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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
SI QUAERIS-PENINSULAMAMOENAME
1837
VERITAS
LIBRARY
E PLURIBUS UNUM
Tu Es
CIRCUMSPICE
SCIENTIA
ARTES
OF THE
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3

Mysteries of Mdolpho.
Vol3.ch.P.K
Page
1999
MYSTERIES or UDOLPHO,
A.
5"621-9.
ROMANCE;
VA
INTERSPERSED WITH SOME PILCES OF POLTX,
WITH SOME
BY
Stalot
ANN RADCLIFFE,
AUTHOR OF THE ROMANCE OF THE TOILST, ETC.
ILLUSTRATED WITH COPPER-PLATES.
THE FOURTH EDITION.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
Fate fits on theſe dark battlements, and frowns,
And, as the portals open to receive me,
Her voice, in fullen echoes through the courts,
Tells of a nameleſs deed.
VOL. III.
LONDON: :
MAINTED FOR G. G. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATIIXOSTER-LOW.
3799
THE
MYSTERIES
OF
U D O L P H O.
CHAP. I.
*: I will adviſe you where to plant yourſelves;
Acquaint you with the perfect ſpy o'the time,
The moment on't; for’t muſt be done to-night.”
NIACBETH.
EMILY was ſomewhat ſurpriſed, on
the following day, to find that Annette
had heard of Madame Montoni's confine-
nient in the chamber over the portal, as
well as of her purpoſed viſit there, on
the approaching ‘night. That the cir-
cumſtance, which Barnardine had ſo fo-
emnly enjoined her to conceal, he had
imſelf told to ſo indiſcreet an hearer as
Annette,appeared very improbable, though
e had now charged her with a meſſage,
concerning
VOL. II.
B
(2)
concerning the intended interview. Hc
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 the immediately ſhrunk, for a
thouſand vague fears darred athwart her
mind, ſuch as had tormented her on the
preceding night, and which ſhe neither
knew how to truſt, or to diſmiſs. It fre-
quently occurred to her, that Barnardine
might have deceived her, concerning Ma-
dame 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 defperate
deſigns of the latter. The terrible fur.
picion, 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 rcſentment, uncon-
nected with profit, a motive, upon which
Montoni did not appear very likely to act,
its
( 3 )
weer
1
its object muſt be unattained, till the nicce
was alſo dead, to whom Montoni knew
that his wife's eſtates muſt deſcend. Emily
remembered the words, which had in-
formed 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 per-
ſeverance of her aunt made it too probable,
that ſhe had, to the laſt, withheld then.
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 con-
firmed her fears, and determined not to
meet him on the terrace. Soon after, the
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 de-
pravity as that of deſtroying, from one
motive, his wife and her niece. She
blamed herſelf for ſuffering her romantic
imagination
3
B 2
( 4 )
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 mad-
neſs. 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
footh her ſufferings, made her heſitate what
to do.
“ 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."
"O ma'amſelle ! that is well thought of,"
replied Annette. " That is what Barnar-
dine 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
))
...
:
( 5 )
I
.
.
..
:
reaſon for requeſting you to come to the
terrace was, becauſe he could take you to
the place you want to go to, without open-
ing the great doors of the hall, which grate
ſo heavily.”
Emily's ſpirits were ſomewhat calmed
by this explanation, which ſeemed to be
honeſtly given to Annette. “But why did
he defire I would come alone, Annette ?"
ſaid ſhe.
“Why that was what I aſked him my-
ſelf, ma'amſelle. Says I, Why is my young
lady to come alone?-Surely I may come
with her!-- What harm can 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-fo you need
not be afraid of telling me. But all would
B 3
.
.
:
not
(6)
not do. Then, ma'amſelle, I went ſo far
as to offer him a beautiful new ſequin,
that Ludovico gave me for a keep-fake,
and I would not have parted with it for all
St. Marco's Place; but even that would
net do! Now what can be the reaſon of
this? But I know, you know, ma'am, who
you are going to ſee.”
Pray did Barnardine tell you this ?”
“He! No, ma'amfelle, that he did not."
Emily enquired who did, but Annette
ſhewed, that ſhe could keep a ſecret.
During the remainder of the day, Emily's
mind was agitated with doubts and fears
and contrary determinations, on the ſub-
ject of meeting this Barnardine on the
rampart, and ſubmitting herſelf to his guid-
ance, ſhe ſcarcely knew whither. Pity for
her aunt, and anxiety for herſelf, alter-
nately ſwayed her determination, and night
came, before ſhe had decided upon her
conduct. She heard the caſtle clock ſtrike
eleven-twelve-andyet her mind wavered.
The time, however, was now come, when
phic
| 7 )
1
7
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 perfećtly 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 ſha-
dows 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 the
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
.
+
B4
( 8 )
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.
Every thing was ſo ſtill, that ſhe feared,
left 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
recognized 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.
While he unlocked it, ſhe looked back
to that ſhe had left, and, obſerving the
ray's
.
!
9
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 un.
cloſed the gate, the diſmal aſpect of the
paffage beyond, ſhewn 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 re-
fuſed to permit, mingling at the ſame
time with his refuſal ſuch artful circum-
ſtances to heighten the pity and curioſity
of Emily towards her aunt, that inte, at
length, confented to follow him alone to
the portal.
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
B 5
converſation
( 10 )
7
converſation of Annette, concerning it,
with very unpleaſant emotions. She look-
ed 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 ter-
rific. Emily's heart funk; but ſhe ſtill
followed him, and he turned out of what
had been the principal aiſle of the chapel.
.6 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 å tremulous
tone, whither he was conducting her.
" To the portal,” ſaid Barnardine.
“ Cannot we go through the chapel to
the portal ?” ſaid Emily.
No, Signora, that leads to the inner
court,
( )
>>
coʻirt, which I don't chooſe to unlock.
This way, and we ſhall reach the outer
court preſently.”
Emily ſtill heſitated ; fearing not only
to go on, but, ſince ſhe had gone thus far,
to irritate Barnardine by refuſing to go
further.
“Come, lady,” ſaid the man, who had
nearly reached the bottom of the flight,
« make a little haſte; I cannot wait here
all night.”
“ Whither do theſe ſteps lead ?" ſaid
Emily, yet pauſing.
« 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 dim-
ly, that Emily expected every moment to
B 6
fee
( 12 )
1
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 inomert 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 ob-
ſcure 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 mo-
ment, ſhe was unable to determine what
condu
i
!
!
.
( 13 )
She
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 over-
take her, who was unacquainted with the
turnings, and whoſe feebleneſs would not
ſuffer her to run long with ſwiftneſs.
feared equally to irritate him by a diſclof-
ure of her ſuſpicions, which a refuſal to
accompany him further certainly would
do; and, fince ſhe was already as much
in his power as it was poſſible ſhe could
be, if ſhe proceeded, ſhe, at length, deter-
mined 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 nowy
waited till Barnardine had trimmed the
torch, and, as her ſight glanced again up-
on the grave, ſhe could not forbear en-
quiring for whom it was prepared. He
took his eyes from the torch, and fixed
them upon her face without ſpeaking. She
faintly
1
( 14 )
+
faintly repeated the queſtion, but the man,
ſhaking the torch, paſſed on; and ſhe fol.
lowed, trembling, to a ſecond flight of
ſteps, having aſcended which, a door deli-
vered them into the firſt court of the caſtle.
As they croſſed it, the light ſhewed the
high black walls around them, fringed
with long graſs and dank weeds, that v
found a ſcanty ſoil amon gthemouldering v
ſtones; the heavy buttreſſes, with, here
and there, between them, a narrow grate,
that admitted a freer circulation of air to
the court, the maſly 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, bear-
ing the torch, formed a characteriſtic figure.
This Barnardine was wrapt in a long dark v
cloak, which ſcarcely allowed the kind of
half-boots, or ſandals, that were laced upon
his legs, to appear, and ſhewed only the
point of a broad ſword, which he uſually
wore, flung in a belt acroſs his ſhoulders.
On
.
1
1
( 15 )
On his head was a heavy flat velvet cap,
ſomewhat reſembling a turban, in which
was a ſhort feather; the viſage beneath it
ſhewed ſtrong features, and a countenance
furrowed with the lines of cunning and
darkened by habitual diſcontent.
The view of the court, however, re-ani-
mated Emily, who, as ſhe croſſed filently
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 port-
cullis; 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, foon after, entered the
poftern door of the gate-way, which
brought them to the foot of a narrow fair-
caſe, that wound up one of the towers.
Up this ſtaircaſe the Signora lies,”
faid Barnardine.
« Lies !)
--
V
.
( 16 )
“ Lies !" repeated Emily faintly, as ſhe
began to aſcend.
“She lies in the upper chamber,” ſaid
Barnardine.
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 fallow
countenance of Barnardine, and diſcover-
ed more fully the deſolation of the place
--the rough ſtone walls, the ſpiral ſtairs,
black with age, and a fuit of ancient ar-
mour, with an iron viſor, that hung upon,
the walls, and appeared a trophy of fome
former victory.
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.”
That ceremony is unneceſſary,” re-
plied Emily, “ my aunt will rejoice to
ſee me.''
« I am not ſo ſure of that,” ſaid Barnar-
dine,
>)
( 17 )
dine, pointing to the room he had opened:
Come in here, lady, while I ſtep up.
Emily, ſurpriſed and ſomewhat ſhocked,
did not dare to oppoſe him further, but,
as he was turning away with the torch,
defired he would not leave her in dark-
Deſs. 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 de-
fcended, inſtead of aſcending, the ſtairs;
but the guſts of wind, that whiſtled roundu
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 in-
creaſed, though ſhe conſidered, that the
thickneſs of the floor in this ſtrong build-
ing might prevent any found reaching her
from the upper chamber. The next mo-
ment, in a pauſe of the wind, ſhe diftin-
guiſhed
1
( 18 )
guiſhed Barnardine's ſtep deſcending to
the court, and then thought ſhe heard his
voice; but, the riſing guſt again over-
coming other ſounds, Emily, to be certain
on this point, moved ſoftly to the door,
which, on attempting to open it, ſhe dif-
covered was faſtened. All the horrid ap-
prehenſions, that had lately aſſailed her,
returned at this inſtant with redoubled
force, and no longer appeared like the es-
aggerations 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 inurdered, perhaps in
this very chamber; or that ſhe herſelf was
brought hither for the ſame purpoſe. The
countenance, the manners, and the recol-
lected words of Barnardine, when he had
ſpoken of her aunt, confirmed her worſt
fears. For ſome moments, ſhe was incan
pable of conſidering of any means, by
which ſhe might attempt an eſcape. Still
fhe liſtened, but heard footſteps neither on
the ſtairs, or in the room above; the
thought,
+
( 19 )
entorn
"
thought, however, that ſhe again diftin.
guiſhed Barnardine's voice below, and
went to a grated window, that opened
upon the court, , to enquire further.
Here, ſhc 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 ſeem-
ed to iſſue from the portal below, flaſhed
acroſs the court, and the long ſhadow of a
man, who was under the arch-way, ap-
peared upon the pavement. Emily, from
the hugeneſs of this ſudden portrait, con-
cluded it to be that of Barnardine; but
other deep tones, which paſſed in the wind,
foon convinced her he was not alone, and
that his companion was not a perſon very
liable to pity.
When her ſpirits had overcome the firſt
ſhock of her ſituation, ſhe held up the
lamp to examine, if the chamber afforded a
poffibility of an eſcape. It was a ſpacious
room, whoſe walls, wainſcoted with rough
oak,
( 20 )
oak, ſhewed no caſement but the grated
one, which Emily had left, and no other
door, than that, by which ſhe bad entered.
The feeble rays of the lamp, however, did
not allow her to ſee at once its full extent;
the perceived no furniture, except, indeed,
an iron chair, faſtened in the centre of the
chamber, immediately over which, depend..
ing on a chain from the cieling, hung an
iron ring. Having gazed upon theſe, for
ſome time, with wonder and horror, the
next obſerved iron bars below, made for
the purpoſe of confining the feet, and on
the arms of the chair were rings of the
fame metal. As fhe continued to ſurvey
them, ſhe concluded that they were inſtru-
ments 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
( 21 )
An acute pain ſeized her head, ſhe was
ſcarcely able to hold the lamp, and, look-
ing round for ſupport, was ſeating herſelf,
unconſciouſly, in the iron chair itfelf;
but ſuddenly perceiving wherc ſhe was,
ſhe ſtarted from ic in horror, and ſprung
towards a remote end of the room. Here
again ſhe looked round for a feat to ſuf-
tain her, and perceived only a dark cur-
tain, 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
ihe pauſed toʻgaze upon it, in wonder
and apprehenſion.
It ſeemed to conceal a receſs of the
chamber ; ſhe wiſhed, yet dreaded, to lift
it, and to diſcover what it veiled: twice
fhe was withheld by a recollection of the
terrible ſpectacle her daring hand had for-
merly 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,
1
1
1
( 22 )
1
:
i
Beyond, appeared a corpſe, ſtretched on
a kind of low couch, which was crimſon-
ed 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,
plirenſicd eye; but, in the next, the lamp
dropped from her hand, and ſhe fell ſenſe-
leſs at the foot of the couch.
When her ſenſes returned, the 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. Thiey carried her
down the ſtaircaſe, by which ſhe had al-
cended; when, having reached the arch-
way, they ſtopped, and one of the men,
taking the torch ſrom Barnardine, opened
a ſmall door, that was cut in the great gate,
and,
+
1
( 23 )
+
and, as he ſtepped out upon the road,
the light he bore ſhewed ſeveral men on
horſeback, in waiting. Whether it was
the freſhneſs of the air, that revived Emi-
ly, or that the cbjects ſhe now ſaw rouſed
the ſpirit of alarm, ſhe ſuddenly ſpoke,
and made an ineffe&tual effort to diſengage
herſelf from the graſp of the ruffians, who
held her.
Barnardine, meanwhile, called loudly
for the torch, while diſtant voices anſwered,
and ſeveral perſons approached, and, in the
ſame inſtant, a light flaſhed upon
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 em-
ployed in altering the ſaddle of a horſe,
round which were ſeveral horſemen, look-
ing on, whoſe barſh features received the
full glare of the torch ; vbile the broken
ground beneath them, the oppoſite walls,
with
the court,
3
1
( 24 :)
1
with the tufted ſhrubs, that overhung their
fummits, and an embattled watch-tower
above, were reddened with the gleam,
which, fading gradually away, left the re-
moter ramparts and the woods below to
the obſcurity of night.
" What do you waſte time for, there ?"
faid Barnardine with an oath, as he ap-
proached the horſemen. «
Diſpatch--dif-
patch.”
“ The ſaddle will be ready in a mi-
pute,” 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
fame moment, ſhe diftinguiſhed Montoni
and Cavigni, followed by a number of
ruflian
1
1
j
)
1
rutian-faced fellows, to whom ſhe nó
longer looked with terror, but with hope,
for at this intant, ſhe did not tremble at the
thought of any dangers, that might await
her within the caſtle, whence fo lately,
and ſo anxiouſly, ſhe had wiſhed to eſcape.
Thore, which threatened her from without,
'had engroſſed all her apprehenſions.
A ſhort conteſt enſued between the
parties, in which that of Montoni, how-
ever, 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 Bar-
nardine had run far enough to be loſt
in the darkneſs, and Emily was led back
into the caſtle. As ſhe re-paſſed 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
Lhuddered for herſelf, and, almoſt forget-
ging
+
1
VOL, JII.
c
1
4
A
ነ 1
( 26
26 )
1
ting the danger ſhe had eſcaped, could
ſcarcely think, that any thing leſs precious
than liberty and peace was to be found
beyond them.
Montoni ordered Enily to await him in
the cedar parlour, whither he ſoon follow-
ed, 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 lo his impatieni 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.
Emily had been ſome time in her apart-
ment, before the tumult of her mind al-
lowed her to remember ſeveral of the
paſſed circumſtances. Then, again, the
bicad form, which the curtain in the
por-
tal-
1
1
}
( 27 )
tal-chamber had diſcloſed, came to her
fancy, an d ſhe uttered a groan, which ter-
rified Annette the more, as Emily forbore
to ſatisfy her curioſity, on the ſubject of it,
for ſhe feared to truſt her with fo fatal
a ſecret, left her indiſcretion ſhould call
down the immediate vengeance of Mon-
toni on herſelf.
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 fcerned not to
make any impreſſion on the ſenſe of the
long-agitated Emily, who ſat fixed and
filent, except thet, now and then, the
heaved a heavy ſigh, but without tears.
Terrified at her condition, Annette, at
length, left the room, to inform Montoni
of it, who had juſt miſſed his ſervants,
without
1
C 2
( 28 )
without having made any diſcoveries O.
the ſubject of his enquiry. The wild de-
fcription, which this girl now gave of
Emily, induced him to follow her imme-
diately to the chamber.
At the ſound of his voice, Emily turned
her eyes,anda gleam of recollection ſeemed
to ſhoot athwart her mind, for the imme-
diately roſe from her ſeat, and moved
flowly to a remote part of the room. He
ſpoke to her in accents ſomewhat ſoftened
from their uſual harſhneſs, but ſhe regard-
ed 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.
Of this diſorder Annette could give no
explanation, and Montoni, having attempt-
ed, for ſome time, to perſuade Emily to
talk, retired, after ordering Annette to re-
main with her, during the night, and 10
inform him, in the morning, of her con-
dition.
When
( 29 )
When he was gone, Emily again calmie
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 it the did not recollect it, and then ſud-
denly groaned, and relapſed into abſtrac-
lion.
With ſome difficulty, Annette led her
to the bed, which Emily examined with an
eager, phrenſied eye, before ſhe lay down,
and then, pointing, turned with ſhudder-
ing 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, ob-
ſerving her going, called her by name,
and then, in the naturally foft and plaintive
tone of her voice, begged, that ſhe, too,
would not forſake her..--"For ſince my
father died," added the, fighing, “ every
body forſakes me.”
« Your father, ma'amſelle!" faid An-
nette, “ he was dead before you knew me."
C 3
" He
( 30 )
1
“ 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 funk to ſleep, An-
nette having had diſcretion enough not to
interrupt her tears. This girl, as affection-
ate as ſhe was ſimple, loit in theſe moments
all her former fears of remaining in the
chamber, and watched alone by Emily,
during the whole night,
1
CUAF.
( 31
)
CHAP. II.
+
or unfold
What worlds, or what vaſt regions, hold
Th’immortal mind, that hath forſook
Her manſion in this fleſhy nouk!”
IL PENSEROSC.
1
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 en-
deavoured to recollect herſelf; but the
circumkances of the preceding night were
fwept 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.
“O dearma’amſelle ! do you know me?"
cried fhe.
“Know you! Certainly,' replied Emi-
ly
+
C4
( 32 )
A
«
ly, "you are Annette ; but why are you
fitting by me thus ?"
O you have been very ill, ma’amſelle,
- very ill indeed! and I am ſure
thought "
“ This is very ſtrange!" ſaid Emily, ſtill
trying to recollect the paſt.-"But I thinh
I do remember, that my fancy has been
haunted by frightful dreams. Good Codi''
the added, ſuddenly ſtarting—“ ſurely it
was nothing more than a dream!”
She fixed a terrified look upon Annette,
who, intending to quiet her, ſaid, “Yes,
ma'amfelle, it was more than a dream, but
it is all over now."
« She is murdered, then !" ſaid Emily
in an inward voice, and ſhuddering in-
ftantaneouſly. Annette ſcreamed; for,
being ignorant of the circumſtance to
which Emily referred, ſhe attributed her
manner to a diſordered fancy, but, when
the had explained to what her own ſpeech
alluded, Emily, recollecting the attempt
that had been made to carry her off, aſked
it
+
( 33 )
if the contriver of it had been diſcover-
ed. 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 remem-
brance of her aunt had occaſioned, ap-
peared calmly to liſten to Annette,
though, in truth, ſhe heard ſcarcely a
word that was ſaid.
“ And ſo, ma'amſelle," continued the
Jatter, “I was determined to be even with
Barnardine for refuſing to tell me the re-
cret, by finding it out myſelf; ſo I watch
ed 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 1, I am fure no good can be plan-
ned, 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 go-
ing. I followed the light, at a diſtance,
c5
3
( 34 )
1
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 Barnardinc 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 was gone up
the ſtairs, I whipt after. There, as I ſtood
under the gate-way, 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
1
( 35 )
.
had hard work to find my way througla
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 Sig-
nor and Signor Cavigoi were ip, ſo we
had foon a train at our heels, ſufficient to
frighten that Barnardine and his rogues,
all together.”
Annette ceaſed to ſpeak, but Emily ſtill
appeared to liſten. At length ſhe ſaid,
ſuddenly, “I think I will go to him my-
ſelf ; ---Where is he?"
Annette aſked who was meant.
“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.
This honeſt girl's ſuſpicions of Count
Morano were perfe&ly juſt; Emily, too,
when ſhe thought on the ſcheme, had at-
c 6
tributed
( 365
1
tributed it to him; and Montoni, who had
not a doubt on this ſubject, alſo, began
io believe, that it was by the direction of
Morano, that poiſon had formerly been
mingled with his wine.
The profeſſions of repentance, which
Morano had made to Emily, under the
anguiſh of his wound, were ſincere at the
inoment he offered them: but he had
miſtaken the ſubject of his forrow; for,
while he thought he was condemning the
cruelty of his late deſign, he was lament-
ing only the ſtate of ſuffering, to which
it had reduced him. As theſe ſuffer
ings abated, his former views revived,
uill, his health being re-eſtabliſhed, he
again found himſelf ready for enterpriſe
and difficulty. The porter of the cattle,
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 be had been carried
after the affray, and withdrew with his
people
1
1
( 37 )
people to another at ſeveral miles diſiance,
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 fent 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 fe-
cond ſcheme, was fruftrated, has already
appeared; but the violent, and various
palſions with which this Italian lover was
now agitated, on his return to that city,
can only be imagined.
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 ſubjeét, 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 re-
coiled in horror from the expectation of
his
( 38 )
1
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.
As the moment of interview approach-
ed, her agitation increaſed ſo much, that
ſhe almoſt refolved to excuſe herſelf un-
der what could ſcarcely be called a pre-
tence of illneſs; and, when the confidered
what could be ſaid, either concerning her-
felf, or the fate of her aunt, ſhe was equally
hopeleſs as to the event of her entreaty,
and terrified as to its effc&t upon the
vengeful ſpirit of Montoni." Yet, to pre-
tend ignorance of her death, appeared, in
fome degree, to be ſharing its criminality;
and, indeed, this event was the only
ground, on which Emily could reſt her
petition for leaving Udolpho.
While her thoughts thus wavered, a
meſſage was brought, importing, that Mon-
toni could not ſee her, till the next day :
and her ſpirits were then relieved, for a
mornent,
}
( 39 )
moment, from an almoſt intolerable:
weight of apprehenfion. Annette faid,
ſhe fancied the Chevaliers were going out
to the wars again, for the court-yard 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, “fay 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
-wly 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 Ludovi-
co's fake, I would have let Count Mora-
no's people run away with us both, for it
would have been ſerving you a good turn,
ma'amſelle, as well as myſelf."
Annette might have continued thus
talking for hours for any interruption ſhe
would have received from Emily, who was
filent, inattentive, obſorbed in thought,
and paſſed the whole of this day in a kind
of
1
( 40°)
of folemn tranquillity, ſuch as is often the
reſult of faculties overſtrained by ſuffer-
ing.
When night returned, Emily recollect-
ed the myſterious ſtrains of muſic, that
ſhe had lately heard, in which ſhe ſtill felt
fome degree of intereſt, and of which ſhe
hoped to hear again the ſoothing ſweei-
neſs. The influence of ſuperſtition now
gained on the weakneſs of her long-ha.
raffed 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 diftrefſing ſubjects, ſhe fai
down with one of the few books, that ſhe
had brought from France; but her mind,
refuſing controul, became reliefs and
agitaced, and the went often to the caſe-
ment to liſten for a found. Once, ſhe
thought ſhe heard a voice, but then, every
thing
í 41 )
ty without the caſement remaining
still, fhe concluded, that her fancy had
deceived her.
Thus pafled the time, till twelve o'clock,
foon after which the diſtant ſounds, that
murmured through the caſtle, ceaſed, and
fieep ſeemed to reign over all. Emily then
feated 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 fome perſon in diſtrefs. As ſhe liſtened,
her heart faltered in terror, and ſhe became
convinced, that the former found was more
than imaginary. Still, at intervals, ſhe heard
a kind of feeble lamentation, and fought to
diſcover whence it came. There were re-
veral rooms underneath, adjoining the ram-
part, which had been long ſhut up, and, as
the found probably roſe from one of theſe,
fhe leaned from the caſement to obſerve,
whether any light was viſible there. The
chambers, as far as the could perceive,
· were quite dark, but, at a little diſtance, on
le
( 42 )
|
1
the rampart below, ſhe thought Me faw
fomething moving .
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 ihe removed her light to
a remote part of the chamber, that ſhe
might eſcape notice, during her further
obſervation.
The ſame object fill appeared. Preſently,
it advanced along the rampart, towards her
window, and the then diſtinguiſhed fome-
thing 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 in-
clined her to ſay, but a dread of ſhe ſcarce-
ly knew what warned her to withdraw.
While ſhe pauſed, the figure came op-
poſite to her caſement, and was ſtationary.
Every thing remained quiet; ſhe had not
heard even a foot-fall; and the folemnity
of this filence, with the myſterious form the
law, ſubdued her ſpirits, ſo that ſhe was
moving.
|
f
I
}
( 43 )
A
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 ſuper-
natural appearance.
When her ſpirits recovered compofure,
ſhe looked round for ſome other explana-
tion. 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 plan-
dered by his banditti, was brought hither a
captive; and that the muſic ſhe had for-
merly heard, came from him. Yet, if they
had plundered him, it ſtill appeared impro-
bable, 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
1
it 4
But what, more than any other circum-
Itance, contradicted the fuppofition, that
it was a priſoner, was that it wandered on
the terrace, without a guard : a conſidera-
tion, which made her diſmiſs immediately
her firit furmiſe.
Afterwards, ſhe was inclined to believe
that Count Morano had obtained: admit-
tance into the caſtle; but ſhe foon recollect-
ed the difficulties and dangers, that muſt
have oppoſed ſuch an enterpriſe, and that,
if he had ſo far fucceeded, to come alone
and in filence to her caſement at midnight
was not the conduct he would have adopt-
ed, particularly ſince the private ſtaircaſe,
communicating with her apartment, was
known to him ; neither would he have ut.
tered the diſmal ſounds ſhe had heard.
Another ſuggeſtion repreſented, that this
might be ſome perſon, who had deſigns
upon the caftle; but the mournful founds
deſtroyed, alſo, that probability. Thus,
enquiry only perplexed lier. Who, or what,
it could be that haunted this lonely hour,
Con
í 45
A
complaining in ſuch doleful accents and
in ſuch ſweet muſic (for ſhe was ſtill in-
clined 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.
She determined, however, to watch on
the following night, when her doubts
might, perhaps, be cleared up; and he
almoſt reſolved to addreſs the figure, if it
fhould appear again.
CHAP.
!
( 46 )
.
1
CHAP. III.
" Such are thoſe thick and gloomy ſhadows damp;
Oft feen in charnel-vaults and fepulchres,
Lingering, and ſitting, by a new-made grave.”
MILTON
On the following day, Montoni fent
a ſecond excuſe to Emily, who was fur-
priſed 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 expla.
nation.'' She now almolt reſolved to
throw herſelf in his way, but terror
checked the intention, and this day paſl-
ed, as the preceding one, with Emily, ex-
cept that a degree of awful expectation,
concerning the approaching night, now
ſomewhat diſturbed the dreadful calmneſs
that had pervaded her mind.
Towards
( 47 )
1
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 fhouts and ſtrains of exultation, like
the orgies of furies over ſome horrid facri-
fice. She even feared they were about to
commit fome barbarous deed; a conjec-
ture from which, however, Annelte foon
relieved her, by telling, that the people
were only exulting over the plunder they
had brought with them. This circum
ftance ftill 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 inacceſlible caſtle,
retired far among the receſſes of wild and
folitary mountains, along whoſe diſtant
skirts were ſcattered towns, and cities, whi.
ther wealthy travellers were continually
palling-
i 48 )
palliga-this appeared to be the ſituatwn
of all others most ſuited for the ſucceſs of
ſchemes of rapine, and ſhe yielded to the
Itrange thought, that Montoni was become
a captain of robbers. His character alſo,
unprincipled, dauntleſs, cruel, and enter-
priſing, ſeemed to fit him for the ſituation.
Delighting in the tumult and in the ſtrug-
gles of life, he was equally a ſtranger to
pity and to fear; his very courage was a
ſort of animal ferocity; not the noble im-
pulſe of a principle, ſuch as inſpirits the
mind againſt the oppreffor, in the cauſe of
the oppreſled; but a conſtitutional hardi-
nefs of nerve, that cannot feel, and that,
therefore, cannot fear.
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 revea
nues of the many ſtates of Italy being, at
that time, inſufficient to the ſupport of
Kanding armies, even during the ſhort
periods,
!
( 49 )
1
periods, which the turbulent habits both
of the governments and the people permit-
ted to paſs in peace, an order of men aroſe
not known in our age, and but faintly de-
fcribed in the hiſtory of their own.
Of the
ſoldiers, diſbanded at the end of every war,
few returned to the fafe, but unprofitable
occupations, then uſual in peace.
Some.
times they paſſed into other countries, and
mingled with armies, which ſtill kept the
field. Sometimes they formed themſelves
into bands of robbers, and occupied rea
mote fortreſſes, where their deſperate
character, the weakneſs of the govern-
ments which they offended, and the cer-
tainty, 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 va-
lour. From this latter practice aroſe their
name
VOL, III.
D
( 50 )
E
1
nameCondottieri ; a term formidable all
over Italy, for a period, which concluded
in the earlier part of the ſeventeenth cen-
tury, but of which it is not ſo eaſy to aſcer-
tain the commencement.
Conteſts between the ſmaller ſtates were
then, for the moſt part, affairs of enter-
priſe alone, and the probabilities of ſuc-
ceſs 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 op-
poſed parties knew little of each other's
ſtrength, the event of the day was fre-
quently determined by the boldneſs of
the firſt movements. In ſuch ſervices the
Condotieri
1
1
1
x
1
( 51 )
E
Condottieri were eminent, and in there,
where plunder always followed ſucceſs,
their characters acquired a mixture of in-
trepidity and profligacy, which awed even
thoſe whom they ſerved.
When they were not thus engaged, their
chief had uſually his own fortreſs, in
which, or in its neighbourhood, they en-
joyed an irkſome ret; and, though their
wants were, at one time, partly fupplied
from the property of the inhabitants, the
Javith diſtribution of their plunder at
others, prevented them from being ob-
noxious; and the peaſants of ſuch diſtrict:-
gradually ſhared the character of their
warlike viſitors. The neighbouring go-
vernments ſometimes profeſſed, but fel-
dom endeavoured, to ſuppreſs theſe mili-
tary communities; both becauſe it was
difficult to do ſo, and becauſe a diſguiſed
protection of them cenſured, for the fer-
vice of their wars, a body of men, who
could not otherwiſe be fo cheaply main-
lained, or ſo perfectly qualified. The
commanders
D 2
.
1
( 52 )
i
commanders ſometimes even relied ſo far
upon this policy of the ſeveral powers,
as to frequent their capitals; and Mon-
toni, having met them in the gaming par-
ties 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 arrange-
ment of his preſent plan of life, that the
midnight councils were held at his man-
fon in Venice, and at which Orſino and
ſome other members of the preſent com-
munity then aſſiſted with ſuggeſtions, which
they had ſince executed with the wreck of
their fortunes.
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
Cew the lonely terrace and the ſurround-
ibig Clijects, more diſtinctly, than the twi-
light of the ſtars had done, and promiſed
hi to aſſiſt her obſervations, ſhould
etic myfterious forin return. On this ſub-
ject,
1
!
}
..
( 53 )
jea, ſhe again wavered in conje&ture, and
heſitated whether to ſpeak to the figure, to
which a ſtrong and almoſt irreſiſtible in-
tereſt urged her ; but terror, at intervals,
made her reluctant to do ſo.
• 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.”
She then thought of her unfortunate
aunt, and, ſhuddering with grief and hor-
ror, 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 for-
ſook her, and ſhe determined, if the figure
ſhould appear, not to ſpeak to it.
Thus the time paſſed, as ſhe ſat at her
caſement, awed by expectation, and by
D3
the
( 54 )
1
the gloom and ſtillneſs of midnight ; for
the faw 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 moon-
beam, 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 watch-
ing, 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 fhone with a clear luſtre, that afford-
ed her a complete view of the terrace ; but
ſhe ſaw only a folitary ſentinel, pacing at
1
one
1
( 55 )
--
one end of it; and, at length, tired with
expectation, ſhe withdrew to ſeek reſt.
Such, however, was the impreſſion, left
on her mind, by the muſic, and the com-
plaining ſhe had formerly heard, as well as
by the figure, which ſhe fancied ſhe had
feen, that ſhe determined to repeat the
watch, on the following night.
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 con-
tinued 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
D4
( 56 )
I
when Montoni's voice arreſted her, and,
in a faltering accent, ſhe ſaid, " I would
ſpeak with you, Signor Montoni, if
you
are at leiſure.”
“ Theſe are my friends," he replied;
« whatever you would ſay, they may
hear."
Emily, without replying, turned from
the rude gaze of the chevaliers, and Mon.
toni then followed her to the hall, whence
he led her to a ſmall room, of which he
ſhut the door with violence. As ſhe look-
ed 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 recal thought
enough to explain the purport of her viſit;
and to truſt herſelf with the mention of
Madame Montoni was more than ſhe
dared,
Montoni at length impatiently enquired
what ſhe had to ſay. “I have no time for
trifling,” he added, “ my moments are
important."
Emily
1
( 57 )
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, be.
came paler than before, trembled, and had
nearly ſunk at his feet. He obſerved her
emotion, with apparent indifference, and
interrupted the filence by telling her, he
muſt be gone. Emily, however, recalled
her ſpirits ſufficiently to enable her to re-
peat her requeſt. And, when Montoni
abſolutely refuſed it, her ſlumbering mind
was rouſed.
