The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mysteries of Udolpho, by Ann Radcliffe

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Title: The Mysteries of Udolpho

Author: Ann Radcliffe

Posting Date: February 28, 2009 [EBook #3268]
Release Date: June, 2002

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO ***




Produced by Karalee Coleman





THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

A Romance

Interspersed With Some Pieces of Poetry


By Ann Radcliffe



      Fate sits on these dark battlements, and frowns,
      And, as the portals open to receive me,
      Her voice, in sullen echoes through the courts,
      Tells of a nameless deed.




VOLUME 1




CHAPTER I


      home is the resort
 Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,
 Supporting and supported, polish'd friends
 And dear relations mingle into bliss.*
      *Thomson


On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony, stood,
in the year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. Aubert. From its windows
were seen the pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony stretching
along the river, gay with luxuriant woods and vine, and plantations of
olives. To the south, the view was bounded by the majestic Pyrenees,
whose summits, veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awful forms, seen, and
lost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren,
and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned
with forests of gloomy pine, that swept downward to their base. These
tremendous precipices were contrasted by the soft green of the pastures
and woods that hung upon their skirts; among whose flocks, and herds,
and simple cottages, the eye, after having scaled the cliffs above,
delighted to repose. To the north, and to the east, the plains of
Guienne and Languedoc were lost in the mist of distance; on the west,
Gascony was bounded by the waters of Biscay.

M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the margin
of the Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its waves. He
had known life in other forms than those of pastoral simplicity,
having mingled in the gay and in the busy scenes of the world; but the
flattering portrait of mankind, which his heart had delineated in early
youth, his experience had too sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidst
the changing visions of life, his principles remained unshaken, his
benevolence unchilled; and he retired from the multitude 'more in PITY
than in anger,' to scenes of simple nature, to the pure delights of
literature, and to the exercise of domestic virtues.

He was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family,
and it was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealth
should be supplied either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or by
success in the intrigues of public affairs. But St. Aubert had too nice
a sense of honour to fulfil the latter hope, and too small a portion
of ambition to sacrifice what he called happiness, to the attainment of
wealth. After the death of his father he married a very amiable woman,
his equal in birth, and not his superior in fortune. The late Monsieur
St. Aubert's liberality, or extravagance, had so much involved his
affairs, that his son found it necessary to dispose of a part of
the family domain, and, some years after his marriage, he sold it to
Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, and retired to a small estate
in Gascony, where conjugal felicity, and parental duties, divided his
attention with the treasures of knowledge and the illuminations of
genius.

To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often made
excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to his
mind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom it
was intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had not been
obliterated by succeeding circumstances. The green pastures along
which he had so often bounded in the exultation of health, and youthful
freedom--the woods, under whose refreshing shade he had first indulged
that pensive melancholy, which afterwards made a strong feature of his
character--the wild walks of the mountains, the river, on whose waves he
had floated, and the distant plains, which seemed boundless as his early
hopes--were never after remembered by St. Aubert but with enthusiasm
and regret. At length he disengaged himself from the world, and retired
hither, to realize the wishes of many years.

The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, rendered
interesting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of the
surrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to make it
a comfortable family residence. St. Aubert felt a kind of affection for
every part of the fabric, which he remembered in his youth, and would
not suffer a stone of it to be removed, so that the new building,
adapted to the style of the old one, formed with it only a simple and
elegant residence. The taste of Madame St. Aubert was conspicuous in its
internal finishing, where the same chaste simplicity was observable
in the furniture, and in the few ornaments of the apartments, that
characterized the manners of its inhabitants.

The library occupied the west side of the chateau, and was enriched by
a collection of the best books in the ancient and modern languages. This
room opened upon a grove, which stood on the brow of a gentle declivity,
that fell towards the river, and the tall trees gave it a melancholy
and pleasing shade; while from the windows the eye caught, beneath the
spreading branches, the gay and luxuriant landscape stretching to the
west, and overlooked on the left by the bold precipices of the Pyrenees.
Adjoining the library was a green-house, stored with scarce and
beautiful plants; for one of the amusements of St. Aubert was the
study of botany, and among the neighbouring mountains, which afforded a
luxurious feast to the mind of the naturalist, he often passed the day
in the pursuit of his favourite science. He was sometimes accompanied
in these little excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and frequently by his
daughter; when, with a small osier basket to receive plants, and another
filled with cold refreshments, such as the cabin of the shepherd did
not afford, they wandered away among the most romantic and magnificent
scenes, nor suffered the charms of Nature's lowly children to abstract
them from the observance of her stupendous works. When weary of
sauntering among cliffs that seemed scarcely accessible but to the steps
of the enthusiast, and where no track appeared on the vegetation, but
what the foot of the izard had left; they would seek one of those green
recesses, which so beautifully adorn the bosom of these mountains,
where, under the shade of the lofty larch, or cedar, they enjoyed their
simple repast, made sweeter by the waters of the cool stream, that crept
along the turf, and by the breath of wild flowers and aromatic plants,
that fringed the rocks, and inlaid the grass.

Adjoining the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards the
plains of Languedoc, was a room, which Emily called hers, and which
contained her books, her drawings, her musical instruments, with some
favourite birds and plants. Here she usually exercised herself in
elegant arts, cultivated only because they were congenial to her taste,
and in which native genius, assisted by the instructions of Monsieur
and Madame St. Aubert, made her an early proficient. The windows of
this room were particularly pleasant; they descended to the floor, and,
opening upon the little lawn that surrounded the house, the eye was led
between groves of almond, palm-trees, flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the
distant landscape, where the Garonne wandered.

The peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, when
the day's labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the river.
Their sprightly melodies, debonnaire steps, the fanciful figure of
their dances, with the tasteful and capricious manner in which the girls
adjusted their simple dress, gave a character to the scene entirely
French.

