +<p> +The Countess, fatigued and discontented, received the politeness of the abbess +with careless haughtiness, and had followed her, with indolent steps, to the +parlour, over which the painted casements and wainscot of larch-wood threw, at +all times, a melancholy shade, and where the gloom of evening now loured almost +to darkness. +</p> + +<p> +While the lady abbess ordered refreshment, and conversed with the Countess, +Blanche withdrew to a window, the lower panes of which, being without painting, +allowed her to observe the progress of the storm over the Mediterranean, whose +dark waves, that had so lately slept, now came boldly swelling, in long +succession, to the shore, where they burst in white foam, and threw up a high +spray over the rocks. A red sulphureous tint overspread the long line of +clouds, that hung above the western horizon, beneath whose dark skirts the sun +looking out, illumined the distant shores of Languedoc, as well as the tufted +summits of the nearer woods, and shed a partial gleam on the western waves. The +rest of the scene was in deep gloom, except where a sunbeam, darting between +the clouds, glanced on the white wings of the sea-fowl, that circled high among +them, or touched the swelling sail of a vessel, which was seen labouring in the +storm. Blanche, for some time, anxiously watched the progress of the bark, as +it threw the waves in foam around it, and, as the lightnings flashed, looked to +the opening heavens, with many a sigh for the fate of the poor mariners. +</p> + +<p> +The sun, at length, set, and the heavy clouds, which had long impended, dropped +over the splendour of his course; the vessel, however, was yet dimly seen, and +Blanche continued to observe it, till the quick succession of flashes, lighting +up the gloom of the whole horizon, warned her to retire from the window, and +she joined the Abbess, who, having exhausted all her topics of conversation +with the Countess, had now leisure to notice her. +</p> + +<p> +But their discourse was interrupted by tremendous peals of thunder; and the +bell of the monastery soon after ringing out, summoned the inhabitants to +prayer. As Blanche passed the window, she gave another look to the ocean, +where, by the momentary flash, that illumined the vast body of the waters, she +distinguished the vessel she had observed before, amidst a sea of foam, +breaking the billows, the mast now bowing to the waves, and then rising high in +air. +</p> + +<p> +She sighed fervently as she gazed, and then followed the Lady Abbess and the +Countess to the chapel. Meanwhile, some of the Count’s servants, having +gone by land to the château for carriages, returned soon after vespers had +concluded, when, the storm being somewhat abated, the Count and his family +returned home. Blanche was surprised to discover how much the windings of the +shore had deceived her, concerning the distance of the château from the +monastery, whose vesper bell she had heard, on the preceding evening, from the +windows of the west saloon, and whose towers she would also have seen from +thence, had not twilight veiled them. +</p> + +<p> +On their arrival at the château, the Countess, affecting more fatigue, than she +really felt, withdrew to her apartment, and the Count, with his daughter and +Henri, went to the supper-room, where they had not been long, when they heard, +in a pause of the gust, a firing of guns, which the Count understanding to be +signals of distress from some vessel in the storm, went to a window, that +opened towards the Mediterranean, to observe further; but the sea was now +involved in utter darkness, and the loud howlings of the tempest had again +overcome every other sound. Blanche, remembering the bark, which she had before +seen, now joined her father, with trembling anxiety. In a few moments, the +report of guns was again borne along the wind, and as suddenly wafted away; a +tremendous burst of thunder followed, and, in the flash, that had preceded it, +and which seemed to quiver over the whole surface of the waters, a vessel was +discovered, tossing amidst the white foam of the waves at some distance from +the shore. Impenetrable darkness again involved the scene, but soon a second +flash showed the bark, with one sail unfurled, driving towards the coast. +Blanche hung upon her father’s arm, with looks full of the agony of +united terror and pity, which were unnecessary to awaken the heart of the +Count, who gazed upon the sea with a piteous expression, and, perceiving, that +no boat could live in the storm, forbore to send one; but he gave orders to his +people to carry torches out upon the cliffs, hoping they might prove a kind of +beacon to the vessel, or, at least, warn the crew of the rocks they were +approaching. While Henri went out to direct on what part of the cliffs the +lights should appear, Blanche remained with her father, at the window, +catching, every now and then, as the lightnings flashed, a glimpse of the +vessel; and she soon saw, with reviving hope, the torches flaming on the +blackness of night, and, as they waved over the cliffs, casting a red gleam on +the gasping billows. When the firing of guns was repeated, the torches were +tossed high in the air, as if answering the signal, and the firing was then +redoubled; but, though the wind bore the sound away, she fancied, as the +lightnings glanced, that the vessel was much nearer the shore. +</p> + +<p> +The Count’s servants were now seen, running to and fro, on the rocks; +some venturing almost to the point of the crags, and bending over, held out +their torches fastened to long poles; while others, whose steps could be traced +only by the course of the lights, descended the steep and dangerous path, that +wound to the margin of the sea, and, with loud halloos, hailed the mariners, +whose shrill whistle, and then feeble voices, were heard, at intervals, +mingling with the storm. Sudden shouts from the people on the rocks increased +the anxiety of Blanche to an almost intolerable degree: but her suspense, +concerning the fate of the mariners, was soon over, when Henri, running +breathless into the room, told that the vessel was anchored in the bay below, +but in so shattered a condition, that it was feared she would part before the +crew could disembark. The Count immediately gave orders for his own boats to +assist in bringing them to shore, and that such of these unfortunate strangers +as could not be accommodated in the adjacent hamlet should be entertained at +the château. Among the latter, were Emily St. Aubert, Monsieur Du Pont, +Ludovico and Annette, who, having embarked at Leghorn and reached Marseilles, +were from thence crossing the Gulf of Lyons, when this storm overtook them. +They were received by the Count with his usual benignity, who, though Emily +wished to have proceeded immediately to the monastery of St. Claire, would not +allow her to leave the château, that night; and, indeed, the terror and fatigue +she had suffered would scarcely have permitted her to go farther. +</p> + +<p> +In Monsieur Du Pont the Count discovered an old acquaintance, and much joy and +congratulation passed between them, after which Emily was introduced by name to +the Count’s family, whose hospitable benevolence dissipated the little +embarrassment, which her situation had occasioned her, and the party were soon +seated at the supper-table. The unaffected kindness of Blanche and the lively +joy she expressed on the escape of the strangers, for whom her pity had been so +much interested, gradually revived Emily’s languid spirits; and Du Pont, +relieved from his terrors for her and for himself, felt the full contrast, +between his late situation on a dark and tremendous ocean, and his present one, +in a cheerful mansion, where he was surrounded with plenty, elegance and smiles +of welcome. +</p> + +<p> +Annette, meanwhile, in the servants’ hall, was telling of all the dangers +she had encountered, and congratulating herself so heartily upon her own and +Ludovico’s escape, and on her present comforts, that she often made all +that part of the château ring with merriment and laughter. Ludovico’s +spirits were as gay as her own, but he had discretion enough to restrain them, +and tried to check hers, though in vain, till her laughter, at length, ascended +to <i>my Lady’s</i> chamber, who sent to enquire what occasioned so much +uproar in the château, and to command silence. +</p> + +<p> +Emily withdrew early to seek the repose she so much required, but her pillow +was long a sleepless one. On this her return to her native country, many +interesting remembrances were awakened; all the events and sufferings she had +experienced, since she quitted it, came in long succession to her fancy, and +were chased only by the image of Valancourt, with whom to believe herself once +more in the same land, after they had been so long, and so distantly separated, +gave her emotions of indescribable joy, but which afterwards yielded to anxiety +and apprehension, when she considered the long period, that had elapsed, since +any letter had passed between them, and how much might have happened in this +interval to affect her future peace. But the thought that Valancourt might be +now no more, or, if living, might have forgotten her, was so very terrible to +her heart, that she would scarcely suffer herself to pause upon the +possibility. She determined to inform him, on the following day, of her arrival +in France, which it was scarcely possible he could know but by a letter from +herself, and, after soothing her spirits with the hope of soon hearing, that he +was well, and unchanged in his affections, she, at length, sunk to repose. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap37"></a> CHAPTER XII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Oft woo’d the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright,<br/> +In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly,<br/> +With Freedom by my side, and soft-ey’d Melancholy.<br/> + GRAY +</p> + +<p> +The Lady Blanche was so much interested for Emily, that, upon hearing she was +going to reside in the neighbouring convent, she requested the Count would +invite her to lengthen her stay at the château. “And you know, my dear +sir,” added Blanche, “how delighted I shall be with such a +companion; for, at present, I have no friend to walk, or to read with, since +Mademoiselle Bearn is my mamma’s friend only.” +</p> + +<p> +The Count smiled at the youthful simplicity, with which his daughter yielded to +first impressions; and, though he chose to warn her of their danger, he +silently applauded the benevolence, that could thus readily expand in +confidence to a stranger. He had observed Emily, with attention, on the +preceding evening, and was as much pleased with her, as it was possible he +could be with any person, on so short an acquaintance. The mention, made of her +by Mons. Du Pont, had also given him a favourable impression of Emily; but, +extremely cautious as to those, whom he introduced to the intimacy of his +daughter, he determined, on hearing that the former was no stranger at the +convent of St. Claire, to visit the abbess, and, if her account corresponded +with his wish, to invite Emily to pass some time at the château. On this +subject, he was influenced by a consideration of the Lady Blanche’s +welfare, still more than by either a wish to oblige her, or to befriend the +orphan Emily, for whom, however, he felt considerably interested. +</p> + +<p> +On the following morning, Emily was too much fatigued to appear; but Mons. Du +Pont was at the breakfast-table, when the Count entered the room, who pressed +him, as his former acquaintance, and the son of a very old friend, to prolong +his stay at the château; an invitation, which Du Pont willingly accepted, since +it would allow him to be near Emily; and, though he was not conscious of +encouraging a hope, that she would ever return his affection, he had not +fortitude enough to attempt, at present, to overcome it. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, when she was somewhat recovered, wandered with her new friend over the +grounds belonging to the château, as much delighted with the surrounding views, +as Blanche, in the benevolence of her heart, had wished; from thence she +perceived, beyond the woods, the towers of the monastery, and remarked, that it +was to this convent she designed to go. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Blanche with surprise, “I am but just released +from a convent, and would you go into one? If you could know what pleasure I +feel in wandering here, at liberty,—and in seeing the sky and the fields, +and the woods all round me, I think you would not.” Emily, smiling at the +warmth, with which the Lady Blanche spoke, observed, that she did not mean to +confine herself to a convent for life. +</p> + +<p> +“No, you may not intend it now,” said Blanche; “but you do +not know to what the nuns may persuade you to consent: I know how kind they +will appear, and how happy, for I have seen too much of their art.” +</p> + +<p> +When they returned to the château, Lady Blanche conducted Emily to her +favourite turret, and from thence they rambled through the ancient chambers, +which Blanche had visited before. Emily was amused by observing the structure +of these apartments, and the fashion of their old but still magnificent +furniture, and by comparing them with those of the castle of Udolpho, which +were yet more antique and grotesque. She was also interested by Dorothée the +housekeeper, who attended them, whose appearance was almost as antique as the +objects around her, and who seemed no less interested by Emily, on whom she +frequently gazed with so much deep attention, as scarcely to hear what was said +to her. +</p> + +<p> +While Emily looked from one of the casements, she perceived, with surprise, +some objects, that were familiar to her memory;—the fields and woods, +with the gleaming brook, which she had passed with La Voisin, one evening, soon +after the death of Monsieur St. Aubert, in her way from the monastery to her +cottage; and she now knew this to be the château, which he had then avoided, +and concerning which he had dropped some remarkable hints. +</p> + +<p> +Shocked by this discovery, yet scarcely knowing why, she mused for some time in +silence, and remembered the emotion, which her father had betrayed on finding +himself so near this mansion, and some other circumstances of his conduct, that +now greatly interested her. The music, too, which she had formerly heard, and, +respecting which La Voisin had given such an odd account, occurred to her, and, +desirous of knowing more concerning it, she asked Dorothée whether it returned +at midnight, as usual, and whether the musician had yet been discovered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’amselle,” replied Dorothée, “that music is +still heard, but the musician has never been found out, nor ever will, I +believe; though there are some people, who can guess.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” said Emily, “then why do they not pursue the +enquiry?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, young lady! enquiry enough has been made—but who can pursue a +spirit?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily smiled, and, remembering how lately she had suffered herself to be led +away by superstition, determined now to resist its contagion; yet, in spite of +her efforts, she felt awe mingle with her curiosity, on this subject; and +Blanche, who had hitherto listened in silence, now enquired what this music +was, and how long it had been heard. +</p> + +<p> +“Ever since the death of my lady, madam,” replied Dorothée. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the place is not haunted, surely?” said Blanche, between +jesting and seriousness. +</p> + +<p> +“I have heard that music almost ever since my dear lady died,” +continued Dorothée, “and never before then. But that is nothing to some +things I could tell of.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do, pray, tell them, then,” said Lady Blanche, now more in earnest +than in jest. “I am much interested, for I have heard sister Henriette, +and sister Sophie, in the convent, tell of such strange appearances, which they +themselves had witnessed!” +</p> + +<p> +“You never heard, my lady, I suppose, what made us leave the château, and +go and live in a cottage,” said Dorothée. “Never!” replied +Blanche with impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“Nor the reason, that my lord, the Marquis”—Dorothée checked +herself, hesitated, and then endeavoured to change the topic; but the curiosity +of Blanche was too much awakened to suffer the subject thus easily to escape +her, and she pressed the old housekeeper to proceed with her account, upon +whom, however, no entreaties could prevail; and it was evident, that she was +alarmed for the imprudence, into which she had already betrayed herself. +</p> + +<p> +“I perceive,” said Emily, smiling, “that all old mansions are +haunted; I am lately come from a place of wonders; but unluckily, since I left +it, I have heard almost all of them explained.” +</p> + +<p> +Blanche was silent; Dorothée looked grave, and sighed; and Emily felt herself +still inclined to believe more of the wonderful, than she chose to acknowledge. +Just then, she remembered the spectacle she had witnessed in a chamber of +Udolpho, and, by an odd kind of coincidence, the alarming words, that had +accidentally met her eye in the MS. papers, which she had destroyed, in +obedience to the command of her father; and she shuddered at the meaning they +seemed to impart, almost as much as at the horrible appearance, disclosed by +the black veil. +</p> + +<p> +The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, unable to prevail with Dorothée to explain the +subject of her late hints, had desired, on reaching the door, that terminated +the gallery, and which she found fastened on the preceding day, to see the +suite of rooms beyond. “Dear young lady,” said the housekeeper, +“I have told you my reason for not opening them; I have never seen them, +since my dear lady died; and it would go hard with me to see them now. Pray, +madam, do not ask me again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I will not,” replied Blanche, “if that is really +your objection.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! it is,” said the old woman: “we all loved her well, +and I shall always grieve for her. Time runs round! it is now many years, since +she died; but I remember everything, that happened then, as if it was but +yesterday. Many things, that have passed of late years, are gone quite from my +memory, while those so long ago, I can see as if in a glass.” She paused, +but afterwards, as they walked up the gallery, added to Emily, “this +young lady sometimes brings the late Marchioness to my mind; I can remember, +when she looked just as blooming, and very like her, when she smiles. Poor +lady! how gay she was, when she first came to the château!” +</p> + +<p> +“And was she not gay, afterwards?” said Blanche. +</p> + +<p> +Dorothée shook her head; and Emily observed her, with eyes strongly expressive +of the interest she now felt. “Let us sit down in this window,” +said the Lady Blanche, on reaching the opposite end of the gallery: “and +pray, Dorothée, if it is not painful to you, tell us something more about the +Marchioness. I should like to look into the glass you spoke of just now, and +see a few of the circumstances, which you say often pass over it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lady,” replied Dorothée; “if you knew as much as I +do, you would not, for you would find there a dismal train of them; I often +wish I could shut them out, but they will rise to my mind. I see my dear lady +on her death-bed,—her very look,—and remember all she said—it +was a terrible scene!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why was it so terrible?” said Emily with emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, dear young lady! is not death always terrible?” replied +Dorothée. +</p> + +<p> +To some further enquiries of Blanche Dorothée was silent; and Emily, observing +the tears in her eyes, forbore to urge the subject, and endeavoured to withdraw +the attention of her young friend to some object in the gardens, where the +Count, with the Countess and Monsieur Du Pont, appearing, they went down to +join them. +</p> + +<p> +When he perceived Emily, he advanced to meet her, and presented her to the +Countess, in a manner so benign, that it recalled most powerfully to her mind +the idea of her late father, and she felt more gratitude to him, than +embarrassment towards the Countess, who, however, received her with one of +those fascinating smiles, which her caprice sometimes allowed her to assume, +and which was now the result of a conversation the Count had held with her, +concerning Emily. Whatever this might be, or whatever had passed in his +conversation with the lady abbess, whom he had just visited, esteem and +kindness were strongly apparent in his manner, when he addressed Emily, who +experienced that sweet emotion, which arises from the consciousness of +possessing the approbation of the good; for to the Count’s worth she had +been inclined to yield her confidence almost from the first moment, in which +she had seen him. +</p> + +<p> +Before she could finish her acknowledgments for the hospitality she had +received, and mention of her design of going immediately to the convent, she +was interrupted by an invitation to lengthen her stay at the château, which was +pressed by the Count and the Countess, with an appearance of such friendly +sincerity, that, though she much wished to see her old friends at the +monastery, and to sigh, once more, over her father’s grave, she consented +to remain a few days at the château. +</p> + +<p> +To the abbess, however, she immediately wrote, mentioning her arrival in +Languedoc and her wish to be received into the convent, as a boarder; she also +sent letters to Monsieur Quesnel and to Valancourt, whom she merely informed of +her arrival in France; and, as she knew not where the latter might be +stationed, she directed her letter to his brother’s seat in Gascony. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, Lady Blanche and Mons. Du Pont walked with Emily to the cottage +of La Voisin, which she had now a melancholy pleasure in approaching, for time +had softened her grief for the loss of St. Aubert, though it could not +annihilate it, and she felt a soothing sadness in indulging the recollections, +which this scene recalled. La Voisin was still living, and seemed to enjoy, as +much as formerly, the tranquil evening of a blameless life. He was sitting at +the door of his cottage, watching some of his grandchildren, playing on the +grass before him, and, now and then, with a laugh, or a commendation, +encouraging their sports. He immediately recollected Emily, whom he was much +pleased to see, and she was as rejoiced to hear, that he had not lost one of +his family, since her departure. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’amselle,” said the old man, “we all live +merrily together still, thank God! and I believe there is not a happier family +to be found in Languedoc, than ours.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily did not trust herself in the chamber, where St. Aubert died; and, after +half an hour’s conversation with La Voisin and his family, she left the +cottage. +</p> + +<p> +During these the first days of her stay at Château-le-Blanc, she was often +affected, by observing the deep, but silent melancholy, which, at times, stole +over Du Pont; and Emily, pitying the self-delusion, which disarmed him of the +will to depart, determined to withdraw herself as soon as the respect she owed +the Count and Countess De Villefort would permit. The dejection of his friend +soon alarmed the anxiety of the Count, to whom Du Pont, at length, confided the +secret of his hopeless affection, which, however, the former could only +commiserate, though he secretly determined to befriend his suit, if an +opportunity of doing so should ever occur. Considering the dangerous situation +of Du Pont, he but feebly opposed his intention of leaving Château-le-Blanc, on +the following day, but drew from him a promise of a longer visit, when he could +return with safety to his peace. Emily herself, though she could not encourage +his affection, esteemed him both for the many virtues he possessed, and for the +services she had received from him; and it was not without tender emotions of +gratitude and pity, that she now saw him depart for his family seat in Gascony; +while he took leave of her with a countenance so expressive of love and grief, +as to interest the Count more warmly in his cause than before. +</p> + +<p> +In a few days, Emily also left the château, but not before the Count and +Countess had received her promise to repeat her visit very soon; and she was +welcomed by the abbess, with the same maternal kindness she had formerly +experienced, and by the nuns, with much expression of regard. The well-known +scenes of the convent occasioned her many melancholy recollections, but with +these were mingled others, that inspired gratitude for having escaped the +various dangers, that had pursued her, since she quitted it, and for the good, +which she yet possessed; and, though she once more wept over her father’s +grave, with tears of tender affection, her grief was softened from its former +acuteness. +</p> + +<p> +Some time after her return to the monastery, she received a letter from her +uncle, Mons. Quesnel, in answer to information that she had arrived in France, +and to her enquiries, concerning such of her affairs as he had undertaken to +conduct during her absence, especially as to the period for which La Vallée had +been let, whither it was her wish to return, if it should appear, that her +income would permit her to do so. The reply of Mons. Quesnel was cold and +formal, as she expected, expressing neither concern for the evils she suffered, +nor pleasure, that she was now removed from them; nor did he allow the +opportunity to pass, of reproving her for her rejection of Count Morano, whom +he affected still to believe a man of honour and fortune; nor of vehemently +declaiming against Montoni, to whom he had always, till now, felt himself to be +inferior. On Emily’s pecuniary concerns, he was not very explicit; he +informed her, however, that the term, for which La Vallée had been engaged, was +nearly expired; but, without inviting her to his own house, added, that her +circumstances would by no means allow her to reside there, and earnestly +advised her to remain, for the present, in the convent of St. Claire. +</p> + +<p> +To her enquiries respecting poor old Theresa, her late father’s servant, +he gave no answer. In the postscript to his letter, Monsieur Quesnel mentioned +M. Motteville, in whose hands the late St. Aubert had placed the chief of his +personal property, as being likely to arrange his affairs nearly to the +satisfaction of his creditors, and that Emily would recover much more of her +fortune, than she had formerly reason to expect. The letter also inclosed to +Emily an order upon a merchant at Narbonne, for a small sum of money. +</p> + +<p> +The tranquillity of the monastery, and the liberty she was suffered to enjoy, +in wandering among the woods and shores of this delightful province, gradually +restored her spirits to their natural tone, except that anxiety would sometimes +intrude, concerning Valancourt, as the time approached, when it was possible +that she might receive an answer to her letter. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap38"></a> CHAPTER XIII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +As when a wave, that from a cloud impends,<br/> +And, swell’d with tempests, on the ship descends,<br/> +White are the decks with foam; the winds aloud,<br/> +Howl o’er the masts, and sing through ev’ry shroud:<br/> +Pale, trembling, tir’d, the sailors freeze with fears,<br/> +And instant death on ev’ry wave appears.<br/> + POPE’S HOMER +</p> + +<p> +The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, who was left much alone, became impatient for the +company of her new friend, whom she wished to observe sharing in the delight +she received from the beautiful scenery around. She had now no person, to whom +she could express her admiration and communicate her pleasures, no eye, that +sparkled to her smile, or countenance, that reflected her happiness; and she +became spiritless and pensive. The Count, observing her dissatisfaction, +readily yielded to her entreaties, and reminded Emily of her promised visit; +but the silence of Valancourt, which was now prolonged far beyond the period, +when a letter might have arrived from Estuvière, oppressed Emily with severe +anxiety, and, rendering her averse to society, she would willingly have +deferred her acceptance of this invitation, till her spirits should be +relieved. The Count and his family, however, pressed to see her; and, as the +circumstances, that prompted her wish for solitude, could not be explained, +there was an appearance of caprice in her refusal, which she could not +persevere in, without offending the friends, whose esteem she valued. At +length, therefore, she returned upon a second visit to Château-le-Blanc. Here +the friendly manner of Count De Villefort encouraged Emily to mention to him +her situation, respecting the estates of her late aunt, and to consult him on +the means of recovering them. He had little doubt, that the law would decide in +her favour, and, advising her to apply to it, offered first to write to an +advocate at Avignon, on whose opinion he thought he could rely. His kindness +was gratefully accepted by Emily, who, soothed by the courtesy she daily +experienced, would have been once more happy, could she have been assured of +Valancourt’s welfare and unaltered affection. She had now been above a +week at the château, without receiving intelligence of him, and, though she +knew, that, if he was absent from his brother’s residence, it was +scarcely probable her letter had yet reached him, she could not forbear to +admit doubts and fears, that destroyed her peace. Again she would consider of +all, that might have happened in the long period, since her first seclusion at +Udolpho, and her mind was sometimes so overwhelmed with an apprehension, that +Valancourt was no more, or that he lived no longer for her, that the company +even of Blanche became intolerably oppressive, and she would sit alone in her +apartment for hours together, when the engagements of the family allowed her to +do so, without incivility. +</p> + +<p> +In one of these solitary hours, she unlocked a little box, which contained some +letters of Valancourt, with some drawings she had sketched, during her stay in +Tuscany, the latter of which were no longer interesting to her; but, in the +letters, she now, with melancholy indulgence, meant to retrace the tenderness, +that had so often soothed her, and rendered her, for a moment, insensible of +the distance, which separated her from the writer. But their effect was now +changed; the affection they expressed appealed so forcibly to her heart, when +she considered that it had, perhaps, yielded to the powers of time and absence, +and even the view of the hand-writing recalled so many painful recollections, +that she found herself unable to go through the first she had opened, and sat +musing, with her cheek resting on her arm, and tears stealing from her eyes, +when old Dorothée entered the room to inform her, that dinner would be ready, +an hour before the usual time. Emily started on perceiving her, and hastily put +up the papers, but not before Dorothée had observed both her agitation and her +tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, ma’amselle!” said she, “you, who are so +young,—have you reason for sorrow?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily tried to smile, but was unable to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! dear young lady, when you come to my age, you will not weep at +trifles; and surely you have nothing serious, to grieve you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Dorothée, nothing of any consequence,” replied Emily. +Dorothée, now stooping to pick up something, that had dropped from among the +papers, suddenly exclaimed, “Holy Mary! what is it I see?” and +then, trembling, sat down in a chair, that stood by the table. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it you do see?” said Emily, alarmed by her manner, and +looking round the room. +</p> + +<p> +“It is herself,” said Dorothée, “her very self! just as she +looked a little before she died!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, still more alarmed, began now to fear, that Dorothée was seized with +sudden frenzy, but entreated her to explain herself. +</p> + +<p> +“That picture!” said she, “where did you find it, lady? it is +my blessed mistress herself!” +</p> + +<p> +She laid on the table the miniature, which Emily had long ago found among the +papers her father had enjoined her to destroy, and over which she had once seen +him shed such tender and affecting tears; and, recollecting all the various +circumstances of his conduct, that had long perplexed her, her emotions +increased to an excess, which deprived her of all power to ask the questions +she trembled to have answered, and she could only enquire, whether Dorothée was +certain the picture resembled the late marchioness. +</p> + +<p> +“O, ma’amselle!” said she, “how came it to strike me +so, the instant I saw it, if it was not my lady’s likeness? Ah!” +added she, taking up the miniature, “these are her own blue +eyes—looking so sweet and so mild; and there is her very look, such as I +have often seen it, when she had sat thinking for a long while, and then, the +tears would often steal down her cheeks—but she never would complain! It +was that look so meek, as it were, and resigned, that used to break my heart +and make me love her so!” +</p> + +<p> +“Dorothée!” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 Dorothée 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 Dorothée 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, ma’amselle!” said Dorothée, “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 +anybody, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Dorothée,” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Dorothée 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You will first promise to grant my request,” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, interrupting her, solemnly promised never to reveal what should be +confided to her, without Dorothée’s consent. +</p> + +<p> +“But there is the horn, ma’amselle, sounding for dinner,” +said Dorothée; “I must be gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“When shall I see you again?” enquired Emily. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That will suit me very well,” replied Emily: “Remember, +then, tonight—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Emily then hastened to the dining-room, where the Count conducted himself with +the courtesy, which is inseparable from true dignity, and of which the Countess +frequently practised little, though her manner to Emily was an exception to her +usual habit. But, if she retained few of the ornamental virtues, she cherished +other qualities, which she seemed to consider invaluable. She had dismissed the +grace of modesty, but then she knew perfectly well how to manage the stare of +assurance; her manners had little of the tempered sweetness, which is necessary +to render the female character interesting, but she could occasionally throw +into them an affectation of spirits, which seemed to triumph over every person, +who approached her. In the country, however, she generally affected an elegant +languor, that persuaded her almost to faint, when her favourite read to her a +story of fictitious sorrow; but her countenance suffered no change, when living +objects of distress solicited her charity, and her heart beat with no transport +to the thought of giving them instant relief;—she was a stranger to the +highest luxury, of which, perhaps, the human mind can be sensible, for her +benevolence had never yet called smiles upon the face of misery. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, the Count, with all his family, except the Countess and +Mademoiselle Bearn, went to the woods to witness the festivity of the peasants. +The scene was in a glade, where the trees, opening, formed a circle round the +turf they highly overshadowed; between their branches, vines, loaded with ripe +clusters, were hung in gay festoons; and, beneath, were tables, with fruit, +wine, cheese and other rural fare,—and seats for the Count and his +family. At a little distance, were benches for the elder peasants, few of whom, +however, could forbear to join the jocund dance, which began soon after +sunset, when several of sixty tripped it with almost as much glee and airy +lightness, as those of sixteen. +</p> + +<p> +The musicians, who sat carelessly on the grass, at the foot of a tree, seemed +inspired by the sound of their own instruments, which were chiefly flutes and a +kind of long guitar. Behind, stood a boy, flourishing a tamborine, and dancing +a solo, except that, as he sometimes gaily tossed the instrument, he tripped +among the other dancers, when his antic gestures called forth a broader laugh, +and heightened the rustic spirit of the scene. +</p> + +<p> +The Count was highly delighted with the happiness he witnessed, to which his +bounty had largely contributed, and the Lady Blanche joined the dance with a +young gentleman of her father’s party. Du Pont requested Emily’s +hand, but her spirits were too much depressed, to permit her to engage in the +present festivity, which called to her remembrance that of the preceding year, +when St. Aubert was living, and of the melancholy scenes, which had immediately +followed it. +</p> + +<p> +Overcome by these recollections, she, at length, left the spot, and walked +slowly into the woods, where the softened music, floating at a distance, +soothed her melancholy mind. The moon threw a mellow light among the foliage; +the air was balmy and cool, and Emily, lost in thought, strolled on, without +observing whither, till she perceived the sounds sinking afar off, and an awful +stillness round her, except that, sometimes, the nightingale beguiled the +silence with +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Liquid notes, that close the eye of day. +</p> + +<p> +At length, she found herself near the avenue, which, on the night of her +father’s arrival, Michael had attempted to pass in search of a house, +which was still nearly as wild and desolate as it had then appeared; for the +Count had been so much engaged in directing other improvements, that he had +neglected to give orders, concerning this extensive approach, and the road was +yet broken, and the trees overloaded with their own luxuriance. +</p> + +<p> +As she stood surveying it, and remembering the emotions, which she had formerly +suffered there, she suddenly recollected the figure, that had been seen +stealing among the trees, and which had returned no answer to Michael’s +repeated calls; and she experienced somewhat of the fear, that had then +assailed her, for it did not appear improbable, that these deep woods were +occasionally the haunt of banditti. She, therefore, turned back, and was +hastily pursuing her way to the dancers, when she heard steps approaching from +the avenue; and, being still beyond the call of the peasants on the green, for +she could neither hear their voices, nor their music, she quickened her pace; +but the persons following gained fast upon her, and, at length, distinguishing +the voice of Henri, she walked leisurely, till he came up. He expressed some +surprise at meeting her so far from the company; and, on her saying, that the +pleasant moonlight had beguiled her to walk farther than she intended, an +exclamation burst from the lips of his companion, and she thought she heard +Valancourt speak! It was, indeed, he! and the meeting was such as may be +imagined, between persons so affectionate, and so long separated as they had +been. +</p> + +<p> +In the joy of these moments, Emily forgot all her past sufferings, and +Valancourt seemed to have forgotten, that any person but Emily existed; while +Henri was a silent and astonished spectator of the scene. +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt asked a thousand questions, concerning herself and Montoni, which +there was now no time to answer; but she learned, that her letter had been +forwarded to him, at Paris, which he had previously quitted, and was returning +to Gascony, whither the letter also returned, which, at length, informed him of +Emily’s arrival, and on the receipt of which he had immediately set out +for Languedoc. On reaching the monastery, whence she had dated her letter, he +found, to his extreme disappointment, that the gates were already closed for +the night; and believing, that he should not see Emily, till the morrow, he was +returning to his little inn, with the intention of writing to her, when he was +overtaken by Henri, with whom he had been intimate at Paris, and was led to +her, whom he was secretly lamenting that he should not see, till the following +day. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, with Valancourt and Henri, now returned to the green, where the latter +presented Valancourt to the Count, who, she fancied, received him with less +than his usual benignity, though it appeared, that they were not strangers to +each other. He was invited, however, to partake of the diversions of the +evening; and, when he had paid his respects to the Count, and while the dancers +continued their festivity, he seated himself by Emily, and conversed, without +restraint. The lights, which were hung among the trees, under which they sat, +allowed her a more perfect view of the countenance she had so frequently in +absence endeavoured to recollect, and she perceived, with some regret, that it +was not the same as when last she saw it. There was all its wonted intelligence +and fire; but it had lost much of the simplicity, and somewhat of the open +benevolence, that used to characterise it. Still, however, it was an +interesting countenance; but Emily thought she perceived, at intervals, anxiety +contract, and melancholy fix the features of Valancourt; sometimes, too, he +fell into a momentary musing, and then appeared anxious to dissipate thought; +while, at others, as he fixed his eyes on Emily, a kind of sudden distraction +seemed to cross his mind. In her he perceived the same goodness and beautiful +simplicity, that had charmed him, on their first acquaintance. The bloom of her +countenance was somewhat faded, but all its sweetness remained, and it was +rendered more interesting, than ever, by the faint expression of melancholy, +that sometimes mingled with her smile. +</p> + +<p> +At his request, she related the most important circumstances, that had occurred +to her, since she left France, and emotions of pity and indignation alternately +prevailed in his mind, when he heard how much she had suffered from the villany +of Montoni. More than once, when she was speaking of his conduct, of which the +guilt was rather softened, than exaggerated, by her representation, he started +from his seat, and walked away, apparently overcome as much by self-accusation +as by resentment. Her sufferings alone were mentioned in the few words, which +he could address to her, and he listened not to the account, which she was +careful to give as distinctly as possible, of the present loss of Madame +Montoni’s estates, and of the little reason there was to expect their +restoration. At length, Valancourt remained lost in thought, and then some +secret cause seemed to overcome him with anguish. Again he abruptly left her. +When he returned, she perceived that he had been weeping, and tenderly begged, +that he would compose himself. “My sufferings are all passed now,” +said she, “for I have escaped from the tyranny of Montoni, and I see you +well—let me also see you happy.” +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt was more agitated than before. “I am unworthy of you, +Emily,” said he, “I am unworthy of you;”—words, by his +manner of uttering which Emily was then more shocked than by their import. She +fixed on him a mournful and enquiring eye. “Do not look thus on +me,” said he, turning away and pressing her hand; “I cannot bear +those looks.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would ask,” said Emily, in a gentle, but agitated voice, +“the meaning of your words; but I perceive, that the question would +distress you now. Let us talk on other subjects. Tomorrow, perhaps, you may be +more composed. Observe those moonlight woods, and the towers, which appear +obscurely in the perspective. You used to be a great admirer of landscape, and +I have heard you say, that the faculty of deriving consolation, under +misfortune, from the sublime prospects, which neither oppression, nor poverty +withhold from us, was the peculiar blessing of the innocent.” Valancourt +was deeply affected. “Yes,” replied he, “I had once a taste +for innocent and elegant delights—I had once an uncorrupted heart.” +Then, checking himself, he added, “Do you remember our journey together +in the Pyrenees?” +</p> + +<p> +“Can I forget it?” said Emily.—“Would that I +could!” he replied;—“that was the happiest period of my life. +I then loved, with enthusiasm, whatever was truly great, or good.” It was +some time before Emily could repress her tears, and try to command her +emotions. “If you wish to forget that journey,” said she, “it +must certainly be my wish to forget it also.” She paused, and then added, +“You make me very uneasy; but this is not the time for further +enquiry;—yet, how can I bear to believe, even for a moment, that you are +less worthy of my esteem than formerly? I have still sufficient confidence in +your candour, to believe, that, when I shall ask for an explanation, you will +give it me.”—“Yes,” said Valancourt, “yes, Emily: +I have not yet lost my candour: if I had, I could better have disguised my +emotions, on learning what were your sufferings—your virtues, while +I—I—but I will say no more. I did not mean to have said even so +much—I have been surprised into the self-accusation. Tell me, Emily, that +you will not forget that journey—will not wish to forget it, and I will +be calm. I would not lose the remembrance of it for the whole earth.” +</p> + +<p> +“How contradictory is this!” said Emily;—“but we may be +overheard. My recollection of it shall depend upon yours; I will endeavour to +forget, or to recollect it, as you may do. Let us join the +Count.”—“Tell me first,” said Valancourt, “that +you forgive the uneasiness I have occasioned you, this evening, and that you +will still love me.”—“I sincerely forgive you,” replied +Emily. “You best know whether I shall continue to love you, for you know +whether you deserve my esteem. At present, I will believe that you do. It is +unnecessary to say,” added she, observing his dejection, “how much +pain it would give me to believe otherwise.—The young lady, who +approaches, is the Count’s daughter.” +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt and Emily now joined the Lady Blanche; and the party, soon after, +sat down with the Count, his son, and the Chevalier Du Pont, at a banquet, +spread under a gay awning, beneath the trees. At the table also were seated +several of the most venerable of the Count’s tenants, and it was a +festive repast to all but Valancourt and Emily. When the Count retired to the +château, he did not invite Valancourt to accompany him, who, therefore, took +leave of Emily, and retired to his solitary inn for the night: meanwhile, she +soon withdrew to her own apartment, where she mused, with deep anxiety and +concern, on his behaviour, and on the Count’s reception of him. Her +attention was thus so wholly engaged, that she forgot Dorothée and her +appointment, till morning was far advanced, when, knowing that the good old +woman would not come, she retired, for a few hours, to repose. +</p> + +<p> +On the following day, when the Count had accidentally joined Emily in one of +the walks, they talked of the festival of the preceding evening, and this led +him to a mention of Valancourt. “That is a young man of talents,” +said he; “you were formerly acquainted with him, I perceive.” Emily +said, that she was. “He was introduced to me, at Paris,” said the +Count, “and I was much pleased with him, on our first +acquaintance.” He paused, and Emily trembled, between the desire of +hearing more and the fear of showing the Count, that she felt an interest on +the subject. “May I ask,” said he, at length, “how long you +have known Monsieur Valancourt?”—“Will you allow me to ask +your reason for the question, sir?” said she; “and I will answer it +immediately.”—“Certainly,” said the Count, “that +is but just. I will tell you my reason. I cannot but perceive, that Monsieur +Valancourt admires you; in that, however, there is nothing extraordinary; every +person, who sees you, must do the same. I am above using common-place +compliments; I speak with sincerity. What I fear, is, that he is a favoured +admirer.”—“Why do you fear it, sir?” said Emily, +endeavouring to conceal her emotion.—“Because,” replied the +Count, “I think him not worthy of your favour.” Emily, greatly +agitated, entreated further explanation. “I will give it,” said he, +“if you will believe, that nothing but a strong interest in your welfare +could induce me to hazard that assertion.”—“I must believe +so, sir,” replied Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“But let us rest under these trees,” said the Count, observing the +paleness of her countenance; “here is a seat—you are +fatigued.” They sat down, and the Count proceeded. “Many young +ladies, circumstanced as you are, would think my conduct, on this occasion, and +on so short an acquaintance, impertinent, instead of friendly; from what I have +observed of your temper and understanding, I do not fear such a return from +you. Our acquaintance has been short, but long enough to make me esteem you, +and feel a lively interest in your happiness. You deserve to be very happy, and +I trust that you will be so.” Emily sighed softly, and bowed her thanks. +The Count paused again. “I am unpleasantly circumstanced,” said he; +“but an opportunity of rendering you important service shall overcome +inferior considerations. Will you inform me of the manner of your first +acquaintance with the Chevalier Valancourt, if the subject is not too +painful?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily briefly related the accident of their meeting in the presence of her +father, and then so earnestly entreated the Count not to hesitate in declaring +what he knew, that he perceived the violent emotion, against which she was +contending, and, regarding her with a look of tender compassion, considered how +he might communicate his information with least pain to his anxious auditor. +</p> + +<p> +“The Chevalier and my son,” said he, “were introduced to each +other, at the table of a brother officer, at whose house I also met him, and +invited him to my own, whenever he should be disengaged. I did not then know, +that he had formed an acquaintance with a set of men, a disgrace to their +species, who live by plunder and pass their lives in continual debauchery. I +knew several of the Chevalier’s family, resident at Paris, and considered +them as sufficient pledges for his introduction to my own. But you are ill; I +will leave the subject.”—“No, sir,” said Emily, +“I beg you will proceed: I am only +distressed.”—“<i>Only!</i>” said the Count, with +emphasis; “however, I will proceed. I soon learned, that these, his +associates, had drawn him into a course of dissipation, from which he appeared +to have neither the power, nor the inclination, to extricate himself. He lost +large sums at the gaming-table; he became infatuated with play; and was ruined. +I spoke tenderly of this to his friends, who assured me, that they had +remonstrated with him, till they were weary. I afterwards learned, that, in +consideration of his talents for play, which were generally successful, when +unopposed by the tricks of villany,—that in consideration of these, the +party had initiated him into the secrets of their trade, and allotted him a +share of their profits.” “Impossible!” said Emily suddenly; +“but—pardon me, sir, I scarcely know what I say; allow for the +distress of my mind. I must, indeed, I must believe, that you have not been +truly informed. The Chevalier had, doubtless, enemies, who misrepresented +him.”—“I should be most happy to believe so,” replied +the Count, “but I cannot. Nothing short of conviction, and a regard for +your happiness, could have urged me to repeat these unpleasant reports.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was silent. She recollected Valancourt’s sayings, on the preceding +evening, which discovered the pangs of self-reproach, and seemed to confirm all +that the Count had related. Yet she had not fortitude enough to dare +conviction. Her heart was overwhelmed with anguish at the mere suspicion of his +guilt, and she could not endure a belief of it. After a silence, the Count +said, “I perceive, and can allow for, your want of conviction. It is +necessary I should give some proof of what I have asserted; but this I cannot +do, without subjecting one, who is very dear to me, to +danger.”—“What is the danger you apprehend, sir?” said +Emily; “if I can prevent it, you may safely confide in my +honour.”—“On your honour I am certain I can rely,” said +the Count; “but can I trust your fortitude? Do you think you can resist +the solicitation of a favoured admirer, when he pleads, in affliction, for the +name of one, who has robbed him of a blessing?”—“I shall not +be exposed to such a temptation, sir,” said Emily, with modest pride, +“for I cannot favour one, whom I must no longer esteem. I, however, +readily give my word.” Tears, in the mean time, contradicted her first +assertion; and she felt, that time and effort only could eradicate an +affection, which had been formed on virtuous esteem, and cherished by habit and +difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +“I will trust you then,” said the Count, “for conviction is +necessary to your peace, and cannot, I perceive, be obtained, without this +confidence. My son has too often been an eye-witness of the Chevalier’s +ill conduct; he was very near being drawn in by it; he was, indeed, drawn in to +the commission of many follies, but I rescued him from guilt and destruction. +Judge then, Mademoiselle St. Aubert, whether a father, who had nearly lost his +only son by the example of the Chevalier, has not, from conviction, reason to +warn those, whom he esteems, against trusting their happiness in such hands. I +have myself seen the Chevalier engaged in deep play with men, whom I almost +shuddered to look upon. If you still doubt, I will refer you to my son.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must not doubt what you have yourself witnessed,” replied Emily, +sinking with grief, “or what you assert. But the Chevalier has, perhaps, +been drawn only into a transient folly, which he may never repeat. If you had +known the justness of his former principles, you would allow for my present +incredulity.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas!” observed the Count, “it is difficult to believe that, +which will make us wretched. But I will not sooth you by flattering and false +hopes. We all know how fascinating the vice of gaming is, and how difficult it +is, also, to conquer habits; the Chevalier might, perhaps, reform for a while, +but he would soon relapse into dissipation—for I fear, not only the bonds +of habit would be powerful, but that his morals are corrupted. And—why +should I conceal from you, that play is not his only vice? he appears to have a +taste for every vicious pleasure.” +</p> + +<p> +The Count hesitated and paused; while Emily endeavoured to support herself, as, +with increasing perturbation, she expected what he might further say. A long +pause of silence ensued, during which he was visibly agitated; at length, he +said, “It would be a cruel delicacy, that could prevail with me to be +silent—and I will inform you, that the Chevalier’s extravagance has +brought him twice into the prisons of Paris, from whence he was last +extricated, as I was told upon authority, which I cannot doubt, by a well-known +Parisian Countess, with whom he continued to reside, when I left Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused again; and, looking at Emily, perceived her countenance change, and +that she was falling from the seat; he caught her, but she had fainted, and he +called loudly for assistance. They were, however, beyond the hearing of his +servants at the château, and he feared to leave her while he went thither for +assistance, yet knew not how otherwise to obtain it; till a fountain at no +great distance caught his eye, and he endeavoured to support Emily against the +tree, under which she had been sitting, while he went thither for water. But +again he was perplexed, for he had nothing near him, in which water could be +brought; but while, with increased anxiety, he watched her, he thought he +perceived in her countenance symptoms of returning life. +</p> + +<p> +It was long, however, before she revived, and then she found herself +supported—not by the Count, but by Valancourt, who was observing her with +looks of earnest apprehension, and who now spoke to her in a tone, tremulous +with his anxiety. At the sound of his well-known voice, she raised her eyes, +but presently closed them, and a faintness again came over her. +</p> + +<p> +The Count, with a look somewhat stern, waved him to withdraw; but he only +sighed heavily, and called on the name of Emily, as he again held the water, +that had been brought, to her lips. On the Count’s repeating his action, +and accompanying it with words, Valancourt answered him with a look of deep +resentment, and refused to leave the place, till she should revive, or to +resign her for a moment to the care of any person. In the next instant, his +conscience seemed to inform him of what had been the subject of the +Count’s conversation with Emily, and indignation flashed in his eyes; but +it was quickly repressed, and succeeded by an expression of serious anguish, +that induced the Count to regard him with more pity than resentment, and the +view of which so much affected Emily, when she again revived, that she yielded +to the weakness of tears. But she soon restrained them, and, exerting her +resolution to appear recovered, she rose, thanked the Count and Henri, with +whom Valancourt had entered the garden, for their care, and moved towards the +château, without noticing Valancourt, who, heart-struck by her manner, +exclaimed in a low voice—“Good God! how have I deserved +this?—what has been said, to occasion this change?