“I can no longer remain here with pro-
priety, fir,” ſaid ſhe, “and I may be al-
lowed to aſk, by what right you detain
me."
~ It is my will that you remain bere,”
ſaid Montoni, laying his hand on the door
to go;
" let that ſuffice you."
Emily, conſidering that ſhe had no ap-
peal from this will, forbore to diſpute his
right, and made a feeble effort to perſuade
D 5
himni
( 58 )
A
him to be juſt. “ 'While my aunt lived,
fir,” ſaid ſhe, in a tremulous voice, “ my
reſidence here was not improper; but now,
that ſhe is no more, I may ſurely be per-
mitted to depart. My ſtay cannot benefit
you, ſir, and will only diſtreſs me."
" Who told you, that Madame Montoni
was dead ?" ſaid Montoni, with an in-
quiſitive 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.
“Who told you ſo ?" he repeated, more
flernly.
« Alas! I know it too well,” replied
Emily: “ ſpare me on this terrible ſub-
ject!”
She ſat down on a bench to ſupport
herſelf.
« If you wiſh to ſee her,” ſaid Montoni,
you may; ſhe lies in the eaſt turret.”
He now left the room, without awaiting
ter reply, and returned to the cedar cham-
bce,
?
:
( 59 )
ber, where ſuch of the chevaliers as had
not before ſeen Emily, began to rally him,
on the diſcovery they had made; but Mon-
toni did not appear diſpoſed to bear this
mirth, and they changed the ſubject.
Having talked with the ſubtle Orſino,
on the plan of an excurſion, which he
meditated for a future day, his friend ad-
viſed that they ſhould lie in wait for the
enemy, which Verezzi impetuouſly op-
poſed, reproached Orfino with want of
ſpirit, and ſwore, that, if Montoni would
let him lead on fifty men, he would con.
quer all that ſhould oppoſe him.
Orfino ſmiled contemptuouſly; Mon-
toni ſmiled too, but he alſo liſtened. Ve.
rezzi then proceeded with vehement decla-
mation and aſſertion, till he was ſtopped by
an argument of Orſino, which he knew
not how to anſwer better than by invective.
His fierce fpirit detefted the cunning cau-
tion of Orfino, whom he conſtantly op-
poſed, and whoſe inveterate, though filent,
hatred he had long ago incurred. And
Montoni
D G
}
( 60 )
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 cow-
ardice, at which the countenance of the
latter, while he made no reply, was over-
ſpread with a livid paleneſs; and Mon-
toni, 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 Orfino, remarked not the
action, and continued boldly declaiming
againſt cowards to Cavigni, who was fily
laughing at his vehemence, and at the
ſilent mortification of Orfino, when the
latter, retiring a few ſteps behind, drew
forth a ſtiletto 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 bofom,
unſeen by all except himſelf; for moſt of
the
( 61 )
2
:
the party were diſputing at a diſtant win-
dow, on the ſituation of a dell where they
meant to form an ambuſcade.
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.
Signor,” ſaid he, with a ſignificant
look at Orſino, "we are not a band of af-
ſaſſins; if you have buſineſs for brave
men, employ me on this expedition : you
fall have the laſt drop of my blood : if
ypu have only work for cowards-keep
him," pointing to Orſino, “and let me
quit Udolpho."
Orſino, ftill more incenſed, again drew
forth his ſtiletto, and ruſhed towards Ven
rezzi, who, at the ſame inſtant, advanced
with his ſword, when Montoni and the
reſt of the party interfered and ſeparated
them.
~ This is the conduct of a boy,” ſaid
Montoni
1
( 62 )
;
i
Montoni to Verezzi, « not of a man : be
more moderate in your ſpeech."
« Moderation is the virtue of cowards,'
retorted Verezzi; “they are moderate in
every thing--but in fear."
“I accept your words," ſaid Montoni,
turning upon him with a fierce and
haughty look, and drawing his ſword out
of the ſcabbard.
“ With all my heart," cried Verezzi,
though I did not mean them for you."
He directed a paſs at Montoni; and,
while they fought, the villain Orfino made
another attempt to ftab Verezzi, and was
again prevented.
'1
The combatants were, at length, ſepa -
rated ; and, after a very long and violent
diſpute, reconciled. Montoni then left
the room with Orfino, whom he detained
in private conſultation for a conſiderable
time.
Emily, meanwhile, ftunned, hy the laſt
words of Montoni, forgot, for the moment,
his declaration, that the ſhould continue in
the
/
( 63 )
the caſtle, while ſhe thought of her unfor-
tunate 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.
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 fufficient to ſupport
her through the approaching fcene ; 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.
Annette came, and Emily mentioned
her purpoſe, from which the former en-
deavoured to diſſuade her, though without
effect, and Annette was, with much diffi-
cully, prevailed upon to accompany ber
10
( 64 )
A
to the turret; but no conſideration could
make her promiſe to enter the chamber of
death.
They now left the corridor, and, hav,
ing reached the foot of the ſtaircaſe,
which Emily had formerly aſcended, An-
nette declared ſhe would go no further,
and Emily proceeded alone. When ſhe
ſaw the track of blood, which ſhe had be-
fore obſerved, her ſpirits fainted, and, be.
ing 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,
As ſhe drew near the landing-place, up-
on 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 filent chamber, round
which ſhe fearfully looked, and then flow-
ly advanced, when a hollow voice ſpoke.
Emily, who was unable to ſpeak, or to
move
1
( 65 )
move from the ſpot, uttered no found 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
Aretched upon the quilt; then let it drop,
and then viewed the face with a long, un-
ſettled gaze. It was that of Madame Mon-
toni, 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.
“ Where have you been ſo long?" ſaid
fhe, in the ſame hollow tone, “ I thought
you had forſaken me.”
“ Do you indeed live,” ſaid Emily, at
length, “or is this but a terrible appari.
tion?” She received no anſwer, and again
he
( 66 )
ſhe ſnatched up the hand. « This is ſube
ftance,” 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!"
“ I do live,” replied Madame Montoni,
" but»I feel that I am about to die.”
Emily claſped the hand ſhe held, more
eagerly, and groaned. They were both
filent for ſome moments. Then Emily
endeavoured to footh her, and enquired
what had reduced her to this preſent de-
plorable ſtate.
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
( 67 )
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.
The track of blood, which Emily had
ſeen on the ſtairs, had flowed from the un-
bound 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.
When
( 68 )
- When ſhe had attempted to open the
door of the chamber, her aunt was ſleep-
ing, and this occaſioned the filence, 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 por-
tal-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 fer-
vants' 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.
Emily, after aſking Madame Montoni a
thouſand queſtions concerning herſelf, left
her, and fought Montoni; for the more
folemn
1
( 69 )
folemn 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.
“ Madame Montoni is now dying, fir,“
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 adminiftered,"
« Of what ſervice will that be, if ſhe is
dying ?” ſaid Montoni, with apparent in-
difference.
• The ſervice, at leaſt, of ſaving you,
fir, from a few of thoſe pangs of conſcience
you muſt ſuffer, when you ſhall be in the
fame ſituation,” ſaid Emily, with imprudent
indignation, of which Montoni foon 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
fuccour,
/
( 70 )
ſuccour, ſhe ſubmitted to humble herſelf
to Montoni, and to adopt every perſuaſive
means, that might reduce him to relent
towards his wife.
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, de
quickly prepared Madame Montoni's bed,
and they carried her a cordial, that might
enable her feeble frame to ſuſtain the fid-
tigue of a removal.
Madame was ſcarcely arrived in her own
apartment, when an order was given byhcs
huſband, that ſhe ſhould remain in the tur-
I't
!
( 71 )
ret; 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 ſuffer-
ed his wife to continue where ſhe was.
During this day, Emily never left Ma-
dame Montoni, except to prepare fuch
little nouriſhing things as ſhe judged ne-
ceſſary to ſuſtain her, and which Madame
Montoni received with quiet acquieſcence,
though ſhe ſeemed ſenſible that they could
not ſave her from approaching diffolution,
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 be-
fore her, but the filter of her late beloved
father, in a ſituation that called for all
her compaſſion and kindneſs. When night
came, ſhe determined to fit up with her
aunt, but this the latter poſitively forbade;
commanding her to retire to reſt, and An-
nette alone to remain in her chamber.
Rent
1
( 72 )
!
Reft 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.
Soon after twelve, having enjoined An-
nette to be wakeful, and to call her, ſhould
any change appear for the worſe, Emily
ſorrowfully bade Madame Montoni gocd-
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 the
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 intereft, or his ambition,
might ſuggeſt.
Occupied by melancholy reflections and
by
1
(73)
by anticipations as ſad, ſhe did not retire
immediately to reſt, but leaned thought-
fully on her open caſement. The ſcene
before her of woods and mountains, re-
poſing in the moon-light, formed a re-
gretted contraſt with the ſtate of her
mind;
but the lonely murmur of theſe
woods, and the view of this ſleeping land-
ſcape, gradually ſoothed her emotions
and ſoftened her to tears.
She continued to weep, for ſome time,
loſt to every thing, 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 be.
low, the figure ſhe had formerly obſerved,
which ſtood fixed and filent, immediately
oppoſite to her caſement. On perceiving
it, ſhe ſtarted back, and terror for ſome
cime overcame curioſity ;-at length, ſhe
returned to the calement, and ſtill the
figure was before it, which ſhe now com-
pelled herſelf to obſerve, but was utterly
unable to ſpeak, as ſhe had formerly in-
tended. The moon fhone with a clear
light,
VOL. III.
E
1
!
1
( 74 )
light, and it was, perhaps, the agitation of
her mind, that prevented her diſtinguiſh-
ing, with any degree of accuracy, the
form before her. It was ſtill ſtationary,
and ſhe began to doubt, whether it was
really animated
Her ſcattered thoughts were now ſo far
returned as to remind her, that her light
expoſed her to dangerous obſèrvation, 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.
« Good God !--- what can this mean!"
ſaid ſhe.
Again ſhe liſtened, but the ſound came
no more ; and, after a long interval of
Silence, ſhe recovered courage enough to
go
1
:
8
( 75 )
À
go to the caſement, when fne again faw
the ſame appearance! It beckoned again,
and again uttered a low found.
“ That groan was ſurely human !" ſaid
fhe. “ I will ſpeak.- Who is it,” cried
Emily in a faint voice, “that wanders at
this late hour?!?
The figure raiſed its head, but ſuddenly
Narted away, and glided down the terrace.
She watched it, for a long while, paffing
fwiftly in the moon-light, but heard no
footſtep, till a ſentinel from the other extre-
mity 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 fol-
dier then reſpe&fully aſked if ſhe had
ſeen any thing paſs. On her anſwering,
that ſhe bad; 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 ram-
part,
E 2
"
( 76 )
i
part, and, therefore, reſolved to await his
return.
Soon after, his voice was heard, at a diſ-
tance, calling loudly ; and then a voice
ftill more diſtant anſwered, and, in the
next moment, the watch-word was given,
and paſſed along the terrace. As the fola
diers moved haſtily under the caſement,
ſhe called to enquire what had happened,
but they paſſed without regarding her.
Emily's thoughts returning to the figure
ſhe had ſeen, “It cannot be a perſon, who
has deſigns upon the caſtle,” ſaid ſhe;
« ſuch an 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 found of complaint.
Yet it cannot be a priſoner, for how could
he obtain the opportunity to wander thus ?”
If ſhe had been ſubject to vanity, ſhe
might have ſuppoſed this figure to be
fome inhabitant of the caſtle, who wander-
ed
( 77 )
ed under the cafement in the hope of ſee-
ing 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 ſuf-
fered to paſs in ſilence; and that, even at
the moment in which ſhe had ſpoken, the
form had abruptly quitted the place.
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 flowly advancing
from the bottom of the terrace, but the
heard only a low voice, that came at inter-
vals. As they drew near, ſhe perceived
this to be the voice of him who walked in
the middle, apparently ſupported by his
coinrades; and ſhe again called to them,
enquiring what had happened. At the
found of her voice, they ſtopped, and
looked
E 3
( 78 )
1
i
!
9)
looked up, while ſhe repeated her quer-
tion, and was told, that Roberto, their fel-
low of the watch, had been ſeized with a
fit, and that his cry, as he fell, had cauſed
a falſe alarm.
“ Is he ſubject to fits?” ſaid Emily.
“ Yes, Signora,” replied Roberto ;
"but if I had not, what I ſaw was enough
to havefrightened the Pope himſelf.
“What was it?” enquired Emily, trem-
bling
“ I cannot tell what it was, lady, or
what I ſaw, cr how it vaniſhed,” replied
the ſoldier, who ſeemed to ſhudder at the
recollection.
“ Was it the perſon, whom you follow-
ed down the rampart, that has occaſioned
you this alarm ?” ſaid Emily, endeavour-
ing to conceal her own.
“ Perſon !” exclaimed the man,--.“ it
was the devil, and this is not the firſt time
I have ſeen him!”
« Nor will it be the laſt,” obſerved one
of his comrades, laughing.
o No,
( 79 )
“ No, no, I warrant not,” ſaid another.
Well,” rejoined Roberto, "you m.)
be as merry now, as you pleaſe; you was
none ſo jocoſe the other night, Sebaſtian,
when you was on watch with Launcelot."
« Launcelot need not talk of that,” re-
plied Sebaſtian, “ let him remember how
he ſtood trembling, and unable to give
the word, till the man was gone. If the
man had not come ſo ſilently upon us, I
would have ſeized him, and foon made
him tell who he was."
“ What man ?” enquired Emily.
" 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 gei 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 with-
in the gates after dark. So I think I have
proved
E 4
( 80 )
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 fhould 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."
“ 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.
« About a week ago, lady,” ſaid Sebal.
tian, taking up the ſtory.
« And where ?"
« On the rampart, lady, higher up."
“ Did you purſue it, that it fled ?"
No, Signora. Launcelot and I were
on watch together, and every thing was ſo
ſtill you might have heard a mouſe ſtir,
when, ſuddenly, Launcelot ſays-Sebaf-
tian!
1
1
(81 )
tian! do you ſee nothing? I turned my
head a little to the left, as it might be
thus. No, ſays I. Huſh! ſaid Launce-
lot, -look yonder-juſt by the laſt cannon
on the rampart! I looked, and then
thought I did ſee fomething move; but
there being no light, but what the ſtars
gave, I could not be certain. We ſtood
quite filent, to watch it, and preſently faw
ſomething paſs along the caſtle wall juſt
oppofite to us!"
Why did not you feize it, then?"
cried a ſoldier, who had ſcarcely ſpoken
till now.
Aye, why did you not ſeize it ?" faid
Roberto.
“ 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 fuch
a liberty, perhaps, becauſe we are not ſo
well acquainted with hint, as you are.
.
Rut, as I was ſaying, it ſtole by us ſo
ES
quickly
( 82 )
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
faw 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 to-night
that the ſame figure walked again.”
“Where did you loſe it, friend?” ſaid
Emily to Roberto
“When I left you, lady," replied the
you might ſee me go down the
rampart, but it was not till I reached the
eaft terrace, that I ſaw any thing. Then,
the moon ſhining bright, I faw ſomething
like a ſhadow flitting before me, as it
were, at ſome diſtance. I ſtopped, when
I turned the corner of the eait tower,
where I had feen 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
j?
man, “
( 83 )
it had paſſed, I heard, all of a ſudden,
ſuch a found! It was not like a groan, or
a cry, or a ſhout, or any thing 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 com-
rades, here, about me."
“ Come,” ſaid Sebaſtian, “ let us go to
our poſts - the moon is ſetting. Good-
night, lady!”
Aye, let us go," rejoined Roberto,
Good-night, lady."
Good-night ; the holy mother guard
you !" ſaid Emily, as ſhe cloſed her caſe-
ment and retired to reflect upon the ſtrange
circumſtance that had juſt occurred, con-
necting 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 en-
lightened, and the terrors of fuperftition
again pervaded her mind.
E 6
CHAP
**
( 84 )
CHAP, IV,
" There is one within,
Befides the things that we have heard and feeni,
Recounts moſt horrid fights, ſeen by the watch."
JULIUS CÆSAR,
In the morning, Emily found Madame
Montoní nearly in the ſame condition, as
on the preceding night ; ſhe had ſlept lit-
tle, and that little had not refreſhed her;
ſhe ſmiled on her niece, and ſeemed cheer-
ed 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 rofe from a chair
at the bed-fide, when ſhe begged, in a fee-
ble voice, that ſhe would not leave her,
The
1
( 85 )
The viſit of Montoni was not to footiz
his wife, whom he knew to be dying, or
to conſole, or to aſk her forgiveneſs, but to
make a laft effort to procure that ſignature,
which would transfer her eſtates in Lan-
guedoc, after her death, to him rather than
to Emily. This was a ſcene, that exhi-
bited on his part, his uſual inhurnanity,
and, on that of Madame Montoni, a per-
ſevering 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 extin-
guiſhed. At length, ſhe revived, and,
looking feebly up at her niece, whoſe tears
were falling over her, made an effort to
peak, but her words were unintelligible,
and Emily again apprehended ſhe was dy-
ing.
( 86 )
1
ing. Afterwards, however, ſhe recovered
her ſpeech, and, being fomewhat 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 rela-
tive to them, which ſhe had hitherto con-
cealed from the ſearch of Montoni, and
earneſtly charged her never to ſuffer theſe
papers to eſcape her.
Soon after this converſation, Madame
Montoni funk into a doze, and continued
ſumbering, till evening, when the 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
fomewhat recruited by ſleep; and, giving
Annette the ſame injunction, as on the
preceding night, ſhe withdrew to her own
apartment. But her fpirits were wakeful
and
!
( 87 )
and agitated, and, finding it impoſſible to
fleep, ſhe determined to watch, once
more, for the myſterious appearance, that
had fo much intereſted and alarmed her.
It was now the ſecond warch of the
night, and about the time when the figure
had before appeared. Emily heard the
paſſing ſteps of the ſentinels, on the ran-
part, as they changed guard; and, when all
was again filent, 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 dark-
nefs. 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 diſap-
peared, 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
3
)
( 88 )
1
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
fplendour illumined all its recefles 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 eaft
rampart, the turret above, or the fortifica-
tions beyond ; and then, perhaps, the
whole edifice with all its towers, its dark
maſſy walls and pointed caſements, would
appear, and vaniſh in an inftant.
Emily, looking again upon the rampart,
perceived the flame ſhe had ſeen before ;
it moved onward; and, foon after, ſhe
thought ſhe heard a footſtep. The light
appearedand diſappeared frequently, while,
as ſhe watched, it glided under her caſe-
ments, and, at the fame inftant, ſhe was
certain, that a footſtep. paffed, but the
darkneſs did not permit her to diſtinguiſh
any
1
( 89 )
E
$
any object except the flame. Il moved
away, and then, by a gleam of lightning,
fhe 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.
“ A friend,” replied a voice.
" What friend,” ſaid Emily, ſomewhat
encouraged, “ who are you, and what is
that light you carry ?"
“I am Anthonio, one of the Signor's
ſoldiers,” replied the voice.
« And what is that tapering light you
bear ?" ſaid Emily, “See how it darts up-
wards--and now it vaniſhes !""
« This light, lady,” ſaid the ſoldier,
" has appeared to-night as you ſee it, on
the point of my lance, ever ſince I have
been
(go)
man,
been on watch; but what it means I can.
not tell.”
“ This is very ſtrange !" ſaid Emily.
My fellow-guard,” continued the
« 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.”
“ How does your comrade account for
it?” ſaid Emily.
“ He ſays it is an omen, lady, and bodes
no gocd.”
“ And what harm can it bode?" rejoin.
ed Emily.
“ He knows not ſo much as that, lady."
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 imme-
diately occurred to her, that it might be
he, who had occaſioned ſo much alarm on
the preceding night. There were, how-
ever, ſome circumſtances, that ſtill required
explanation. As far as ſhe could judge
by
/
( 91 )
no arms.
by the faint moon-light, that had affifted
her obſervation, the figure ſhe had ſeen did
not reſemble this man either in ſhape or
ſize; beſides, ſhe was certain it had carried
The ſilence of its ſteps, if fteps
it had, the moaning founds, too, which it
had uttered, and its ſtrange diſappearance,
were circumſtances of myſterious import,
that did not apply, with probability, to a
foidier engaged in the duty of his guard.
She now enquired of the ſentinel, whe-
ther he had ſeen any perſon beſides his
fellow-watch, walking on the terrace,
about midnight ; and then briefly related
what ſhe had herſelf obferved.
“ I was not on guard that night, lady,"
replied the man, “ but I heard of what
happened. There are amongſt us, who be-
lieve 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 com-
plain ; our Chief does nobly by us."
“ I com-
+
1
1
( 92
)
"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.
When he was gone, fhe opened it again,
liſtened with a gloomy pleaſure to the dif-
tant 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 an-
ſwer from the oppoſite horizon ; while the
accumulating clouds, entirely concealing
the moon, aſſumed a red ſulphureous
tinge, that foretold a violent form.
Emily remained at her caſement, till the
vivid lightning, that now, every inſtant,
revealed the wide horizon and the land-
fcape 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
1
2
( 93 )
:
:
in ſilent awe to the tremendous ſounds,
that ſeemed to ſhake the caſtle to its
foundation,
She had continued thus for a conſidera.
ble 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.
“ She is dying, ma’amſelle, my lady is
dying !” ſaid ſhe.
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 X
was over-ſhe was gone
for
When Emily perceived, that all her ef.
forts were ineffectual, ſhe interrogated the
terrified Annette, and learned, that Ma-
dame Montoni had fallen into a doze, foon
after
ever.
( 94 )
1
mom
after Emily's departure, in which ſhe had
continued, until a few minutes before her
death.
“ I wondered, ma'amſelle," ſaid An-
nette, “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 alleep ; till preſently I heard a Itrange
noiſe, and, on going to her, ſaw ſhe was
dying."
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 exhauſt-
ed frame of Madame Montoni.
After ſome deliberation, ſhe determined
that Montoni ſhould not be informed of
this event till the morning, for ſhe conſi-
dered, that he might, perhaps, utter ſome
inhuman expreſſions, ſuch as in the pre-
ſent temper of her ſpirits ſhe could not
bear. With Annette alone, therefore,
whom ſhe encouraged by her own exam-
ple,
1
1
1
( 95 )
ple, 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 folemn
period, rendered more awful by the tre-
mendous ſtørm that ſhook the air, the
frequently addreſſed herſelf to Heaven
for ſupport and protection, and her pious
prayers, we may believe, were accepted
of the God, that giveth comfort.
СНАР.
1
!
}
( 96 )
CHAP. V.
« The midnight clock has tolld; and hark, the bell
Of death beats ſlow! heard ye the note profound ?
It pauſes now; and now with riſing knell,
Flings to the hollow gale its fullen found.”
MASON
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 anx-
iouſly avoided his preſence, and watched,
during two days and two nights, with lit-
tle 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 con-
duct to herſelf; and, remembering only
her
u
1
(99)
her ſufferings, thought of her only with
render compaſſion. Sometimes, however,
fhe could not avoid muſing upon the ſtrange
infatuation that had proved ſo fatal to her
aunt, and had involved herſelf in a laby-
rinth of misfortune, from which ſhe ſaw no
means of eſcaping, the marriage with
Montoni. But, when the confidered this
circumſtance, it was “more in forrow than
in anger,"—more for the purpoſe of indulg-
ing lamentation, than reproach.
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 ad.
joining to it, as if he had apprehended
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
1
VOL. III.
7
98 )
t
}
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 rela-
- tive, or friend, to pay them the laſt decent
rites, that ſhe determined to be deterred
by no confiderations for herſelf, from ob-
ſerving 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 filence
and privacy, which Montoni had choſen for
commiting, if poſſible, to oblivion the re-
liques of a woman, whom his harſh con-
duct had, at leaſt, contributed to deſtroy.
Emily, ſhuddering with emotions of
horror and grief, affilted by Annette, pre-
pared the corpſe for interment; and, hav.
ing 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
1
( 99
It was
were to lay it in its earthy bed.
with difficulty, that Emily overcame her
emotion, when, the door of the chamber
being thrown open, their gloomy counte-
nances 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 caitle towards
the grave, which was in the lower vault of
the chapel within the caſtle walls.
They had to croſs two courts, towards
the eaſt wing of the caſtle, which, adjoin-
ing the chapel, was, like it, in ruins : but
the ſilence and gloom of theſe courts had
now little power over Emily's mind, occu .
pied as it was, with more mournful ideas;
and ſhe ſcarcely heard the low and diſa
mal hooting of the night-birds, that rooft-
ed among the ivyed 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
/
( 100 )
j
terror.
!
the aifles, the bearers ſtopped at a flight of
fteps, that led down to a low arched door,
and, their comrade having defcended to un-
lock it, ſhe ſaw imperfc&tly the gloomy
abyſs beyond-faw the corpſe of her aunt
carried down theſe {teps, and the ruffian-
like figure, that ftood with a torch at the
bottom to receive it-all her fortitude was
loft in emotions of inexpreſſible grief and
She turned to lean upon Annette,
who was cold and trembling like herſelf,
and the lingered ſo long on the ſummit of
the flight, that the gleam of the torch be-
gan 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 the con-
ſidered to be her duty overcoming her re-
luctance, ſhe defcended to the vaults, fol-
lowing 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.
After
1
1
(TOT)
3
After the pauſe of a moment, ſhe went
on, and, as ſhe entered the vaults, faw be-
tween 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 ob-
ſerve, 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 af-
feeting, 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 corner
dottieri, bending with their torches over the
grave, into which the corpſe was deſcend-
ing, were contraſted by the venerable figure
of the monk, wrapt in long black gar-
ments, his cowl thrown back from his pale
face, on which the light gleaming ſtrongly
Thewed the lines of affliction ſoftened by
piety, and the few grey locks, which time
F 3
bad:
102
)
A
had ſpared on his temples: wbiłe, 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 folemn as admitted not of tears,
while ſhe thus ſaw committed untimely to
the earth her laſt relative and friend.
The gleams, thrown between the arche's
of the vaults, where, here and there, the
broken ground marked the ſpots in which
other bodies had been recently interred,
and the general obfcurity 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 mis-
guided and unfortunate Madame Montoni.
When the ſervice was over, the friar re.
garded Emily with attention and ſurpriſe,
and looked as if he wiſhed to ſpeak to her,
but was reſtrained by the preſence of the
condottieri, who, as they now led the way
10
( 103 )
1
to the courts, amuſed themſelves with jokes
upon his holy order, which he endured in
filence, demanding only to be conducted
fafely to bis convent, and to which Emily
liſtened with concern and even horror.
When they reached the court, the inonk
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 fupplication, that Mon-
toni had conſented to allow a prieſt to per-
form the laſt rites for his deceaſed wife,
knew nothing concerning this perſon, till
Annette now informed her, that he be-
longed 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
F 4
by
!
1
!
( 104 )
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 with of per-
forming what he confidered to be his
duty, and, as the chapel was built on con-
ſecrated ground, had not objected to
commit to it the remains of the late un-
happy Madame Montoni.
Several days paſſed with Emily in total
feclufion, 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 ſcarce-,
ly dare to conjecture; but it was too cer-
iain that he did ſo, and the abſolute refuſal
he had formerly given to her departure al-
lowed 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
+
1
.
:
:
7
:
.
3
.
:
:
--
( 105 )
qe laſt ſhe was awakened from her inacti-
vity only by a meſſage from him deſiring
her attendance at a certain hour. She be.
gan 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 her's, and ſhe then
feared Montoni was about to employ ſome
ſtratagem for obtaining them, and that he
would detain her his priſoner, till he fuc-
ceeded. This thought, inſtead of over-
coming her with deſpondency, rouſed all
the latent powers of her fortitude into ac-
sion; 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 fhould ever compel
her to give to Montoni. For Valancourt's
fake alſo ſhe determined to preſerve theſe
eftates, ſince they would afford that com-
petency, by which ſhe hoped to ſecure the
comfort of their future lives. As ſhe
thought of this, ſhe indulged the tenderneſs
F 5.
as
( 106 )
his own.
as often, and anticipated the delight of
that moment, when, with affectionate
generofity, ſhe might tell him they were
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 inter-
view with Montoni was over.
With theſe reſolutions fhe met him at
the appointed time, and waited to hear
his intention before ſhe renewed her re.
queſt. With him were Orſino and an-
other officer, and both were ſtanding near
a table, covered with papers, which he
appeared to be examining.
“ I ſent for you, Emily,” ſaid Montoni,
raiſing his head, “ that you might be a
witneſs in ſome buſineſs, which I am tranſ-
acting
1
;
( ( 107 )
.
.
.:
.
a@ing 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 re-
fuſed to ſign what ſhe had not read. Mon.
toni 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 be-
trayed her, poſitively refuſed to ſign any
paper
whateyer. Montoni, for ſome time,
perfevered in affecting to ridicule this re-
fuſal; but, when he perceived by her feady
perſeverence, 'that ſhe underſtood his de-
fign, 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 con-
F 6
teft,
.
1
(108)
teft, 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.
“I, as the huſband of the late Signora
Montoni,” he added, “ am the heir of all
the poſſeſſed; the eſtates, therefore, which
the refuſed to me in her life-time, can no
longer be withheld, and, for your own ſake,
I would undeceive you, reſpe&ing a fooliſh
aſſertion ſhe once made to you in my hear-
ing—that theſe eſtates would be your's, if
lhe died without reſigning them to me.
She knew at that moment, fhe had no
power to withhold them froin 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, there-
fore, receive, asſincere, the praiſe I beſtow,
when I ſay, that you poſſeſs an under-
ftanding ſuperior to that of your ſex; and
that you have none of thoſe contemptible
foibles,
1
1
i
(109)
.
.
;
.
.
your fex.”
foibles, that frequently mark the female
character-fuch as avarice and the love
of power, which latter makes women de.
light 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
Montoni pauſed; and Emily remained
filent 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 her's the
character and underſtanding of ber whole
ſex.
Judging as I do,” reſumed Montoni,
“I cannot believe
yo! will oppoſe, where
you know you cannot conquer, or, indeed,
that
you
would wiſh to conquer, or be ava-
ricious of any property,
when
you have
+
200
( 110 )
not juſtice on your ſide. I think it proper,
however, to acquaint you with the alterna-
tive. If you have a juſt opinion of the
fubject in queſtion, you ſhall be allowed a
ſafe conveyance to France, within a ſhort
period; but, if you are ſo unhappy as to
be mifled by the late aſſertion of the Sig-
nora, you ſhall remain my priſoner, till
you are convinced of your error.”
Emily calmly ſaid,
" I am not ſo ignorant, Signor, of the
laws on this ſubject, as to be milled by the
aſſertion of any perſon. The law, in the
preſent inſtance, gives me the eſtates in
queſtion, and my own hand ſhall never be-
tray my right."
“ I have been miſtaken in my opinion
of you, it appears,” rejoined Montoni, ,
ſternly. “ You ſpeak boldly, and
pre-
fumptuouſly, upon a ſubject, which you
do not underſtand. For once, I am will-
ing to pardon the conceit of ignorance; the
weakneſs of your ſex, too, from which,
it ſeems, you are not exempt, claims fome
allowance;
}
+
( )
allowance; but, if you perfiſt in this ſtrain
---you have every thing to fear from my
juſtice."
“ From your juſtice, Signor," rejoined
Emily, “ I have nothing to fear--I have
only to hope.”
Montoni looked at her with vexation,
and ſeemed conſidering what to ſay. “I
find that you are weak enough,” he reſum-
ed, “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 pupilh 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.'
“ 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 wich
fortitude, when it is in reſiſtance of op-
preſſion."
" You ſpeak like a heroine," ſaid Mon-
toni,
-
( 112 )
toni, contemptuouſly; " we ſhall ſee whe-
ther you can ſuffer like one."
Emily was filent, and he left the room.
Recollecting, that it was for Valan-
court's fake ſhe had thus refifted, ſhe now
ſmiled complacently upon the threatened
fufferings, and retired to the ſpot, which her
aunt had pointed out as the repoſitory of
the papers, relative to the eftates, where
ſhe found them as deſcribed; and, fince, 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 peruſah.
To her own ſolitary chamber ſhe once
more returned, and there thought again of
the late converſation with Montoni, and
of the evil the might expect from oppofi-
tion 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
.
+
( 113 )
A
the quiet ſuiferance 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.
As ſhe ſat muſing, a peal of laughter
roſe from the terrace, and, on going to the
calement, ſhe ſaw, with inexpreſſible ſur-
priſe, 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, re.
gardleſs of being obſerved, till the group
paſſed under it; and, one of the ſtrangers
looking up, the 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 doubtfuljoy; for it was matter of joy and
comfort to know, that a perſon, of a mind
fo gentle, as that of Signora Livona ſeem-
ed
( 114 )
1
ed to be, was near her ; yet there was
fomething ſo extraordinary in her being
at this caſtle, circumſtanced as it now was,
and evidently, by the gaiety of her air,
with her own confent, that a very painful
furmiſe aroſe, concerning her character.
But the thought was ſo ſhocking to Emi-
ly, whoſe affection the faſcinating man-
ners of the Signora had won, and appear-
ed ſo improbable, when fhe remembered
theſe manners, that ſhe diſmiſſed it almoſt
inftantly.
On Annette's appearance, however, ſhe
enquired, concerning theſe ſtrangers ; and
the former was as eager to tell, as Emily
was to learn.
They are juſt come, ma’amfelle,” ſaid
Annette, “ with two Signors from Venice,
and I was glad to ſee ſuch Chriftian 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,'
- They
1
}
( 115 )
They were taken priſoners, perhaps ?”
faid Emily.
“ Taken priſoners !” exclaimed An-
nette; “no, indeed, ma’amſelle, not they.
I remember one of chem very well at Ve-
nice: ſhe came two or three times to the
Signor's, you know, ma'amfelle, 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,
fays I, bring her to my lady! Very true,
faid Ludovico; but he looked as if he
knew more, too."
Emily deſired Annette would endea-
vour to learn who theſe ladies were, as well
as all ſhe could concerning them; and
ſhe then changed the ſubject, and ſpoke
of diftant France.
“ Ah, ma'amfelle! we ſhall never ſee it
more !” ſaid Annette, almoſt weeping.-
“I muſt come on my travels, forfooth !”