The front of the chateau, which, having a southern aspect, opened upon
the grandeur of the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor by a
rustic hall, and two excellent sitting rooms. The first floor, for the
cottage had no second story, was laid out in bed-chambers, except one
apartment that opened to a balcony, and which was generally used for a
breakfast-room.

In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tasteful
improvements; yet, such was his attachment to objects he had remembered
from his boyish days, that he had in some instances sacrificed taste
to sentiment. There were two old larches that shaded the building, and
interrupted the prospect; St. Aubert had sometimes declared that he
believed he should have been weak enough to have wept at their fall. In
addition to these larches he planted a little grove of beech, pine, and
mountain-ash. On a lofty terrace, formed by the swelling bank of the
river, rose a plantation of orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit,
in the coolness of evening, breathed delicious fragrance. With these
were mingled a few trees of other species. Here, under the ample shade
of a plane-tree, that spread its majestic canopy towards the river, St.
Aubert loved to sit in the fine evenings of summer, with his wife and
children, watching, beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mild
splendour of its light fading from the distant landscape, till the
shadows of twilight melted its various features into one tint of sober
grey. Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse with Madame St.
Aubert; or to play with his children, resigning himself to the influence
of those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on simplicity and
nature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in his eyes,
that these were moments infinitely more delightful than any passed amid
the brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by the world. His
heart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely said, no wish for a
happiness beyond what it experienced. The consciousness of acting right
diffused a serenity over his manners, which nothing else could impart
to a man of moral perceptions like his, and which refined his sense of
every surrounding blessing.

The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite
plane-tree. He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light
die away; when the stars, one by one, tremble through aether, and are
reflected on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of all
others, inspires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevates
it to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed her soft rays among the
foliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of cream and fruits
was often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night, came the
song of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening melancholy.

The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since his
retirement, were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost them
at that age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and though,
in consideration of Madame St. Aubert's distress, he restrained the
expression of his own, and endeavoured to bear it, as he meant, with
philosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy that could render him calm
to such losses. One daughter was now his only surviving child; and,
while he watched the unfolding of her infant character, with anxious
fondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting effort, to counteract
those traits in her disposition, which might hereafter lead her from
happiness. She had discovered in her early years uncommon delicacy
of mind, warm affections, and ready benevolence; but with these was
observable a degree of susceptibility too exquisite to admit of lasting
peace. As she advanced in youth, this sensibility gave a pensive tone to
her spirits, and a softness to her manner, which added grace to beauty,
and rendered her a very interesting object to persons of a congenial
disposition. But St. Aubert had too much good sense to prefer a charm
to a virtue; and had penetration enough to see, that this charm was too
dangerous to its possessor to be allowed the character of a blessing. He
endeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to habits
of self-command; to teach her to reject the first impulse of her
feelings, and to look, with cool examination, upon the disappointments
he sometimes threw in her way. While he instructed her to resist first
impressions, and to acquire that steady dignity of mind, that can alone
counterbalance the passions, and bear us, as far as is compatible with
our nature, above the reach of circumstances, he taught himself a
lesson of fortitude; for he was often obliged to witness, with seeming
indifference, the tears and struggles which his caution occasioned her.

In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant symmetry
of form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue eyes, full
of tender sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it was the varied
expression of her countenance, as conversation awakened the nicer
emotions of her mind, that threw such a captivating grace around her:

 Those tend'rer tints, that shun the careless eye,
 And, in the world's contagious circle, die.

St. Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous care.
He gave her a general view of the sciences, and an exact acquaintance
with every part of elegant literature. He taught her Latin and English,
chiefly that she might understand the sublimity of their best poets. She
discovered in her early years a taste for works of genius; and it was
St. Aubert's principle, as well as his inclination, to promote every
innocent means of happiness. 'A well-informed mind,' he would say, 'is
the best security against the contagion of folly and of vice. The vacant
mind is ever on the watch for relief, and ready to plunge into error, to
escape from the languor of idleness. Store it with ideas, teach it the
pleasure of thinking; and the temptations of the world without, will
be counteracted by the gratifications derived from the world within.
Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness of a
country and a city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy sensations
of indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste they create for
the beautiful, and the grand; in the latter, they make dissipation less
an object of necessity, and consequently of interest.'

It was one of Emily's earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenes
of nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that she
most delighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted the
mountain; and still more the mountain's stupendous recesses, where the
silence and grandeur of solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her heart,
and lifted her thoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. In scenes like
these she would often linger along, wrapt in a melancholy charm, till
the last gleam of day faded from the west; till the lonely sound of a
sheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog, were all that broke
on the stillness of the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods; the
trembling of their leaves, at intervals, in the breeze; the bat,
flitting on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and now
lost--were circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led to
enthusiasm and poetry.

Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St.
Aubert, in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended from
the Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks, wound its silent
way beneath the shades it reflected. Above the woods, that screened this
glen, rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which often burst boldly
on the eye through the glades below. Sometimes the shattered face of
a rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs; or a shepherd's cabin
seated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark cypress, or waving ash. Emerging
from the deep recesses of the woods, the glade opened to the distant
landscape, where the rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of Gascony
gradually declined to the plains; and there, on the winding shores of
the Garonne, groves, and hamlets, and villas--their outlines softened by
distance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious tint.

This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he
frequently withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his
daughter, and his books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome
the silent dusk, or to listen for the music of the nightingale.
Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and awakened every fairy
echo with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have the tones of
Emily's voice drawn sweetness from the waves, over which they trembled.