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, without replying, but with increased emotion, quickened her steps. +“What has thus disordered you, Emily?” said he, as he still walked +by her side: “give me a few moments’ conversation, I entreat +you;—I am very miserable!” +</p> + +<p> +Though this was spoken in a low voice, it was overheard by the Count, who +immediately replied, that Mademoiselle St. Aubert was then too much indisposed, +to attend to any conversation, but that he would venture to promise she would +see Monsieur Valancourt on the morrow, if she was better. +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt’s cheek was crimsoned: he looked haughtily at the Count, and +then at Emily, with successive expressions of surprise, grief and supplication, +which she could neither misunderstand, nor resist, and she said +languidly—“I shall be better tomorrow, and if you wish to accept +the Count’s permission, I will see you then.” +</p> + +<p> +“See me!” exclaimed Valancourt, as he threw a glance of mingled +pride and resentment upon the Count; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he +added—“But I will come, madam; I will accept the Count’s +<i>permission</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +When they reached the door of the château, he lingered a moment, for his +resentment was now fled; and then, with a look so expressive of tenderness and +grief, that Emily’s heart was not proof against it, he bade her good +morning, and, bowing slightly to the Count, disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +Emily withdrew to her own apartment, under such oppression of heart as she had +seldom known, when she endeavoured to recollect all that the Count had told, to +examine the probability of the circumstances he himself believed, and to +consider of her future conduct towards Valancourt. But, when she attempted to +think, her mind refused control, and she could only feel that she was +miserable. One moment, she sunk under the conviction, that Valancourt was no +longer the same, whom she had so tenderly loved, the idea of whom had hitherto +supported her under affliction, and cheered her with the hope of happier +days,—but a fallen, a worthless character, whom she must teach herself to +despise—if she could not forget. Then, unable to endure this terrible +supposition, she rejected it, and disdained to believe him capable of conduct, +such as the Count had described, to whom she believed he had been +misrepresented by some artful enemy; and there were moments, when she even +ventured to doubt the integrity of the Count himself, and to suspect, that he +was influenced by some selfish motive, to break her connection with Valancourt. +But this was the error of an instant, only; the Count’s character, which +she had heard spoken of by Du Pont and many other persons, and had herself +observed, enabled her to judge, and forbade the supposition; had her +confidence, indeed, been less, there appeared to be no temptation to betray him +into conduct so treacherous, and so cruel. Nor did reflection suffer her to +preserve the hope, that Valancourt had been mis-represented to the Count, who +had said, that he spoke chiefly from his own observation, and from his +son’s experience. She must part from Valancourt, therefore, for +ever—for what of either happiness or tranquillity could she expect with a +man, whose tastes were degenerated into low inclinations, and to whom vice was +become habitual? whom she must no longer esteem, though the remembrance of what +he once was, and the long habit of loving him, would render it very difficult +for her to despise him. “O Valancourt!” she would exclaim, +“having been separated so long—do we meet, only to be +miserable—only to part for ever?” +</p> + +<p> +Amidst all the tumult of her mind, she remembered pertinaciously the seeming +candour and simplicity of his conduct, on the preceding night; and, had she +dared to trust her own heart, it would have led her to hope much from this. +Still she could not resolve to dismiss him for ever, without obtaining further +proof of his ill conduct; yet she saw no probability of procuring it, if, +indeed, proof more positive was possible. Something, however, it was necessary +to decide upon, and she almost determined to be guided in her opinion solely by +the manner, with which Valancourt should receive her hints concerning his late +conduct. +</p> + +<p> +Thus passed the hours till dinner-time, when Emily, struggling against the +pressure of her grief, dried her tears, and joined the family at table, where +the Count preserved towards her the most delicate attention; but the Countess +and Mademoiselle Bearn, having looked, for a moment, with surprise, on her +dejected countenance, began, as usual, to talk of trifles, while the eyes of +Lady Blanche asked much of her friend, who could only reply by a mournful +smile. +</p> + +<p> +Emily withdrew as soon after dinner as possible, and was followed by the Lady +Blanche, whose anxious enquiries, however, she found herself quite unequal to +answer, and whom she entreated to spare her on the subject of her distress. To +converse on any topic, was now, indeed, so extremely painful to her, that she +soon gave up the attempt, and Blanche left her, with pity of the sorrow, which +she perceived she had no power to assuage. +</p> + +<p> +Emily secretly determined to go to her convent in a day or two; for company, +especially that of the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, was intolerable to her, +in the present state of her spirits; and, in the retirement of the convent, as +well as the kindness of the abbess, she hoped to recover the command of her +mind, and to teach it resignation to the event, which, she too plainly +perceived, was approaching. +</p> + +<p> +To have lost Valancourt by death, or to have seen him married to a rival, +would, she thought, have given her less anguish, than a conviction of his +unworthiness, which must terminate in misery to himself, and which robbed her +even of the solitary image her heart so long had cherished. These painful +reflections were interrupted, for a moment, by a note from Valancourt, written +in evident distraction of mind, entreating, that she would permit him to see +her on the approaching evening, instead of the following morning; a request, +which occasioned her so much agitation, that she was unable to answer it. She +wished to see him, and to terminate her present state of suspense, yet shrunk +from the interview, and, incapable of deciding for herself, she, at length, +sent to beg a few moments’ conversation with the Count in his library, +where she delivered to him the note, and requested his advice. After reading +it, he said, that, if she believed herself well enough to support the +interview, his opinion was, that, for the relief of both parties, it ought to +take place, that evening. +</p> + +<p> +“His affection for you is, undoubtedly, a very sincere one,” added +the Count; “and he appears so much distressed, and you, my amiable +friend, are so ill at ease—that the sooner the affair is decided, the +better.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily replied, therefore, to Valancourt, that she would see him, and then +exerted herself in endeavours to attain fortitude and composure, to bear her +through the approaching scene—a scene so afflictingly the reverse of any, +to which she had looked forward! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="part04"></a>VOLUME 4</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap39"></a> CHAPTER I </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Is all the council that we two have shared,<br/> +the hours that we have spent,<br/> +When we have chid the hasty-footed time<br/> +For parting us—Oh! and is all forgot?<br/><br/> + +And will you rend our ancient love asunder?<br/> + MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, when Emily was at length informed, that Count De Villefort +requested to see her, she guessed that Valancourt was below, and, endeavouring +to assume composure and to recollect all her spirits, she rose and left the +apartment; but on reaching the door of the library, where she imagined him to +be, her emotion returned with such energy, that, fearing to trust herself in +the room, she returned into the hall, where she continued for a considerable +time, unable to command her agitated spirits. +</p> + +<p> +When she could recall them, she found in the library Valancourt, seated with +the Count, who both rose on her entrance; but she did not dare to look at +Valancourt, and the Count, having led her to a chair, immediately withdrew. +</p> + +<p> +Emily remained with her eyes fixed on the floor, under such oppression of +heart, that she could not speak, and with difficulty breathed; while Valancourt +threw himself into a chair beside her, and, sighing heavily, continued silent, +when, had she raised her eyes, she would have perceived the violent emotions, +with which he was agitated. +</p> + +<p> +At length, in a tremulous voice, he said, “I have solicited to see you +this evening, that I might, at least, be spared the further torture of +suspense, which your altered manner had occasioned me, and which the hints I +have just received from the Count have in part explained. I perceive I have +enemies, Emily, who envied me my late happiness, and who have been busy in +searching out the means to destroy it: I perceive, too, that time and absence +have weakened the affection you once felt for me, and that you can now easily +be taught to forget me.” +</p> + +<p> +His last words faltered, and Emily, less able to speak than before, continued +silent. +</p> + +<p> +“O what a meeting is this!” exclaimed Valancourt, starting from his +seat, and pacing the room with hurried steps, “what a meeting is this, +after our long—long separation!” Again he sat down, and, after the +struggle of a moment, he added in a firm but despairing tone, “This is +too much—I cannot bear it! Emily, will you not speak to me?” +</p> + +<p> +He covered his face with his hand, as if to conceal his emotion, and took +Emily’s, which she did not withdraw. Her tears could no longer be +restrained; and, when he raised his eyes and perceived that she was weeping, +all his tenderness returned, and a gleam of hope appeared to cross his mind, +for he exclaimed, “O! you do pity me, then, you do love me! Yes, you are +still my own Emily—let me believe those tears, that tell me so!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily now made an effort to recover her firmness, and, hastily drying them, +“Yes,” said she, “I do pity you—I weep for +you—but, ought I to think of you with affection? You may remember, that +yester-evening I said, I had still sufficient confidence in your candour to +believe, that, when I should request an explanation of your words, you would +give it. This explanation is now unnecessary, I understand them too well; but +prove, at least, that your candour is deserving of the confidence I give it, +when I ask you, whether you are conscious of being the same estimable +Valancourt—whom I once loved.” +</p> + +<p> +“Once loved!” cried he,—“the same—the +same!” He paused in extreme emotion, and then added, in a voice at once +solemn, and dejected,—“No—I am not the same!—I am +lost—I am no longer worthy of you!” +</p> + +<p> +He again concealed his face. Emily was too much affected by this honest +confession to reply immediately, and, while she struggled to overcome the +pleadings of her heart, and to act with the decisive firmness, which was +necessary for her future peace, she perceived all the danger of trusting long +to her resolution, in the presence of Valancourt, and was anxious to conclude +an interview, that tortured them both; yet, when she considered, that this was +probably their last meeting, her fortitude sunk at once, and she experienced +only emotions of tenderness and of despondency. +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt, meanwhile, lost in emotions of remorse and grief, which he had +neither the power, nor the will to express, sat insensible almost of the +presence of Emily, his features still concealed, and his breast agitated by +convulsive sighs. +</p> + +<p> +“Spare me the necessity,” said Emily, recollecting her fortitude, +“spare me the necessity of mentioning those circumstances of your +conduct, which oblige me to break our connection for ever.—We must part, I +now see you for the last time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible!” cried Valancourt, roused from his deep silence, +“You cannot mean what you say!—you cannot mean to throw me from you +for ever!” +</p> + +<p> +“We must part,” repeated Emily, with emphasis,—“and +that for ever! Your own conduct has made this necessary.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is the Count’s determination,” said he haughtily, +“not yours, and I shall enquire by what authority he interferes between +us.” He now rose, and walked about the room in great emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me save you from this error,” said Emily, not less +agitated—“it is my determination, and, if you reflect a moment on +your late conduct, you will perceive, that my future peace requires it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your future peace requires, that we should part—part +for ever!” said Valancourt, “How little did I ever expect to hear +you say so!” +</p> + +<p> +“And how little did I expect, that it would be necessary for me to say +so!” rejoined Emily, while her voice softened into tenderness, and her +tears flowed again.—“That you—you, Valancourt, would ever +fall from my esteem!” +</p> + +<p> +He was silent a moment, as if overwhelmed by the consciousness of no longer +deserving this esteem, as well as the certainty of having lost it, and then, +with impassioned grief, lamented the criminality of his late conduct and the +misery to which it had reduced him, till, overcome by a recollection of the +past and a conviction of the future, he burst into tears, and uttered only deep +and broken sighs. +</p> + +<p> +The remorse he had expressed, and the distress he suffered could not be +witnessed by Emily with indifference, and, had she not called to her +recollection all the circumstances, of which Count De Villefort had informed +her, and all he had said of the danger of confiding in repentance, formed under +the influence of passion, she might perhaps have trusted to the assurances of +her heart, and have forgotten his misconduct in the tenderness, which that +repentance excited. +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt, returning to the chair beside her, at length, said, in a calm +voice, “’Tis true, I am fallen—fallen from my own esteem! but +could you, Emily, so soon, so suddenly resign, if you had not before ceased to +love me, or, if your conduct was not governed by the designs, I will say, the +selfish designs of another person! Would you not otherwise be willing to hope +for my reformation—and could you bear, by estranging me from you, to +abandon me to misery—to myself!”—Emily wept +aloud.—“No, Emily—no—you would not do this, if you +still loved me. You would find your own happiness in saving mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are too many probabilities against that hope,” said Emily, +“to justify me in trusting the comfort of my whole life to it. May I not +also ask, whether you could wish me to do this, if you really loved me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Really loved you!” exclaimed Valancourt—“is it +possible you can doubt my love! Yet it is reasonable, that you should do so, +since you see, that I am less ready to suffer the horror of parting with you, +than that of involving you in my ruin. Yes, Emily—I am +ruined—irreparably ruined—I am involved in debts, which I can never +discharge!” Valancourt’s look, which was wild, as he spoke this, +soon settled into an expression of gloomy despair; and Emily, while she was +compelled to admire his sincerity, saw, with unutterable anguish, new reasons +for fear in the suddenness of his feelings and the extent of the misery, in +which they might involve him. After some minutes, she seemed to contend against +her grief and to struggle for fortitude to conclude the interview. “I +will not prolong these moments,” said she, “by a conversation, +which can answer no good purpose. Valancourt, farewell!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not going?” said he, wildly interrupting +her—“You will not leave me thus—you will not abandon me even +before my mind has suggested any possibility of compromise between the last +indulgence of my despair and the endurance of my loss!” Emily was +terrified by the sternness of his look, and said, in a soothing voice, +“You have yourself acknowledged, that it is necessary we should +part;—if you wish, that I should believe you love me, you will repeat the +acknowledgment.”—“Never—never,” cried +he—“I was distracted when I made it. O! Emily—this is too +much;—though you are not deceived as to my faults, you must be deluded +into this exasperation against them. The Count is the barrier between us; but +he shall not long remain so.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are, indeed, distracted,” said Emily, “the Count is not +your enemy; on the contrary, he is my friend, and that might, in some degree, +induce you to consider him as yours.”—“Your friend!” +said Valancourt, hastily, “how long has he been your friend, that he can +so easily make you forget your lover? Was it he, who recommended to your favour +the Monsieur Du Pont, who, you say, accompanied you from Italy, and who, I say, +has stolen your affections? But I have no right to question you;—you are +your own mistress. Du Pont, perhaps, may not long triumph over my fallen +fortunes!” Emily, more frightened than before by the frantic looks of +Valancourt, said, in a tone scarcely audible, “For heaven’s sake be +reasonable—be composed. Monsieur Du Pont is not your rival, nor is the +Count his advocate. You have no rival; nor, except yourself, an enemy. My heart +is wrung with anguish, which must increase while your frantic behaviour shows +me, more than ever, that you are no longer the Valancourt I have been +accustomed to love.” +</p> + +<p> +He made no reply, but sat with his arms rested on the table and his face +concealed by his hands; while Emily stood, silent and trembling, wretched for +herself and dreading to leave him in this state of mind. +</p> + +<p> +“O excess of misery!” he suddenly exclaimed, “that I can +never lament my sufferings, without accusing myself, nor remember you, without +recollecting the folly and the vice, by which I have lost you! Why was I forced +to Paris, and why did I yield to allurements, which were to make me despicable +for ever! O! why cannot I look back, without interruption, to those days of +innocence and peace, the days of our early love!”—The recollection +seemed to melt his heart, and the frenzy of despair yielded to tears. After a +long pause, turning towards her and taking her hand, he said, in a softened +voice, “Emily, can you bear that we should part—can you resolve to +give up a heart, that loves you like mine—a heart, which, though it has +erred—widely erred, is not irretrievable from error, as, you well know, +it never can be retrievable from love?” Emily made no reply, but with her +tears. “Can you,” continued he, “can you forget all our +former days of happiness and confidence—when I had not a thought, that I +might wish to conceal from you—when I had no taste—no pleasures, in +which you did not participate?” +</p> + +<p> +“O do not lead me to the remembrance of those days,” said Emily, +“unless you can teach me to forget the present; I do not mean to reproach +you; if I did, I should be spared these tears; but why will you render your +present sufferings more conspicuous, by contrasting them with your former +virtues?” +</p> + +<p> +“Those virtues,” said Valancourt, “might, perhaps, again be +mine, if your affection, which nurtured them, was unchanged;—but I fear, +indeed, I see, that you can no longer love me; else the happy hours, which we +have passed together, would plead for me, and you could not look back upon them +unmoved. Yet, why should I torture myself with the remembrance—why do I +linger here? Am I not ruined—would it not be madness to involve you in my +misfortunes, even if your heart was still my own? I will not distress you +further. Yet, before I go,” added he, in a solemn voice, “let me +repeat, that, whatever may be my destiny—whatever I may be doomed to +suffer, I must always love you—most fondly love you! I am going, Emily, I +am going to leave you—to leave you, for ever!” As he spoke the last +words, his voice trembled, and he threw himself again into the chair, from +which he had risen. Emily was utterly unable to leave the room, or to say +farewell. All impression of his criminal conduct and almost of his follies was +obliterated from her mind, and she was sensible only of pity and grief. +</p> + +<p> +“My fortitude is gone,” said Valancourt at length; “I can no +longer even struggle to recall it. I cannot now leave you—I cannot bid +you an eternal farewell; say, at least, that you will see me once again.” +Emily’s heart was somewhat relieved by the request, and she endeavoured +to believe, that she ought not to refuse it. Yet she was embarrassed by +recollecting, that she was a visitor in the house of the Count, who could not +be pleased by the return of Valancourt. Other considerations, however, soon +overcame this, and she granted his request, on the condition, that he would +neither think of the Count, as his enemy, nor Du Pont as his rival. He then +left her, with a heart, so much lightened by this short respite, that he almost +lost every former sense of misfortune. +</p> + +<p> +Emily withdrew to her own room, that she might compose her spirits and remove +the traces of her tears, which would encourage the censorious remarks of the +Countess and her favourite, as well as excite the curiosity of the rest of the +family. She found it, however, impossible to tranquillize her mind, from which +she could not expel the remembrance of the late scene with Valancourt, or the +consciousness, that she was to see him again, on the morrow. This meeting now +appeared more terrible to her than the last, for the ingenuous confession he +had made of his ill conduct and his embarrassed circumstances, with the +strength and tenderness of affection, which this confession discovered, had +deeply impressed her, and, in spite of all she had heard and believed to his +disadvantage, her esteem began to return. It frequently appeared to her +impossible, that he could have been guilty of the depravities, reported of him, +which, if not inconsistent with his warmth and impetuosity, were entirely so +with his candour and sensibility. Whatever was the criminality, which had given +rise to the reports, she could not now believe them to be wholly true, nor that +his heart was finally closed against the charms of virtue. The deep +consciousness, which he felt as well as expressed of his errors, seemed to +justify the opinion; and, as she understood not the instability of youthful +dispositions, when opposed by habit, and that professions frequently deceive +those, who make, as well as those, who hear them, she might have yielded to the +flattering persuasions of her own heart and the pleadings of Valancourt, had +she not been guided by the superior prudence of the Count. He represented to +her, in a clear light, the danger of her present situation, that of listening +to promises of amendment, made under the influence of strong passion, and the +slight hope, which could attach to a connection, whose chance of happiness +rested upon the retrieval of ruined circumstances and the reform of corrupted +habits. On these accounts, he lamented, that Emily had consented to a second +interview, for he saw how much it would shake her resolution and increase the +difficulty of her conquest. +</p> + +<p> +Her mind was now so entirely occupied by nearer interests, that she forgot the +old housekeeper and the promised history, which so lately had excited her +curiosity, but which Dorothée was probably not very anxious to disclose, for +night came; the hours passed; and she did not appear in Emily’s chamber. +With the latter it was a sleepless and dismal night; the more she suffered her +memory to dwell on the late scenes with Valancourt, the more her resolution +declined, and she was obliged to recollect all the arguments, which the Count +had made use of to strengthen it, and all the precepts, which she had received +from her deceased father, on the subject of self-command, to enable her to act, +with prudence and dignity, on this the most severe occasion of her life. There +were moments, when all her fortitude forsook her, and when, remembering the +confidence of former times, she thought it impossible, that she could renounce +Valancourt. His reformation then appeared certain; the arguments of Count De +Villefort were forgotten; she readily believed all she wished, and was willing +to encounter any evil, rather than that of an immediate separation. +</p> + +<p> +Thus passed the night in ineffectual struggles between affection and reason, +and she rose, in the morning, with a mind, weakened and irresolute, and a +frame, trembling with illness. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap40"></a> CHAPTER II </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Come, weep with me;—past hope, past cure, past help!<br/> + ROMEO AND JULIET +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt, meanwhile, suffered the tortures of remorse and despair. The sight +of Emily had renewed all the ardour, with which he first loved her, and which +had suffered a temporary abatement from absence and the passing scenes of busy +life. When, on the receipt of her letter, he set out for Languedoc, he then +knew, that his own folly had involved him in ruin, and it was no part of his +design to conceal this from her. But he lamented only the delay which his +ill-conduct must give to their marriage, and did not foresee, that the +information could induce her to break their connection for ever. While the +prospect of this separation overwhelmed his mind, before stung with +self-reproach, he awaited their second interview, in a state little short of +distraction, yet was still inclined to hope, that his pleadings might prevail +upon her not to exact it. In the morning, he sent to know at what hour she +would see him; and his note arrived, when she was with the Count, who had +sought an opportunity of again conversing with her of Valancourt; for he +perceived the extreme distress of her mind, and feared, more than ever, that +her fortitude would desert her. Emily having dismissed the messenger, the Count +returned to the subject of their late conversation, urging his fear of +Valancourt’s entreaties, and again pointing out to her the lengthened +misery, that must ensue, if she should refuse to encounter some present +uneasiness. His repeated arguments could, indeed, alone have protected her from +the affection she still felt for Valancourt, and she resolved to be governed by +them. +</p> + +<p> +The hour of interview, at length, arrived. Emily went to it, at least, with +composure of manner, but Valancourt was so much agitated, that he could not +speak, for several minutes, and his first words were alternately those of +lamentation, entreaty, and self-reproach. Afterward, he said, “Emily, I +have loved you—I do love you, better than my life; but I am ruined by my +own conduct. Yet I would seek to entangle you in a connection, that must be +miserable for you, rather than subject myself to the punishment, which is my +due, the loss of you. I am a wretch, but I will be a villain no longer.—I +will not endeavour to shake your resolution by the pleadings of a selfish +passion. I resign you, Emily, and will endeavour to find consolation in +considering, that, though I am miserable, you, at least, may be happy. The +merit of the sacrifice is, indeed, not my own, for I should never have attained +strength of mind to surrender you, if your prudence had not demanded it.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused a moment, while Emily attempted to conceal the tears, which came to +her eyes. She would have said, “You speak now, as you were wont to +do,” but she checked herself.—“Forgive me, Emily,” said +he, “all the sufferings I have occasioned you, and, sometimes, when you +think of the wretched Valancourt, remember, that his only consolation would be +to believe, that you are no longer unhappy by his folly.” The tears now +fell fast upon her cheek, and he was relapsing into the frenzy of despair, +when Emily endeavoured to recall her fortitude and to terminate an interview, +which only seemed to increase the distress of both. Perceiving her tears and +that she was rising to go, Valancourt struggled, once more, to overcome his own +feelings and to sooth hers. “The remembrance of this sorrow,” said +he, “shall in future be my protection. O! never again will example, or +temptation have power to seduce me to evil, exalted as I shall be by the +recollection of your grief for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was somewhat comforted by this assurance. “We are now parting for +ever,” said she; “but, if my happiness is dear to you, you will +always remember, that nothing can contribute to it more, than to believe, that +you have recovered your own esteem.” Valancourt took her hand;—his +eyes were covered with tears, and the farewell he would have spoken was lost in +sighs. After a few moments, Emily said, with difficulty and emotion, +“Farewell, Valancourt, may you be happy!” She repeated her +“farewell,” and attempted to withdraw her hand, but he still held +it and bathed it with his tears. “Why prolong these moments?” said +Emily, in a voice scarcely audible, “they are too painful to us +both.” “This is too—too much,” exclaimed Valancourt, +resigning her hand and throwing himself into a chair, where he covered his face +with his hands and was overcome, for some moments, by convulsive sighs. After a +long pause, during which Emily wept in silence, and Valancourt seemed +struggling with his grief, she again rose to take leave of him. Then, +endeavouring to recover his composure, “I am again afflicting you,” +said he, “but let the anguish I suffer plead for me.” He then +added, in a solemn voice, which frequently trembled with the agitation of his +heart, “Farewell, Emily, you will always be the only object of my +tenderness. Sometimes you will think of the unhappy Valancourt, and it will be +with pity, though it may not be with esteem. O! what is the whole world to me, +without you—without your esteem!” He checked himself—“I +am falling again into the error I have just lamented. I must not intrude longer +upon your patience, or I shall relapse into despair.” +</p> + +<p> +He once more bade Emily adieu, pressed her hand to his lips, looked at her, for +the last time, and hurried out of the room. +</p> + +<p> +Emily remained in the chair, where he had left her, oppressed with a pain at +her heart, which scarcely permitted her to breathe, and listening to his +departing steps, sinking fainter and fainter, as he crossed the hall. She was, +at length, roused by the voice of the Countess in the garden, and, her +attention being then awakened, the first object, which struck her sight, was +the vacant chair, where Valancourt had sat. The tears, which had been, for some +time, repressed by the kind of astonishment, that followed his departure, now +came to her relief, and she was, at length, sufficiently composed to return to +her own room. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap41"></a> CHAPTER III </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +This is no mortal business, nor no sound<br/> +That the earth owes!<br/> + SHAKESPEARE +</p> + +<p> +We now return to the mention of Montoni, whose rage and disappointment were +soon lost in nearer interests, than any, which the unhappy Emily had awakened. +His depredations having exceeded their usual limits, and reached an extent, at +which neither the timidity of the then commercial senate of Venice, nor their +hope of his occasional assistance would permit them to connive, the same +effort, it was resolved, should complete the suppression of his power and the +correction of his outrages. While a corps of considerable strength was upon the +point of receiving orders to march for Udolpho, a young officer, prompted +partly by resentment, for some injury, received from Montoni, and partly by the +hope of distinction, solicited an interview with the Minister, who directed the +enterprise. To him he represented, that the situation of Udolpho rendered it +too strong to be taken by open force, except after some tedious operations; +that Montoni had lately shown how capable he was of adding to its strength all +the advantages, which could be derived from the skill of a commander; that so +considerable a body of troops, as that allotted to the expedition, could not +approach Udolpho without his knowledge, and that it was not for the honour of +the republic to have a large part of its regular force employed, for such a +time as the siege of Udolpho would require, upon the attack of a handful of +banditti. The object of the expedition, he thought, might be accomplished much +more safely and speedily by mingling contrivance with force. It was possible to +meet Montoni and his party, without their walls, and to attack them then; or, +by approaching the fortress, with the secrecy, consistent with the march of +smaller bodies of troops, to take advantage either of the treachery, or +negligence of some of his party, and to rush unexpectedly upon the whole even +in the castle of Udolpho. +</p> + +<p> +This advice was seriously attended to, and the officer, who gave it, received +the command of the troops, demanded for his purpose. His first efforts were +accordingly those of contrivance alone. In the neighbourhood of Udolpho, he +waited, till he had secured the assistance of several of the +<i>condottieri</i>, of whom he found none, that he addressed, unwilling to +punish their imperious master and to secure their own pardon from the senate. +He learned also the number of Montoni’s troops, and that it had been much +increased, since his late successes. The conclusion of his plan was soon +effected. Having returned with his party, who received the watch-word and other +assistance from their friends within, Montoni and his officers were surprised +by one division, who had been directed to their apartment, while the other +maintained the slight combat, which preceded the surrender of the whole +garrison. Among the persons, seized with Montoni, was Orsino, the assassin, who +had joined him on his first arrival at Udolpho, and whose concealment had been +made known to the senate by Count Morano, after the unsuccessful attempt of the +latter to carry off Emily. It was, indeed, partly for the purpose of capturing +this man, by whom one of the senate had been murdered, that the expedition was +undertaken, and its success was so acceptable to them, that Morano was +instantly released, notwithstanding the political suspicions, which Montoni, by +his secret accusation, had excited against him. The celerity and ease, with +which this whole transaction was completed, prevented it from attracting +curiosity, or even from obtaining a place in any of the published records of +that time; so that Emily, who remained in Languedoc, was ignorant of the defeat +and signal humiliation of her late persecutor. +</p> + +<p> +Her mind was now occupied with sufferings, which no effort of reason had yet +been able to control. Count De Villefort, who sincerely attempted whatever +benevolence could suggest for softening them, sometimes allowed her the +solitude she wished for, sometimes led her into friendly parties, and +constantly protected her, as much as possible, from the shrewd enquiries and +critical conversation of the Countess. He often invited her to make excursions, +with him and his daughter, during which he conversed entirely on questions, +suitable to her taste, without appearing to consult it, and thus endeavoured +gradually to withdraw her from the subject of her grief, and to awake other +interests in her mind. Emily, to whom he appeared as the enlightened friend and +protector of her youth, soon felt for him the tender affection of a daughter, +and her heart expanded to her young friend Blanche, as to a sister, whose +kindness and simplicity compensated for the want of more brilliant qualities. +It was long before she could sufficiently abstract her mind from Valancourt to +listen to the story, promised by old Dorothée, concerning which her curiosity +had once been so deeply interested; but Dorothée, at length, reminded her of +it, and Emily desired, that she would come, that night, to her chamber. +</p> + +<p> +Still her thoughts were employed by considerations, which weakened her +curiosity, and Dorothée’s tap at the door, soon after twelve, surprised +her almost as much as if it had not been appointed. “I am come, at last, +lady,” said she; “I wonder what it is makes my old limbs shake so, +tonight. I thought, once or twice, I should have dropped, as I was +a-coming.” Emily seated her in a chair, and desired, that she would +compose her spirits, before she entered upon the subject, that had brought her +thither. “Alas,” said Dorothée, “it is thinking of that, I +believe, which has disturbed me so. In my way hither too, I passed the chamber, +where my dear lady died, and everything was so still and gloomy about me, that +I almost fancied I saw her, as she appeared upon her death-bed.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily now drew her chair near to Dorothée, who went on. “It is about +twenty years since my lady Marchioness came a bride to the château. O! I well +remember how she looked, when she came into the great hall, where we servants +were all assembled to welcome her, and how happy my lord the Marquis seemed. +Ah! who would have thought then!—But, as I was saying, ma’amselle, +I thought the Marchioness, with all her sweet looks, did not look happy at +heart, and so I told my husband, and he said it was all fancy; so I said no +more, but I made my remarks, for all that. My lady Marchioness was then about +your age, and, as I have often thought, very like you. Well! my lord the +Marquis kept open house, for a long time, and gave such entertainments and +there were such gay doings as have never been in the château since. I was +younger, ma’amselle, then, than I am now, and was as gay at the best of +them. I remember I danced with Philip, the butler, in a pink gown, with yellow +ribbons, and a coif, not such as they wear now, but plaited high, with ribbons +all about it. It was very becoming truly;—my lord, the Marquis, noticed +me. Ah! he was a good-natured gentleman then—who would have thought that +he—” +</p> + +<p> +“But the Marchioness, Dorothée,” said Emily, “you were +telling me of her.” +</p> + +<p> +“O yes, my lady Marchioness, I thought she did not seem happy at heart, +and once, soon after the marriage, I caught her crying in her chamber; but, +when she saw me, she dried her eyes, and pretended to smile. I did not dare +then to ask what was the matter; but, the next time I saw her crying, I did, +and she seemed displeased;—so I said no more. I found out, some time +after, how it was. Her father, it seems, had commanded her to marry my lord, +the Marquis, for his money, and there was another nobleman, or else a +chevalier, that she liked better and that was very fond of her, and she fretted +for the loss of him, I fancy, but she never told me so. My lady always tried to +conceal her tears from the Marquis, for I have often seen her, after she has +been so sorrowful, look so calm and sweet, when he came into the room! But my +lord, all of a sudden, grew gloomy and fretful, and very unkind sometimes to my +lady. This afflicted her very much, as I saw, for she never complained, and she +used to try so sweetly to oblige him and to bring him into a good humour, that +my heart has often ached to see it. But he used to be stubborn, and give her +harsh answers, and then, when she found it all in vain, she would go to her own +room, and cry so! I used to hear her in the ante-room, poor dear lady! but I +seldom ventured to go to her. I used, sometimes, to think my lord was jealous. +To be sure my lady was greatly admired, but she was too good to deserve +suspicion. Among the many chevaliers, that visited at the château, there was +one, that I always thought seemed just suited for my lady; he was so courteous, +yet so spirited, and there was such a grace, as it were, in all he did, or +said. I always observed, that, whenever he had been there, the Marquis was more +gloomy and my lady more thoughtful, and it came into my head, that this was the +chevalier she ought to have married, but I never could learn for +certain.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was the chevalier’s name, Dorothée?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Why that I will not tell even to you, ma’amselle, for evil may +come of it. I once heard from a person, who is since dead, that the Marchioness +was not in law the wife of the Marquis, for that she had before been privately +married to the gentleman she was so much attached to, and was afterwards afraid +to own it to her father, who was a very stern man; but this seems very +unlikely, and I never gave much faith to it. As I was saying, the Marquis was +most out of humour, as I thought, when the chevalier I spoke of had been at the +château, and, at last, his ill treatment of my lady made her quite miserable. +He would see hardly any visitors at the castle, and made her live almost by +herself. I was her constant attendant, and saw all she suffered, but still she +never complained. +</p> + +<p> +“After matters had gone on thus, for near a year, my lady was taken ill, +and I thought her long fretting had made her so,—but, alas! I fear it was +worse than that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Worse! Dorothée,” said Emily, “can that be possible?” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear it was so, madam, there were strange appearances. But I will only +tell what happened. My lord, the Marquis—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, Dorothée, what sounds were those?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +Dorothée changed countenance, and, while they both listened, they heard, on the +stillness of the night, music of uncommon sweetness. +</p> + +<p> +“I have surely heard that voice before!” said Emily, at length. +</p> + +<p> +“I have often heard it, and at this same hour,” said Dorothée, +solemnly, “and, if spirits ever bring music—that is surely the +music of one!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, as the sounds drew nearer, knew them to be the same she had formerly +heard at the time of her father’s death, and, whether it was the +remembrance they now revived of that melancholy event, or that she was struck +with superstitious awe, it is certain she was so much affected, that she had +nearly fainted. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I once told you, madam,” said Dorothée, “that I +first heard this music, soon after my lady’s death! I well remember the +night!”— “Hark! it comes again!” said Emily, “let +us open the window, and listen.” +</p> + +<p> +They did so; but, soon, the sounds floated gradually away into distance, and +all was again still; they seemed to have sunk among the woods, whose tufted +tops were visible upon the clear horizon, while every other feature of the +scene was involved in the night-shade, which, however, allowed the eye an +indistinct view of some objects in the garden below. +</p> + +<p> +As Emily leaned on the window, gazing with a kind of thrilling awe upon the +obscurity beneath, and then upon the cloudless arch above, enlightened only by +the stars, Dorothée, in a low voice, resumed her narrative. +</p> + +<p> +“I was saying, ma’amselle, that I well remember when first I heard +that music. It was one night, soon after my lady’s death, that I had sat +up later than usual, and I don’t know how it was, but I had been thinking +a great deal about my poor mistress, and of the sad scene I had lately +witnessed. The château was quite still, and I was in the chamber at a good +distance from the rest of the servants, and this, with the mournful things I +had been thinking of, I suppose, made me low spirited, for I felt very lonely +and forlorn, as it were, and listened often, wishing to hear a sound in the +château, for you know, ma’amselle, when one can hear people moving, one +does not so much mind, about one’s fears. But all the servants were gone +to bed, and I sat, thinking and thinking, till I was almost afraid to look +round the room, and my poor lady’s countenance often came to my mind, +such as I had seen her when she was dying, and, once or twice, I almost thought +I saw her before me,—when suddenly I heard such sweet music! It seemed +just at my window, and I shall never forget what I felt. I had not power to +move from my chair, but then, when I thought it was my dear lady’s voice, +the tears came to my eyes. I had often heard her sing, in her life-time, and to +be sure she had a very fine voice; it had made me cry to hear her, many a time, +when she has sat in her oriel, of an evening, playing upon her lute such sad +songs, and singing so. O! it went to one’s heart! I have listened in the +ante-chamber, for the hour together, and she would sometimes sit playing, with +the window open, when it was summer time, till it was quite dark, and when I +have gone in, to shut it, she has hardly seemed to know what hour it was. But, +as I said, madam,” continued Dorothée, “when first I heard the +music, that came just now, I thought it was my late lady’s, and I have +often thought so again, when I have heard it, as I have done at intervals, ever +since. Sometimes, many months have gone by, but still it has returned.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is extraordinary,” observed Emily, “that no person has +yet discovered the musician.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, ma’amselle, if it had been anything earthly it would have +been discovered long ago, but who could have courage to follow a spirit, and if +they had, what good could it do?—for spirits, <i>you know</i>, +ma’am, can take any shape, or no shape, and they will be here, one +minute, and, the next perhaps, in a quite different place!” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray resume your story of the Marchioness,” said Emily, “and +acquaint me with the manner of her death.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will, ma’am,” said Dorothée, “but shall we leave the +window?” +</p> + +<p> +“This cool air refreshes me,” replied Emily, “and I love to +hear it creep along the woods, and to look upon this dusky landscape. You were +speaking of my lord, the Marquis, when the music interrupted us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, madam, my lord, the Marquis, became more and more gloomy; and my +lady grew worse and worse, till, one night, she was taken very ill, indeed. I +was called up, and, when I came to her bedside, I was shocked to see her +countenance—it was so changed! She looked piteously up at me, and desired +I would call the Marquis again, for he was not yet come, and tell him she had +something particular to say to him. At last, he came, and he did, to be sure, +seem very sorry to see her, but he said very little. My lady told him she felt +herself to be dying, and wished to speak with him alone, and then I left the +room, but I shall never forget his look as I went.” +</p> + +<p> +“When I returned, I ventured to remind my lord about sending for a +doctor, for I supposed he had forgot to do so, in his grief; but my lady said +it was then too late; but my lord, so far from thinking so, seemed to think +light of her disorder—till she was seized with such terrible pains! O, I +never shall forget her shriek! My lord then sent off a man and horse for the +doctor, and walked about the room and all over the château in the greatest +distress; and I staid by my dear lady, and did what I could to ease her +sufferings. She had intervals of ease, and in one of these she sent for my lord +again; when he came, I was going, but she desired I would not leave her. O! I +shall never forget what a scene passed—I can hardly bear to think of it +now! My lord was almost distracted, for my lady behaved with so much goodness, +and took such pains to comfort him, that, if he ever had suffered a suspicion +to enter his head, he must now have been convinced he was wrong. And to be sure +he did seem to be overwhelmed with the thought of his treatment of her, and +this affected her so much, that she fainted away. +</p> + +<p> +“We then got my lord out of the room; he went into his library, and threw +himself on the floor, and there he staid, and would hear no reason, that was +talked to him. When my lady recovered, she enquired for him, but, afterwards, +said she could not bear to see his grief, and desired we would let her die +quietly. She died in my arms, ma’amselle, and she went off as peacefully +as a child, for all the violence of her disorder was passed.” +</p> + +<p> +Dorothée paused and wept, and Emily wept with her; for she was much affected +by the goodness of the late Marchioness, and by the meek patience with which +she had suffered. +</p> + +<p> +“When the doctor came,” resumed Dorothée, “alas! he came too +late; he appeared greatly shocked to see her, for soon after her death a +frightful blackness spread all over her face. When he had sent the attendants +out of the room, he asked me several odd questions about the Marchioness, +particularly concerning the manner, in which she had been seized, and he often +shook his head at my answers, and seemed to mean more, than he chose to say. +But I understood him too well. However, I kept my remarks to myself, and only +told them to my husband, who bade me hold my tongue. Some of the other +servants, however, suspected what I did, and strange reports were whispered +about the neighbourhood, but nobody dared to make any stir about them. When my +lord heard that my lady was dead, he shut himself up, and would see nobody but +the doctor, who used to be with him alone, sometimes for an hour together; and, +after that, the doctor never talked with me again about my lady. When she was +buried in the church of the convent, at a little distance yonder, if the moon +was up you might see the towers here, ma’amselle, all my lord’s +vassals followed the funeral, and there was not a dry eye among them, for she +had done a deal of good among the poor. My lord, the Marquis, I never saw +anybody so melancholy as he was afterwards, and sometimes he would be in such +fits of violence, that we almost thought he had lost his senses. He did not +stay long at the château, but joined his regiment, and, soon after, all the +servants, except my husband and I, received notice to go, for my lord went to +the wars. I never saw him after, for he would not return to the château, though +it is such a fine place, and never finished those fine rooms he was building on +the west side of it, and it has, in a manner, been shut up ever since, till my +lord the Count came here.” +</p> + +<p> +“The death of the Marchioness appears extraordinary,” said Emily, +who was anxious to know more than she dared to ask. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, madam,” replied Dorothée, “it was extraordinary; I have +told you all I saw, and you may easily guess what I think, I cannot say more, +because I would not spread reports, that might offend my lord the Count.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very right,” said Emily;—“where did the +Marquis die?”—“In the north of France, I believe, +ma’amselle,” replied Dorothée. “I was very glad, when I heard +my lord the Count was coming, for this had been a sad desolate place, these +many years, and we heard such strange noises, sometimes, after my lady’s +death, that, as I told you before, my husband and I left it for a neighbouring +cottage. And now, lady, I have told you all this sad history, and all my +thoughts, and you have promised, you know, never to give the least hint about +it.”—“I have,” said Emily, “and I will be +faithful to my promise, Dorothée;—what you have told has interested me +more than you can imagine. I only wish I could prevail upon you to tell the +name of the chevalier, whom you thought so deserving of the Marchioness.” +</p> + +<p> +Dorothée, however, steadily refused to do this, and then returned to the notice +of Emily’s likeness to the late Marchioness. “There is another +picture of her,” added she, “hanging in a room of the suite, which +was shut up. It was drawn, as I have heard, before she was married, and is much +more like you than the miniature.” When Emily expressed a strong desire +to see this, Dorothée replied, that she did not like to open those rooms; but +Emily reminded her, that the Count had talked the other day of ordering them to +be opened; of which Dorothée seemed to consider much, and then she owned, that +she should feel less, if she went into them with Emily first, than otherwise, +and at length promised to show the picture. +</p> + +<p> +The night was too far advanced and Emily was too much affected by the narrative +of the scenes, which had passed in those apartments, to wish to visit them at +this hour, but she requested that Dorothée would return on the following night, +when they were not likely to be observed, and conduct her thither. Besides her +wish to examine the portrait, she felt a thrilling curiosity to see the +chamber, in which the Marchioness had died, and which Dorothée had said +remained, with the bed and furniture, just as when the corpse was removed for +interment. The solemn emotions, which the expectation of viewing such a scene +had awakened, were in unison with the present tone of her mind, depressed by +severe disappointment. Cheerful objects rather added to, than removed this +depression; but, perhaps, she yielded too much to her melancholy inclination, +and imprudently lamented the misfortune, which no virtue of her own could have +taught her to avoid, though no effort of reason could make her look unmoved +upon the self-degradation of him, whom she had once esteemed and loved. +</p> + +<p> +Dorothée promised to return, on the following night, with the keys of the +chambers, and then wished Emily good repose, and departed. Emily, however, +continued at the window, musing upon the melancholy fate of the Marchioness and +listening, in awful expectation, for a return of the music. But the stillness +of the night remained long unbroken, except by the murmuring sounds of the +woods, as they waved in the breeze, and then by the distant bell of the +convent, striking one. She now withdrew from the window, and, as she sat at her +bedside, indulging melancholy reveries, which the loneliness of the hour +assisted, the stillness was suddenly interrupted not by music, but by very +uncommon sounds, that seemed to come either from the room adjoining her own, +or from one below. The terrible catastrophe that had been related to her, +together with the mysterious circumstances said to have since occurred in the +château, had so much shocked her spirits, that she now sunk for a moment +under the weakness of superstition. The sounds, however, did not return, and +she retired, to forget in sleep the disastrous story she had heard. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap42"></a> CHAPTER IV </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Now it is the time of night,<br/> +That, the graves all gaping wide,<br/> +Every one lets forth his sprite,<br/> +In the church-way path to glide.<br/> + SHAKESPEARE +</p> + +<p> +On the next night, about the same hour as before, Dorothée came to +Emily’s chamber, with the keys of that suite of rooms, which had been +particularly appropriated to the late Marchioness. These extended along the +north side of the château, forming part of the old building; and, as +Emily’s room was in the south, they had to pass over a great extent of +the castle, and by the chambers of several of the family, whose observations +Dorothée was anxious to avoid, since it might excite enquiry, and raise +reports, such as would displease the Count. She, therefore, requested, that +Emily would wait half an hour, before they ventured forth, that they might be +certain all the servants were gone to bed. It was nearly one, before the +château was perfectly still, or Dorothée thought it prudent to leave the +chamber. In this interval, her spirits seemed to be greatly affected by the +remembrance of past events, and by the prospect of entering again upon places, +where these had occurred, and in which she had not been for so many years. +Emily too was affected, but her feelings had more of solemnity, and less of +fear. From the silence, into which reflection and expectation had thrown them, +they, at length, roused themselves, and left the chamber. Dorothée, at first, +carried the lamp, but her hand trembled so much with infirmity and alarm, that +Emily took it from her, and offered her arm, to support her feeble steps. +</p> + +<p> +They had to descend the great staircase, and, after passing over a wide extent +of the château, to ascend another, which led to the suite of rooms they were in +quest of. They stepped cautiously along the open corridor, that ran round the +great hall, and into which the chambers of the Count, Countess, and the Lady +Blanche, opened, and, from thence, descending the chief staircase, they +crossed the hall itself. Proceeding through the servants hall, where the dying +embers of a wood fire still glimmered on the hearth, and the supper table was +surrounded by chairs, that obstructed their passage, they came to the foot of +the back staircase. Old Dorothée here paused, and looked around; “Let us +listen,” said she, “if anything is stirring; Ma’amselle, do +you hear any voice?” “None,” said Emily, “there +certainly is no person up in the château, besides +ourselves.”—“No, ma’amselle,” said Dorothée, +“but I have never been here at this hour before, and, after what I know, +my fears are not wonderful.”—“What do you know?” said +Emily.—“O, ma’amselle, we have no time for talking now; let +us go on. That door on the left is the one we must open.” +</p> + +<p> +They proceeded, and, having reached the top of the staircase, Dorothée applied +the key to the lock. “Ah,” said she, as she endeavoured to turn it, +“so many years have passed since this was opened, that I fear it will not +move.” Emily was more successful, and they presently entered a spacious +and ancient chamber. +</p> + +<p> +“Alas!” exclaimed Dorothée, as she entered, “the last time I +passed through this door—I followed my poor lady’s corpse!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, struck with the circumstance, and affected by the dusky and solemn air +of the apartment, remained silent, and they passed on through a long suite of +rooms, till they came to one more spacious than the rest, and rich in the +remains of faded magnificence. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us rest here awhile, madam,” said Dorothée faintly, “we +are going into the chamber, where my lady died! that door opens into it. Ah, +ma’amselle! why did you persuade me to come?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily drew one of the massy arm-chairs, with which the apartment was furnished, +and begged Dorothée would sit down, and try to compose her spirits. +</p> + +<p> +“How the sight of this place brings all that passed formerly to my +mind!” said Dorothée; “it seems as if it was but yesterday since +all that sad affair happened!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hark! what noise is that?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +Dorothée, half starting from her chair, looked round the apartment, and they +listened—but, everything remaining still, the old woman spoke again upon +the subject of her sorrow. “This saloon, ma’amselle, was in my +lady’s time the finest apartment in the château, and it was fitted up +according to her own taste. All this grand furniture, but you can now hardly +see what it is for the dust, and our light is none of the best—ah! how I +have seen this room lighted up in my lady’s time!—all this grand +furniture came from Paris, and was made after the fashion of some in the Louvre +there, except those large glasses, and they came from some outlandish place, +and that rich tapestry. How the colours are faded already!—since I saw it +last!” +</p> + +<p> +“I understood, that was twenty years ago,” observed Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Thereabout, madam,” said Dorothée, “and well remembered, but +all the time between then and now seems as nothing. That tapestry used to be +greatly admired at, it tells the stories out of some famous book, or other, but +I have forgot the name.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily now rose to examine the figures it exhibited, and discovered, by verses +in the Provençal tongue, wrought underneath each scene, that it exhibited +stories from some of the most celebrated ancient romances. +</p> + +<p> +Dorothée’s spirits being now more composed, she rose, and unlocked the +door that led into the late Marchioness’s apartment, and Emily passed +into a lofty chamber, hung round with dark arras, and so spacious, that the +lamp she held up did not show its extent; while Dorothée, when she entered, had +dropped into a chair, where, sighing deeply, she scarcely trusted herself with +the view of a scene so affecting to her. It was some time before Emily +perceived, through the dusk, the bed on which the Marchioness was said to have +died; when, advancing to the upper end of the room, she discovered the high +canopied tester of dark green damask, with the curtains descending to the floor +in the fashion of a tent, half drawn, and remaining apparently, as they had +been left twenty years before; and over the whole bedding was thrown a +counterpane, or pall, of black velvet, that hung down to the floor. Emily +shuddered, as she held the lamp over it, and looked within the dark curtains, +where she almost expected to have seen a human face, and, suddenly remembering +the horror she had suffered upon discovering the dying Madame Montoni in the +turret-chamber of Udolpho, her spirits fainted, and she was turning from the +bed, when Dorothée, who had now reached it, exclaimed, “Holy Virgin! +methinks I see my lady stretched upon that pall—as when last I saw +her!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, shocked by this exclamation, looked involuntarily again within the +curtains, but the blackness of the pall only appeared; while Dorothée was +compelled to support herself upon the side of the bed, and presently tears +brought her some relief. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said she, after she had wept awhile, “it was here I sat +on that terrible night, and held my lady’s hand, and heard her last +words, and saw all her sufferings—<i>here</i> she died in my arms!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not indulge these painful recollections,” said Emily, +“let us go. Show me the picture you mentioned, if it will not too much +affect you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It hangs in the oriel,” said Dorothée rising, and going towards a +small door near the bed’s head, which she opened, and Emily followed with +the light into the closet of the late Marchioness. +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! there she is, ma’amselle,” said Dorothée, pointing to +a portrait of a lady, “there is her very self! just as she looked when +she came first to the château. You see, madam, she was all blooming like you, +then—and so soon to be cut off!” +</p> + +<p> +While Dorothée spoke, Emily was attentively examining the picture, which bore a +strong resemblance to the miniature, though the expression of the countenance +in each was somewhat different; but still she thought she perceived something +of that pensive melancholy in the portrait, which so strongly characterised the +miniature. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray, ma’amselle, stand beside the picture, that I may look at you +together,” said Dorothée, who, when the request was complied with, +exclaimed again at the resemblance. Emily also, as she gazed upon it, thought +that she had somewhere seen a person very like it, though she could not now +recollect who this was. +</p> + +<p> +In this closet were many memorials of the departed Marchioness; a robe and +several articles of her dress were scattered upon the chairs, as if they had +just been thrown off. On the floor were a pair of black satin slippers, and, on +the dressing-table, a pair of gloves and a long black veil, which, as Emily +took it up to examine, she perceived was dropping to pieces with age. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Dorothée, observing the veil, “my lady’s +hand laid it there; it has never been moved since!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, shuddering, immediately laid it down again. “I well remember +seeing her take it off,” continued Dorothée, “it was on the night +before her death, when she had returned from a little walk I had persuaded her +to take in the gardens, and she seemed refreshed by it. I told her how much +better she looked, and I remember what a languid smile she gave me; but, alas! +she little thought, or I either, that she was to die that night.” +</p> + +<p> +Dorothée wept again, and then, taking up the veil, threw it suddenly over +Emily, who shuddered to find it wrapped round her, descending even to her feet, +and, as she endeavoured to throw it off, Dorothée entreated that she would keep +it on for one moment. “I thought,” added she, “how like you +would look to my dear mistress in that veil;—may your life, +ma’amselle, be a happier one than hers!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, having disengaged herself from the veil, laid it again on the +dressing-table, and surveyed the closet, where every object, on which her eye +fixed, seemed to speak of the Marchioness. In a large oriel window of painted +glass, stood a table, with a silver crucifix, and a prayer-book open; and Emily +remembered with emotion what Dorothée had mentioned concerning her custom of +playing on her lute in this window, before she observed the lute itself, lying +on a corner of the table, as if it had been carelessly placed there by the +hand, that had so often awakened it. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a sad forlorn place!” said Dorothée, “for, when my +dear lady died, I had no heart to put it to rights, or the chamber either; and +my lord never came into the rooms after, so they remain just as they did when +my lady was removed for interment.” +</p> + +<p> +While Dorothée spoke, Emily was still looking on the lute, which was a Spanish +one, and remarkably large; and then, with a hesitating hand, she took it up, +and passed her fingers over the chords. They were out of tune, but uttered a +deep and full sound. Dorothée started at their well-known tones, and, seeing +the lute in Emily’s hand, said, “This is the lute my lady +Marchioness loved so! I remember when last she played upon it—it was on +the night that she died. I came as usual to undress her, and, as I entered the +bed-chamber, I heard the sound of music from the oriel, and perceiving it was +my lady’s, who was sitting there, I stepped softly to the door, which +stood a little open, to listen; for the music—though it was +mournful—was so sweet! There I saw her, with the lute in her hand, +looking upwards, and the tears fell upon her cheeks, while she sung a vesper +hymn, so soft, and so solemn! and her voice trembled, as it were, and then she +would stop for a moment, and wipe away her tears, and go on again, lower than +before. O! I had often listened to my lady, but never heard anything so sweet +as this; it made me cry, almost, to hear it. She had been at prayers, I fancy, +for there was the book open on the table beside her—aye, and there it +lies open still! Pray, let us leave the oriel, ma’amselle,” added +Dorothée, “this is a heart-breaking place!” +</p> + +<p> +Having returned into the chamber, she desired to look once more upon the bed, +when, as they came opposite to the open door, leading into the saloon, Emily, +in the partial gleam, which the lamp threw into it, thought she saw something +glide along into the obscurer part of the room. Her spirits had been much +affected by the surrounding scene, or it is probable this circumstance, whether +real or imaginary, would not have affected her in the degree it did; but she +endeavoured to conceal her emotion from Dorothée, who, however, observing her +countenance change, enquired if she was ill. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go,” said Emily, faintly, “the air of these rooms is +unwholesome;” but, when she attempted to do so, considering that she must +pass through the apartment where the phantom of her terror had appeared, this +terror increased, and, too faint to support herself, she sat down on the side +of the bed. +</p> + +<p> +Dorothée, believing that she was only affected by a consideration of the +melancholy catastrophe, which had happened on this spot, endeavoured to cheer +her; and then, as they sat together on the bed, she began to relate other +particulars concerning it, and this without reflecting, that it might increase +Emily’s emotion, but because they were particularly interesting to +herself. “A little before my lady’s death,” said she, +“when the pains were gone off, she called me to her, and stretching out +her hand to me, I sat down just there—where the curtain falls upon the +bed. How well I remember her look at the time—death was in it!—I +can almost fancy I see her now.—There she lay, ma’amselle—her +face was upon the pillow there! This black counterpane was not upon the bed +then; it was laid on, after her death, and she was laid out upon it.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily turned to look within the dusky curtains, as if she could have seen the +countenance of which Dorothée spoke. The edge of the white pillow only appeared +above the blackness of the pall, but, as her eyes wandered over the pall +itself, she fancied she saw it move. Without speaking, she caught +Dorothée’s arm, who, surprised by the action, and by the look of terror +that accompanied it, turned her eyes from Emily to the bed, where, in the next +moment she, too, saw the pall slowly lifted, and fall again. +</p> + +<p> +Emily attempted to go, but Dorothée stood fixed and gazing upon the bed; and, +at length, said—“It is only the wind, that waves it, +ma’amselle; we have left all the doors open: see how the air waves the +lamp, too.—It is only the wind.” +</p> + +<p> +She had scarcely uttered these words, when the pall was more violently agitated +than before; but Emily, somewhat ashamed of her terrors, stepped back to the +bed, willing to be convinced that the wind only had occasioned her alarm; when, +as she gazed within the curtains, the pall moved again, and, in the next +moment, the apparition of a human countenance rose above it. +</p> + +<p> +Screaming with terror, they both fled, and got out of the chamber as fast as +their trembling limbs would bear them, leaving open the doors of all the rooms, +through which they passed. When they reached the staircase, Dorothée threw +open a chamber door, where some of the female servants slept, and sunk +breathless on the bed; while Emily, deprived of all presence of mind, made only +a feeble attempt to conceal the occasion of her terror from the astonished +servants; and, though Dorothée, when she could speak, endeavoured to laugh at +her own fright, and was joined by Emily, no remonstrances could prevail with +the servants, who had quickly taken the alarm, to pass even the remainder of +the night in a room so near to these terrific chambers. +</p> + +<p> +Dorothée having accompanied Emily to her own apartment, they then began to talk +over, with some degree of coolness, the strange circumstance, that had just +occurred; and Emily would almost have doubted her own perceptions, had not +those of Dorothée attested their truth. Having now mentioned what she had +observed in the outer chamber, she asked the housekeeper, whether she was +certain no door had been left unfastened, by which a person might secretly have +entered the apartments? Dorothée replied, that she had constantly kept the keys +of the several doors in her own possession; that, when she had gone her rounds +through the castle, as she frequently did, to examine if all was safe, she had +tried these doors among the rest, and had always found them fastened. It was, +therefore, impossible, she added, that any person could have got admittance +into the apartments; and, if they could—it was very improbable they +should have chosen to sleep in a place so cold and forlorn. +</p> + +<p> +Emily observed, that their visit to these chambers had, perhaps, been watched, +and that some person, for a frolic, had followed them into the rooms, with a +design to frighten them, and, while they were in the oriel, had taken the +opportunity of concealing himself in the bed. +</p> + +<p> +Dorothée allowed, that this was possible, till she recollected, that, on +entering the apartments, she had turned the key of the outer door, and this, +which had been done to prevent their visit being noticed by any of the family, +who might happen to be up, must effectually have excluded every person, except +themselves, from the chambers; and she now persisted in affirming, that the +ghastly countenance she had seen was nothing human, but some dreadful +apparition. +</p> + +<p> +Emily was very solemnly affected. Of whatever nature might be the appearance +she had witnessed, whether human or supernatural, the fate of the deceased +Marchioness was a truth not to be doubted; and this unaccountable circumstance, +occurring in the very scene of her sufferings, affected Emily’s +imagination with a superstitious awe, to which, after having detected the +fallacies at Udolpho, she might not have yielded, had she been ignorant of the +unhappy story, related by the housekeeper. Her she now solemnly conjured to +conceal the occurrence of this night, and to make light of the terror she had +already betrayed, that the Count might not be distressed by reports, which +would certainly spread alarm and confusion among his family. +“Time,” she added, “may explain this mysterious affair; +meanwhile let us watch the event in silence.” +</p> + +<p> +Dorothée readily acquiesced; but she now recollected that she had left all the +doors of the north suite of rooms open, and, not having courage to return alone +to lock even the outer one, Emily, after some effort, so far conquered her own +fears, that she offered to accompany her to the foot of the back staircase, +and to wait there while Dorothée ascended, whose resolution being reassured by +this circumstance, she consented to go, and they left Emily’s apartment +together. +</p> + +<p> +No sound disturbed the stillness, as they passed along the halls and galleries; +but, on reaching the foot of the back staircase, Dorothée’s resolution +failed again; having, however, paused a moment to listen, and no sound being +heard above, she ascended, leaving Emily below, and, scarcely suffering her eye +to glance within the first chamber, she fastened the door, which shut up the +whole suite of apartments, and returned to Emily. +</p> + +<p> +As they stepped along the passage, leading into the great hall, a sound of +lamentation was heard, which seemed to come from the hall itself, and they +stopped in new alarm to listen, when Emily presently distinguished the voice of +Annette, whom she found crossing the hall, with another female servant, and so +terrified by the report, which the other maids had spread, that, believing she +could be safe only where her lady was, she was going for refuge to her +apartment. Emily’s endeavours to laugh, or to argue her out of these +terrors, were equally vain, and, in compassion to her distress, she consented +that she should remain in her room during the night. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap43"></a> CHAPTER V </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Hail, mildly-pleasing Solitude!<br/> +Companion of the wise and good!<br/><br/> + +Thine is the balmy breath of morn,<br/> +Just as the dew-bent rose is born.<br/><br/> + +But chief when evening scenes decay<br/> +And the faint landscape swims away,<br/> +Thine is the doubtful, soft decline,<br/> +And that best hour of musing thine.<br/> + THOMSON +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s injunctions to Annette to be silent on the subject of her terror +were ineffectual, and the occurrence of the preceding night spread such alarm +among the servants, who now all affirmed, that they had frequently heard +unaccountable noises in the château, that a report soon reached the Count of +the north side of the castle being haunted. He treated this, at first, with +ridicule, but, perceiving, that it was productive of serious evil, in the +confusion it occasioned among his household, he forbade any person to repeat +it, on pain of punishment. +</p> + +<p> +The arrival of a party of his friends soon withdrew his thoughts entirely from +this subject, and his servants had now little leisure to brood over it, except, +indeed, in the evenings after supper, when they all assembled in their hall, +and related stories of ghosts, till they feared to look round the room; +started, if the echo of a closing door murmured along the passage, and refused +to go singly to any part of the castle. +</p> + +<p> +On these occasions Annette made a distinguished figure. When she told not only +of all the wonders she had witnessed, but of all that she had imagined, in the +castle of Udolpho, with the story of the strange disappearance of Signora +Laurentini, she made no trifling impression on the mind of her attentive +auditors. Her suspicions, concerning Montoni, she would also have freely +disclosed, had not Ludovico, who was now in the service of the Count, prudently +checked her loquacity, whenever it pointed to that subject. +</p> + +<p> +Among the visitors at the château was the Baron de Saint Foix, an old friend of +the Count, and his son, the Chevalier St. Foix, a sensible and amiable young +man, who, having in the preceding year seen the Lady Blanche, at Paris, had +become her declared admirer. The friendship, which the Count had long +entertained for his father, and the equality of their circumstances made him +secretly approve of the connection; but, thinking his daughter at this time too +young to fix her choice for life, and wishing to prove the sincerity and +strength of the Chevalier’s attachment, he then rejected his suit, though +without forbidding his future hope. This young man now came, with the Baron, +his father, to claim the reward of a steady affection, a claim, which the Count +admitted and which Blanche did not reject. +</p> + +<p> +While these visitors were at the château, it became a scene of gaiety and +splendour. The pavilion in the woods was fitted up and frequented, in the fine +evenings, as a supper-room, when the hour usually concluded with a concert, at +which the Count and Countess, who were scientific performers, and the +Chevaliers Henri and St. Foix, with the Lady Blanche and Emily, whose voices +and fine taste compensated for the want of more skilful execution, usually +assisted. Several of the Count’s servants performed on horns and other +instruments, some of which, placed at a little distance among the woods, spoke, +in sweet response, to the harmony, that proceeded from the pavilion. +</p> + +<p> +At any other period, these parties would have been delightful to Emily; but her +spirits were now oppressed with a melancholy, which she perceived that no kind +of what is called amusement had power to dissipate, and which the tender and, +frequently, pathetic, melody of these concerts sometimes increased to a very +painful degree. +</p> + +<p> +She was particularly fond of walking in the woods, that hung on a promontory, +overlooking the sea. Their luxuriant shade was soothing to her pensive mind, +and, in the partial views, which they afforded of the Mediterranean, with its +winding shores and passing sails, tranquil beauty was united with grandeur. The +paths were rude and frequently overgrown with vegetation, but their tasteful +owner would suffer little to be done to them, and scarcely a single branch to +be lopped from the venerable trees. On an eminence, in one of the most +sequestered parts of these woods, was a rustic seat, formed of the trunk of a +decayed oak, which had once been a noble tree, and of which many lofty branches +still flourishing united with beech and pines to over-canopy the spot. Beneath +their deep umbrage, the eye passed over the tops of other woods, to the +Mediterranean, and, to the left, through an opening, was seen a ruined +watch-tower, standing on a point of rock, near the sea, and rising from among +the tufted foliage. +</p> + +<p> +Hither Emily often came alone in the silence of evening, and, soothed by the +scenery and by the faint murmur, that rose from the waves, would sit, till +darkness obliged her to return to the château. Frequently, also, she visited +the watch-tower, which commanded the entire prospect, and, when she leaned +against its broken walls, and thought of Valancourt, she not once imagined, +what was so true, that this tower had been almost as frequently his resort, as +her own, since his estrangement from the neighbouring château. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, she lingered here to a late hour. She had sat on the steps of the +building, watching, in tranquil melancholy, the gradual effect of evening over +the extensive prospect, till the grey waters of the Mediterranean and the massy +woods were almost the only features of the scene, that remained visible; when, +as she gazed alternately on these, and on the mild blue of the heavens, where +the first pale star of evening appeared, she personified the hour in the +following lines:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +SONG OF THE EVENING HOUR<br/><br/> + +Last of the Hours, that track the fading Day,<br/> +I move along the realms of twilight air,<br/> +And hear, remote, the choral song decay<br/> +Of sister-nymphs, who dance around his car.<br/><br/> + +Then, as I follow through the azure void,<br/> +His partial splendour from my straining eye<br/> +Sinks in the depth of space; my only guide<br/> +His faint ray dawning on the farthest sky;<br/><br/> + +Save that sweet, lingering strain of gayer Hours,<br/> +Whose close my voice prolongs in dying notes,<br/> +While mortals on the green earth own its pow’rs,<br/> +As downward on the evening gale it floats.<br/><br/> + +When fades along the West the Sun’s last beam,<br/> +As, weary, to the nether world he goes,<br/> +And mountain-summits catch the purple gleam,<br/> +And slumbering ocean faint and fainter glows,<br/><br/> + +Silent upon the globe’s broad shade I steal,<br/> +And o’er its dry turf shed the cooling dews,<br/> +And ev’ry fever’d herb and flow’ret heal,<br/> +And all their fragrance on the air diffuse.<br/><br/> + +Where’er I move, a tranquil pleasure reigns;<br/> +O’er all the scene the dusky tints I send,<br/> +That forests wild and mountains, stretching plains<br/> +And peopled towns, in soft confusion blend.<br/><br/> + +Wide o’er the world I waft the fresh’ning wind,<br/> +Low breathing through the woods and twilight vale,<br/> +In whispers soft, that woo the pensive mind<br/> +Of him, who loves my lonely steps to hail.<br/><br/> + +His tender oaten reed I watch to hear,<br/> +Stealing its sweetness o’er some plaining rill,<br/> +Or soothing ocean’s wave, when storms are near,<br/> +Or swelling in the breeze from distant hill!<br/><br/> + +I wake the fairy elves, who shun the light;<br/> +When, from their blossom’d beds, they slily peep,<br/> +And spy my pale star, leading on the night,—<br/> +Forth to their games and revelry they leap;<br/><br/> + +Send all the prison’d sweets abroad in air,<br/> +That with them slumber’d in the flow’ret’s cell;<br/> +Then to the shores and moonlight brooks repair,<br/> +Till the high larks their matin-carol swell.<br/><br/> + +The wood-nymphs hail my airs and temper’d shade,<br/> +With ditties soft and lightly sportive dance,<br/> +On river margin of some bow’ry glade,<br/> +And strew their fresh buds as my steps advance:<br/><br/> + +But, swift I pass, and distant regions trace,<br/> +For moonbeams silver all the eastern cloud,<br/> +And Day’s last crimson vestige fades apace;<br/> +Down the steep west I fly from Midnight’s shroud. +</p> + +<p> +The moon was now rising out of the sea. She watched its gradual progress, the +extending line of radiance it threw upon the waters, the sparkling oars, the +sail faintly silvered, and the wood-tops and the battlements of the +watch-tower, at whose foot she was sitting, just tinted with the rays. +Emily’s spirits were in harmony with this scene. As she sat meditating, +sounds stole by her on the air, which she immediately knew to be the music and +the voice she had formerly heard at midnight, and the emotion of awe, which she +felt, was not unmixed with terror, when she considered her remote and lonely +situation. The sounds drew nearer. She would have risen to leave the place, but +they seemed to come from the way she must have taken towards the château, and +she awaited the event in trembling expectation. The sounds continued to +approach, for some time, and then ceased. Emily sat listening, gazing and +unable to move, when she saw a figure emerge from the shade of the woods and +pass along the bank, at some little distance before her. It went swiftly, and +her spirits were so overcome with awe, that, though she saw, she did not much +observe it. +</p> + +<p> +Having left the spot, with a resolution never again to visit it alone, at so +late an hour, she began to approach the château, when she heard voices calling +her from the part of the wood, which was nearest to it. They were the shouts of +the Count’s servants, who were sent to search for her; and when she +entered the supper-room, where he sat with Henri and Blanche, he gently +reproached her with a look, which she blushed to have deserved. +</p> + +<p> +This little occurrence deeply impressed her mind, and, when she withdrew to her +own room, it recalled so forcibly the circumstances she had witnessed, a few +nights before, that she had scarcely courage to remain alone. She watched to a +late hour, when, no sound having renewed her fears, she, at length, sunk to +repose. But this was of short continuance, for she was disturbed by a loud and +unusual noise, that seemed to come from the gallery, into which her chamber +opened. Groans were distinctly heard, and, immediately after, a dead weight +fell against the door, with a violence, that threatened to burst it open. She +called loudly to know who was there, but received no answer, though, at +intervals, she still thought she heard something like a low moaning. Fear +deprived her of the power to move. Soon after, she heard footsteps in a remote +part of the gallery, and, as they approached, she called more loudly than +before, till the steps paused at her door. She then distinguished the voices of +several of the servants, who seemed too much engaged by some circumstance +without, to attend to her calls; but, Annette soon after entering the room for +water, Emily understood, that one of the maids had fainted, whom she +immediately desired them to bring into her room, where she assisted to restore +her. When this girl had recovered her speech, she affirmed, that, as she was +passing up the back staircase, in the way to her chamber, she had seen an +apparition on the second landing-place; she held the lamp low, she said, that +she might pick her way, several of the stairs being infirm and even decayed, +and it was upon raising her eyes, that she saw this appearance. It stood for a +moment in the corner of the landing-place, which she was approaching, and then, +gliding up the stairs, vanished at the door of the apartment, that had been +lately opened. She heard afterwards a hollow sound. +</p> + +<p> +“Then the devil has got a key to that apartment,” said Dorothée, +“for it could be nobody but he; I locked the door myself!” +</p> + +<p> +The girl, springing down the stairs and passing up the great staircase, had +run, with a faint scream, till she reached the gallery, where she fell, +groaning, at Emily’s door. +</p> + +<p> +Gently chiding her for the alarm she had occasioned, Emily tried to make her +ashamed of her fears; but the girl persisted in saying, that she had seen an +apparition, till she went to her own room, whither she was accompanied by all +the servants present, except Dorothée, who, at Emily’s request, remained +with her during the night. Emily was perplexed, and Dorothée was terrified, and +mentioned many occurrences of former times, which had long since confirmed her +superstitions; among these, according to her belief, she had once witnessed an +appearance, like that just described, and on the very same spot, and it was the +remembrance of it, that had made her pause, when she was going to ascend the +stairs with Emily, and which had increased her reluctance to open the north +apartments. Whatever might be Emily’s opinions, she did not disclose +them, but listened attentively to all that Dorothée communicated, which +occasioned her much thought and perplexity. +</p> + +<p> +From this night the terror of the servants increased to such an excess, that +several of them determined to leave the château, and requested their discharge +of the Count, who, if he had any faith in the subject of their alarm, thought +proper to dissemble it, and, anxious to avoid the inconvenience that threatened +him, employed ridicule and then argument to convince them they had nothing to +apprehend from supernatural agency. But fear had rendered their minds +inaccessible to reason; and it was now, that Ludovico proved at once his +courage and his gratitude for the kindness he had received from the Count, by +offering to watch, during a night, in the suite of rooms, reputed to be +haunted. He feared, he said, no spirits, and, if anything of human form +appeared—he would prove that he dreaded that as little. +</p> + +<p> +The Count paused upon the offer, while the servants, who heard it, looked upon +one another in doubt and amazement, and Annette, terrified for the safety of +Ludovico, employed tears and entreaties to dissuade him from his purpose. +</p> + +<p> +“You are a bold fellow,” said the Count, smiling, “Think well +of what you are going to encounter, before you finally determine upon it. +However, if you persevere in your resolution, I will accept your offer, and +your intrepidity shall not go unrewarded.” +</p> + +<p> +“I desire no reward, your <i>Excellenza</i>,” replied Ludovico, +“but your approbation. Your <i>Excellenza</i> has been sufficiently good +to me already; but I wish to have arms, that I may be equal to my enemy, if he +should appear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your sword cannot defend you against a ghost,” replied the Count, +throwing a glance of irony upon the other servants, “neither can bars, nor +bolts; for a spirit, you know, can glide through a keyhole as easily as through +a door.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give me a sword, my lord Count,” said Ludovico, “and I will +lay all the spirits, that shall attack me, in the red sea.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the Count, “you shall have a sword, and good +cheer, too; and your brave comrades here will, perhaps, have courage enough to +remain another night in the château, since your boldness will certainly, for +this night, at least, confine all the malice of the spectre to yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +Curiosity now struggled with fear in the minds of several of his fellow +servants, and, at length, they resolved to await the event of Ludovico’s +rashness. +</p> + +<p> +Emily was surprised and concerned, when she heard of his intention, and was +frequently inclined to mention what she had witnessed in the north apartments +to the Count, for she could not entirely divest herself of fears for +Ludovico’s safety, though her reason represented these to be absurd. The +necessity, however, of concealing the secret, with which Dorothée had entrusted +her, and which must have been mentioned, with the late occurrence, in excuse +for her having so privately visited the north apartments, kept her entirely +silent on the subject of her apprehension; and she tried only to sooth Annette, +who held, that Ludovico was certainly to be destroyed; and who was much less +affected by Emily’s consolatory efforts, than by the manner of old +Dorothée, who often, as she exclaimed Ludovico, sighed, and threw up her eyes +to heaven. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap44"></a> CHAPTER VI </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound!<br/> +Whose soft dominion o’er this castle sways,<br/> +And all the widely-silent places round,<br/> +Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays<br/> +What never yet was sung in mortal lays.<br/> + THOMSON +</p> + +<p> +The Count gave orders for the north apartments to be opened and prepared for +the reception of Ludovico; but Dorothée, remembering what she had lately +witnessed there, feared to obey, and, not one of the other servants daring to +venture thither, the rooms remained shut up till the time when Ludovico was to +retire thither for the night, an hour, for which the whole household waited +with impatience. +</p> + +<p> +After supper, Ludovico, by the order of the Count, attended him in his closet, +where they remained alone for near half an hour, and, on leaving which, his +Lord delivered to him a sword. +</p> + +<p> +“It has seen service in mortal quarrels,” said the Count, jocosely, +“you will use it honourably, no doubt, in a spiritual one. Tomorrow, let +me hear that there is not one ghost remaining in the château.” +</p> + +<p> +Ludovico received it with a respectful bow. “You shall be obeyed, my +Lord,” said he; “I will engage, that no spectre shall disturb the +peace of the château after this night.” +</p> + +<p> +They now returned to the supper-room, where the Count’s guests awaited to +accompany him and Ludovico to the door of the north apartments, and Dorothée, +being summoned for the keys, delivered them to Ludovico, who then led the way, +followed by most of the inhabitants of the château. Having reached the back +staircase, several of the servants shrunk back, and refused to go further, but +the rest followed him to the top of the staircase, where a broad landing-place +allowed them to flock round him, while he applied the key to the door, during +which they watched him with as much eager curiosity as if he had been +performing some magical rite. +</p> + +<p> +Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it, and Dorothée, who had +lingered far behind, was called forward, under whose hand the door opened +slowly, and, her eye glancing within the dusky chamber, she uttered a sudden +shriek, and retreated. At this signal of alarm, the greater part of the crowd +hurried down the stairs, and the Count, Henri and Ludovico were left alone to +pursue the enquiry, who instantly rushed into the apartment, Ludovico with a +drawn sword, which he had just time to draw from the scabbard, the Count with +the lamp in his hand, and Henri carrying a basket, containing provisions for +the courageous adventurer. +</p> + +<p> +Having looked hastily round the first room, where nothing appeared to justify +alarm, they passed on to the second; and, here too all being quiet, they +proceeded to a third with a more tempered step. The Count had now leisure to +smile at the discomposure, into which he had been surprised, and to ask +Ludovico in which room he designed to pass the night. +</p> + +<p> +“There are several chambers beyond these, your <i>Excellenza</i>,” +said Ludovico, pointing to a door, “and in one of them is a bed, they +say. I will pass the night there, and when I am weary of watching, I can lie +down.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good;” said the Count; “let us go on. You see these rooms +show nothing, but damp walls and decaying furniture. I have been so much +engaged since I came to the château, that I have not looked into them till now. +Remember, Ludovico, to tell the housekeeper, tomorrow, to throw open these +windows. The damask hangings are dropping to pieces, I will have them taken +down, and this antique furniture removed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear sir!” said Henri, “here is an arm-chair so massy with +gilding, that it resembles one of the state chairs at the Louvre, more then +anything else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the Count, stopping a moment to survey it, “there +is a history belonging to that chair, but I have not time to tell it.—Let +us pass on. This suite runs to a greater extent than I had imagined; it is many +years since I was in them. But where is the bedroom you speak of, +Ludovico?—these are only ante-chambers to the great drawing-room. I +remember them in their splendour!” +</p> + +<p> +“The bed, my Lord,” replied Ludovico, “they told me, was in a +room that opens beyond the saloon, and terminates the suite.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, here is the saloon,” said the Count, as they entered the +spacious apartment, in which Emily and Dorothée had rested. He here stood for a +moment, surveying the reliques of faded grandeur, which it exhibited—the +sumptuous tapestry—the long and low sophas of velvet, with frames heavily +carved and gilded—the floor inlaid with small squares of fine marble, and +covered in the centre with a piece of very rich tapestry-work—the +casements of painted glass, and the large Venetian mirrors, of a size and +quality, such as at that period France could not make, which reflected, on +every side, the spacious apartment. These had formerly also reflected a gay and +brilliant scene, for this had been the state-room of the château, and here the +Marchioness had held the assemblies, that made part of the festivities of her +nuptials. If the wand of a magician could have recalled the vanished groups, +many of them vanished even from the earth, that once had passed over these +polished mirrors, what a varied and contrasted picture would they have +exhibited with the present! Now, instead of a blaze of lights, and a splendid +and busy crowd, they reflected only the rays of the one glimmering lamp, which +the Count held up, and which scarcely served to show the three forlorn figures, +that stood surveying the room, and the spacious and dusky walls around them. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said the Count to Henri, awaking from his deep reverie, +“how the scene is changed since last I saw it! I was a young man, then, +and the Marchioness was alive and in her bloom; many other persons were here, +too, who are now no more! There stood the orchestra; here we tripped in many a +sprightly maze—the walls echoing to the dance! Now, they resound only one +feeble voice—and even that will, ere long, be heard no more! My son, +remember, that I was once as young as yourself, and that you must pass away +like those, who have preceded you—like those, who, as they sung and +danced in this once gay apartment, forgot, that years are made up of moments, +and that every step they took carried them nearer to their graves. But such +reflections are useless, I had almost said criminal, unless they teach us to +prepare for eternity, since, otherwise, they cloud our present happiness, +without guiding us to a future one. But enough of this; let us go on.” +</p> + +<p> +Ludovico now opened the door of the bedroom, and the Count, as he entered, was +struck with the funereal appearance which the dark arras gave to it. He +approached the bed with an emotion of solemnity, and, perceiving it to be +covered with the pall of black velvet, paused; “What can this +mean?” said he, as he gazed upon it. +</p> + +<p> +“I have heard, my Lord,” said Ludovico, as he stood at the feet, +looking within the canopied curtains, “that the Lady Marchioness de +Villeroi died in this chamber, and remained here till she was removed to be +buried; and this, perhaps, Signor, may account for the pall.” +</p> + +<p> +The Count made no reply, but stood for a few moments engaged in thought, and +evidently much affected. Then, turning to Ludovico, he asked him with a serious +air whether he thought his courage would support him through the night? +“If you doubt this,” added the Count, “do not be ashamed to +own it; I will release you from your engagement, without exposing you to the +triumphs of your fellow-servants.” +</p> + +<p> +Ludovico paused; pride, and something very like fear, seemed struggling in his +breast; pride, however, was victorious;—he blushed, and his hesitation +ceased. +</p> + +<p> +“No, my Lord,” said he, “I will go through with what I have +begun; and I am grateful for your consideration. On that hearth I will make a +fire, and, with the good cheer in this basket, I doubt not I shall do +well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be it so,” said the Count; “but how will you beguile the +tediousness of the night, if you do not sleep?” +</p> + +<p> +“When I am weary, my Lord,” replied Ludovico, “I shall not +fear to sleep; in the meanwhile, I have a book that will entertain me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the Count, “I hope nothing will disturb you; but +if you should be seriously alarmed in the night, come to my apartment. I have +too much confidence in your good sense and courage to believe you will be +alarmed on slight grounds; or suffer the gloom of this chamber, or its remote +situation, to overcome you with ideal terrors. Tomorrow, I shall have to thank +you for an important service; these rooms shall then be thrown open, and my +people will be convinced of their error. Good night, Ludovico; let me see you +early in the morning, and remember what I lately said to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will, my Lord; good night to your <i>Excellenza</i>; let me attend you +with the light.” +</p> + +<p> +He lighted the Count and Henri through the chambers to the outer door. On the +landing-place stood a lamp, which one of the affrighted servants had left, and +Henri, as he took it up, again bade Ludovico good night, who, having +respectfully returned the wish, closed the door upon them, and fastened it. +Then, as he retired to the bed-chamber, he examined the rooms through which he +passed, with more minuteness than he had done before, for he apprehended that +some person might have concealed himself in them, for the purpose of +frightening him. No one, however, but himself, was in these chambers, and +leaving open the doors through which he passed, he came again to the great +drawing-room, whose spaciousness and silent gloom somewhat awed him. For a +moment he stood, looking back through the long suite of rooms he had quitted, +and as he turned, perceiving a light and his own figure reflected in one of the +large mirrors, he started. Other objects too were seen obscurely on its dark +surface, but he paused not to examine them, and returned hastily into the +bedroom, as he surveyed which, he observed the door of the oriel, and opened +it. All within was still. On looking round, his eye was arrested by the +portrait of the deceased Marchioness, upon which he gazed for a considerable +time with great attention and some surprise; and then, having examined the +closet, he returned into the bedroom, where he kindled a wood fire, the bright +blaze of which revived his spirits, which had begun to yield to the gloom and +silence of the place, for gusts of wind alone broke at intervals this silence. +He now drew a small table and a chair near the fire, took a bottle of wine and +some cold provision out of his basket, and regaled himself. When he had +finished his repast, he laid his sword upon the table, and, not feeling +disposed to sleep, drew from his pocket the book he had spoken of.—It was +a volume of old Provençal tales. Having stirred the fire into a brighter blaze, +he began to read, and his attention was soon wholly occupied by the scenes +which the page disclosed. +</p> + +<p> +The Count, meanwhile, had returned to the supper-room, whither those of the +party who had attended him to the north apartment had retreated, upon hearing +Dorothée’s scream, and who were now earnest in their enquiries concerning +those chambers. The Count rallied his guests on their precipitate retreat, and +on the superstitious inclination which had occasioned it, and this led to the +question, whether the spirit, after it has quitted the body, is ever permitted +to revisit the earth; and if it is, whether it was possible for spirits to +become visible to the sense. The Baron was of opinion, that the first was +probable, and the last was possible, and he endeavoured to justify this opinion +by respectable authorities, both ancient and modern, which he quoted. The +Count, however, was decidedly against him, and a long conversation ensued, in +which the usual arguments on these subjects were on both sides brought forward +with skill, and discussed with candour, but without converting either party to +the opinion of his opponent. The effect of their conversation on their auditors +was various. Though the Count had much the superiority of the Baron in point of +argument, he had considerably fewer adherents; for that love, so natural to the +human mind, of whatever is able to distend its faculties with wonder and +astonishment, attached the majority of the company to the side of the Baron; +and, though many of the Count’s propositions were unanswerable, his +opponents were inclined to believe this the consequence of their own want of +knowledge on so abstracted a subject, rather than that arguments did not +exist which were forcible enough to conquer his. +</p> + +<p> +Blanche was pale with attention, till the ridicule in her father’s glance +called a blush upon her countenance, and she then endeavoured to forget the +superstitious tales she had been told in her convent. Meanwhile, Emily had been +listening with deep attention to the discussion of what was to her a very +interesting question, and, remembering the appearance she had witnessed in the +apartment of the late Marchioness, she was frequently chilled with awe. Several +times she was on the point of mentioning what she had seen, but the fear of +giving pain to the Count, and the dread of his ridicule, restrained her; and, +awaiting in anxious expectation the event of Ludovico’s intrepidity, she +determined that her future silence should depend upon it. +</p> + +<p> +When the party had separated for the night, and the Count retired to his +dressing-room, the remembrance of the desolate scenes he had lately witnessed +in his own mansion deeply affected him, but at length he was aroused from his +reverie and his silence. “What music is that I hear?” said he +suddenly to his valet, “Who plays at this late hour?” +</p> + +<p> +The man made no reply, and the Count continued to listen, and then added, +“That is no common musician; he touches the instrument with a delicate +hand; who is it, Pierre?” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord!” said the man, hesitatingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Who plays that instrument?” repeated the Count. +</p> + +<p> +“Does not your lordship know, then?” said the valet. +</p> + +<p> +“What mean you?” said the Count, somewhat sternly. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, my Lord, I meant nothing,” rejoined the man +submissively—“Only—that music—goes about the house at +midnight often, and I thought your lordship might have heard it before.” +</p> + +<p> +“Music goes about the house at midnight! Poor fellow!—does nobody +dance to the music, too?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not in the château, I believe, my Lord; the sounds come from the +woods, they say, though they seem so near;—but then a spirit can do +anything!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, poor fellow!” said the Count, “I perceive you are as +silly as the rest of them; tomorrow you will be convinced of your ridiculous +error. But hark!—what voice is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“O my Lord! that is the voice we often hear with the music.” +</p> + +<p> +“Often!” said the Count, “How often, pray? It is a very fine +one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, my Lord, I myself have not heard it more than two or three times, +but there are those who have lived here longer, that have heard it often +enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a swell was that!” exclaimed the Count, as he still listened, +“And now, what a dying cadence! This is surely something more than +mortal!” +</p> + +<p> +“That is what they say, my Lord,” said the valet; “they say +it is nothing mortal, that utters it; and if I might say my +thoughts—” +</p> + +<p> +“Peace!” said the Count, and he listened till the strain died away. +</p> + +<p> +“This is strange!” said he, as he turned from the window, +“Close the casements, Pierre.” +</p> + +<p> +Pierre obeyed, and the Count soon after dismissed him, but did not so soon lose +the remembrance of the music, which long vibrated in his fancy in tones of +melting sweetness, while surprise and perplexity engaged his thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +Ludovico, meanwhile, in his remote chamber, heard, now and then, the faint echo +of a closing door, as the family retired to rest, and then the hall clock, at a +great distance, strike twelve. “It is midnight,” said he, and he +looked suspiciously round the spacious chamber. The fire on the hearth was now +nearly expiring, for his attention having been engaged by the book before him, +he had forgotten everything besides; but he soon added fresh wood, not because +he was cold, though the night was stormy, but because he was cheerless; and, +having again trimmed his lamp, he poured out a glass of wine, drew his chair +nearer to the crackling blaze, tried to be deaf to the wind, that howled +mournfully at the casements, endeavoured to abstract his mind from the +melancholy that was stealing upon him, and again took up his book. It had been +lent to him by Dorothée, who had formerly picked it up in an obscure corner of +the Marquis’s library, and who, having opened it and perceived some of +the marvels it related, had carefully preserved it for her own entertainment, +its condition giving her some excuse for detaining it from its proper station. +The damp corner into which it had fallen had caused the cover to be disfigured +and mouldy, and the leaves to be so discoloured with spots, that it was not +without difficulty the letters could be traced. The fictions of the Provençal +writers, whether drawn from the Arabian legends, brought by the Saracens into +Spain, or recounting the chivalric exploits performed by the crusaders, whom +the Troubadors accompanied to the east, were generally splendid and always +marvellous, both in scenery and incident; and it is not wonderful, that +Dorothée and Ludovico should be fascinated by inventions, which had captivated +the careless imagination in every rank of society, in a former age. Some of the +tales, however, in the book now before Ludovico, were of simple structure, and +exhibited nothing of the magnificent machinery and heroic manners, which +usually characterised the fables of the twelfth century, and of this +description was the one he now happened to open, which, in its original style, +was of great length, but which may be thus shortly related. The reader will +perceive that it is strongly tinctured with the superstition of the times. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +THE PROVENÇAL TALE +</p> + +<p> +“There lived, in the province of Bretagne, a noble Baron, famous for his +magnificence and courtly hospitalities. His castle was graced with ladies of +exquisite beauty, and thronged with illustrious knights; for the honour he paid +to feats of chivalry invited the brave of distant countries to enter his lists, +and his court was more splendid than those of many princes. Eight minstrels +were retained in his service, who used to sing to their harps romantic +fictions, taken from the Arabians, or adventures of chivalry, that befel +knights during the crusades, or the martial deeds of the Baron, their +lord;—while he, surrounded by his knights and ladies, banqueted in the +great hall of his castle, where the costly tapestry, that adorned the walls +with pictured exploits of his ancestors, the casements of painted glass, +enriched with armorial bearings, the gorgeous banners, that waved along the +roof, the sumptuous canopies, the profusion of gold and silver that glittered +on the sideboards, the numerous dishes, that covered the tables, the number and +gay liveries of the attendants, with the chivalric and splendid attire of the +guests, united to form a scene of magnificence, such as we may not hope to see +in these <i>degenerate days</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Of the Baron, the following adventure is related. One night, having +retired late from the banquet to his chamber, and dismissed his attendants, he +was surprised by the appearance of a stranger of a noble air, but of a +sorrowful and dejected countenance. Believing, that this person had been +secreted in the apartment, since it appeared impossible he could have lately +passed the ante-room, unobserved by the pages in waiting, who would have +prevented this intrusion on their lord, the Baron, calling loudly for his +people, drew his sword, which he had not yet taken from his side, and stood +upon his defence. The stranger slowly advancing, told him, that there was +nothing to fear; that he came with no hostile design, but to communicate to him +a terrible secret, which it was necessary for him to know. +</p> + +<p> +“The Baron, appeased by the courteous manners of the stranger, after +surveying him, for some time, in silence, returned his sword into the scabbard, +and desired him to explain the means, by which he had obtained access to the +chamber, and the purpose of this extraordinary visit. +</p> + +<p> +“Without answering either of these enquiries, the stranger said, that he +could not then explain himself, but that, if the Baron would follow him to the +edge of the forest, at a short distance from the castle walls, he would there +convince him, that he had something of importance to disclose. +</p> + +<p> +“This proposal again alarmed the Baron, who could scarcely believe, that +the stranger meant to draw him to so solitary a spot, at this hour of the +night, without harbouring a design against his life, and he refused to go, +observing, at the same time, that, if the stranger’s purpose was an +honourable one, he would not persist in refusing to reveal the occasion of his +visit, in the apartment where they were. +</p> + +<p> +“While he spoke this, he viewed the stranger still more attentively than +before, but observed no change in his countenance, or any symptom, that might +intimate a consciousness of evil design. He was habited like a knight, was of a +tall and majestic stature, and of dignified and courteous manners. Still, +however, he refused to communicate the subject of his errand in any place, but +that he had mentioned, and, at the same time, gave hints concerning the secret +he would disclose, that awakened a degree of solemn curiosity in the Baron, +which, at length, induced him to consent to follow the stranger on certain +conditions. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Sir knight,’ said he, ‘I will attend you to the +forest, and will take with me only four of my people, who shall witness our +conference.’ +</p> + +<p> +“To this, however, the Knight objected. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What I would disclose,’ said he, with solemnity, ‘is +to you alone. There are only three living persons, to whom the circumstance is +known; it is of more consequence to you and your house, than I shall now +explain. In future years, you will look back to this night with satisfaction or +repentance, accordingly as you now determine. As you would hereafter +prosper—follow me; I pledge you the honour of a knight, that no evil +shall befall you;—if you are contented to dare futurity—remain in +your chamber, and I will depart as I came.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Sir knight,’ replied the Baron, ‘how is it possible, +that my future peace can depend upon my present determination?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘That is not now to be told,’ said the stranger, ‘I +have explained myself to the utmost. It is late; if you follow me it must be +quickly;—you will do well to consider the alternative.’ +</p> + +<p> +“The Baron mused, and, as he looked upon the knight, he perceived his +countenance assume a singular solemnity.” +</p> + +<p> +[Here Ludovico thought he heard a noise, and he threw a glance round the +chamber, and then held up the lamp to assist his observation; but, not +perceiving anything to confirm his alarm, he took up the book again and +pursued the story.] +</p> + +<p> +“The Baron paced his apartment, for some time, in silence, impressed by +the last words of the stranger, whose extraordinary request he feared to grant, +and feared, also, to refuse. At length, he said, ‘Sir knight, you are +utterly unknown to me; tell me yourself,—is it reasonable, that I should +trust myself alone with a stranger, at this hour, in a solitary forest? Tell +me, at least, who you are, and who assisted to secrete you in this +chamber.’ +</p> + +<p> +“The knight frowned at these latter words, and was a moment silent; then, +with a countenance somewhat stern, he said, +</p> + +<p> +“‘I am an English knight; I am called Sir Bevys of +Lancaster,—and my deeds are not unknown at the Holy City, whence I was +returning to my native land, when I was benighted in the neighbouring +forest.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Your name is not unknown to fame,’ said the Baron, ‘I +have heard of it.’ (The Knight looked haughtily.) ‘But why, since +my castle is known to entertain all true knights, did not your herald announce +you? Why did you not appear at the banquet, where your presence would have been +welcomed, instead of hiding yourself in my castle, and stealing to my chamber, +at midnight?’ +</p> + +<p> +“The stranger frowned, and turned away in silence; but the Baron repeated +the questions. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I come not,’ said the Knight, ‘to answer enquiries, +but to reveal facts. If you would know more, follow me, and again I pledge the +honour of a Knight that you shall return in safety.—Be quick in your +determination—I must be gone.’ +</p> + +<p> +“After some further hesitation, the Baron determined to follow the +stranger, and to see the result of his extraordinary request; he, therefore, +again drew forth his sword, and, taking up a lamp, bade the Knight lead on. The +latter obeyed, and, opening the door of the chamber, they passed into the +ante-room, where the Baron, surprised to find all his pages asleep, stopped, +and, with hasty violence, was going to reprimand them for their carelessness, +when the Knight waved his hand, and looked so expressively upon the Baron, that +the latter restrained his resentment, and passed on. +</p> + +<p> +“The Knight, having descended a staircase, opened a secret door, which +the Baron had believed was known only to himself, and, proceeding through +several narrow and winding passages, came, at length, to a small gate, that +opened beyond the walls of the castle. Meanwhile, the Baron followed in silence +and amazement, on perceiving that these secret passages were so well known to a +stranger, and felt inclined to return from an adventure that appeared to +partake of treachery, as well as danger. Then, considering that he was armed, +and observing the courteous and noble air of his conductor, his courage +returned, he blushed, that it had failed him for a moment, and he resolved to +trace the mystery to its source. +</p> + +<p> +“He now found himself on the heathy platform, before the great gates of +his castle, where, on looking up, he perceived lights glimmering in the +different casements of the guests, who were retiring to sleep; and, while he +shivered in the blast, and looked on the dark and desolate scene around him, he +thought of the comforts of his warm chamber, rendered cheerful by the blaze of +wood, and felt, for a moment, the full contrast of his present +situation.” +</p> + +<p> +[Here Ludovico paused a moment, and, looking at his own fire, gave it a +brightening stir.] +</p> + +<p> +“The wind was strong, and the Baron watched his lamp with anxiety, +expecting every moment to see it extinguished; but, though the flame wavered, +it did not expire, and he still followed the stranger, who often sighed as he +went, but did not speak. +</p> + +<p> +“When they reached the borders of the forest, the Knight turned, and +raised his head, as if he meant to address the Baron, but then, closing his +lips in silence, he walked on. +</p> + +<p> +“As they entered beneath the dark and spreading boughs, the Baron, +affected by the solemnity of the scene, hesitated whether to proceed, and +demanded how much further they were to go. The Knight replied only by a +gesture, and the Baron, with hesitating steps and a suspicious eye, followed +through an obscure and intricate path, till, having proceeded a considerable +way, he again demanded whither they were going, and refused to proceed unless +he was informed. +</p> + +<p> +“As he said this, he looked at his own sword, and at the Knight +alternately, who shook his head, and whose dejected countenance disarmed the +Baron, for a moment, of suspicion. +</p> + +<p> +“‘A little further is the place, whither I would lead you,’ +said the stranger; ‘no evil shall befall you—I have sworn it on the +honour of a knight.’ +</p> + +<p> +“The Baron, reassured, again followed in silence, and they soon arrived +at a deep recess of the forest, where the dark and lofty chesnuts entirely +excluded the sky, and which was so overgrown with underwood, that they +proceeded with difficulty. The Knight sighed deeply as he passed, and sometimes +paused; and having, at length, reached a spot, where the trees crowded into a +knot, he turned, and, with a terrific look, pointing to the ground, the Baron +saw there the body of a man, stretched at its length, and weltering in blood; a +ghastly wound was on the forehead, and death appeared already to have +contracted the features. +</p> + +<p> +“The Baron, on perceiving the spectacle, started in horror, looked at the +Knight for explanation, and was then going to raise the body and examine if +there were yet any remains of life; but the stranger, waving his hand, fixed +upon him a look so earnest and mournful, as not only much surprised him, but +made him desist. +</p> + +<p> +“But, what were the Baron’s emotions, when, on holding the lamp +near the features of the corpse, he discovered the exact resemblance of the +stranger his conductor, to whom he now looked up in astonishment and enquiry? +As he gazed, he perceived the countenance of the Knight change, and begin to +fade, till his whole form gradually vanished from his astonished sense! While +the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice was heard to utter these +words:—” +</p> + +<p> +[Ludovico started, and laid down the book, for he thought he heard a voice in +the chamber, and he looked toward the bed, where, however, he saw only the dark +curtains and the pall. He listened, scarcely daring to draw his breath, but +heard only the distant roaring of the sea in the storm, and the blast, that +rushed by the casements; when, concluding, that he had been deceived by its +sighings, he took up his book to finish the story.] +</p> + +<p> +“While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice was heard to utter +these words:—* +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +(*Note: This repetition seems to be intentional. Ludovico is picking up the thread.) +</p> + +<p> +“The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaster, a noble knight of England, lies +before you. He was, this night, waylaid and murdered, as he journeyed from the +Holy City towards his native land. Respect the honour of knighthood and the law +of humanity; inter the body in christian ground, and cause his murderers to be +punished. As ye observe, or neglect this, shall peace and happiness, or war and +misery, light upon you and your house for ever!” +</p> + +<p> +“The Baron, when he recovered from the awe and astonishment, into which +this adventure had thrown him, returned to his castle, whither he caused the +body of Sir Bevys to be removed; and, on the following day, it was interred, +with the honours of knighthood, in the chapel of the castle, attended by all +the noble knights and ladies, who graced the court of Baron de Brunne.” +<br /><br /> +</p> + +<p> +Ludovico, having finished this story, laid aside the book, for he felt drowsy, +and, after putting more wood on the fire and taking another glass of wine, he +reposed himself in the arm-chair on the hearth. In his dream he still beheld +the chamber where he really was, and, once or twice, started from imperfect +slumbers, imagining he saw a man’s face, looking over the high back of +his arm-chair. This idea had so strongly impressed him, that, when he raised +his eyes, he almost expected to meet other eyes, fixed upon his own, and he +quitted his seat and looked behind the chair, before he felt perfectly +convinced, that no person was there. +</p> + +<p> +Thus closed the hour. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap45"></a> CHAPTER VII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber;<br/> +Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies,<br/> +Which busy care draws in the brains of men;<br/> +Therefore thou sleep’st so sound.<br/> + SHAKESPEARE +</p> + +<p> +The Count, who had slept little during the night, rose early, and, anxious to +speak with Ludovico, went to the north apartment; but, the outer door having +been fastened, on the preceding night, he was obliged to knock loudly for +admittance. Neither the knocking, nor his voice was heard; but, considering the +distance of this door from the bedroom, and that Ludovico, wearied with +watching, had probably fallen into a deep sleep, the Count was not surprised on +receiving no answer, and, leaving the door, he went down to walk in his +grounds. +</p> + +<p> +It was a grey autumnal morning. The sun, rising over Provence, gave only a +feeble light, as his rays struggled through the vapours that ascended from the +sea, and floated heavily over the wood-tops, which were now varied with many a +mellow tint of autumn. The storm was passed, but the waves were yet violently +agitated, and their course was traced by long lines of foam, while not a breeze +fluttered in the sails of the vessels, near the shore, that were weighing +anchor to depart. The still gloom of the hour was pleasing to the Count, and he +pursued his way through the woods, sunk in deep thought. +</p> + +<p> +Emily also rose at an early hour, and took her customary walk along the brow of +the promontory, that overhung the Mediterranean. Her mind was now not occupied +with the occurrences of the château, and Valancourt was the subject of her +mournful thoughts; whom she had not yet taught herself to consider with +indifference, though her judgment constantly reproached her for the affection, +that lingered in her heart, after her esteem for him was departed. Remembrance +frequently gave her his parting look and the tones of his voice, when he had +bade her a last farewell; and, some accidental associations now recalling these +circumstances to her fancy, with peculiar energy, she shed bitter tears to the +recollection. +</p> + +<p> +Having reached the watch-tower, she seated herself on the broken steps, and, in +melancholy dejection, watched the waves, half hid in vapour, as they came +rolling towards the shore, and threw up their light spray round the rocks +below. Their hollow murmur and the obscuring mists, that came in wreaths up the +cliffs, gave a solemnity to the scene, which was in harmony with the temper of +her mind, and she sat, given up to the remembrance of past times, till this +became too painful, and she abruptly quitted the place. On passing the little +gate of the watch-tower, she observed letters, engraved on the stone postern, +which she paused to examine, and, though they appeared to have been rudely cut +with a pen-knife, the characters were familiar to her; at length, recognising +the hand-writing of Valancourt, she read, with trembling anxiety the following +lines, entitled +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +SHIPWRECK<br/><br/> + +’Til solemn midnight! On this lonely steep,<br/> +Beneath this watch-tow’r’s desolated wall,<br/> +Where mystic shapes the wonderer appall,<br/> +I rest; and view below the desert deep,<br/> +As through tempestuous clouds the moon’s cold light<br/> +Gleams on the wave. Viewless, the winds of night<br/> +With loud mysterious force the billows sweep,<br/> +And sullen roar the surges, far below.<br/> +In the still pauses of the gust I hear<br/> +The voice of spirits, rising sweet and slow,<br/> +And oft among the clouds their forms appear.<br/> +But hark! what shriek of death comes in the gale,<br/> +And in the distant ray what glimmering sail<br/> +Bends to the storm?—Now sinks the note of fear!<br/> +Ah! wretched mariners!—no more shall day<br/> +Unclose his cheering eye to light ye on your way! +</p> + +<p> +From these lines it appeared, that Valancourt had visited the tower; that he +had probably been here on the preceding night, for it was such a one as they +described, and that he had left the building very lately, since it had not long +been light, and without light it was impossible these letters could have been +cut. It was thus even probable, that he might be yet in the gardens. +</p> + +<p> +As these reflections passed rapidly over the mind of Emily, they called up a +variety of contending emotions, that almost overcame her spirits; but her first +impulse was to avoid him, and, immediately leaving the tower, she returned, +with hasty steps, towards the château. As she passed along, she remembered the +music she had lately heard near the tower, with the figure, which had appeared, +and, in this moment of agitation, she was inclined to believe, that she had +then heard and seen Valancourt; but other recollections soon convinced her of +her error. On turning into a thicker part of the woods, she perceived a person, +walking slowly in the gloom at some little distance, and, her mind engaged by +the idea of him, she started and paused, imagining this to be Valancourt. The +person advanced with quicker steps, and, before she could recover recollection +enough to avoid him, he spoke, and she then knew the voice of the Count, who +expressed some surprise, on finding her walking at so early an hour, and made a +feeble effort to rally her on her love of solitude. But he soon perceived this +to be more a subject of concern than of light laughter, and, changing his +manner, affectionately expostulated with Emily, on thus indulging unavailing +regret; who, though she acknowledged the justness of all he said, could not +restrain her tears, while she did so, and he presently quitted the topic. +Expressing surprise at not having yet heard from his friend, the Advocate at +Avignon, in answer to the questions proposed to him, respecting the estates of +the late Madame Montoni, he, with friendly zeal, endeavoured to cheer Emily +with hopes of establishing her claim to them; while she felt, that the estates +could now contribute little to the happiness of a life, in which Valancourt had +no longer an interest. +</p> + +<p> +When they returned to the château, Emily retired to her apartment, and Count De +Villefort to the door of the north chambers. This was still fastened, but, +being now determined to arouse Ludovico, he renewed his calls more loudly than +before, after which a total silence ensued, and the Count, finding all his +efforts to be heard ineffectual, at length began to fear, that some accident +had befallen Ludovico, whom terror of an imaginary being might have deprived of +his senses. He, therefore, left the door with an intention of summoning his +servants to force it open, some of whom he now heard moving in the lower part +of the château. +</p> + +<p> +To the Count’s enquiries, whether they had seen or heard Ludovico, they +replied in affright, that not one of them had ventured on the north side of the +château, since the preceding night. +</p> + +<p> +“He sleeps soundly then,” said the Count, “and is at such a +distance from the outer door, which is fastened, that to gain admittance to the +chambers it will be necessary to force it. Bring an instrument, and follow +me.” +</p> + +<p> +The servants stood mute and dejected, and it was not till nearly all the +household were assembled, that the Count’s orders were obeyed. In the +mean time, Dorothée was telling of a door, that opened from a gallery, leading +from the great staircase into the last ante-room of the saloon, and, this +being much nearer to the bed-chamber, it appeared probable, that Ludovico might +be easily awakened by an attempt to open it. Thither, therefore, the Count +went, but his voice was as ineffectual at this door as it had proved at the +remoter one; and now, seriously interested for Ludovico, he was himself going +to strike upon the door with the instrument, when he observed its singular +beauty, and withheld the blow. It appeared, on the first glance, to be of +ebony, so dark and close was its grain and so high its polish; but it proved to +be only of larch wood, of the growth of Provence, then famous for its forests +of larch. The beauty of its polished hue and of its delicate carvings +determined the Count to spare this door, and he returned to that leading from +the back staircase, which being, at length, forced, he entered the first +ante-room, followed by Henri and a few of the most courageous of his servants, +the rest awaiting the event of the enquiry on the stairs and landing-place. +</p> + +<p> +All was silent in the chambers, through which the Count passed, and, having +reached the saloon, he called loudly upon Ludovico; after which, still +receiving no answer, he threw open the door of the bedroom, and entered. +</p> + +<p> +The profound stillness within confirmed his apprehensions for Ludovico, for not +even the breathings of a person in sleep were heard; and his uncertainty was +not soon terminated, since the shutters being all closed, the chamber was too +dark for any object to be distinguished in it. +</p> + +<p> +The Count bade a servant open them, who, as he crossed the room to do so, +stumbled over something, and fell to the floor, when his cry occasioned such +panic among the few of his fellows, who had ventured thus far, that they +instantly fled, and the Count and Henri were left to finish the adventure. +</p> + +<p> +Henri then sprung across the room, and, opening a window-shutter, they +perceived, that the man had fallen over a chair near the hearth, in which +Ludovico had been sitting;—for he sat there no longer, nor could anywhere +be seen by the imperfect light, that was admitted into the apartment. The +Count, seriously alarmed, now opened other shutters, that he might be enabled +to examine further, and, Ludovico not yet appearing, he stood for a moment, +suspended in astonishment and scarcely trusting his senses, till, his eyes +glancing on the bed, he advanced to examine whether he was there asleep. No +person, however, was in it, and he proceeded to the oriel, where everything +remained as on the preceding night, but Ludovico was nowhere to be found. +</p> + +<p> +The Count now checked his amazement, considering that Ludovico might have left +the chambers, during the night, overcome by the terrors, which their lonely +desolation and the recollected reports, concerning them, had inspired. Yet, if +this had been the fact, the man would naturally have sought society, and his +fellow servants had all declared they had not seen him; the door of the outer +room also had been found fastened, with the key on the inside; it was +impossible, therefore, for him to have passed through that, and all the outer +doors of this suite were found, on examination, to be bolted and locked, with +the keys also within them. The Count, being then compelled to believe, that the +lad had escaped through the casements, next examined them, but such as opened +wide enough to admit the body of a man were found to be carefully secured +either by iron bars, or by shutters, and no vestige appeared of any person +having attempted to pass them; neither was it probable, that Ludovico would +have incurred the risk of breaking his neck, by leaping from a window, when he +might have walked safely through a door. +</p> + +<p> +The Count’s amazement did not admit of words; but he returned once more +to examine the bedroom, where was no appearance of disorder, except that +occasioned by the late overthrow of the chair, near which had stood a small +table, and on this Ludovico’s sword, his lamp, the book he had been +reading, and the remnant of his flask of wine still remained. At the foot of +the table, too, was the basket with some fragments of provision and wood. +</p> + +<p> +Henri and the servant now uttered their astonishment without reserve, and, +though the Count said little, there was a seriousness in his manner, that +expressed much. It appeared, that Ludovico must have quitted these rooms by +some concealed passage, for the Count could not believe, that any supernatural +means had occasioned this event, yet, if there was any such passage, it seemed +inexplicable why he should retreat through it, and it was equally surprising, +that not even the smallest vestige should appear, by which his progress could +be traced. In the rooms everything remained as much in order as if he had just +walked out by the common way. +</p> + +<p> +The Count himself assisted in lifting the arras, with which the bed-chamber, +saloon and one of the ante-rooms were hung, that he might discover if any door +had been concealed behind it; but, after a laborious search, none was found, +and he, at length, quitted the apartments, having secured the door of the last +ante-chamber, the key of which he took into his own possession. He then gave +orders, that strict search should be made for Ludovico not only in the château, +but in the neighbourhood, and, retiring with Henri to his closet, they remained +there in conversation for a considerable time, and whatever was the subject of +it, Henri from this hour lost much of his vivacity, and his manners were +particularly grave and reserved, whenever the topic, which now agitated the +Count’s family with wonder and alarm, was introduced. +</p> + +<p> +On the disappearing of Ludovico, Baron St. Foix seemed strengthened in all his +former opinions concerning the probability of apparitions, though it was +difficult to discover what connection there could possibly be between the two +subjects, or to account for this effect otherwise than by supposing, that the +mystery attending Ludovico, by exciting awe and curiosity, reduced the mind to +a state of sensibility, which rendered it more liable to the influence of +superstition in general. It is, however, certain, that from this period the +Baron and his adherents became more bigoted to their own systems than before, +while the terrors of the Count’s servants increased to an excess, that +occasioned many of them to quit the mansion immediately, and the rest remained +only till others could be procured to supply their places. +</p> + +<p> +The most strenuous search after Ludovico proved unsuccessful, and, after +several days of indefatigable enquiry, poor Annette gave herself up to despair, +and the other inhabitants of the château to amazement. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, whose mind had been deeply affected by the disastrous fate of the late +Marchioness and with the mysterious connection, which she fancied had existed +between her and St. Aubert, was particularly impressed by the late +extraordinary event, and much concerned for the loss of Ludovico, whose +integrity and faithful services claimed both her esteem and gratitude. She was +now very desirous to return to the quiet retirement of her convent, but every +hint of this was received with real sorrow by the Lady Blanche, and +affectionately set aside by the Count, for whom she felt much of the respectful +love and admiration of a daughter, and to whom, by Dorothée’s consent, +she, at length, mentioned the appearance, which they had witnessed in the +chamber of the deceased Marchioness. At any other period, he would have smiled +at such a relation, and have believed, that its object had existed only in the +distempered fancy of the relater; but he now attended to Emily with +seriousness, and, when she concluded, requested of her a promise, that this +occurrence should rest in silence. “Whatever may be the cause and the +import of these extraordinary occurrences,” added the Count, “time +only can explain them. I shall keep a wary eye upon all that passes in the +château, and shall pursue every possible means of discovering the fate of +Ludovico. Meanwhile, we must be prudent and be silent. I will myself watch in +the north chambers, but of this we will say nothing, till the night arrives, +when I purpose doing so.” +</p> + +<p> +The Count then sent for Dorothée, and required of her also a promise of +silence, concerning what she had already, or might in future witness of an +extraordinary nature; and this ancient servant now related to him the +particulars of the Marchioness de Villeroi’s death, with some of which he +appeared to be already acquainted, while by others he was evidently surprised +and agitated. After listening to this narrative, the Count retired to his +closet, where he remained alone for several hours; and, when he again appeared, +the solemnity of his manner surprised and alarmed Emily, but she gave no +utterance to her thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +On the week following the disappearance of Ludovico, all the Count’s +guests took leave of him, except the Baron, his son Mons. St. Foix, and Emily; +the latter of whom was soon after embarrassed and distressed by the arrival of +another visitor, Mons. Du Pont, which made her determine upon withdrawing to +her convent immediately. The delight, that appeared in his countenance, when he +met her, told that he brought back the same ardour of passion, which had +formerly banished him from Château-le-Blanc. He was received with reserve by +Emily, and with pleasure by the Count, who presented him to her with a smile, +that seemed intended to plead his cause, and who did not hope the less for his +friend, from the embarrassment she betrayed. +</p> + +<p> +But M. Du Pont, with truer sympathy, seemed to understand her manner, and his +countenance quickly lost its vivacity, and sunk into the languor of +despondency. +</p> + +<p> +On the following day, however, he sought an opportunity of declaring the +purport of his visit, and renewed his suit; a declaration, which was received +with real concern by Emily, who endeavoured to lessen the pain she might +inflict by a second rejection, with assurances of esteem and friendship; yet +she left him in a state of mind, that claimed and excited her tenderest +compassion; and, being more sensible than ever of the impropriety of remaining +longer at the château, she immediately sought the Count, and communicated to +him her intention of returning to the convent. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Emily,” said he, “I observe with extreme concern, +the illusion you are encouraging—an illusion common to young and sensible +minds. Your heart has received a severe shock; you believe you can never +entirely recover it, and you will encourage this belief, till the habit of +indulging sorrow will subdue the strength of your mind, and discolour your +future views with melancholy and regret. Let me dissipate this illusion, and +awaken you to a sense of your danger.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily smiled mournfully, “I know what you would say, my dear sir,” +said she, “and am prepared to answer you. I feel, that my heart can never +know a second affection; and that I must never hope even to recover its +tranquillity—if I suffer myself to enter into a second engagement.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know, that you feel all this,” replied the Count; “and I +know, also, that time will overcome these feelings, unless you cherish them in +solitude, and, pardon me, with romantic tenderness. Then, indeed, time will +only confirm habit. I am particularly empowered to speak on this subject, and +to sympathise in your sufferings,” added the Count, with an air of +solemnity, “for I have known what it is to love, and to lament the object +of my love. Yes,” continued he, while his eyes filled with tears, +“I have suffered!—but those times have passed away—long +passed! and I can now look back upon them without emotion.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear sir,” said Emily, timidly, “what mean those +tears?—they speak, I fear, another language—they plead for +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are weak tears, for they are useless ones,” replied the +Count, drying them, “I would have you superior to such weakness. These, +however, are only faint traces of a grief, which, if it had not been opposed by +long continued effort, might have led me to the verge of madness! Judge, then, +whether I have not cause to warn you of an indulgence, which may produce so +terrible an effect, and which must certainly, if not opposed, overcloud the +years, that otherwise might be happy. M. Du Pont is a sensible and amiable man, +who has long been tenderly attached to you; his family and fortune are +unexceptionable;—after what I have said, it is unnecessary to add, that I +should rejoice in your felicity, and that I think M. Du Pont would promote it. +Do not weep, Emily,” continued the Count, taking her hand, “there +<i>is</i> happiness reserved for you.” +</p> + +<p> +He was silent a moment; and then added, in a firmer voice, “I do not +wish, that you should make a violent effort to overcome your feelings; all I, +at present, ask, is, that you will check the thoughts, that would lead you to a +remembrance of the past; that you will suffer your mind to be engaged by +present objects; that you will allow yourself to believe it possible you may +yet be happy; and that you will sometimes think with complacency of poor Du +Pont, and not condemn him to the state of despondency, from which, my dear +Emily, I am endeavouring to withdraw you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! my dear sir,” said Emily, while her tears still fell, +“do not suffer the benevolence of your wishes to mislead Mons. Du Pont +with an expectation that I can ever accept his hand. If I understand my own +heart, this never can be; your instruction I can obey in almost every other +particular, than that of adopting a contrary belief.” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave me to understand your heart,” replied the Count, with a +faint smile. “If you pay me the compliment to be guided by my advice in +other instances, I will pardon your incredulity, respecting your future conduct +towards Mons. Du Pont. I will not even press you to remain longer at the +château than your own satisfaction will permit; but though I forbear to oppose +your present retirement, I shall urge the claims of friendship for your future +visits.” +</p> + +<p> +Tears of gratitude mingled with those of tender regret, while Emily thanked the +Count for the many instances of friendship she had received from him; promised +to be directed by his advice upon every subject but one, and assured him of the +pleasure, with which she should, at some future period, accept the invitation +of the Countess and himself—If Mons. Du Pont was not at the château. +</p> + +<p> +The Count smiled at this condition. “Be it so,” said he, +“meanwhile the convent is so near the château, that my daughter and I +shall often visit you; and if, sometimes, we should dare to bring you another +visitor—will you forgive us?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily looked distressed, and remained silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” rejoined the Count, “I will pursue this subject no +further, and must now entreat your forgiveness for having pressed it thus far. +You will, however, do me the justice to believe, that I have been urged only by +a sincere regard for your happiness, and that of my amiable friend Mons. Du +Pont.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, when she left the Count, went to mention her intended departure to the +Countess, who opposed it with polite expressions of regret; after which, she +sent a note to acquaint the lady abbess, that she should return to the convent; +and thither she withdrew on the evening of the following day. M. Du Pont, in +extreme regret, saw her depart, while the Count endeavoured to cheer him with a +hope, that Emily would sometimes regard him with a more favourable eye. +</p> + +<p> +She was pleased to find herself once more in the tranquil retirement of the +convent, where she experienced a renewal of all the maternal kindness of the +abbess, and of the sisterly attentions of the nuns. A report of the late +extraordinary occurrence at the château had already reached them, and, after +supper, on the evening of her arrival, it was the subject of conversation in +the convent parlour, where she was requested to mention some particulars of +that unaccountable event. Emily was guarded in her conversation on this +subject, and briefly related a few circumstances concerning Ludovico, whose +disappearance, her auditors almost unanimously agreed, had been effected by +supernatural means. +</p> + +<p> +“A belief had so long prevailed,” said a nun, who was called sister +Frances, “that the château was haunted, that I was surprised, when I +heard the Count had the temerity to inhabit it. Its former possessor, I fear, +had some deed of conscience to atone for; let us hope, that the virtues of its +present owner will preserve him from the punishment due to the errors of the +last, if, indeed, he was a criminal.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of what crime, then, was he suspected?” said a Mademoiselle +Feydeau, a boarder at the convent. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us pray for his soul!” said a nun, who had till now sat in +silent attention. “If he was criminal, his punishment in this world was +sufficient.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a mixture of wildness and solemnity in her manner of delivering this, +which struck Emily exceedingly; but Mademoiselle repeated her question, without +noticing the solemn eagerness of the nun. +</p> + +<p> +“I dare not presume to say what was his crime,” replied sister +Frances; “but I have heard many reports of an extraordinary nature, +respecting the late Marquis de Villeroi, and among others, that, soon after the +death of his lady, he quitted Château-le-Blanc, and never afterwards returned +to it. I was not here at the time, so I can only mention it from report, and so +many years have passed since the Marchioness died, that few of our sisterhood, +I believe, can do more.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I can,” said the nun, who had before spoke, and whom they +called sister Agnes. +</p> + +<p> +“You then,” said Mademoiselle Feydeau, “are possibly +acquainted with circumstances, that enable you to judge, whether he was +criminal or not, and what was the crime imputed to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am,” replied the nun; “but who shall dare to scrutinize my +thoughts—who shall dare to pluck out my opinion? God only is his judge, +and to that judge he is gone!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily looked with surprise at sister Frances, who returned her a significant +glance. +</p> + +<p> +“I only requested your opinion,” said Mademoiselle Feydeau, mildly; +“if the subject is displeasing to you, I will drop it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Displeasing!”—said the nun, with emphasis.—“We +are idle talkers; we do not weigh the meaning of the words we use; +<i>displeasing</i> is a poor word. I will go pray.” As she said this she +rose from her seat, and with a profound sigh quitted the room. +</p> + +<p> +“What can be the meaning of this?” said Emily, when she was gone. +</p> + +<p> +“It is nothing extraordinary,” replied sister Frances, “she +is often thus; but she had no meaning in what she says. Her intellects are at +times deranged. Did you never see her thus before?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” said Emily. “I have, indeed, sometimes, thought, +that there was the melancholy of madness in her look, but never before +perceived it in her speech. Poor soul, I will pray for her!” +</p> + +<p> +“Your prayers then, my daughter, will unite with ours,” observed +the lady abbess, “she has need of them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear lady,” said Mademoiselle Feydeau, addressing the abbess, +“what is your opinion of the late Marquis? The strange circumstances, +that have occurred at the château, have so much awakened my curiosity, that I +shall be pardoned the question. What was his imputed crime, and what the +punishment, to which sister Agnes alluded?” +</p> + +<p> +“We must be cautious of advancing our opinion,” said the abbess, +with an air of reserve, mingled with solemnity, “we must be cautious of +advancing our opinion on so delicate a subject. I will not take upon me to +pronounce, that the late Marquis was criminal, or to say what was the crime of +which he was suspected; but, concerning the punishment our daughter Agnes +hinted, I know of none he suffered. She probably alluded to the severe one, +which an exasperated conscience can inflict. Beware, my children, of incurring +so terrible a punishment—it is the purgatory of this life! The late +Marchioness I knew well; she was a pattern to such as live in the world; nay, +our sacred order need not have blushed to copy her virtues! Our holy convent +received her mortal part; her heavenly spirit, I doubt not, ascended to its +sanctuary!” +</p> + +<p> +As the abbess spoke this, the last bell of vespers struck up, and she rose. +“Let us go, my children,” said she, “and intercede for the +wretched; let us go and confess our sins, and endeavour to purify our souls for +the heaven, to which <i>she</i> is gone!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was affected by the solemnity of this exhortation, and, remembering her +father, “The heaven, to which <i>he</i>, too, is gone!” said she, +faintly, as she suppressed her sighs, and followed the abbess and the nuns to +the chapel. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap46"></a> CHAPTER VIII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn’d,<br/> +Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,<br/> +Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,<br/><br/> + +I will speak to thee.<br/> + HAMLET +</p> + +<p> +Count de Villefort, at length, received a letter from the advocate at Avignon, +encouraging Emily to assert her claim to the estates of the late Madame +Montoni; and, about the same time, a messenger arrived from Monsieur Quesnel +with intelligence, that made an appeal to the law on this subject unnecessary, +since it appeared, that the only person, who could have opposed her claim, was +now no more. A friend of Monsieur Quesnel, who resided at Venice, had sent him +an account of the death of Montoni who had been brought to trial with Orsino, +as his supposed accomplice in the murder of the Venetian nobleman. Orsino was +found guilty, condemned and executed upon the wheel, but, nothing being +discovered to criminate Montoni, and his colleagues, on this charge, they were +all released, except Montoni, who, being considered by the senate as a very +dangerous person, was, for other reasons, ordered again into confinement, +where, it was said, he had died in a doubtful and mysterious manner, and not +without suspicion of having been poisoned. The authority, from which M. Quesnel +had received this information, would not allow him to doubt its truth, and he +told Emily, that she had now only to lay claim to the estates of her late aunt, +to secure them, and added, that he would himself assist in the necessary forms +of this business. The term, for which La Vallée had been let being now also +nearly expired, he acquainted her with the circumstance, and advised her to +take the road thither, through Thoulouse, where he promised to meet her, and +where it would be proper for her to take possession of the estates of the late +Madame Montoni; adding, that he would spare her any difficulties, that might +occur on that occasion from the want of knowledge on the subject, and that he +believed it would be necessary for her to be at Thoulouse, in about three weeks +from the present time. +</p> + +<p> +An increase of fortune seemed to have awakened this sudden kindness in M. +Quesnel towards his niece, and it appeared, that he entertained more respect +for the rich heiress, than he had ever felt compassion for the poor and +unfriended orphan. +</p> + +<p> +The pleasure, with which she received this intelligence, was clouded when she +considered, that he, for whose sake she had once regretted the want of fortune, +was no longer worthy of sharing it with her; but, remembering the friendly +admonition of the Count, she checked this melancholy reflection, and +endeavoured to feel only gratitude for the unexpected good, that now attended +her; while it formed no inconsiderable part of her satisfaction to know, that +La Vallée, her native home, which was endeared to her by it’s having been +the residence of her parents, would soon be restored to her possession. There +she meant to fix her future residence, for, though it could not be compared +with the château at Thoulouse, either for extent, or magnificence, its pleasant +scenes and the tender remembrances, that haunted them, had claims upon her +heart, which she was not inclined to sacrifice to ostentation. She wrote +immediately to thank M. Quesnel for the active interest he took in her +concerns, and to say, that she would meet him at Thoulouse at the appointed +time. +</p> + +<p> +When Count de Villefort, with Blanche, came to the convent to give Emily the +advice of the advocate, he was informed of the contents of M. Quesnel’s +letter, and gave her his sincere congratulations, on the occasion; but she +observed, that, when the first expression of satisfaction had faded from his +countenance, an unusual gravity succeeded, and she scarcely hesitated to +enquire its cause. +</p> + +<p> +“It has no new occasion,” replied the Count; “I am harassed +and perplexed by the confusion, into which my family is thrown by their foolish +superstition. Idle reports are floating round me, which I can neither admit to +be true, nor prove to be false; and I am, also, very anxious about the poor +fellow, Ludovico, concerning whom I have not been able to obtain information. +Every part of the château and every part of the neighbourhood, too, has, I +believe, been searched, and I know not what further can be done, since I have +already offered large rewards for the discovery of him. The keys of the north +apartment I have not suffered to be out of my possession, since he disappeared, +and I mean to watch in those chambers, myself, this very night.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, seriously alarmed for the Count, united her entreaties with those of the +Lady Blanche, to dissuade him from his purpose. +</p> + +<p> +“What should I fear?” said he. “I have no faith in +supernatural combats, and for human opposition I shall be prepared; nay, I will +even promise not to watch alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“But who, dear sir, will have courage enough to watch with you?” +said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“My son,” replied the Count. “If I am not carried off in the +night,” added he, smiling, “you shall hear the result of my +adventure, tomorrow.” +</p> + +<p> +The Count and Lady Blanche, shortly afterwards, took leave of Emily, and +returned to the château, where he informed Henri of his intention, who, not +without some secret reluctance, consented to be the partner of his watch; and, +when the design was mentioned after supper, the Countess was terrified, and the +Baron, and M. Du Pont joined with her in entreating, that he would not tempt +his fate, as Ludovico had done. “We know not,” added the Baron, +“the nature, or the power of an evil spirit; and that such a spirit +haunts those chambers can now, I think, scarcely be doubted. Beware, my lord, +how you provoke its vengeance, since it has already given us one terrible +example of its malice. I allow it may be probable, that the spirits of the dead +are permitted to return to the earth only on occasions of high import; but the +present import may be your destruction.” +</p> + +<p> +The Count could not forbear smiling; “Do you think then, Baron,” +said he, “that my destruction is of sufficient importance to draw back to +earth the soul of the departed? Alas! my good friend, there is no occasion for +such means to accomplish the destruction of any individual. Wherever the +mystery rests, I trust I shall, this night, be able to detect it. You know I am +not superstitious.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that you are incredulous,” interrupted the Baron. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, call it what you will, I mean to say, that, though you know I am +free from superstition—if anything supernatural has appeared, I doubt +not it will appear to me, and if any strange event hangs over my house, or if +any extraordinary transaction has formerly been connected with it, I shall +probably be made acquainted with it. At all events I will invite discovery; +and, that I may be equal to a mortal attack, which in good truth, my friend, is +what I most expect, I shall take care to be well armed.” +</p> + +<p> +The Count took leave of his family, for the night, with an assumed gaiety, +which but ill concealed the anxiety, that depressed his spirits, and retired to +the north apartments, accompanied by his son and followed by the Baron, M. Du +Pont and some of the domestics, who all bade him good night at the outer door. +In these chambers everything appeared as when he had last been here; even in +the bedroom no alteration was visible, where he lighted his own fire, for none +of the domestics could be prevailed upon to venture thither. After carefully +examining the chamber and the oriel, the Count and Henri drew their chairs upon +the hearth, set a bottle of wine and a lamp before them, laid their swords upon +the table, and, stirring the wood into a blaze, began to converse on +indifferent topics. But Henri was often silent and abstracted, and sometimes +threw a glance of mingled awe and curiosity round the gloomy apartment; while +the Count gradually ceased to converse, and sat either lost in thought, or +reading a volume of Tacitus, which he had brought to beguile the tediousness of +the night. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap47"></a> CHAPTER IX </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Give thy thoughts no tongue.<br/> + SHAKESPEARE +</p> + +<p> +The Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for his friend had kept awake, rose early to +enquire the event of the night, when, as he passed the Count’s closet, +hearing steps within, he knocked at the door, and it was opened by his friend +himself. Rejoicing to see him in safety, and curious to learn the occurrences +of the night, he had not immediately leisure to observe the unusual gravity, +that overspread the features of the Count, whose reserved answers first +occasioned him to notice it. The Count, then smiling, endeavoured to treat the +subject of his curiosity with levity, but the Baron was serious, and pursued +his enquiries so closely, that the Count, at length, resuming his gravity, +said, “Well, my friend, press the subject no further, I entreat you; and +let me request also, that you will hereafter be silent upon anything you may +think extraordinary in my future conduct. I do not scruple to tell you, that I +am unhappy, and that the watch of the last night has not assisted me to +discover Ludovico; upon every occurrence of the night you must excuse my +reserve.” +</p> + +<p> +“But where is Henri?” said the Baron, with surprise and +disappointment at this denial. +</p> + +<p> +“He is well in his own apartment,” replied the Count. “You +will not question him on this topic, my friend, since you know my wish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not,” said the Baron, somewhat chagrined, “since +it would be displeasing to you; but methinks, my friend, you might rely on my +discretion, and drop this unusual reserve. However, you must allow me to +suspect, that you have seen reason to become a convert to my system, and are no +longer the incredulous knight you lately appeared to be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us talk no more upon this subject,” said the Count; “you +may be assured, that no ordinary circumstance has imposed this silence upon me +towards a friend, whom I have called so for near thirty years; and my present +reserve cannot make you question either my esteem, or the sincerity of my +friendship.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not doubt either,” said the Baron, “though you must +allow me to express my surprise, at this silence.” +</p> + +<p> +“To me I will allow it,” replied the Count, “but I earnestly +entreat that you will forbear to notice it to my family, as well as everything +remarkable you may observe in my conduct towards them.” +</p> + +<p> +The Baron readily promised this, and, after conversing for some time on general +topics, they descended to the breakfast-room, where the Count met his family +with a cheerful countenance, and evaded their enquiries by employing light +ridicule, and assuming an air of uncommon gaiety, while he assured them, that +they need not apprehend any evil from the north chambers, since Henri and +himself had been permitted to return from them in safety. +</p> + +<p> +Henri, however, was less successful in disguising his feelings. From his +countenance an expression of terror was not entirely faded; he was often silent +and thoughtful, and when he attempted to laugh at the eager enquiries of +Mademoiselle Bearn, it was evidently only an attempt. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, the Count called, as he had promised, at the convent, and Emily +was surprised to perceive a mixture of playful ridicule and of reserve in his +mention of the north apartment. Of what had occurred there, however, he said +nothing, and, when she ventured to remind him of his promise to tell her the +result of his enquiries, and to ask if he had received any proof, that those +chambers were haunted, his look became solemn, for a moment, then, seeming to +recollect himself, he smiled, and said, “My dear Emily, do not suffer my +lady abbess to infect your good understanding with these fancies; she will +teach you to expect a ghost in every dark room. But believe me,” added +he, with a profound sigh, “the apparition of the dead comes not on light, +or sportive errands, to terrify, or to surprise the timid.” He paused, +and fell into a momentary thoughtfulness, and then added, “We will say no +more on this subject.” +</p> + +<p> +Soon after, he took leave, and, when Emily joined some of the nuns, she was +surprised to find them acquainted with a circumstance, which she had carefully +avoided to mention, and expressing their admiration of his intrepidity in +having dared to pass a night in the apartment, whence Ludovico had disappeared; +for she had not considered with what rapidity a tale of wonder circulates. The +nuns had acquired their information from peasants, who brought fruit to the +monastery, and whose whole attention had been fixed, since the disappearance of +Ludovico, on what was passing in the castle. +</p> + +<p> +Emily listened in silence to the various opinions of the nuns, concerning the +conduct of the Count, most of whom condemned it as rash and presumptuous, +affirming, that it was provoking the vengeance of an evil spirit, thus to +intrude upon its haunts. +</p> + +<p> +Sister Frances contended, that the Count had acted with the bravery of a +virtuous mind. He knew himself guiltless of aught, that should provoke a good +spirit, and did not fear the spells of an evil one, since he could claim the +protection of a higher Power, of Him, who can command the wicked, and will +protect the innocent. +</p> + +<p> +“The guilty cannot claim that protection!” said sister Agnes, +“let the Count look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim! Yet +who is he, that shall dare to call himself innocent!—all earthly +innocence is but comparative. Yet still how wide asunder are the extremes of +guilt, and to what a horrible depth may we fall! Oh!—” +</p> + +<p> +The nun, as she concluded, uttered a shuddering sigh, that startled Emily, who, +looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixed on hers, after which the sister +rose, took her hand, gazed earnestly upon her countenance, for some moments, in +silence, and then said, +</p> + +<p> +“You are young—you are innocent! I mean you are yet innocent of any +great crime!—But you have passions in your heart,—scorpions; they +sleep now—beware how you awaken them!—they will sting you, even +unto death!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, affected by these words and by the solemnity, with which they were +delivered, could not suppress her tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! is it so?” exclaimed Agnes, her countenance softening from its +sternness—“so young, and so unfortunate! We are sisters, then +indeed. Yet, there is no bond of kindness among the guilty,” she added, +while her eyes resumed their wild expression, “no gentleness,—no +peace, no hope! I knew them all once—my eyes could weep—but now +they burn, for now, my soul is fixed, and fearless!—I lament no +more!” +</p> + +<p> +“Rather let us repent, and pray,” said another nun. “We are +taught to hope, that prayer and penitence will work our salvation. There is +hope for all who repent!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who repent and turn to the true faith,” observed sister Frances. +</p> + +<p> +“For all but me!” replied Agnes solemnly, who paused, and then +abruptly added, “My head burns, I believe I am not well. O! could I +strike from my memory all former scenes—the figures, that rise up, like +furies, to torment me!—I see them, when I sleep, and, when I am awake, +they are still before my eyes! I see them now—now!” +</p> + +<p> +She stood in a fixed attitude of horror, her straining eyes moving slowly round +the room, as if they followed something. One of the nuns gently took her hand, +to lead her from the parlour. Agnes became calm, drew her other hand across her +eyes, looked again, and, sighing deeply, said, “They are gone—they +are gone! I am feverish, I know not what I say. I am thus, sometimes, but it +will go off again, I shall soon be better. Was not that the vesper-bell?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Frances, “the evening service is passed. Let +Margaret lead you to your cell.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right,” replied sister Agnes, “I shall be better +there. Good night, my sisters, remember me in your orisons.” +</p> + +<p> +When they had withdrawn, Frances, observing Emily’s emotion, said, +“Do not be alarmed, our sister is often thus deranged, though I have not +lately seen her so frantic; her usual mood is melancholy. This fit has been +coming on, for several days; seclusion and the customary treatment will restore +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how rationally she conversed, at first!” observed Emily, +“her ideas followed each other in perfect order.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied the nun, “this is nothing new; nay, I have +sometimes known her argue not only with method, but with acuteness, and then, +in a moment, start off into madness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Her conscience seems afflicted,” said Emily, “did you ever +hear what circumstance reduced her to this deplorable condition?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have,” replied the nun, who said no more till Emily repeated the +question, when she added in a low voice, and looking significantly towards the +other boarders, “I cannot tell you now, but, if you think it worth your +while, come to my cell, tonight, when our sisterhood are at rest, and you +shall hear more; but remember we rise to midnight prayers, and come either +before, or after midnight.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily promised to remember, and, the abbess soon after appearing, they spoke no +more of the unhappy nun. +</p> + +<p> +The Count meanwhile, on his return home, had found M. Du Pont in one of those +fits of despondency, which his attachment to Emily frequently occasioned him, +an attachment, that had subsisted too long to be easily subdued, and which had +already outlived the opposition of his friends. M. Du Pont had first seen Emily +in Gascony, during the lifetime of his parent, who, on discovering his +son’s partiality for Mademoiselle St. Aubert, his inferior in point of +fortune, forbade him to declare it to her family, or to think of her more. +During the life of his father, he had observed the first command, but had found +it impracticable to obey the second, and had, sometimes, soothed his passion by +visiting her favourite haunts, among which was the fishing-house, where, once +or twice, he addressed her in verse, concealing his name, in obedience to the +promise he had given his father. There too he played the pathetic air, to which +she had listened with such surprise and admiration; and there he found the +miniature, that had since cherished a passion fatal to his repose. During his +expedition into Italy, his father died; but he received his liberty at a +moment, when he was the least enabled to profit by it, since the object, that +rendered it most valuable, was no longer within the reach of his vows. By what +accident he discovered Emily, and assisted to release her from a terrible +imprisonment, has already appeared, and also the unavailing hope, with which he +then encouraged his love, and the fruitless efforts, that he had since made to +overcome it. +</p> + +<p> +The Count still endeavoured, with friendly zeal, to sooth him with a belief, +that patience, perseverance and prudence would finally obtain for him happiness +and Emily: “Time,” said he, “will wear away the melancholy +impression, which disappointment has left on her mind, and she will be sensible +of your merit. Your services have already awakened her gratitude, and your +sufferings her pity; and trust me, my friend, in a heart so sensible as hers, +gratitude and pity lead to love. When her imagination is rescued from its +present delusion, she will readily accept the homage of a mind like +yours.” +</p> + +<p> +Du Pont sighed, while he listened to these words; and, endeavouring to hope +what his friend believed, he willingly yielded to an invitation to prolong his +visit at the château, which we now leave for the monastery of St. Claire. +</p> + +<p> +When the nuns had retired to rest, Emily stole to her appointment with sister +Frances, whom she found in her cell, engaged in prayer, before a little table, +where appeared the image she was addressing, and, above, the dim lamp that gave +light to the place. Turning her eyes, as the door opened, she beckoned to Emily +to come in, who, having done so, seated herself in silence beside the +nun’s little mattress of straw, till her orisons should conclude. The +latter soon rose from her knees, and, taking down the lamp and placing it on +the table, Emily perceived there a human skull and bones, lying beside an +hour-glass; but the nun, without observing her emotion, sat down on the +mattress by her, saying, “Your curiosity, sister, has made you punctual, +but you have nothing remarkable to hear in the history of poor Agnes, of whom I +avoided to speak in the presence of my lay-sisters, only because I would not +publish her crime to them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall consider your confidence in me as a favour,” said Emily, +“and will not misuse it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sister Agnes,” resumed the nun, “is of a noble family, as +the dignity of her air must already have informed you, but I will not dishonour +their name so much as to reveal it. Love was the occasion of her crime and of +her madness. She was beloved by a gentleman of inferior fortune, and her +father, as I have heard, bestowing her on a nobleman, whom she disliked, an +ill-governed passion proved her destruction.—Every obligation of virtue +and of duty was forgotten, and she prophaned her marriage vows; but her guilt +was soon detected, and she would have fallen a sacrifice to the vengeance of +her husband, had not her father contrived to convey her from his power. By what +means he did this, I never could learn; but he secreted her in this convent, +where he afterwards prevailed with her to take the veil, while a report was +circulated in the world, that she was dead, and the father, to save his +daughter, assisted the rumour, and employed such means as induced her husband +to believe she had become a victim to his jealousy. You look surprised,” +added the nun, observing Emily’s countenance; “I allow the story is +uncommon, but not, I believe, without a parallel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray proceed,” said Emily, “I am interested.” +</p> + +<p> +“The story is already told,” resumed the nun, “I have only to +mention, that the long struggle, which Agnes suffered, between love, remorse +and a sense of the duties she had taken upon herself in becoming of our order, +at length unsettled her reason. At first, she was frantic and melancholy by +quick alternatives; then, she sunk into a deep and settled melancholy, which +still, however, has, at times, been interrupted by fits of wildness, and, of +late, these have again been frequent.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was affected by the history of the sister, some parts of whose story +brought to her remembrance that of the Marchioness de Villeroi, who had also +been compelled by her father to forsake the object of her affections, for a +nobleman of his choice; but, from what Dorothée had related, there appeared no +reason to suppose, that she had escaped the vengeance of a jealous husband, or +to doubt for a moment the innocence of her conduct. But Emily, while she sighed +over the misery of the nun, could not forbear shedding a few tears to the +misfortunes of the Marchioness; and, when she returned to the mention of sister +Agnes, she asked Frances if she remembered her in her youth, and whether she +was then beautiful. +</p> + +<p> +“I was not here at the time, when she took the vows,” replied +Frances, “which is so long ago, that few of the present sisterhood, I +believe, were witnesses of the ceremony; nay, ever our lady mother did not then +preside over the convent: but I can remember, when sister Agnes was a very +beautiful woman. She retains that air of high rank, which always distinguished +her, but her beauty, you must perceive, is fled; I can scarcely discover even a +vestige of the loveliness, that once animated her features.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is strange,” said Emily, “but there are moments, when her +countenance has appeared familiar to my memory! You will think me fanciful, and +I think myself so, for I certainly never saw sister Agnes, before I came to +this convent, and I must, therefore, have seen some person, whom she strongly +resembles, though of this I have no recollection.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have been interested by the deep melancholy of her +countenance,” said Frances, “and its impression has probably +deluded your imagination; for I might as reasonably think I perceive a likeness +between you and Agnes, as you, that you have seen her anywhere but in this +convent, since this has been her place of refuge, for nearly as many years as +make your age.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” rejoined Frances, “and why does that circumstance +excite your surprise?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily did not appear to notice this question, but remained thoughtful, for a +few moments, and then said, “It was about that same period that the +Marchioness de Villeroi expired.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is an odd remark,” said Frances. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, recalled from her reverie, smiled, and gave the conversation another +turn, but it soon came back to the subject of the unhappy nun, and Emily +remained in the cell of sister Frances, till the midnight bell aroused her; +when, apologising for having interrupted the sister’s repose, till this +late hour, they quitted the cell together. Emily returned to her chamber, and +the nun, bearing a glimmering taper, went to her devotion in the chapel. +</p> + +<p> +Several days followed, during which Emily saw neither the Count, nor any of his +family; and, when, at length, he appeared, she remarked, with concern, that his +air was unusually disturbed. +</p> + +<p> +“My spirits are harassed,” said he, in answer to her anxious +enquiries, “and I mean to change my residence, for a little while, an +experiment, which, I hope, will restore my mind to its usual tranquillity. My +daughter and myself will accompany the Baron St. Foix to his château. It lies +in a valley of the Pyrenees, that opens towards Gascony, and I have been +thinking, Emily, that, when you set out for La Vallée, we may go part of the +way together; it would be a satisfaction to me to guard you towards your +home.” +</p> + +<p> +She thanked the Count for his friendly consideration, and lamented, that the +necessity for her going first to Thoulouse would render this plan impracticable. +“But, when you are at the Baron’s residence,” she added, +“you will be only a short journey from La Vallée, and I think, sir, you +will not leave the country without visiting me; it is unnecessary to say with +what pleasure I should receive you and the Lady Blanche.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not doubt it,” replied the Count, “and I will not deny +myself and Blanche the pleasure of visiting you, if your affairs should allow +you to be at La Vallée, about the time when we can meet you there.” +</p> + +<p> +When Emily said that she should hope to see the Countess also, she was not +sorry to learn that this lady was going, accompanied by Mademoiselle Bearn, to +pay a visit, for a few weeks, to a family in lower Languedoc. +</p> + +<p> +The Count, after some further conversation on his intended journey and on the +arrangement of Emily’s, took leave; and many days did not succeed this +visit, before a second letter from M. Quesnel informed her, that he was then at +Thoulouse, that La Vallée was at liberty, and that he wished her to set off for +the former place, where he awaited her arrival, with all possible dispatch, +since his own affairs pressed him to return to Gascony. Emily did not hesitate +to obey him, and, having taken an affecting leave of the Count’s family, +in which M. Du Pont was still included, and of her friends at the convent, she +set out for Thoulouse, attended by the unhappy Annette, and guarded by a steady +servant of the Count. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap48"></a> CHAPTER X </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Lull’d in the countless chambers of the brain,<br/> +Our thoughts are link’d by many a hidden chain:<br/> +Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise!<br/> +Each stamps its image as the other flies!