Emily tried to ſooth and to cheer her,
with a hope, in which ſhe ſcarcely herſelf
indulged.
8 How
( 116 )
}
}
1
** How-how, ma'amſelle, could you
leave France, and leave Monf. Valan-
court, too?" faid Annette, ſobbing. “I
-I-am ſure, if Ludovico had been in
France, I would never have left it.”
“ Why do you lament quitting France,
then?” ſaid Emily, trying to ſmile, “ ſince,
if you had remained there, you would not
have found Ludovico ?"
Ah, ma'amſelle! I only wiſh I was
out of this frightful caſtle, ferving you in
France, and I would care about nothing
elſe!”
« 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."
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
>
117 )
.
abſtract pleaſures of pure intellect. The
enthuſiaſm of genius, with all its pictured
ſcenes, now appeared cold, and dim. As
The muſed upon the book before her, ſhe
involuntarily exciaimed, “ Are theſe, in-
deed, 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,
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 con-
trolled by will; and her's returned to the
confideration of her own ſituation.
In the evening, not chooſing to venture
down to the ramparts, where ſhe would be
expoſed to the rude gaze of Montoni's aſ-
ſociates, ſhe walked for air in the gallery,
adjoining her chamber; on reaching the
further
( IIS
)
1
further end of which ſhe heard diſtant
ſounds of merriment and laughter. It
was the wild uproar of riot, not the cheer-
ing gaiety of tempered mirth ; and ſeem-
ed to come from that part of the caſtle
where Montoni uſually was.
Such founds
at this time, when her aunt had been ſo
few days dead, particularly ſhocked her,
conſiſtent as they were with the late con-
duct of Montoni.
As ſhe liſtened, ſhe thought ſhe diſtin-
guiſhed female voices mingling with the
laughter, and this confirmed her worſt
ſurmiſe, concerning the character of Sig-
nora Livona and her companions. It was
evident, that they had not been brought
hither by compulſion; and ſhe beheld her-
ſelf 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
pre-
fent and the future opened to her imagina-
tion,
1
1
(119)
---
tion, that the image of Valancourt failed
in its influence, and her reſolution fhook
with dread. She thought ſhe underſtood
all the horrors, which Montoni was pre-
paring for her, and ſhrunk from an en-
counter 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 Valan-
court would ſteal to her heart, and plunge
her into the diſtractions of doubt.
She continued walking in the gallery,
till evening threw its melancholy twilight
through the painted caſements, and deep-
ened 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.
Along the vaulted halls and paſſages be-
low, peals of laughter echoed' faintly, at
intervals, to this remote part of the caſtle,
and
(120)
}
and ſeemed to render the ſucceeding ſtilla
neſs more dreary. Emily, however, un-
willing to return to her more forlorn cham.
ber, whither Annette was not yet come,
Aill 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 emo.
tions of indeſcribable awe, this remem-
brance ſuddenly recurred. It now brought
with it reflections more terrible, than it had
yet done, which the late conduct of Mon-
toni occaſioned; and, haſtening to quit the
gallery, while the 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.
When ſhe had power to ſpeak, or to diſa
tinguiſh
/
*
( 121 )
tinguiſh articulated ſounds, ſhe demanded
who detained her.
“ It is l,” replied the voice_" Why
are you thus alarmed ?"
" >
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.
“ Whoever you are,” ſaid Emily, in a
trembling voice, « for heaven's fake let
me go!
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."
Emily diſdained to reply, and ſtill en-
deavoured to liberate herſelf.
Promiſe, that you will come," he
continued,
" and I will releaſe
you
immes
diately;
1
VOL. III.
G
**
122)
diately; but firſt give me a reward for fo
doing.”
“Who are you ?” demanded Emily, in
a tone of mingled terror and indignation,
while fhe ſtill ſtruggled for liberty" who
are you, that have the cruelty thus to in-
ſult me?"
Why call me cruel?” ſaid the man;
" I would remove you from this dreary
folitude to a merry party below. Do you
not know me?"
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."
“ Charming Emily !” ſaid he, “give up
this fooliſh whim for folitude, and come
with me to che company, and eclipſe the
beauties, who make part of it ; you, only,
1
are
( 123 )
1
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 found, when ſuddenly ſhe remembered
the deor of the private ſtaircaſe, and that
he might enter that way, ſince it was faſt.
ened only on the other ſide. She then em-
ployed herſelf in endeavouring to ſecure
it, in the manner ſhe had formerly done.
It appeared to her, that Montoni had al-
ready commenced his ſcheme ofvengeance,
hy withdrawing from her his protection,
and ſhe repented of the raſhneſs, that had
made her brave the power of ſuch a man.
То
Gen
:
( 124 )
}
To retain the eſtates ſeemed to be now ut-
terly impoffible; and to preſerve her life,
perhaps her honour, fe 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.
When he had come to this deciſion,
her mind become more compoſed, though
he ſtill anxiouſly liſtened, and often ſtart-
ed at ideal ſounds, that appeared to iſſue
from the Itaircaſe.
Having ſat in darkneſs for ſome hour's,
during all which time Annette did not ap-
pear, ſhe began to have ſerious apprehen-
fions for her ; but, not daring to venture
down into the caſtle, was compelled to re-
main in uncertainty, as to the cauſe of this
unuſual abſence.
Emily often fole to the ſtaircaſe door
to liſten if any ſtep approached, but ſtill no
found alarmed her; determining, however,
to watch, during the night, ſhe once more
reſted on her dark and defolate couch,
and
}
( 125 )
and batheď the pillow with innocent tears.
She thought of her deceaſed parents and
then of the abſent Valancourt, and fre-
quently called upon their names; for the
profound ſtillneſs, that now reigned, was
propitious to the muſing forrow of her
mind.
While ſhe thus remained, her ear ſud-
denly caught the notes of diſtant muſic, to
which ſhe liſtened attentively, and, foon
perceiving this to be the inſtrument the
had formerly heard at midnight, ſhe roſe,
and ſtepped foftly to the caſement, to
which the ſounds appeared to come from
a lower room.
In a few moments, their ſoft melody was
accompanied by a voice fo full of pathos,
that it evidently ſang not of imaginary
forrows. Its fueet 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 pre-
ſent ſuffering, like a celeſtial ſtrain, footh-
ingur
G 3
(126)
ing, and re-aſſuring her :-“ Pleaſant as
the gale of ſpring, that fighs on the hunt.
er's car, when he awakens from dreams
of joy, and has heard the muſic of the
{pirits of the hill *.”
But her emotion cap ſcarcely be ima-
gined, when fhe heard ſung, with the taſte
and fimplicity of true feeling, one of the po-
pular airs of her native province, to which
fhe had ſo often liſtened with delight,
when a child, and which ſhe had ſo often
heard her father repeat! To ihis 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 goodnefs of her parents, the
taſte and ſimplicity of her former life--all
rofe to her fancy, and formed a picture,
fo fweet and glowing, ſo ſtrikingly con-
trafted with the ſcenes, the characters and
the dangers, which now ſurrounded her-
that her mind could not bear to pauſe upon
1
* Ostian.
1
chc
(127)
the retroſpect, and ſhrunk at the acuteneſs
of its own ſufferings.
Her fighs were deep and convulſed; ſhe
could no longer liſten to the ſtrain, that
had fo 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 win-
dow, for the immediately recollected it to
be the ſame ſhe had formerly heard in the
fiſhing-houſe in Gaſcony. Aflifted, per-
haps, by the myſtery, which had then ac-
companied this ſtrain, it had made fo deep
an impreſſion on her memory, that ſhe had
never ſince entirely forgotten it; and the
manner in which it was now ſung, con-
vinced her, however unaccountable the
circumſtance appeared, that this was the
ſame voice ſhe had then heard. Surpriſe
foon yielded to other eniotions; a thought
darted, like lightning, upon her mind,
which diſcovered a train of hopes, that re-
4 G
vived
( 128 )
vived all her ſpirits. Yet theſe hopes were
fo new, ſo unexpected, ſo aſtoniſhing, that
fhe did not dare to truſt, though ſhe could
not reſolve to diſcourage them. Slre fat
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 Van
lancourt was near her, and ſhe recollected
circumſtances, which induced her to be-
lieve 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, ada
dreſſed to herſelf, had been his favourite
haunt, before he had been made known to
her; there, too, ſhe had herſelf unexpect-
edly met him. It appeared, from theſe cir-
cumſtances, more than probable, that he
1
was
!
( 129 )
1
was the muſician, who had formerly
charmed her attention, and the author of
the lines, which had expreſſed ſuch ten-
der adıniration ;---Who elſe, indeed, could
it be? She was unable, at that time, to
form a conjecture, as to the writer; but
fince 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.
As theſe conſiderations paſſed over her
mind, joy, fear, and tenderneſs contended
at her heart; fhe 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
fing; but the voice, and the inſtrument,
now ceaſed.
She confidered for a moment whether
ſhe ſhould venture to ſpeak : then, not
chooſing, leſt it ſhould be he, to mention
bis name, and yet too much intereſted to
neglect the opportunity of enquiring, ſhe
called
1
G
1
( 130 )
is
f
called from the caſement, “Is that ſong
from Gaſcony ?" Her anxious attention
was not cheered by any reply; every thing
remained filent. Her impatience increaſ-
ing with her fears, ſhe repeated the queſ-
tion; but ſtill no found was heard, except
the fighings of the wind among the battle-
ments above; and ſhe endeavoured to
conſole herſelf with a belief, that the
ſtranger, whoever he was, had retired, be-
fore ſhe had ſpoken, beyond the reach
of her voice, which, it appeared certain,
had Valancourt heard and recognized, he
would inſtantly have replied to. Preſenta
ly, however, the confidered, that a motive
of prudence, and not an accidental re-
moval, might occaſion his filence; but the
ſurmiſe, that led to this reflection, fud.
denly 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 in-
tercepted
.
i
--
!
aren
។
( 131 )
tercepted in ſome attempt to reach her.
Had he even recollected Emily's voice,
he would have fe red, in theſe circum-
ſtances, to reply to it, in the preſence of
the men, who guarded his priſon.
What fo lately ſhe had eagerly hoped
fhe 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
feeing him, ſtruggled with the fear.
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, tender-
nels, doubt, and apprehenfion, 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, re-
turn with deſpondence to her pillow. Never
66
did
V
1
t
1
( 132 )
did hours appear to move ſo heavily, as
thoſe of this anxious night ; after which
ſhe hoped that Annette light appear, and
conclude her preſent ſtate of torturing ſuſa
penſe.
M
A
1
1
1
1
CHAP.
:
( 133 )
.
CHAP. VI.
might we but hear
The folded ftocks penn'd' in their wattled cotesg.
Or ſound of paſtoral reed with oaten ſtops,
Or whiſtle from the lodge, or village cock
Count the night watches to his feathery dames,
”Twould be ſome ſolace yet, fome little cheering
In this cloſe dungeon of innumerous boughs.”.
MILTON .
In the morning, Emily was relieved from
her fears for Annette, who came at an
early hour.
“ Here were fine doings in the caſtle,
laſt night, ma'amfelle," ſaid ſhe, as ſoon
as the entered the room, _“ fine doings,
indeed! Was you not frightened, ma'am-
ſelle, at not ſeeing me?"
“ I was alarmed both on your account
and on my own,” replied Emily—"What
detained you ?”
: Ауе,
#
( 134 )
:
out.
Aye, I ſaid ſo, I told him ſo; but it
would not do. It was not my fault, in-
deed, ma'amſelle, for I could not get
That rogue Ludovico locked me
up again."
“ Locked you up!” ſaid Emily, with
diſpleaſure, “Why do you permit Ludo .
vico to lock you up?
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
fo 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.”
“ What, were they diſputing, then?"
faid Emily.
" No, ma’amſelle, not fighting, but al-
molt
!
+
1
-
( 135 )
r
moſt as good, for I believe there was not
one of the Signors rober; and what is
more, not one of thoſe fine ladies fober,
either. I thought, when I ſaw them firſt,
that all thoſe fine filks and fine veils,
why, ma'amſelle, their veils were worked
with ſilver! and fine trimmings--boded no
good-I gueſſed what they were !"
“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, “ what
will become of me!"
Aye, ma'am, Ludovico ſaid much the
fame 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 ?"
« 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 corri-
dor in a minute.” “ Are you ſo ? ſays
be, and what is to become of you, if
you
( 136 )
I
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 ſcarce-
ly recovered of one wound, ſhall I put
myfelf 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 gal-
lery and through the weſt wing of the caf-
tle, for you ſhall ſtay here, Annette ; you
fhall not go out of this room, to-night."
“ So, with that, I ſays"
Well, well,” ſaid Emily, impatiently,
and anxious to enquire on another ſubject,
" fo he locked you up?"
« Yes, he did, indeed, ma'amſelle, not-
withſtanding all I could ſay to the contrary;
and Catarina and I and he ſtaid there all
night. And in a few minutes after I was
not ſo vexed, for there came Signor Ve-
rezzi
l
t
1
(137)
rezzi roaring along the parlage, like a
mad bull, and he miſtook Ludovico's hall,
for old Carlo's; fo 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 ftill 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 antient 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".
« I have ſome queſtions to aſk you on
another
7
« Do you
another ſubject," interrupted Emily,
quite wearied by this ſtory.
know whether there are any priſoners in
the caſtle, and whether they are confined
at this end of the edifice ???
“ I was not in the way, ma'amſelle,” re-
plied 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 to-night, or to-morrow,
and I ſhall know then, perhaps."
Emily enquired if ſhe had ever heard
the ſervants talk of priſoners.
“ Ah ma’amſelle !” ſaid Annette archly,
“now I dare ſay you are thinking of Mon-
fieur 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
our people, and is taken captive. O Lord!
how glad I ſhould be, if it was ſo !”
“ Would you, indeed, be glad ?” ſaid
Emily, in a tone of mournful reproach.
« To
.
1
.
,
# To be fure i inouia, inaam, replica
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.”
“Your regard for him cannot be doubt-
ed,” ſaid Emily, fince you wiſh to ſee
him a priſoner."
Why no, ma'amſelle, pot 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 fix,
and dreſſed out, with a laced coat and a
fword, like a lord as he is."
Emily could not forbear fmiling at An-
nette's ideas of Valancourt, and repeated
her enquiry, whether ſhe had heard the
ſervants talk of priſoners.
No, ma’amfelle,” 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
1
+
}
- 40)
i
:
1
among them like a flafh 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 fnewed you
the very cannon, where it uſed to appear.”
“ And are you, indeed, ſo ſimple, An-
nette,” ſaid Emily, ſmiling at this curious
exaggeration of the circumſtance ſhe had
witneſſed, " as to credit theſe ſtories ?”
« 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 occafion for that; I faid, my-
felf, there was no need of that, for, ſays
1, 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 ghoft, and leave them to help one
another up, but will fall to, cutring and
Caſhing,
i
+
( 141 )
Claſhing, 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.”
Emily endeavoured to correct the fu .
perftitious weakneſs of Annette, though
the could not entirely ſubdue her own;
to which the latter only replied, “ Nay,
ma'amfelle, you will believe nothing ; you
are almoſt as bad as the Signor himſelf,
who was in a great paſſion when they told
him of what had happened, and ſwore
that the firſt man, who repeated ſuch non-
fenſe, 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.”
Emily looked diſpleaſed, and made no
reply. As ſhe muſed upon the recollected
appearance, which had lately ſo much
alarmed
( 142)
1
.
alarmed her, and conſidered the circum-
Itances of the figure having ſtationed itſelf
oppoſite to her caſement, ſhe was for a
moment inclined to believe it was Valan-
court, 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 charaĉier, how
could he obtain the means ef walking
abroad on the rampart? Thus ſhe was
utterly unable to decide, whether the mu-
fician and the form ſhe had obſerved, were
the famie, 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.
“ 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 Liyona, that the Signor
brought to ſee my late lady at Venice, is
his
1
( 143 )
1
his miſtreſs now, and was little better
then, I dare ſay. And Ludovico ſays
(but pray be ſecret, ma'am) that his Ex-
cellenza 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 Ve-
rezzi and Signor Bertolini ; and Signor
Montoni invited them all to the caſtle ;
and ſo, yeſterday, 'he gave a great enter-
tainment; and there they were, all drink-
ing Tuſcany wine and all ſorts, and laugh-
ing and ſinging, till they made the caſtle
ring again. But I thought they were diſ-
mal 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! faid I.”
Emily turned away to conceal her emo-
tion, and then deſired Annette to go, and
make enquiry, concerning the priſoners,
that
ma
( 144 )
)
that might be in the caſtle, but conjured
her to do it with caution, and on no ac-
count to mention her name, or that of
Monſieur Valancourt.
« Now I think of it, ma'amfelle,” ſaid
Annette, “ I do believe there are priſon-
ers, for I overheard one of the Signors'
men, yeſterday, in the ſervants' hall, talk-
ing ſomething about ranſoms, and ſaying
what a fine thing it was for his Excellenza
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."
This information heightened Emily's
impatience to know more, and Annette
immediately departed on her enquiry.
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 for.
titude, and ſhe determined to brave the
threatened
( 145 )
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, endea-
youred to animate her fortitude with the
idea of Valancourt.
Montoni was alone. “I ſent for you,”
ſaid he, 's to give you another opportunity
of retracting your late miſtaken aſſertions
concerning the Languedoc eſtates. I will
condeſcend to adviſe, where I may com-
mand. 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."
"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, con-
cerning them? If the lands are yours by
law,
VOL. III.
H
( 146 )
29
law, you certainly may poſſeſs them, with
out my interference, or my conſent."
« I will have no more argument,” ſaid
Montoni, with a look that made her trem-
ble. • « 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 obftinacy,
teach you a leſſon.-Sign the papers.”
Emily's reſolution was for a moment
awed :- ſhe ſhrunk at the recollections he
revived, and from the vengeance he threat-
ened; 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 feel-
ings of indignation, with which ſhe had
always, from her infancy, regarded an act
of injuſtice, inſpired her with a noble,
though imprudent, courage.
Sign the papers,” ſaid Montoni, more
impatiently than before.
" Never, ſir,” replied Emily; "that re-
queſt
1
( 147 )
1
queſt would have proved to me the in-
juſtice of your claim, had I even been
ignorant of my right.”
Montoni turned pale with anger, while
his quivering lip and lurking eye made
her almoſt repent the boldneſs of her
ſpeech.
“ Then all my vengeance falls upon
you,” he exclaimed, with an horrible
cath. “ And think not it ſhall be delayed.
Neither the eſtates in Languedoc, or
Gaſcony, ſhall be your's; you have dared
to queſtion my right,--now dare to queſ-
rion my power. I have a puniſhment
which you think not of; it is terrible!
This night—this very night
“ This night!” repeated another voice.
Montoni pauſed, and turned half round,
but, ſeeming to recolle&t himſelf, he pro-
ceeded in a lower tone.
“ You have lately ſeen one terrible ex-
ample of obſtinacy and folly; yet this, it
appears, has not been ſufficient to deter
you. I could tell you of others-
I could
1
--
H 2
( 148 )
1
I could make you tremble at the bare re-
cital."
He was interrupted by a groan, which
ſeemed to riſe from underneath the cham-
ber 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, com-
manding his features, reſumed his dif-
courſe in a lower, yet ſterner voice.
“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, how-
ever, repeat, that terrible as are the exam-
ples I could recite, the recital could not
now benefit you; for, though your re-
pentance
1
!
!
i
..
( 142 )
rence.
pentance would put an immediate end to
oppoſition, it would not now appeaſe my
indignation--I will have vengeance as
well as juſtice."
Another groan filled the pauſe which
Montoni made.
“ Leave the room inſtantly !” ſaid he,
feeming not to notice this ſtrange occur-
Without power to implore his
picy, ſhe roſe to go, but found that ſhe
could not ſupport herſelf; awe and terror
overcame her, and ſhe ſunk again into the
chair.
Quit my preſence !" cried Montoni.
« This affectation of fear ill becomes the
heroine who has juſt dared to brave my
indignation."
“ Did you hear nothing, Signor ?” ſaid
Emily, trembling, and fill unable to leave
the room.
“ I heard my own voice,” rejoined
Montoni, ſternly.
“ And nothing elſe?" ſaid Emily, ſpeak-
H 3
ing
1
( 150
ing with difficulty.-" There again ! Do
you hear nothing now ?”
Obey my order,” repeated Montoni.
" And for theſe fool's tricks, I will ſoon
diſcover by whom they are practiſed.”
Emily again roſe, and exerted herſelf to
the utmoſt to leave the room, while Mon-
toni followed her; but, inſtead of calling
aloud to his ſervants to ſearch the cham-
ber, as he had formerly done on a ſimilar
occurrence, paſſed to the ramparts.
As, in her way to the corridor, ſhe reſt-
ed for a moment at an open caſement,
Emily ſaw a party of Montoni's troops
winding down a diſtant mountain, whom
The 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, loft in tumult and perplexity, ſhe
could neither repent of, or approve, her
late
( 151 )
courts.
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 fun
perſtition, which had, for a moment, ſo
ſtrongly aſſailed her, now yielded to thoſe
of reaſon.
She was, at length, rouſed from the re-
verie, which engaged her, by a confuſion
of diſtant voices, and a clattering of hoofs,
that ſeemed to come, on the wind, from the
A fudden 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.
Soon after, ſhe heard voices faintly from
the hails, and the noiſe of horſes' feet funk
away in the wind; ſilence enſued. Emily
liſtened anxiouſly for Annette's ſtep in the
corridor, but a pauſe of totai fillneſs conti-
nued, till again the caſtle ſeemed to be all
tumult and confuſion. She heard the echoes
of
H 4
--
3
1
( 152 )
of many footſteps, paſſing to and fro in the
halls and avenues below, and then buſy
tongues were loud on the rampart. Hav-
ing hurried to her caſement, ſhe perceived
Montoni, with ſome of his officers, lean-
ing on the walls, and pointing from them ;
while ſeveral foldiers were employed at
the further end of the rampart about ſome
cannon; and ſhe continued to obſerve
them, careleſs of the paſſing time.
Annette at length appeared, but brought
nointelligence of Valancourt,“For, ma'am-
ſelle," 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
1
( 153 )
juſtice, I ſuppoſe, beſieging it! all thoſe
terrible-looking fellows one uſed to ſee at
Venice."
~ Thank God !” exclaimed Emily, fer-
vently, “there is yet a hope left for me,
then!”
“ What mean you, ma'amfelle? 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.”
« We cannot be in worſe hands than at
preſent,” replied Emily, unguardedly;
« but what reaſon have you to ſuppoſe
theſe are officers of juſtice ?"
Why our people, ma’am, are all in
ſuch a fright, and a fuſs; and I don't know
any thing 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 thé Signor
H 5
this,
1
i
1
( 154 )
-
this, ma'amſelle, and I overheard two of
them talking---Holy Mother! what
makes you look ſo ſad, ma'amfelle? You
don't hear what I ſay?"
“ Yes, I do, Annette ; pray proceed.”
« Well, ma'amſelle, all the caſtle is in
ſuch hurly burly. Some of the men are
loading the cannon, and ſome are examin-
ing 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'am.
ſelle, and Ludovico ? O! when I hear the
found 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 fhutting me within theſe walls fo
long!-it ſhould never ſee me again.”
Emily caught the latter words of An-
nette.
" 0! 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,
!
( 155 )
t
" It
look, terrified Annette, ſtill more than her
words ; who entreated Emily to explain the
meaning of them, to whom it ſuddenly oc-
curred, 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.
may, perhaps, be in his power,” ſhe added,
“ to effect our eſcape. Go to him, An-
nette, tell him what I have to apprehend,
and what I have already ſuffered; but en-
treat him to be ſecret, and to loſe no time.
in attempting to releaſe us. If he is wil-
ling to undertake this he ſhall be amply
rewarded. I cannot ſpeak with him my-
ſelf, 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 re-
turn in this apartment."
The girl, whoſe honeſt heart had been
much affected by the recital, was now as
H 6
eager
( 156 )
eager to obey, as Emily was to employ
her, and ſhe immediately quitted the
room.
Emily's ſurpriſe increaſed, as ſhe re-
flected
upon
Annette's intelligence.
“ Alas !” ſaid ſhe, « what can the officers
of juſtice do againſt an armed caſtle ?
theſe cannot be ſuch.” Upon further con-
ſideration, however, the 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 !"
Montoni, though not preciſely what
Emily apprehended him to be—a captain
Fof banditti-had employed his troops in
enterpriſes not leſs daring, or leſs atrocious,
than ſuch a character would have under-
taken. They had not only pillaged, when-
ever opportunity offered, the helplefs tra--
veller,
!
( 157 )
veller, but had attacked, and plundered the
villas of ſeveral perſons, which, being fitu-
ated among the ſolitary receſſes of the
mountains, were totally unprepared for re-
ſiſtance. In theſe expeditions the com-
manders 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 ſeve-
ral manſions, and brought home conſidera-
ble treaſures, they had ventured to ap-
proach 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'stroops
fled precipitately towards Udolpho, bus
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
1
( 158 )
the enemy winding among the cliffs be-
low, and not more than a league diſtant.
Upon this diſcovery, they haſtened for-
ward with increaſed ſpeed, to prepare
Montoni for the enemy; and it was their
arrival, which had thrown the caſtle into
fuch confuſion and tumult.
As Emily awaited anxiouſly ſome in-
formation 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 intelli-
gence became painful: ſhe liſtened; open-
ed her door; and often went out upon
the corridor to meet her.
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
1
(
159)
!
that the caſtle was about to be beſieged ;
and that mules were preparing to convey
her, with her guides, to a place of ſafety.
“Of ſafety !” exclaimed Emily, thoughts
leſsly ; " has, then, the Signor ſo much
confideration for me?"
Carlo looked upon the ground, and
made no reply. A thouſand oppoſite emo-
tions agitated Emily, ſucceſſively, as ſhe
liſtened to old Carlo; thoſe of joy, grief,
diſtruſt and apprehenſion, appeared, and
vanilhed from her mind, with the quick-
neſs 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 exe-
cution the new ſcheme of vengeance, with
which he had inenaced her. In the next
inftant, it appeared ſo deſirable to quit the
caſtle, under any circumſtances, that ſhe
could not but rejoice in the proſpect, be-
lieving that change muſt be for the better,
till
160)
1
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.
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 re-
peating the queſtion, replied, that he be-
lieved ſhe was to be carried into Tuſcany.
" To Tuſcany !” exclaimed Emily-
" and why thither ?”
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.
Emily now diſmiſſed him; and, with
trembling hands, prepared the ſmall pack-
age, that fhe meant to take with her; while
he
!
!
+
( 161 )
!
ſhe was employed about which Annette
returned.
« O ma'amfelle!” ſaid ſhe, " nothing
can be done! Ludovico ſays the new por-
ter is more watchful even than Barnardine
was, and we might as well throw ourſelves
in the way of a dragon, as in his. Ludo-
vico 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!»»
She now began to weep, but revived
upon hearing of what had juſt occurred,
and entreated Emily to take her with her.
«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, ſurround-
ed by his officers, where ſhe began her pe-
tition. He ſharply bade her go into the
caſtle, and abſolutely refuſed her requeſt.
Annette, however, not only pleaded forher-
ſelf, but for Ludovico; and Montoni had
ordered
( 162 )
ordered ſome of his men to take her from
his preſence, before ſhe would retire.
In an agony of diſappointment, ſhe re..
turned to Emily, who foreboded little good
towards herſelf, from this refuſal to An-
nette, and who, ſoon after, received a fum-
mons to repair to the great court, where
the mules, with her guides, were in wait-
ing. Emily here tried in vain to footh the
weeping Annette, who perfifted in ſaying,
that ſhe ſhould bever ſee her dear young
lady again ; a fear, which her miſtreſs
ſecretly thought too well jufified, but
which ſhe endeavoured to reſtrain, while,
with apparent compoſure, ſhe bade this
affectionate ſervant farewel. 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.
Emily, meanwhile, as ſhe looked back
upon the gloomy courts of the caſtle, no
longer
!
1
( 163 )
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, hurry-
ing 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 anti-
cipation, the ſudden joy of a priſoner, who
unexpectedly finds himſelf at liberıy.
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 opportu.
nity for plunder ; and on a journey com-
menced under the guidance of men, whoſe
countenances certainly did not ſpeak fa-
vourably of their diſpoſitions. In the pre-
ſent moments, ſhe could only rejoice, that
ſhe was liberated from thoſe walls, which
ſhe had entered with ſuch diſmal forebod.
ings; and, remembering the ſuperſtitious
preſentiment, which had then ſeized her,
he
.
( 164 )
;
:
ſhe could now ſmile at the impreſſion it
had made upon her mind.
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 con-
fined there, returned to her remembrance,
and anxiety and apprehenſion, left he
ſhould be Valancourt, again paſſed like a
cloud upon herjoy.
her joy. She recolle&ted every
circumſtance, concerning this unknown
perſon, ſince the night, when ſhe had firſt
heard him play the ſong of her native pro-
vince ;-circumſtances, which ſhe had ſo
often recollected, and compared before,
without extracting from them any thing
like convi&tion, and which ſtill only
prompted her to believe, that Valancourt
was a priſoner at Udolpho. It was poffi-
ble, however, that the men, who were
her conductors, might afford her informa-
tion on this ſubject; but, fearing to quef-
tion them immediately, Jeſt they ſhould
be unwilling to diſcover any circumſtance
:
to
..
!
( 165 )
to her in the preſence of each other, ſhe
watched for an opportunity of ſpeaking
with them ſeparately.
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 ſeve-
ral priſoners in the caſtle, but he neither
recollected their perſons, or the preciſe
time of their arrival, and could therefore
give her no information. There was a
furlineſs in his manner, as he fpoke, that
made it probable he would not have ſatiſ-
fied
( 166 )
fied her enquiries, even if he could have
done fo.
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."
Bertrand, the other man, being now re-
turned, Emily enquired no further, and,
when he had related to his companion what
he had ſeen, they travelled on in deep fi-
lence; while Emily often caught, between
the opening woods, partial glimpſes of the
caſtle above the weſt towers, whoſe bat-
tlements were now crowded with archers,
and the ramparts below, where ſoldiers
were ſeen hurrying along, or buſy upon
the walls, preparing the cannon.
Having emerged from the woods, they
wound along the valley in an oppoſite dia
rection
( 167 )
re&tion to that, from whence the enemy
were approaching. Emily had now a full
view of Udolpho, with its grey walls, towers
and terraces, high over-topping the preci-
pics, and the dark woods, and glittering
partially with thc arms of the condottieri, as
the ſun's rays, ſtreaming through an au-
tumnal 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, per-
haps, confined Valancourt, and which now,
as the cloud floated away, were lighted
up with ſudden fplendour, 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, fhut Udolpho from her view,
and ſhe turned, with mournful reluctance,
to other objects. The melancholy figh-
ing of the wind among the pines, that
waved high over the ſteeps, and the dir-
tant
1
!
!
( 168 )
tant thunder of a torrent affifted her mura
ings, and conſpired with the wild ſcenery
around, to diffuſe over her mind emotions
folemn, yet not unpleaſing, but which
were foon interrupted by the diſtant roar
of cannon, echoing among the mountains.
The ſounds rolled along the wind, and
were repeated in faint and fainter reverbe-
ration, 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 eye towards that part of the coun-
try, where the edifice ſtood, but the inter-
vening heights concealed it from her
view; ftill, 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 over-
looked. The guides twice reminded her,
that ſhe was loſing time, and that they ha 1
far to go, before ſhe could turn from this
intereſting object, and, even when ſhe
again
1
+
( 169 )
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.
The ſound of the cannon affected Ugo,
as the blaft of the trumpet does the war-
horſe; it called forth all the fire of his na.
ture; he was impatient to be in the midſt
of the fight, and uttered frequent exécra-
tions againſt Montoni for having ſent him
to a diſtance. The feelings of his com-
rade ſeemed to be very oppoſite, and
adapted rather to the cruelties, than to the
dangers of war.
Emily aſked frequent queſtions, con-
cerning the place of her deſtination, but
could only learn, that ſhe was going to a
cottage in Tuſcany; and, whenever the
mentioned the ſubject, ſhe fancied ſhe per-
ceived, in the countenances of theſe men,
an expreſſion of malice and cunning that
alarmed her.
It was afternoon, when they had left the
caſtle. During ſeveral hours, they travel
VOL. III.
I
( 170 )
led through regions of profound ſolitude,
where no bleat of ſheep, or bark of watch-
dog, broke on filence, 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 fecluded, that, if Solitude ever
had local habitation, this might have been
« her place of deareft reſidence.” To
Emily it appeared a ſpot exactly ſuited
for the retreat of banditti, and, in her ima.
gination, ſhe already ſaw them lurking un-
der the brow of ſome projecting rock,
whence their ſhadows, lengthened by the
ſetting fun, 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 ban-
ditti ſhe dreaded!
It was in this glen, that they propoſed
to alight, “ For,” ſaid Ugo, " night will
come on preſently, and then the wolves
will
( 171 )
will make it dangerous to ſtop.” This was
a new ſubject of alarm to Emily, but infe-
rior to what ſhe ſuffered from the thought
of being left in theſe wilds, at midnight,
with two ſuch men as her preſent conduc-
tors.
Dark and dreadful hints of what
might be Montoni's purpoſe in ſending her
hither, came to her mind. She endea-
voured to diſſuade the men from ſtopping,
and enquired, with anxiety, how far they
had yet to go.
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.”
His comrade aſſented, and, turning the
mules out of the road, they advanced to-
wards a cliff, overbung with cedars, Emi-
ly following in trembling filence. They
lifted her from her mule, and, having
feated
1 2
( 172 )
feated themſelves on the graſs, at the foct
of the rocks, drew ſome homely fare from
a wallet, of which Emily tried to cat a
little, the better to diſguiſe her apprehen-
fions.
The ſun was now funk behind the high
mountains in the weſt, upon which a pur-
ple haze began to ſpread, and the gloom
of twilight to draw over the ſurrounding
objects. To the low and ſullen murmur
of the breeze, pafling 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 de-
preſs her ſpirits.