It was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed the
following lines written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot:

 SONNET

 Go, pencil! faithful to thy master's sighs!
 Go--tell the Goddess of the fairy scene,
 When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green,
 Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise;
 Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin'd eyes,
 The sweet expression of her pensive face,
 The light'ning smile, the animated grace--
 The portrait well the lover's voice supplies;
 Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say:
 Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel!
 How oft the flow'ret's silken leaves conceal
 The drug that steals the vital spark away!
 And who that gazes on that angel-smile,
 Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile!

These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could not
apply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of these
shades. Having glanced round the little circle of her acquaintance
without being detained by a suspicion as to whom they could be
addressed, she was compelled to rest in uncertainty; an uncertainty
which would have been more painful to an idle mind than it was to hers.
She had no leisure to suffer this circumstance, trifling at first, to
swell into importance by frequent remembrance. The little vanity it had
excited (for the incertitude which forbade her to presume upon having
inspired the sonnet, forbade her also to disbelieve it) passed away,
and the incident was dismissed from her thoughts amid her books, her
studies, and the exercise of social charities.

Soon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indisposition of
her father, who was attacked with a fever; which, though not thought to
be of a dangerous kind, gave a severe shock to his constitution.
Madame St. Aubert and Emily attended him with unremitting care; but
his recovery was very slow, and, as he advanced towards health, Madame
seemed to decline.

The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take the
air, was his favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sent
thither, with books, and Emily's lute; for fishing-tackle he had no use,
for he never could find amusement in torturing or destroying.

After employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner was
served. It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being again permitted
to visit this spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness once more
smiled beneath these shades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed with unusual
cheerfulness; every object delighted his senses. The refreshing pleasure
from the first view of nature, after the pain of illness, and the
confinement of a sick-chamber, is above the conceptions, as well as
the descriptions, of those in health. The green woods and pastures; the
flowery turf; the blue concave of the heavens; the balmy air; the murmur
of the limpid stream; and even the hum of every little insect of the
shade, seem to revivify the soul, and make mere existence bliss.

Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of her
husband, was no longer sensible of the indisposition which had lately
oppressed her; and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of this
romantic glen, and conversed with him, and with her daughter, she often
looked at them alternately with a degree of tenderness, that filled her
eyes with tears. St. Aubert observed this more than once, and gently
reproved her for the emotion; but she could only smile, clasp his hand,
and that of Emily, and weep the more. He felt the tender enthusiasm
stealing upon himself in a degree that became almost painful; his
features assumed a serious air, and he could not forbear secretly
sighing--'Perhaps I shall some time look back to these moments, as to
the summit of my happiness, with hopeless regret. But let me not misuse
them by useless anticipation; let me hope I shall not live to mourn the
loss of those who are dearer to me than life.'

To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, he
bade Emily fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweet pathos.
As she drew near the fishing-house, she was surprised to hear the tones
of the instrument, which were awakened by the hand of taste, and uttered
a plaintive air, whose exquisite melody engaged all her attention. She
listened in profound silence, afraid to move from the spot, lest the
sound of her steps should occasion her to lose a note of the music, or
should disturb the musician. Every thing without the building was still,
and no person appeared. She continued to listen, till timidity succeeded
to surprise and delight; a timidity, increased by a remembrance of the
pencilled lines she had formerly seen, and she hesitated whether to
proceed, or to return.

While she paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary hesitation,
she re-collected courage to advance to the fishing-house, which she
entered with faltering steps, and found unoccupied! Her lute lay on the
table; every thing seemed undisturbed, and she began to believe it was
another instrument she had heard, till she remembered, that, when she
followed M. and Madame St. Aubert from this spot, her lute was left on
a window seat. She felt alarmed, yet knew not wherefore; the melancholy
gloom of evening, and the profound stillness of the place, interrupted
only by the light trembling of leaves, heightened her fanciful
apprehensions, and she was desirous of quitting the building, but
perceived herself grow faint, and sat down. As she tried to recover
herself, the pencilled lines on the wainscot met her eye; she started,
as if she had seen a stranger; but, endeavouring to conquer the tremor
of her spirits, rose, and went to the window. To the lines before
noticed she now perceived that others were added, in which her name
appeared.

Though no longer suffered to doubt that they were addressed to herself,
she was as ignorant, as before, by whom they could be written. While she
mused, she thought she heard the sound of a step without the building,
and again alarmed, she caught up her lute, and hurried away. Monsieur
and Madame St. Aubert she found in a little path that wound along the
sides of the glen.

Having reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and overlooking
the vallies and plains of Gascony, they seated themselves on the turf;
and while their eyes wandered over the glorious scene, and they inhaled
the sweet breath of flowers and herbs that enriched the grass, Emily
played and sung several of their favourite airs, with the delicacy of
expression in which she so much excelled.

Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till the
sun's last light slept upon the plains; till the white sails that glided
beneath the mountains, where the Garonne wandered, became dim, and the
gloom of evening stole over the landscape. It was a melancholy but not
unpleasing gloom. St. Aubert and his family rose, and left the place
with regret; alas! Madame St. Aubert knew not that she left it for ever.

When they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet, and
recollected that she had taken it from her arm after dinner, and had
left it on the table when she went to walk. After a long search, in
which Emily was very active, she was compelled to resign herself to the
loss of it. What made this bracelet valuable to her was a miniature of
her daughter to which it was attached, esteemed a striking resemblance,
and which had been painted only a few months before. When Emily was
convinced that the bracelet was really gone, she blushed, and became
thoughtful. That some stranger had been in the fishing-house, during
her absence, her lute, and the additional lines of a pencil, had already
informed her: from the purport of these lines it was not unreasonable
to believe, that the poet, the musician, and the thief were the same
person. But though the music she had heard, the written lines she had
seen, and the disappearance of the picture, formed a combination of
circumstances very remarkable, she was irresistibly restrained from
mentioning them; secretly determining, however, never again to visit the
fishing-house without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert.