<br/> + PLEASURES OF MEMORY +</p> + +<p> +Emily pursued her journey, without any accident, along the plains of Languedoc +towards the north-west; and, on this her return to Thoulouse, which she had last +left with Madame Montoni, she thought much on the melancholy fate of her aunt, +who, but for her own imprudence, might now have been living in happiness there! +Montoni, too, often rose to her fancy, such as she had seen him in his days of +triumph, bold, spirited and commanding; such also as she had since beheld him +in his days of vengeance; and now, only a few short months had passed—and +he had no longer the power, or the will to afflict;—he had become a clod +of earth, and his life was vanished like a shadow! Emily could have wept at his +fate, had she not remembered his crimes; for that of her unfortunate aunt she +did weep, and all sense of her errors was overcome by the recollection of her +misfortunes. +</p> + +<p> +Other thoughts and other emotions succeeded, as Emily drew near the well-known +scenes of her early love, and considered, that Valancourt was lost to her and +to himself, for ever. At length, she came to the brow of the hill, whence, on +her departure for Italy, she had given a farewell look to this beloved +landscape, amongst whose woods and fields she had so often walked with +Valancourt, and where he was then to inhabit, when she would be far, far away! +She saw, once more, that chain of the Pyrenees, which overlooked La Vallée, +rising, like faint clouds, on the horizon. “There, too, is Gascony, +extended at their feet!” said she, “O my father,—my mother! +And there, too, is the Garonne!” she added, drying the tears, that +obscured her sight,—“and Thoulouse, and my aunt’s +mansion—and the groves in her garden!—O my friends! are ye all lost +to me—must I never, never see ye more!” Tears rushed again to her +eyes, and she continued to weep, till an abrupt turn in the road had nearly +occasioned the carriage to overset, when, looking up, she perceived another +part of the well-known scene around Thoulouse, and all the reflections and +anticipations, which she had suffered, at the moment, when she bade it last +adieu, came with recollected force to her heart. She remembered how anxiously +she had looked forward to the futurity, which was to decide her happiness +concerning Valancourt, and what depressing fears had assailed her; the very +words she had uttered, as she withdrew her last look from the prospect, came to +her memory. “Could I but be certain,” she had then said, +“that I should ever return, and that Valancourt would still live for +me—I should go in peace!” +</p> + +<p> +Now, that futurity, so anxiously anticipated, was arrived, she was +returned—but what a dreary blank appeared!—Valancourt no longer +lived for her! She had no longer even the melancholy satisfaction of +contemplating his image in her heart, for he was no longer the same Valancourt +she had cherished there—the solace of many a mournful hour, the animating +friend, that had enabled her to bear up against the oppression of +Montoni—the distant hope, that had beamed over her gloomy prospect! On +perceiving this beloved idea to be an illusion of her own creation, Valancourt +seemed to be annihilated, and her soul sickened at the blank, that remained. +His marriage with a rival, even his death, she thought she could have endured +with more fortitude, than this discovery; for then, amidst all her grief, she +could have looked in secret upon the image of goodness, which her fancy had +drawn of him, and comfort would have mingled with her suffering! +</p> + +<p> +Drying her tears, she looked, once more, upon the landscape, which had excited +them, and perceived, that she was passing the very bank, where she had taken +leave of Valancourt, on the morning of her departure from Thoulouse, and she now +saw him, through her returning tears, such as he had appeared, when she looked +from the carriage to give him a last adieu—saw him leaning mournfully +against the high trees, and remembered the fixed look of mingled tenderness and +anguish, with which he had then regarded her. This recollection was too much +for her heart, and she sunk back in the carriage, nor once looked up, till it +stopped at the gates of what was now her own mansion. +</p> + +<p> +These being opened, and by the servant, to whose care the château had been +entrusted, the carriage drove into the court, where, alighting, she hastily +passed through the great hall, now silent and solitary, to a large oak parlour, +the common sitting room of the late Madame Montoni, where, instead of being +received by M. Quesnel, she found a letter from him, informing her that +business of consequence had obliged him to leave Thoulouse two days before. +Emily was, upon the whole, not sorry to be spared his presence, since his +abrupt departure appeared to indicate the same indifference, with which he had +formerly regarded her. This letter informed her, also, of the progress he had +made in the settlement of her affairs, and concluded with directions, +concerning the forms of some business, which remained for her to transact. But +M. Quesnel’s unkindness did not long occupy her thoughts, which returned +the remembrance of the persons she had been accustomed to see in this mansion, +and chiefly of the ill-guided and unfortunate Madame Montoni. In the room, +where she now sat, she had breakfasted with her on the morning of their +departure for Italy; and the view of it brought most forcibly to her +recollection all she had herself suffered, at that time, and the many gay +expectations, which her aunt had formed, respecting the journey before her. +While Emily’s mind was thus engaged, her eyes wandered unconsciously to a +large window, that looked upon the garden, and here new memorials of the past +spoke to her heart, for she saw extended before her the very avenue, in which +she had parted with Valancourt, on the eve of her journey; and all the anxiety, +the tender interest he had shown, concerning her future happiness, his earnest +remonstrances against her committing herself to the power of Montoni, and the +truth of his affection, came afresh to her memory. At this moment, it appeared +almost impossible, that Valancourt could have become unworthy of her regard, +and she doubted all that she had lately heard to his disadvantage, and even his +own words, which had confirmed Count De Villefort’s report of him. +Overcome by the recollections, which the view of this avenue occasioned, she +turned abruptly from the window, and sunk into a chair beside it, where she +sat, given up to grief, till the entrance of Annette, with coffee, aroused her. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear madam, how melancholy this place looks now,” said Annette, +“to what it used to do! It is dismal coming home, when there is nobody to +welcome one!” +</p> + +<p> +This was not the moment, in which Emily could bear the remark; her tears fell +again, and, as soon as she had taken the coffee, she retired to her apartment, +where she endeavoured to repose her fatigued spirits. But busy memory would +still supply her with the visions of former times: she saw Valancourt +interesting and benevolent, as he had been wont to appear in the days of their +early love, and, amidst the scenes, where she had believed that they should +sometimes pass their years together!—but, at length, sleep closed these +afflicting scenes from her view. +</p> + +<p> +On the following morning, serious occupation recovered her from such melancholy +reflections; for, being desirous of quitting Thoulouse, and of hastening on to +La Vallée, she made some enquiries into the condition of the estate, and +immediately dispatched a part of the necessary business concerning it, +according to the directions of Mons. Quesnel. It required a strong effort to +abstract her thoughts from other interests sufficiently to attend to this, but +she was rewarded for her exertions by again experiencing, that employment is +the surest antidote to sorrow. +</p> + +<p> +This day was devoted entirely to business; and, among other concerns, she +employed means to learn the situation of all her poor tenants, that she might +relieve their wants, or confirm their comforts. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, her spirits were so much strengthened, that she thought she +could bear to visit the gardens, where she had so often walked with Valancourt; +and, knowing, that, if she delayed to do so, their scenes would only affect her +the more, whenever they should be viewed, she took advantage of the present +state of her mind, and entered them. +</p> + +<p> +Passing hastily the gate leading from the court into the gardens, she hurried +up the great avenue, scarcely permitting her memory to dwell for a moment on +the circumstance of her having here parted with Valancourt, and soon quitted +this for other walks less interesting to her heart. These brought her, at +length, to the flight of steps, that led from the lower garden to the terrace, +on seeing which, she became agitated, and hesitated whether to ascend, but, her +resolution returning, she proceeded. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Emily, as she ascended, “these are the same high +trees, that used to wave over the terrace, and these the same flowery +thickets—the liburnum, the wild rose, and the cerinthe—which were +wont to grow beneath them! Ah! and there, too, on that bank, are the very +plants, which Valancourt so carefully reared!—O, when last I saw +them!”—she checked the thought, but could not restrain her tears, +and, after walking slowly on for a few moments, her agitation, upon the view of +this well-known scene, increased so much, that she was obliged to stop, and +lean upon the wall of the terrace. It was a mild, and beautiful evening. The +sun was setting over the extensive landscape, to which his beams, sloping from +beneath a dark cloud, that overhung the west, gave rich and partial colouring, +and touched the tufted summits of the groves, that rose from the garden below, +with a yellow gleam. Emily and Valancourt had often admired together this +scene, at the same hour; and it was exactly on this spot, that, on the night +preceding her departure for Italy, she had listened to his remonstrances +against the journey, and to the pleadings of passionate affection. Some +observations, which she made on the landscape, brought this to her remembrance, +and with it all the minute particulars of that conversation;—the alarming +doubts he had expressed concerning Montoni, doubts, which had since been +fatally confirmed; the reasons and entreaties he had employed to prevail with +her to consent to an immediate marriage; the tenderness of his love, the +paroxysms of this grief, and the conviction that he had repeatedly expressed, +that they should never meet again in happiness! All these circumstances rose +afresh to her mind, and awakened the various emotions she had then suffered. +Her tenderness for Valancourt became as powerful as in the moments, when she +thought, that she was parting with him and happiness together, and when the +strength of her mind had enabled her to triumph over present suffering, rather +than to deserve the reproach of her conscience by engaging in a clandestine +marriage.—“Alas!” said Emily, as these recollections came to +her mind, “and what have I gained by the fortitude I then +practised?—am I happy now?—He said, we should meet no more in +happiness; but, O! he little thought his own misconduct would separate us, and +lead to the very evil he then dreaded!” +</p> + +<p> +Her reflections increased her anguish, while she was compelled to acknowledge, +that the fortitude she had formerly exerted, if it had not conducted her to +happiness, had saved her from irretrievable misfortune—from Valancourt +himself! But in these moments she could not congratulate herself on the +prudence, that had saved her; she could only lament, with bitterest anguish, +the circumstances, which had conspired to betray Valancourt into a course of +life so different from that, which the virtues, the tastes, and the pursuits of +his early years had promised; but she still loved him too well to believe, that +his heart was even now depraved, though his conduct had been criminal. An +observation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubert more than once, now occurred +to her. “This young man,” said he, speaking of Valancourt, +“has never been at Paris;” a remark, that had surprised her at the +time it was uttered, but which she now understood, and she exclaimed +sorrowfully, “O Valancourt! if such a friend as my father had been with +you at Paris—your noble, ingenuous nature would not have fallen!” +</p> + +<p> +The sun was now set, and, recalling her thoughts from their melancholy subject, +she continued her walk; for the pensive shade of twilight was pleasing to her, +and the nightingales from the surrounding groves began to answer each other in +the long-drawn, plaintive note, which always touched her heart; while all the +fragrance of the flowery thickets, that bounded the terrace, was awakened by +the cool evening air, which floated so lightly among their leaves, that they +scarcely trembled as it passed. +</p> + +<p> +Emily came, at length, to the steps of the pavilion, that terminated the +terrace, and where her last interview with Valancourt, before her departure +from Thoulouse, had so unexpectedly taken place. The door was now shut, and she +trembled, while she hesitated whether to open it; but her wish to see again a +place, which had been the chief scene of her former happiness, at length +overcoming her reluctance to encounter the painful regret it would renew, she +entered. The room was obscured by a melancholy shade; but through the open +lattices, darkened by the hanging foliage of the vines, appeared the dusky +landscape, the Garonne reflecting the evening light, and the west still +glowing. A chair was placed near one of the balconies, as if some person had +been sitting there, but the other furniture of the pavilion remained exactly as +usual, and Emily thought it looked as if it had not once been moved since she +set out for Italy. The silent and deserted air of the place added solemnity to +her emotions, for she heard only the low whisper of the breeze, as it shook the +leaves of the vines, and the very faint murmur of the Garonne. +</p> + +<p> +She seated herself in a chair, near the lattice, and yielded to the sadness of +her heart, while she recollected the circumstances of her parting interview +with Valancourt, on this spot. It was here too, that she had passed some of the +happiest hours of her life with him, when her aunt favoured the connection, for +here she had often sat and worked, while he conversed, or read; and she now +well remembered with what discriminating judgment, with what tempered energy, +he used to repeat some of the sublimest passages of their favourite authors; +how often he would pause to admire with her their excellence, and with what +tender delight he would listen to her remarks, and correct her taste. +</p> + +<p> +“And is it possible,” said Emily, as these recollections +returned—“is it possible, that a mind, so susceptible of whatever +is grand and beautiful, could stoop to low pursuits, and be subdued by +frivolous temptations?” +</p> + +<p> +She remembered how often she had seen the sudden tear start in his eye, and had +heard his voice tremble with emotion, while he related any great or benevolent +action, or repeated a sentiment of the same character. “And such a +mind,” said she, “such a heart, were to be sacrificed to the habits +of a great city!” +</p> + +<p> +These recollections becoming too painful to be endured, she abruptly left the +pavilion, and, anxious to escape from the memorials of her departed happiness, +returned towards the château. As she passed along the terrace, she perceived a +person, walking, with a slow step, and a dejected air, under the trees, at some +distance. The twilight, which was now deep, would not allow her to distinguish +who it was, and she imagined it to be one of the servants, till, the sound of +her steps seeming to reach him, he turned half round, and she thought she saw +Valancourt! +</p> + +<p> +Whoever it was, he instantly struck among the thickets on the left, and +disappeared, while Emily, her eyes fixed on the place, whence he had vanished, +and her frame trembling so excessively, that she could scarcely support +herself, remained, for some moments, unable to quit the spot, and scarcely +conscious of existence. With her recollection, her strength returned, and she +hurried toward the house, where she did not venture to enquire who had been in +the gardens, lest she should betray her emotion; and she sat down alone, +endeavouring to recollect the figure, air and features of the person she had +just seen. Her view of him, however, had been so transient, and the gloom had +rendered it so imperfect, that she could remember nothing with exactness; yet +the general appearance of his figure, and his abrupt departure, made her still +believe, that this person was Valancourt. Sometimes, indeed, she thought, that +her fancy, which had been occupied by the idea of him, had suggested his image +to her uncertain sight: but this conjecture was fleeting. If it was himself +whom she had seen, she wondered much, that he should be at Thoulouse, and more, +how he had gained admittance into the garden; but as often as her impatience +prompted her to enquire whether any stranger had been admitted, she was +restrained by an unwillingness to betray her doubts; and the evening was passed +in anxious conjecture, and in efforts to dismiss the subject from her thoughts. +But, these endeavours were ineffectual, and a thousand inconsistent emotions +assailed her, whenever she fancied that Valancourt might be near her; now, she +dreaded it to be true, and now she feared it to be false; and, while she +constantly tried to persuade herself, that she wished the person, whom she had +seen, might not be Valancourt, her heart as constantly contradicted her reason. +</p> + +<p> +The following day was occupied by the visits of several neighbouring families, +formerly intimate with Madame Montoni, who came to condole with Emily on her +death, to congratulate her upon the acquisition of these estates, and to +enquire about Montoni, and concerning the strange reports they had heard of her +own situation; all which was done with the utmost decorum, and the visitors +departed with as much composure as they had arrived. +</p> + +<p> +Emily was wearied by these formalities, and disgusted by the subservient +manners of many persons, who had thought her scarcely worthy of common +attention, while she was believed to be a dependant on Madame Montoni. +</p> + +<p> +“Surely,” said she, “there is some magic in wealth, which can +thus make persons pay their court to it, when it does not even benefit +themselves. How strange it is, that a fool or a knave, with riches, should be +treated with more respect by the world, than a good man, or a wise man in +poverty!” +</p> + +<p> +It was evening, before she was left alone, and she then wished to have +refreshed her spirits in the free air of her garden; but she feared to go +thither, lest she should meet again the person, whom she had seen on the +preceding night, and he should prove to be Valancourt. The suspense and anxiety +she suffered, on this subject, she found all her efforts unable to control, +and her secret wish to see Valancourt once more, though unseen by him, +powerfully prompted her to go, but prudence and a delicate pride restrained +her, and she determined to avoid the possibility of throwing herself in his +way, by forbearing to visit the gardens, for several days. +</p> + +<p> +When, after near a week, she again ventured thither, she made Annette her +companion, and confined her walk to the lower grounds, but often started as the +leaves rustled in the breeze, imagining, that some person was among the +thickets; and, at the turn of every alley, she looked forward with apprehensive +expectation. She pursued her walk thoughtfully and silently, for her agitation +would not suffer her to converse with Annette, to whom, however, thought and +silence were so intolerable, that she did not scruple at length to talk to her +mistress. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear madam,” said she, “why do you start so? one would think +you knew what has happened.” +</p> + +<p> +“What has happened?” said Emily, in a faltering voice, and trying +to command her emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“The night before last, you know, madam—” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing, Annette,” replied her lady in a more hurried +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“The night before last, madam, there was a robber in the garden.” +</p> + +<p> +“A robber!” said Emily, in an eager, yet doubting tone. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose he was a robber, madam. What else could he be?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you see him, Annette?” rejoined Emily, looking round +her, and turning back towards the château. +</p> + +<p> +“It was not I that saw him, madam, it was Jean the gardener. It was +twelve o’clock at night, and, as he was coming across the court to go the +back way into the house, what should he see—but somebody walking in the +avenue, that fronts the garden gate! So, with that, Jean guessed how it was, +and he went into the house for his gun.” +</p> + +<p> +“His gun!” exclaimed Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, madam, his gun; and then he came out into the court to watch him. +Presently, he sees him come slowly down the avenue, and lean over the garden +gate, and look up at the house for a long time; and I warrant he examined it +well, and settled what window he should break in at.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the gun,” said Emily—“the gun!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, madam, all in good time. Presently, Jean says, the robber opened +the gate, and was coming into the court, and then he thought proper to ask him +his business: so he called out again, and bade him say who he was, and what he +wanted. But the man would do neither; but turned upon his heel, and passed into +the garden again. Jean knew then well enough how it was, and so he fired after +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fired!” exclaimed Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, madam, fired off his gun; but, Holy Virgin! what makes you look so +pale, madam? The man was not killed,—I dare say; but if he was, his +comrades carried him off: for, when Jean went in the morning, to look for the +body, it was gone, and nothing to be seen but a track of blood on the ground. +Jean followed it, that he might find out where the man got into the garden, but +it was lost in the grass, and—” +</p> + +<p> +Annette was interrupted: for Emily’s spirits died away, and she would +have fallen to the ground, if the girl had not caught her, and supported her to +a bench, close to them. +</p> + +<p> +When, after a long absence, her senses returned, Emily desired to be led to her +apartment; and, though she trembled with anxiety to enquire further on the +subject of her alarm, she found herself too ill at present, to dare the +intelligence which it was possible she might receive of Valancourt. Having +dismissed Annette, that she might weep and think at liberty, she endeavoured to +recollect the exact air of the person, whom she had seen on the terrace, and +still her fancy gave her the figure of Valancourt. She had, indeed, scarcely a +doubt, that it was he whom she had seen, and at whom the gardener had fired: +for the manner of the latter person, as described by Annette, was not that of a +robber; nor did it appear probable, that a robber would have come alone, to +break into a house so spacious as this. +</p> + +<p> +When Emily thought herself sufficiently recovered, to listen to what Jean might +have to relate, she sent for him; but he could inform her of no circumstance, +that might lead to a knowledge of the person, who had been shot, or of the +consequence of the wound; and, after severely reprimanding him, for having +fired with bullets, and ordering diligent enquiry to be made in the +neighbourhood for the discovery of the wounded person, she dismissed him, and +herself remained in the same state of terrible suspense. All the tenderness she +had ever felt for Valancourt, was recalled by the sense of his danger; and the +more she considered the subject, the more her conviction strengthened, that it +was he, who had visited the gardens, for the purpose of soothing the misery of +disappointed affection, amidst the scenes of his former happiness. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear madam,” said Annette, when she returned, “I never saw +you so affected before! I dare say the man is not killed.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily shuddered, and lamented bitterly the rashness of the gardener in having +fired. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew you would be angry enough about that, madam, or I should have +told you before; and he knew so too; for, says he, ‘Annette, say nothing +about this to my lady. She lies on the other side of the house, so did not hear +the gun, perhaps; but she would be angry with me, if she knew, seeing there is +blood. But then,’ says he, ‘how is one to keep the garden clear, if +one is afraid to fire at a robber, when one sees him?’” +</p> + +<p> +“No more of this,” said Emily, “pray leave me.” +</p> + +<p> +Annette obeyed, and Emily returned to the agonizing considerations, that had +assailed her before, but which she, at length, endeavoured to sooth by a new +remark. If the stranger was Valancourt, it was certain he had come alone, and +it appeared, therefore, that he had been able to quit the gardens, without +assistance; a circumstance which did not seem probable, had his wound been +dangerous. With this consideration, she endeavoured to support herself, during +the enquiries, that were making by her servants in the neighbourhood; but day +after day came, and still closed in uncertainty, concerning this affair: and +Emily, suffering in silence, at length, drooped, and sunk under the pressure of +her anxiety. She was attacked by a slow fever, and when she yielded to the +persuasion of Annette to send for medical advice, the physicians prescribed +little beside air, gentle exercise and amusement: but how was this last to be +obtained? She, however, endeavoured to abstract her thoughts from the subject +of her anxiety, by employing them in promoting that happiness in others, which +she had lost herself; and, when the evening was fine, she usually took an +airing, including in her ride the cottages of some of her tenants, on whose +condition she made such observations, as often enabled her, unasked, to fulfil +their wishes. +</p> + +<p> +Her indisposition and the business she engaged in, relative to this estate, had +already protracted her stay at Thoulouse, beyond the period she had formerly +fixed for her departure to La Vallée; and now she was unwilling to leave the +only place, where it seemed possible, that certainty could be obtained on the +subject of her distress. But the time was come, when her presence was necessary +at La Vallée, a letter from the Lady Blanche now informing her, that the Count +and herself, being then at the château of the Baron St. Foix, purposed to visit +her at La Vallée, on their way home, as soon as they should be informed of her +arrival there. Blanche added, that they made this visit, with the hope of +inducing her to return with them to Château-le-Blanc. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, having replied to the letter of her friend, and said that she should be +at La Vallée in a few days, made hasty preparations for the journey; and, in +thus leaving Thoulouse, endeavoured to support herself with a belief, that, if +any fatal accident had happened to Valancourt, she must in this interval have +heard of it. +</p> + +<p> +On the evening before her departure, she went to take leave of the terrace and +the pavilion. The day had been sultry, but a light shower, that fell just +before sunset, had cooled the air, and given that soft verdure to the woods +and pastures, which is so refreshing to the eye; while the rain drops, still +trembling on the shrubs, glittered in the last yellow gleam, that lighted up +the scene, and the air was filled with fragrance, exhaled by the late shower, +from herbs and flowers and from the earth itself. But the lovely prospect, +which Emily beheld from the terrace, was no longer viewed by her with delight; +she sighed deeply as her eye wandered over it, and her spirits were in a state +of such dejection, that she could not think of her approaching return to La +Vallée, without tears, and seemed to mourn again the death of her father, as if +it had been an event of yesterday. Having reached the pavilion, she seated +herself at the open lattice, and, while her eyes settled on the distant +mountains, that overlooked Gascony, still gleaming on the horizon, though the +sun had now left the plains below, “Alas!” said she, “I +return to your long-lost scenes, but shall meet no more the parents, that were +wont to render them delightful!—no more shall see the smile of welcome, +or hear the well-known voice of fondness:—all will now be cold and silent +in what was once my happy home.” +</p> + +<p> +Tears stole down her cheek, as the remembrance of what that home had been, +returned to her; but, after indulging her sorrow for some time, she checked it, +accusing herself of ingratitude in forgetting the friends, that she possessed, +while she lamented those that were departed; and she, at length, left the +pavilion and the terrace, without having observed a shadow of Valancourt or of +any other person. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap49"></a> CHAPTER XI </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!<br/> +Ah fields belov’d in vain!<br/> +Where once my careless childhood stray’d,<br/> +A stranger yet to pain!<br/> +I feel the gales, that from ye blow,<br/> +A momentary bliss bestow,<br/> +As waving fresh their gladsome wing,<br/> +My weary soul they seem to sooth.<br/> + GRAY +</p> + +<p> +On the following morning, Emily left Thoulouse at an early hour, and reached La +Vallée about sunset. With the melancholy she experienced on the review of a +place which had been the residence of her parents, and the scene of her +earliest delight, was mingled, after the first shock had subsided, a tender and +undescribable pleasure. For time had so far blunted the acuteness of her grief, +that she now courted every scene, that awakened the memory of her friends; in +every room, where she had been accustomed to see them, they almost seemed to +live again; and she felt that La Vallée was still her happiest home. One of the +first apartments she visited, was that, which had been her father’s +library, and here she seated herself in his arm-chair, and, while she +contemplated, with tempered resignation, the picture of past times, which her +memory gave, the tears she shed could scarcely be called those of grief. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after her arrival, she was surprised by a visit from the venerable M. +Barreaux, who came impatiently to welcome the daughter of his late respected +neighbour, to her long-deserted home. Emily was comforted by the presence of an +old friend, and they passed an interesting hour in conversing of former times, +and in relating some of the circumstances, that had occurred to each, since +they parted. +</p> + +<p> +The evening was so far advanced, when M. Barreaux left Emily, that she could +not visit the garden that night; but, on the following morning, she traced its +long-regretted scenes with fond impatience; and, as she walked beneath the +groves, which her father had planted, and where she had so often sauntered in +affectionate conversation with him, his countenance, his smile, even the +accents of his voice, returned with exactness to her fancy, and her heart +melted to the tender recollections. +</p> + +<p> +This, too, was his favourite season of the year, at which they had often +together admired the rich and variegated tints of these woods and the magical +effect of autumnal lights upon the mountains; and now, the view of these +circumstances made memory eloquent. As she wandered pensively on, she fancied +the following address +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +TO AUTUMN<br/><br/> + +Sweet Autumn! how thy melancholy grace<br/> +Steals on my heart, as through these shades I wind!<br/> +Sooth’d by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace<br/> +Each lonely image of the pensive mind!<br/> +Lov’d scenes, lov’d friends—long lost! around me rise,<br/> +And wake the melting thought, the tender tear!<br/> +That tear, that thought, which more than mirth I prize—<br/> +Sweet as the gradual tint, that paints thy year!<br/> +Thy farewell smile, with fond regret, I view,<br/> +Thy beaming lights, soft gliding o’er the woods;<br/> +Thy distant landscape, touch’d with yellow hue<br/> +While falls the lengthen’d gleam; thy winding floods,<br/> +Now veil’d in shade, save where the skiff’s white sails<br/> +Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming ray.<br/> +But now, e’en now!—the partial vision fails,<br/> +And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away!<br/> +Emblem of life!—Thus checquer’d is its plan,<br/> +Thus joy succeeds to grief—thus smiles the varied man! +</p> + +<p> +One of Emily’s earliest enquiries, after her arrival at La Vallée, was +concerning Theresa, her father’s old servant, whom it may be remembered +that M. Quesnel had turned from the house when it was let, without any +provision. Understanding that she lived in a cottage at no great distance, +Emily walked thither, and, on approaching, was pleased to see, that her +habitation was pleasantly situated on a green slope, sheltered by a tuft of +oaks, and had an appearance of comfort and extreme neatness. She found the old +woman within, picking vine-stalks, who, on perceiving her young mistress, was +nearly overcome with joy. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! my dear young lady!” said she, “I thought I should never +see you again in this world, when I heard you were gone to that outlandish +country. I have been hardly used, since you went; I little thought they would +have turned me out of my old master’s family in my old age!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily lamented the circumstance, and then assured her, that she would make her +latter days comfortable, and expressed satisfaction, on seeing her in so +pleasant a habitation. +</p> + +<p> +Theresa thanked her with tears, adding, “Yes, mademoiselle, it is a very +comfortable home, thanks to the kind friend, who took me out of my distress, +when you were too far off to help me, and placed me here! I little +thought!—but no more of that—” +</p> + +<p> +“And who was this kind friend?” said Emily: “whoever it was, +I shall consider him as mine also.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, mademoiselle! that friend forbade me to blazon the good deed—I +must not say, who it was. But how you are altered since I saw you last! You +look so pale now, and so thin, too; but then, there is my old master’s +smile! Yes, that will never leave you, any more than the goodness, that used to +make him smile. Alas-a-day! the poor lost a friend indeed, when he died!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was affected by this mention of her father, which Theresa observing, +changed the subject. “I heard, mademoiselle,” said she, “that +Madame Cheron married a foreign gentleman, after all, and took you abroad; how +does she do?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily now mentioned her death. “Alas!” said Theresa, “if she +had not been my master’s sister, I should never have loved her; she was +always so cross. But how does that dear young gentleman do, M. Valancourt? he +was a handsome youth, and a good one; is he well, mademoiselle?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily was much agitated. +</p> + +<p> +“A blessing on him!” continued Theresa. “Ah, my dear young +lady, you need not look so shy; I know all about it. Do you think I do not +know, that he loves you? Why, when you were away, mademoiselle, he used to come +to the château and walk about it, so disconsolate! He would go into every room +in the lower part of the house, and, sometimes, he would sit himself down in a +chair, with his arms across, and his eyes on the floor, and there he would sit, +and think, and think, for the hour together. He used to be very fond of the +south parlour, because I told him it used to be yours; and there he would stay, +looking at the pictures, which I said you drew, and playing upon your lute, +that hung up by the window, and reading in your books, till sunset, and then he +must go back to his brother’s château. And then—” +</p> + +<p> +“It is enough, Theresa,” said Emily.—“How long have you +lived in this cottage—and how can I serve you? Will you remain here, or +return and live with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, mademoiselle,” said Theresa, “do not be so shy to your +poor old servant. I am sure it is no disgrace to like such a good young +gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +A deep sigh escaped from Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! how he did love to talk of you! I loved him for that. Nay, for that +matter, he liked to hear me talk, for he did not say much himself. But I soon +found out what he came to the château about. Then, he would go into the garden, +and down to the terrace, and sit under that great tree there, for the day +together, with one of your books in his hand; but he did not read much, I +fancy; for one day I happened to go that way, and I heard somebody talking. Who +can be here? says I: I am sure I let nobody into the garden, but the Chevalier. +So I walked softly, to see who it could be; and behold! it was the Chevalier +himself, talking to himself about you. And he repeated your name, and sighed +so! and said he had lost you for ever, for that you would never return for him. +I thought he was out in his reckoning there, but I said nothing, and stole +away.” +</p> + +<p> +“No more of this trifling,” said Emily, awakening from her reverie: +“it displeases me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, when M. Quesnel let the château, I thought it would have broke the +Chevalier’s heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“Theresa,” said Emily seriously, “you must name the Chevalier +no more!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not name him, mademoiselle!” cried Theresa: “what times are +come up now? Why, I love the Chevalier next to my old master and you, +mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps your love was not well bestowed, then,” replied Emily, +trying to conceal her tears; “but, however that might be, we shall meet +no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Meet no more!—not well bestowed!” exclaimed Theresa. +“What do I hear? No, mademoiselle, my love was well bestowed, for it was +the Chevalier Valancourt, who gave me this cottage, and has supported me in my +old age, ever since M. Quesnel turned me from my master’s house.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Chevalier Valancourt!” said Emily, trembling extremely. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, mademoiselle, he himself, though he made me promise not to tell; +but how could one help, when one heard him ill spoken of? Ah! dear young lady, +you may well weep, if you have behaved unkindly to him, for a more tender heart +than his never young gentleman had. He found me out in my distress, when you +were too far off to help me; and M. Quesnel refused to do so, and bade me go to +service again—Alas! I was too old for that!—The Chevalier found me, +and bought me this cottage, and gave me money to furnish it, and bade me seek +out another poor woman to live with me; and he ordered his brother’s +steward to pay me, every quarter, that which has supported me in comfort. Think +then, mademoiselle, whether I have not reason to speak well of the Chevalier. +And there are others, who could have afforded it better than he: and I am +afraid he has hurt himself by his generosity, for quarter day is gone by long +since, and no money for me! But do not weep so, mademoiselle: you are not sorry +surely to hear of the poor Chevalier’s goodness?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry!” said Emily, and wept the more. “But how long is it +since you have seen him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not this many a day, mademoiselle.” +</p> + +<p> +“When did you hear of him?” enquired Emily, with increased emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! never since he went away so suddenly into Languedoc; and he was +but just come from Paris then, or I should have seen him, I am sure. Quarter +day is gone by long since, and, as I said, no money for me; and I begin to fear +some harm has happened to him: and if I was not so far from Estuvière and so +lame, I should have gone to enquire before this time; and I have nobody to send +so far.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s anxiety, as to the fate of Valancourt, was now scarcely +endurable, and, since propriety would not suffer her to send to the château of +his brother, she requested that Theresa would immediately hire some person to +go to his steward from herself, and, when he asked for the quarterage due to +her, to make enquiries concerning Valancourt. But she first made Theresa +promise never to mention her name in this affair, or ever with that of the +Chevalier Valancourt; and her former faithfulness to M. St. Aubert induced +Emily to confide in her assurances. Theresa now joyfully undertook to procure a +person for this errand, and then Emily, after giving her a sum of money to +supply her with present comforts, returned, with spirits heavily oppressed, to +her home, lamenting, more than ever, that a heart, possessed of so much +benevolence as Valancourt’s, should have been contaminated by the vices +of the world, but affected by the delicate affection, which his kindness to her +old servant expressed for herself. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap50"></a> CHAPTER XII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Light thickens, and the crow<br/> +Makes wing to the rooky wood:<br/> +Good things of day begin to droop, and drowse;<br/> +While night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.<br/> + MACBETH +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Count De Villefort and Lady Blanche had passed a pleasant fortnight +at the château de St. Foix, with the Baron and Baroness, during which they made +frequent excursions among the mountains, and were delighted with the romantic +wildness of Pyrenean scenery. It was with regret, that the Count bade adieu to +his old friends, although with the hope of being soon united with them in one +family; for it was settled that M. St. Foix, who now attended them into +Gascony, should receive the hand of the Lady Blanche, upon their arrival at +Château-le-Blanc. As the road, from the Baron’s residence to La Vallée, +was over some of the wildest tract of the Pyrenees, and where a carriage-wheel +had never passed, the Count hired mules for himself and his family, as well as +a couple of stout guides, who were well armed, informed of all the passes of +the mountains, and who boasted, too, that they were acquainted with every brake +and dingle in the way, could tell the names of all the highest points of this +chain of Alps, knew every forest, that spread along their narrow valleys, the +shallowest part of every torrent they must cross, and the exact distance of +every goat-herd’s and hunter’s cabin they should have occasion to +pass,—which last article of learning required no very capacious memory, +for even such simple inhabitants were but thinly scattered over these wilds. +</p> + +<p> +The Count left the château de St. Foix, early in the morning, with an intention +of passing the night at a little inn upon the mountains, about half way to La +Vallée, of which his guides had informed him; and, though this was frequented +chiefly by Spanish muleteers, on their route into France, and, of course, would +afford only sorry accommodation, the Count had no alternative, for it was the +only place like an inn, on the road. +</p> + +<p> +After a day of admiration and fatigue, the travellers found themselves, about +sunset, in a woody valley, overlooked, on every side, by abrupt heights. They +had proceeded for many leagues, without seeing a human habitation, and had only +heard, now and then, at a distance, the melancholy tinkling of a sheep-bell; +but now they caught the notes of merry music, and presently saw, within a +little green recess among the rocks, a group of mountaineers, tripping through +a dance. The Count, who could not look upon the happiness, any more than on the +misery of others, with indifference, halted to enjoy this scene of simple +pleasure. The group before him consisted of French and Spanish peasants, the +inhabitants of a neighbouring hamlet, some of whom were performing a sprightly +dance, the women with castanets in their hands, to the sounds of a lute and a +tamborine, till, from the brisk melody of France, the music softened into a +slow movement, to which two female peasants danced a Spanish Pavan. +</p> + +<p> +The Count, comparing this with the scenes of such gaiety as he had witnessed at +Paris, where false taste painted the features, and, while it vainly tried to +supply the glow of nature, concealed the charms of animation—where +affectation so often distorted the air, and vice perverted the +manners—sighed to think, that natural graces and innocent pleasures +flourished in the wilds of solitude, while they drooped amidst the concourse of +polished society. But the lengthening shadows reminded the travellers, that +they had no time to lose; and, leaving this joyous group, they pursued their +way towards the little inn, which was to shelter them from the night. +</p> + +<p> +The rays of the setting sun now threw a yellow gleam upon the forests of pine +and chesnut, that swept down the lower region of the mountains, and gave +resplendent tints to the snowy points above. But soon, even this light faded +fast, and the scenery assumed a more tremendous appearance, invested with the +obscurity of twilight. Where the torrent had been seen, it was now only heard; +where the wild cliffs had displayed every variety of form and attitude, a dark +mass of mountains now alone appeared; and the vale, which far, far below had +opened its dreadful chasm, the eye could no longer fathom. A melancholy gleam +still lingered on the summits of the highest Alps, overlooking the deep repose +of evening, and seeming to make the stillness of the hour more awful. +</p> + +<p> +Blanche viewed the scene in silence, and listened with enthusiasm to the murmur +of the pines, that extended in dark lines along the mountains, and to the faint +voice of the izard, among the rocks, that came at intervals on the air. But her +enthusiasm sunk into apprehension, when, as the shadows deepened, she looked +upon the doubtful precipice, that bordered the road, as well as on the various +fantastic forms of danger, that glimmered through the obscurity beyond it; and +she asked her father, how far they were from the inn, and whether he did not +consider the road to be dangerous at this late hour. The Count repeated the +first question to the guides, who returned a doubtful answer, adding, that, +when it was darker, it would be safest to rest, till the moon rose. “It +is scarcely safe to proceed now,” said the Count; but the guides, +assuring him that there was no danger, went on. Blanche, revived by this +assurance, again indulged a pensive pleasure, as she watched the progress of +twilight gradually spreading its tints over the woods and mountains, and +stealing from the eye every minuter feature of the scene, till the grand +outlines of nature alone remained. Then fell the silent dews, and every wild +flower, and aromatic plant, that bloomed among the cliffs, breathed forth its +sweetness; then, too, when the mountain-bee had crept into its blossomed bed, +and the hum of every little insect, that had floated gaily in the sunbeam, was +hushed, the sound of many streams, not heard till now, murmured at a +distance.—The bats alone, of all the animals inhabiting this region, +seemed awake; and, while they flitted across the silent path, which Blanche was +pursuing, she remembered the following lines, which Emily had given her: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +TO THE BAT<br/><br/> + +From haunt of man, from day’s obtrusive glare,<br/> +Thou shroud’st thee in the ruin’s ivy’d tow’r.<br/> +Or in some shadowy glen’s romantic bow’r,<br/> +Where wizard forms their mystic charms prepare,<br/> +Where Horror lurks, and ever-boding Care!<br/> +But, at the sweet and silent ev’ning hour,<br/> +When clos’d in sleep is ev’ry languid flow’r,<br/> +Thou lov’st to sport upon the twilight air,<br/> +Mocking the eye, that would thy course pursue,<br/> +In many a wanton-round, elastic, gay,<br/> +Thou flit’st athwart the pensive wand’rer’s way,<br/> +As his lone footsteps print the mountain-dew.<br/> +From Indian isles thou com’st, with Summer’s car,<br/> +Twilight thy love—thy guide her beaming star! +</p> + +<p> +To a warm imagination, the dubious forms, that float, half veiled in darkness, +afford a higher delight, than the most distinct scenery, that the sun can show. +While the fancy thus wanders over landscapes partly of its own creation, a +sweet complacency steals upon the mind, and +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Refines it all to subtlest feeling,<br/> +Bids the tear of rapture roll. +</p> + +<p> +The distant note of a torrent, the weak trembling of the breeze among the +woods, or the far-off sound of a human voice, now lost and heard again, are +circumstances, which wonderfully heighten the enthusiastic tone of the mind. +The young St. Foix, who saw the presentations of a fervid fancy, and felt +whatever enthusiasm could suggest, sometimes interrupted the silence, which the +rest of the party seemed by mutual consent to preserve, remarking and pointing +out to Blanche the most striking effect of the hour upon the scenery; while +Blanche, whose apprehensions were beguiled by the conversation of her lover, +yielded to the taste so congenial to his, and they conversed in a low +restrained voice, the effect of the pensive tranquillity, which twilight and +the scene inspired, rather than of any fear, that they should be heard. But, +while the heart was thus soothed to tenderness, St. Foix gradually mingled, +with his admiration of the country, a mention of his affection; and he +continued to speak, and Blanche to listen, till the mountains, the woods, and +the magical illusions of twilight, were remembered no more. +</p> + +<p> +The shadows of evening soon shifted to the gloom of night, which was somewhat +anticipated by the vapours, that, gathering fast round the mountains, rolled in +dark wreaths along their sides; and the guides proposed to rest, till the moon +should rise, adding, that they thought a storm was coming on. As they looked +round for a spot, that might afford some kind of shelter, an object was +perceived obscurely through the dusk, on a point of rock, a little way down the +mountain, which they imagined to be a hunter’s or a shepherd’s +cabin, and the party, with cautious steps, proceeded towards it. Their labour, +however, was not rewarded, or their apprehensions soothed; for, on reaching the +object of their search, they discovered a monumental cross, which marked the +spot to have been polluted by murder. +</p> + +<p> +The darkness would not permit them to read the inscription; but the guides knew +this to be a cross, raised to the memory of a Count de Beliard, who had been +murdered here by a horde of banditti, that had infested this part of the +Pyrenees, a few years before; and the uncommon size of the monument seemed to +justify the supposition, that it was erected for a person of some distinction. +Blanche shuddered, as she listened to some horrid particulars of the +Count’s fate, which one of the guides related in a low, restrained tone, +as if the sound of his own voice frightened him; but, while they lingered at +the cross, attending to his narrative, a flash of lightning glanced upon the +rocks, thunder muttered at a distance, and the travellers, now alarmed, quitted +this scene of solitary horror, in search of shelter. +</p> + +<p> +Having regained their former track, the guides, as they passed on, endeavoured +to interest the Count by various stories of robbery, and even of murder, which +had been perpetrated in the very places they must unavoidably pass, with +accounts of their own dauntless courage and wonderful escapes. The chief guide, +or rather he, who was the most completely armed, drawing forth one of the four +pistols, that were tucked into his belt, swore, that it had shot three robbers +within the year. He then brandished a clasp-knife of enormous length, and was +going to recount the wonderful execution it had done, when St. Foix, +perceiving, that Blanche was terrified, interrupted him. The Count, meanwhile, +secretly laughing at the terrible histories and extravagant boastings of the +man, resolved to humour him, and, telling Blanche in a whisper, his design, +began to recount some exploits of his own, which infinitely exceeded any +related by the guide. +</p> + +<p> +To these surprising circumstances he so artfully gave the colouring of truth, +that the courage of the guides was visibly affected by them, who continued +silent, long after the Count had ceased to speak. The loquacity of the chief +hero thus laid asleep, the vigilance of his eyes and ears seemed more +thoroughly awakened, for he listened, with much appearance of anxiety, to the +deep thunder, which murmured at intervals, and often paused, as the breeze, +that was now rising, rushed among the pines. But, when he made a sudden halt +before a tuft of cork trees, that projected over the road, and drew forth a +pistol, before he would venture to brave the banditti which might lurk behind +it, the Count could no longer refrain from laughter. +</p> + +<p> +Having now, however, arrived at a level spot, somewhat sheltered from the air, +by overhanging cliffs and by a wood of larch, that rose over the precipice on +the left, and the guides being yet ignorant how far they were from the inn, the +travellers determined to rest, till the moon should rise, or the storm +disperse. Blanche, recalled to a sense of the present moment, looked on the +surrounding gloom, with terror; but giving her hand to St. Foix, she alighted, +and the whole party entered a kind of cave, if such it could be called, which +was only a shallow cavity, formed by the curve of impending rocks. A light +being struck, a fire was kindled, whose blaze afforded some degree of +cheerfulness, and no small comfort, for, though the day had been hot, the night +air of this mountainous region was chilling; a fire was partly necessary also +to keep off the wolves, with which those wilds were infested. +</p> + +<p> +Provisions being spread upon a projection of the rock, the Count and his family +partook of a supper, which, in a scene less rude, would certainly have been +thought less excellent. When the repast was finished, St. Foix, impatient for +the moon, sauntered along the precipice, to a point, that fronted the east; but +all was yet wrapt in gloom, and the silence of night was broken only by the +murmuring of woods, that waved far below, or by distant thunder, and, now and +then, by the faint voices of the party he had quitted. He viewed, with emotions +of awful sublimity, the long volumes of sulphureous clouds, that floated along +the upper and middle regions of the air, and the lightnings that flashed from +them, sometimes silently, and, at others, followed by sullen peals of thunder, +which the mountains feebly prolonged, while the whole horizon, and the abyss, +on which he stood, were discovered in the momentary light. Upon the succeeding +darkness, the fire, which had been kindled in the cave, threw a partial gleam, +illumining some points of the opposite rocks, and the summits of pine-woods, +that hung beetling on the cliffs below, while their recesses seemed to frown in +deeper shade. +</p> + +<p> +St. Foix stopped to observe the picture, which the party in the cave presented, +where the elegant form of Blanche was finely contrasted by the majestic figure +of the Count, who was seated by her on a rude stone, and each was rendered more +impressive by the grotesque habits and strong features of the guides and other +attendants, who were in the back ground of the piece. The effect of the light, +too, was interesting; on the surrounding figures it threw a strong, though pale +gleam, and glittered on their bright arms; while upon the foliage of a gigantic +larch, that impended its shade over the cliff above, appeared a red, dusky +tint, deepening almost imperceptibly into the blackness of night. +</p> + +<p> +While St. Foix contemplated the scene, the moon, broad and yellow, rose over +the eastern summits, from among embattled clouds, and showed dimly the grandeur +of the heavens, the mass of vapours, that rolled half way down the precipice +beneath, and the doubtful mountains. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime,<br/> +Like shipwreck’d mariner on desert coast,<br/> +And view th’enormous waste of vapour, tost<br/> +In billows length’ning to th’horizon round!<br/> + THE MINSTREL +</p> + +<p> +From this romantic reverie he was awakened by the voices of the guides, +repeating his name, which was reverbed from cliff to cliff, till a hundred +tongues seemed to call him; when he soon quieted the fears of the Count and the +Lady Blanche, by returning to the cave. As the storm, however, seemed +approaching, they did not quit their place of shelter; and the Count, seated +between his daughter and St. Foix, endeavoured to divert the fears of the +former, and conversed on subjects, relating to the natural history of the +scene, among which they wandered. He spoke of the mineral and fossile +substances, found in the depths of these mountains,—the veins of marble +and granite, with which they abounded, the strata of shells, discovered near +their summits, many thousand fathom above the level of the sea, and at a vast +distance from its present shore;—of the tremendous chasms and caverns of +the rocks, the grotesque form of the mountains, and the various phenomena, +that seem to stamp upon the world the history of the deluge. From the natural +history he descended to the mention of events and circumstances, connected with +the civil story of the Pyrenees; named some of the most remarkable fortresses, +which France and Spain had erected in the passes of these mountains; and gave a +brief account of some celebrated sieges and encounters in early times, when +Ambition first frightened Solitude from these her deep recesses, made her +mountains, which before had echoed only to the torrent’s roar, tremble +with the clang of arms, and, when man’s first footsteps in her sacred +haunts had left the print of blood! +</p> + +<p> +As Blanche sat, attentive to the narrative, that rendered the scenes doubly +interesting, and resigned to solemn emotion, while she considered, that she was +on the very ground, once polluted by these events, her reverie was suddenly +interrupted by a sound, that came in the wind.