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 ſtran-
ger. When he had diſmiſled the queſtion,
he talked with Ugo on ſome ſubject, which
lcd
( 173 )
led to the mention of Signor Orſino and
of the affair that had baniſhed him from
Venice; reſpecting which Emily had ven-
tured to aſk a few queſtions. Ugo ap-
peared to be well acquainted with the
circumſtances of that tragical event, and
related ſome minute particulars, that both
ſhocked and ſurpriſed her; for it appear-
ed very extraordinary how ſuch particulars
could be known to any, but to perſons
preſent when the aſſaſſination was com-
mitted.
“ 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."
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
I 3
the
$
(374)
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.”
Yes, yes,” rejoined Bertrand, " if you
wait till juſtice is done you--may you 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
be is in the right, and I am in the wrong.
Or, if a fellow has got poſſeſſion of pro-
perty, which I think ought to be mine,
why I may wait, till I ftarve, perhaps, be-
fore 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,"
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
Montonito execute a ſimilar kind of juſtice,
in his cauſe.
" But I was ſpeaking of Signor Orſino,"
reſumed
( 175 )
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 the 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 wroth, with a ven-
geance; 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 4
( 176 )
$
doubting, I warrant, of what was preparing
for them. The cavaliero thought, to he
fure, he was to be called to no account, but
was to go off triumphant; but he was foon
made to know another fort of ſtory.”
« What, then, the lady had promiſed to
have Sig:or Orfino ?" ſaid Ugo.
« Promiſed! No," replied Bertrand,
" ſhe had not wit enough even to tell him
the liked him, as I heard, but the contra-
ry, for the uſed to ſay, from the firſt, the
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."
“ What, ſhe married, then, on purpoſe
to plague the Signor?” ſaid Ugo.
“ I don't know as for that,” replied Ber-
trand; “they ſaid, indeed, that ſhe had had
a. regard for the other gentleman a great
while; but that is nothing to the purpoſe,
ſhe lhould not have married him, and tben
the
( 177 )
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 fer-
vants forward to the next town, may be,
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
milied."
Emily
IS
( 178 )
Emily turned pale, at theſe words, and
then hoped ſhe had miſtaken them; while
Bertrand proceeded :
" The gentleman fired again, but he
was foon made to alight, and it was as he
turned to call his people, that he was
Aruck. It was the moſt dexterous feat you
ever ſaw--he was ſtruck in the back with
three ftilettos at once. He fell, and was
diſpatched in a minute ; but the lady ef-
caped, for the ſervants had heard the
firing, and came up before ſhe could be
taken care of. • Bertrand,' ſaid the Sig-
nor, when his men returned"
« Bertrand !” exclaimed Emily, pale
with horror, on whom not a fyllable of this
narrative had been loſt.
“ Bertrand, did I ſay?” rejoined the man,
with ſome confuſion-" No, Giovanni.
But I have forgot where I was ;-- Ber-
trand,' ſaid the Signor”.
“ Bertrand, again !” ſaid Emily, in a
faltering voice, " Why do
Why do you repeat that
name?
1
Bertrand
1
( 179 )
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. ( Ber-
trand, or Giovanni-or what you will
« Bertrand,' faid the Signor, · if your
comrades had done their duty, as well as
you, I ſhould not have loſt the lady, Go,
my honeft fellow, and be happy with
this.” He gave him a purſe of gold-and
little enough too, conſidering the ſervice
he had done him.”
Aye, aye,” ſaid Ugo,“ little enough
- little enough."
Emily now breathed with difficulty, and
could ſcarcely ſupport herſelf. When firſt
the ſaw theſe men, their appearance and
their connection with Montoni had been
fufficient to impreſs her with diſtruſt; but
now, when one of them had betrayed him-
ſelf to be a murderer, and ſhe ſaw her-
ſelf, at the approach of night, under his
guidance, among wild and ſolitary moun-
16
tains,
( 180 )
í
tains, and going ſhe ſcarcely knew whither,
the moſt agonizing terror ſeized her, which
was the leſs ſupportable from the necef-
ſity ſhe found herſelf under of concealing
all ſymptoms of it from her companions.
Reflecting on the character and the me-
naces of Montoni, it appeared not impro-
bable, 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 un-
willing to perpetrate the deed there, a
much nearer place might have ſufficed for
the purpoſe of concealment. · Theſe con-
fiderations, 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
í
!
( 181 )
1
if ſhe had done fo, 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 counte-
inances, ſeen imperfectly through the gloom
of evening, ſerved to confirm her fears.
The fun had now been fet ſome time
heavy clouds, whoſe lower ſkirts were
tinged with ſulphureous crimſon, lingered
in tlie 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 ftruck 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 obfcurity. To this glen, Emily, as
the
( 182 )
the 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, left it ſhould provoke a furly
anſwer. Having, however, foon after, fi-
niſhed their ſupper, the men collected the
fragments into their wallet, and proceed-
ed along this winding glen, in gloomy
filence; while Emily again mufed upon
her own ſituation, and concerning the mo-
tives 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 de-
fign,
mi
!
7
j
( 183 )
1
ſign, for one that might equally gratify his
avarice and ſtill more his deep revenge.
At this moment, remembering Signor Bro-
chio and his behaviour in the corridor, a
few preceding nights, the latter fuppofi-
tion, horrible as it was, ſtrengthened in her
belief. Yet, why remove her from the cal-
tle, where deeds of darkneſs had, ſhe feared,
been often executed with ſecrecy ?-from
chambers, perhaps
“ With many a foul, and midnight murder ſtain'd.''
The dread of what ſhe might be going
to encounter was now fo exceſſive, that it
ſometimes threatened her fenfes; and,
often as ſhe went, ſhe thought of her late
father and of all he would have fuffered,
could he have forefeen 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
( 184 )
:
and improbable, indeed, did her preſent
ſituation appear to Emily herſelf, particu-
larly 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 vi-
fions, glaring upon a diſordered fancy.
Reſtrained by the preſence of her guides
from expreſſing her terrors, their acute-
neſs was, at length, loft in gloomy deſpair.
The dreadful view of what might await
her hereafter rendered her almoſt indiffer-
ent to the ſurrounding dangers. She now
looked, with little emotion, on the wild
dingles, and the gloomy road and moun-
tains, whoſe outlines only were diſtinguiſh-
able 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.
It was now ſo nearly dark, that the tra-
vellers, who proceeded only by the floweſt
pace, could ſcarcely diſcern their way.
The clouds, which ſeemed charged with
thunder,
1
( 185 )
!
!
thunder, paſſed ſlowly along the heavens,
ſhewing, 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.
“ Where is the torch?” ſaid Ugo, “ It
grow's dark.''
« 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 ftraggling party of
the enemy is abroad.”
Ugo muttered ſomething, which Emily
did not underitand, and they proceeded in
darkneſs, while ſhe almoſt wiſhed, that the
enemy might diſcover them; for from
change there was ſomething to hope, ſince
the could ſcarcely imagine any ſituation
more dreadful than her preſent one.
As they moved flowly along, her atten-
tion was ſurpriſed by a thin tapering flame,
that appeared, by fits, at the point of the
pike,
( 186 )
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 fuperftitious im-
preffion 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.
“ Let us light the torch,” ſaid he, “ and
get
under ſhelter of the woods ;-a ſtorm is
coming on-look at my lance."
He held it forth, with the flame taper-
ing at its point *.
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
:
* See the Abbé Berthelon on Electricity.
one
( 187 )
one is coming now, fure enough. The
clouds flaſh faſt already.”
Emily was relieved by this converſation
from ſome of the terrors of ſuperſtition;
but thoſe of reaſon increafed, as, waiting
while Ugo ſearched for a flint, to Itrike
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 be-
neath with partial ſplendour, the thick fo.
liage of the trees preſerving the ſurround-
ing ſcene in deep ſhadow.
At length, Ugo found a flint, and the
torch was lighted. The men then dif-
mounted, and, having aſſiſted Emily, led
the mules towards the woods, that ſkirted
the glen, on the left, over broken ground,
fre.
( 188 )
frequently interrupted with bruſh-wood
and wild plants, which ſhe was often ob-
liged to make a circuit to avoid.
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 ſhewn partially by
the ſudden flaſh, and then, by the red
glare of the torch, which ſerved only to
make “ darkneſs viſible,” were circum-
ſtances, 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 affright-
ed fancy it occurred, that they were lead-
ing 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
( 189 )
1
and ſhe demanded why they led her thi-
ther, beſeeching them to continue their
way along the open glen, which ſhe repre-
ſented to be leſs dangerous than the woods,
in a thunder-ſtorm.
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 ? »
" What are you whining about?'" ſaid
Ugo, contemptuouſly, “ who fears num-
bers! Let them come, though they were
as many as the Signor's caſtle could hold;
I would ſhew the knaves what fighting is.
For you-would lay you quietly in a
dry ditch, where you might peep out, and
fee me put the rogues to flight.- Who
talks of fear!''
Ber
( 190 )
Bertrand replied, with an horrible oath,
that he did not like ſuch jeſting, and a
violent altercation enſued, which was, at
length, filenced by the thunder, whoſe deep
volley was heard afar, rolling onward till
it burit over their heads in founds, 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 fre.
quently appeared to be clothed in lived
flame. At this moment, perhaps, ſhe felt
leſs fear of the ſtorm, than did either of
her companions, for other terrors occu-
pied her mind.
The men now refted under an enormous
cheſtnut-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.
“ I would we were well in the Signor's
caſtle!"
6
( 191 )
calle!" ſaid Bernard, “I know not why
he ſhould ſend us on this buſineſs. Hark!
.
how it rattles above, there! I could almoft
find in my heart to turn prieſt, and pray.
Ugo, haſt got a roſary?"
No," replied Ugo, “. I leave it to
cowards like thee, to carry roſaries-I
carry a ſword.”
“ And much good may it do thee in
fighting againſt the ſtorm!” ſaid Bertrand.
Another peal, which was reverberated
in tremendous echoes among the moun-
tains, filenced thein 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 cheſtnut tree."
They again led the mules forward, be-
tween the boles of the trees, and over path-
leſs graſs, that concealed their high knot-
ted 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
(192)
:
}
✓
which threw a ſtronger light forward among
the woods, and ſhewed their gloomy re-
ceſſes to be ſuitable reſorts for the wolves,
of which Ugo had formerly ſpoken.
At length, the ſtrength of the wind
feemed 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, dur-
ing which the elements ſeemed to have re-
turned 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 moon-
light, at their feet, and above, the blue ſky,
trembling through the few thin clouds, that
lingered after the ſtorm, and were finking
ſlowly to the verge of the horizon.
Emily's ſpirits, now that flie bad quitted
the woods, began to revive ; for ſhe con-
fidered, that, if there men bad received an
order to deſtroy her, they would probably
have cxecuted their barbarous purpoſe in
the ſolitary wild, from whence they had juſt
emerged,
( 193 )
emerged, where the deed would have been
ſhrouded from every human eye. Reaſſur-
ed by this reflection, and by the quiet de-
meanour of her guides, Emily, as they
proceeded filently, in a kind of ſheep
track, that wound along the ſkirts of the
woods, which afcended on the right, could
not ſurvey the ſleeping beauty of the vale,
10 which they were declining, without a
momentary ſenſation of pleaſure. It leem-
ed varied with woods, paſtures, and ſloping
grounds, and was ſcreened to the north and
the eaſt by an amphitheatre of the Apen-
nines, whoſe outline on the horizon was
here broken into varied and elegant forms;
io the weſt and the ſouth, the landſcape ex-
tended indiſtinctly into the lowlands of
Tuſcany.
“ There is the ſea yonder,” ſaid Ber-
trand, as if he had known that Emily was
examining the twilight view, “ yonder in
the weſt, though we cannot fee it."
Emily already perceived a change in the
climate, from that of the wild and moun:
VOL. III.
K
tan0S
1
A
Il
( 194 )
tainous tract ſhe had left; and as ſhe con.
tinued deſcending, the air became per-
fumed by the breath of a thouſand name-
leſs flowers among the graſs, called forth
by the late rain. So foothingly beautiful
was the ſcene around her, and ſo ſtriking-
ly contraſted to the gloomy grandeur of
thoſe, to which ſhe had long been confin-
ed, 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 fo enchanting a ſpot for any cruel
delgn. It was, however, probably not the
fpot, but the perſons, who happenedto in.
habit it, and to whoſe care he could ſafely
commit the execution of his plans, what-
ever they might be, that had determined
his choice.
She now ventured again to enquire,
whicther they were near the place of their
deſtination, and was anſwered by Ugo, that
they had not far to go.
Only to the
wood
(195)
!
}
wood of cheſtnuts 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
flice of Tuſcany bacon.”
Emily's ſpirits revived, when ſhe heard
that the journey was fo nearly concluded;
and ſaw the wood of cheſtnuts in an open
part of the vale, on the margin of the
ſtream.
In a ſhort time, they reached the entrance
of the wood, and perceived, between the
twinkling leaves, a light, ſtreaming from a
diftant cottage window. They proceeded
along the edge of the brook to where the
trees, crowding overit, excluded the moon-
beams, but a long line of light, from the
cottage above, was ſeen on its dark tre-
mulous ſurface. Bertrand now ſtepped on
firſt, and Emily heard him knock, ond call
loudly at the door. As ſhe reached it, the
ſmall upper caſement, where the light ap-
peared, was uncloſed by a man, who, har-
ing enquired what they wanted, imme-
diately
K 20
:
( 196 )
diately deſcended, let them into a neat ruſtic
cot, and called up his wife to ſet refreſh.
ments 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 fallow
complexion, and had a fhrewd and cun-
ning eye; his countenance was not of a
character to win the ready confidence of
youth, and there was nothing in his man-
ner, that might conciliate a ſtranger.
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
Atorm???
“ Ill enough,” replied Ugo,“ill enough,
and we are like to fare ill enough here,
you
will make more haſte.
Get us more winç, and let us ſee what you
have to eat."
The
too, unleſs
.
$
( 197 )
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.
After taking refreſhment, ſhe was ſhewn
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 an-
ſwers, pretending ignorance of his Excel-
benza's intention in ſending Emily hither,
but acknowledging that her huſband had
been apprized of the circumſtance. Per-
ceiving, that ſhe could obtain no intelli-
gence concerning her deſtination, Emily
diſmiſſed Dorina, and retired to repoſe;
but all the buſy ſcenes of the 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.
K 3
CHAP.
( 198 )
1
}
CHAP. VII.
VII.
* Was nought around but images of rett,
Sleep-ſcothing groves, and quiet lawns betwech,
And Howery beds that ſlumbrous influence keſt,
From poppies breath’d, and banks of pleaſant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature ſeen.
NIeantime unnumbered glittering lireamlets play'a,
And hurled every where their water's lleen,
That, as they bicker'd through the funny glade,
Though reſtleſs ſtill themſelves, a lulling murmu?
made,
THOMSON.
WHEN Emily, in the morning, open-
cd her caſement, ſhe was ſurpriſed to ob-
ſerve the beauties that ſurrounded it. The
cottage was nearly embowered in the woods,
which were chiefly of cheſtnut, intermixed
with ſome cypreſs, larch and ſycamore.
Beneath the dark and ſpreading branches,
appeared, to the north, and to the caſt,
the woody Apennines, rifing in majelic
amphitheatre, not black with pines, as ſhe
had been accuſtomed to ſee thein, but their
loftieti
pad
( 199 )
loftiel fumınits crowned with ancient fo..
reſts of cheſtnut, oak, and oriental plane,
now animated with the rich tints of au-
tumn, 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, crange 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 fun. Vines, their
purple cluſters bluſhing between the rulet
foliage, hung in luxuriant feftoons from
the branches of ſtandard fig and cherry
trees, while paſtures of verdure, ſuch as
Emily had ſeldom ſeen ia Italy, enriched
the banks of a ſtream that, after deſcending
from the mountains, wound along the land-
fcape, which it reflected, to a bay of the
fea..
K 4
:
i
1
(200)
fea. There, far in the weſt, the waters,
fading into the ſky, aſſumed a tint of the
fainteft purple, and the line of ſeparation
between them was, now and then, diſcern-
ible only by the progreſs of a ſail, brighten-
ed with the ſun-beam, along the horizon.
The cottage, which was ſhaded by the
woods from the intenſer rays of the fun,
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 oppo-
ſite to Emily's window, did not interrupt
her proſpect, but rather heightened, by
its dark verdure, the effect of the perſpec-
tive; and to her this ſpot was a bower of.
ſweets,
>
( 201 )
1
ſweets, whoſe charms communicated im-
perceptibly to her mind ſomewhat of their
own ſerenity.
She was foon ſummoned to breakfaſt,
by the peaſant's daughter, a girl about ſe-
venteen, of a pleaſant countenance, which,
Emily was glad to obſerve, ſeemed ani-
mated with the pure affe&tions of nature,
though the others, that ſurrounded her,
expreſſed, more or leſs, the worſt qualities
-cruelty, ferocity, cunning and duplici-
ty; of the latter ſtyle of countenance, ef-
pecially, were thoſe of the peafant and
his wife. Maddelina ſpoke little, but what
ſhe ſaid was in a ſoft voice, and with an
air of modeſty and complacency, that inte-
refted Emily, who breakfaſted at a ſepa.
rate table with Dorina, while Ugo and Ber-
trand 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
K 5
cottage;
i
i
(202)
cottage; a circumſtance, which, though
it did not ſurpriſe, diſtreſſed her.
When Ugo was departed, Emily pro-
poſed 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 fettled on the
towering Apennines, ſhe recollected the
terrific fcenery 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 al-
ſaſlin; and theſe remembrances awakened
a train of images, which, ſince they ab.
ftracted her from a confideration 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.
:
Tud
1
(203)
THE PILGRIM*.
/
Slow o'er the Apennine, with bleeding feet,
A patient Pilgrim wound his lonely way,
To deck the lady of Loretto's ſeat
With all the little wealth his zeal could pay.
From mountain-tops cold died the evening ray,
And, ſtretch'd in twilight, ſlept the vale below;
And now the laſt, latt purple ſtreaks of day
Along the melancholy Weſt fade flow.
High o'er his head, the restleſs pines complain,
As on their ſummit rolls the breeze of night;
Beneath, the hoarſe ſtream chidés the rocks in vain :
The Pilgrim pauſes on the dizzy height.
Then to the vale his cautious step he prefs d,
For there a hermit's croſs was dimly ſeen,
Creſting the rock, and there his linibs might reft,
Cheer'd in the good man's cave, by faggot's theell,
On leafy beds, nor guile his fleep molett.
Unhappy Luke! he truſts a treacherous clue!
Behind the cliff the lurking robber ſtood;
No friendly moon his giant thadow threw
Athwart the road, to ſave the Pilgrim's blood;
On as he went a veſper-hywun he fang,
The hymn, that nightly footh'd him to repote.
Fierce on his harmleſs prey the ruffian prang !
The Pilgrim bleeds to death, his eye-lids clotë. :
Yet his meek fpirit knew no vengeful care,
But, dying, for his murd'rer breath'd-a ſainted
pray'r !
1
lane
* This poem, and that entitled The Traveler, in vol. i.
already appeared in a periodical publication.
K 6
Preferring
1
( 204 )
<< So many
Preferring the folitude of her room to
the company of the perſons below ſtairs,
Emily dined above, and Maddelina was
ſuffered to attendher, from whoſe fimple
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 fteward at
the caſtle, was nearly related.
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.”
To the mention of this circumſtance
Emily liſtened with a painful intereſt, fince
it appeared to give a frightful colour to
the character of Marco, whoſe ſervice, thus
rewarded by Montoni, ſhe could ſcarcely
doubt had been criminal; and, if ſo, had
100 much reaſon to believe, that ſhe had
been committed into his hands for ſome
deſperate purpoſe. “Did you ever hear
how
}
.
( 205 )
.
.
how many years it is," ſaid Emily, who
was conſidering of Signora Laurentini's
diſappearance from Udolpho, “ fince your
father performed the ſervice you ſpoke of?"
" It was a little before he came to live at
the cottage, Signora,” replied Maddelina,
“ and that is about eighteen years ago.”
This was near the period, when Signora
Laurentini had been ſaid to diſappear, and
it occurred to Emily, that Marco had al-
fifted in that myſterious affair, and, per-
haps, 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 fpirits becoming calmer, ſhe ceaſed to
tremble at a view of evils, that might ne-
ver arrive ; and had fufficient reſolution
to endeavour to withdraw her thoughts
from the contemplation of her own in-
tereſts. Remembering the few books,
which
1
:
( 206 )
f
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 land-
ſcape, whoſe beauty gradually ſoothed her
mind into gentle melancholy.
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 fails, as he
ſunk amidſt the waves. Then, at the muf-
ing hour of twilight, her ſoftened thoughts
returned to Valancourt; ſhe again recol-
lected every circumſtance, connected with
the midnight muſic, and all that might al-
fifther conjecture, concerning hisimpriſon-
ment at the caſtle, and, becoming confirm-
ed in the ſuppoſition, that it was his voice
fe had heard there, ſhe looked back to
that gloomy abode with emotions of grief
and momentary regret.
Refreſhed by the cool and fragrant air,
and
A
!
( 207 )
and her ſpirits ſoothed to a ſtate of gentle
melancholy by the ſtilly murmur of the
brook below and of the woods around, ſhe
lingered at her caſement long after the fun
had ſet, watching the valley finking into
obſcurity, till only the grand outline of the
ſurrounding mountains, ſhadowed upon
the horizon, remained viſible. But a clear
moon-light, that ſucceeded, gave to the
landſcape, what time gives to the ſcenes
of paſt life, when it ſoftens all their harſh-
er 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, ap-
peared in Emily's memory tenderly beauti-
ful, like the proſpect before her, and
awakened mournful compariſons. Unwil-
ling to encounter the coarſe behaviour of
the peaſant's wife, ſhe remained fupperleſs
in her room, while ſhe wept again over
her forlorn and perilous ſituation, a review
of which entirely overcame the ſmall re-
mains
( 208 )
mains of her fortitude, and, reducing her
to temporary deſpondence, ſhe wiſhed to
be releaſed from this heavy load of life,
that had ſo long oppreſſed her, and prayed
to Heaven to take her, in its mercy, to
her parents.
Wearied with weeping, ſhe, at length,
lay down on her mattreſs, and ſunk to
ſleep, but was ſoon awakened by a knock-
ing at her chamber door, and, ſtarting up
in terror, ſhe heard a voice calling her.
The image of Bertrand, with a ftilletto in
his hand, appeared to her alarmed fancy,
and ſhe neither opened the door, or an-
fwered, 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 Mad-
delina's, “ pray open the door. Don't be
frightened, it is I.”
“ And what brings you here ſo late,
Maddelina ?” ſaid Emily, as ſhe let her in.
“ Hufn! Signora, for heaven's ſake huſh!
if
( 209 )
1
if we are overheard I ſhall never be for-
given. My father and mother and Ber-
trand are all gone to bed,” continued
Maddelina, as fhe gently ſhut the door,
and crept forward, “ and I have brought
you ſome ſupper, for you had none, you
know, Signora, below ftairs.
Here are
ſome grapes and figs and half a cup of
wine.” Emily thanked her, but expreſſed
apprehenſion left this kindneſs ſhould draw
upon her the reſentment of Dorina, when
ſhe perceived the fruit was gone. “Take it
back, therefore, Maddelina,” added Emily,
6 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."
" O Signora! there is no danger of
that,” replied Maddelina,“
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 in-
ſtance of the good girl's generoſity, that
ſhe
my mother
;
A
1
( 210 ).
the remained for fome time unable to re-
ply, and Maddelina watched her in filence,
till, miſtaking the cauſe of her emotion, ſhe
faid, “Do not weep ſo, Signora! My mo-
ther, to be ſure, is a little croſs, ſometimes,
but then it is foon over,--ſo don't take it
ſo much to heart. She often ſcolds me,
too, hut 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.''
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 fo mean, as that
of betraying the private converſation of her
parents.
When ſhe was departing, Emily
requeſted, that ſhe would come to her
room as often as fhe dared without offend-
ing her mother; and Maddelina, after pro-
miſing
>
i
1
1
j
( 211 )
miſing, that ſhe would do ſo, ſtole ſoftly
beak again to her own chamber.
Thus ſeveral days paſſed, during which
Emily remained in her own room, Mad-
delina attending her only at her repaſt,
whoſe gentle countenance and manners
foothed her more than any circumſtance
ſhe had known for many months. Of her
pleaſant embowered chamber flie now be-
came fond, and began to experience in it
thoſe feelings of ſecurity, which we 'natu-
rally attach to home. In this interval alſo,
her mind, having been undiſturbed by
any new circumſtance of diſguft, or alarm,
recovered its tone ſufficiently to permit her
the enjoyment of her books, among which
ſhe found ſome unfiniſhed ſketches of land-
ſcapes, ſeveral blank ſheets of paper, with
her drawing inſtruments, and ſhe was thus
enabled to amuſe herſelf with ſelecting
fome of the lovely features of the proſpect,
that her window commanded, and com-
bining them in ſcenes, to which her tafte-
ful farcy gave a laſt grace. In theſe little
ſketches
!
( 212 )
1
ſketches the generally placed intereſting
groups, characteriſtic of the ſcenery they
animated, and often contrived to tell,
with perſpicuity, ſome ſimple and affect-
ing 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 be-
guiled the heavy hours of misfortune, and,
with meek patience, awaited the events of
futurity.
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
filent, 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
1
1
8
( 213 )
;
.
-
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 le-
mon 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 ſun-ſet, 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 ſhat-
tered battlements and the extended wings
of ſome ſea-fowl, that circled near it, were
Atill illumined by the upward beams of the
fun, though his dik was now ſunk beneath
the
1
--
( 214 )
the horizon; while the lower part of the
ruin, the cliff on which it ſtood, and the
waves at its foot, were fhaded with the
firſt tints of twilight.
Having reached this headland, Emily
gazed with ſolemn pleaſure on the cliffs,
that extended on either hand along the fe-
queſtered ſhores, ſome crowned with groves
of pine, and others exhibiting only barren
precipices of a 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-wilhed! that its
waves would bear her to lier diſtant, native
home!
" Ah! that veſſel,” ſaid ſhe, “ tai
veſſel, which glides along lo ſtately, with
its
( 215 )
its tall ſails reflected in the water, is, per.
haps, bound for France! Happy-happy
bark!” She continued to gaze upon it,
with warm emotion, till the grey of twi-
light obſcured the diſtance, and veiled it
from her view. The melancholy found of
the waves at her feet aſliited the tender-
neſs, that occafioned 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 fear-
ing to be ſeen, and, for the firli time, look-
ed back to Bertrand, as her protector, wiio
was following, at a ſhort diſtance, in com-
pany with fome other perſon. Reallured
by this circumſtance, ſhe advanced to-
wards the founds, which ſeeined to ariſe
from behind a high promontory, that pro.
jected athwart the beach. There was now
a ſudden pauſe in the muſic, and then
one female voice was heard to figg in a
kind of chait. Emily quickened ber
fleps,
( 216 )
ſteps, and winding round the rock, faw,
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
finging, and who held in her hand a chap-
let of flowers, which ſhe ſeemed about to
drop into the waves.
Emily, liſtening with ſurpriſe and atten.
tion, diſtinguiſhed the following invoca-
tion delivered in the pure and elegant
tongue of Tuſcany, and accompanied by a
few paſtoral inſtruments.
TO A SEA-NYMPIC.
O nymph! who lov'ſt to float on the green Wave,
When Neptune ſleeps beneath the moon-light hour.
Lulld by the muſic's melancholy pow'r,
O nymph, ariſe from out thy pearly cave!
For Heſper beams amid the twilight ſhade,
And foon ſhall Cynthia tremble o'er the tice,
Gleam on theſe cliffs, that bound the ocean's pride.
And lonely ſilence all the air pervade,
( 217 )
1
Then, let thy tender voice at diſtance ſwell,
And ſteal along this ſolitary ſhore,
Sink on the breeze, till dying-heard no more
Thou wak'ſt the Tudden magic of thy ſhell.
While the long coaſt in echo ſweet replies,
Thy foothing ſtrains the penſive heart beguile,
And bid the viſions of the future (mile,
O nymph! from out thy pearly cave-ariſe !
(Chorus)--Ariſe!
(Semi-chorus)--Ariſe !
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.
“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.”.
“ But they talked of a ſea-nymph,” ſaid
Emily: “ how came theſe good people to
think of a ſea-nymph ?”
VOL. III.
L
« O,
i
( 218 )
1
0, Signora," rejoined Maddelina,
miſtaking the reaſon of Emily's ſurpriſe,
* nobody believes in ſuch things, but our
cid ſongs tell of them, and, when we are at
our ſports, we ſometimes ſing to them, and
throw garlands into the ſea.”
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 coun-
try,occafioned her both ſurpriſe and admi-
ration. 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 fleeves
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, fct rather back-
ward and on one ſide of the head, gave an
expreſſion of gaiety and ſmartneſs to the
whole figure. When the ſong had con-
cluded, ſeveral of theſe girls approached
Emily,
( 219 )
1
Emily, and, inviting her to ſit down among
them, offered her, and Maddelina, whom
they knew, grapes and figs.
Emily accepted their courteſy, much
pleaſed with the gentleneſs and grace of
their manners, which appeared to be per-
fealy 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
“Let the young lady join in the dance,
my friend,” ſaid the peaſant, “ while we
empty this flaſk. They are going to begin
dire&tly. Strike up! my lads, ſtrike up
your tambourines and merry flutes !
They founded 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 misfor-
tunes
L 2
)
1
.
(220)
/
tunes in that of a benevolent pleaſure. But
the penſive melancholy of her mind re-
turned, as ſhe fat 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.
Meanwhile, Bertrand was ſo well pleaſed
with his firſt flaſk, that he very willingly
commenced the attack of a ſecond, and it
was late before Emily, not without ſome
apprehenſion, returned to the cottage.
After this evening, ſhe frequently walk-
ed with Maddelina, but was never unat-
tended 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, encou-
raged 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, ſe
would
.
( 221 )
:
would have wiſhed to remain at the cot.
tage, till an opportunity ſhould offer of
returning to her native country. But, con-
cerning 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.
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 occafioned her
much uneaſineſs, ſhe had ſome hope, that,
in the obſcure place where they were de-
poſted, they would eſcape the detection of
Montoni, u
1
3 ܝܐ
СНАР.
()
222222
CHAP. VIII.
My tongue hath but a heavier tale to ſay.
I play the torturer, by ſmall and ſmall,
To lengthen out the worſt that muſt be ſpoken.
RICHARD II.
We now return, for a moment, to
Venice, where Count Morano was ſuffer-
ing 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 bad been unable to trace him.
Who the enemy was, that had occafioned
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.
la
:
!
(223)
In the affair of the poiſoned cup, Mon-
toni had ſuſpected Morano; but, being un-
able to obtain the degree of proof, which
was neceſſary to convict him of a guilty in-
tention, 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 Denunzie
ſecrete, or lions' mouths, which are fixed in
a gallery of the Doge's palace, as recepta-
cles for anonymous information concern-
ing perſons who may be diſaffected towards
the State. As, on theſe occaſions, the ac-
cuſer is not confronted with the accuſed, a
man may falfely impeach his enemy, and
accompliſh an unjuſt revenge, without fear
of puniſhment, or detection. That Mon-
toni ſhould have recourſe to theſe diaba-
lical 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 ensployed as the inſtrument
of his revenge, he accuſed Morano of de-
figns
L 4
1
(224)
1
ſigns againſt the State, which he attempted
to prove, with all the plauſible ſmplicity of
which he was maſter; and the Senate, with
whom a ſuſpicion was, at that time, almoft
equal to a proof, arreſted the Count, in
conſequence of this accuſation; and, with-
out 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 ſome-
times died, without being diſcovered by
their friends.
Morano had incurred the perſonal re-
ſentment of many members of the State ;
his habits of life had rendered him ob-
noxious to ſome; and his ambition, and
the bold rivalſhip, which he diſcovered, on
ſeveral public occafions,—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.
Montoni, meantime, was beſet by dan-
gers of another kind.
His caſtle was be
ſieged
:
( 225 )
ſieged by troops, who ſeemed willing to
dare every thing, 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.
When Udolpho was once more left to
the quiet poſſeſſion of Montoni, he dir-
patched Ugo into Tuſcany for Emily,
whom he had ſent, from conſiderations of
her perſonal ſafety, to a place of
a place of greater
ſecurity than a caſtle, which: was, at that
time, liable to be overrun by his eneinies..
Tranquillity being once more reſtored to
Udolpho, he was impatient to ſecure her:
again under his roof, and had commillion-
ed Ugo to afliſt: Bertrand in guarding her
back to the caſtle. Thus compelled to
return, Emily. bade the kind Maddelina:
farewel, with regret, and, after ab ut a
fortnight's ſtay in Tuſcany, where ſhe had
experienced an interval of quiet, which
L 5
was
+
( 226 )
:
was abſolutely neceſſary to ſuſtain her
long-haraſſed ſpirits, began once more to
afcend 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 fo 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 conje&ture, that Valancourt was there,
and ſhe found ſome degree of comfort in
the thought of being near him, notwith-
ftanding the conſideration, that he was pro-
bably a priſoner.
It was noon, when ſhe had left the cot-
tage, and the evening was cloſed, long be-
fore the 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 filently
along, Emily muſing on her ſituation, and
Bertrand and Ugo anticipating the com-
forts
I
í 227)
forts of a flaſk of wine and a good fire, for
they had perceived for ſomie time the dif-
ference 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 found
of the caſtle clock, to which ſhe liſtened
not without ſome degree of awe, as it roll-
ed away on the breeze. Another and
another note ſucceeded, and died in füllen
murmur among the mountains : --to her
mournful imagination it ſeemed a knell
meaſuring out ſome fateful period for her.
Aye, there is the old clock,” ſaid Ber-
trand, “there he is ſtill; the cannons have
not Glenced him!”
“ 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 hot-
teſt fire I have ſeen this many a day! I ſaid
tha: ſome of them would have a hit at the
old fellow, but he eſcaped, and the tower
too.'
The road winding round the baſe of a.
LO
mountain,
29
( 228 )
mountain, they now came within view of
the caſtle, which was ſhewn in the perſpec-
tive of the valley by a gleam of moon-
ſhine, and then vaniſhed in ſhade; while
even a tranſient view of it had awakened
the poignancy of Emily's feelings. Its
mally 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
fomewhat of the joy of hope.