They returned pensively to the chateau, Emily musing on the incident
which had just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid gratitude,
on the blessings he possessed; and Madame St. Aubert somewhat disturbed,
and perplexed, by the loss of her daughter's picture. As they drew near
the house, they observed an unusual bustle about it; the sound of voices
was distinctly heard, servants and horses were seen passing between the
trees, and, at length, the wheels of a carriage rolled along. Having
come within view of the front of the chateau, a landau, with smoking
horses, appeared on the little lawn before it. St. Aubert perceived the
liveries of his brother-in-law, and in the parlour he found Monsieur and
Madame Quesnel already entered. They had left Paris some days before,
and were on the way to their estate, only ten leagues distant from La
Vallee, and which Monsieur Quesnel had purchased several years before
of St. Aubert. This gentleman was the only brother of Madame St.
Aubert; but the ties of relationship having never been strengthened by
congeniality of character, the intercourse between them had not been
frequent. M. Quesnel had lived altogether in the world; his aim had been
consequence; splendour was the object of his taste; and his address
and knowledge of character had carried him forward to the attainment of
almost all that he had courted. By a man of such a disposition, it is
not surprising that the virtues of St. Aubert should be overlooked; or
that his pure taste, simplicity, and moderated wishes, were considered
as marks of a weak intellect, and of confined views. The marriage of his
sister with St. Aubert had been mortifying to his ambition, for he had
designed that the matrimonial connection she formed should assist him
to attain the consequence which he so much desired; and some offers were
made her by persons whose rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope.
But his sister, who was then addressed also by St. Aubert, perceived, or
thought she perceived, that happiness and splendour were not the same,
and she did not hesitate to forego the last for the attainment of the
former. Whether Monsieur Quesnel thought them the same, or not, he would
readily have sacrificed his sister's peace to the gratification of his
own ambition; and, on her marriage with St. Aubert, expressed in private
his contempt of her spiritless conduct, and of the connection which it
permitted. Madame St. Aubert, though she concealed this insult from her
husband, felt, perhaps, for the first time, resentment lighted in
her heart; and, though a regard for her own dignity, united with
considerations of prudence, restrained her expression of this
resentment, there was ever after a mild reserve in her manner towards M.
Quesnel, which he both understood and felt.

In his own marriage he did not follow his sister's example. His lady was
an Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and education, was a
vain and frivolous woman.

They now determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as the
chateau was not large enough to accommodate their servants, the latter
were dismissed to the neighbouring village. When the first compliments
were over, and the arrangements for the night made M. Quesnel began the
display of his intelligence and his connections; while St. Aubert, who
had been long enough in retirement to find these topics recommended by
their novelty, listened, with a degree of patience and attention,
which his guest mistook for the humility of wonder. The latter, indeed,
described the few festivities which the turbulence of that period
permitted to the court of Henry the Third, with a minuteness, that
somewhat recompensed for his ostentation; but, when he came to speak of
the character of the Duke de Joyeuse, of a secret treaty, which he knew
to be negotiating with the Porte, and of the light in which Henry of
Navarre was received, M. St. Aubert recollected enough of his former
experience to be assured, that his guest could be only of an inferior
class of politicians; and that, from the importance of the subjects
upon which he committed himself, he could not be of the rank to which he
pretended to belong. The opinions delivered by M. Quesnel, were such as
St. Aubert forebore to reply to, for he knew that his guest had neither
humanity to feel, nor discernment to perceive, what is just.

Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St. Aubert her
astonishment, that she could bear to pass her life in this remote corner
of the world, as she called it, and describing, from a wish, probably,
of exciting envy, the splendour of the balls, banquets, and processions
which had just been given by the court, in honour of the nuptials of the
Duke de Joyeuse with Margaretta of Lorrain, the sister of the Queen. She
described with equal minuteness the magnificence she had seen, and that
from which she had been excluded; while Emily's vivid fancy, as she
listened with the ardent curiosity of youth, heightened the scenes she
heard of; and Madame St. Aubert, looking on her family, felt, as a tear
stole to her eye, that though splendour may grace happiness, virtue only
can bestow it.

'It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,' said M. Quesnel, 'since I
purchased your family estate.'--'Somewhere thereabout,' replied St.
Aubert, suppressing a sigh. 'It is near five years since I have been
there,' resumed Quesnel; 'for Paris and its neighbourhood is the only
place in the world to live in, and I am so immersed in politics, and
have so many affairs of moment on my hands, that I find it difficult
to steal away even for a month or two.' St. Aubert remaining silent, M.
Quesnel proceeded: 'I have sometimes wondered how you, who have lived
in the capital, and have been accustomed to company, can exist
elsewhere;--especially in so remote a country as this, where you can
neither hear nor see any thing, and can in short be scarcely conscious
of life.'

'I live for my family and myself,' said St. Aubert; 'I am now contented
to know only happiness;--formerly I knew life.'

'I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,' said
M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert; 'for I
design, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de Durefort and
the Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.' To St. Aubert's
enquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied, that he should
take down the whole east wing of the chateau, and raise upon the site
a set of stables. 'Then I shall build,' said he, 'a SALLE A MANGER, a
SALON, a SALLE AU COMMUNE, and a number of rooms for servants; for at
present there is not accommodation for a third part of my own people.'

'It accommodated our father's household,' said St. Aubert, grieved that
the old mansion was to be thus improved, 'and that was not a small one.'

'Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,' said M.
Quesnel;--'what was then thought a decent style of living would not now
be endured.' Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, but
his anger soon yielded to contempt. 'The ground about the chateau is
encumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.'

'Cut down the trees too!' said St. Aubert.

'Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is a
chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of the
chateau, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of its
trunk will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend that
there can be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as this.'

'Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not destroy that
noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the
estate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. How
often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat
embowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered
above, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book
in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out between the
branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight
came, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the leaves!
How often--but pardon me,' added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was
speaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings,
'I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that
would spare that venerable tree.'

'It will certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I shall plant
some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall leave
of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me how
much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from Venice.'

'On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,' continued St. Aubert, 'where its
spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and where
it plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it,
unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest,
and near a heavy gothic mansion--'

'Well, my good sir,' said M. Quesnel, 'I will not dispute with you. You
must return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But A-PROPOS of
Venice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer; events may
call me to take possession of that same villa, too, which they tell me
is the most charming that can be imagined. In that case I shall leave
the improvements I mention to another year, and I may, perhaps, be
tempted to stay some time in Italy.'

Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to remain
abroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary at Paris,
that it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month or two; but
St. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too well to wonder
at this trait; and the possibility, that these projected improvements
might be deferred, gave him a hope, that they might never take place.

Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak with
St. Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they remained
a considerable time. The subject of this conversation was not known;
but, whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to the
supper-room, seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow sometimes fell
upon his features that alarmed Madame St. Aubert. When they were alone
she was tempted to enquire the occasion of it, but the delicacy of mind,
which had ever appeared in his conduct, restrained her: she considered
that, if St. Aubert wished her to be acquainted with the subject of his
concern, he would not wait on her enquiries.

On the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a second
conference with St. Aubert.

The guests, after dining at the chateau, set out in the cool of the day
for Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St. Aubert a pressing
invitation, prompted rather by the vanity of displaying their splendour,
than by a wish to make their friends happy.

Emily returned, with delight, to the liberty which their presence had
restrained, to her books, her walks, and the rational conversation of
M. and Madame St. Aubert, who seemed to rejoice, no less, that they were
delivered from the shackles, which arrogance and frivolity had imposed.

Madame St. Aubert excused herself from sharing their usual evening walk,
complaining that she was not quite well, and St. Aubert and Emily went
out together.

They chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit some old
pensioners of St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate income, he
contrived to support, though it is probable M. Quesnel, with his very
large one, could not have afforded this.

After distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends, listening
patiently to the complaints of some, redressing the grievances of
others, and softening the discontents of all, by the look of sympathy,
and the smile of benevolence, St. Aubert returned home through the
woods,

     where
 At fall of eve the fairy-people throng,
 In various games and revelry to pass
 The summer night, as village stories tell.*
     *Thomson


'The evening gloom of woods was always delightful to me,' said St.
Aubert, whose mind now experienced the sweet calm, which results from
the consciousness of having done a beneficent action, and which disposes
it to receive pleasure from every surrounding object. 'I remember that
in my youth this gloom used to call forth to my fancy a thousand fairy
visions, and romantic images; and, I own, I am not yet wholly insensible
of that high enthusiasm, which wakes the poet's dream: I can linger,
with solemn steps, under the deep shades, send forward a transforming
eye into the distant obscurity, and listen with thrilling delight to the
mystic murmuring of the woods.'

'O my dear father,' said Emily, while a sudden tear started to her eye,
'how exactly you describe what I have felt so often, and which I thought
nobody had ever felt but myself! But hark! here comes the sweeping sound
over the wood-tops;--now it dies away;--how solemn the stillness that
succeeds! Now the breeze swells again. It is like the voice of some
supernatural being--the voice of the spirit of the woods, that watches
over them by night. Ah! what light is yonder? But it is gone. And now it
gleams again, near the root of that large chestnut: look, sir!'

'Are you such an admirer of nature,' said St. Aubert, 'and so little
acquainted with her appearances as not to know that for the glow-worm?
But come,' added he gaily, 'step a little further, and we shall see
fairies, perhaps; they are often companions. The glow-worm lends his
light, and they in return charm him with music, and the dance. Do you
see nothing tripping yonder?'

Emily laughed. 'Well, my dear sir,' said she, 'since you allow of this
alliance, I may venture to own I have anticipated you; and almost dare
venture to repeat some verses I made one evening in these very woods.'

'Nay,' replied St. Aubert, 'dismiss the ALMOST, and venture quite; let
us hear what vagaries fancy has been playing in your mind. If she has
given you one of her spells, you need not envy those of the fairies.'

'If it is strong enough to enchant your judgment, sir,' said Emily,
'while I disclose her images, I need NOT envy them. The lines go in a
sort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject well
enough, but I fear they are too irregular.'

  THE GLOW-WORM

 How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade
  On a mid-summer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er;
 When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro' the glade,
  And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!

 But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,
  And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay
 Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow'rs, unprest,
  Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.

 To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour,
  Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves,
 And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow'r,
  The long haunted bow'r, where the nightingale grieves.

 Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done,
  But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend;
 And often as her dying notes their pity have won,
  They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.

 When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev'ning star,
  And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere,
 How cheerless would they be, tho' they fairies are,
  If I, with my pale light, came not near!

 Yet cheerless tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to my love!
  For, often when the traveller's benighted on his way,
 And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro' the grove,
  They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;

 And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out,
  While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,
 And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout,
  Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!

 But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring,
  With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn,
 And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string;
  Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn.

 Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen,
  Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me,
 That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green,
  To seek the purple flow'r, whose juice from all her spells can
free.

 And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band,
  With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute;
 If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand,
  And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.

 O! had I but that purple flow'r whose leaves her charms can foil,
  And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind,
 I'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile,
  And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!

 But soon the VAPOUR OF THE WOODS will wander afar,
  And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear,
 Then, cheerless will they be, tho' they fairies are,
  If I, with my pale light, come not near!