—It was the distant bark of +a watch-dog. The travellers listened with eager hope, and, as the wind blew +stronger, fancied, that the sound came from no great distance; and, the guides +having little doubt, that it proceeded from the inn they were in search of, the +Count determined to pursue his way. The moon now afforded a stronger, though +still an uncertain light, as she moved among broken clouds; and the travellers, +led by the sound, recommenced their journey along the brow of the precipice, +preceded by a single torch, that now contended with the moonlight; for the +guides, believing they should reach the inn soon after sunset, had neglected +to provide more. In silent caution they followed the sound, which was heard but +at intervals, and which, after some time entirely ceased. The guides +endeavoured, however, to point their course to the quarter, whence it had +issued, but the deep roaring of a torrent soon seized their attention, and +presently they came to a tremendous chasm of the mountain, which seemed to +forbid all further progress. Blanche alighted from her mule, as did the Count +and St. Foix, while the guides traversed the edge in search of a bridge, which, +however rude, might convey them to the opposite side, and they, at length, +confessed, what the Count had begun to suspect, that they had been, for some +time, doubtful of their way, and were now certain only, that they had lost it. +</p> + +<p> +At a little distance, was discovered a rude and dangerous passage, formed by an +enormous pine, which, thrown across the chasm, united the opposite precipices, +and which had been felled probably by the hunter, to facilitate his chace of +the izard, or the wolf. The whole party, the guides excepted, shuddered at the +prospect of crossing this alpine bridge, whose sides afforded no kind of +defence, and from which to fall was to die. The guides, however, prepared to +lead over the mules, while Blanche stood trembling on the brink, and listening +to the roar of the waters, which were seen descending from rocks above, +overhung with lofty pines, and thence precipitating themselves into the deep +abyss, where their white surges gleamed faintly in the moonlight. The poor +animals proceeded over this perilous bridge with instinctive caution, neither +frightened by the noise of the cataract, nor deceived by the gloom, which the +impending foliage threw athwart their way. It was now, that the solitary torch, +which had been hitherto of little service, was found to be an inestimable +treasure; and Blanche, terrified, shrinking, but endeavouring to recollect all +her firmness and presence of mind, preceded by her lover and supported by her +father, followed the red gleam of the torch, in safety, to the opposite cliff. +</p> + +<p> +As they went on, the heights contracted, and formed a narrow pass, at the +bottom of which, the torrent they had just crossed, was heard to thunder. But +they were again cheered by the bark of a dog, keeping watch, perhaps, over the +flocks of the mountains, to protect them from the nightly descent of the +wolves. The sound was much nearer than before, and, while they rejoiced in the +hope of soon reaching a place of repose, a light was seen to glimmer at a +distance. It appeared at a height considerably above the level of their path, +and was lost and seen again, as if the waving branches of trees sometimes +excluded and then admitted its rays. The guides hallooed with all their +strength, but the sound of no human voice was heard in return, and, at length, +as a more effectual means of making themselves known, they fired a pistol. But, +while they listened in anxious expectation, the noise of the explosion was +alone heard, echoing among the rocks, and it gradually sunk into silence, which +no friendly hint of man disturbed. The light, however, that had been seen +before, now became plainer, and, soon after, voices were heard indistinctly on +the wind; but, upon the guides repeating the call, the voices suddenly ceased, +and the light disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +The Lady Blanche was now almost sinking beneath the pressure of anxiety, +fatigue and apprehension, and the united efforts of the Count and St. Foix +could scarcely support her spirits. As they continued to advance, an object was +perceived on a point of rock above, which, the strong rays of the moon then +falling on it, appeared to be a watch-tower. The Count, from its situation and +some other circumstances, had little doubt, that it was such, and believing, +that the light had proceeded from thence, he endeavoured to reanimate his +daughter’s spirits by the near prospect of shelter and repose, which, +however rude the accommodation, a ruined watch-tower might afford. +</p> + +<p> +“Numerous watch-towers have been erected among the Pyrenees,” said +the Count, anxious only to call Blanche’s attention from the subject of +her fears; “and the method, by which they give intelligence of the +approach of the enemy, is, you know, by fires, kindled on the summits of these +edifices. Signals have thus, sometimes, been communicated from post to post, +along a frontier line of several hundred miles in length. Then, as occasion may +require, the lurking armies emerge from their fortresses and the forests, and +march forth, to defend, perhaps, the entrance of some grand pass, where, +planting themselves on the heights, they assail their astonished enemies, who +wind along the glen below, with fragments of the shattered cliff, and pour +death and defeat upon them. The ancient forts, and watch-towers, overlooking +the grand passes of the Pyrenees, are carefully preserved; but some of those in +inferior stations have been suffered to fall into decay, and are now frequently +converted into the more peaceful habitation of the hunter, or the shepherd, +who, after a day of toil, retires hither, and, with his faithful dogs, forgets, +near a cheerful blaze, the labour of the chace, or the anxiety of collecting +his wandering flocks, while he is sheltered from the nightly storm.” +</p> + +<p> +“But are they always thus peacefully inhabited?” said the Lady +Blanche. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied the Count, “they are sometimes the asylum of +French and Spanish smugglers, who cross the mountains with contraband goods +from their respective countries, and the latter are particularly numerous, +against whom strong parties of the king’s troops are sometimes sent. But +the desperate resolution of these adventurers, who, knowing, that, if they are +taken, they must expiate the breach of the law by the most cruel death, travel +in large parties, well armed, often daunts the courage of the soldiers. The +smugglers, who seek only safety, never engage, when they can possibly avoid it; +the military, also, who know, that in these encounters, danger is certain, and +glory almost unattainable, are equally reluctant to fight; an engagement, +therefore, very seldom happens, but, when it does, it never concludes till +after the most desperate and bloody conflict. You are inattentive, +Blanche,” added the Count: “I have wearied you with a dull subject; +but see, yonder, in the moonlight, is the edifice we have been in search of, +and we are fortunate to be so near it, before the storm bursts.” +</p> + +<p> +Blanche, looking up, perceived, that they were at the foot of the cliff, on +whose summit the building stood, but no light now issued from it; the barking +of the dog too had, for some time, ceased, and the guides began to doubt, +whether this was really the object of their search. From the distance, at which +they surveyed it, shown imperfectly by a cloudy moon, it appeared to be of more +extent than a single watch-tower; but the difficulty was how to ascend the +height, whose abrupt declivities seemed to afford no kind of pathway. +</p> + +<p> +While the guides carried forward the torch to examine the cliff, the Count, +remaining with Blanche and St. Foix at its foot, under the shadow of the woods, +endeavoured again to beguile the time by conversation, but again anxiety +abstracted the mind of Blanche; and he then consulted, apart with St. Foix, +whether it would be advisable, should a path be found, to venture to an +edifice, which might possibly harbour banditti. They considered, that their own +party was not small, and that several of them were well armed; and, after +enumerating the dangers, to be incurred by passing the night in the open wild, +exposed, perhaps, to the effects of a thunder-storm, there remained not a +doubt, that they ought to endeavour to obtain admittance to the edifice above, +at any hazard respecting the inhabitants it might harbour; but the darkness, +and the dead silence, that surrounded it, appeared to contradict the +probability of its being inhabited at all. +</p> + +<p> +A shout from the guides aroused their attention, after which, in a few minutes, +one of the Count’s servants returned with intelligence, that a path was +found, and they immediately hastened to join the guides, when they all ascended +a little winding way cut in the rock among thickets of dwarf wood, and, after +much toil and some danger, reached the summit, where several ruined towers, +surrounded by a massy wall, rose to their view, partially illumined by the +moonlight. The space around the building was silent, and apparently forsaken, +but the Count was cautious; “Step softly,” said he, in a low voice, +“while we reconnoitre the edifice.” +</p> + +<p> +Having proceeded silently along for some paces, they stopped at a gate, whose +portals were terrible even in ruins, and, after a moment’s hesitation, +passed on to the court of entrance, but paused again at the head of a terrace, +which, branching from it, ran along the brow of a precipice. Over this, rose +the main body of the edifice, which was now seen to be, not a watch-tower, but +one of those ancient fortresses, that, from age and neglect, had fallen to +decay. Many parts of it, however, appeared to be still entire; it was built of +grey stone, in the heavy Saxon-gothic style, with enormous round towers, +buttresses of proportionable strength, and the arch of the large gate, which +seemed to open into the hall of the fabric, was round, as was that of a window +above. The air of solemnity, which must so strongly have characterised the pile +even in the days of its early strength, was now considerably heightened by its +shattered battlements and half-demolished walls, and by the huge masses of +ruin, scattered in its wide area, now silent and grass grown. In this court of +entrance stood the gigantic remains of an oak, that seemed to have flourished +and decayed with the building, which it still appeared frowningly to protect by +the few remaining branches, leafless and moss-grown, that crowned its trunk, +and whose wide extent told how enormous the tree had been in a former age. This +fortress was evidently once of great strength, and, from its situation on a +point of rock, impending over a deep glen, had been of great power to annoy, as +well as to resist; the Count, therefore, as he stood surveying it, was somewhat +surprised, that it had been suffered, ancient as it was, to sink into ruins, +and its present lonely and deserted air excited in his breast emotions of +melancholy awe. While he indulged, for a moment, these emotions, he thought he +heard a sound of remote voices steal upon the stillness, from within the +building, the front of which he again surveyed with scrutinizing eyes, but yet +no light was visible. He now determined to walk round the fort, to that remote +part of it, whence he thought the voices had arisen, that he might examine +whether any light could be discerned there, before he ventured to knock at the +gate; for this purpose, he entered upon the terrace, where the remains of +cannon were yet apparent in the thick walls, but he had not proceeded many +paces, when his steps were suddenly arrested by the loud barking of a dog +within, and which he fancied to be the same, whose voice had been the means of +bringing the travellers thither. It now appeared certain, that the place was +inhabited, and the Count returned to consult again with St. Foix, whether he +should try to obtain admittance, for its wild aspect had somewhat shaken his +former resolution; but, after a second consultation, he submitted to the +considerations, which before determined him, and which were strengthened by the +discovery of the dog, that guarded the fort, as well as by the stillness that +pervaded it. He, therefore, ordered one of his servants to knock at the gate, +who was advancing to obey him, when a light appeared through the loop-hole of +one of the towers, and the Count called loudly, but, receiving no answer, he +went up to the gate himself, and struck upon it with an iron-pointed pole, +which had assisted him to climb the steep. When the echoes had ceased, that +this blow had awakened, the renewed barking,—and there were now more than +one dog,—was the only sound, that was heard. The Count stepped back, a +few paces, to observe whether the light was in the tower, and, perceiving, that +it was gone, he returned to the portal, and had lifted the pole to strike +again, when again he fancied he heard the murmur of voices within, and paused +to listen. He was confirmed in the supposition, but they were too remote, to be +heard otherwise than in a murmur, and the Count now let the pole fall heavily +upon the gate; when almost immediately a profound silence followed. It was +apparent, that the people within had heard the sound, and their caution in +admitting strangers gave him a favourable opinion of them. “They are +either hunters or shepherds,” said he, “who, like ourselves, have +probably sought shelter from the night within these walls, and are fearful of +admitting strangers, lest they should prove robbers. I will endeavour to remove +their fears.” So saying, he called aloud, “We are friends, who ask +shelter from the night.” In a few moments, steps were heard within, which +approached, and a voice then enquired—“Who calls?” +“Friends,” repeated the Count; “open the gates, and you shall +know more.”—Strong bolts were now heard to be undrawn, and a man, +armed with a hunting spear, appeared. “What is it you want at this +hour?” said he. The Count beckoned his attendants, and then answered, +that he wished to enquire the way to the nearest cabin. “Are you so +little acquainted with these mountains,” said the man, “as not to +know, that there is none, within several leagues? I cannot show you the way; +you must seek it—there’s a moon.” Saying this, he was closing +the gate, and the Count was turning away, half disappointed and half afraid, +when another voice was heard from above, and, on looking up, he saw a light, +and a man’s face, at the grate of the portal. “Stay, friend, you +have lost your way?” said the voice. “You are hunters, I suppose, +like ourselves: I will be with you presently.” The voice ceased, and the +light disappeared. Blanche had been alarmed by the appearance of the man, who +had opened the gate, and she now entreated her father to quit the place; but +the Count had observed the hunter’s spear, which he carried; and the +words from the tower encouraged him to await the event. The gate was soon +opened, and several men in hunters’ habits, who had heard above what had +passed below, appeared, and, having listened some time to the Count, told him +he was welcome to rest there for the night. They then pressed him, with much +courtesy, to enter, and to partake of such fare as they were about to sit down +to. The Count, who had observed them attentively while they spoke, was +cautious, and somewhat suspicious; but he was also weary, fearful of the +approaching storm, and of encountering alpine heights in the obscurity of +night; being likewise somewhat confident in the strength and number of his +attendants, he, after some further consideration, determined to accept the +invitation. With this resolution he called his servants, who, advancing round +the tower, behind which some of them had silently listened to this conference, +followed their Lord, the Lady Blanche, and St. Foix into the fortress. The +strangers led them on to a large and rude hall, partially seen by a fire that +blazed at its extremity, round which four men, in the hunter’s dress, +were seated, and on the hearth were several dogs stretched in sleep. In the +middle of the hall stood a large table, and over the fire some part of an +animal was boiling. As the Count approached, the men arose, and the dogs, half +raising themselves, looked fiercely at the strangers, but, on hearing their +masters’ voices, kept their postures on the hearth. +</p> + +<p> +Blanche looked round this gloomy and spacious hall; then at the men, and to her +father, who, smiling cheerfully at her, addressed himself to the hunters. +“This is a hospitable hearth,” said he, “the blaze of a fire +is reviving after having wandered so long in these dreary wilds. Your dogs are +tired; what success have you had?” “Such as we usually have,” +replied one of the men, who had been seated in the hall, “we kill our +game with tolerable certainty.” “These are fellow hunters,” +said one of the men who had brought the Count hither, “that have lost +their way, and I have told them there is room enough in the fort for us +all.” “Very true, very true,” replied his companion, +“What luck have you had in the chace, brothers? We have killed two +izards, and that, you will say, is pretty well.” “You mistake, +friend,” said the Count, “we are not hunters, but travellers; but, +if you will admit us to hunters’ fare, we shall be well contented, and +will repay your kindness.” “Sit down then, brother,” said one +of the men: “Jacques, lay more fuel on the fire, the kid will soon be +ready; bring a seat for the lady too. Ma’amselle, will you taste our +brandy? it is true Barcelona, and as bright as ever flowed from a keg.” +Blanche timidly smiled, and was going to refuse, when her father prevented her, +by taking, with a good humoured air, the glass offered to his daughter; and +Mons. St. Foix, who was seated next her, pressed her hand, and gave her an +encouraging look, but her attention was engaged by a man, who sat silently by +the fire, observing St. Foix, with a steady and earnest eye. +</p> + +<p> +“You lead a jolly life here,” said the Count. “The life of a +hunter is a pleasant and a healthy one; and the repose is sweet, which succeeds +to your labour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied one of his hosts, “our life is pleasant +enough. We live here only during the summer, and autumnal months; in winter, +the place is dreary, and the swoln torrents, that descend from the heights, put +a stop to the chace.” +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis a life of liberty and enjoyment,” said the Count: +“I should like to pass a month in your way very well.” +</p> + +<p> +“We find employment for our guns too,” said a man who stood behind +the Count: “here are plenty of birds, of delicious flavour, that feed +upon the wild thyme and herbs, that grow in the valleys. Now I think of it, +there is a brace of birds hung up in the stone gallery; go fetch them, Jacques, +we will have them dressed.” +</p> + +<p> +The Count now made enquiry, concerning the method of pursuing the chace among +the rocks and precipices of these romantic regions, and was listening to a +curious detail, when a horn was sounded at the gate. Blanche looked timidly at +her father, who continued to converse on the subject of the chace, but whose +countenance was somewhat expressive of anxiety, and who often turned his eyes +towards that part of the hall nearest the gate. The horn sounded again, and a +loud halloo succeeded. “These are some of our companions, returned from +their day’s labour,” said a man, going lazily from his seat towards +the gate; and in a few minutes, two men appeared, each with a gun over his +shoulder, and pistols in his belt. “What cheer, my lads? what +cheer?” said they, as they approached. “What luck?” returned +their companions: “have you brought home your supper? You shall have none +else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hah! who the devil have you brought home?” said they in bad +Spanish, on perceiving the Count’s party, “are they from France, or +Spain?—where did you meet with them?” +</p> + +<p> +“They met with us, and a merry meeting too,” replied his companion +aloud in good French. “This chevalier, and his party, had lost their way, +and asked a night’s lodging in the fort.” The others made no reply, +but threw down a kind of knapsack, and drew forth several brace of birds. The +bag sounded heavily as it fell to the ground, and the glitter of some bright +metal within glanced on the eye of the Count, who now surveyed, with a more +enquiring look, the man, that held the knapsack. He was a tall robust figure, +of a hard countenance, and had short black hair, curling in his neck. Instead +of the hunter’s dress, he wore a faded military uniform; sandals were +laced on his broad legs, and a kind of short trowsers hung from his waist. On +his head he wore a leathern cap, somewhat resembling in shape an ancient Roman +helmet; but the brows that scowled beneath it, would have characterised those +of the barbarians, who conquered Rome, rather than those of a Roman soldier. +The Count, at length, turned away his eyes, and remained silent and thoughtful, +till, again raising them, he perceived a figure standing in an obscure part of +the hall, fixed in attentive gaze on St. Foix, who was conversing with Blanche, +and did not observe this; but the Count, soon after, saw the same man looking +over the shoulder of the soldier as attentively at himself. He withdrew his +eye, when that of the Count met it, who felt mistrust gathering fast upon his +mind, but feared to betray it in his countenance, and, forcing his features to +assume a smile, addressed Blanche on some indifferent subject. When he again +looked round, he perceived, that the soldier and his companion were gone. +</p> + +<p> +The man, who was called Jacques, now returned from the stone gallery. “A +fire is lighted there,” said he, “and the birds are dressing; the +table too is spread there, for that place is warmer than this.” +</p> + +<p> +His companions approved of the removal, and invited their guests to follow to +the gallery, of whom Blanche appeared distressed, and remained seated, and St. +Foix looked at the Count, who said, he preferred the comfortable blaze of the +fire he was then near. The hunters, however, commended the warmth of the other +apartment, and pressed his removal with such seeming courtesy, that the Count, +half doubting, and half fearful of betraying his doubts, consented to go. The +long and ruinous passages, through which they went, somewhat daunted him, but +the thunder, which now burst in loud peals above, made it dangerous to quit +this place of shelter, and he forbore to provoke his conductors by showing that +he distrusted them. The hunters led the way, with a lamp; the Count and St. +Foix, who wished to please their hosts by some instances of familiarity, +carried each a seat, and Blanche followed, with faltering steps. As she passed +on, part of her dress caught on a nail in the wall, and, while she stopped, +somewhat too scrupulously, to disengage it, the Count, who was talking to St. +Foix, and neither of whom observed the circumstance, followed their conductor +round an abrupt angle of the passage, and Blanche was left behind in darkness. +The thunder prevented them from hearing her call but, having disengaged her +dress, she quickly followed, as she thought, the way they had taken. A light, +that glimmered at a distance, confirmed this belief, and she proceeded towards +an open door, whence it issued, conjecturing the room beyond to be the stone +gallery the men had spoken of. Hearing voices as she advanced, she paused +within a few paces of the chamber, that she might be certain whether she was +right, and from thence, by the light of a lamp, that hung from the ceiling, +observed four men, seated round a table, over which they leaned in apparent +consultation. In one of them she distinguished the features of him, whom she +had observed, gazing at St. Foix, with such deep attention; and who was now +speaking in an earnest, though restrained voice, till, one of his companions +seeming to oppose him, they spoke together in a loud and harsher tone. Blanche, +alarmed by perceiving that neither her father, nor St. Foix were there, and +terrified at the fierce countenances and manners of these men, was turning +hastily from the chamber, to pursue her search of the gallery, when she heard +one of the men say: +</p> + +<p> +“Let all dispute end here. Who talks of danger? Follow my advice, and +there will be none—secure <i>them</i>, and the rest are an easy +prey.” Blanche, struck with these words, paused a moment, to hear more. +“There is nothing to be got by the rest,” said one of his +companions, “I am never for blood when I can help it—dispatch the +two others, and our business is done; the rest may go.” +</p> + +<p> +“May they so?” exclaimed the first ruffian, with a tremendous +oath—“What! to tell how we have disposed of their masters, and to +send the king’s troops to drag us to the wheel! You were always a choice +adviser—I warrant we have not yet forgot St. Thomas’s eve last +year.” +</p> + +<p> +Blanche’s heart now sunk with horror. Her first impulse was to retreat +from the door, but, when she would have gone, her trembling frame refused to +support her, and, having tottered a few paces, to a more obscure part of the +passage, she was compelled to listen to the dreadful councils of those, who, +she was no longer suffered to doubt, were banditti. In the next moment, she +heard the following words, “Why you would not murder the whole +<i>gang?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“I warrant our lives are as good as theirs,” replied his comrade. +“If we don’t kill them, they will hang us: better they should die +than we be hanged.” +</p> + +<p> +“Better, better,” cried his comrades. +</p> + +<p> +“To commit murder, is a hopeful way of escaping the gallows!” said +the first ruffian—“many an honest fellow has run his head into the +noose that way, though.” There was a pause of some moments, during which +they appeared to be considering. +</p> + +<p> +“Confound those fellows,” exclaimed one of the robbers impatiently, +“they ought to have been here by this time; they will come back presently +with the old story, and no booty: if they were here, our business would be +plain and easy. I see we shall not be able to do the business tonight, for our +numbers are not equal to the enemy, and in the morning they will be for +marching off, and how can we detain them without force?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been thinking of a scheme, that will do,” said one of his +comrades: “if we can dispatch the two chevaliers silently, it will be +easy to master the rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a plausible scheme, in good faith,” said another with +a smile of scorn—“If I can eat my way through the prison wall, I +shall be at liberty!—How can we dispatch them <i>silently?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“By poison,” replied his companions. +</p> + +<p> +“Well said! that will do,” said the second ruffian, “that +will give a lingering death too, and satisfy my revenge. These barons shall +take care how they again tempt our vengeance.” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew the son, the moment I saw him,” said the man, whom Blanche +had observed gazing on St. Foix, “though he does not know me; the father +I had almost forgotten.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you may say what you will,” said the third ruffian, +“but I don’t believe he is the Baron, and I am as likely to know as +any of you, for I was one of them, that attacked him, with our brave lads, that +suffered.” +</p> + +<p> +“And was not I another?” said the first ruffian, “I tell you +he is the Baron; but what does it signify whether he is or not?—shall we +let all this booty go out of our hands? It is not often we have such luck at +this. While we run the chance of the wheel for smuggling a few pounds of +tobacco, to cheat the king’s manufactory, and of breaking our necks down +the precipices in the chace of our food; and, now and then, rob a brother +smuggler, or a straggling pilgrim, of what scarcely repays us the powder we +fire at them, shall we let such a prize as this go? Why they have enough about +them to keep us for—” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not for that, I am not for that,” replied the third robber, +“let us make the most of them: only, if this is the Baron, I should like +to have a flash the more at him, for the sake of our brave comrades, that he +brought to the gallows.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye, flash as much as you will,” rejoined the first man, +“but I tell you the Baron is a taller man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound your quibbling,” said the second ruffian, “shall we +let them go or not? If we stay here much longer, they will take the hint, and +march off without our leave. Let them be who they will, they are rich, or why +all those servants? Did you see the ring, he, you call the Baron, had on his +finger?—it was a diamond; but he has not got it on now: he saw me looking +at it, I warrant, and took it off.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, and then there is the picture; did you see that? She has not taken +that off,” observed the first ruffian, “it hangs at her neck; if it +had not sparkled so, I should not have found it out, for it was almost hid by +her dress; those are diamonds too, and a rare many of them there must be, to go +round such a large picture.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how are we to manage this business?” said the second ruffian: +“let us talk of that, there is no fear of there being booty enough, but +how are we to secure it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye,” said his comrades, “let us talk of that, and +remember no time is to be lost.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am still for poison,” observed the third, “but consider +their number; why there are nine or ten of them, and armed too; when I saw so +many at the gate, I was not for letting them in, you know, nor you +either.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought they might be some of our enemies,” replied the second, +“I did not so much mind numbers.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you must mind them now,” rejoined his comrade, “or it +will be worse for you. We are not more than six, and how can we master ten by +open force? I tell you we must give some of them a dose, and the rest may then +be managed.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you a better way,” rejoined the other impatiently, +“draw closer.” +</p> + +<p> +Blanche, who had listened to this conversation, in an agony, which it would be +impossible to describe, could no longer distinguish what was said, for the +ruffians now spoke in lowered voices; but the hope, that she might save her +friends from the plot, if she could find her way quickly to them, suddenly +reanimated her spirits, and lent her strength enough to turn her steps in +search of the gallery. Terror, however, and darkness conspired against her, +and, having moved a few yards, the feeble light, that issued from the chamber, +no longer even contended with the gloom, and, her foot stumbling over a step +that crossed the passage, she fell to the ground. +</p> + +<p> +The noise startled the banditti, who became suddenly silent, and then all +rushed to the passage, to examine whether any person was there, who might have +overheard their councils. Blanche saw them approaching, and perceived their +fierce and eager looks: but, before she could raise herself, they discovered +and seized her, and, as they dragged her towards the chamber they had quitted, +her screams drew from them horrible threatenings. +</p> + +<p> +Having reached the room, they began to consult what they should do with her. +“Let us first know what she had heard,” said the chief robber. +“How long have you been in the passage, lady, and what brought you +there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us first secure that picture,” said one of his comrades, +approaching the trembling Blanche. “Fair lady, by your leave that picture +is mine; come, surrender it, or I shall seize it.” +</p> + +<p> +Blanche, entreating their mercy, immediately gave up the miniature, while +another of the ruffians fiercely interrogated her, concerning what she had +overheard of their conversation, when, her confusion and terror too plainly +telling what her tongue feared to confess, the ruffians looked expressively +upon one another, and two of them withdrew to a remote part of the room, as if +to consult further. +</p> + +<p> +“These are diamonds, by St. Peter!” exclaimed the fellow, who had +been examining the miniature, “and here is a very pretty picture too, +“faith; as handsome a young chevalier, as you would wish to see by a +summer’s sun. Lady, this is your spouse, I warrant, for it is the spark, +that was in your company just now.” +</p> + +<p> +Blanche, sinking with terror, conjured him to have pity on her, and, delivering +him her purse, promised to say nothing of what had passed, if he would suffer +her to return to her friends. +</p> + +<p> +He smiled ironically, and was going to reply, when his attention was called off +by a distant noise; and, while he listened, he grasped the arm of Blanche more +firmly, as if he feared she would escape from him, and she again shrieked for +help. +</p> + +<p> +The approaching sounds called the ruffians from the other part of the chamber. +“We are betrayed,” said they; “but let us listen a moment, +perhaps it is only our comrades come in from the mountains, and if so, our work +is sure; listen!” +</p> + +<p> +A distant discharge of shot confirmed this supposition for a moment, but, in +the next, the former sounds drawing nearer, the clashing of swords, mingled +with the voices of loud contention and with heavy groans, were distinguished in +the avenue leading to the chamber. While the ruffians prepared their arms, they +heard themselves called by some of their comrades afar off, and then a shrill +horn was sounded without the fortress, a signal, it appeared, they too well +understood; for three of them, leaving the Lady Blanche to the care of the +fourth, instantly rushed from the chamber. +</p> + +<p> +While Blanche, trembling, and nearly fainting, was supplicating for release, +she heard amid the tumult, that approached, the voice of St. Foix, and she had +scarcely renewed her shriek, when the door of the room was thrown open, and he +appeared, much disfigured with blood, and pursued by several ruffians. Blanche +neither saw, nor heard any more; her head swam, her sight failed, and she became +senseless in the arms of the robber, who had detained her. +</p> + +<p> +When she recovered, she perceived, by the gloomy light that trembled round +her, that she was in the same chamber, but neither the Count, St. Foix, nor any +other person appeared, and she continued, for some time, entirely still, and +nearly in a state of stupefaction. But, the dreadful images of the past +returning, she endeavoured to raise herself, that she might seek her friends, +when a sullen groan, at a little distance, reminded her of St. Foix, and of the +condition, in which she had seen him enter this room; then, starting from the +floor, by a sudden effort of horror, she advanced to the place whence the sound +had proceeded, where a body was lying stretched upon the pavement, and where, +by the glimmering light of a lamp, she discovered the pale and disfigured +countenance of St. Foix. Her horrors, at that moment, may be easily imagined. +He was speechless; his eyes were half closed, and, on the hand, which she +grasped in the agony of despair, cold damps had settled. While she vainly +repeated his name, and called for assistance, steps approached, and a person +entered the chamber, who, she soon perceived, was not the Count, her father; +but, what was her astonishment, when, supplicating him to give his assistance +to St. Foix, she discovered Ludovico! He scarcely paused to recognise her, but +immediately bound up the wounds of the Chevalier, and, perceiving, that he had +fainted probably from loss of blood, ran for water; but he had been absent only +a few moments, when Blanche heard other steps approaching, and, while she was +almost frantic with apprehension of the ruffians, the light of a torch flashed +upon the walls, and then Count De Villefort appeared, with an affrighted +countenance, and breathless with impatience, calling upon his daughter. At the +sound of his voice, she rose, and ran to his arms, while he, letting fall the +bloody sword he held, pressed her to his bosom in a transport of gratitude and +joy, and then hastily enquired for St. Foix, who now gave some signs of life. +Ludovico soon after returning with water and brandy, the former was applied to +his lips, and the latter to his temples and hands, and Blanche, at length, saw +him unclose his eyes, and then heard him enquire for her; but the joy she felt, +on this occasion, was interrupted by new alarms, when Ludovico said it would be +necessary to remove Mons. St. Foix immediately, and added, “The banditti, +that are out, my Lord, were expected home, an hour ago, and they will certainly +find us, if we delay. That shrill horn, they know, is never sounded by their +comrades but on most desperate occasions, and it echoes among the mountains for +many leagues round. I have known them brought home by its sound even from the +Pied de Melicant. Is anybody standing watch at the great gate, my Lord?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody,” replied the Count; “the rest of my people are now +scattered about, I scarcely know where. Go, Ludovico, collect them together, +and look out yourself, and listen if you hear the feet of mules.” +</p> + +<p> +Ludovico then hurried away, and the Count consulted as to the means of removing +St. Foix, who could not have borne the motion of a mule, even if his strength +would have supported him in the saddle. +</p> + +<p> +While the Count was telling, that the banditti, whom they had found in the +fort, were secured in the dungeon, Blanche observed that he was himself +wounded, and that his left arm was entirely useless; but he smiled at her +anxiety, assuring her the wound was trifling. +</p> + +<p> +The Count’s servants, except two who kept watch at the gate, now +appeared, and, soon after, Ludovico. “I think I hear mules coming along +the glen, my Lord,” said he, “but the roaring of the torrent below +will not let me be certain; however, I have brought what will serve the +Chevalier,” he added, showing a bear’s skin, fastened to a couple +of long poles, which had been adapted for the purpose of bringing home such of +the banditti as happened to be wounded in their encounters. Ludovico spread it +on the ground, and, placing the skins of several goats upon it, made a kind of +bed, into which the Chevalier, who was however now much revived, was gently +lifted; and, the poles being raised upon the shoulders of the guides, whose +footing among these steeps could best be depended upon, he was borne along with +an easy motion. Some of the Count’s servants were also wounded—but +not materially, and, their wounds being bound up, they now followed to the +great gate. As they passed along the hall, a loud tumult was heard at some +distance, and Blanche was terrified. “It is only those villains in the +dungeon, my Lady,” said Ludovico. “They seem to be bursting it +open,” said the Count. “No, my Lord,” replied Ludovico, +“it has an iron door; we have nothing to fear from them; but let me go +first, and look out from the rampart.” +</p> + +<p> +They quickly followed him, and found their mules browsing before the gates, +where the party listened anxiously, but heard no sound, except that of the +torrent below and of the early breeze, sighing among the branches of the old +oak, that grew in the court; and they were now glad to perceive the first tints +of dawn over the mountain-tops. When they had mounted their mules, Ludovico, +undertaking to be their guide, led them by an easier path, than that by which +they had formerly ascended, into the glen. “We must avoid that valley to +the east, my Lord,” said he, “or we may meet the banditti; they +went out that way in the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +The travellers, soon after, quitted this glen, and found themselves in a narrow +valley that stretched towards the north-west. The morning light upon the +mountains now strengthened fast, and gradually discovered the green hillocks, +that skirted the winding feet of the cliffs, tufted with cork tree, and +ever-green oak. The thunder-clouds being dispersed, had left the sky perfectly +serene, and Blanche was revived by the fresh breeze, and by the view of +verdure, which the late rain had brightened. Soon after, the sun arose, when +the dripping rocks, with the shrubs that fringed their summits, and many a +turfy slope below, sparkled in his rays. A wreath of mist was seen, floating +along the extremity of the valley, but the gale bore it before the travellers, +and the sunbeams gradually drew it up towards the summit of the mountains. +They had proceeded about a league, when, St. Foix having complained of extreme +faintness, they stopped to give him refreshment, and, that the men, who bore +him, might rest. Ludovico had brought from the fort some flasks of rich Spanish +wine, which now proved a reviving cordial not only to St. Foix but to the whole +party, though to him it gave only temporary relief, for it fed the fever, that +burned in his veins, and he could neither disguise in his countenance the +anguish he suffered, nor suppress the wish, that he was arrived at the inn, +where they had designed to pass the preceding night. +</p> + +<p> +While they thus reposed themselves under the shade of the dark green pines, the +Count desired Ludovico to explain shortly, by what means he had disappeared +from the north apartment, how he came into the hands of the banditti, and how +he had contributed so essentially to serve him and his family, for to him he +justly attributed their present deliverance. Ludovico was going to obey him, +when suddenly they heard the echo of a pistol-shot, from the way they had +passed, and they rose in alarm, hastily to pursue their route. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap51"></a> CHAPTER XIII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Ah why did Fate his steps decoy<br/> +In stormy paths to roam,<br/> +Remote from all congenial joy!<br/> + BEATTIE +</p> + +<p> +Emily, meanwhile, was still suffering anxiety as to the fate of Valancourt; +but Theresa, having, at length, found a person, whom she could entrust on her +errand to the steward, informed her, that the messenger would return on the +following day; and Emily promised to be at the cottage, Theresa being too lame +to attend her. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, therefore, Emily set out alone for the cottage, with a +melancholy foreboding, concerning Valancourt, while, perhaps, the gloom of the +hour might contribute to depress her spirits. It was a grey autumnal evening +towards the close of the season; heavy mists partially obscured the mountains, +and a chilling breeze, that sighed among the beech woods, strewed her path with +some of their last yellow leaves. These, circling in the blast and foretelling +the death of the year, gave an image of desolation to her mind, and, in her +fancy, seemed to announce the death of Valancourt. Of this she had, indeed, +more than once so strong a presentiment, that she was on the point of returning +home, feeling herself unequal to an encounter with the certainty she +anticipated, but, contending with her emotions, she so far commanded them, as +to be able to proceed. +</p> + +<p> +While she walked mournfully on, gazing on the long volumes of vapour, that +poured upon the sky, and watching the swallows, tossed along the wind, now +disappearing among tempestuous clouds, and then emerging, for a moment, in +circles upon the calmer air, the afflictions and vicissitudes of her late life +seemed portrayed in these fleeting images;—thus had she been tossed upon +the stormy sea of misfortune for the last year, with but short intervals of +peace, if peace that could be called, which was only the delay of evils. And +now, when she had escaped from so many dangers, was become independent of the +will of those, who had oppressed her, and found herself mistress of a large +fortune, now, when she might reasonably have expected happiness, she perceived +that she was as distant from it as ever. She would have accused herself of +weakness and ingratitude in thus suffering a sense of the various blessings she +possessed to be overcome by that of a single misfortune, had this misfortune +affected herself alone; but, when she had wept for Valancourt even as living, +tears of compassion had mingled with those of regret, and while she lamented a +human being degraded to vice, and consequently to misery, reason and humanity +claimed these tears, and fortitude had not yet taught her to separate them from +those of love; in the present moments, however, it was not the certainty of his +guilt, but the apprehension of his death (of a death also, to which she +herself, however innocently, appeared to have been in some degree instrumental) +that oppressed her. This fear increased, as the means of certainty concerning +it approached; and, when she came within view of Theresa’s cottage, she +was so much disordered, and her resolution failed her so entirely, that, unable +to proceed, she rested on a bank, beside her path; where, as she sat, the wind +that groaned sullenly among the lofty branches above, seemed to her melancholy +imagination to bear the sounds of distant lamentation, and, in the pauses of +the gust, she still fancied she heard the feeble and far-off notes of distress. +Attention convinced her, that this was no more than fancy; but the increasing +gloom, which seemed the sudden close of day, soon warned her to depart, and, +with faltering steps, she again moved toward the cottage. Through the casement +appeared the cheerful blaze of a wood fire, and Theresa, who had observed Emily +approaching, was already at the door to receive her. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a cold evening, madam,” said she, “storms are coming +on, and I thought you would like a fire. Do take this chair by the +hearth.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, thanking her for this consideration, sat down, and then, looking in her +face, on which the wood fire threw a gleam, she was struck with its expression, +and, unable to speak, sunk back in her chair with a countenance so full of woe, +that Theresa instantly comprehended the occasion of it, but she remained +silent. “Ah!” said Emily, at length, “it is unnecessary for +me to ask the result of your enquiry, your silence, and that look, sufficiently +explain it;—he is dead!” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! my dear young lady,” replied Theresa, while tears filled her +eyes, “this world is made up of trouble! the rich have their share as +well as the poor! But we must all endeavour to bear what Heaven pleases.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is dead, then!”—interrupted Emily—“Valancourt +is dead!” +</p> + +<p> +“A-well-a-day! I fear he is,” replied Theresa. +</p> + +<p> +“You fear!” said Emily, “do you only fear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! yes, madam, I fear he is! neither the steward, nor any of the +Epourville family, have heard of him since he left Languedoc, and the Count is +in great affliction about him, for he says he was always punctual in writing, +but that now he has not received a line from him, since he left Languedoc; he +appointed to be at home, three weeks ago, but he has neither come, nor written, +and they fear some accident has befallen him. Alas! that ever I should live to +cry for his death! I am old, and might have died without being missed, but +he”—Emily was faint, and asked for some water, and Theresa, alarmed +by the voice, in which she spoke, hastened to her assistance, and, while she +held the water to Emily’s lips, continued, “My dear young mistress, +do not take it so to heart; the Chevalier may be alive and well, for all this; +let us hope the best!” +</p> + +<p> +“O no! I cannot hope,” said Emily, “I am acquainted with +circumstances, that will not suffer me to hope. I am somewhat better now, and +can hear what you have to say. Tell me, I entreat, the particulars of what you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stay, till you are a little better, mademoiselle, you look sadly!” +</p> + +<p> +“O no, Theresa, tell me all, while I have the power to hear it,” +said Emily, “tell me all, I conjure you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, madam, I will then; but the steward did not say much, for Richard +says he seemed shy of talking about Mons. Valancourt, and what he gathered was +from Gabriel, one of the servants, who said he had heard it from my +lord’s gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did he hear?” said Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, madam, Richard has but a bad memory, and could not remember half of +it, and, if I had not asked him a great many questions, I should have heard +little indeed. But he says that Gabriel said, that he and all the other +servants were in great trouble about M. Valancourt, for that he was such a kind +young gentleman, they all loved him, as well as if he had been their own +brother—and now, to think what was become of him! For he used to be so +courteous to them all, and, if any of them had been in fault, M. Valancourt was +the first to persuade my lord to forgive them. And then, if any poor family was +in distress, M. Valancourt was the first, too, to relieve them, though some +folks, not a great way off, could have afforded that much better than he. And +then, said Gabriel, he was so gentle to everybody, and, for all he had such a +noble look with him, he never would command, and call about him, as some of +your quality people do, and we never minded him the less for that. Nay, says +Gabriel, for that matter, we minded him the more, and would all have run to +obey him at a word, sooner than if some folks had told us what to do at full +length; aye, and were more afraid of displeasing him, too, than of them, that +used rough words to us.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, who no longer considered it to be dangerous to listen to praise, +bestowed on Valancourt, did not attempt to interrupt Theresa, but sat, +attentive to her words, though almost overwhelmed with grief. “My +Lord,” continued Theresa, “frets about M. Valancourt sadly, and the +more, because, they say, he had been rather harsh against him lately. Gabriel +says he had it from my Lord’s valet, that M. Valancourt had +<i>comported</i> himself wildly at Paris, and had spent a great deal of money, +more a great deal than my Lord liked, for he loves money better than M. +Valancourt, who had been led astray sadly. Nay, for that matter, M. Valancourt +had been put into prison at Paris, and my Lord, says Gabriel, refused to take +him out, and said he deserved to suffer; and, when old Gregoire, the butler, +heard of this, he actually bought a walking-stick to take with him to Paris, to +visit his young master; but the next thing we hear is, that M. Valancourt is +coming home. O, it was a joyful day when he came; but he was sadly altered, and +my Lord looked very cool upon him, and he was very sad, indeed. And, soon +after, he went away again into Languedoc, and, since that time, we have never +seen him.” +</p> + +<p> +Theresa paused, and Emily, sighing deeply, remained with her eyes fixed upon +the floor, without speaking. After a long pause, she enquired what further +Theresa had heard. “Yet why should I ask?” she added; “what +you have already told is too much. O Valancourt! thou art gone—for ever +gone! and I—I have murdered thee!” These words, and the countenance +of despair which accompanied them, alarmed Theresa, who began to fear, that the +shock of the intelligence Emily had just received, had affected her senses. +“My dear young lady, be composed,” said she, “and do not say +such frightful words. You murder M. Valancourt,—dear heart!” Emily +replied only by a heavy sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear lady, it breaks my heart to see you look so,” said Theresa, +“do not sit with your eyes upon the ground, and all so pale and +melancholy; it frightens me to see you.” Emily was still silent, and did +not appear to hear anything that was said to her. “Besides, +mademoiselle,” continued Theresa, “M. Valancourt may be alive and +merry yet, for what we know.” +</p> + +<p> +At the mention of his name, Emily raised her eyes, and fixed them, in a wild +gaze, upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to understand what had been +said. “Aye, my dear lady,” said Theresa, mistaking the meaning of +this considerate air, “M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet.” +</p> + +<p> +On the repetition of these words, Emily comprehended their import, but, instead +of producing the effect intended, they seemed only to heighten her distress. +She rose hastily from her chair, paced the little room, with quick steps, and, +often sighing deeply, clasped her hands, and shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Theresa, with simple, but honest affection, endeavoured to comfort +her; put more wood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighter blaze, swept the +hearth, set the chair, which Emily had left, in a warmer situation, and then +drew forth from a cupboard a flask of wine. “It is a stormy night, +madam,” said she, “and blows cold—do come nearer the fire, +and take a glass of this wine; it will comfort you, as it has done me, often +and often, for it is not such wine as one gets every day; it is rich Languedoc, +and the last of six flasks that M. Valancourt sent me, the night before he left +Gascony for Paris. They have served me, ever since, as cordials, and I never +drink it, but I think of him, and what kind words he said to me when he gave +them. ‘Theresa,’ says he, ‘you are not young now, and should +have a glass of good wine, now and then. I will send you a few flasks, and, +when you taste them, you will sometimes remember me your friend.’ +Yes—those were his very words—me your friend!” Emily still +paced the room, without seeming to hear what Theresa said, who continued +speaking. “And I have remembered him, often enough, poor young +gentleman!—for he gave me this roof for a shelter, and that, which has +supported me. Ah! he is in heaven, with my blessed master, if ever saint +was!” +</p> + +<p> +Theresa’s voice faltered; she wept, and set down the flask, unable to +pour out the wine. Her grief seemed to recall Emily from her own, who went +towards her, but then stopped, and, having gazed on her, for a moment, turned +suddenly away, as if overwhelmed by the reflection, that it was Valancourt, +whom Theresa lamented. +</p> + +<p> +While she yet paced the room, the still, soft note of an oboe, or flute, was +heard mingling with the blast, the sweetness of which affected Emily’s +spirits; she paused a moment in attention; the tender tones, as they swelled +along the wind, till they were lost again in the ruder gust, came with a +plaintiveness, that touched her heart, and she melted into tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” said Theresa, drying her eyes, “there is Richard, our +neighbour’s son, playing on the oboe; it is sad enough, to hear such +sweet music now.” Emily continued to weep, without replying. “He +often plays of an evening,” added Theresa, “and, sometimes, the +young folks dance to the sound of his oboe. But, dear young lady! do not cry +so; and pray take a glass of this wine,” continued she, pouring some into +a glass, and handing it to Emily, who reluctantly took it. +</p> + +<p> +“Taste it for M. Valancourt’s sake,” said Theresa, as Emily +lifted the glass to her lips, “for he gave it me, you know, madam.” +Emily’s hand trembled, and she spilt the wine as she withdrew it from her +lips. “For whose sake!—who gave the wine?” said she in a +faltering voice. “M. Valancourt, dear lady. I knew you would be pleased +with it. It is the last flask I have left.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily set the wine upon the table, and burst into tears, while Theresa, +disappointed and alarmed, tried to comfort her; but she only waved her hand, +entreated she might be left alone, and wept the more. +</p> + +<p> +A knock at the cottage door prevented Theresa from immediately obeying her +mistress, and she was going to open it, when Emily, checking her, requested she +would not admit any person; but, afterwards, recollecting, that she had ordered +her servant to attend her home, she said it was only Philippe, and endeavoured +to restrain her tears, while Theresa opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +A voice, that spoke without, drew Emily’s attention. She listened, turned +her eyes to the door, when a person now appeared, and immediately a bright +gleam, that flashed from the fire, discovered—Valancourt! +</p> + +<p> +Emily, on perceiving him, started from her chair, trembled, and, sinking into +it again, became insensible to all around her. +</p> + +<p> +A scream from Theresa now told, that she knew Valancourt, whom her imperfect +sight, and the duskiness of the place had prevented her from immediately +recollecting; but his attention was immediately called from her to the person, +whom he saw, falling from a chair near the fire; and, hastening to her +assistance,—he perceived, that he was supporting Emily! The various +emotions, that seized him upon thus unexpectedly meeting with her, from whom he +had believed he had parted for ever, and on beholding her pale and lifeless in +his arms—may, perhaps, be imagined, though they could neither be then +expressed, nor now described, any more than Emily’s sensations, when, at +length, she unclosed her eyes, and, looking up, again saw Valancourt. The +intense anxiety, with which he regarded her, was instantly changed to an +expression of mingled joy and tenderness, as his eye met hers, and he +perceived, that she was reviving. But he could only exclaim, +“Emily!” as he silently watched her recovery, while she averted her +eye, and feebly attempted to withdraw her hand; but, in these the first +moments, which succeeded to the pangs his supposed death had occasioned her, +she forgot every fault, which had formerly claimed indignation, and beholding +Valancourt such as he had appeared, when he won her early affection, she +experienced emotions of only tenderness and joy. This, alas! was but the +sunshine of a few short moments; recollections rose, like clouds, upon her +mind, and, darkening the illusive image, that possessed it, she again beheld +Valancourt, degraded—Valancourt unworthy of the esteem and tenderness she +had once bestowed upon him; her spirits faltered, and, withdrawing her hand, +she turned from him to conceal her grief, while he, yet more embarrassed and +agitated, remained silent. +</p> + +<p> +A sense of what she owed to herself restrained her tears, and taught her soon +to overcome, in some degree, the emotions of mingled joy and sorrow, that +contended at her heart, as she rose, and, having thanked him for the assistance +he had given her, bade Theresa good evening. As she was leaving the cottage, +Valancourt, who seemed suddenly awakened as from a dream, entreated, in a +voice, that pleaded powerfully for compassion, a few moments attention. +Emily’s heart, perhaps, pleaded as powerfully, but she had resolution +enough to resist both, together with the clamorous entreaties of Theresa, that +she would not venture home alone in the dark, and had already opened the +cottage door, when the pelting storm compelled her to obey their requests. +</p> + +<p> +Silent and embarrassed, she returned to the fire, while Valancourt, with +increasing agitation, paced the room, as if he wished, yet feared, to speak, +and Theresa expressed without restraint her joy and wonder upon seeing him. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear heart! sir,” said she, “I never was so surprised and +overjoyed in my life. We were in great tribulation before you came, for we +thought you were dead, and were talking, and lamenting about you, just when you +knocked at the door. My young mistress there was crying, fit to break her +heart—” +</p> + +<p> +Emily looked with much displeasure at Theresa, but, before she could speak, +Valancourt, unable to repress the emotion, which Theresa’s imprudent +discovery occasioned, exclaimed, “O my Emily! am I then still dear to +you! Did you, indeed, honour me with a thought—a tear? O heavens! you +weep—you weep now!” +</p> + +<p> +“Theresa, sir,” said Emily, with a reserved air, and trying to +conquer her tears, “has reason to remember you with gratitude, and she +was concerned, because she had not lately heard of you. Allow me to thank you +for the kindness you have shown her, and to say, that, since I am now upon the +spot, she must not be further indebted to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Emily,” said Valancourt, no longer master of his emotions, +“is it thus you meet him, whom once you meant to honour with your +hand—thus you meet him, who has loved you—suffered for +you?—Yet what do I say? Pardon me, pardon me, mademoiselle St. Aubert, I +know not what I utter. I have no longer any claim upon your remembrance—I +have forfeited every pretension to your esteem, your love. Yes! let me not +forget, that I once possessed your affections, though to know that I have lost +them, is my severest affliction. Affliction—do I call it!—that is a +term of mildness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear heart!” said Theresa, preventing Emily from replying, +“talk of once having her affections! Why, my dear young lady loves you +now, better than she does anybody in the whole world, though she pretends to +deny it.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is insupportable!” said Emily; “Theresa, you know not +what you say. Sir, if you respect my tranquillity, you will spare me from the +continuance of this distress.