They continued to wind along the valley,
and, ſoon after, ſhe ſaw again the old walls
and moon-light towers, riſing over the
woods: the ſtrong rays enabled her, alſo,
to perceive the ravages which the fiege
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
( 229 )
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 them-
felves 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 any thing that
lies in your way, for the ground is not
yet cleared of the enemy.
“ How !” exclaimed Emily, "are any
of the enemy here, then ?"
Nay, I don't know for that, now," he
replied,
( 239 )
>>
replied, “but when I came away, I ſaw one
or two of them lying under the trees.”
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 breaſt-plate 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, utter-
ing fome joke upon the unfortunate perſon
to whom it had belonged, threw it hard
upon the ground, and they palled on.
At
(231
)
:
:
1
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 maſſytrunksand branches
of the trees, that had ſo lately adorned it,
and ſeemed to have been a ſpot particularly
fatal to the beliegers; 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 veſt-
ments of ſoldiers, whoſe mangled forms
Emily almoſt expected to fee; and the
again entreated her companions to proceed,
who were, however, too intent in their exa-
mination, 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 ftruck twelve, and then a
trumpet
1
( 232 )
!
trumpet ſounded, of which Emily enquired
the occaſion.
“O! they are only changing watch,”
replied Ugo. “I do not remember this
trumpet,” ſaid Emily; " it is a new cuſ-
tom.” “ It is only an old one revived,
lady; we always uſe it in time of war. We
have founded it, at midnight, ever ſince
the place was beſieged.”
“ Hark!” ſaid Emily, as the trumpet
founded again; and, in the next moment
ſhe heard a faint claſh of arms, and then
the watch-word paſſed along the terrace
above, and was anſwered from a diſtant
part of the caſtle; after which all was
again ftill. 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?
“ Hark!" cried Emily, " wliat noiſe was
that?"
“ What noiſe was it?” ſaid Ugo, ſtarting
up and liſtening
Huſh !"
(233)
“ It ſurely
« Huſh !” repeated Emily.
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.
" Who goes yonder ?" cried a ſentinel
of the caſtle. " Speak, or it will be worſe
for you." Bertrand uttered a ſhout of joy.
“ Ha! my brave comrade, is it you !"
S
ſaid he, and he blew a fhrill whiſtle, which
fagnal 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 ftupendous ſtructure. “ Alas !” ſaid
ſhe to herſelf, “ I am going again into
my priſon !"
« Here has been warm work, by St.
Marco !" cried Bertrand, waving the torch
over the ground;" the balls have torn up
the earth here, with a vengeance.”
« Aye,"
( 234 )
1
Aye,” replied Ugo, “they were fired
from that redoubt, yonder, and rare exe-
cution they did. The enemy made a fu-
risus 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 ſu'ch a rate,
that, by holy Peter! there was no ſtanding
it. I never ſaw a better fight in my life ;
I laughed, till my fides ached, to ſee how
the knaves ſcampered. Bertrand, my good
fellow, thou ſhouldſt have been among
them; I warrant thou wouldſt have won
the race !”
“ Hah! you are at your old tricks
again,” ſaid Bertrand in a furly tone. “ It
is well for thee thou art fo near the caſtle;
thou knowſ 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
.
/
235
/
with that which had ſo lately been acted
here.
The mingled uproar of cannon, drums,
and trumpets, the groans of the conquered,
and the ſhouts of the conquerors, were now
funk into a filence 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
valiant 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 moon-light that fell
upon it, to be laid open, and the battle-
ments 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, af-
cending the narrow ſtaircaſe, that wound
within the tower, and, remembering that
it
(236)
it was the ſame ſhe had paſfed up, on the
night, when Barnardiné had deluded her
with a promiſe of ſeeing Madame Montoni,
fancy gave her ſomewhat of the terror fhe
had then ſuffered. She was now very
near the gates, over which the foldier
baving opened the door of the portal-
chamber, the lamp he carried gave her a
duſky view of that terrible apartment, and
ſhe almoſt funk under the recollected hor-
rors of the moment, when ſhe had drawn
aſide the curtain, and diſcovered the object
it was meant to conceal.
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 antici-
pated horrors, for the melancholy fate of Ma-
dame Montoni appeared to foretel her own.
She conſidered, that, though the Langue-
doc eftates, if ſhe relinquiſhed them, would
ſatisfy Montoni's avarice, they might not
appeaf
( 237 )
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
sm
away her life.
i
They were now arrived at the gates,
where Bertrand, obſerving the light glim-
mer through a ſmall caſement of the por-
tal-chamber, called aloud; and the ſoldier,
looking out, demanded who was there.
“ Here, I have brought you a priſoner,"
faid Ugo,"
open the gate, and let us
in."
« 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."
“ You will not reſt till you meet with
your match," ſaid Bertrand ſullenly.“Hah!
my
1
!
1
( 238 )
my comrade, is it you ?" ſaid the ſoldier-
cs I'll be with you directly.”
Emily preſently heard his ſteps deſcend-
ing 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
ſhew 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 de-
ſpair ; while the dead hour of the night,
the gothic gloom of the ſurrounding build.
ings, and the hollow and imperfect echoes,
which they returned, as Ugo and the fol-
dier 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 gra-
dually ſwelling louder, as they advanced,
Emily
2
more
( 239 )
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, here,”
ſaid Bertrand, “ if one may judge by the
uproar that is going forward. Ugo has
taken a larger ſhare of that than of fighe-
ing, I'll be ſworn. Who is carouſing at
this late hour ?"
“ His Excellenza and the Signors,” re-
plied the foldier : “it is a ſign you are a
ftranger at the caſtle, or you would not
need to aſk the queſtion. They are brave
ſpirits, that do without lleep-they gene-
rally 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
fo
many
hours of the night, if one has no
good liquor to warn one's heart.”
Courage, ny 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 ſubje&t of
,the
(240)
the carouſal. « This is a new cuſtom,"
ſaid he; “ when I left the caſtle, the Sig.
nors uſed to fit up counſelling.”
Aye, and for that matter, carouſing
too,” ſaid Bertrand;" but ſince the fiege,
they have done nothing but make merry:
and if I was they, I would ſettle accounts
with myſelf, for all my hard fighting, the
fame way.
They had now croſſed the ſecond court,
and reached the hall door, when the fol-
dier, bidding them good-night, haftened
back to his poſt ; and, while they waited
for admittance, Emily conſidered how ſhe
might avoid ſeeing Montoni, and retire un-
noticed 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 heafd
by any of the ſervants, a circumſtance,
which increaſed Emily's alarm, while it al-
lowed her time to deliberate on the means
of
!
1
1
( 241
).
of retiring unobſerved; for, though the
might, perhaps, paſs up the great ſtaircaſe
unſeen, it was impoſſible the could find
the way to lier 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 fome of his com-
panions, might diſcover her.
The door was now opened by Carlo; and
Emily, having requeſted him to ſend An-
nette immédiately with a light to the great
gallery, where ſhe determined to await her,
paſſed on with hafty ſteps towards the ſtair-
cale; while Bertrand and Ugo, with the
torch, followed old Carlo to the ſervants'
hall, impatient for ſupper and the warın
blaze of 1 wood fire. Emily, lighted only
by
VOL. III.
M
:
i
( 242 )
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
fhouts of merriment, that burſt from a
remote apartment, ferved, by heightening
her terror, to increaſe her perplexity, and
fhe expected, every inftant, 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 feated herſelf on the laſt
Itair, to await the arrival of Annette ; for
the profound darkneſs of the gallery de-
terred her from proceeding farther, and,
while ſhe liſtened for her footſtep, ſhe heard
only diſtant ſounds of revelry, which roſe
in fullen 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 ſome-
thing luminous move in it; and, fince ſhe
could not, at this moment, ſubdue the
weakneſs that cauſed her fears, ſhe quitted
her
hip
( 243 )
!
her ſeat, and crept ſoftly down a few ſtairs
lower.
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 ter-
ror and deſpondency from her eyes.
While thus ſhe ſat, ſhe fancied ſhe heard
again an odd ſound from the gallery, and
The liſtened, ſcarcely daring to breathe, but
iheincreaſing voices below overcame every
other ſound.
Soou after, ſhe heard Mon-
toni and his companions burſt into the
hall, who ſpoke, as if they were much in-
toxicated, and ſeemed to be advancing to-
wards 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 in-
tention
M
:
1
( 244 )
:
tention of ſecreting herſelf in ſome of tho
paſſages, that opened beyond, and of en-
deavouring, when the Signors were re-
tired, to find her way to her own room, or
to that of Annelte, which was in a remote
part of the caſtle.
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 pauf-
ing 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 de-
ſperate.” 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 Mohtoni, would not be
fortitude,
( 245 )
fortitude, but ralhneſs." Still the voices
below did not draw nearer, but they be-
came 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 con-
verſation 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 fome former promiſe of Mon-
toni, 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 the
is." “ I have already told you that I do.
not know;" replied Montoni, who ſeemed
to be ſomewhat overcome with wine;
" but
he is most probably gone to her apart-
M 3
ment."
(246)
-
ment." Verezzi and Bertolini now defifted
from their enquiries, and ſprang to the ftair-
cafe together, while Emily, who, during
this diſcourſe, had trembled ſo exceſſively,
that ſhe had with difficulty ſupported her-
ſelf, ſeemed inſpired with new ſtrength,
the moment ſhe heard the bound of their
fteps, 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 impa-
tience 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 Verez-
zi, regardleſs of ſaving it, ſeized the advan-
tage 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
1
1
( 247 )
nue.
turned into it. Verezzi could juſt diſcern
the way ſhe had taken, and this he purſued;
but the ſound of her ſteps foon funk in dil-
tance, while he, leſs acquainted with the
paſſage, was obliged to proceed through the
dark, with caution, left he ſhould fall down
a flight of ſteps, ſuch as in this extenſive
old caſtle frequently terminated an ave-
This paſſage at length brought Emi-
ly to the corridor, into which her own
chamber opened, and, not hearing any
footſtep, ſhe pauſed to take breath, and
conſider what was the ſafeit deſign to be
adopted. She had followed this paſſage,
merely becauſe it was the firſt that appear. ,
ed, 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 fought, and
her danger increaſed every inſtant, while
ſhe remained near it. Her ſpirits and her
breath, however, were ſo much exhauſted,
that
M4
1
1
( 248 )
1
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 fhe 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
fome 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, be-
lieving that he would ſhortly be there, ſhe
again conſidered which way ſhe thould go,
or
i
( 249 )
1
of rather which way ſhe could find in the
dark.
A faint ray ſtill glimmered under the
oppoſite door, but ſo great, and, perhaps
fo juſt was her horror of that chamber,
that ſhe would not again have tempted its
fecrets, though ſhe had been certain of ob-
caining 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 ruftling 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 re-
main quite ſtill; in the next moment, the
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 inight be,
M 5
he
(250)
he turned to the light, and proceeded
with the ſame ſtealing ſteps, towards Emi-
ly's apartment, apparently forgetting, that
in darkneſs, ſhe could eaſily elude his
ſearch, even in her chamber; and, like an
intoxicated perſon, he followed pertinaci.
ouſly the one idea, that had poffefſed his
imagination.
The moment ſhe heard his ſteps ſteal
away, ſhe left her ſtation, and moved ſoftly
to the other end of the corridor, deter-
mined to truſt again to chance, and to quit
it by the firſt avenue fhe could find;
but before ſhe could effect this, light
broke upon the walls of the gallery, and,
looking back, fhe ſaw Verezzi croſſing it
towards her chamber. She now glided into
a pafſage, that opened on the l'eft, with-
out, as ſhe thought, being perceived; but,
in the next inſtant, another ligħt glim-
mering at the further end of this paf-
fage, threw her into new terror. While ſhe
ſtopped' and heſitated which way to go;
the pauſe allowed her to perceive, that it
was
.
(251)
was Annette, who advanced, and ſhe hur-
ried to meet her: but her imprudence again
alarmed Emily, on perceiving whom, ſhe
burſt into a ſcream of joy, and it was
fome minutes, before ſhe could be pre-
vailed with to be filent, or to releafe her
miſtreſs from the ardent claſp, in which ſhe
held her. When, at length, Emily made
Annette comprehend her danger, they hur
ried towards Annette's room, which was
in a diſtant part of the caſtle: No appre-
henfions, however, could yet filence the
latter. « Oh dear ma'amfelle,” ſaid ſhe,
as they paſſed along, “what a terrified time
have I had of it! Oh! I thought I ſhould
have died an hundred times! I never
thought I ſhould live to ſee you again!
and I never was fo.glad to ſee any body in
my whole life, as I am to ſee you now.' ''
“ Hark !" cried Emily, we are pure
ſued'; that was the echo of ſteps!” « No:
ma'amſelle,” ſaid: Annette, “ it was only
the echo of a door fhutting ; ſound runs
along theſe vaulted paſſages ſo, that one
is
A
M6
I
( 252 )
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 filent,” ſaid
Emily: “ Pr'ythee fay no more till we
reach your chamber.” Here, at length,
they arrived, without interruption, and,
Annette having faſtened the door, Emily
fat down o'n her little bed, to recover
breath and compoſure. To her enquiry,
whether Valancourt was among the priſon-
ers 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 fiege, or rather
a detail of her terrors and various ſuffer-
ings, 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 før loft, inſtead
of, wbich, we had driven the enemy away,
I went then to the north gallery, and ſaw
a great many of them [campering away
among
---
( 253 )
among the mountains; but the rampart
walls were all in ruins, as one may ſay,
and there was a diſmal fight to ſee down
among the woods below, where the poor
fellows were lying in heaps, but were car-
ried off preſently by their comrades.
While the ſiege was going on, the Signor.
was here, and there, and every where, at
the ſame time, as Ludovico told me, for he
would not let me ſee any thing 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.”.
Well, Annette,” ſaid Emily, ce and
how have affairs gone on, ſince the ſiege ?"
“ O! ſad burly burly doings ma'am-
ſelle," replied Annette; “ the Signors have
done nothing but fit and drink and game,
ever ſince. They fit up all night, and
play among themſelves, for all thoſe riches
and five things, they brought in ſome time
ſince
!
-
( 254 )
fince, 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
thus makes him very wroth, and they have
had ſeveral hard fet-to's about it. Then, alf
thoſe fine ladies are at the caſtle ſtill; and
I declare I am frighted, whenever I meet
any of them in the paſſages.”_
Surely, Annette,” ſaid Emily ſtart-
ing, " I heard a noiſe : liften.”_After
a long pauſe, No, ma'am ſelle,” faid
Annette, « it was only the wind in the
gallery ; I often hear it, when it ſhakes
the old doors, at the other endi But
won't you go to bed, ma’amſelle ?' you
furely will not fit up ſtarving, all night.”
Emily ,now laid herſelf down on the mat-
treſs, 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
1
1
( 255 )
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 diſ-
tinctly 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 expec-
tation. 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, “ re-
main quite ſtill; but I fear we muſt extin-
guiſh the lamp, or its glare will betray
Holy Virgin !” exclaimed An-
nette, forgetting her diſcretion, “ I would
not be in darkneſs now for the whole
world.” While ſhe ſpoke, the voice be-
came louder than before, and repeated
Annette's name: "Bleſſed Virgin!” cried
fhe ſuddenly, “ it is only Lüdovico."
She roſe to open the door, but Emily pre-
vented her, till they ſhould be more cer-
us."
1
tain,
i
.
( 256 )
--
tain, 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 con-
vérfed
any longer through the door, con-
ſented that it ſhould be opened, and a
young man appeared, whoſe open coun.
tenance confirmed the favourable opinion
of him, which his care of Annette had al-
ready prompted her to form. She en-
treated his protection, ſhould Verezzi
make this requiſite; and Ludovico offered
to paſs the night in an old chamber, ad-
joining, that opened from the gallery,
and, on the firſt alarm, to come to their
defence,
Emily was much ſoothed by this pro-
poſal; and Ludovico, having lighted his
lamp, went to his ſtation, while ſhe, once
more, endeavoured to repoſe on her mat-
treſs. But a variety of intereſts preſſed
upon
(257)
upon her attention, and prevented ſleep.
She thought much on what Annette had
told her of the diſſolute manners of Mon-
toni and his aſſociates, and more of his
preſent conduct towards herſelf, and of
the danger, from which ſhe had juſt eſ-
caped. From the view of her preſent ſitu-
ation ſhe ſhrunk, as from a new picture of
terror. She ſaw herſelf in a caſtle, inha.
bited by vice and violence, feated beyond
the reach of law, or juſtice, and in the
power of a man, whoſe perſeverance was
equal to every occaſion, and in whom paf-
fions, of which revenge was not the weak-
eſt, entirely ſupplied the place of principles.
She was compelled, once more, to ac-
knowledge, 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
eftates, on condition, that he would permit
her immediate return to France. Such con-
fiderations
( 258 )
fiderations kept her waking for many
hours ; but the night paſſed, without fur-
ther alarm from Verezzi.
On the next morning, Emily had a long
converſation with Ludovico, in which ſhe
heard circumſtances concerning the caitle,
and received hints of the deſigns of Mon-
toni, 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 affiſt 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, be-
fore 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,
Emily
:
i
1
1
( 259 :)
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 re-
cede from her reſolution of an immediate
compromiſe with Montoni. She deter-
mined, 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 the
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.
Mhe
( 260 )
In a very
ſhe remained a priſoner in the caſtle, ſhew-
ed 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 contefted eſtates.
folemn 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.
She was for a conſiderable time, unable
to ſign it, and her heart was torn with con-
tending interefts, for ſhe was about to re-
ſign the happineſs of all her future years
the hope, which had ſuſtained her in ſo
many hours of adverſity.
After hearing from Montoni a recapitu-
lation of the conditions of her compliance,
and a remonftrance, that his time was va.
luable, ſhe put her hand to the paper ;
when ſhe had done which, ſhe fell back in
her chair, but ſoon recovered, and de-
fired, that he would give orders for her
departure, and that he would allow An-
netle.
1
(261)
nette to accompany her. Montoni (mil-
ed. “ 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
fecure theſe eſtates by poſſeſſion : when
that is done, you may return to France if
you will."
The deliberate villany, with which he
violated the ſolemn engagement he had
juſt entered into, fhocked Emily as much,
as the certainty, that ſhe had made a fruit-
leſs ſacrifice, and muſt ſtill remain his pri-
foner. 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
fame time deGired 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.
Why will you indulge this childiſh
grief?” ſaid he. “Endeavour to ſtrengthen
your
( 262
-
your mind, to bear patiently what cannoi
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.",
" I dare not go, ſir," ſaid ſhe, “where
I ſhall be liable to the intruſion of Signor
Verezzi.” “ Have I not promiſed to pro-
tect you ?” ſaid Montoni. “ You have pro-
miſed, fir," 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 de-
termine for me, whether I ought to rely
“ 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 Verezai,
upon this."
Or
(263)
or Bertolini, made her quicken her ſteps;
though ſhe could ſcarcely ſupport herſelf;
and foon 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 misfor-
tune, they would have left her, perhaps,
for ever, fhe 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,
The doubted not, would be zealous in her
cauſe, though he ſeemed almoſt in deſpair
of ſucceſs in it. One circumſtance, how-
ever, fne had to rejoice in. Her pru-
dence, or rather her fears, had ſaved her
from
.
( 264 )
from mentioning the name of Valancourt
to Montoni, which ſhe was feveral times
on the point of doing, before ſhe figned
the paper, and of ftipulating for his re-
leaſe, 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 riew ſeverities,
and have fuggeſted the advantage of hold
ing him a captive for life.
Thus paſſed the melancholy day, as ſhe
had before paſſed many in the ſame cham-
ber. 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, the de-
termined to watch for the muſic, which
ſhe had formerly heard. Though its
fqunds might not enable her pofitively to
determine, whether Valancourt was there,
they would perhaps ſtrengthen her opi-
nion that he was, and impart the comfort,
ſo
I
1
( 265 )
ſo neceſſary to her preſent ſupport.-But,
on the other hand, if all ſhould be filent!
- She hardly dared to ſuffer her thoughts
to glance that way, but waited, with im-
patient expectation, the approaching hour.
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 tempefts,
and amidſt ſcenes of deſolation, Emily
heard, as formerly, the ſentinels pals 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 ſhat-
tered 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 occafioned almoſt involuntary com-
pariſons
1
VOL. III.
N
( 266 )
A
pariſons between her preſent, and her late
ſituation. But this was no ſubje&t for con-
gratulation, 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 ex-
pedient her fears now repreſented to her to
be very inadequate to the power and per..
ſeverance 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
defolate, and ſai down beſide it with a
book, which her eyes peruſed, while her
tl oughts wandered to Valancourt, and her
own misfortunes. As ſhe ſat thus, ſhe
thought,
!
( 267 )
inought, in a pauſe of the wind, ſhe dif-
tinguiſhed muſic, and went to the caſe.
ment to liſten, but the loud ſwell of the
guſt overcame every other ſound. When
the wind funk again, ſhe heard diſtinctly,
in the deep pauſe that ſucceeded, the ſweet
ſtrings of a lute; but again the riſing tem-
peſt bore away the notes, and again was
fucceeded 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
ruftling ſound, that now began to creep
along the wood-tops, till it was loſt in the
Their tall heads then began
to wave, while, through a forelt of pine,
riſing wind.
N 2
on
( 268 )
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 an-
ſwer 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 folemn.
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 beard as
before, in the pauſe of the guſt. Suddenly,
ſhe
( 269 )
...
ſhe thought ſhe heard a noiſe in her cham-
ber, and ſhe drew herſelf within the caſe..
ment; but, in a moment after, diſtinguiſh
ing Annette's voice at the door, ſhe con-
cluded it was her ſhe had heard before,
and ſhe let her in. “ Move ſoftly, An-
nette, to the caſement,” ſaid ſhe, “ and
liſten with me; the muſic is returned."
They were filent, till, the meaſure chang-
ing, 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 fiſh-
ing-houſe in Gaſcony.
« O! it is a
Frenchinan, that fings,” ſaid Annette: “it
muſt be Monſieur Valancourt." “ Hark!
Annette, do not ſpeak ſo loud,” ſaid
Emily, “we may be overheard.” “What!
the Chevalier ?” ſaid Annette. “ No,"
replied Emily mournfully, “ but by ſome.
body, who may report us to the Signor.
What reaſon have you to think it is Mon-
N 3
fieur
(270)
ſieur Valancourt, who ſings? But hark !
now the voice ſwells louder! Do you re-
collect thoſe tones ? I fear to truſt my
own judgment.” “I never happened to
hear the Chevalier Ging, mademoiſelle,”
replied Annette, who, as Emily was diſ-
appointed to perceive, had no ſtronger
reaſon for concluding this to be Valan-
court, 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 dir.
tinely, that Annette had heard it alſo.
She trembled, funk into a chair by the
window, and Annette called aloud, “Mon-
fieur Valancourt! Monſieur Valancourt!"
while Emily endeavoured to check her,
but ſhe repeated the call more loudly than
before, and the lute and the voice ſudden-
ly ſtopped. Emily liſtened, for ſome time,
in a ſtate of intolerable ſuſpenſe; but, no
anſwer being returned, “ It does not ſig-
nify, mademoiſelle,” ſaid Annette; “ it is
the Chevalier, and I will ſpeak to him."
1
$
“ No
( 271.)
“ 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 fings at this late
hour?"
A long filence enſued, and, having re-
peated the queſtion, the perceived ſome
faint accents, mingling in the blaſt, that
fwept by; but the ſounds were ſo diſtant,
and paſſed ſo fuddenly, 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 beard a voice, but
as faintly as before; and they perceived,
that there were other circumſtances, be-
ſides the ſtrength, and direction of the
wind, to contend with; for the great depth,
at which the caſements were fixed in the
caſtle walls, contributed, ſtill more than
the diſtance, to prevent articulated founds
from being underſtood, though general
ones were eaſily heard. Emily, however, ,
ventured to believe, from the circumſtance
N 4
of
(272)
2
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, fear-
ing, that a further attempt, which certainly
was, at 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 de-
termined herſelf to queſtion Ludovico, on
the ſubject, in the morning, more urgently
than ſhe had yet done. She was now en-
abled to ſay, that the ſtranger, whom ſhe
had formerly beard, was ſtill in the caſtle,
and to direct Ludovico to that part of it,
in which he was confined.
Emily, attended by Annette, continued
at the caſement, for ſome time, but all re-
mained ſtill; they heard neither lute or
voice again, and Emily was now as much
oppreſſed by anxious joy, as ſhe lately
was
w
1
( 273 )
was by a ſenſe of her misfortunes. With
haſty ſteps ſhe paced the room, now half
calling on Valancourt's name, then ſud-
denly ſtopping, and now going to the
caſement and liſtening, where, however,
ſhe heard nothing but the folemn waving
of the woods. Sometimes her impatience
to ſpeak to Ludovico prompted her to
fend Annette to call him; but a ſenſe of
the impropriety of this at midnight re-
ftrained her. Annette, meanwhile, as im-
patient 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,
left he ſhould enter the chamber by the
ſtaircaſe door. “ But the night is now
almoſt part, mademoiſelle,” ſaid ſhe, re-
collecting herſelf: “there is the morning
light, beginning to peep over thoſe moun-
tains yonder in the eaſt.”
Emily had forgotten, till this moment,
that ſuch a perſon exiſted as Verezzi, and
all the danger that had appeared to threaten
N 5
her;
( 274 )
1
'her; but the mention of his name renewed
her alarm, and ſhe remembered the old
cheft, 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, made-
moiſelle,” 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
funk into a calm. Emily looked out upon
the duſky woods, and on the twilight
mountains, juſt ſtealing on the eye, and
faw the whole ſcene, after the ſtorm, lying
in profound ſtillneſs, the woods motion-
leſs, and the clouds above, through which
the
::
( 275 )
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 funk
alleep 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.
N 6
CHAP
A
|
276 )
CHAP. IX.
" Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,
For many a long month loſt in ſnow profound,
When Sol from Cancer ſends the ſeaſons bland,
And in their northern cave the ſtorms hath bound;
From filent mountains, ſtraight, with ſtartling ſound,
Torrents are hurld, green hills emerge, and lo,
The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd;
Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go;
And wonder, love, and joy, the peaſant's heart o'erflow."
BEATTIE.
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 ſkir-
miſhes, 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, the ven-
tured
(277)
:
tured to walk in the adjoining corridor.
Montoni appeared to reſpect his laſt pro-
miſe, though he had prophaned his firſt;
for to his protection only could ſhe attri-
bute 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
facrifice of her own comfort, ſince ne
circumſtance had occurred to make her
eſcape probable.
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 nor deceived
in his hope ; for, under pretence of car-
rying in a pitcher of water, he entered the
prifon, though, his prudence having pre-
vented him from telling the ſentinel the
teal motive of his viſit, he was obliged to
make
( 278 )
make his conference with the priſoner a
very ſhort one.
Emily awaited the reſult in her own
apartment, Ludovico having promiſed to
accompany Annette to the corridor, in the
evening; where, after ſeveral hours impa-
tiently counted, he arrived. Emily, having
then uttered the name of Valancourt, could
articulate no more, but heſitated in trem-
bling expectation. “The Chevalier would
not entruſt me with his name, Signora,"
replied Ludovico; but, when I juſt
mentioned your's, he ſeemed overwhelmed
with joy, though he was not ſo much ſur-
priſed as I expected.” « Does he then
remember me?” ſhe exclaimed.
“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, re-
member 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
( 279 )
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 ecſtafies again.
I was afraid his joy would have betrayed
him to the ſentinel at the door."
« But how does he look, Ludovico?" in-
terrupted Emily: “is he not melancholy
and ill with his long confinement ?"-
Why, as to melancholy, I ſaw no ſymp-
tom of that, lady, while I was with him,
for he ſeemed in the fineſt ſpirits I ever
ſaw any body 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. “yes, Sig-
nora, and ſomething beſides," replied Lu-
dovico, who ſearched his pockets. “ Sure-
ly, I have not loſt it,” added he. « The
chevalier ſaid, he would have written, ma-
dam, if he had had pen and ink, and was
going to have ſent a very long meſſage,
when
}
(280)
!
when the ſentinel entered the room, but
not before he had given me this.” Lu-
dovico 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 loft fo ftrangely in the
fiſhing-houſe at La Vallée.
Tears of mingled joy and tenderneſs
flowed to her eyes, while Ludovico pro-
ceeded" Tell your lady,' ſaid the
Chevalier, as he gave me the picture, 'that
this has been my companion, and only ſo-
lace in all my misfortunes. Tell her, that
I have worn it next my heart, and that I
ſend 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 foon 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;
?
( 281 )
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 an-
ſwer, and he would inform me of more
then he choſe to do then. So this, I think,
lady, is the whole of what paffed.”
How, Ludovico, ſhall I reward you
for your zeal ?” ſaid Emily: but, in-
deed, 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 ad-
mittance to the priſon-chamber."
“I need not "bid you remember, Lu-
dovico," reſumed Emily,
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
" how very
1
( 282 )
}
ed Emily.
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,” return-
« The place, and the hour,
muſt be regulated by his opportunities."
“ As to the place, mademoiſelle,” ſaid
Annette, " there is no other place in the
caſtle, beſides this corridor, where we 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 pof-
fible; and, Ludovico, I think it is need-
leſs 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
( 283 )
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:
as when, beneath the beam
Of ſummer moons, the diſtant woods among,
Or by ſome flood, all ſilver'd with the gleam,
The ſoft embodied Fays thro' airy portals ítream."
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 cu-
rioſity, 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
( 284 )
her,--ſuch as ſhe had formerly dreaded.
Her name was frequently mentioned in the
converſations, whic! Bertolini and Verez.
zi held together, and, at thoſe times, they
were frequently in contention. Montoni
had loft large ſums to Verezzi, ſo that
there was a dreadful poſſibility of his de-
figning her to be a ſubſtitute for the debt;
but, as ſhe was ignorant, that he had for-
merly encouraged the hopes of Bertolini
allo, concerning herſelf, after the latter
had done bim fome 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 the thought ſhe ſaw
deſtruction approaching in many forms,
and her entreaties to Ludovico to contrive
an eſcape and to fee the priſoner again,
were more urgent than ever.
At length, he informed her, that he had
again viſited the Chevalier, who had di.
rected him to confide in the guard of the
priſon, from whom he had already re-
ceived
--
( 285 )
ceived ſome inſtances of kindneſs, and
who had promiſed to permit his going into
the caſtle for half an hour, on the en-
ſuing night, when Montoni and his com-
panions ſhould be engaged at their carou-
ſals. « This was kind to be ſure," added
Ludovico : « but Sebaſtian knows be runs
he
no riſque 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
fame 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."
Emily was now ſo much agitated by the
near proſpect of meeting Valancourt, that
it was ſome time, before ſhe could give
any
.
( 286 )
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 Mon-
toni's gueſts, on their way to their rooms;
and ſhe diſmiſſed the ſcruples, which deli-
cacy oppoſed, now that a ſerious danger
was to be avoided by encountering them.
It was ſettled, therefore, that the Cheva-
lier 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 ima-
gined, 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 twi-
light 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
-
(287)
only to rejoice, that another hour was gone.
“O, Valancourt !” ſaid ſhe, “after all I
have ſuffered ; after our long, long ſepa-
ration, when I thought I ſhould never-
never ſee you more
you more—we are ſtill to meet
again! O! I have endured grief, and
anxiety, and terror, and let me, then, not
link beneath this joy!” Theſe were mo-
ments, when it was impoſſible for her to
feel emotions of regret, or melancholy, for
any ordinary intereſts ;--even the reflec ,
tion, 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 fpirits. The
idea of Valancourt, and that ſhe ſhould ſee
him ſo ſoon, alone occupied her heart.
At length the clock ſtruck twelve ; ſhe
opened the door to liſten, if any noiſe was
in the caſtle, and heard only diſtant fhouts
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 the ;
" and
( 288 )
6 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 filent, and, her agitation every
moment increaſing, ſhe was at length
unable to ſupport herſelf, and ſat down
by the window. Annette, whom ſhe de-
tained, was, in the mean time, as loquacious
as uſual; but Emily heard ſcarcely any
thing ſhe ſaid, and having at length riſen
to the caſement, the diſtinguiſhed the
chords of the lute, ftruck with an expreſſive
hand, and then the voice, ſhe had formerly
liſtened to, accompanied it.
~ Now riſing love they fann'd, now pleaſing dole
They breath'd in tender muſings through the heart;
And now a graver, ſacred ſtrain they ſtole,
As when ſeraphic hands an hymn impart!"
:
Emily wept in doubtful joy and tender-
neſs; and, when the ſtrain ceaſed, ſhe con-
ſidered it as a ſignal, that Valancourt was
about to leave the priſon. Soon after, ſhe
heard
1
(289)
heard ſteps in the corridor ;-they were
the light, quick ſteps of hope ; ſhe could
ſcarcely ſupport herſelf, as they approach-
ed, but, opening the door of the apart-
ment, 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.
On reviving, ſhe found herſelf ſupport-
ed by the ſtranger, who was watching over
her recovery, with a countenance of inef.
fable tenderneſs and anxiety. She had no
fpirits for reply, or enquiry ; ſhe aſked no
queſtions, but burſt into tears, and diſen-
gaged herſelf from his arms; when the ex-
preſſion of his countenance changed to ſur-
priſe and diſappointment, and he turned
to Ludovico, for an explanation; Annette
foon gave the information, which Ludo-
vico could not. " , ſir!" ſaid ſhe, in a
voice, interrupted with fobs; “ O, fir!
you are not the other chevalier. We ex-
pected Monſieur Valancourt, but you are
VOL. III.
not
( 290)
you de
not he! O Ludovico! how could
ceive us ſo ? my poor lady will never re-
cover it--never !” The ſtranger, who
now appeared much agitated, attempted to
ſpeak, but his words faltered ; and then
ſtriking his band againſt his forehead, as if
in ſudden deſpair, he walked abruptly to
the other end of the corridor.
Suddenly, Annette dried her tears, and
ſpoke to Ludovico.