Whatever St. Aubert might think of the stanzas, he would not deny his
daughter the pleasure of believing that he approved them; and, having
given his commendation, he sunk into a reverie, and they walked on in
silence.

     A faint erroneous ray
 Glanc'd from th' imperfect surfaces of things,
 Flung half an image on the straining eye;
 While waving woods, and villages, and streams,
 And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain
 The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,
 Uncertain if beheld.*
     *Thomson.


St. Aubert continued silent till he reached the chateau, where his wife
had retired to her chamber. The languor and dejection, that had lately
oppressed her, and which the exertion called forth by the arrival of
her guests had suspended, now returned with increased effect. On the
following day, symptoms of fever appeared, and St. Aubert, having sent
for medical advice, learned, that her disorder was a fever of the same
nature as that, from which he had lately recovered. She had, indeed,
taken the infection, during her attendance upon him, and, her
constitution being too weak to throw out the disease immediately, it had
lurked in her veins, and occasioned the heavy languor of which she had
complained. St. Aubert, whose anxiety for his wife overcame every other
consideration, detained the physician in his house. He remembered the
feelings and the reflections that had called a momentary gloom upon his
mind, on the day when he had last visited the fishing-house, in company
with Madame St. Aubert, and he now admitted a presentiment, that this
illness would be a fatal one. But he effectually concealed this from
her, and from his daughter, whom he endeavoured to re-animate with hopes
that her constant assiduities would not be unavailing. The physician,
when asked by St. Aubert for his opinion of the disorder, replied,
that the event of it depended upon circumstances which he could not
ascertain. Madame St. Aubert seemed to have formed a more decided one;
but her eyes only gave hints of this. She frequently fixed them upon her
anxious friends with an expression of pity, and of tenderness, as if she
anticipated the sorrow that awaited them, and that seemed to say, it was
for their sakes only, for their sufferings, that she regretted life. On
the seventh day, the disorder was at its crisis. The physician assumed
a graver manner, which she observed, and took occasion, when her family
had once quitted the chamber, to tell him, that she perceived her death
was approaching. 'Do not attempt to deceive me,' said she, 'I feel that
I cannot long survive. I am prepared for the event, I have long, I hope,
been preparing for it. Since I have not long to live, do not suffer a
mistaken compassion to induce you to flatter my family with false hopes.
If you do, their affliction will only be the heavier when it arrives: I
will endeavour to teach them resignation by my example.'

The physician was affected; he promised to obey her, and told St.
Aubert, somewhat abruptly, that there was nothing to expect. The latter
was not philosopher enough to restrain his feelings when he received
this information; but a consideration of the increased affliction which
the observance of his grief would occasion his wife, enabled him,
after some time, to command himself in her presence. Emily was at first
overwhelmed with the intelligence; then, deluded by the strength of her
wishes, a hope sprung up in her mind that her mother would yet recover,
and to this she pertinaciously adhered almost to the last hour.

The progress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St.
Aubert, by patient suffering, and subjected wishes. The composure, with
which she awaited her death, could be derived only from the retrospect
of a life governed, as far as human frailty permits, by a consciousness
of being always in the presence of the Deity, and by the hope of a
higher world. But her piety could not entirely subdue the grief of
parting from those whom she so dearly loved. During these her last
hours, she conversed much with St. Aubert and Emily, on the prospect of
futurity, and on other religious topics. The resignation she expressed,
with the firm hope of meeting in a future world the friends she left in
this, and the effort which sometimes appeared to conceal her sorrow at
this temporary separation, frequently affected St. Aubert so much as to
oblige him to leave the room. Having indulged his tears awhile, he would
dry them and return to the chamber with a countenance composed by an
endeavour which did but increase his grief.

Never had Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had taught her
to restrain her sensibility, so much as in these moments, and never had
she practised them with a triumph so complete. But when the last was
over, she sunk at once under the pressure of her sorrow, and then
perceived that it was hope, as well as fortitude, which had hitherto
supported her. St. Aubert was for a time too devoid of comfort himself
to bestow any on his daughter.



CHAPTER II


 I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
 Would harrow up thy soul.
     SHAKESPEARE


Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church; her
husband and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a long train
of the peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this excellent woman.

On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his chamber.
When he came forth, it was with a serene countenance, though pale in
sorrow. He gave orders that his family should attend him. Emily only was
absent; who, overcome with the scene she had just witnessed, had retired
to her closet to weep alone. St. Aubert followed her thither: he took
her hand in silence, while she continued to weep; and it was some
moments before he could so far command his voice as to speak. It
trembled while he said, 'My Emily, I am going to prayers with my family;
you will join us. We must ask support from above. Where else ought we to
seek it--where else can we find it?'

Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, where,
the servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemn
voice, the evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of the
departed. During this, his voice often faltered, his tears fell upon the
book, and at length he paused. But the sublime emotions of pure devotion
gradually elevated his views above this world, and finally brought
comfort to his heart.

When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he tenderly
kissed Emily, and said, 'I have endeavoured to teach you, from your
earliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed out to you the
great importance of it through life, not only as it preserves us in
the various and dangerous temptations that call us from rectitude and
virtue, but as it limits the indulgences which are termed virtuous,
yet which, extended beyond a certain boundary, are vicious, for their
consequence is evil. All excess is vicious; even that sorrow, which is
amiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and unjust passion, if indulged
at the expence of our duties--by our duties I mean what we owe to
ourselves, as well as to others. The indulgence of excessive grief
enervates the mind, and almost incapacitates it for again partaking of
those various innocent enjoyments which a benevolent God designed to be
the sun-shine of our lives. My dear Emily, recollect and practise the
precepts I have so often given you, and which your own experience has so
often shewn you to be wise.

'Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplace
remark, but let reason THEREFORE restrain sorrow. I would not annihilate
your feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command them; for
whatever may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible heart,
nothing can be hoped from an insensible one; that, on the other hand,
is all vice--vice, of which the deformity is not softened, or the effect
consoled for, by any semblance or possibility of good. You know my
sufferings, and are, therefore, convinced that mine are not the light
words which, on these occasions, are so often repeated to destroy even
the sources of honest emotion, or which merely display the selfish
ostentation of a false philosophy. I will shew my Emily, that I can
practise what I advise. I have said thus much, because I cannot bear to
see you wasting in useless sorrow, for want of that resistance which
is due from mind; and I have not said it till now, because there is
a period when all reasoning must yield to nature; that is past: and
another, when excessive indulgence, having sunk into habit, weighs
down the elasticity of the spirits so as to render conquest nearly
impossible; this is to come. You, my Emily, will shew that you are
willing to avoid it.'

Emily smiled through her tears upon her father: 'Dear sir,' said she,
and her voice trembled; she would have added, 'I will shew myself worthy
of being your daughter;' but a mingled emotion of gratitude, affection,
and grief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered her to weep without
interruption, and then began to talk on common topics.

The first person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M. Barreaux,
an austere and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botany had
introduced them to each other, for they had frequently met in their
wanderings among the mountains. M. Barreaux had retired from the world,
and almost from society, to live in a pleasant chateau, on the skirts of
the woods, near La Vallee. He also had been disappointed in his opinion
of mankind; but he did not, like St. Aubert, pity and mourn for them;
he felt more indignation at their vices, than compassion for their
weaknesses.

St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had often
pressed him to come to the chateau, he had never till now accepted the
invitation; and now he came without ceremony or reserve, entering the
parlour as an old friend. The claims of misfortune appeared to have
softened down all the ruggedness and prejudices of his heart. St. Aubert
unhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that occupied his mind. It was in
manners, more than in words, that he appeared to sympathize with his
friends: he spoke little on the subject of their grief; but the minute
attention he gave them, and the modulated voice, and softened look that
accompanied it, came from his heart, and spoke to theirs.

At this melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by Madame
Cheron, his only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow, and
now resided on her own estate near Tholouse. The intercourse between
them had not been very frequent. In her condolements, words were not
wanting; she understood not the magic of the look that speaks at once
to the soul, or the voice that sinks like balm to the heart: but she
assured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathized with him, praised the
virtues of his late wife, and then offered what she considered to be
consolation. Emily wept unceasingly while she spoke; St. Aubert was
tranquil, listened to what she said in silence, and then turned the
discourse upon another subject.

At parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit.
'Change of place will amuse you,' said she, 'and it is wrong to give way
to grief.' St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words of course;
but, at the same time, felt more reluctant than ever to quit the spot
which his past happiness had consecrated. The presence of his wife
had sanctified every surrounding scene, and, each day, as it gradually
softened the acuteness of his suffering, assisted the tender enchantment
that bound him to home.

But there were calls which must be complied with, and of this kind was
the visit he paid to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel. An affair of an
interesting nature made it necessary that he should delay this visit no
longer, and, wishing to rouse Emily from her dejection, he took her with
him to Epourville.

As the carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his paternal
domain, his eyes once more caught, between the chesnut avenue, the
turreted corners of the chateau. He sighed to think of what had passed
since he was last there, and that it was now the property of a man who
neither revered nor valued it. At length he entered the avenue, whose
lofty trees had so often delighted him when a boy, and whose melancholy
shade was now so congenial with the tone of his spirits. Every feature
of the edifice, distinguished by an air of heavy grandeur, appeared
successively between the branches of the trees--the broad turret, the
arched gate-way that led into the courts, the drawbridge, and the dry
fosse which surrounded the whole.

The sound of carriage wheels brought a troop of servants to the great
gate, where St. Aubert alighted, and from which he led Emily into the
gothic hall, now no longer hung with the arms and ancient banners of the
family. These were displaced, and the oak wainscotting, and beams that
crossed the roof, were painted white. The large table, too, that used to
stretch along the upper end of the hall, where the master of the mansion
loved to display his hospitality, and whence the peal of laughter, and
the song of conviviality, had so often resounded, was now removed; even
the benches that had surrounded the hall were no longer there. The heavy
walls were hung with frivolous ornaments, and every thing that appeared
denoted the false taste and corrupted sentiments of the present owner.

St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour, where sat Mons.
and Madame Quesnel, who received him with a stately politeness, and,
after a few formal words of condolement, seemed to have forgotten that
they ever had a sister.

Emily felt tears swell into her eyes, and then resentment checked them.
St. Aubert, calm and deliberate, preserved his dignity without assuming
importance, and Quesnel was depressed by his presence without exactly
knowing wherefore.

After some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with him
alone; and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned that a
large party was invited to dine at the chateau, and was compelled to
hear that nothing which was past and irremediable ought to prevent the
festivity of the present hour.

St. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixed
emotion of disgust and indignation against the insensibility of Quesnel,
which prompted him to return home immediately. But he was informed, that
Madame Cheron had been asked to meet him; and, when he looked at Emily,
and considered that a time might come when the enmity of her uncle would
be prejudicial to her, he determined not to incur it himself, by conduct
which would be resented as indecorous, by the very persons who now
showed so little sense of decorum.

Among the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen, of
whom one was named Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel, a man
about forty, of an uncommonly handsome person, with features manly and
expressive, but whose countenance exhibited, upon the whole, more of the
haughtiness of command, and the quickness of discernment, than of any
other character.

Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about thirty--inferior in
dignity, but equal to him in penetration of countenance, and superior in
insinuation of manner.

Emily was shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron met her
father--'Dear brother,' said she, 'I am concerned to see you look so
very ill; do, pray, have advice!' St. Aubert answered, with a melancholy
smile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily's fears made her
now fancy that her father looked worse than he really did.