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do respect your tranquillity too much, voluntarily to interrupt +it,” replied Valancourt, in whose bosom pride now contended with +tenderness; “and will not be a voluntary intruder. I would have entreated +a few moments attention—yet I know not for what purpose. You have ceased +to esteem me, and to recount to you my sufferings will degrade me more, without +exciting even your pity. Yet I have been, O Emily! I am indeed very +wretched!” added Valancourt, in a voice, that softened from solemnity +into grief. +</p> + +<p> +“What! is my dear young master going out in all this rain!” said +Theresa. “No, he shall not stir a step. Dear! dear! to see how +gentlefolks can afford to throw away their happiness! Now, if you were poor +people, there would be none of this. To talk of unworthiness, and not caring +about one another, when I know there are not such a kind-hearted lady and +gentleman in the whole province, nor any that love one another half so well, if +the truth was spoken!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, in extreme vexation, now rose from her chair, “I must be +gone,” said she, “the storm is over.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stay, Emily, stay, mademoiselle St. Aubert!” said Valancourt, +summoning all his resolution, “I will no longer distress you by my +presence. Forgive me, that I did not sooner obey you, and, if you can, +sometimes, pity one, who, in losing you—has lost all hope of peace! May +you be happy, Emily, however wretched I remain, happy as my fondest wish would +have you!” +</p> + +<p> +His voice faltered with the last words, and his countenance changed, while, +with a look of ineffable tenderness and grief, he gazed upon her for an +instant, and then quitted the cottage. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear heart! dear heart!” cried Theresa, following him to the door, +“why, Monsieur Valancourt! how it rains! what a night is this to turn him +out in! Why it will give him his death; and it was but now you were crying, +mademoiselle, because he was dead. Well! young ladies do change their mind in a +minute, as one may say!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily made no reply, for she heard not what was said, while, lost in sorrow and +thought, she remained in her chair by the fire, with her eyes fixed, and the +image of Valancourt still before them. +</p> + +<p> +“M. Valancourt is sadly altered! madam,” said Theresa; “he +looks so thin to what he used to do, and so melancholy, and then he wears his +arm in a sling.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily raised her eyes at these words, for she had not observed this last +circumstance, and she now did not doubt, that Valancourt had received the shot +of her gardener at Thoulouse; with this conviction her pity for him returning, +she blamed herself for having occasioned him to leave the cottage, during the +storm. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after her servants arrived with the carriage, and Emily, having censured +Theresa for her thoughtless conversation to Valancourt, and strictly charging +her never to repeat any hints of the same kind to him, withdrew to her home, +thoughtful and disconsolate. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Valancourt had returned to a little inn of the village, whither he +had arrived only a few moments before his visit to Theresa’s cottage, on +the way from Thoulouse to the château of the Count de Duvarney, where he had not +been since he bade adieu to Emily at Château-le-Blanc, in the neighbourhood of +which he had lingered for a considerable time, unable to summon resolution +enough to quit a place, that contained the object most dear to his heart. There +were times, indeed, when grief and despair urged him to appear again before +Emily, and, regardless of his ruined circumstances, to renew his suit. Pride, +however, and the tenderness of his affection, which could not long endure the +thought of involving her in his misfortunes, at length, so far triumphed over +passion, that he relinquished this desperate design, and quitted +Château-le-Blanc. But still his fancy wandered among the scenes, which had +witnessed his early love, and, on his way to Gascony, he stopped at Thoulouse, +where he remained when Emily arrived, concealing, yet indulging his melancholy +in the gardens, where he had formerly passed with her so many happy hours; +often recurring, with vain regret, to the evening before her departure for +Italy, when she had so unexpectedly met him on the terrace, and endeavouring to +recall to his memory every word and look, which had then charmed him, the +arguments he had employed to dissuade her from the journey, and the tenderness +of their last farewell. In such melancholy recollections he had been indulging, +when Emily unexpectedly arrived to him on this very terrace, the evening after +her arrival at Thoulouse. His emotions, on thus seeing her, can scarcely be +imagined; but he so far overcame the first promptings of love, that he forbore +to discover himself, and abruptly quitted the gardens. Still, however, the +vision he had seen haunted his mind; he became more wretched than before, and +the only solace of his sorrow was to return in the silence of the night; to +follow the paths which he believed her steps had pressed, during the day; and, +to watch round the habitation where she reposed. It was in one of these +mournful wanderings, that he had received by the fire of the gardener, who +mistook him for a robber, a wound in his arm, which had detained him at +Thoulouse till very lately, under the hands of a surgeon. There, regardless of +himself and careless of his friends, whose late unkindness had urged him to +believe, that they were indifferent as to his fate, he remained, without +informing them of his situation; and now, being sufficiently recovered to bear +travelling, he had taken La Vallée in his way to Estuvière, the Count’s +residence, partly for the purpose of hearing of Emily, and of being again near +her, and partly for that of enquiring into the situation of poor old Theresa, +who, he had reason to suppose, had been deprived of her stipend, small as it +was, and which enquiry had brought him to her cottage, when Emily happened to +be there. +</p> + +<p> +This unexpected interview, which had at once shown him the tenderness of her +love and the strength of her resolution, renewed all the acuteness of the +despair, that had attended their former separation, and which no effort of +reason could teach him, in these moments, to subdue. Her image, her look, the +tones of her voice, all dwelt on his fancy, as powerfully as they had late +appeared to his senses, and banished from his heart every emotion, except those +of love and despair. +</p> + +<p> +Before the evening concluded, he returned to Theresa’s cottage, that he +might hear her talk of Emily, and be in the place, where she had so lately +been. The joy, felt and expressed by that faithful servant, was quickly changed +to sorrow, when she observed, at one moment, his wild and frenzied look, and, +at another, the dark melancholy, that overhung him. +</p> + +<p> +After he had listened, and for a considerable time, to all she had to relate, +concerning Emily, he gave Theresa nearly all the money he had about him, though +she repeatedly refused it, declaring, that her mistress had amply supplied her +wants; and then, drawing a ring of value from his finger, he delivered it her +with a solemn charge to present it to Emily, of whom he entreated, as a last +favour, that she would preserve it for his sake, and sometimes, when she looked +upon it, remember the unhappy giver. +</p> + +<p> +Theresa wept, as she received the ring, but it was more from sympathy, than +from any presentiment of evil; and before she could reply, Valancourt abruptly +left the cottage. She followed him to the door, calling upon his name and +entreating him to return; but she received no answer, and saw him no more. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap52"></a> CHAPTER XIV </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Call up him, that left half told<br/> +The story of Cambuscan bold.<br/> + MILTON +</p> + +<p> +On the following morning, as Emily sat in the parlour adjoining the library, +reflecting on the scene of the preceding night, Annette rushed wildly into the +room, and, without speaking, sunk breathless into a chair. It was some time +before she could answer the anxious enquiries of Emily, as to the occasion of +her emotion, but, at length, she exclaimed, “I have seen his ghost, +madam, I have seen his ghost!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who do you mean?” said Emily, with extreme impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“It came in from the hall, madam,” continued Annette, “as I +was crossing to the parlour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you speaking of?” repeated Emily, “Who came in from +the hall?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was dressed just as I have seen him, often and often,” added +Annette. “Ah! who could have thought—” +</p> + +<p> +Emily’s patience was now exhausted, and she was reprimanding her for such +idle fancies, when a servant entered the room, and informed her, that a +stranger without begged leave to speak with her. +</p> + +<p> +It immediately occurred to Emily, that this stranger was Valancourt, and she +told the servant to inform him, that she was engaged, and could not see any +person. +</p> + +<p> +The servant, having delivered his message, returned with one from the stranger, +urging the first request, and saying, that he had something of consequence to +communicate; while Annette, who had hitherto sat silent and amazed, now started +up, and crying, “It is Ludovico!—it is Ludovico!” ran out of +the room. Emily bade the servant follow her, and, if it really was Ludovico, to +show him into the parlour. +</p> + +<p> +In a few minutes, Ludovico appeared, accompanied by Annette, who, as joy +rendered her forgetful of all rules of decorum towards her mistress, would not +suffer any person to be heard, for some time, but herself. Emily expressed +surprise and satisfaction, on seeing Ludovico in safety, and the first emotions +increased, when he delivered letters from Count De Villefort and the Lady +Blanche, informing her of their late adventure, and of their present situation +at an inn among the Pyrenees, where they had been detained by the illness of +Mons. St. Foix, and the indisposition of Blanche, who added, that the Baron St. +Foix was just arrived to attend his son to his château, where he would remain +till the perfect recovery of his wounds, and then return to Languedoc, but that +her father and herself purposed to be at La Vallée, on the following day. She +added, that Emily’s presence would be expected at the approaching +nuptials, and begged she would be prepared to proceed, in a few days to +Château-le-Blanc. For an account of Ludovico’s adventure, she referred +her to himself; and Emily, though much interested, concerning the means, by +which he had disappeared from the north apartments, had the forbearance to +suspend the gratification of her curiosity, till he had taken some refreshment, +and had conversed with Annette, whose joy, on seeing him in safety, could not +have been more extravagant, had he arisen from the grave. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Emily perused again the letters of her friends, whose expressions of +esteem and kindness were very necessary consolations to her heart, awakened as +it was by the late interview to emotions of keener sorrow and regret. +</p> + +<p> +The invitation to Château-le-Blanc was pressed with so much kindness by the +Count and his daughter, who strengthened it by a message from the Countess, and +the occasion of it was so important to her friend, that Emily could not refuse +to accept it, nor, though she wished to remain in the quiet shades of her +native home, could she avoid perceiving the impropriety of remaining there +alone, since Valancourt was again in the neighbourhood. Sometimes, too, she +thought, that change of scenery and the society of her friends might +contribute, more than retirement, to restore her to tranquillity. +</p> + +<p> +When Ludovico again appeared, she desired him to give a detail of his adventure +in the north apartments, and to tell by what means he became a companion of the +banditti, with whom the Count had found him. +</p> + +<p> +He immediately obeyed, while Annette, who had not yet had leisure to ask him +many questions, on the subject, prepared to listen, with a countenance of +extreme curiosity, venturing to remind her lady of her incredulity, concerning +spirits, in the castle of Udolpho, and of her own sagacity in believing in +them; while Emily, blushing at the consciousness of her late credulity, +observed, that, if Ludovico’s adventure could justify Annette’s +superstition, he had probably not been here to relate it. +</p> + +<p> +Ludovico smiled at Annette, and bowed to Emily, and then began as follows: +</p> + +<p> +“You may remember, madam, that, on the night, when I sat up in the north +chamber, my lord, the Count, and Mons. Henri accompanied me thither, and that, +while they remained there, nothing happened to excite any alarm. When they were +gone I made a fire in the bedroom, and, not being inclined to sleep, I sat +down on the hearth with a book I had brought with me to divert my mind. I +confess I did sometimes look round the chamber, with something like +apprehension—” +</p> + +<p> +“O very like it, I dare say,” interrupted Annette, “and I +dare say too, if the truth was known, you shook from head to foot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not quite so bad as that,” replied Ludovico, smiling, “but +several times, as the wind whistled round the castle, and shook the old +casements, I did fancy I heard odd noises, and, once or twice, I got up and +looked about me; but nothing was to be seen, except the grim figures in the +tapestry, which seemed to frown upon me, as I looked at them. I had sat thus +for above an hour,” continued Ludovico, “when again I thought I +heard a noise, and glanced my eyes round the room, to discover what it came +from, but, not perceiving anything, I began to read again, and, when I had +finished the story I was upon, I felt drowsy, and dropped asleep. But presently +I was awakened by the noise I had heard before, and it seemed to come from that +part of the chamber, where the bed stood; and then, whether it was the story I +had been reading that affected my spirits, or the strange reports, that had +been spread of these apartments, I don’t know, but, when I looked towards +the bed again, I fancied I saw a man’s face within the dusky +curtains.” +</p> + +<p> +At the mention of this, Emily trembled, and looked anxiously, remembering the +spectacle she had herself witnessed there with Dorothée. +</p> + +<p> +“I confess, madam, my heart did fail me, at that instant,” +continued Ludovico, “but a return of the noise drew my attention from the +bed, and I then distinctly heard a sound, like that of a key, turning in a +lock, but what surprised me more was, that I saw no door where the sound seemed +to come from. In the next moment, however, the arras near the bed was slowly +lifted, and a person appeared behind it, entering from a small door in the +wall. He stood for a moment as if half retreating, with his head bending under +the arras which concealed the upper part of his face except his eyes scowling +beneath the tapestry as he held it; and then, while he raised it higher, I saw +the face of another man behind, looking over his shoulder. I know not how it +was, but, though my sword was upon the table before me, I had not the power +just then to seize it, but sat quite still, watching them, with my eyes half +shut as if I was asleep. I suppose they thought me so, and were debating what +they should do, for I heard them whisper, and they stood in the same posture +for the value of a minute, and then, I thought I perceived other faces in the +duskiness beyond the door, and heard louder whispers.” +</p> + +<p> +“This door surprises me,” said Emily, “because I understood, +that the Count had caused the arras to be lifted, and the walls examined, +suspecting, that they might have concealed a passage through which you had +departed.” +</p> + +<p> +“It does not appear so extraordinary to me, madam,” replied +Ludovico, “that this door should escape notice, because it was formed in +a narrow compartment, which appeared to be part of the outward wall, and, if +the Count had not passed over it, he might have thought it was useless to +search for a door where it seemed as if no passage could communicate with one; +but the truth was, that the passage was formed within the wall +itself.—But, to return to the men, whom I saw obscurely beyond the door, +and who did not suffer me to remain long in suspense, concerning their design. +They all rushed into the room, and surrounded me, though not before I had +snatched up my sword to defend myself. But what could one man do against four? +They soon disarmed me, and, having fastened my arms, and gagged my mouth, +forced me through the private door, leaving my sword upon the table, to assist, +as they said, those who should come in the morning to look for me, in fighting +against the ghosts. They then led me through many narrow passages, cut, as I +fancied, in the walls, for I had never seen them before, and down several +flights of steps, till we came to the vaults underneath the castle; and then +opening a stone door, which I should have taken for the wall itself, we went +through a long passage, and down other steps cut in the solid rock, when +another door delivered us into a cave. After turning and twining about, for +some time, we reached the mouth of it, and I found myself on the sea-beach at +the foot of the cliffs, with the château above. A boat was in waiting, into +which the ruffians got, forcing me along with them, and we soon reached a small +vessel, that was at anchor, where other men appeared, when setting me aboard, +two of the fellows who had seized me, followed, and the other two rowed back to +the shore, while we set sail. I soon found out what all this meant, and what +was the business of these men at the château. We landed in Rousillon, and, +after lingering several days about the shore, some of their comrades came down +from the mountains, and carried me with them to the fort, where I remained till +my Lord so unexpectedly arrived, for they had taken good care to prevent my +running away, having blindfolded me, during the journey, and, if they had not +done this, I think I never could have found my road to any town, through the +wild country we traversed. After I reached the fort I was watched like a +prisoner, and never suffered to go out, without two or three companions, and I +became so weary of life, that I often wished to get rid of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but they let you talk,” said Annette, “they did not +gagg you after they got you away from the château, so I don’t see what +reason there was to be so very weary of living; to say nothing about the chance +you had of seeing me again.” +</p> + +<p> +Ludovico smiled, and Emily also, who enquired what was the motive of these men +for carrying him off. +</p> + +<p> +“I soon found out, madam,” resumed Ludovico, “that they were +pirates, who had, during many years, secreted their spoil in the vaults of the +castle, which, being so near the sea, suited their purpose well. To prevent +detection they had tried to have it believed, that the château was haunted, +and, having discovered the private way to the north apartments, which had been +shut up ever since the death of the lady marchioness, they easily succeeded. +The housekeeper and her husband, who were the only persons, that had inhabited +the castle, for some years, were so terrified by the strange noises they heard +in the nights, that they would live there no longer; a report soon went abroad, +that it was haunted, and the whole country believed this the more readily, I +suppose, because it had been said, that the lady marchioness had died in a +strange way, and because my lord never would return to the place +afterwards.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why,” said Emily, “were not these pirates contented with +the cave—why did they think it necessary to deposit their spoil in the +castle?” +</p> + +<p> +“The cave, madam,” replied Ludovico, “was open to anybody, +and their treasures would not long have remained undiscovered there, but in the +vaults they were secure so long as the report prevailed of their being haunted. +Thus then, it appears, that they brought at midnight, the spoil they took on +the seas, and kept it till they had opportunities of disposing of it to +advantage. The pirates were connected with Spanish smugglers and banditti, who +live among the wilds of the Pyrenees, and carry on various kinds of traffic, +such as nobody would think of; and with this desperate horde of banditti I +remained, till my lord arrived. I shall never forget what I felt, when I first +discovered him—I almost gave him up for lost! but I knew, that, if I +showed myself, the banditti would discover who he was, and probably murder us +all, to prevent their secret in the château being detected. I, therefore, kept +out of my lord’s sight, but had a strict watch upon the ruffians, and +determined, if they offered him or his family violence, to discover myself, and +fight for our lives. Soon after, I overheard some of them laying a most +diabolical plan for the murder and plunder of the whole party, when I contrived +to speak to some of my lord’s attendants, telling them what was going +forward, and we consulted what was best to be done; meanwhile my lord, alarmed +at the absence of the Lady Blanche, demanded her, and the ruffians having given +some unsatisfactory answer, my lord and Mons. St. Foix became furious, so then +we thought it a good time to discover the plot, and rushing into the chamber, I +called out, ‘Treachery! my lord count, defend yourself!’ His +lordship and the chevalier drew their swords directly, and a hard battle we +had, but we conquered at last, as, madam, you are already informed of by my +Lord Count.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is an extraordinary adventure,” said Emily, “and much +praise is due, Ludovico, to your prudence and intrepidity. There are some +circumstances, however, concerning the north apartments, which still perplex +me; but, perhaps, you may be able to explain them. Did you ever hear the +banditti relate anything extraordinary of these rooms?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, madam,” replied Ludovico, “I never heard them speak +about the rooms, except to laugh at the credulity of the old housekeeper, who +once was very near catching one of the pirates; it was since the Count arrived +at the château, he said, and he laughed heartily as he related the trick he had +played off.” +</p> + +<p> +A blush overspread Emily’s cheek, and she impatiently desired Ludovico to +explain himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, my lady,” said he, “as this fellow was, one night in +the bedroom, he heard somebody approaching through the next apartment, and not +having time to lift up the arras, and unfasten the door, he hid himself in the +bed just by. There he lay for some time in as great a fright, I +suppose—” +</p> + +<p> +“As you were in,” interrupted Annette, “when you sat up so +boldly to watch by yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” said Ludovico, “in as great a fright as he ever made +anybody else suffer; and presently the housekeeper and some other person came +up to the bed, when he, thinking they were going to examine it, bethought him, +that his only chance of escaping detection, was by terrifying them; so he +lifted up the counterpane, but that did not do, till he raised his face above +it, and then they both set off, he said, as if they had seen the devil, and he +got out of the rooms undiscovered.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily could not forbear smiling at this explanation of the deception, which had +given her so much superstitious terror, and was surprised, that she could have +suffered herself to be thus alarmed, till she considered, that, when the mind +has once begun to yield to the weakness of superstition, trifles impress it +with the force of conviction. Still, however, she remembered with awe the +mysterious music, which had been heard, at midnight, near Château-le-Blanc, and +she asked Ludovico if he could give any explanation of it; but he could not. +</p> + +<p> +“I only know, madam,” he added, “that it did not belong to +the pirates, for I have heard them laugh about it, and say, they believed the +devil was in league with them there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I will answer for it he was,” said Annette, her countenance +brightening, “I was sure all along, that he or his spirits had something +to do with the north apartments, and now you see, madam, I am right at +last.” +</p> + +<p> +“It cannot be denied, that his spirits were very busy in that part of the +château,” replied Emily, smiling. “But I am surprised, Ludovico, +that these pirates should persevere in their schemes, after the arrival of the +Count; what could they expect but certain detection?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have reason to believe, madam,” replied Ludovico, “that it +was their intention to persevere no longer than was necessary for the removal +of the stores, which were deposited in the vaults; and it appeared, that they +had been employed in doing so from within a short period after the +Count’s arrival; but, as they had only a few hours in the night for this +business, and were carrying on other schemes at the same time, the vaults were +not above half emptied, when they took me away. They gloried exceedingly in +this opportunity of confirming the superstitious reports, that had been spread +of the north chambers, were careful to leave everything there as they had +found it, the better to promote the deception, and frequently, in their jocose +moods, would laugh at the consternation, which they believed the inhabitants of +the castle had suffered upon my disappearing, and it was to prevent the +possibility of my betraying their secret, that they had removed me to such a +distance. From that period they considered the château as nearly their own; but +I found from the discourse of their comrades, that, though they were cautious, +at first, in showing their power there, they had once very nearly betrayed +themselves. Going, one night, as was their custom, to the north chambers to +repeat the noises, that had occasioned such alarm among the servants, they +heard, as they were about to unfasten the secret door, voices in the bedroom. +My lord has since told me, that himself and M. Henri were then in the +apartment, and they heard very extraordinary sounds of lamentation, which it +seems were made by these fellows, with their usual design of spreading terror; +and my lord has owned, he then felt somewhat more, than surprise; but, as it +was necessary to the peace of his family, that no notice should be taken, he +was silent on the subject, and enjoined silence to his son.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, recollecting the change, that had appeared in the spirits of the Count, +after the night, when he had watched in the north room, now perceived the cause +of it; and, having made some further enquiries upon this strange affair, she +dismissed Ludovico, and went to give orders for the accommodation of her +friends, on the following day. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, Theresa, lame as she was, came to deliver the ring, with which +Valancourt had entrusted her, and, when she presented it, Emily was much +affected, for she remembered to have seen him wear it often in happier days. +She was, however, much displeased, that Theresa had received it, and positively +refused to accept it herself, though to have done so would have afforded her a +melancholy pleasure. Theresa entreated, expostulated, and then described the +distress of Valancourt, when he had given the ring, and repeated the message, +with which he had commissioned her to deliver it; and Emily could not conceal +the extreme sorrow this recital occasioned her, but wept, and remained lost in +thought. +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! my dear young lady!” said Theresa, “why should all +this be? I have known you from your infancy, and it may well be supposed I love +you, as if you were my own, and wish as much to see you happy. M. Valancourt, +to be sure, I have not known so long, but then I have reason to love him, as +though he was my own son. I know how well you love one another, or why all this +weeping and wailing?” Emily waved her hand for Theresa to be silent, who, +disregarding the signal, continued, “And how much you are alike in your +tempers and ways, and, that, if you were married, you would be the happiest +couple in the whole province—then what is there to prevent your marrying? +Dear dear! to see how some people fling away their happiness, and then cry and +lament about it, just as if it was not their own doing, and as if there was +more pleasure in wailing and weeping, than in being at peace. Learning, to be +sure, is a fine thing, but, if it teaches folks no better than that, why I had +rather be without it; if it would teach them to be happier, I would say +something to it, then it would be learning and wisdom too.” +</p> + +<p> +Age and long services had given Theresa a privilege to talk, but Emily now +endeavoured to check her loquacity, and, though she felt the justness of some +of her remarks, did not choose to explain the circumstances, that had +determined her conduct towards Valancourt. She, therefore, only told Theresa, +that it would much displease her to hear the subject renewed; that she had +reasons for her conduct, which she did not think it proper to mention, and that +the ring must be returned, with an assurance, that she could not accept it with +propriety; and, at the same time, she forbade Theresa to repeat any future +message from Valancourt, as she valued her esteem and kindness. Theresa was +afflicted, and made another attempt, though feeble, to interest her for +Valancourt, but the unusual displeasure, expressed in Emily’s +countenance, soon obliged her to desist, and she departed in wonder and +lamentation. +</p> + +<p> +To relieve her mind, in some degree, from the painful recollections, that +intruded upon it, Emily busied herself in preparations for the journey into +Languedoc, and, while Annette, who assisted her, spoke with joy and affection +of the safe return of Ludovico, she was considering how she might best promote +their happiness, and determined, if it appeared, that his affection was as +unchanged as that of the simple and honest Annette, to give her a marriage +portion, and settle them on some part of her estate. These considerations led +her to the remembrance of her father’s paternal domain, which his affairs +had formerly compelled him to dispose of to M. Quesnel, and which she +frequently wished to regain, because St. Aubert had lamented, that the chief +lands of his ancestors had passed into another family, and because they had +been his birth-place and the haunt of his early years. To the estate at +Thoulouse she had no peculiar attachment, and it was her wish to dispose of +this, that she might purchase her paternal domains, if M. Quesnel could be +prevailed on to part with them, which, as he talked much of living in Italy, +did not appear very improbable. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap53"></a> CHAPTER XV </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,<br/> +The bees’ collected treasures sweet,<br/> +Sweet music’s melting fall, but sweeter yet<br/> +The still, small voice of gratitude.<br/> + GRAY +</p> + +<p> +On the following day, the arrival of her friend revived the drooping Emily, and +La Vallée became once more the scene of social kindness and of elegant +hospitality. Illness and the terror she had suffered had stolen from Blanche +much of her sprightliness, but all her affectionate simplicity remained, and, +though she appeared less blooming, she was not less engaging than before. The +unfortunate adventure on the Pyrenees had made the Count very anxious to reach +home, and, after little more than a week’s stay at La Vallée, Emily +prepared to set out with her friends for Languedoc, assigning the care of her +house, during her absence, to Theresa. On the evening, preceding her departure, +this old servant brought again the ring of Valancourt, and, with tears, +entreated her mistress to receive it, for that she had neither seen, nor heard +of M. Valancourt, since the night when he delivered it to her. As she said +this, her countenance expressed more alarm, than she dared to utter; but Emily, +checking her own propensity to fear, considered, that he had probably returned +to the residence of his brother, and, again refusing to accept the ring, bade +Theresa preserve it, till she saw him, which, with extreme reluctance, she +promised to do. +</p> + +<p> +On the following day, Count De Villefort, with Emily and the Lady Blanche, left +La Vallée, and, on the ensuing evening, arrived at the Château-le-Blanc, where +the Countess, Henri, and M. Du Pont, whom Emily was surprised to find there, +received them with much joy and congratulation. She was concerned to observe, +that the Count still encouraged the hopes of his friend, whose countenance +declared, that his affection had suffered no abatement from absence; and was +much distressed, when, on the second evening after her arrival, the Count, +having withdrawn her from the Lady Blanche, with whom she was walking, renewed +the subject of M. Du Pont’s hopes. The mildness, with which she listened +to his intercessions at first, deceiving him, as to her sentiments, he began to +believe, that, her affection for Valancourt being overcome, she was, at length, +disposed to think favourably of M. Du Pont; and, when she afterwards convinced +him of his mistake, he ventured, in the earnestness of his wish to promote what +he considered to be the happiness of two persons, whom he so much esteemed, +gently to remonstrate with her, on thus suffering an ill-placed affection to +poison the happiness of her most valuable years. +</p> + +<p> +Observing her silence and the deep dejection of her countenance, he concluded +with saying, “I will not say more now, but I will still believe, my dear +Mademoiselle St. Aubert, that you will not always reject a person, so truly +estimable as my friend Du Pont.” +</p> + +<p> +He spared her the pain of replying, by leaving her; and she strolled on, +somewhat displeased with the Count for having persevered to plead for a suit, +which she had repeatedly rejected, and lost amidst the melancholy +recollections, which this topic had revived, till she had insensibly reached +the borders of the woods, that screened the monastery of St. Clair, when, +perceiving how far she had wandered, she determined to extend her walk a little +farther, and to enquire about the abbess and some of her friends among the +nuns. +</p> + +<p> +Though the evening was now drawing to a close, she accepted the invitation of +the friar, who opened the gate, and, anxious to meet some of her old +acquaintances, proceeded towards the convent parlour. As she crossed the lawn, +that sloped from the front of the monastery towards the sea, she was struck +with the picture of repose, exhibited by some monks, sitting in the cloisters, +which extended under the brow of the woods, that crowned this eminence; where, +as they meditated, at this twilight hour, holy subjects, they sometimes +suffered their attention to be relieved by the scene before them, nor thought +it profane to look at nature, now that it had exchanged the brilliant colours +of day for the sober hue of evening. Before the cloisters, however, spread an +ancient chesnut, whose ample branches were designed to screen the full +magnificence of a scene, that might tempt the wish to worldly pleasures; but +still, beneath the dark and spreading foliage, gleamed a wide extent of ocean, +and many a passing sail; while, to the right and left, thick woods were seen +stretching along the winding shores. So much as this had been admitted, +perhaps, to give to the secluded votary an image of the dangers and +vicissitudes of life, and to console him, now that he had renounced its +pleasures, by the certainty of having escaped its evils. As Emily walked +pensively along, considering how much suffering she might have escaped, had she +become a votaress of the order, and remained in this retirement from the time +of her father’s death, the vesper-bell struck up, and the monks retired +slowly toward the chapel, while she, pursuing her way, entered the great hall, +where an unusual silence seemed to reign. The parlour too, which opened from +it, she found vacant, but, as the evening bell was sounding, she believed the +nuns had withdrawn into the chapel, and sat down to rest, for a moment, before +she returned to the château, where, however, the increasing gloom made her now +anxious to be. +</p> + +<p> +Not many minutes had elapsed, before a nun, entering in haste, enquired for the +abbess, and was retiring, without recollecting Emily, when she made herself +known, and then learned, that a mass was going to be performed for the soul of +sister Agnes, who had been declining, for some time, and who was now believed +to be dying. +</p> + +<p> +Of her sufferings the sister gave a melancholy account, and of the horrors, +into which she had frequently started, but which had now yielded to a dejection +so gloomy, that neither the prayers, in which she was joined by the sisterhood, +nor the assurances of her confessor, had power to recall her from it, or to +cheer her mind even with a momentary gleam of comfort. +</p> + +<p> +To this relation Emily listened with extreme concern, and, recollecting the +frenzied manners and the expressions of horror, which she had herself witnessed +of Agnes, together with the history, that sister Frances had communicated, her +compassion was heightened to a very painful degree. As the evening was already +far advanced, Emily did not now desire to see her, or to join in the mass, and, +after leaving many kind remembrances with the nun, for her old friends, she +quitted the monastery, and returned over the cliffs towards the château, +meditating upon what she had just heard, till, at length she forced her mind +upon less interesting subjects. +</p> + +<p> +The wind was high, and as she drew near the château, she often paused to listen +to its awful sound, as it swept over the billows, that beat below, or groaned +along the surrounding woods; and, while she rested on a cliff at a short +distance from the château, and looked upon the wide waters, seen dimly beneath +the last shade of twilight, she thought of the following address: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +TO THE WINDS<br/><br/> + +Viewless, through heaven’s vast vault your course ye steer,<br/> +Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go!<br/> +Mysterious pow’rs! I hear ye murmur low,<br/> +Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear,<br/> +And, awful! seems to say—some God is near!<br/> +I love to list your midnight voices float<br/> +In the dread storm, that o’er the ocean rolls,<br/> +And, while their charm the angry wave controls,<br/> +Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote.<br/> +Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note,<br/> +The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail,<br/> +A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the gale!<br/> +But soon, ye sightless pow’rs! your rest is o’er,<br/> +Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air,<br/> +Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear,<br/> +And the faint-warbled dirge—is heard no more!<br/> +Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign!<br/> +The loud lament yet bear not on your breath!<br/> +Bear not the crash of bark far on the main,<br/> +Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain,<br/> +The crew’s dread chorus sinking into death!<br/> +Oh! give not these, ye pow’rs! I ask alone,<br/> +As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps,<br/> +The elemental war, the billow’s moan;<br/> +I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy weeps! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap54"></a> CHAPTER XVI </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Unnatural deeds<br/> +Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds<br/> +To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.<br/> +More needs she the divine, than the physician.<br/> + MACBETH +</p> + +<p> +On the following evening, the view of the convent towers, rising among the +shadowy woods, reminded Emily of the nun, whose condition had so much affected +her; and, anxious to know how she was, as well as to see some of her former +friends, she and the Lady Blanche extended their walk to the monastery. At the +gate stood a carriage, which, from the heat of the horses, appeared to have +just arrived; but a more than common stillness pervaded the court and the +cloisters, through which Emily and Blanche passed in their way to the great +hall, where a nun, who was crossing to the staircase, replied to the enquiries +of the former, that sister Agnes was still living, and sensible, but that it +was thought she could not survive the night. In the parlour, they found several +of the boarders, who rejoiced to see Emily, and told her many little +circumstances that had happened in the convent since her departure, and which +were interesting to her only because they related to persons, whom she had +regarded with affection. While they thus conversed the abbess entered the room, +and expressed much satisfaction at seeing Emily, but her manner was unusually +solemn, and her countenance dejected. “Our house,” said she, after +the first salutations were over, “is truly a house of mourning—a +daughter is now paying the debt of nature.—You have heard, perhaps, that +our daughter Agnes is dying?” +</p> + +<p> +Emily expressed her sincere concern. +</p> + +<p> +“Her death presents to us a great and awful lesson,” continued the +abbess; “let us read it, and profit by it; let it teach us to prepare +ourselves for the change, that awaits us all! You are young, and have it yet in +your power to secure ‘the peace that passeth all +understanding’—the peace of conscience. Preserve it in your youth, +that it may comfort you in age; for vain, alas! and imperfect are the good +deeds of our latter years, if those of our early life have been evil!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily would have said, that good deeds, she hoped, were never vain; but she +considered that it was the abbess who spoke, and she remained silent. +</p> + +<p> +“The latter days of Agnes,” resumed the abbess, “have been +exemplary; would they might atone for the errors of her former ones! Her +sufferings now, alas! are great; let us believe, that they will make her peace +hereafter! I have left her with her confessor, and a gentleman, whom she has +long been anxious to see, and who is just arrived from Paris. They, I hope, +will be able to administer the repose, which her mind has hitherto +wanted.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily fervently joined in the wish. +</p> + +<p> +“During her illness, she has sometimes named you,” resumed the +abbess; “perhaps, it would comfort her to see you; when her present +visitors have left her, we will go to her chamber, if the scene will not be too +melancholy for your spirits. But, indeed, to such scenes, however painful, we +ought to accustom ourselves, for they are salutary to the soul, and prepare us +for what we are ourselves to suffer.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily became grave and thoughtful; for this conversation brought to her +recollection the dying moments of her beloved father, and she wished once more +to weep over the spot, where his remains were buried. During the silence, which +followed the abbess’ speech, many minute circumstances attending his last +hours occurred to her—his emotion on perceiving himself to be in the +neighbourhood of Château-le-Blanc—his request to be interred in a +particular spot in the church of this monastery—and the solemn charge he +had delivered to her to destroy certain papers, without examining +them.—She recollected also the mysterious and horrible words in those +manuscripts, upon which her eye had involuntarily glanced; and, though they +now, and, indeed, whenever she remembered them, revived an excess of painful +curiosity, concerning their full import, and the motives for her father’s +command, it was ever her chief consolation, that she had strictly obeyed him in +this particular. +</p> + +<p> +Little more was said by the abbess, who appeared too much affected by the +subject she had lately left, to be willing to converse, and her companions had +been for some time silent from the same cause, when this general reverie was +interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, Monsieur Bonnac, who had just +quitted the chamber of sister Agnes. He appeared much disturbed, but Emily +fancied, that his countenance had more the expression of horror, than of grief. +Having drawn the abbess to a distant part of the room, he conversed with her +for some time, during which she seemed to listen with earnest attention, and he +to speak with caution, and a more than common degree of interest. When he had +concluded, he bowed silently to the rest of the company, and quitted the room. +The abbess, soon after, proposed going to the chamber of sister Agnes, to which +Emily consented, though not without some reluctance, and Lady Blanche remained +with the boarders below. +</p> + +<p> +At the door of the chamber they met the confessor, whom, as he lifted up his +head on their approach, Emily observed to be the same that had attended her +dying father; but he passed on, without noticing her, and they entered the +apartment, where, on a mattress, was laid sister Agnes, with one nun watching +in the chair beside her. Her countenance was so much changed, that Emily would +scarcely have recollected her, had she not been prepared to do so: it was +ghastly, and overspread with gloomy horror; her dim and hollow eyes were fixed +on a crucifix, which she held upon her bosom; and she was so much engaged in +thought, as not to perceive the abbess and Emily, till they stood at the +bedside. Then, turning her heavy eyes, she fixed them, in wild horror, upon +Emily, and, screaming, exclaimed, “Ah! that vision comes upon me in my +dying hours!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily started back in terror, and looked for explanation to the abbess, who +made her a signal not to be alarmed, and calmly said to Agnes, “Daughter, +I have brought Mademoiselle St. Aubert to visit you: I thought you would be +glad to see her.” +</p> + +<p> +Agnes made no reply; but, still gazing wildly upon Emily, exclaimed, “It +is her very self! Oh! there is all that fascination in her look, which proved +my destruction! What would you have—what is it you came to +demand—Retribution?—It will soon be yours—it is yours +already. How many years have passed, since last I saw you! My crime is but as +yesterday.—Yet I am grown old beneath it; while you are still young and +blooming—blooming as when you forced me to commit that most abhorred +deed! O! could I once forget it!—yet what would that avail?—the +deed is done!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, extremely shocked, would now have left the room; but the abbess, taking +her hand, tried to support her spirits, and begged she would stay a few +moments, when Agnes would probably be calm, whom now she tried to sooth. But +the latter seemed to disregard her, while she still fixed her eyes on Emily, +and added, “What are years of prayers and repentance? they cannot wash +out the foulness of murder!—Yes, murder! Where is he—where is +he?—Look there—look there!—see where he stalks along the +room! Why do you come to torment me now?” continued Agnes, while her +straining eyes were bent on air, “why was not I punished before?—O! +do not frown so sternly! Hah! there again! ’tis she herself! Why do you +look so piteously upon me—and smile, too? smile on me! What groan was +that?” +</p> + +<p> +Agnes sunk down, apparently lifeless, and Emily, unable to support herself, +leaned against the bed, while the abbess and the attendant nun were applying +the usual remedies to Agnes. “Peace,” said the abbess, when Emily +was going to speak, “the delirium is going off, she will soon revive. +When was she thus before, daughter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not of many weeks, madam,” replied the nun, “but her spirits +have been much agitated by the arrival of the gentleman she wished so much to +see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” observed the abbess, “that has undoubtedly occasioned +this paroxysm of frenzy. When she is better, we will leave her to +repose.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily very readily consented, but, though she could now give little assistance, +she was unwilling to quit the chamber, while any might be necessary. +</p> + +<p> +When Agnes recovered her senses, she again fixed her eyes on Emily, but their +wild expression was gone, and a gloomy melancholy had succeeded. It was some +moments before she recovered sufficient spirits to speak; she then said +feebly—“The likeness is wonderful!—surely it must be +something more than fancy. Tell me, I conjure you,” she added, addressing +Emily, “though your name is St. Aubert, are you not the daughter of the +Marchioness?” +</p> + +<p> +“What Marchioness?” said Emily, in extreme surprise; for she had +imagined, from the calmness of Agnes’s manner, that her intellects were +restored. The abbess gave her a significant glance, but she repeated the +question. +</p> + +<p> +“What Marchioness?” exclaimed Agnes, “I know but of +one—the Marchioness de Villeroi.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, remembering the emotion of her late father, upon the unexpected mention +of this lady, and his request to be laid near to the tomb of the Villerois, now +felt greatly interested, and she entreated Agnes to explain the reason of her +question. The abbess would now have withdrawn Emily from the room, who being, +however, detained by a strong interest, repeated her entreaties. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring me that casket, sister,” said Agnes; “I will show her +to you; yet you need only look in that mirror, and you will behold her; you +surely are her daughter: such striking resemblance is never found but among +near relations.” +</p> + +<p> +The nun brought the casket, and Agnes, having directed her how to unlock it, +she took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the exact resemblance of +the picture, which she had found among her late father’s papers. Agnes +held out her hand to receive it; gazed upon it earnestly for some moments in +silence; and then, with a countenance of deep despair, threw up her eyes to +Heaven, and prayed inwardly. When she had finished, she returned the miniature +to Emily. “Keep it,” said she, “I bequeath it to you, for I +must believe it is your right. I have frequently observed the resemblance +between you; but never, till this day, did it strike upon my conscience so +powerfully! Stay, sister, do not remove the casket—there is another +picture I would show.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily trembled with expectation, and the abbess again would have withdrawn her. +“Agnes is still disordered,” said she, “you observe how she +wanders. In these moods she says anything, and does not scruple, as you have +witnessed, to accuse herself of the most horrible crimes.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness in the +inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Marchioness, and production of +her picture, had interested her so much, that she determined to obtain further +information, if possible, respecting the subject of it. +</p> + +<p> +The nun returned with the casket, and, Agnes pointing out to her a secret +drawer, she took from it another miniature. “Here,” said Agnes, as +she offered it to Emily, “learn a lesson for your vanity, at least; look +well at this picture, and see if you can discover any resemblance between what +I was, and what I am.” +</p> + +<p> +Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcely glanced +upon, before her trembling hands had nearly suffered it to fall—it was +the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini, which she had formerly +seen in the castle of Udolpho—the lady, who had disappeared in so +mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had been suspected of having caused to be +murdered. +</p> + +<p> +In silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon the picture +and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance between them, which no +longer existed. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you look so sternly on me?” said Agnes, mistaking the +nature of Emily’s emotion. +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen this face before,” said Emily, at length; “was +it really your resemblance?” +</p> + +<p> +“You may well ask that question,” replied the nun,—“but +it was once esteemed a striking likeness of me. Look at me well, and see what +guilt has made me. I then was innocent; the evil passions of my nature slept. +Sister!” added she solemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp hand to +Emily, who shuddered at its touch—“Sister! beware of the first +indulgence of the passions; beware of the first! Their course, if not checked +then, is rapid—their force is uncontrollable—they lead us we know +not whither—they lead us perhaps to the commission of crimes, for which +whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone!—Such may be the force +of even a single passion, that it overcomes every other, and sears up every +other approach to the heart. Possessing us like a fiend, it leads us on to the +acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity and to conscience. And, when its +purpose is accomplished, like a fiend, it leaves us to the torture of those +feelings, which its power had suspended—not annihilated,—to the +tortures of compassion, remorse, and conscience. Then, we awaken as from a +dream, and perceive a new world around us—we gaze in astonishment, and +horror—but the deed is committed; not all the powers of heaven and earth +united can undo it—and the spectres of conscience will not fly! What are +riches—grandeur—health itself, to the luxury of a pure conscience, +the health of the soul;—and what the sufferings of poverty, +disappointment, despair—to the anguish of an afflicted one! O! how long +is it since I knew that luxury! I believed, that I had suffered the most +agonizing pangs of human nature, in love, jealousy, and despair—but these +pangs were ease, compared with the stings of conscience, which I have since +endured. I tasted too what was called the sweet of revenge—but it was +transient, it expired even with the object, that provoked it. Remember, sister, +that the passions are the seeds of vices as well as of virtues, from which +either may spring, accordingly as they are nurtured. Unhappy they who have +never been taught the art to govern them!” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! unhappy!” said the abbess, “and ill-informed of our +holy religion!” Emily listened to Agnes, in silent awe, while she still +examined the miniature, and became confirmed in her opinion of its strong +resemblance to the portrait at Udolpho. “This face is familiar to +me,” said she, wishing to lead the nun to an explanation, yet fearing to +discover too abruptly her knowledge of Udolpho. +</p> + +<p> +“You are mistaken,” replied Agnes, “you certainly never saw +that picture before.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied Emily, “but I have seen one extremely like +it.” “Impossible,” said Agnes, who may now be called the Lady +Laurentini. +</p> + +<p> +“It was in the castle of Udolpho,” continued Emily, looking +steadfastly at her. +</p> + +<p> +“Of Udolpho!” exclaimed Laurentini, “of Udolpho in +Italy!” “The same,” replied Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“You know me then,” said Laurentini, “and you are the +daughter of the Marchioness.” Emily was somewhat surprised at this abrupt +assertion. “I am the daughter of the late Mons. St. Aubert,” said +she; “and the lady you name is an utter stranger to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“At least you believe so,” rejoined Laurentini. +</p> + +<p> +Emily asked what reasons there could be to believe otherwise. +</p> + +<p> +“The family likeness, that you bear her,” said the nun. “The +Marchioness, it is known, was attached to a gentleman of Gascony, at the time +when she accepted the hand of the Marquis, by the command of her father. +Ill-fated, unhappy woman!” +</p> + +<p> +Emily, remembering the extreme emotion which St. Aubert had betrayed on the +mention of the Marchioness, would now have suffered something more than +surprise, had her confidence in his integrity been less; as it was, she could +not, for a moment, believe what the words of Laurentini insinuated; yet she +still felt strongly interested, concerning them, and begged, that she would +explain them further. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not urge me on that subject,” said the nun, “it is to me +a terrible one! Would that I could blot it from my memory!” She sighed +deeply, and, after the pause of a moment, asked Emily, by what means she had +discovered her name? +</p> + +<p> +“By your portrait in the castle of Udolpho, to which this miniature bears +a striking resemblance,” replied Emily. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been at Udolpho then!” said the nun, with great emotion. +“Alas! what scenes does the mention of it revive in my fancy—scenes +of happiness—of suffering—and of horror!” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment, the terrible spectacle, which Emily had witnessed in a chamber +of that castle, occurred to her, and she shuddered, while she looked upon the +nun—and recollected her late words—that “years of prayer and +penitence could not wash out the foulness of murder.” She was now +compelled to attribute these to another cause, than that of delirium. With a +degree of horror, that almost deprived her of sense, she now believed she +looked upon a murderer; all the recollected behaviour of Laurentini seemed to +confirm the supposition, yet Emily was still lost in a labyrinth of +perplexities, and, not knowing how to ask the questions, which might lead to +truth, she could only hint them in broken sentences. +</p> + +<p> +“Your sudden departure from Udolpho”—said she. +</p> + +<p> +Laurentini groaned. +</p> + +<p> +“The reports that followed it,” continued Emily—“The +west chamber—the mournful veil—the object it conceals!—when +murders are committed—” +</p> + +<p> +The nun shrieked. “What! there again!” said she, endeavouring to +raise herself, while her starting eyes seemed to follow some object round the +room—“Come from the grave! What! Blood—blood too!—There +was no blood—thou canst not say it!