« But, perhaps,"
ſaid ſhe, “after all, the other chevalier is
not this: perhaps the chevalier Valan-
court is ſtill below.” Emily raiſed her
head. “ No," replied Ludovico, “ Mon.
fieur Valancourt never was below, if this
gentleman is not he.--If you, fir,"
faid 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, ad.
dreſſing
I
( 291 )
dreſſing Emily in French, “ will you per-
mit me to apologize 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 bis requeſt. At length, defiring
that Ludovico would wait on the ſtair-
caſe, and detaining Annette, ſhe told the
ſtranger, that her woman underſtood very
little Italian, and begged he would com-
municate what he wiſhed to ſay, in that
language.--Having withdrawn to a diſtant
part of the corridor, he ſaid, with a long.
drawn figh, “ You, madam, are no ſtrange
er 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,
:
1
(292)
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 ex-
plain how I ſurrendered to temptation, and
became po Teſſed 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 puniſh-
ment; for the portrait I ſtole has contri-
buted
( 293 )
1
" I think,
buted to nouriſh a paſſion, which muſt ſtill
be my torment."
Emily now interrupted him.
fir, 1 may leave it to your integrity to de-
termine, whether, after what has juſt ap-
peared, concerning Mons. Valancourt, I
ought to return the pi&ture. 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 fay more."
“ It does, madam,-alas! it does !"
ſaid the ſtranger, who, after a long pauſe,
proceeded.--" But you will allow me to
ſhew 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 en-
counter to deliver you from this receſs of
03
vice.
1
Y
iz
..
(294)
vice. Accept the offered ſervices of a
friend; do not refuſe me the reward of
having, at leaſt, attempted to deſerve your
thanks."
“ You deſerve them already, fir,” ſaid
Emily ; “ the wiſh deſerves my warmeſt
thanks. But you will excuſe me for re-
minding you of the danger you incur by
prolonging this interview. It will be a
great conſolation to me to remember, whe-
ther your friendly attempts to releaſe me
fucceed or not, that I have a countryman,
who would ſo generouſly protect me."-
Monſieur Du Pont took her hand, which
the but feebly aiiempied to withdraw, and
preſſed it refpe&fully to his lips.
« Al-
low me to breathe another fervent ſigh for
your happineſs,” ſaid he, “ and to ad-
plaud myſelf for an affection, which I can.
not conquer." As he ſaid this, Emily
heard a noiſe from her apartment, and,
turning round, ſaw the door from the ſtairs
caſe open, and a man ruſh into her cham-
ber. “ I will teach you to conquer it,”
·cried
1
( 295 )
cried he, as he advanced into the corridor,
and drew a ſtiletto, which he aimed at Du
Pont, who was unarmed, but who; ſtep-
ping back, avoided the blow, and then
fprung upon Verezzi, from whom he
wrenched the ſtiletto. While they ſtrug-
gled in each other's graſp, Emily, folowed
by Annette, ran further into the corridor,
calling on Ludovico, who was, however,
gone from the ſtaircaſe, and, as ſhe ad-
vanced, terrified and uncertain what to do,
a diſtant noife, that ſeemed to ariſe from
the hall, reminded her of the danger ſhe
was incurring; and, ſending, Annette for-
ward in ſearch of Ludovico, ſhe returned
to the ſpot where Du Pont and Verezzi
were flill 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 ſucceſ,
even had ſhe not diſliked and dreaded
Verezzi. She threw herſelf in a chair,
and ſupplicated them to defift from fur-
ther
04
(296)
!
1
1
ther violence, till at length, Du Poni
forced Verezzi to the floor, where he lay
ftunned by the violence of his fall; and
fhe then entreated Du Pont to eſcape from
the room, before Montoni, or his party,
fhould 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.
.“ O you are loſt !” cried ſhe, “ there
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 an hafty glance
round the chamber, “ Follow me,” ſaid
he, as you value your lives; we have
not an inſtant to loſe !"
Emily enquired what had occurred, and
whither they were to go.
“ I cannot ſtay to tell you now, Sig-
nora,” replied Ludovico : “ fly! fly!"
She
( 297 )
She immediately followed him, accom-
panied by Monſ. Du Pont, down the ſtair-
caſe, and along a vaulted paſſage, when
ſuddenly ſhe recollected Annette, and
enquired for her
“ She awaits us fur-
ther on, Signora,” ſaid Ludovico, almoſt
breathleſs with hafte; “ 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."
Emily followed, trembling ſtill more,
than before ſhe had underſtood, that her
eſcape from the caſtle depended upon the
preſent moment; while Du Pont fupport-
ed her, and endeavoured, as they paſſed
along, to cheer her ſpirits.
Speak low, Signor,” ſaid Ludovico,
« theſe paſſages ſend echoes all round the
€aftle."
“ Take care of the light,” cried Emily,
05
".you
>)
1
(298)
you go ſo faſt, that the air will extin-
guiſh it."
Ludovico now opened another door,
where they found Annette, and the party
then defcended 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 founds, that
feemed to come from the inner court,
alarmed Emily.
Nay, Signora,” ſaid
Ludovico, "our only hope is in that tu-
mult; while the Signor's people are bufied
about the men, who are juſt arrived, we
may, perhaps, pafs unnoticed through the
gates. But huſh !” he added, as they
approached the fmall door, that opened
into the outer court,
if you will remain
here a moment, I will go to fee whether
the gates are open, and any body; is in the
way. Pray extinguiſh the light, Signor,
if you hear me talking," continued Ludo-
vico, delivering the lamp to Du Pont,
s and remain quite ſtill."
Saying
r if
}
( 299 )
one.
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
« We ſhall ſoon be beyond the
walls," ſaid Du Pont ſoftly to Emily,
“ ſupport yourſelf a little longer, madam,
and all will be well."
But ſoon they heard Ludovico ſpeak-
ing loud, and the voice alſo of ſome other
perfon, and Du Pont immediately extin-
guiſhed the lamp.
« Ah! it is too late !
exclaimed Emily, “ what is to become of
us ?” They liſtened again, and then per-
ceived, 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,
06
again
(300)
!
again liſtening to what was going on with-
out, they heard Ludovico ſay, “ l'll watch
the gates the while.”
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."
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.
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
(301)
ſince
you do not care about your's, I fee
no reaſon why I would not have that too."
Hold, hold, not ſo faſt,” cried the
ſentinel, "do watch then, for a moment:
I'll be with you preſently.”
“ 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."
“ There, my good fellow,” returned the
ſoldier, there, take it—it has ſeen fer-
vice, though it could do little in defend-
ing the caſtle. I'll tell you a good ſtory,
though, about this ſame trombone.”
“ You'll tell it better when you have
had the wine," ſaid Ludovico. - There !
they are coming out from the court al-
ready.”
“ I'll have the wine, though,” ſaid the
ſentinel, running off. “I won't keep you
a minute."
* A kind of blunderbuſs.
56 Take
( 302 )
«« Take your time, I am in no haſte,"
replied Ludovico, who was already hurry-
ing acroſs the court, when the ſoldier
came back, “ Whither fo faſt, friend-
whither fo faſt?” faid the latter. "What!
is this the way you keep watch? I muſt
ftand to my poſt myſelf, I ſee.”
Aye, well,” replied Ludovico, “ you
have ſaved me the trouble of following
you further, for I want to tell you, if
you have a mind to drink the Tuſcany
wine, you muſt go to Sebaſtian, he is deal-
ing it out; the other that Frederico has, is
not worth having. But you are not likely
to have any, I ſee, for they are all coming
out.”
By St. Peter! ſo they are,” faid the
foldier, and again ran off, while Ludo-
vico, once more at liberty, haftened to the
door of the paſſage, where Emily was fink-
ing 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
1
( 303 )
--
yet not before he had ſeized two horſes,
that had ſtrayed from the ſecond court,
and were picking a ſcanty meal along the
graſs, which grew between the pavement
of the firſt.
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 Lu-
dovico, 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 fet off as faſt as the broken road,
and the feeble light, which a rifing moon
threw among the foliage, would permit.
Emily was fo much aſtoniſhed by this
ſudden departure, that ſhe ſcarcely dared to
believe herſelf awake; and fhe yet much
doubted whether this adventure would ter-
minate in efcape,--a doubt, which had too
much probability to juſtify it; for, before
they quitted the woods, they heard ſhouts
in
1
1
( 304 )
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.
“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 the lights coming this way."
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 funk into filence. The
travellers then abated their pace, and, con-
fulting whither they fhould direct their
courſe, it was determined they ſhould de-
ſcend 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 accompa-
nied into Italy, was returned to his native
country.
They
;
.
( 305 )
1
we ſhall
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 bye-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 neceſſa-
ries could be procured for their journey.
" But, I hope,” added he,
meet with no ftraggling parties of banditti;
ſome of them are abroad, I know. How-
ever, I have got a good crombone, which
will be of ſome ſervice, if we ſhould en-
counter any of thoſe brave ſpirits. You
have no arms, Signor ?” “ Yes,” replied
Du Pont, “ I have the villain's ſtiletto,
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."
The moon was now riſen high over the
woods, that hung upon the ſides of the.
narrow
1
( 306 )
1
narrow glen, through which they wander-
ed, and afforded them light ſufficient to diſ-
tinguiſh 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 repor-
ing 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 dila
appointment, was mingled a ſweet plea-
ſure,
( 307 )
ſure, 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
fhe hoped ſhe was' returning, and of her
marriage with Ludovico,to v hich there
no longer appeared any impediment, for
poverty ſhe did not conſider ſuch. Ludo-
vico, on his part, congratulated himſelf on
having reſcued his - Annette and Signora
Emily from the danger that had furround-
ed them; on his own liberation from
people, whoſe manners he had long de-
teſted; on the freedom he had given to
Monſieur Du Pont; on bis proſpect of
happineſs with the object of his affections;
and not a little on the addreſs, with which
he had deceived the ſentinel, and conduct.
ed the whole of this affair.
Thus variouſly engaged in thought, the
travellers paſſed on ſilently, for above an
hour, a queſtion only being, now and then,
alked
(308)
aſked by Du Pont, concerning the road,
or a remark uttered by Annette, reſpect-
ing objects, ſeen imperfectly in the twi-
light. At length lights were perceived
twinkling on the ſide of a mountain, and
Ludovico had no doubi, that they pro-
ceeded from the town he had mentioned,
while his companions, ſatisfied by this af-
ſurance, funk again into filence. Annette
was the firſt who interrupted this.“ Holy
Peter !” ſaid ſhe, “what ſhall we do for
money on our journey ? for I know nei .
ther I, or my lady, have a ſingle ſequin;
the Signor took care of that !"
This remark produced a ſerious enquiry,
which ended in as ferious an embaraff-
ment, 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 occa-
fionally to leave the priſon-chamber; and
Ludovico, who had for ſome time found
a difficulty, in procuring any part of the
wages due to hith, had now ſcarcely cah
ſufficient
:
!
1
2
(309)
ſufficient to procure neceſſary refreſhment
at the firſt town, in which they ſhould
arrive.
Their poverty was the more diſtreſfing,
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 vallies, where the
over-hanging foliage now admitted, and
then excluded the moon-light ;-wilds ſo
deſolate, that they appeared, on the firſt
glance, as if no human being had ever
trode them before. Even the road, in
which the party were, did but ſlightly con-
tradict this error, for the high graſs and
other luxuriant vegetation, with which it
was over-grown, told how very ſeldom the
foot of a traveller had paſſed it.
At length, from a diſtance, was heard the
faint tinkling of a ſheep-bell; and, foon
after, the bleat of flocks, and the party
then
(310)
!
then knew, that they were near ſome hu-
man habitation, for the light, which Ludo-
vico 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 vallies of the Appe-
nines, which might be painted for a ſcene
of Arcadia, and whoſe beauty and fimpli-
city are finely contrafted by the grandeur
of the ſnow-topt mountains above.
The morning light, now glimmering in
the horizon, ſhewed faintly, at a little diſ-
tance, 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 refreſh-
ment. Her appearance excited ſome ſur-
priſe;
:
(311)
priſe ; for ſhe was without a hat, having
had time only to throw on her veil before
the 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,
Ludovico, on examining his purſe, found
it even inſufficient to ſupply preſent re-
freſhment, and Du Pont, at length, ven-
tured to inform the landlord, whoſe coun-
tenance was ſimple and honeſt, of their ex-
act ſituation, and requeſted, that he would
aſlift them to purſue their journey; a pur-
poſe, 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
(
312)
frantic with joy, in which his auditors ſoon
participated. On removing the ſaddle
from one of the horſes, he had found be.
neath it a ſmall bag, containing, no doubt,
the booty of one of the condottieri, 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 re-
ward of his exploit.
On counting over this, Du Pont found
that it would be more than fufficient to
carry them all to France, where he now
determined to accompany Emily, whether
he ſhould obtain intelligence of his regi-
ment, or not; for, though he had as
much confidence in the integrity of Ludo-
vico, as his finall knowledge of him al-
lowed, 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
}
(313)
1
pleaſure, which he might derive from her
preſence.
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 confe-
quence, which Du Pont knew alſo to be
the moſt likely of any in Italy to affiſt
their plan, ſince from thence veſſels of all
nations were continually departing. Thi-
ther, therefore, it was determined, that
they ſhould proceed.
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,
re-commenced their joyous way, as the
fun was riſing over the mountains, and,
after travelling through the romantic coun-
try, for ſeveral hours, began to deſcend
into the vale of Arno. And here Emniy
beheld
VOL. III.
Р
(314)
beheld all the charms of ſylvan and paſto.
ral landſcape united, adorned with the ele-
gant villas of the Florentine nobles, and
diverſified with the various riches of cul-
tivation. How vivid the ſhrubs, that em-
bowered the flopes, with the woods, that
ſtretched amphitheatrically along the moun-
tains! and, above all, how elegant the out-
line of theſe waving Apennines, now ſoften.
ing 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 lux-
uriant plain fpreading 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 diftant,
that they were known only by a blueiſh
line, that appeared upon the horizon, and
by the light marine vapour, which juſt
Itained the æther above.
With
( 315 )
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
{he had there no home to receive, no pa-
rents to welcome her, but was going, like
a forlorn pilgrim, to weep over the ſad
ſpot, where he, who was her father, lay
interred. Nor were her ſpirits cheered,
when ſhe conſidered how long it would
probably be before ſhe ſhould ſee Valan-
court, who might be ſtationed with his re-
giment 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 in-
expreffible delight at the thought of being
once more in the ſame country with
Valaucourt, had it even been certain, that
The could not ſee him.
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
P2
( 316 )
ment.
abounding with wild grapes, raſpberries,
and figs, promiſed them grateful refreſh-
Soon after, they turned from the
road into a grove, whoſe thick foliage
entirely excluded the ſun-beams, 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 Pyrenées, took their
fimple repaſt, and viewed, with new de-
light, beneath the dark umbrage of
gigantic pines, the glowing landſcape
ſtretching to the fea.
Emily and Du Pont gradually became
thoughtful and filent; but Annette was all
joy and loquacity, and Ludovico was gay,
without forgetting the reſpectful diſtance,
which
:
( 317 )
-
which was due to his companions. The
repaſt being over, Du Pont recommend
ed Emily to endeavour to ſleep, during
theſe ſultry hours, and, defiring the fer-
vants 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.
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, thai Lu-
dovico, after the toils and trouble he had
ſuffered, ſhould finiſh his ſleep, Emily
took this opportunity of enquiring by what
accident Du Pont becaine Montoni's pri-
ſoner, and he, pleaſed with the interest
this enquiry expreſſed, and with the excula
it gave him for talking to her of hinicif,
immediately anſwered her curioſity.
P 3
• I canile
( 318 )
.
“I came into Italy, madam," laid Dis
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 mc,
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 accompa-
nied them into Italy. It was not, how-
ever, till ſome time after, that I became
convinced this was the fame Montoni, or
learned that you, madam, was under the
fame 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 indulg-
ences, one of which was very important
to me, and ſomewhat dangerous to him-
felf; but he perſiſted in refuſing to con-
vey any letter, or notice of my ſituation,
to you, for he juſtly dreaded a diſco-
very
( 319
very and the conſequent vengeance of
Montoni. He bowever enabled me to
ſee you more than once. You are für
priſed, madam, and I will explain niy-
ſelf. My health and ſpirits ſuffered ex-
tremely 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.”
Emily now liſtened, with very anxious
attention, to the narrative of Du Pont,
who proceeded:
“ 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 ter-
race of which roſe over a perpendicular
rock; he ſhewed me allo,” continued Du
Pont, “ a door concealed in the cedar wain-
foot of the apartment where I was confin-
ed, which he inſtructed me how to open;
and which, leading into a paſſage, formed
within the thickneſs of the wall, that ex-
tended far along the caſtle, finally opened
P 4
in
7
(320)
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 ter-
race, where I walked with the utmoſt cau-
tion, left my fteps ſhould betray me to the
fentinels on duty in diftant parts; for this
end of it, being guarded by high build-
ings, was not watched by ſoldiers. In
one of theſe midnight wanderings, I ſaw
light in a cafement that overlooked the
rampart, and which, I obſerved, was im-
mediately 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 win-
dow."
Emily, remembering the figure that
had formerly appeared on the terrace, and
which had occaſioned her ſo much anxiety,
exclaimed,
(321)
exclaimed, “ It was you, then, Monſieur
Du Pont, who occaſioned me much fool-
iſh 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 occafioned
her any apprehenſion, added : “ As I
reſted on the wall, oppoſite to your caſe-
ment, the confideration of your melan-
choly ſituation and of my own, called
from me involuntary ſounds of lamenta-
tion, which drew you, I fancy, to the
caſement; I ſaw there a perſon whom I
believed to be you. ()! I will ſay no-
thing of my emotion at that moment; I
wiſhed to ſpeak, but prudence reſtrained
me, till the diſtant footſtep of a ſentinel
compelled me ſuddenly to quit my fta-
tion.
“ It was ſome time before I had an-
other 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
P 5
circum-
1
(
322)
!
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 ap-
peared-you ſpoke-I heard the well.
known accent of your voice! and, at that
moment, my diſcretion would have for-
faken me again, had I not heard alſo the
approaching ſteps of a ſoldier, when I in-
ſtantly quitted the place, though not be-
fore 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 ftratagem, 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
miftake it for ſomething ſupernatural, and
delift from purſuit. Luckily for myſelf,
I ſucceeded; the man, it ſeems, was ſub-
ject
323 )
ject 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 a-
mong the ſentinels, deterred me ever after
from walking on the terrace; but, in the
ſtillneſs of night, I frequently beguiled my-
ſelf with an old lute, procured for me by
a ſoldier, which I ſometimes accompanied
with my voice, and ſometimes, I will ac-
knowledge, with a hope of making myſelf
heard by you; but it was only a few even-
ings'ago, that this hope was anſwered. I
then thought I heard a voice in the wind,
calling me; yet, even then I feared to re-
ply, left the ſentinel at the priſon doon
hould hear me. Was I right, madam, in
chis conjecture-- was it you who ſpoke 5."
“ Yes," ſaid Emily, with an involun-
lary figh,
" you was right indeed.”
Du Pont, obſerving the painful: emo--
rions, which this queſtion revived, now
changed the ſubject.“ In one of my ex-
6
curſions
1
1
!
( 324 )
curſions through the paſſage, which I have
mentioned, I overheard a ſingular conver-
ſation,” ſaid he.
“ In the paſſage!" ſaid Emily, with
ſurpriſe.
“ I heard it in the paſſage,” ſaid Du
Pont,“ but it proceeded from an apart-
ment adjoining the wall, within which the
paſſage wound, and the ſhell of the wall
was there fo thin, and was alſo ſomewhat
decayed, that I could diſtinctly hear every
word, ſpoken on the other ſide.
It hap-
pened 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 fur-
priſing circumſtances, and whether they
were ftri&tly true, bis conſcience muſt de
cide ; I fear it will determine againſt him.
But you, madam, have doubtleſs heard the
report, which he deſigns ſhould circulate,
on the ſubjeâ of that lady's myſterious
fate,"
« I have,
i
(
325 )
“ I have, fir," replied Emily, “and I
perceive, that
you doubt it."
« I doubted it before the period I am
ſpeaking of,” rejoined Du Pont ;-" but
fome circumſtances, mentioned by Mon-
toni, greatly contributed to my ſuſpicions.
The account I then heard, almoſt con-
vinced 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 com-
miſſion of the crime I dreaded. I liſtened
cloſely to Montoni, and in the moſt ſtrik-
ing paſſages of his ſtory, I joined my
voice, and repeated his laſt words, in a
diſguiſed and hollow tone.”
“ But was you not afraid of being dir-
covered ?” ſaid Emily.
“ I was not,” replied Du Pont; “ for
I knew, that, if Montoni had been ac-
quainted
1
)
(326)
quainted with the ſecret of this paſſage, he
would not have confined me in the
apart-
ment to which it led. I knew alſo, from
better authority, that he was ignorant of it.
The party, for ſome time, appeared inat-
tentive 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 par-
take of it."
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,
1
( 327 )
1
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 per-
mit 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 poſſi-
bility 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 endea.
voured to conceal this from Monſieur Du
Pont, left it ſhould lead him to a painful
remembrance of his rival.
They continued to converſe, till the
fun 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
.
( 328 )
its paſtoral margin, for many miles, de-
lighted 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 fun
tint the waves with yellow luſtre, and twi-
light draw a duſky purple over the moun-
tains, which, at length, deepened into
night. Then the lucciola, the fire-fly of
Tuſcany, was ſeen to flafh its ſudden ſparks
among the foliage, while the cicala, with
its ſhrill note, became more clamorous
than even during the noon-day heat, lov,
ing beſt the hour, when the Engliſh beetle,
with leſs offenſive ſound,
« winds
His ſmall but fullen horn,
As oft he riſes 'midſt the twilight path,
Againſt the pilgrim borne in heedleſs hum *."
The travellers croſſed the Arno by
moon-light, at a ferry, and, learning, that
Piſa was diſtant only a few miles down the
* Collins.
river,
(329)
.
river, they wiſhed to have proceeded this
ther in a boat; but, as none could be pro-
cured, 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 moon-light ſea-
no gay gondolas, daſhing the waves,-no
Palladian 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 bal-
conies over its waters; it gave only the
buſy voices of ſailors on board veſſels juſt
arrived from the Mediterranean; the me-
lancholy heaving of the anchor, and the
boatſwain's fhrill whiſtle;- ſounds, which,
ſince that period, have there ſunk almoſt
into
.
( 330 )
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 in-
mediately for France, and the travellers re-
turned to their refting-place. Here alſo, Du
Pont endeavoured to learn where his regi.
ment then lay, but could acquire no inform-
ation concerning it. The travellers retired
early to reft, after the fatigues of this day ;
and, on the following, roſe early, and, with-
out pauſing to view the celebrated antiqui-
ties of the place, or the wonders of its hang-
ing 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 fylvan and
paſtoral landſcape; and Emily, as ſhe de-
ſcended
!
}
(331)
icended them, looked down delighted on
Leghorn, and its ſpacious bay, filled with
veſſels, and crowned with theſe beautiful
hills.
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 ſur-
rounding hills.
Monſieur Du Pont, immediately on
their arrival, went down to the
he heard of ſeveral French veſſels, and of
one, that was to fail, 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, be underſtood the convent
was ſeated, to which Emily wiſhed to retire,
He,
quay, where
1
( 332 )
He, therefore, immediately engaged with
the captain to take them to Marſeilles, and
Emily was delighted to hear, that her pall-
age to France was ſecured. Her mind
was now relieved from the terror of pur .
ſuit; and the pleaſing hope of foon ſeeing
her native country-that country which
held Valancourt-reitored to her ſpirits a
degree of cheerfulneſs, ſuch as ſhe had
ſcarcely known, fince the death of her fa-
ther. 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 re-
proach to his conſcience, or apprehenſion
of diſpleaſure from his commander. 'Dur-
ing 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 en.
deavoured to amuſe her by ſhewing the
environs of the town, and they often walk-
ed together on the ſea-ſhore, and on the
bury
1
( 333 )
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 ſympa-
thetic 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 :
THE MARINER.
Soft came the breath of ſpring ; (mooth flow'd the tide;
And blue the heaven in its mirror ſmil'd;
The white fail trembled, livell’d, expanded wide,
The buſy failors at the anchor toil'd.
With anxious friends, that theil the parting tear,
,
The deck was throng 'd-how ſwift the moments fly!
The veilèl heaves, the farewel ſigns appear ;
Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!
The last dread moment comes !--The ſailor-youth
Hicles the big drop, and ſmiles amid his pain,
Sooths lois lad bride, and vows eternal truth,
l'arewel, iny luve--we thallall meet again!"
Long
( 334 )
Loog on the ſtern, with waving hand, he ſtood;
The crowded ſhore links, leſfening, from his view
As gradual glides the bark along the flood;
His bride is ſeen no moremo Adieu !-adieu !"
The breeze of Eve moans low, her ſmile is o'er,
Dim ſteals her twilight down the crimſon'd weſt,
He climbs the top-moſt maſt, to ſeek once more
The far-ſeen coaſt, where all his wiſhes reſt.
He views its dark line on the diſtant ſky,
And Fancy leads him to his little home,
He ſees his weeping love, he hears her figh,
He fooths her griefs, and tells of joys to come.
Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales,
In one vaſt ſhade the feas and ſhores repoſe;
He turns his aching eyes ---his fpirit fails,
The chill tear falls ;--ſad to the deck he goes !
The ſtorm of mielnight ſwells, the fails are furl'd,
Deep ſounds the lead, but finds no friendly ſhore,
Faſt o'er the waves the wretched bark is hurl'd,
“ O Ellen, Ellerr! we muſt meet no more !"
Lightnings, that ſhew the vaſt and foamy deep,
The rending thunders, as they onward roll,
The loud, loud winds, that o'er the billows ſweep
Shake the firm nerve, appal the braveſt ſoul!
Ah!
( 335 )
:
Ah! what avails the ſeamen's toiling care !
The ſtraining cordage burſts, the maſt is riv'n;
The ſounds of terror groan along the air,
Then ſink afar;--- the bark on rocks is driv'n!
Fierce o'er the wreck the whelming waters paſs’d,
The helpleſs crew funk in the roaring main!
Henry's faint accents trembled in the blaſt
“ Farewel, my love !--we ne'er ſhall meet again !"
Oft, at the calm and ſilent evening hour,
When ſummer-breezes linger on the wave,
A melancholy voice is heard to pour
Its lonely ſweetneſs o’er poor Henry's grave!
And oft, at midnight, airy ſtrains are heard
Around the grove, where Ellen's form is laid;
Not is the dirge by village-maidens fear'd,
For lovers' ſpirits guard the holy Hade!
CHAP .
1
(336)
}
+
CHAP. X.
“ Oh! the joy
Of young ideas, painted on the mind
In the warm glowing colours fancy ſpreads
On objects not yet known, when all is new,
And all is lovely!"
SACRED DRAMAS.
!
W
E 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 re-
collected, that this chateau was uninha-
bited, when St. Aubert and his daughter
were in the neighourhood, and that the
former was much affected on diſcovering
himſelf to be ſo near Chateau-le-Blanc,
a place, concerning which the good old
La Voiſin afterwards dropped ſome hints,
that had alarmed Emily's curioſity.
It was in the year 1584, the beginning
of that, in which St. Aubert died, that
Francis Beauveau, Count De Villefort,
came
.
.
..
1
( 337 )
came into poſſeſſion of the manlion and
extenſive domain called Chateau-le-Blanc,
fituated 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 lat-
terly a man of reſerved manners and auſ-
tere character; circumſtances, which, to-
gether 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 intelli-
gence of his death, which happened in a
diſtant part of France, together with the
inſtruments, that gave him poſſeſſion of
the domain of Chateau-le-Blancı; but it was
not till the following year, that he deter-
mined to viſit that eſtate, when he defign-
ed to paſs the autumn there. The ſcenes
of Chateau-le-Blanc often came to his
rememo
1
2
VOL. III.
( 338 )
1
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 Mar-
chioneſs, 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 indiffer-
ence.
During many years, the chateau 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 comfort-
able reſidence, had been a principal mo-
tive with the Count for paſſing the autum-
nal months in Languedoc; and neither
the
V
( 339 )
-
the remonftrances, or the tears of the Coun-
teſs, for, on urgent occafions, ſhe could
weep, were powerful enough to overcome
his determination. She prepared, there-
fore, 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 fo-
lemnity of gothic halls, and of long, long
galleries, which echoed only the folitary
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 endea.
voured to relieve her ſpirits by recollect-
ing all that ſhe had ever heard, concern.
ing 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
Q2
(340)
pleaſure to a heart, in which even the feels
ings of ordinary benevolence had long
fince decayed under the corruptions of
luxury.
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 pre-
fent Counteſs, who had neither ſufficient
ability, or inclination, to ſuperintend the
education of her daughter-in-law, had ad-
viſed this ſtep, and the dread of ſuperior
beauty had ſince urged her to employ every
art, that might prevail on the Count to pro-
long 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
fome conſolation to conſider, that, though
the
( 341 ) )
the Lady Blanche would emerge from the
convent, the ſhades of the country would,
for ſome time, veil her beauty from the
public eye.
On the morning, which commenced the
journey, the poſtillions ſtopped at the con-
vent, 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 de-
parture drew nigh, her impatience had
increaſed, and the lat 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 good-
neſs ever bleſſed-where, in ſhort, nothing
but pleaſure and goodneſs reigned! When
93
the
(342)
i
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 be-
holding her, were not in uniſon with thoſe
of Blanche, who had never appeared fo
lovely as at this moment, when her coun-
tenance, animated by the lightning ſmile
of joy, glowed with the beauty of happy
innocence.
After converſing for a few minutes with
the abbeſs, the Counteſs roſe to go. This
was the moment, which Blanche had an-
ticipated with ſuch eager expectation, the
fummit from which ſhe looked down upon
the fairy-land of happineſs, and ſurveyed
all
1
(343)
→
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 farewel, and
wept! Even my lady abbeſs, ſo ſtately
and ſo folemn, ſhe faluted 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 un-
pleaſing objects, when the ſeparation is
conſciouſly for ever. Again, ſhe kiſſed the
poor nuns, and then followed the Counters
from that ſpot with tears, which ſhe ex-
pected to leave only with ſmiles.
But the preſence of her father, and the
variety of objects, on the road, foon en-
gaged her attention, and diſſipated the
ſhade, which tender regret had thrown
upon her ſpirits. Inattentive to a conver-
ſation, which was paſſing between the
Counteſs and a Mademoiſelle Bearn, her
friend, Blanche fat, loſt in pleaſing reverie,
Q4
as
1
( 344 )
A
as fhe watched the clouds floating filently
along the blue expanſe, now veiling the
fun and ſtretching their fhadows along the
diſtant ſcene, and then diſcloſing all his
brightneſs. The journey continued to
give Blanche inexpreſlible delight, for
new ſcenes of nature were every inſtant
opening to her view, and her fancy be-
came ſtored with gay and beautiful ima-
gery.
It was on the evening of the ſeventh
day, that the traveller's came within view
of Chateau-le-Blanc, the romantic beauty
of whoſe fituation ſtrongly impreſſed the
imagination of Blanche, who obſerved,
with fublime 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 diſ-
cloſed, and again veiled. The ſetting
rays, that tinged their ſnowy ſummits
with a roſeate hue, touched their lower
points
!
( 345 )
-
points with various colouring, while the
blueiſh tint, that pervaded their ſhadowy
receſſes, gave the ſtrength of contraſt to
the fplendour of light. The plains of Lan-
guedoc, bluſhing with the purple vine, and
diverſified with groves of mulberry, al-
mond 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
bofom veffels, whoſe white fails caught
the ſun-beams, and gave animation to the
fcene. 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 cheſtnut, which crowned the emi-
nence, and ſloped towards the plains, on
one fide; while, on the other, they extend-
ed to a conſiderable diſtance along the
fea-ſhores:
As Blanche drew nearer, the gothic
features of this ancient manfion ſucceſſively
appeared firſt an embattled turret, riſing
25
above
( 346 )
above the trees-then the broken arch
of an immenſe gate-way, retiring beyond
them; and ſhe almoſt fancied herſelf ap-
proaching a caſtle, ſuch as is often cele-
brated in early ſtory, where the knights
look out from the battlements on fome
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.
The carriages ſtopped at a gate, which
led into the domain of the chateau, 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.
As
1
1
( 347 )
t
As Blanche leaned from the coach win-
dow, 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 diftant 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 daſh-
ing of oars was feebly heard from a dif-
tance. She was ſuffered to indulge her
penſive mood, for the thoughts of the reſt
of the party were filently engaged upon the
ſubjects of their ſeveral intereſts. Mean-
while, 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 pro-
ſpect of being ſhut up in an old caſtle, was
prepared to meet every object with dif-
pleaſure. The feelings of Henri were
ſome.
06
1
( 348 )
ſomewhat ſimilar to thofe of the Couniefs;
he gave a mournful figh to the delights
of the capital, and to the remembrance of
a lady, who, he believed, had engaged his
affections, and who had certainly faſci-
nated his imagination; but the ſurround-
ing 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 expe&ations of
youth.
The gates being at length unbarred, the
carriage moved flowly on, under ſpreading
cheſtnuts, 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 ei-
ther ſide, and which wound for near half a
mile among the woods, before it reached
the chateau. This was the very avenue
that St. Aubert and Emily had formerly
entered, on their firſt arrival in the neigh-
bourhood, with the hope of finding a houſe,
that
(349)
-
:
:
1
that would receive them, for the night,
and had ſo abruptly quitted, on perceiv-
ing the wildneſs of the place, and a figure,
which the poſtillion had fancied was a
robber.
" What a difmal place is this!” ex-
claimed the Counteſs, as the carriage pe-
netrated 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 wa-
ters of Lethe, that the remembrance of
pleaſanter fcenes may not heighten, at leaſt,
the natural drearineſs of theſe."
“ I ſhall be governed by circumſtances,
madam," ſaid the Count : “ this barbarous
fpot was inhabited by my anceſtors.”
The carriage now ſtopped at the cha-
teau, where, at the door of the great hall,
appeared the old ſteward and the Pariſian
fervants, who had been ſent to prepare the
chateau, waiting to receive their lord.
Lady Blanche now perceived that the edi.
fice was not built entirely in the gothic
ſtyle,
1
(350)
flyle, 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 ro-
mances. A vaſt gothic window, embroi.
dered with clematis and eglantine, that al-
cended 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, ap-
peared 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 floping paſtures; and, to the
ſouth-weſt, by the majeſtic Pyrenées, now
fading from the eye, beneath the gradual
gloom.
Blanche,
(351)
1
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, haftened for-
ward to a large parlour, whoſe cedar wain-
ſcot, 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.
While the Countefs enquired for refreſh-
ment, the Count, attended by his ſon,
went to look over ſome part of the chateau,
and Lady Blanche reluctantly remained to
witneſs the diſcontent and ill humour of
her ſtep-mother.
“ How long have you lived in this de-
folate place ?!' ſaid her lady ſhip, to the old
houſe.
( 352 )
houſe-keeper, who came to pay her duty.
i's Above twenty years, your ladyſhip, on
the next feaſt of St. Jerome."
'6 " How happened it, that you have lived
here ſo long, and almoſt alone, too? I un-
derſtood, that the chateau had been fout
up for fome years ?
“ 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 fo large, and has of late been fo
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 cha .
teau; every now and then. When my.
lord returned to France from the wars, he
took a diflike to the place, and never
came to live here again, and fo he was
ſatisfied with our remaining at the cottage.
Alas-alas!: how the chateau is changed
from what it once was! What delight my
Jate lady uſed to take in it! I well re-
member
( 353 )
member when ſhe came here a bride, and
how fine it was. Now, it has been neglect-
ed ſo long, and is gone into ſuch decay! I
ſhall never ſee thoſe days again!"
The Counteſs appearing to be ſomewhat
offended by the thoughtleſs fimplicity, with
which the old woman regretted former
times, Dorothée added_"But the cha-
teau will now be inhabited, and cheerful
again; not all the world could tempt me
to live in it alone."
• Well, the experiment will not be
made, I believe," ſaid the Counteſs, diſ-
pleaſed that her own filence had been una
able to awe the loquacity of this ruſtic old
houſekeeper, now ſpared from further at-
tendance by the entrance of the Count,
who ſaid he had been viewing part of the
chateau, and found, that it would require
conſiderable repairs and ſome alterations,
before it would be perfe&tly comfortable,
as a place of reſidence. “ I am ſorry to
hear it, my lord,” replied the Counteſs.
“ And why ſorry, madam?” Becauſe
the
(354
)
the place will ill repay your trouble and
were it even a paradiſe, it would be inſuf.
ferable at ſuch a diſtance from Paris."
The Count made no reply, but walked
abruptly to a window. " There are win-
dows, my lord, but they neither admiten-
tertainment, or light; they fhew only a
ſcene of ſavage nature.”
“ 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, de-
ferve the name?"
“ Thoſe mountains certainly do, my
lord,” rejoined the Counteſs, pointing to
the Pyrenées ; "and this chateau, 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 ine to ſay, that your
preſent converſation diſcovers neither good
taſte, or good manners.'' Blanche, now
fhocked at an altercation, which appeared
:
to
4
1
(
355 )
to be increaſing to a ſerious diſagreement,
roſe to leave the room, when her mother's
woman entered it, and the Counteſs, im-
mediately deliring to be ſhewn to her own
apartment, withdrew, attended by Made-
moiſelle Bearn.
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 dif-
tant 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 appear.
ed diſtin&tly, but, blended into one grand
maſs, ſtretched to the horizon, coloured
only with a tint of ſolemn grey.
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
( 356 )
of this apartment, which ſeemed to be
magnificent, and of modern architecture ;
though it had been either ſuffered to fail
into decay, or had never been properly
finiſhed. The windows, which were nu
merous and large, deſcended low, and al'.
forded a very extenfile, and, what Blanche's
fancy repreſented to be, a very lo: cly
proſpect; and ſhe ſtood for ſome time,
ſurveying the grey obſcurity, and depic-
turing imaginary woods and mountains,
vallies and rivers, on this ſcene of night;
her folemn ſenſations rather affifted, 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 the
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,
1
( 357 )
purſued, for a conſiderable time, a dark
paſſage, ſhe came to a hall, but one to-
tally 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
chateau, extended in a grandſweep down the
fouthern fides 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 fhe had before dimly ſeen,
with the towers of a monaſtery, illumined
by the moon, riſing over dark groves.
The
.
( 358 )
The ſoft and ſhadowy tint, that overa
ſpread the ſcene, the waves, undulating in
the moon-light, and their low and meaſur-
ed murmurs on the beach, were circum-
ſtances, that united to elevate the unac-
cuſtomed mind of Blanche to enthuſiaſm.
“ And have I lived in this glorious
world ſo long,” ſaid ſhe, “and never till
now beheld ſuch a proſpect--never expe-
rienced theſe delights ! Every peaſant girl,
on my father's domain, has viewed from
her infancy the face of nature; has ranged,
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? Ne-
ver, till this evening, did I know what
true devotion is; for, never before did
I ſee the ſun link below the vaſt earth!
To-morrow, for the firſt time in my life,
I will ſee it riſe. Owho would live in
Paris,
at
(359)
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 !"
This enthuſiaſtic foliloquy was inter-
rupted by a ruſtling noiſe in the hall;
and, while the lonelineſs of the place made
her ſenſible to fear, ſhe thought ſhe per-
ceived ſomething moving between the
pillars. For a moment, ſhe continued
filently 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 ſeem frightened, Dorothée,
what is the matter?"
No, not frightened, ma’amſelle," re-
plied Dorothée, heſitating, and trying to
appear compoſed, “ but I am old, and
a little matter ſtartles me."
The Lady
Blanche
.
( 360 )
Blanche ſmiled at the diſtinction. « I am
glad that my lord the Count is come to
live at the chateau, ma'am ſelle,” conti-
nued 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 Mar-
chionefs died? “ Alas! my lady,” re-
plied 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
fhew you to the other ſide of the cha-
teau ?"
Blanche enquired how long this part of
the edifice had been built. « Soon after
my lord's marriage, ma'am,” replied Do-
rothée. « 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
..
i
(361)
1
manfion gloomy, and gloomy enough it
is !" Lady Blanche now deſired to be
fnewn to the inhabited part of the cha-
teau ; 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
fome ſubterranean vault, whence you was
never to return."
« No,” replied Blanche, laughingly,
you
ſeem to love adventures ſo well, that
I leave them for you to achieve.”
“ Well, I am willing to achieve them,
provided I am allowed to deſcribe ihem."
· My dear Mademoiſelle Bearn," ſaid
Henri, as he met her at the door of the
parlour,
VOL. III.
R
( 362 )
parlour, “ no ghoſt of theſe days would
be ſo ſavage as to impoſe filence on you.
Our ghoſts are more civilized than to con.
demn a lady to a purgatory ſeverer even
than their own, be it what it may.”
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 expe-
rienced.”
“ Did theſe ſcenes, fir," ſaid Blanche,
ever appear more lovely, than they do
now? To me this ſeems hardly poſſible."
The Count; regarding her with a melan-
choly ſmile, ſaid, They once were as
delightful
3
(363)
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 na-
ture, is fading faſt! If you live, my dear
Blanche, to reviſit this ſpot, at the diſ-
tance of many years, you will, perhaps,
remember and underſtand the feelings of
"
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 filled 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.
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
R 2
( 364 )
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 tapeliry, 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 walls 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
11
I
( 365 )
I
to expreſs, long ſince mouldered into duſt,
a train of melancholy ideas paſſed over her
mind, and ſhe almoſt wept.
Having given her woman a ſtriet injunc-
tion to awaken her before ſun-rire, ſhe
diſmiſſed her; and then, to diſlipate the
gloom, which reflection had caft upon
her ſpirits, opened one of the high caſe-
ments, and was again cheered by the face
of living nature. The ſhadowy earth,
the air, and ocean-all was ſtill. Along
the deep ferene of the heavens, a few
light clouds floated ſlowly, through whoſe
ſkirts the ſtars now ſeemed to tremble,
and now to emerge with purer fplendour.
Blanche's thoughts aroſe involuntarily to
the Great Author of the ſublime objects ſhe
con:emplated, and ſhe breathed a prayer
of finer devotion, than any ſhe had ever
ultered beneath the vaulted roof of a cloiſ-
At this caſement, ſhe remained till
the glooms of midnight were ſtretched
over the proſpect. She then retired to
R 3
her
ter.
( 366 )
S
ber pillow, and,“ with gay viſions of to-
morrow," to thoſe fweet flumbers, which
health and happy innocence only know.
“ To morrow to freſh woods and paſtures new."
i
1
A
CHAP.
}
(367
CHAP. XI.
“ What tranſport to retrace our early plays,
Our eaſy bliſs, when each thing joy ſupplied,
The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze
Of the wild brooks!"
THOMSON, .
BLANCHE's llumbers continued, till
long after the hour, which ſhe had ſo im-
patiently anticipated, for her woman, fa-
tigued with travelling, did not call her,
till breakfaſt was nearly ready. Her diſ-
appointment, however, was inſtantly for-
gotten, when, on opening the caſement,
ſhe ſaw, on one hand, the wide ſea ſpark-
Jing in the morning rays, with its ſtealing
fails and glancing oars; and, on the other,
the freſh woods, the plains far-ftretching,
and the blue mountains, all glowing with
the fplendour of the day.
As ſhe inſpired the pure breeze, health
R4
ſpread
(368)
{
ſpread a deeper bluſh upon her counie-
nance, and pleaſure danced in her eyes.
" Who could firſt invent convents!"
ſaid ſhe," and who could firſt perſuade
people to go into them? and to make re-
ligion a pretence, too, where all that ſhould
infpire 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 moft 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!”
Saying this, ſhe left the window, bound-
ed along the gallery, and, in the next mo-
ment, was in the breakfaft-room, where
the Count was already ſeated. The cheer.
fulneſs of a bright ſun-fhine 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
,
1
( 369 )
tones.
Henri and, ſoon after, the Coun.
teſs with Mademoiſelle Bearn appeared,
and the whole party ſeemed to acknow-
ledge the influence of the ſcene; even the
Counteſs was ſo much re-animated 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 this barbarous ſpot
more tolerable, and whether the Count
believed it poſſible for her to exiſt here,
without ſome amuſement ?
Soon after breakfaſt the party diſperſed;
the Count, ordering his ſteward to attend
him in the library, went to ſurvey the con-
dition of his premiſes, and to viſit ſome of
his tenants; Henri haftened with alacrity
to the ſhore to examine a hoat, that was to
bear them on a little voyage in the evening,
and to ſuperintend the adjuſtment of a filk
awning; while the Counteſs, attended by
Mademoiſelle Bearn, retired to an apart-
ment on the modern ſide of the chateau,
R 5
which
(370)
which was fitted up with airy eleganc e;
and, as the windows opened upon balco-
nies, that fronted the ſea, ſhe was there
ſaved from a view of the horrid Pyrenées.
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 ennui, her
companion read aloud a ſentimental
novel, on fome faſhionable ſyſtem of
philoſophy, for the Counteſs was herſelf
ſomewhat of a philoſopher, eſpecially as to
infidelity, and among a certain circle her
opinions were waited for with impatience,
and received as doctrines.
The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, haftened
to indulge, amidſt the wild wood-walks,
around the chateau, 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 inter-
woven branches, where the freſh dew ſtill
hung upon every flower, that peeped from
among
(371)
among the graſs; and now tripped ſpor-
tively along the path, on which the fun.
beams 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, exbibited as
fine a contraſt of colouring, as the majeſ-
tic oak and oriental plane did of forin, to
the feathery lightneſs of the cork tree,
and the waving grace of the poplar.
Having reached a ruſtic ſeat, within a
deep receſs of the woods, ſhe reſted a while,
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 bofom, or of the broad mountain,
glowing beneath the mid-day fun, her
mind experienced ſomewhat of that exqui-
.
file delight, which awakens the fancy, and
leads to poetry.
The hum of bees alone
broke the ftillneſs around her, as, with
other inſects of various hues, they ſported
gaily in the ſhade, or fipped ſweets from
R 6
the
( 372 )
the freſh flowers; and, while Blanche
watched a butterfly flitting from bud to
bud, ſhe indulged herſelf in imagining the
pleaſures of its ſhort day, till ſhe had
compoſed the following ſtanzas.
THE BUTTERFLY TO HIS LOVE.
1
What bow'ry dell, with fragrant breath,
Courts thee to ſtay thy airy flight;
Nor ſeek again the purple heath,
So oft the ſcene of gay delight?
-
Long I've watch'd i’ the lily's bell,
Whoſe whiteneſs ſtole the morning's beam;
No flutt'ring ſounds thy coming tell,
No waving wings, at diſtance, gleam.
But fountain freſh, nor breathing grove,
Nor funny mead, nor bloſſom'd tree,
So ſweet as lily's cell ſhall prove,
The bow'r of conſtant love and me.
When April buds begin to blow,
The prim-roſe, and the hare-bell blue,
That on the verdant moſs-bank grow,
With violet cups, that weep in dew;
:
When
:
(373)
When wanton gales breathe through the ſnade,
And ſhake the blooms, and ſteal their ſweets,
And ſwell the ſong of ev'ry glade,
I range the foreſt's green retreats :
There, through the tangled wood-walks play,
Where no rude urchin paces near,
Where ſparely peeps the ſultry day,
And light dews freſhen all the air.
High on a ſun-beam oft I ſport
O'er bower and fountain, vale and hill;
Oft ev'ry bluſhing flow'ret court;
That hangs its head o'er winding rill.
But theſe I'll leave to be thy guide,
And ſhew thee, wiere the jaſmine ſpreads
Her ſnowy leaf, where may-flow'rs hide,
And role-buds rear their peeping heads.
With me the mountain's fummit icale,
And taſte the wild-thyme's honied bloom,
Whoſe fragrance, floating on the gale,
Oit leads me to the cedar's gloom.
Yet, yet, no ſound comes in the breeze!
What ſhade thus dares to tempt thy ſtay?
Once, me alone thou willi'd to pleaſe,
And with me only thou wouldſt 1tr3y.
1
But,
.
man
:
( 374 )
But, while thy long delay I mourn,
And chide the ſweet ſhades for their guile,
Thou may'ſt be true, and they forlorn,
And fairy favours court thy ſmile.
The tiny queen of fairy-land,
Who knows thy ſpeed, hath ſent thee far,
To bring, or ere the night-watch ſtand,
Rich eſſence for her ſhadowy car :
Perchance her acorn-cups to fill
With nectar from the Indian roſe,
Or gather, near ſome haunted rill,
May-dews, that lull to ſleep Love's woes :
Or, o'er the mountains, bade thee fly,
To tell her fairy love to ſpeed,
When ev'ning ſteals upon the ſky,
To dance along the twilight mead.
But now I ſee thee ſailing low,
Gay as the brighteſt flow’rs of ſpring,
Thy coat of blue and jet I know,
And well thy gold and purple wing.
Borne on the gale, thou com'ſt to me;
O! welcome, welcome to my home!
In lily's cell we'll live in glee,
Together o'er the mountains rcüm!
į
When
į
;
( 375 )
When Lady Blanche returned to the
chateau, 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 curiofi-
ty ; 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 fuite 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 ſpaci-
ous fire places, where no mark of ſocial
cheer remained, preſented an image of
cold defolation; and the whole fuite 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.
On leaving theſe rooms, ſhe found her.
ſelf
)
( 376 )
6
ſelf in another gallery, one end of which
was terminated by a back ſtaircaſe, and the
other by a door, that ſeemed to commu-
nicate with the north ſide of the chateau,
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
weit 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 Pyrenées, wboſe
awful ſummits crowned the landſcape;
and a third, fronting the ſouth, gave the
Mediterranean, and a part of the wild
ihores of Rouillon, to the eye.
Having left the turret, and deſcended
the narrow ſtaircaſe, ſhe found herſelf in
a duſky paſſage, where ſhe wandered, un-
able to find her way, till impatience yield-
ed to apprehenſion, and ſhe called for áfa
ſiſtance. Preſently ſteps approached, and
light glimmered through a door at the
other
(377)
other extremity of the paſſage, which was
opened with caution by ſome perſon, who
did not venture beyond it, and whom
Blanche obſerved in filence, till the door
was cloſing, when the called aloud, and,
haſtening towards it, perceived the old
houſekeeper.
" Dear ma’anſelle! is it you?” ſaid
Dorothée, • How could you find your
way hither ?" Had Blanche been leſs oc-
cupied by her own fears, ſhe would pro-
bably have obſerved the ſtrong expreſſions
of terror and ſurpriſe on Dorothée's coun-
tenance, who now led her through a long
ſucceſſion of paſſages and rooms, that look-
ed as if they had been uninhabited for a
century, till they reached that appropriat-
ed to the houſekeeper, where Dorothée
entreated fhe would ſit down and take re-
freſhment. Blanche accepted the ſweet-
meats offered to her, mentioned her difco-
very of the pleaſant rurret, and her wiſh to
appropriate it to her own uſe. Whether
Dorothée's taſte was not ſo fenfble to the
beauties
(378)
.
66
beauties of landſcape as her young lady »
or that the conſtant view of lovely ſcenery
had deadened it, ſhe forbore to praiſe the
ſubject of Blanche's enthuſiaſm, which,
however, her filence 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 en-
tered 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 fince."
Blanche, though ſhe wiſhed to ſee theſe
chambers, forbore, on obſerving that Do-
rothée'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 hu-
mour, except the Counteſs, whoſe vacant
mind, overcome by the languor of idle-
neſs, would neither ſuffer her to be happy
herſelf, or to contribute to the happineſs
of others. Mademoiſelle Bearn, attempt
ing
I
( 379 )
ing 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 diſgulted
him.
The cheerfulnefs with which Blanche re-
joined the party vaniſhed, on her reaching
the margin of the ſea; ſhe gazed with ap-
prehenſion upon the immenſe expanſe of
waters, which, at a diſtance, ſhe had be-
held only with delight and aftoniſhment,
and it was by a ſtrong effort, that the fo
far overcame her fears as to follow her fa.
ther into the boat.
As ſhe filently ſurveyed the vaſt horizon,
bending round the diſtant verge of the
ocean, an emotion of ſublimeft rapture
ſtruggled to overcome a ſenſe of perſonal
danger. A light breeze played on the
water, and on the filk awning of the boat,
and waved the foliage of the receding
woods,
L
(380)
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 tafte.
At ſome diſtance, among theſe woods,
ftood a pavilion, which had once been the
ſcene of ſocial gaiety, and which its fitu-
ation fill 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, follow-
ing 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 bad
now ſubdued her fears; a delightful tran-
quillity ſtole over her mind, and held her
in ſilence; and ſhe was too happy even to
remember the convent, or her former for-
rows, as ſubjects of compariſon with her
preſent felicity.
The
}
( 381 )
The Counteſs felt leſs unliappy 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 be-
nevolent ſatisfaction, while his ſon exbibit-
ed the gay ſpirits of youth, anticipating
new delights, and regretleſs of thoſe that
were paſſed.
After near an hour's rowing, the party
landed, and aſcended a little path, over-
grown with vegetation. At a little dir-
tance from the point of the eminence,
within the ſhadowy receſs of the woods, ap-
peared the pavilion, which Blanche per-
ceived, 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, ſcen beneath the dark foliage,
far below, and from thence upon the deep
woods,
1
( 382 i
woods, whoſe filence and impenetrable
gloom awakened emotions more folemn,
but ſcarcely leſs delightful.
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 mag-
nificent 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 ſweeten-
ed and prolonged their melancholy tones,
broke ſoftly on the ſtillneſs of the ſcene.
This ſpot ſeemed to attract even the admir-
ation of the Counteſs, or, perhaps, it was
merely the pleaſure of planning furniture
and decorations, that made her dwell fo
long on the neceſſity of repairing and
adorning it; while the Count, never hapa
pier than when he ſaw her mind engaged
by natural and ſimple obje&ts, acquieſced
in
(383
in all her deſigns concerning the pavilion.
The paintings on the walls and coved
ceiling were to be renewed; the canopies
and fofas were to be of light green damaſk;
marble ſtatues of wood-nymphs, bearing
on their heads baſkets of living flowers,
were to adorn the recelles between the win-
dows, 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
woody receſſes, and the ſcene was bounded
only by a lengthened pomp of groves ;
from another, the woods receding dir-
cloſed the diſtant ſummits of the Pyrenées;
a third fronted an avenue, beyond which
the grey towers of Chateau-le-Blanc, and
a pi&tureſque 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 Mediterra-
nean, with the bold cliffs, that overlooked
its
( 384 )
1
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.
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 fea-
thery woods, that overhung 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 land.
ſcape, without deſtroying the harmony of
its features.
Above the darkneſs of the woods, her
eye
.
( 385 )
eye now caught a cluſter of high towers,
touched with the ſplendour of the ſetting
rays; and, ſoon after, the horns being
then filent, ſhe heard the faint ſwell of
choral voices from a diſtance.
“ What voices are thoſe, upon the air?''
ſaid the Count, looking round, and liſten-
ing; but the ſtrain had ceaſed, " It ſeemed
to be a veſper-hymn, which I have often
heard in my convent," ſaid Blanche.
“ We are near the monaſtery, then,"
obſerved the Count; and the boat foon
after doubling a lofty head-land, the mo-
naſtery of St. Claire appeared, ſeated near
the margin of the ſea, where the cliffs,
fuddenly finking, formed a low ſhore with-
in a ſmall bay, almoſt encircled with woods,
among which partial features of the edifice
were {een ;---ihe 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 demolifhed, ſtocd
a majeſtic ruin detached from the main
building,
VOI, III,
S
( 386 386
)
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.
All without was filent and forſaken;
but, while Blanche gazed with admiration
on this venerable pile, whoſe effect was
heightened by the ſtrong lights and ſha-
dows thrown athwart it by a cloudy ſun-
fet, a ſound of many voices, ſlowly chant-
ing, aroſe from within. The Count bade
his men reſt on their oars. The monks
were ſinging the hymn of vefpers, and
ſome female voices mingled with the ſtrain,
which rofe by ſoft degrees, till the high
organ and the choral ſounds fwelled into
full and folemn harmony. The ſtrain,
foon after, dropped into fudden ſilence, and
was renewed in a low and ſtill, inore fo-
leuk ay, ill, at length, the holy chorus
Gestay, and was heard no more.-
Llicite : bed, tiar, trembled in her
eyes,
1
1
+
( 387
eyes, and her thoughts ſeemed wafted with
the ſounds to heaven. While a rapt ſtill-
neſs prevailed in the boat, a train of
friars, and then of nuns, veiled in white,
iſſued from the cloiſters, and pafiled under
the ſhade of the woods, to the main body
of the edifice.
The Counteſs was the firſt of her party
to awaken from this pauſe of filence.
" Theſe diſmal hymns and friars make
one quite melancholy,” ſaid ſhe ; “ twi-
light is coming on; pray let us return, or
it will be dark before we get home.”
The Count, looking up, now perceived,
that the twilight of evening was anticipater
by an approaching ſtorin. In the eaſt a
tempeſt was collecting; a heavy gloom
came on, oppoſing and contraſting the
glowing fplendour of the ſetting fun. The
clamorous ſea-fowl ſkimmed in fleet cir-
cles upon the ſurface of the ſea, dipping
their light pinions in the wave, as they
fled away in ſearch of thelter. The boat-
men pulled hard at their oars; but the
thunder
S 2
( 388 )
!
:
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.
The appearance of the heavens alarmed
the Counters and Mademoiſelle Bearn,
whoſe expreſſions of apprehenſion diſtreſs-
ed the Count, and perplexed his men ;
while Blanche continued filent, now agitat-
ed with fear, and now with admiration, as
pe 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.
The boat having reached the lawn be-
fore the monaſtery, the Count ſent a fer-
vant to announce his arrival, and to en-
treat ſhelter of the Superior, who, foon
after,
}
1
".
(389)
:
after; appeared at the great gate, attended
by ſeveral monks, while the ſervant returns
ed with a meſſage, expreſſive at once of
hoſpitality and pride, but of pride dil-
guiſed in ſubmiſſion. The party imme-
diately diſembarked, and, having haſily
croſſed the lawn for the ſhower was now
heavy-were received at the gate by the
Superior, who, as they entered, ſtretched
forth bis hands and gave his bleſſing; and
they pafled 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 diſco-
vered a countenance, whoſe chaſte dignity
was ſweetened by the ſmile of welcome,
with which ſhe addreſſed the Counters,
whom ſhe led, with Blanche and Made-
moiſelle Bearn, into the convent parlour,
while the Count anci Henri were conducto
ed by the Superior to the refectory.
The Counteſs, fatigued and diſcontent-
ed, reccived the politeneſs of the abbels
with
§
ره
390)
i
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 melan-
choly ſhade, and where the gloom of even-
ing now loured almoſt to darkneſs.
While the lady abbeſs ordered refreſh-
ment, and converſed with the Counteſs,
Blanche withdrew to a window, the lower
panes of which, being without painting, al-
lowed her to obſerve the progreſs of the
ftorm 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 diftant ſhores
of Languedoc, as well as the tufted ſum-
mits of the nearer woods, and ſhed a par-
tjal gleam on the weſtern waves. The
reſt of the ſcene was in deep gloom, ex-
cept
.
>
(391)
cept where a ſun-beam, darting between
the clouds, glanced on the white wings of
the ſea-fowl, that circled high among them,
or touched the ſwelling fail 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 light-
nings flaſhed, looked to the opening hea-
vens, with many a fogh for the fate of the
poor mariners.
The ſun, at length, ſet, and the heavy
clouds, which had long impended, drop-
ped over the fplendour of his courſe; the
veſſel, however, was yet dimly ſeen, and
Blanche continued to obſerve it, till che
quick ſucceſſion of flaſhes, ligting 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.
But their diſcourſe was interrupted by
tremendous peals of thunder; and the
s 4
bell
(392)
bell of the monaſtery ſoon aſter ringing
out; fummoned the inhabitants to prayer.
As Blanche paſſed the windows, ſhe gave
another look to the ocean, where, by the
momentary flaſh, that illumined the valt
body of the waters, the diſtinguiſhed the
vefſel ſhe had obſerved before, amidſt a ſea
of foam, breaking the billows, the maſt
bow bowing to the waves, and then riſing
high in air.
She fighed 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
Jand to the chateau 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 chateau from
the monaſtery, whoſe veíper bell ſhe had
heard, on the preceding evening, from the
windows of the weſt ſaloon, and whoſe
1
towers
.
I
(
393 )
1
towers ſhe would alſo have ſeen from
thence, had not twilight veiled them.
On their arrival at the chateau, the
Counteſs, affecting more fatigue than the
really felt, withdrew to her apartment, and
the County with his daughter and Henri,
went to the ſupper-room, where they had
not been long, when they heard, in a
pauſe of the gult, 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-dark-
neſs, 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 mo-
ments, the report of guns was again borne
along the wind, and as ſuddently wafted
away; a tremendous burſt of thunder fola
lowed, and, in the laſh, that had preceded
it, and which ſeemed to quiver over the
s 5
whole
1
( 394 )
har en
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 in-
volved the ſcene, but ſoon a ſecond flaſh
ſhewed the bark, with one fail 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 pi..
teous expreſſion, and, perceiving, that no
boat could live in the ſtorm, forbore to
fend one; but he gave orders to his people
to carry torches out upon the cliffs, hoping
ihey 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 veſfel;
and ſhe foon law, with reviving hope, the
torches
1
1
(395)
*
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 found away, ſhe fancied, as the
lightnings glanced, that the veſſel was
much nearer the ſhore.
The Count's ſervants were now ſeen,
running to and fro, on the rocks; ſome
venturing almoit 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 danger.
ous 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
s 6
fate
)
(336)
fate of the mariners, was ioon 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 fhore, and
that ſuch of theſe unfortunate ſtrangers as
could not be accommodated in the ad-
jacent hamlet ſhould be entertained at the
chateau. 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 monal-
tery of St. Claire, would not allow her to
leave the chateau, that night; and, indeed,
the terror and fatigue ſhe had ſuffered
would ſcarcely have permitted her to go
farther,
In
( 397
)
In Monſieur Du Pont the Count diſco-
vered an old acquaintance, and much joy
and congratulation paſſed between them;
after which Emily was introducedby name
to the Count's family, whoſe hoſpitable
benevolence diffipated the little embar-
raflment, which her ſituation had occa-
fioned her, and the party were foon feated
at the ſupper-table. The unaffected kind-
neſs of Blanche, and the lively joy the ex-
preſſed on the eſcape of the ſtrangers, for
whom her pity had been lo much intereſt-
ed, gradually revived Emily's languid ſpi-
rits; and Du Pont, relieved from his ter-
rors for her and for himſelf, felt the full
contraſt, between his late ſituation on a
dark and tremendous acean, and his pre-
ſent one, in a cheerful manſion, where he
was ſurrounded with plenty, elegance, and
ſmiles of welcome.
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,
1
( 398 )
eſcape, and on her preſent comforts, that
fhe often made all that part of the chateau
ring with merriment and laughter. Ludo.
vico's fpirits were as gay as her own, but
he had diſcretion enough to reſtrain them,
and tried to check her's, though in vain,
till her laughter, at length, aſcended to
my lady's chamber, wlio ſent to enquire
what occafioned ſo much uproar in the
chateau, and to command filence.
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 re-
membrances were awakened; all the events
and ſufferings ſhe had experienced, ſince
the quitted it, came in long ſucceſſion to
her fancy, and were chaſed only by the
image of Valancourt, with whom to be-
lieve herſelf once more in the ſame land,
after they had been ſo long, and ſo dif-
tantly ſeparated, gave her emotions of indc-
fcribable joy, but which afterwards yielded
to anxiety and apprehenfion, when the
conſidered
( 399 )
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 deter-
mined 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 affec-
tions, fle, at length, funk to repoſe.
.
CHAP
(
400 )
!
A
CHAP. XII.
6* Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia, ſilver- bright,
I'n cloiſters dim, far from the haunts of folly,
With freedom by my ſide, and foft-ey'd melancholy."
GRAY.
teau.
THE Lady Blanche was ſo much in-
tereſted for Emily, that, upon hearing ſhe
was going to reſide in the neighbouring
convent, ſhe requeſted the Count would
invite her to lengthen her ftay at the cha-
“ And you know, my dear ſīr,"
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.”
The Count ſmiled at the youthful fim-
plicity, with which his daughter yielded to
firſt impreſſions; and, though he choſe to
warn her of their danger, he ſilently ap-
plauded the benevolence, that could thus
readily expand in confidence to a ſtranger.
He
(401')
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 Monf. Du Pont liad alſo given him
a favourable impreſſion of Emily; but,
extremely cautious as to thoſe, whom he
introduced to the intimacy of his daugh-
ter, 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 cha-
teau.
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 con-
fiderably intereſted.
On the following morning, Emily was
too much fatigued to appear ; but Monſ.
Du Pont was at the breakfait-table, when
the Count entered the room, who preſſed
bim,
(
402)
him, as his former acquaintance, and the
ſon of a very old friend, to prolong his
ftay at the chateau ; 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
affe&tion, he had not fortitude enough to
attempt, at preſent, to overcome it.
Emily, when ſhe was fomewhat reco.
vered, wandered with her new friend over
the grounds belonging to the chateau, 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 monaſ-
tery, and remarked that it was to this con-
vent ſhe deſigned to go.
« Ah!” ſaid Blanche with ſurpriſe,
“ I am but juſt releaſed from a
vent, 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
COD)
í
( 403 )
round me, I think you would not." Emily,
ſmiling at the warmth, with which the
Lady Blanche ſpoke, obſerved, that the
did not mean to confine herſelf to a con-
vent for life.
No, you may not intend it now,"
faid Blanche; “ but you do not know to
what the nuns may perſuade you to con-
ſent: I know how kind they will appear,
and how happy, for I have ſeen too much
of their art."
When they returned to the chateau,
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 cattle
of Udolpho, which were yet more antique
and groteſque. She was alſo intereſted by
Dorothée the houſekeeper, who attended
them; whofe appearance was almoſt as an-
tique
:
( 404 )
!
!
tique as the objeéts around her, and wlo
feemed no leſs intereſted by Emily, on
whom the frequently gazed with ſo much
deep attention as ſcarcely to bear what
was ſaid to hcr.
While Emily looked from one of the
cafenents, the perceived, with ſurpriſe,
fome objects that were familiar to her me-
mory ;--the fields and woods, with the
gleaming brook, which ihe had paſſed with
La Voiſin, one evening, foon after the
death of Monf. St. Aubert, in her way
from the monaſtery to her cottage; and the
now knew this to be the chateau, which ſhe
had then avoided, and concerning which he
had dropped ſome remarkable hints,
Shocked by this diſcovery, yet ſcarcely
knowing why, ſhe muſed for ſome time in
filence, and remembered the emotion which
her father had betrayed on finding himſelf
ſo near this manſion, and ſome other cir-
cumſtances of his conduct, that now greatly
intereſted her. The muſic, too, which ſhe
had formerly heard, and, reſpccting which
La
!
( 405 )
'.
La Voiſin had given ſuch an odd accounts
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.
“ 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.”
“ Indeed!" ſaid Emily, " then why do
they not purſue the enquiry ?"
“ Ah, young lady! enquiry enough has
been made—but who can purſue a ſpirit?"
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, fhe felt awe mingled 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.
« Ever
!
( 406 )
e my
“ Ever ſince the death of my lady,
madam,” replied Dorothie.
Why, the place is not haunted, ſure.
ly ?" ſaid Blanche, between jeſting and
feriouſneſs.
56 I have heard that muſic almoſt ever
fince dear lady died,” continued Doro-
thée, “and never before then. But that is
nothing to ſome things I could tell of."
Do, pray, tell them, then,” ſaid Lady
Blanche, now more in earneſt than in jeſt.
“ I am much intereſted, for I have heard
fifter Henriette, and fifter Sophie, in the
convent, tell of ſuch ſtrange appearances,
which they themſelves had witneſſed !”
" You never heard, my lady, I ſuppoſe,
what made us leave the chateau, and go
and live in a cottage,” ſaid Dorothée.
“Never!” replied Blanche with impatience.
« Nor the reaſon, that my lord, the
Marquis”-Dorothée checked herſelf, he-
fitated, and then endeavoured to change
the topic; but the curioſity of Blanche was
too much awakened to ſuffer the ſubject
thus
( 407 )
.
thus eaſily to eſcape her, and ſhe preſſed
the old houſekeeper to proceed with her
account; upon whom, however, no en-
treaties could prevail; and it was evident,
that ſhe was alarmed for the imprudence,
into which ſhe had already betrayed her-
felf.