—Nay, do not smile,—do not +smile so piteously!” +</p> + +<p> +Laurentini fell into convulsions, as she uttered the last words; and Emily, +unable any longer to endure the horror of the scene, hurried from the room, and +sent some nuns to the assistance of the abbess. +</p> + +<p> +The Lady Blanche, and the boarders, who were in the parlour, now assembled +round Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and affrighted countenance, asked a +hundred questions, which she avoided answering further, than by saying, that +she believed sister Agnes was dying. They received this as a sufficient +explanation of her terror, and had then leisure to offer restoratives, which, +at length, somewhat revived Emily, whose mind was, however, so much shocked +with the terrible surmises, and perplexed with doubts by some words from the +nun, that she was unable to converse, and would have left the convent +immediately, had she not wished to know whether Laurentini would survive the +late attack. After waiting some time, she was informed, that, the convulsions +having ceased, Laurentini seemed to be reviving, and Emily and Blanche were +departing, when the abbess appeared, who, drawing the former aside, said she +had something of consequence to say to her, but, as it was late, she would not +detain her then, and requested to see her on the following day. +</p> + +<p> +Emily promised to visit her, and, having taken leave, returned with the Lady +Blanche towards the château, on the way to which the deep gloom of the woods +made Blanche lament, that the evening was so far advanced; for the surrounding +stillness and obscurity rendered her sensible of fear, though there was a +servant to protect her; while Emily was too much engaged by the horrors of the +scene she had just witnessed, to be affected by the solemnity of the shades, +otherwise than as they served to promote her gloomy reverie, from which, +however, she was at length recalled by the Lady Blanche, who pointed out, at +some distance, in the dusky path they were winding, two persons slowly +advancing. It was impossible to avoid them without striking into a still more +secluded part of the wood, whither the strangers might easily follow; but all +apprehension vanished, when Emily distinguished the voice of Mons. Du Pont, and +perceived, that his companion was the gentleman, whom she had seen at the +monastery, and who was now conversing with so much earnestness as not +immediately to perceive their approach. When Du Pont joined the ladies, the +stranger took leave, and they proceeded to the château, where the Count, when +he heard of Mons. Bonnac, claimed him for an acquaintance, and, on learning the +melancholy occasion of his visit to Languedoc, and that he was lodged at a +small inn in the village, begged the favour of Mons. Du Pont to invite him to +the château. +</p> + +<p> +The latter was happy to do so, and the scruples of reserve, which made M. +Bonnac hesitate to accept the invitation, being at length overcome, they went +to the château, where the kindness of the Count and the sprightliness of his +son were exerted to dissipate the gloom, that overhung the spirits of the +stranger. M. Bonnac was an officer in the French service, and appeared to be +about fifty; his figure was tall and commanding, his manners had received the +last polish, and there was something in his countenance uncommonly interesting; +for over features, which, in youth, must have been remarkably handsome, was +spread a melancholy, that seemed the effect of long misfortune, rather than of +constitution, or temper. +</p> + +<p> +The conversation he held, during supper, was evidently an effort of politeness, +and there were intervals in which, unable to struggle against the feelings, +that depressed him, he relapsed into silence and abstraction, from which, +however, the Count, sometimes, withdrew him in a manner so delicate and +benevolent, that Emily, while she observed him, almost fancied she beheld her +late father. +</p> + +<p> +The party separated, at an early hour, and then, in the solitude of her +apartment, the scenes, which Emily had lately witnessed, returned to her fancy, +with dreadful energy. That in the dying nun she should have discovered Signora +Laurentini, who, instead of having been murdered by Montoni, was, as it now +seemed, herself guilty of some dreadful crime, excited both horror and surprise +in a high degree; nor did the hints, which she had dropped, respecting the +marriage of the Marchioness de Villeroi, and the enquiries she had made +concerning Emily’s birth, occasion her a less degree of interest, though +it was of a different nature. +</p> + +<p> +The history, which sister Frances had formerly related, and had said to be that +of Agnes, it now appeared, was erroneous; but for what purpose it had been +fabricated, unless the more effectually to conceal the true story, Emily could +not even guess. Above all, her interest was excited as to the relation, which +the story of the late Marchioness de Villeroi bore to that of her father; for, +that some kind of relation existed between them, the grief of St. Aubert, upon +hearing her named, his request to be buried near her, and her picture, which +had been found among his papers, certainly proved. Sometimes it occurred to +Emily, that he might have been the lover, to whom it was said the Marchioness +was attached, when she was compelled to marry the Marquis de Villeroi; but that +he had afterwards cherished a passion for her, she could not suffer herself to +believe, for a moment. The papers, which he had so solemnly enjoined her to +destroy, she now fancied had related to this connection, and she wished more +earnestly than before to know the reasons, that made him consider the +injunction necessary, which, had her faith in his principles been less, would +have led to believe, that there was a mystery in her birth dishonourable to her +parents, which those manuscripts might have revealed. +</p> + +<p> +Reflections, similar to these, engaged her mind, during the greater part of the +night, and when, at length, she fell into a slumber, it was only to behold a +vision of the dying nun, and to awaken in horrors, like those she had +witnessed. +</p> + +<p> +On the following morning, she was too much indisposed to attend her appointment +with the abbess, and, before the day concluded, she heard, that sister Agnes +was no more. Mons. Bonnac received this intelligence, with concern; but Emily +observed, that he did not appear so much affected now, as on the preceding +evening, immediately after quitting the apartment of the nun, whose death was +probably less terrible to him, than the confession he had been then called upon +to witness. However this might be, he was perhaps consoled, in some degree, by +a knowledge of the legacy bequeathed him, since his family was large, and the +extravagance of some part of it had lately been the means of involving him in +great distress, and even in the horrors of a prison; and it was the grief he +had suffered from the wild career of a favourite son, with the pecuniary +anxieties and misfortunes consequent upon it, that had given to his countenance +the air of dejection, which had so much interested Emily. +</p> + +<p> +To his friend Mons. Du Pont he recited some particulars of his late sufferings, +when it appeared, that he had been confined for several months in one of the +prisons of Paris, with little hope of release, and without the comfort of +seeing his wife, who had been absent in the country, endeavouring, though in +vain, to procure assistance from his friends. When, at length, she had obtained +an order for admittance, she was so much shocked at the change, which long +confinement and sorrow had made in his appearance, that she was seized with +fits, which, by their long continuance, threatened her life. +</p> + +<p> +“Our situation affected those, who happened to witness it,” +continued Mons. Bonnac, “and one generous friend, who was in confinement +at the same time, afterwards employed the first moments of his liberty in +efforts to obtain mine. He succeeded; the heavy debt, that oppressed me, was +discharged; and, when I would have expressed my sense of the obligation I had +received, my benefactor was fled from my search. I have reason to believe he +was the victim of his own generosity, and that he returned to the state of +confinement, from which he had released me; but every enquiry after him was +unsuccessful. Amiable and unfortunate Valancourt!” +</p> + +<p> +“Valancourt!” exclaimed Mons. Du Pont. “Of what +family?” +</p> + +<p> +“The Valancourts, Counts Duvarney,” replied Mons. Bonnac. +</p> + +<p> +The emotion of Mons. Du Pont, when he discovered the generous benefactor of his +friend to be the rival of his love, can only be imagined; but, having overcome +his first surprise, he dissipated the apprehensions of Mons. Bonnac by +acquainting him, that Valancourt was at liberty, and had lately been in +Languedoc; after which his affection for Emily prompted him to make some +enquiries, respecting the conduct of his rival, during his stay at Paris, of +which M. Bonnac appeared to be well informed. The answers he received were such +as convinced him, that Valancourt had been much misrepresented, and, painful as +was the sacrifice, he formed the just design of relinquishing his pursuit of +Emily to a lover, who, it now appeared, was not unworthy of the regard, with +which she honoured him. +</p> + +<p> +The conversation of Mons. Bonnac discovered, that Valancourt, some time after +his arrival at Paris, had been drawn into the snares, which determined vice had +spread for him, and that his hours had been chiefly divided between the parties +of the captivating Marchioness and those gaming assemblies, to which the envy, +or the avarice, of his brother officers had spared no art to seduce him. In +these parties he had lost large sums, in efforts to recover small ones, and to +such losses the Count De Villefort and Mons. Henri had been frequent witnesses. +His resources were, at length, exhausted; and the Count, his brother, +exasperated by his conduct, refused to continue the supplies necessary to his +present mode of life, when Valancourt, in consequence of accumulated debts, was +thrown into confinement, where his brother suffered him to remain, in the hope, +that punishment might effect a reform of conduct, which had not yet been +confirmed by long habit. +</p> + +<p> +In the solitude of his prison, Valancourt had leisure for reflection, and cause +for repentance; here, too, the image of Emily, which, amidst the dissipation of +the city had been obscured, but never obliterated from his heart, revived with +all the charms of innocence and beauty, to reproach him for having sacrificed +his happiness and debased his talents by pursuits, which his nobler faculties +would formerly have taught him to consider were as tasteless as they were +degrading. But, though his passions had been seduced, his heart was not +depraved, nor had habit riveted the chains, that hung heavily on his +conscience; and, as he retained that energy of will, which was necessary to +burst them, he, at length, emancipated himself from the bondage of vice, but +not till after much effort and severe suffering. +</p> + +<p> +Being released by his brother from the prison, where he had witnessed the +affecting meeting between Mons. Bonnac and his wife, with whom he had been for +some time acquainted, the first use of his liberty formed a striking instance +of his humanity and his rashness; for with nearly all the money, just received +from his brother, he went to a gaming-house, and gave it as a last stake for +the chance of restoring his friend to freedom, and to his afflicted family. The +event was fortunate, and, while he had awaited the issue of this momentous +stake, he made a solemn vow never again to yield to the destructive and +fascinating vice of gaming. +</p> + +<p> +Having restored the venerable Mons. Bonnac to his rejoicing family, he hurried +from Paris to Estuvière; and, in the delight of having made the wretched happy, +forgot, for a while, his own misfortunes. Soon, however, he remembered, that he +had thrown away the fortune, without which he could never hope to marry Emily; +and life, unless passed with her, now scarcely appeared supportable; for her +goodness, refinement, and simplicity of heart, rendered her beauty more +enchanting, if possible, to his fancy, than it had ever yet appeared. +Experience had taught him to understand the full value of the qualities, which +he had before admired, but which the contrasted characters he had seen in the +world made him now adore; and these reflections, increasing the pangs of +remorse and regret, occasioned the deep dejection, that had accompanied him +even into the presence of Emily, of whom he considered himself no longer +worthy. To the ignominy of having received pecuniary obligations from the +Marchioness Chamfort, or any other lady of intrigue, as the Count De Villefort +had been informed, or of having been engaged in the depredating schemes of +gamesters, Valancourt had never submitted; and these were some of such scandals +as often mingle with truth, against the unfortunate. Count De Villefort had +received them from authority which he had no reason to doubt, and which the +imprudent conduct he had himself witnessed in Valancourt, had certainly induced +him the more readily to believe. Being such as Emily could not name to the +Chevalier, he had no opportunity of refuting them; and, when he confessed +himself to be unworthy of her esteem, he little suspected, that he was +confirming to her the most dreadful calumnies. Thus the mistake had been +mutual, and had remained so, when Mons. Bonnac explained the conduct of his +generous, but imprudent young friend to Du Pont, who, with severe justice, +determined not only to undeceive the Count on this subject, but to resign all +hope of Emily. Such a sacrifice as his love rendered this, was deserving of a +noble reward, and Mons. Bonnac, if it had been possible for him to forget the +benevolent Valancourt, would have wished that Emily might accept the just Du +Pont. +</p> + +<p> +When the Count was informed of the error he had committed, he was extremely +shocked at the consequence of his credulity, and the account which Mons. Bonnac +gave of his friend’s situation, while at Paris, convinced him, that +Valancourt had been entrapped by the schemes of a set of dissipated young men, +with whom his profession had partly obliged him to associate, rather than by an +inclination to vice; and, charmed by the humanity, and noble, though rash +generosity, which his conduct towards Mons. Bonnac exhibited, he forgave him +the transient errors, that had stained his youth, and restored him to the high +degree of esteem, with which he had regarded him, during their early +acquaintance. But, as the least reparation he could now make Valancourt was to +afford him an opportunity of explaining to Emily his former conduct, he +immediately wrote, to request his forgiveness of the unintentional injury he +had done him, and to invite him to Château-le-Blanc. Motives of delicacy +withheld the Count from informing Emily of this letter, and of kindness from +acquainting her with the discovery respecting Valancourt, till his arrival +should save her from the possibility of anxiety, as to its event; and this +precaution spared her even severer inquietude, than the Count had foreseen, +since he was ignorant of the symptoms of despair, which Valancourt’s late +conduct had betrayed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap55"></a> CHAPTER XVII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +But in these cases,<br/> +We still have judgment here; that we but teach<br/> +Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return<br/> +To plague the inventor: thus even-handed justice<br/> +Commends the ingredients of our poison’d chalice<br/> +To our own lips.<br/> + MACBETH +</p> + +<p> +Some circumstances of an extraordinary nature now withdrew Emily from her own +sorrows, and excited emotions, which partook of both surprise and horror. +</p> + +<p> +A few days followed that, on which Signora Laurentini died, her will was opened +at the monastery, in the presence of the superiors and Mons. Bonnac, when it +was found, that one third of her personal property was bequeathed to the +nearest surviving relative of the late Marchioness de Villeroi, and that Emily +was the person. +</p> + +<p> +With the secret of Emily’s family the abbess had long been acquainted, +and it was in observance of the earnest request of St. Aubert, who was known to +the friar, that attended him on his death-bed, that his daughter had remained +in ignorance of her relationship to the Marchioness. But some hints, which had +fallen from Signora Laurentini, during her last interview with Emily, and a +confession of a very extraordinary nature, given in her dying hours, had made +the abbess think it necessary to converse with her young friend, on the topic +she had not before ventured to introduce; and it was for this purpose, that she +had requested to see her on the morning that followed her interview with the +nun. Emily’s indisposition had then prevented the intended conversation; +but now, after the will had been examined, she received a summons, which she +immediately obeyed, and became informed of circumstances, that powerfully +affected her. As the narrative of the abbess was, however, deficient in many +particulars, of which the reader may wish to be informed, and the history of +the nun is materially connected with the fate of the Marchioness de Villeroi, +we shall omit the conversation, that passed in the parlour of the convent, and +mingle with our relation a brief history of +</p> + +<p class="center"> +LAURENTINI DI UDOLPHO, +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +who was the only child of her parents, and heiress of the ancient house of +Udolpho, in the territory of Venice. It was the first misfortune of her life, +and that which led to all her succeeding misery, that the friends, who ought to +have restrained her strong passions, and mildly instructed her in the art of +governing them, nurtured them by early indulgence. But they cherished their own +failings in her; for their conduct was not the result of rational kindness, +and, when they either indulged, or opposed the passions of their child, they +gratified their own. Thus they indulged her with weakness, and reprehended her +with violence; her spirit was exasperated by their vehemence, instead of being +corrected by their wisdom; and their oppositions became contest for victory, in +which the due tenderness of the parents, and the affectionate duties of the +child, were equally forgotten; but, as returning fondness disarmed the +parents’ resentment soonest, Laurentini was suffered to believe that she +had conquered, and her passions became stronger by every effort, that had been +employed to subdue them. +</p> + +<p> +The death of her father and mother in the same year left her to her own +discretion, under the dangerous circumstances attendant on youth and beauty. +She was fond of company, delighted with admiration, yet disdainful of the +opinion of the world, when it happened to contradict her inclinations; had a +gay and brilliant wit, and was mistress of all the arts of fascination. Her +conduct was such as might have been expected, from the weakness of her +principles and the strength of her passions. +</p> + +<p> +Among her numerous admirers was the late Marquis de Villeroi, who, on his tour +through Italy, saw Laurentini at Venice, where she usually resided, and became +her passionate adorer. Equally captivated by the figure and accomplishments of +the Marquis, who was at that period one of the most distinguished noblemen of +the French court, she had the art so effectually to conceal from him the +dangerous traits of her character and the blemishes of her late conduct, that +he solicited her hand in marriage. +</p> + +<p> +Before the nuptials were concluded, she retired to the castle of Udolpho, +whither the Marquis followed, and, where her conduct, relaxing from the +propriety, which she had lately assumed, discovered to him the precipice, on +which he stood. A minuter enquiry than he had before thought it necessary to +make, convinced him, that he had been deceived in her character, and she, whom +he had designed for his wife, afterwards became his mistress. +</p> + +<p> +Having passed some weeks at Udolpho, he was called abruptly to France, whither +he returned with extreme reluctance, for his heart was still fascinated by the +arts of Laurentini, with whom, however, he had on various pretences delayed his +marriage; but, to reconcile her to this separation, he now gave repeated +promises of returning to conclude the nuptials, as soon as the affair, which +thus suddenly called him to France, should permit. +</p> + +<p> +Soothed, in some degree, by these assurances, she suffered him to depart; and, +soon after, her relative, Montoni, arriving at Udolpho, renewed the addresses, +which she had before refused, and which she now again rejected. Meanwhile, her +thoughts were constantly with the Marquis de Villeroi, for whom she suffered +all the delirium of Italian love, cherished by the solitude, to which she +confined herself; for she had now lost all taste for the pleasures of society +and the gaiety of amusement. Her only indulgences were to sigh and weep over a +miniature of the Marquis; to visit the scenes, that had witnessed their +happiness, to pour forth her heart to him in writing, and to count the weeks, +the days, which must intervene before the period that he had mentioned as +probable for his return. But this period passed without bringing him; and week +after week followed in heavy and almost intolerable expectation. During this +interval, Laurentini’s fancy, occupied incessantly by one idea, became +disordered; and, her whole heart being devoted to one object, life became +hateful to her, when she believed that object lost. +</p> + +<p> +Several months passed, during which she heard nothing from the Marquis de +Villeroi, and her days were marked, at intervals, with the frenzy of passion +and the sullenness of despair. She secluded herself from all visitors, and, +sometimes, remained in her apartment, for weeks together, refusing to speak to +every person, except her favourite female attendant, writing scraps of letters, +reading, again and again, those she had received from the Marquis, weeping over +his picture, and speaking to it, for many hours, upbraiding, reproaching and +caressing it alternately. +</p> + +<p> +At length, a report reached her, that the Marquis had married in France, and, +after suffering all the extremes of love, jealousy and indignation, she formed +the desperate resolution of going secretly to that country, and, if the report +proved true, of attempting a deep revenge. To her favourite woman only she +confided the plan of her journey, and she engaged her to partake of it. Having +collected her jewels, which, descending to her from many branches of her +family, were of immense value, and all her cash, to a very large amount, they +were packed in a trunk, which was privately conveyed to a neighbouring town, +whither Laurentini, with this only servant, followed, and thence proceeded +secretly to Leghorn, where they embarked for France. +</p> + +<p> +When, on her arrival in Languedoc, she found, that the Marquis de Villeroi had +been married, for some months, her despair almost deprived her of reason, and +she alternately projected and abandoned the horrible design of murdering the +Marquis, his wife and herself. At length she contrived to throw herself in his +way, with an intention of reproaching him, for his conduct, and of stabbing +herself in his presence; but, when she again saw him, who so long had been the +constant object of her thoughts and affections, resentment yielded to love; her +resolution failed; she trembled with the conflict of emotions, that assailed +her heart, and fainted away. +</p> + +<p> +The Marquis was not proof against her beauty and sensibility; all the energy, +with which he had first loved, returned, for his passion had been resisted by +prudence, rather than overcome by indifference; and, since the honour of his +family would not permit him to marry her, he had endeavoured to subdue his +love, and had so far succeeded, as to select the then Marchioness for his wife, +whom he loved at first with a tempered and rational affection. But the mild +virtues of that amiable lady did not recompense him for her indifference, which +appeared, notwithstanding her efforts to conceal it; and he had, for some time, +suspected that her affections were engaged by another person, when Laurentini +arrived in Languedoc. This artful Italian soon perceived, that she had regained +her influence over him, and, soothed by the discovery, she determined to live, +and to employ all her enchantments to win his consent to the diabolical deed, +which she believed was necessary to the security of her happiness. She +conducted her scheme with deep dissimulation and patient perseverance, and, +having completely estranged the affections of the Marquis from his wife, whose +gentle goodness and unimpassioned manners had ceased to please, when contrasted +with the captivations of the Italian, she proceeded to awaken in his mind the +jealousy of pride, for it was no longer that of love, and even pointed out to +him the person, to whom she affirmed the Marchioness had sacrificed her honour; +but Laurentini had first extorted from him a solemn promise to forbear avenging +himself upon his rival. This was an important part of her plan, for she knew, +that, if his desire of vengeance was restrained towards one party, it would +burn more fiercely towards the other, and he might then, perhaps, be prevailed +on to assist in the horrible act, which would release him from the only +barrier, that withheld him from making her his wife. +</p> + +<p> +The innocent Marchioness, meanwhile, observed, with extreme grief, the +alteration in her husband’s manners. He became reserved and thoughtful in +her presence; his conduct was austere, and sometimes even rude; and he left +her, for many hours together, to weep for his unkindness, and to form plans for +the recovery of his affection. His conduct afflicted her the more, because, in +obedience to the command of her father, she had accepted his hand, though her +affections were engaged to another, whose amiable disposition, she had reason +to believe, would have ensured her happiness. This circumstance Laurentini had +discovered, soon after her arrival in France, and had made ample use of it in +assisting her designs upon the Marquis, to whom she adduced such seeming proof +of his wife’s infidelity, that, in the frantic rage of wounded honour, he +consented to destroy his wife. A slow poison was administered, and she fell a +victim to the jealousy and subtlety of Laurentini and to the guilty weakness of +her husband. +</p> + +<p> +But the moment of Laurentini’s triumph, the moment, to which she had +looked forward for the completion of all her wishes, proved only the +commencement of a suffering, that never left her to her dying hour. +</p> + +<p> +The passion of revenge, which had in part stimulated her to the commission of +this atrocious deed, died, even at the moment when it was gratified, and left +her to the horrors of unavailing pity and remorse, which would probably have +empoisoned all the years she had promised herself with the Marquis de Villeroi, +had her expectations of an alliance with him been realised. But he, too, had +found the moment of his revenge to be that of remorse, as to himself, and +detestation, as to the partner of his crime; the feeling, which he had mistaken +for conviction, was no more; and he stood astonished, and aghast, that no proof +remained of his wife’s infidelity, now that she had suffered the +punishment of guilt. Even when he was informed, that she was dying, he had felt +suddenly and unaccountably reassured of her innocence, nor was the solemn +assurance she made him in her last hour, capable of affording him a stronger +conviction of her blameless conduct. +</p> + +<p> +In the first horrors of remorse and despair, he felt inclined to deliver up +himself and the woman, who had plunged him into this abyss of guilt, into the +hands of justice; but, when the paroxysm of his suffering was over, his +intention changed. Laurentini, however, he saw only once afterwards, and that +was, to curse her as the instigator of his crime, and to say, that he spared +her life only on condition, that she passed the rest of her days in prayer and +penance. Overwhelmed with disappointment, on receiving contempt and abhorrence +from the man, for whose sake she had not scrupled to stain her conscience with +human blood, and, touched with horror of the unavailing crime she had +committed, she renounced the world, and retired to the monastery of St. Claire, +a dreadful victim to unresisted passion. +</p> + +<p> +The Marquis, immediately after the death of his wife, quitted Château-le-Blanc, +to which he never returned, and endeavoured to lose the sense of his crime +amidst the tumult of war, or the dissipations of a capital; but his efforts +were vain; a deep dejection hung over him ever after, for which his most +intimate friend could not account, and he, at length, died, with a degree of +horror nearly equal to that, which Laurentini had suffered. The physician, who +had observed the singular appearance of the unfortunate Marchioness, after +death, had been bribed to silence; and, as the surmises of a few of the +servants had proceeded no further than a whisper, the affair had never been +investigated. Whether this whisper ever reached the father of the Marchioness, +and, if it did, whether the difficulty of obtaining proof deterred him from +prosecuting the Marquis de Villeroi, is uncertain; but her death was deeply +lamented by some part of her family, and particularly by her brother, M. St. +Aubert; for that was the degree of relationship, which had existed between +Emily’s father and the Marchioness; and there is no doubt, that he +suspected the manner of her death. Many letters passed between the Marquis and +him, soon after the decease of his beloved sister, the subject of which was not +known, but there is reason to believe, that they related to the cause of her +death; and these were the papers, together with some letters of the +Marchioness, who had confided to her brother the occasion of her unhappiness, +which St. Aubert had so solemnly enjoined his daughter to destroy: and anxiety +for her peace had probably made him forbid her to enquire into the melancholy +story, to which they alluded. Such, indeed, had been his affliction, on the +premature death of this his favourite sister, whose unhappy marriage had from +the first excited his tenderest pity, that he never could hear her named, or +mention her himself after her death, except to Madame St. Aubert. From Emily, +whose sensibility he feared to awaken, he had so carefully concealed her +history and name, that she was ignorant, till now, that she ever had such a +relative as the Marchioness de Villeroi; and from this motive he had enjoined +silence to his only surviving sister, Madame Cheron, who had scrupulously +observed his request. +</p> + +<p> +It was over some of the last pathetic letters of the Marchioness, that St. +Aubert was weeping, when he was observed by Emily, on the eve of her departure +from La Vallée, and it was her picture, which he had so tenderly caressed. Her +disastrous death may account for the emotion he had betrayed, on hearing her +named by La Voisin, and for his request to be interred near the monument of the +Villerois, where her remains were deposited, but not those of her husband, who +was buried, where he died, in the north of France. +</p> + +<p> +The confessor, who attended St. Aubert in his last moments, recollected him to +be the brother of the late Marchioness, when St. Aubert, from tenderness to +Emily, had conjured him to conceal the circumstance, and to request that the +abbess, to whose care he particularly recommended her, would do the same; a +request, which had been exactly observed. +</p> + +<p> +Laurentini, on her arrival in France, had carefully concealed her name and +family, and, the better to disguise her real history, had, on entering the +convent, caused the story to be circulated, which had imposed on sister +Frances, and it is probable, that the abbess, who did not preside in the +convent, at the time of her noviciation, was also entirely ignorant of the +truth. The deep remorse, that seized on the mind of Laurentini, together with +the sufferings of disappointed passion, for she still loved the Marquis, again +unsettled her intellects, and, after the first paroxysms of despair were +passed, a heavy and silent melancholy had settled upon her spirits, which +suffered few interruptions from fits of frenzy, till the time of her death. +During many years, it had been her only amusement to walk in the woods near the +monastery, in the solitary hours of night, and to play upon a favourite +instrument, to which she sometimes joined the delightful melody of her voice, +in the most solemn and melancholy airs of her native country, modulated by all +the energetic feeling, that dwelt in her heart. The physician, who had attended +her, recommended it to the superior to indulge her in this whim, as the only +means of soothing her distempered fancy; and she was suffered to walk in the +lonely hours of night, attended by the servant, who had accompanied her from +Italy; but, as the indulgence transgressed against the rules of the convent, it +was kept as secret as possible; and thus the mysterious music of Laurentini had +combined with other circumstances, to produce a report, that not only the +château, but its neighbourhood, was haunted. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after her entrance into this holy community, and before she had shown any +symptoms of insanity there, she made a will, in which, after bequeathing a +considerable legacy to the convent, she divided the remainder of her personal +property, which her jewels made very valuable, between the wife of Mons. +Bonnac, who was an Italian lady and her relation, and the nearest surviving +relative of the late Marchioness de Villeroi. As Emily St. Aubert was not only +the nearest, but the sole relative, this legacy descended to her, and thus +explained to her the whole mystery of her father’s conduct. +</p> + +<p> +The resemblance between Emily and her unfortunate aunt had frequently been +observed by Laurentini, and had occasioned the singular behaviour, which had +formerly alarmed her; but it was in the nun’s dying hour, when her +conscience gave her perpetually the idea of the Marchioness, that she became +more sensible, than ever, of this likeness, and, in her frenzy, deemed it no +resemblance of the person she had injured, but the original herself. The bold +assertion, that had followed, on the recovery of her senses, that Emily was the +daughter of the Marchioness de Villeroi, arose from a suspicion that she was +so; for, knowing that her rival, when she married the Marquis, was attached to +another lover, she had scarcely scrupled to believe, that her honour had been +sacrificed, like her own, to an unresisted passion. +</p> + +<p> +Of a crime, however, to which Emily had suspected, from her frenzied +confession of murder, that she had been instrumental in the castle of Udolpho, +Laurentini was innocent; and she had herself been deceived, concerning the +spectacle, that formerly occasioned her so much terror, and had since compelled +her, for a while, to attribute the horrors of the nun to a consciousness of a +murder, committed in that castle. +</p> + +<p> +It may be remembered, that, in a chamber of Udolpho, hung a black veil, whose +singular situation had excited Emily’s curiosity, and which afterwards +disclosed an object, that had overwhelmed her with horror; for, on lifting it, +there appeared, instead of the picture she had expected, within a recess of the +wall, a human figure of ghastly paleness, stretched at its length, and dressed +in the habiliments of the grave. What added to the horror of the spectacle, +was, that the face appeared partly decayed and disfigured by worms, which were +visible on the features and hands. On such an object, it will be readily +believed, that no person could endure to look twice. Emily, it may be +recollected, had, after the first glance, let the veil drop, and her terror had +prevented her from ever after provoking a renewal of such suffering, as she had +then experienced. Had she dared to look again, her delusion and her fears would +have vanished together, and she would have perceived, that the figure before +her was not human, but formed of wax. The history of it is somewhat +extraordinary, though not without example in the records of that fierce +severity, which monkish superstition has sometimes inflicted on mankind. A +member of the house of Udolpho, having committed some offence against the +prerogative of the church, had been condemned to the penance of contemplating, +during certain hours of the day, a waxen image, made to resemble a human body +in the state, to which it is reduced after death. This penance, serving as a +memento of the condition at which he must himself arrive, had been designed to +reprove the pride of the Marquis of Udolpho, which had formerly so much +exasperated that of the Romish church; and he had not only superstitiously +observed this penance himself, which, he had believed, was to obtain a pardon +for all his sins, but had made it a condition in his will, that his descendants +should preserve the image, on pain of forfeiting to the church a certain part +of his domain, that they also might profit by the humiliating moral it +conveyed. The figure, therefore, had been suffered to retain its station in the +wall of the chamber, but his descendants excused themselves from observing the +penance, to which he had been enjoined. +</p> + +<p> +This image was so horribly natural, that it is not surprising Emily should have +mistaken it for the object it resembled, nor, since she had heard such an +extraordinary account, concerning the disappearing of the late lady of the +castle, and had such experience of the character of Montoni, that she should +have believed this to be the murdered body of the lady Laurentini, and that he +had been the contriver of her death. +</p> + +<p> +The situation, in which she had discovered it, occasioned her, at first, much +surprise and perplexity; but the vigilance, with which the doors of the +chamber, where it was deposited, were afterwards secured, had compelled her to +believe, that Montoni, not daring to confide the secret of her death to any +person, had suffered her remains to decay in this obscure chamber. The ceremony +of the veil, however, and the circumstance of the doors having been left open, +even for a moment, had occasioned her much wonder and some doubts; but these +were not sufficient to overcome her suspicion of Montoni; and it was the dread +of his terrible vengeance, that had sealed her lips in silence, concerning what +she had seen in the west chamber. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, in discovering the Marchioness de Villeroi to have been the sister of +Mons. St. Aubert, was variously affected; but, amidst the sorrow, which she +suffered for her untimely death, she was released from an anxious and painful +conjecture, occasioned by the rash assertion of Signora Laurentini, concerning +her birth and the honour of her parents. Her faith in St. Aubert’s +principles would scarcely allow her to suspect that he had acted dishonourably; +and she felt such reluctance to believe herself the daughter of any other, than +her, whom she had always considered and loved as a mother, that she would +hardly admit such a circumstance to be possible; yet the likeness, which it had +frequently been affirmed she bore to the late Marchioness, the former behaviour +of Dorothée the old housekeeper, the assertion of Laurentini, and the +mysterious attachment, which St. Aubert had discovered, awakened doubts, as to +his connection with the Marchioness, which her reason could neither vanquish, +nor confirm. From these, however, she was now relieved, and all the +circumstances of her father’s conduct were fully explained: but her heart +was oppressed by the melancholy catastrophe of her amiable relative, and by the +awful lesson, which the history of the nun exhibited, the indulgence of whose +passions had been the means of leading her gradually to the commission of a +crime, from the prophecy of which in her early years she would have recoiled in +horror, and exclaimed—that it could not be!—a crime, which whole +years of repentance and of the severest penance had not been able to obliterate +from her conscience. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap56"></a> CHAPTER XVIII </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Then, fresh tears<br/> +Stood on her cheek, as doth the honey-dew<br/> +Upon a gather’d lily almost wither’d<br/> + SHAKESPEARE +</p> + +<p> +After the late discoveries, Emily was distinguished at the château by the Count +and his family, as a relative of the house of Villeroi, and received, if +possible, more friendly attention, than had yet been shown her. +</p> + +<p> +Count De Villefort’s surprise at the delay of an answer to his letter, +which had been directed to Valancourt, at Estuvière, was mingled with +satisfaction for the prudence, which had saved Emily from a share of the +anxiety he now suffered, though, when he saw her still drooping under the +effect of his former error, all his resolution was necessary to restrain him +from relating the truth, that would afford her a momentary relief. The +approaching nuptials of the Lady Blanche now divided his attention with this +subject of his anxiety, for the inhabitants of the château were already busied +in preparations for that event, and the arrival of Mons. St. Foix was daily +expected. In the gaiety, which surrounded her, Emily vainly tried to +participate, her spirits being depressed by the late discoveries, and by the +anxiety concerning the fate of Valancourt, that had been occasioned by the +description of his manner, when he had delivered the ring. She seemed to +perceive in it the gloomy wildness of despair; and, when she considered to what +that despair might have urged him, her heart sunk with terror and grief. The +state of suspense, as to his safety, to which she believed herself condemned, +till she should return to La Vallée, appeared insupportable, and, in such +moments, she could not even struggle to assume the composure, that had left her +mind, but would often abruptly quit the company she was with, and endeavour to +sooth her spirits in the deep solitudes of the woods, that overbrowed the +shore. Here, the faint roar of foaming waves, that beat below, and the sullen +murmur of the wind among the branches around, were circumstances in unison with +the temper of her mind; and she would sit on a cliff, or on the broken steps of +her favourite watch-tower, observing the changing colours of the evening +clouds, and the gloom of twilight draw over the sea, till the white tops of +billows, riding towards the shore, could scarcely be discerned amidst the +darkened waters. The lines, engraved by Valancourt on this tower, she +frequently repeated with melancholy enthusiasm, and then would endeavour to +check the recollections and the grief they occasioned, and to turn her thoughts +to indifferent subjects. +</p> + +<p> +One evening, having wandered with her lute to this her favourite spot, she +entered the ruined tower, and ascended a winding staircase, that led to a small +chamber, which was less decayed than the rest of the building, and whence she +had often gazed, with admiration, on the wide prospect of sea and land, that +extended below. The sun was now setting on that tract of the Pyrenees, which +divided Languedoc from Rousillon, and, placing herself opposite to a small +grated window, which, like the wood-tops beneath, and the waves lower still, +gleamed with the red glow of the west, she touched the chords of her lute in +solemn symphony, and then accompanied it with her voice, in one of the simple +and affecting airs, to which, in happier days, Valancourt had often listened in +rapture, and which she now adapted to the following lines. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +TO MELANCHOLY<br/><br/> + +Spirit of love and sorrow—hail!<br/> +Thy solemn voice from far I hear,<br/> +Mingling with ev’ning’s dying gale:<br/> +Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear!<br/><br/> + +O! at this still, this lonely hour,<br/> +Thine own sweet hour of closing day,<br/> +Awake thy lute, whose charmful pow’r<br/> +Shall call up Fancy to obey:<br/><br/> + +To paint the wild romantic dream,<br/> +That meets the poet’s musing eye,<br/> +As, on the bank of shadowy stream,<br/> +He breathes to her the fervid sigh.<br/><br/> + +O lonely spirit! let thy song<br/> +Lead me through all thy sacred haunt;<br/> +The minister’s moonlight aisles along,<br/> +Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt.<br/><br/> + +I hear their dirges faintly swell!<br/> +Then, sink at once in silence drear,<br/> +While, from the pillar’d cloister’s cell,<br/> +Dimly their gliding forms appear!<br/><br/> + +Lead where the pine-woods wave on high,<br/> +Whose pathless sod is darkly seen,<br/> +As the cold moon, with trembling eye,<br/> +Darts her long beams the leaves between.<br/><br/> + +Lead to the mountain’s dusky head,<br/> +Where, far below, in shade profound,<br/> +Wide forests, plains and hamlets spread,<br/> +And sad the chimes of vesper sound,<br/><br/> + +Or guide me, where the dashing oar<br/> +Just breaks the stillness of the vale,<br/> +As slow it tracks the winding shore,<br/> +To meet the ocean’s distant sail:<br/><br/> + +To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves,<br/> +With measur’d surges, loud and deep,<br/> +Where the dark cliff bends o’er the waves,<br/> +And wild the winds of autumn sweep.<br/><br/> + +There pause at midnight’s spectred hour,<br/> +And list the long-resounding gale;<br/> +And catch the fleeting moonlight’s pow’r,<br/> +O’er foaming seas and distant sail. +</p> + +<p> +The soft tranquillity of the scene below, where the evening breeze scarcely +curled the water, or swelled the passing sail, that caught the last gleam of +the sun, and where, now and then, a dipping oar was all that disturbed the +trembling radiance, conspired with the tender melody of her lute to lull her +mind into a state of gentle sadness, and she sung the mournful songs of past +times, till the remembrances they awakened were too powerful for her heart, her +tears fell upon the lute, over which she drooped, and her voice trembled, and +was unable to proceed. +</p> + +<p> +Though the sun had now sunk behind the mountains, and even his reflected light +was fading from their highest points, Emily did not leave the watch-tower, but +continued to indulge her melancholy reverie, till a footstep, at a little +distance, startled her, and, on looking through the grate, she observed a +person walking below, whom, however, soon perceiving to be Mons. Bonnac, she +returned to the quiet thoughtfulness his step had interrupted. After some time, +she again struck her lute, and sung her favourite air; but again a step +disturbed her, and, as she paused to listen, she heard it ascending the +staircase of the tower. The gloom of the hour, perhaps, made her sensible to +some degree of fear, which she might not otherwise have felt; for, only a few +minutes before, she had seen Mons. Bonnac pass. The steps were quick and +bounding, and, in the next moment, the door of the chamber opened, and a person +entered, whose features were veiled in the obscurity of twilight; but his voice +could not be concealed, for it was the voice of Valancourt! At the sound, never +heard by Emily, without emotion, she started, in terror, astonishment and +doubtful pleasure, and had scarcely beheld him at her feet, when she sunk into +a seat, overcome by the various emotions, that contended at her heart, and +almost insensible to that voice, whose earnest and trembling calls seemed as if +endeavouring to save her. Valancourt, as he hung over Emily, deplored his own +rash impatience, in having thus surprised her: for when he had arrived at the +château, too anxious to await the return of the Count, who, he understood, was +in the grounds, he went himself to seek him, when, as he passed the tower, he +was struck by the sound of Emily’s voice, and immediately ascended. +</p> + +<p> +It was a considerable time before she revived, but, when her recollection +returned, she repulsed his attentions, with an air of reserve, and enquired, +with as much displeasure as it was possible she could feel in these first +moments of his appearance, the occasion of his visit. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah Emily!” said Valancourt, “that air, those +words—alas! I have, then, little to hope—when you ceased to esteem +me, you ceased also to love me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Most true, sir,” replied Emily, endeavouring to command her +trembling voice; “and if you had valued my esteem, you would not have +given me this new occasion for uneasiness.” +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt’s countenance changed suddenly from the anxieties of doubt to +an expression of surprise and dismay: he was silent a moment, and then said, +“I had been taught to hope for a very different reception! Is it, then, +true, Emily, that I have lost your regard for ever? am I to believe, that, +though your esteem for me may return—your affection never can? Can the +Count have meditated the cruelty, which now tortures me with a second +death?” +</p> + +<p> +The voice, in which he spoke this, alarmed Emily as much as his words surprised +her, and, with trembling impatience, she begged that he would explain them. +</p> + +<p> +“Can any explanation be necessary?” said Valancourt, “do you +not know how cruelly my conduct has been misrepresented? that the actions of +which you once believed me guilty (and, O Emily! how could you so degrade me in +your opinion, even for a moment!) those actions—I hold in as much +contempt and abhorrence as yourself? Are you, indeed, ignorant, that Count de +Villefort has detected the slanders, that have robbed me of all I hold dear on +earth, and has invited me hither to justify to you my former conduct? It is +surely impossible you can be uninformed of these circumstances, and I am again +torturing myself with a false hope!” +</p> + +<p> +The silence of Emily confirmed this supposition; for the deep twilight would +not allow Valancourt to distinguish the astonishment and doubting joy, that +fixed her features. For a moment, she continued unable to speak; then a +profound sigh seemed to give some relief to her spirits, and she said, +</p> + +<p> +“Valancourt! I was, till this moment, ignorant of all the circumstances +you have mentioned; the emotion I now suffer may assure you of the truth of +this, and, that, though I had ceased to esteem, I had not taught myself +entirely to forget you.” +</p> + +<p> +“This moment,” said Valancourt, in a low voice, and leaning for +support against the window—“this moment brings with it a conviction +that overpowers me!—I am dear to you then—still dear to you, my +Emily!” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it necessary that I should tell you so?” she replied, “is +it necessary, that I should say—these are the first moments of joy I have +known, since your departure, and that they repay me for all those of pain I +have suffered in the interval?” +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt sighed deeply, and was unable to reply; but, as he pressed her hand +to his lips, the tears, that fell over it, spoke a language, which could not be +mistaken, and to which words were inadequate. +</p> + +<p> +Emily, somewhat tranquillized, proposed returning to the château, and then, for +the first time, recollected that the Count had invited Valancourt thither to +explain his conduct, and that no explanation had yet been given. But, while she +acknowledged this, her heart would not allow her to dwell, for a moment, on the +possibility of his unworthiness; his look, his voice, his manner, all spoke the +noble sincerity, which had formerly distinguished him; and she again permitted +herself to indulge the emotions of a joy, more surprising and powerful, than +she had ever before experienced. +</p> + +<p> +Neither Emily, nor Valancourt, were conscious how they reached the château, +whither they might have been transferred by the spell of a fairy, for anything +they could remember; and it was not, till they had reached the great hall, that +either of them recollected there were other persons in the world besides +themselves. The Count then came forth with surprise, and with the joyfulness of +pure benevolence, to welcome Valancourt, and to entreat his forgiveness of the +injustice he had done him; soon after which, Mons. Bonnac joined this happy +group, in which he and Valancourt were mutually rejoiced to meet. +</p> + +<p> +When the first congratulations were over, and the general joy became somewhat +more tranquil, the Count withdrew with Valancourt to the library, where a long +conversation passed between them, in which the latter so clearly justified +himself of the criminal parts of the conduct, imputed to him, and so candidly +confessed and so feelingly lamented the follies, which he had committed, that +the Count was confirmed in his belief of all he had hoped; and, while he +perceived so many noble virtues in Valancourt, and that experience had taught +him to detest the follies, which before he had only not admired, he did not +scruple to believe, that he would pass through life with the dignity of a wise +and good man, or to entrust to his care the future happiness of Emily St. +Aubert, for whom he felt the solicitude of a parent. Of this he soon informed +her, in a short conversation, when Valancourt had left him. While Emily +listened to a relation of the services, that Valancourt had rendered Mons. +Bonnac, her eyes overflowed with tears of pleasure, and the further +conversation of Count De Villefort perfectly dissipated every doubt, as to the +past and future conduct of him, to whom she now restored, without fear, the +esteem and affection, with which she had formerly received him. +</p> + +<p> +When they returned to the supper-room, the Countess and Lady Blanche met +Valancourt with sincere congratulations; and Blanche, indeed, was so much +rejoiced to see Emily returned to happiness, as to forget, for a while, that +Mons. St. Foix was not yet arrived at the château, though he had been expected +for some hours; but her generous sympathy was, soon after, rewarded by his +appearance. He was now perfectly recovered from the wounds, received, during +his perilous adventure among the Pyrenees, the mention of which served to +heighten to the parties, who had been involved in it, the sense of their +present happiness. New congratulations passed between them, and round the +supper-table appeared a group of faces, smiling with felicity, but with a +felicity, which had in each a different character. The smile of Blanche was +frank and gay, that of Emily tender and pensive; Valancourt’s was +rapturous, tender and gay alternately; Mons. St. Foix’s was joyous, and +that of the Count, as he looked on the surrounding party, expressed the +tempered complacency of benevolence; while the features of the Countess, Henri, +and Mons. Bonnac, discovered fainter traces of animation. Poor Mons. Du Pont +did not, by his presence, throw a shade of regret over the company; for, when +he had discovered, that Valancourt was not unworthy of the esteem of Emily, he +determined seriously to endeavour at the conquest of his own hopeless +affection, and had immediately withdrawn from Château-le-Blanc—a conduct, +which Emily now understood, and rewarded with her admiration and pity. +</p> + +<p> +The Count and his guests continued together till a late hour, yielding to the +delights of social gaiety, and to the sweets of friendship. When Annette heard +of the arrival of Valancourt, Ludovico had some difficulty to prevent her going +into the supper-room, to express her joy, for she declared, that she had never +been so rejoiced at any <i>accident</i> as this, since she had found Ludovico +himself. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap57"></a> CHAPTER XIX </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Now my task is smoothly done,<br/> +I can fly, or I can run<br/> +Quickly to the green earth’s end,<br/> +Where the bow’d welkin low doth bend,<br/> +And, from thence, can soar as soon<br/> +To the corners of the moon.<br/> + MILTON +</p> + +<p> +The marriages of the Lady Blanche and Emily St. Aubert were celebrated, on the +same day, and with the ancient baronial magnificence, at Château-le-Blanc. The +feasts were held in the great hall of the castle, which, on this occasion, was +hung with superb new tapestry, representing the exploits of Charlemagne and his +twelve peers; here, were seen the Saracens, with their horrible visors, +advancing to battle; and there, were displayed the wild solemnities of +incantation, and the necromantic feats, exhibited by the magician <i>Jarl</i> +before the Emperor. The sumptuous banners of the family of Villeroi, which had +long slept in dust, were once more unfurled, to wave over the gothic points of +painted casements; and music echoed, in many a lingering close, through every +winding gallery and colonnade of that vast edifice. +</p> + +<p> +As Annette looked down from the corridor upon the hall, whose arches and +windows were illuminated with brilliant festoons of lamps, and gazed on the +splendid dresses of the dancers, the costly liveries of the attendants, the +canopies of purple velvet and gold, and listened to the gay strains that +floated along the vaulted roof, she almost fancied herself in an enchanted +palace, and declared, that she had not met with any place, which charmed her so +much, since she read the fairy tales; nay, that the fairies themselves, at +their nightly revels in this old hall, could display nothing finer; while old +Dorothée, as she surveyed the scene, sighed, and said, the castle looked as it +was wont to do in the time of her youth. +</p> + +<p> +After gracing the festivities of Château-le-Blanc, for some days, Valancourt +and Emily took leave of their kind friends, and returned to La Vallée, where +the faithful Theresa received them with unfeigned joy, and the pleasant shades +welcomed them with a thousand tender and affecting remembrances; and, while +they wandered together over the scenes, so long inhabited by the late Mons. and +Madame St. Aubert, and Emily pointed out, with pensive affection, their +favourite haunts, her present happiness was heightened, by considering, that it +would have been worthy of their approbation, could they have witnessed it. +</p> + +<p> +Valancourt led her to the plane-tree on the terrace, where he had first +ventured to declare his love, and where now the remembrance of the anxiety he +had then suffered, and the retrospect of all the dangers and misfortunes they +had each encountered, since last they sat together beneath its broad branches, +exalted the sense of their present felicity, which, on this spot, sacred to the +memory of St. Aubert, they solemnly vowed to deserve, as far as possible, by +endeavouring to imitate his benevolence,—by remembering, that superior +attainments of every sort bring with them duties of superior +exertion,—and by affording to their fellow-beings, together with that +portion of ordinary comforts, which prosperity always owes to misfortune, the +example of lives passed in happy thankfulness to God, and, therefore, in +careful tenderness to his creatures. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after their return to La Vallée, the brother of Valancourt came to +congratulate him on his marriage, and to pay his respects to Emily, with whom +he was so much pleased, as well as with the prospect of rational happiness, +which these nuptials offered to Valancourt, that he immediately resigned to him +a part of the rich domain, the whole of which, as he had no family, would of +course descend to his brother, on his decease. +</p> + +<p> +The estates, at Thoulouse, were disposed of, and Emily purchased of Mons. +Quesnel the ancient domain of her late father, where, having given Annette a +marriage portion, she settled her as the housekeeper, and Ludovico as the +steward; but, since both Valancourt and herself preferred the pleasant and +long-loved shades of La Vallée to the magnificence of Epourville, they +continued to reside there, passing, however, a few months in the year at the +birth-place of St. Aubert, in tender respect to his memory. +</p> + +<p> +The legacy, which had been bequeathed to Emily by Signora Laurentini, she +begged Valancourt would allow her to resign to Mons. Bonnac; and Valancourt, +when she made the request, felt all the value of the compliment it conveyed. +The castle of Udolpho, also, descended to the wife of Mons. Bonnac, who was the +nearest surviving relation of the house of that name, and thus affluence +restored his long-oppressed spirits to peace, and his family to comfort. +</p> + +<p> +O! how joyful it is to tell of happiness, such as that of Valancourt and Emily; +to relate, that, after suffering under the oppression of the vicious and the +disdain of the weak, they were, at length, restored to each other—to the +beloved landscapes of their native country,—to the securest felicity of +this life, that of aspiring to moral and labouring for intellectual +improvement—to the pleasures of enlightened society, and to the exercise +of the benevolence, which had always animated their hearts; while the bowers of +La Vallée became, once more, the retreat of goodness, wisdom and domestic +blessedness! +</p> + +<p> +O! useful may it be to have shown, that, though the vicious can sometimes pour +affliction upon the good, their power is transient and their punishment +certain; and that innocence, though oppressed by injustice, shall, supported by +patience, finally triumph over misfortune! +</p> + +<p> +And, if the weak hand, that has recorded this tale, has, by its scenes, +beguiled the mourner of one hour of sorrow, or, by its moral, taught him to +sustain it—the effort, however humble, has not been vain, nor is the +writer unrewarded. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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