" 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.”
Blanche was filent; Dorothée looked
grave, and ſighed; and Emily felt herſelf
ſtill inclined to believe more of the won-
derful, than the 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 M$. papers, which ſhe had
deſtroyed, in obedience to the command
of her father; and me ſhuddered at the
meaning they ſeemed to impart, almoſt as
much
1
( 408 )
1
member every thing, that happened then,
much as at the horrible appearance, dil-
cloſed by the black veil.
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 gal-
lery, 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."
Certainly I will not,” replied Blanche,
“ if that is really your objection.”
" 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 re-
66
as if it was but yeſterday. Many things,
that have pafled of late years, are gone
quite from my memory, while thoſe To
long
(409)
long ago, I can ſee as if in a glaſs.” She
pauſed, but afterwards, as they walked up
the gallery, added of Emily, “ This young
lady ſometimes brings the late Marchio.
neſs to my mind; I can remember, when
the looked juſt as blooming, and very
like her when ſhe ſmiles. Poor lady!
how gay ſhe was, when ſhe firſt came to
the chateau !
“ And was ſhe not gay, afterwards ?"
ſaid Blanche.
Dorothée ſhook her head; and Emily
obſerved her, with eyes ſtrongly expreſ-
Gve of the intereſt ſhe now felt.
o Let
u; ſit down in this window," ſaid the Lady
Blanche, on reaching the oppoſite end of
the gallery :“ and pray, Dorothie, if it is
not painful to you, tell us fomething more
about the Marchioners, I fould like to
look into the glaſs you ſpoke of juſt novi,
and fee a few of the circumſtances, which
you lay often paſs over it.”
" No, my lady," replied Dorothée ;
so if you knew as much as I do, you would
noi,
VOL. II.
T
.
( 410 )
7
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
faid-it was a terrible ſcene !"
Why was it fo terrible ?" ſaid Emily
with emotion,
Ah, dear young lady! is not death
always terrible ?” replied Dorothée.
To fome further enquiries of Blanche
Dorothée was filent; 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 ob-
ject in the gardens, where the Count with
the Counteſs and Monſieur Du Pont, ap-
pearing, they went down to join them.
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 to-
wards
1
1
1
( 411 )
!
-Wards the Counteſs, who, however, receive
ed her with one of thoſe faſcinating ſmiles,
which her caprice ſometimes allowed her
to aſſume, and which were 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 experienc-
ed that ſweet emotion, which ariſes from
the conſciouſneſs of poffeſfing the appro-
bation 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.
Before ſhe could finiſh her acknowledg-
ments for the hoſpitality ſhe had received,
and mention her deſign of going imme.
diately to the convent, ſhe was interrupted
by an invitation to lengthen her ſtay at the
Chateau, which was preſſed by the Count
and the Counteſs, with an appearance of
ſuch
T 2
en
(412)
fuch friendly fincerity, that, though ſhe
much wiſhed to ſee her old friends at the
monaſtery, and to figh, once more, over
her father's grave, the conſented to re-
main a few days at the chateau.
To the abbeſs, however, ſhe immedi-
ately 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,
The directed her letter to his brother's ſeat
in Gaſcony.
In the evening, Lady Blanche and Monſ.
Du Pont walked with Emily to the cottage
of La Voiſin, which ſhe had now a melan-
choly 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 foothing ſadneſs in indulg-
ing the recollections, which this ſcene re-
called. La Voiſin was ftill living, and
ſeemed
!
( 413 )
ſcemed to enjoy, as much as formerly, the
tranquil evening of a blameleſs life. He
was fitting at the door of his cottage,
watching ſome of his grand-children,
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 mucli
pleaſed to fee, and ſhe was as rejoiced to
hear, that he had not loſt one of his fa-
mily, ſince her departure.
“ Yes, ma'amfelle," 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."
Emily did not truſt herſelf in the cham-
ber, where St. Aubert died; and, after
half an hour's converſation with La Voiſin
and his family, ſhe left the cottage.
During theſe the firſt days of her ſtay at
Chateau-le-Blanc, ſhe was often affected,
by obſerving the deep, but filent melan-
choly, whịch, at iimes, ſtole over Du Pont;
and
T 3
more
i
(414)
and Emily, pitying the ſelf-deluſion, which
diſarmed him of the will to depart, de-
termined 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 affec-
tion, which, however, the former could
only commiſerate, though he ſecretly de-
termined to befriend his fuit, if an oppor-
tunity of doing ſo ſhould ever occur. Con-
ſidering the dangerous ſituation of Du
Pont, he but feebly oppoſed his intention
of leaving Chateau-le-Blanc, on the fol-
lowing 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 affec-
tion, eſteemed him both for the many vir-
tues he poſſeſſed, and for the ſervices The
had received from him ; and it was not
without tender emotions of gratitude and
pity, that ſhe now ſaw him depart for his
family
-
( 415 )
!
family feat in Gaſcony; while he took
leave of her with a countenance ſo ex-
preſſive of love and grief, as to intereſt
the Count more warmly in his cauſe than
before.
In a few days, Emily alſo left the cha-
teau, but not before the Count and Coun-
teſs 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 occa.
fioned 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
foftened from its former acuteneſs.
Some time after her return to the monal-
T 4
tery,
A
/
1
1
( 416 )
tery, ſhe received a letter from her uncle,
Monf. Queſnel, in anſwer to information
that ſhe had arrived in France, and to
her enquiries, concerning ſuch of her af-
fairs as he had undertaken to conduct dur-
ing her abſence, eſpecially as to the period
for which La Vallée had been let, whither
it was her wiſh to return, if it ſhould ap-
pear, that her income would permit her to
do ſo. The reply of Monſ. Queſnel was
coli and formal, as ſhe expected, expreſſ-
ing neither concern for the evils ſhe ſuf-
fered, nor pleaſure, that ſhe was now re-
moved from them ; nor did he allow the
opportunity to país, of reproving her for
her rejection of Count Morano, whom he
affected ſtill to believe a man of honour
and fortune ; nor of vehemently declaim-
ing againſt Montoni, to whom he had al-
ways, 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
Į
( 417 )
been engaged, was nearly expired; but,
without inviting her to his own houſe, add-
ed, that her circumſtances would by no
means allow her to reſide there, and ear-
neſtly adviſed her to remain, for the pre-
fent, in the convent of St. Claire.
To her enquiries, reſpecting poor old
Therefa, her late father's fervant, he gave
no anſwer. In the poſtſcript to his letter,
Monſieur Queſnel mentioned M. Motte-
ville, in whoſe hands the late St. Aubert
had placed the chief of his perſonal pro-
perty, as being likely to arrange his affairs
nearly to the fatisfaction of his creditors,
and that Emily would recover much more
of her fortune, than ſhe had formerly rea-
fon to expe&. The letter alſo incloſed to
Emily an order upon a merchant at Nar-
bonne, for a ſmall ſum of money.
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
I 5
her
$
( 418 )
:
her ſpirits to their natural tone, except
that anxiety would ſometimes intrude, con-
cerning Valancourt, as the time approach-
ed, when it was poſſible that ſhe might
receive an anſwer to her letter.
1
m
j
1
CHAP.
!
1
1
(419)
2
CHAP. XIII.
" As when a wave, that from a cloud impends,
And, ſwell’d with tempeſts, on the ſhip deſcends,
White are the decks with foam ; the winds aloud
Howl o'er the mafts, and fing through ev'ry ſhroud;
Pale, trembling, tir'd, the failors freeze with fears,
And inſtant death on ev'ry wave appears.”
Pope's HOMER.
.
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 de-
light 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 be-
came fpiritleſs and penſive. The Count,
obſerving her diſſatisfaction, readily yield-
ed to her entreaties, and reminded Emily
of her promiſed viſit; but the ſilence of
T 6
Valancourt,
(420)
Valancourt, which was now prolonged far
beyond the period, when a letter might
have arrived from Eſtuviere, oppreſſed
Emily with ſevere anxiety, and, rendering
her averſe to fociety, ſhe would willingly
have deferred her acceptance of this invi-
iation, till her ſpirits ſhould be relieved.
The Count and his family, however, preſſ-
ed 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 refufal, which ſhe could
not perſevere in, without offending the
friends, whoſe eſteem fhe valued. At
length, therefore, the returned upon a ſe-
cond vifit to Chateau-le-Blane. Here the
friendly manner of Count de Villefort en-
couraged Emily to mention to him her fi-
tuation, reſpecting the eſtate's 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
firit to write to an advocate at 'Avignon,
S
on
(421)
on whoſe opinion he thought he could
rely. His kindneſs was gratefully accepted
by Emily, who, foothed by the courteſy ſhe
daily experienced, would have been once
more happy, could ſhe have been aſſured
of Valancourt's welfare and unaltered af
fection. She had now been above a week
at the chateau, without receiving intelli-
gence of him, and, though ſhe knew, that,
if he was abſent from his brother's refidence,
it was ſcarcely probable her letter had yet
reached him, ſhe could not forbear to ad.
mit doubts and fears, that deſtroyed her
peace. Again ſhe would conſider of all,
that might have happened in the long pe-
riod, fince her firft fecluſion at Udolpho,
and her mind was ſometimes ſo over-
whelmed with an apprehenfion, that Va.
lancourt was no more, or that he lived no
longer for her, that the company even of
Blanche became intolerably appreflive, and
fhe would fitalone in her apartment forhours
together, when the engagements of the fami-
ly allowed her to do ſo, without incivility.
In
1
:
..
(422)
In one of theſe folitary hours, ſhe un-
locked a little box, which contained fome
letters of Valancourt, with ſome drawings
ſhe had ſketched, during her ſtay in Tuf-
cany, 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 mo-.
ment, inſenſible of the diſtance, which ſe-
parated 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 re-
called ſo many painful recollections, that
ſhe found herſelf unable to go through
the firſt ſhe had opened, and ſat muſing,
with her cheek refting 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 be-
fore the uſual time. Emily ſtarted on per-
ceiving
(423)
ceiving her, and haſtily put up
the
papers,
but not before Dorothée had obſerved both
her agitation and her tears.
Ah, ma'amſelle !” ſaid ſhe, “ you,
who are ſo young,-have you reaſon for
forrow?"
Emily tried to ſmile, but was unable to
ſpeak.
Alas, dear young lady, when you
come to my age, you will not weep at
trifles; and ſurely you have nothing ſe
rious, to grieve you."
“ No, Dorothée, nothing of any conſe-
quence,” 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.
“ What is it you do fee?” ſaid Emily,
alarmed by her manner, and looking round
the room.
“ It is herſelf,” ſaid Dorothée, “ her
very
1
( 424 )
1
very ſelf! juſt as ſhe looked a little before
ſhe died !"
Emily, ſtill more alarmed, began now
to fear, that Dorothée was ſeized with ſud-
den pbrenſy, but entreated her to explain
herſelf.
“ That pi&ture!” ſaid ſhe, << where did
you find it, lady? it is my bleſſed miſtreſs
herſelf!")
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
feen him fhed ſuch tender and affecting
tears; and, recolletting all the various
circumſtances of his conduct, that bad
long perplexed her, her emotions in-
creaſed to an exceſs, which deprived her
of all power to aſk the queſtions fhe trem-
bled to have anſwered, and the could
only enquire, whether Dorothée was cer-
tain the picture reſembled the late Mar-
chionefs.
1
O,
( 425)
as there are
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? Ab!" added
ſhe, taking up the miniature,
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 fat
thinking for a long while, and then, the
tears would often ſteal down her cheeks-
but ſhe never would complain! It was that
look fo meek, as it were, and reſigned,
that uſed to break my heart and make me
love her fo!”
“ Dorothée!” ſaid Emily ſolemnly,“ }
am intereſted in the cauſe of that grief,
more ſo, perhaps, than you may imagine ;
and I entreat, that you will no longer re-
fuſe to indulge my curioſity ;-it is not a
common one."
As Emily ſaid this, ſhe remembered the
papers, with which the picture had been
found, and had ſcarcely a doubt, that
they had concerned the Marchioneſs de
Villeroi ; but with this ſuppoſition came a
ſcruple,
( 426
fcruple, whether ſhe ought to enquire
further on a ſubject, which might prove
to be the ſame, that her father had fo
carefully endeavoured to conceal. Her
curioſity, concerning the Marchioneſs,
powerful as it was, it is probable ſhe would
now have refifted, as ſhe had formerly
done, on unwarily obſerving the few ter-
rible words in ihe 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 in-
cluded in her father's command. What
was known to her could be no ſecret to
many other perſons; and, fince it appear-
ed very unlikely, that St. Aubert ſhould
attempt to conceal what Emily might:
learn hy ordinary means, ſhe at length con-
cluded, that, if the papers had related to
the ſtory of the Marchioneſs, it was not
thoſe circumſtances of it, which Doroihée
could diſcloſe, that he had thought ſuf-
ficiently
í 427)
Sciently important to wiſh to have con-
cealed. She, therefore, no longer heſitated
to make the enquiries, that might lead to
the gratification of her curioſity.
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 any body, but my huf-
band. 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!”
“ Dorothée,” ſaid Emily, interrupting
her, “ what you ſhall tell, you may de-
pend upon it, ſhall never be diſcloſed by
me. I have, I repeat it, particular rea.
ſons for wiſhing to be informed on this
ſubject,
!!
A
( 428 )
1
ſubject, and am willing to bind myſelf, in
the moſt folemn manner, never to mention
what you ſhall wiſh me to conceal.”
Dorothée ſeemed ſurpriſed at the ear-
neftneſs of Emily's manner, and, after re-
garding her for ſome moments, in filence,
ſaid, “ Young lady! that look of your's
pleads for you-it is ſo like my dear miſ-
treſs's, that I can almoſt fancy I fee 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
?!
“ You will firſt promife to grant my re-
queſt," ſaid Emily.
« And ought not you firſt to tell me,
ma'amfelle, how this picture fell into your
hands, and the reaſons you fay you have
for curioſity about my lady pos
s6 Why, no, Dorothée,” replied Emily,
recollecting herſelf, “ I have alſo particu-
lar reaſons for obferving filence, on theſe
ſubjects, at leaſt, till I know further; and,
remember, I do not promife ever to ſpeak
upon
go down
:
1
(429)
upon them; therefore, do not let me in-
duce you to ſatisfy my curioſity, from an
expectation, that I ſhall gratify your's.
What I may judge proper to conceal, does
not concern myſelf alone, or I ſhould have
leſs ſcruple in revealing it: let a confi-
dence in my honour alone perſuade you to
diſclofe what I requeſt.”
Well, lady!" replied Dorothée, after
a long pauſe, during which her eyes were
fixed upon Emily, “ you ſeem ſo much
intereſted—and this picture and that face
of your's make me think you have ſome
reaſon to be fo,--that I will truſt you-
and tell ſome things, that I never told be-
fore to any body, but my huſband, though
there are people, who have ſuſpected as
much. I will teil you the particulars of
my lady's death, too, and ſome of my own
ſuſpicions; but you muſt firſt promiſe me
by all the ſaints'
Emily, interrupting her, folemnly pro-
mifed never to reveal what ſhould be con.
fided to her, without Dorothée's conſent.
- But
---
( 430 )
3
*5 But there is the horn, ma'amſelle,
founding for dinner," ſaid Dorothée; “ I
muſt be gone."
“ When ſhall I ſee you again?” enquired
Emily.
Dorothée muſed, and then replied,
" Why, madam, it may make people
curious, if it is known I am ſo much in
your apartment, and that I ſhould be ſorry
for; fo I will come when I am leaſt likely
to be obſerved. I have little leiſure in the
day, and I ſhall have a good deal to ſay;
ſo, if you pleaſe, ma’am, I will come when
the family are all in bed.”
“ That will ſuit me very well, replied
Emily: “Remember, then, to-night”-
Aye, that is well remembered,” ſaid
Dorothée, “I fear I cannot come to-night,
madam, for there will be the dance of
the vintage, and it will be late before the
ſervants go to reft; for, when they once
ſet in to dance, they will keep it up, in the
cool of the air, till morning; at leaſt, it
uſed to be ſo in my time.”
" Ah!
( 431 )
" Ah! is it the dance of the vintage ?"
ſaid Emily, with a deep figh, remembering,
that it was on the evening of this feſtival,
in the preceding year, that St. Aubert and
herſelf had arrived in the neighbourhood
of Chateau-le-Blanc. She pauſed a mo-
ment, overcome by the ſudden recollection,
and then, recovering herſelf, added—“But
this dance is in the open woods; you,
therefore, will not be wanted, and can
eaſily come to me.”
Dorothée replied, that ſhe had been
accuſtomed to be preſent at the dance of
the vintage, and ſhe did not wiſh to be
abfent now;
« but if I can get away,
« madam, I will," ſaid ſhe.
Emily then haſtered 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 man-
ner to Emily was an exception to her uſual
habit. But, if ſhe retained few of the or.
namental virtues, ſhe cheriſhed other qua-
lities,
(432)
lities, which ſhe ſeemed to conſider inva-
luable. 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 ſweet-
neſs, which is neceſſary to render the fea
male character intereſting, but ſhe could
occafionally 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 diftreſs ſolicited her cha-
rity, 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
fenfible, for her benevolence had never yet
called ſmiles upon the face of miſery.
In the evening, the Count, with all his
family, except the Counteſs and Mademoi-
ſelle
i
1
1
( 433 )
felle Bearn, went to the woods to witneſs
the feſtivity of the peaſants. The ſcene was
in a glade, where the trees, opening, form-
ed a circle round the turf they highly over-
ſhadowed; between their branches, vines,
loaded with ripe cluſters, were hung in
gay feſtoons; 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 be-
gan
foon after fun-ſet, when ſeveral of fixty
tripped it with almoſt as much glee and
airy lightneſs, as thoſe of fixteen.
The muſicians, who ſat careleſsly on the
graſs, at the foot of a tree, ſeemed in.
ſpired by the ſound of their own inſtru-
ments, 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
a
VOL. III.
U
1
í 434 :)
}
called-forth a broader laugh, and heighten-
ed the ruſtic ſpirit of the ſcene.
"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
fpirits were too much depreſſed to permit
her to engage in the preſent feftivity,
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.
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 melan-
choly 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,
+
1
435
!
that, wmetimes, the nightingale beguiled
the Glence with
}
Liquid notes, that close the eye of day."
1
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.
As ſhe ſtood ſurveying it, and remem-
bering the emotions, which ſhe had for-
merly ſuffered there, the ſuddenly recol-
lected the figure, that had been ſeen ſteal-
ing among the trees, and which had re-
turned no anſwer to Michael's repeated
calls; and the experienced ſomewhat of
the fear, that had then affailed her, for it
did not appear improbable, that theſe deep
woods
t
!
1
U 2
(435)
A
woods were occaſionally the haunt of ban-
ditti. 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, or their muſic,
ſhe quickened her pace; but the perſons
following gained fait 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 fay-
ing, that the pleaſant moon-light had be.
guiled her to walk farther than ſhe in-
tended, an exclamation burſt from the lips
of his companion, and ſhe thought the
heard Valancourt ſpeak! It was, indeed,
he! and the meeting was ſuch as may be
imagined, between perſons ſo affe&tionate,
and ſo long ſeparated as they had been.
In the joy of theſe moments, Emily
forgot all her paſt ſufferii.gs, and Valan-
court ſeemed to have forgotten, that any
perſon
>
( 437 )
perſon but Emily exiſted; while Henri
was a ſilent and aſtoniſhed ſpectator of the
ſcene.
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 Paris, while he was on the way to Gaf-
cony, where, however, at length, itinform-
ed hiin of her arrival in France, and he had
immediately ſet out for Languedoc. On
reaching the inonaſtery, whence ſhe had
dated this 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 fecretly lamenting that he
ſhould not ſee, till the following day.
Emily, with Valancourt and Henri, now
U 3
returned
i
( 438 )
returned to the green, where the latter pre.
fented Valancourt to the Count, who, ſhe
fancied, received him with leſs than bis
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 conſtraint. The lights, which were
hung among the trees, under which they
fat, allowed her a more perfect view of
the countenance ſhe had fo 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 ſimpli-
city, and ſomewhat of the open benevo-
lence, that uſed to characteriſe it. Still,
however, it was an intereſting counte-
nance; but Emily thought ſhe perceived,
21
(439)
1
at intervals, anxiety contract, and melan-
choly fix the features of Valancourt; ſome-
times, too, he fell into a moinentary muſ-
ing, and then appeared anxious to diſſipate
thought; while, at others, as he fixed his
eyes on Emily, a ſudden kind of horror
fecmed to croſs his mind.
In her he per-
ceived the ſame goodneſs and beautiful
fimplicity, that had charmed him, on their
firſt acquaintance. The bloom of her
countenance was ſomewhat faded, but all
its fweermuis remained, and it was render-
ed more intereſting, than ever, by the
faint expreſſion of melancholy, that ſome-
times mingled with her fmile.
At his requeſt, ſhe related the moſt im-
portant circumſtances, that had occurred
to her, ſince the left France, and emotions
of pity and indignation alternately pre-
vailed in his mind, when he heard how
much ſhe had luffered 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
U 4
1
1
1
(440)
by her repreſentation, he ſtarted from his
feat and walked away, apparently over-
come as much by ſelf-accuſation as by re-
fentment. Her ſufferings alone were men-
tioned in the few words, which he could
addreſs to her, and he liſtened not to the
account, which ſhe was careful to give as
diftin&ly as poſſible, of the preſent loſs of
Madame Montoni's eſtates, and of the lit.
tle reaſon there was to expect their re-
ſtoration. At length, Valancourt remained
rinant nn. Sa
loft in thought, and then some itciti cauic
feemed 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 paffed now," ſaid ſhe, “ for I have
eſcaped from the tyranny of Montoni, and
I fee
you
well--let me alſo ſee you happy.”
Valancourt was more agitated, than be.
fore. “ I am unworthy of you, Emily,
ſaid he, “I am unworthy of you ;":
words, by his manner of uttering which
Emily
( 441 )
Emily was then more ſhocked than by their
import. She fixed on bim a mournful and
equiring eye. « Do not look thus on me,”
ſaid he, turning away and preſſing her
hand; “ I cannot bear thoſe looks."
“ 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. To-morrow, perhaps, you
may be more compoſed. Obſerve thoſe
moon-light 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, or poverty with-hold from us,
was the peculiar bleſſing of the innocent."
Valancourt was deeply affected. “ Yes,"
replied he, « I had once a taſte for inno-
cent and elegant delights-I had once an
uncorrupted heart." Then, checking him-
U 5
ſelf,
.
1
!
(442)
«
ſelf, he added, Do you remember our
journey together in the Pyrenées ?''
“ Can I forget it?” ſaid Emily.
“ Would that I could!" he replied ;--
" that was the happieſt period of my life.
I then loved with enthuſiafm, 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 ſuf-
ferings
1
.
i
(443)
1
ferings-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 ſhall be tran-
quil. , I would not loſe the remembrance
of it for the whole earth.”
“ How contradictory is this !” ſaid
Emily: ;-“ but we may be over-heard.
My recollection of it ſhall depend upon
your's; I will endeavour to forget, or to
recollect it, as you may do. Let us join
the Count.”_" Tell me, firſt,” ſaid Va-
lancourt, “ that you forgive the uneaſineſs
I 'have occafioned you this evening, and
that
you
will ſtill love me.'—" I ſincerciy
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
the, obſerving his dejection, 16 how much
pain it would give me to believe other-
[ 6
wife.
(444)
i
wiſe.—The young lady, who approaches,
is the Count's daughter.”
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 feated ſeveral of the
moft venerable of the Count's tenants, and
it was a feſtive repaſt to all but Valancourt
and Emily. When the Count retired to
the chateau, he did not invite Valancourt
to accompany him, who, therefore; took
leave of Emily, and retired to his folitary
inn for the night : meanwhile, the foon
withdrew to her own apartment, where ſhe
inuſed, with deep anxiety and concern, on
his behaviour, and on the Count's recep-
tion of him. Her attention was thus fo
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.
On
1
( 445 )
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 per-
ceive." 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 paul-
ed, and Emily trembled, between the de.
ſire of hearing more and the fear of ſhew-
ing the Count, that ſhe felt an intereft on
the ſubject. May I aſk,” ſaid he, at
length, “ how long you have known Mon-
fieur Valancourt ? -“Will you allow me
to aſk your reaſon for the queſtion, fir?"
faid ſhe; “ and I will anſwer it imme.
diately."— Certainly,” ſaid the Count,
" that is but juft. I will tell you my rea-
ſon. I cannot but perceive, that Monſieur
Valancourt admires you; in that, however,
there is nothing extraordinary; every per-
fon,
1
(446)
!
-
ſon, who ſees you, muſt do the ſame. I
am above uſing common-place compli-
ments; I ſpeak with fincerity. What I
fear is, that he is a favoured admirer.”
-"Why do you fear it, fir?" ſaid Emily,
endeavouring to conceal' her emotion.-
Becauſe," replied the Count, “ I think
him not worthy of your favour.” Emily,
greatly agitated, entreated further expla-
nation. “I will give it,” ſaid he, “ if you
will believe, that nothing but a ſtrong in-
tereſt in your welfare could induce me to
hazard that affertion."_" I muſt believe
ſo, ſir," replied Emily.
« But let us reft under theſe trees,”
continued the Count, obſerving the pale-
neſs 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
1
:
N
( 447 )
fear ſuch a return from you. Our ac-
quaintance 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 fighed foftly, and bowed
her thanks. The Count pauſed again. « I
am unpleaſantly circumſtanced,” faid 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 ſubje& is
not too painful?”
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 com-
paſſion, conſidered how he might commu-
nicate his information with leaft pain to
his anxious auditor.
" The
3
.
(448)
e 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 ac-
quaintance 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, re-
fident at Paris, and conſidered them as
ſufficient pledges for his introduction to
my own. But you are ill; I will leave the
ſubject.”
"_“ No, fir,” ſaid Emily, “ I beg
you
will proceed: I am only diſtreſſed.”-
Only !” 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, or 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
..
i
( 449)
aſſured me, that they had remonſtrated
with him, till they were weary. I after-
wards learned, that, in conſideration of his
talents for play, which were generally ſuc-
ceſsful, 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
theirprofits." Impoſſible !” ſaid Emily
ſuddenly; "but-pardon me, fir, I ſcarcely
know what I ſay; allow for the diſtreſs of
mv 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 welfare,
could have urged me to repeat theſe un-
pleaſant reports."
Emily was filent. She recollected Va-
lancourt's ſayings, on the preceding even-
ing, which diſcovered the pangs of ſelf-
reproach, and ſeemed to confirm all that
the
1
(450)
very dear
" if I
the Count had related. Yer ſhe had nut
fortitude enough to dare convi&tion. Her
heart was overwhelmed with anguiſh at the
mere ſuſpicion of his guilt, and ſhe could
not endure a belief of it. After a long
filence, 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
to me, to danger."-"What is the danger
you apprehend, fir pus faid Emily;
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 relift 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,
į
( 451 )
1
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.
“ } will truſt you then," ſaid the Count,
“ for conviction is neceſſary to your future
peace, and cannot, I perceive, be obtained,
without this confidence. My ſon has too
often been an eye-witneſs of the Cheva-
lier's ill conduct; he was very near being
drawn in by it; he was, indeed, drawn in
to the cominiſſion of many follies, but I
reſcued him from guilt and deſtruction.
Judge then, Mademoiſelle St. Aubert, whe.
ther 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 eſteenus, againſt truſting their hap-
pineſs in ſuch hands. I have myſelf ſeen
the Chevalier engaged in deep play with
men, whoin I almoſt ſhuddered to look
upon.
If you ſtill doubt, I will refer you
to my ſon."
" I muſt
1
(452)
" I muſt not doubt what you have your-
ſelf witneſſed,” replied Emily, finking
with grief, ” or what you affert. But the
Chevalier has, perhaps, been drawn only
into a tranſient folly, which he may never
repeat. If you had known the juitneſs of
bis former principles, you wculd allow for
my preſent incredulity.”
" Alas!" obſerved the Count,
w it is
difficult to believe that which will make us
wretched. But I will not footh you by
flattering and falſe hopes. We all know
how faſcinating the vice of gaming is, and
how difficult it is, alſo, to conquer habit;
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
J conceal from you, that play is not his.
only vice? he appears to have a taſte for
every vicious pleaſure.”
The Count heſitated and pauſed; while
Emily endeavoured to ſupport herſelf, as,
with
:
1
( 453
with increaſing perturbation, ſhe expected
what he might further ſay. A long pauſe
of ſilence enſued, during which he was viſi.
bly agitated; at length, he ſaid, “ It would
be a cruel delicacy, that could prevail
with me to be filent-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
was told upon authority, which I cannot
doubt, by a well known Pariſian Counteſs,
with whom he continued to reſide, when I
left Paris.”
He pauſed again; and, looking at Emily,
perceived her countenance change, and
that ſhe was falling from the feat; he
caught her, but ſhe had fainted, and he
called loudly for aid. They were, how-
ever, beyond the hearing of his ſervants
at the chateau, 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 be endeavoured to ſupport Emily
againſt
☺
( 454 )
1
1
againſt the tree, under which ſhe had been
ſitting, while he went thither for water.
Again he was perplexed, for he had no-
thing 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.
It was long, however, before ſhe reviv-
ed, and the then 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 rail-
ed her eyes, but preſently cloſed them, and
a faintneſs again came over her.
The Count, with a look ſomewhat Itern,
waved him to withdraw; but he only fighed
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 re-
peating his action, and accompanying it
with words, Valancourt anſwered bim with
a logh
1
momento
(455)
a look of deep reſentment, and refuſed to
leave the place, tilt ſhe ſhould revive, or
to reſign her for a moment to the care
of ny perſon. In the next inſtant, his
conſcience ſeemed to inform him of what
had been the ſubject of the Count's con-
verſation with Emily, and indignation
flaſhed in his eyes; but it was quickly re-
preſſed, 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
foon 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 chateau,
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?”
Emily,
A
)
( 456 )
1
Emily, without replying, but with in-
creaſed 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!”
Though this was ſpoken in a low voice,
it was overheard by the Count, who im-
mediately 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
The was better.
Valancourt's cheek was crimſoned: he
looked haughtily at the Count, and then
at Emily, with ſucceſſive expreſſion of ſur-
priſe, grief, and fupplication, which ſhe
could neither miſunderſtand, or réſiſt, and
ſhe ſaid languidly-" I ſhall be better to-
morrow, and if you wiſh to accept the
Count's permiſſion, I will ſee
" See me!” exclaimed Valancourt, as
he throw a glance of mingled pride and
refents
!
you then.”
,
( 457 )
comment
reſentment upon the Count; and then,
ſeeming to recollect himſelf, he added-
« But I will come, madam; I will accept
the Count's permiſſion."
When they reached the door of the
chateau, he lingered a moment, for his
reſentment was now fled; and then, with a
look ſo expreffive of tenderneſs and grief,
that Emily's heart was not proof againſt it,
he bade her good-morning, and, bowing
Dightly to the Count, diſappeared.
Emily withdrew to her own apartment,
under ſuch oppreſſion of heart as ſhe had
feldom known, when ſhe endeavoured to
recollect all that the Count had told, to
examine the probability of the circum-
ſtances he himſelf believed, and to conſi,
der of ber future conduct towards Valan-
court. But, when ſhe attempted to think,
her mind refuſed controul, and ſhe could
only feel that ſhe was miſerable. One mo.
ment, ſhe ſunk under the conviction, that
Valancourt was no longer the ſame, whom
She had ſo tenderly loved, the idea of
whom
VOL. III.
(458)
I
whom had hitherto ſupported her under
affliction, and cheered her with the hope
of happier days,-but a fallen, a worth-
leſs character, whom ſhe muſt teach herſelf
to deſpiſe-if ſhe could not forget. Then,
unable to endure this terrible ſuppoſition,
fhe 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 mo-
tive, to break her connection with Valan-
court. But this was the error of an in-
ftant, only; the Count's character, which
ſhe had heard ſpoken of by Du Pont and
many other perſons, and had herſelf ob-
ſerved, enabled her to judge, and forbade
the ſuppoſition; had her confidence, in-
deed, been leſs, there appeared to be no
temptation to betray him into conduct fo
treacherous, and ſo cruel. Nor did reflec-
tion
( 459 )
tion ſuffer her to preſerve the hope, that
Valancourt had been miſrepreſented to the
Count, who had ſaid, that he ſpoke chiefly
from his own obſervation, and from his
ſon's experience. She muſt part from Va-
lancourt, therefore, for ever--for what of
either happineſs or tranquillity could ſhe
expect with a man, whoſe taſtes were dege-
nerated into low inclinations, and to whoin
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?"
Amidſt all the tumult of her mind, the
remembered pertinacioully the ſeeming
candour and ſimplicity of his conduct, on
the preceding night; and, had lhe dared
to truſt her own heart, it would have led
her to hope much from this. Still the
could
X 2
7
(460)
could not 'refolve 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 poſi-
tive was poſſible. Something, however,
it was neceſſary to decide upon, and ſhe
almolt determined to be guided in her
opinion ſolely by the manner, with which
Valancourt ſhould receive her hints con-
cerning his late conduct.
Thus paſſed the hours till dinner-time,
when Emily, ſtruggling againſt the pref-
fure 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 Mademoi-
felle 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.
Emily withdrew as ſoon after dinner as
poſſible, and was followed by he Lady
Blanche,
-
( 461 )
Blanche, whoſe anxious enquiries, however,
ſhe found herſelf quite unequal to anſwer,
and to 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.
Emily ſecretly determined to go to her
convent in a day or two; for company,
eſpecially that of the Counteſs and Made-
moiſelle 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.
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
(462)
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, en-
treating, 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 the
was unable to anſwer it. She wiſhed to
fee 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' con.
verſation 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 opi.
nion was, that, for the relief of both par-
ties, it ought to take place, that evening.
“ His affection for you cannot be doubt-
ed,” added the Count; “ and he appears
ſo much diſtreſſed, and you, my amiable
friend,
!
1
( 463)
friend, are fo ill at eaſe-that the ſooner
the affair is decided, the better."
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 affli&tingly
the reverſe of any, to which ſhe had looked
forward!
END OF THE THIRD VOLUME.
1
A 518679
Mini
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
3 9015 02130 5142
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rrepeERREPPRAI
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