Emily would have been amused by the new characters she saw, and the
varied conversation that passed during dinner, which was served in a
style of splendour she had seldom seen before, had her spirits been less
oppressed. Of the guests, Signor Montoni was lately come from Italy, and
he spoke of the commotions which at that period agitated the country;
talked of party differences with warmth, and then lamented the probable
consequences of the tumults. His friend spoke with equal ardour, of
the politics of his country; praised the government and prosperity
of Venice, and boasted of its decided superiority over all the other
Italian states. He then turned to the ladies, and talked with the same
eloquence, of Parisian fashions, the French opera, and French manners;
and on the latter subject he did not fail to mingle what is so
particularly agreeable to French taste. The flattery was not detected
by those to whom it was addressed, though its effect, in producing
submissive attention, did not escape his observation. When he could
disengage himself from the assiduities of the other ladies, he sometimes
addressed Emily: but she knew nothing of Parisian fashions, or Parisian
operas; and her modesty, simplicity, and correct manners formed a
decided contrast to those of her female companions.

After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the old
chesnut which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he stood under its
shade, and looked up among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw here
and there the blue sky trembling between them; the pursuits and events
of his early days crowded fast to his mind, with the figures and
characters of friends--long since gone from the earth; and he now felt
himself to be almost an insulated being, with nobody but his Emily for
his heart to turn to.

He stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till the
succession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he started
away, to forget it, if possible, at the social board.

St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed,
that he was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; but
she considered this to be the effect of his visit to a place which spoke
so eloquently of former times, nor suspected that he had a cause of
grief which he concealed from her.

On entering the chateau she felt more depressed than ever, for she more
than ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever she
had been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and fondness;
now, all was silent and forsaken.

But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after week
passed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the harshness
of her affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness which the
feeling heart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the contrary, visibly
declined in health; though Emily, who had been so constantly with him,
was almost the last person who observed it. His constitution had never
recovered from the late attack of the fever, and the succeeding shock
it received from Madame St. Aubert's death had produced its present
infirmity. His physician now ordered him to travel; for it was
perceptible that sorrow had seized upon his nerves, weakened as they had
been by the preceding illness; and variety of scene, it was probable,
would, by amusing his mind, restore them to their proper tone.

For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and he,
by endeavours to diminish his expences at home during the journey--a
purpose which determined him at length to dismiss his domestics. Emily
seldom opposed her father's wishes by questions or remonstrances, or she
would now have asked why he did not take a servant, and have represented
that his infirm health made one almost necessary. But when, on the eve
of their departure, she found that he had dismissed Jacques, Francis,
and Mary, and detained only Theresa the old housekeeper, she was
extremely surprised, and ventured to ask his reason for having done so.
'To save expences, my dear,' he replied--'we are going on an expensive
excursion.'

The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and St.
Aubert determined, therefore, to travel leisurely along the shores of
the Mediterranean, towards Provence.

They retired early to their chamber on the night before their departure;
but Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and the clock had
struck twelve before she had finished, or had remembered that some of
her drawing instruments, which she meant to take with her, were in the
parlour below. As she went to fetch these, she passed her father's
room, and, perceiving the door half open, concluded that he was in his
study--for, since the death of Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequently
his custom to rise from his restless bed, and go thither to compose his
mind. When she was below stairs she looked into this room, but without
finding him; and as she returned to her chamber, she tapped at his door,
and receiving no answer, stepped softly in, to be certain whether he was
there.

The room was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of glass
that were placed in the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believed her
father to be in the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so late
an hour, apprehended he was unwell, and was going to enquire; but,
considering that her sudden appearance at this hour might alarm him,
she removed her light to the stair-case, and then stepped softly to the
closet. On looking through the panes of glass, she saw him seated at a
small table, with papers before him, some of which he was reading with
deep attention and interest, during which he often wept and sobbed
aloud. Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether her father was
ill, was now detained there by a mixture of curiosity and tenderness.
She could not witness his sorrow, without being anxious to know the
subject of; and she therefore continued to observe him in silence,
concluding that those papers were letters of her late mother. Presently
he knelt down, and with a look so solemn as she had seldom seen him
assume, and which was mingled with a certain wild expression, that
partook more of horror than of any other character, he prayed silently
for a considerable time.

When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily was
hastily retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and she
stopped. He took from among them a small case, and from thence a
miniature picture. The rays of light fell strongly upon it, and she
perceived it to be that of a lady, but not of her mother.

St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to his
lips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emily
could scarcely believe what she saw to be real. She never knew till now
that he had a picture of any other lady than her mother, much less
that he had one which he evidently valued so highly; but having looked
repeatedly, to be certain that it was not the resemblance of Madame St.
Aubert, she became entirely convinced that it was designed for that of
some other person.

At length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily,
recollecting that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softly
withdrew from the chamber.



CHAPTER III


 O how canst thou renounce the boundless store
 Of charms which nature to her vot'ry yields!
 The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
 The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
 All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
 And all that echoes to the song of even;
 All that the mountain's shelt'ring bosom shields,
 And all the dread magnificence of heaven;
 O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!
..... These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health,
 And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart.
     THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along the
feet of the Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over the
heights, afforded more extensive views and greater variety of romantic
scenery. He turned a little out of his way to take leave of M. Barreaux,
whom he found botanizing in the wood near his chateau, and who, when
he was told the purpose of St. Aubert's visit, expressed a degree of
concern, such as his friend had thought it was scarcely possible for him
to feel on any similar occasion. They parted with mutual regret.

'If any thing could have tempted me from my retirement,' said M.
Barreaux, 'it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on this
little tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore,
believe me, when I say, that I shall look for your return with
impatience.'

The travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the heights,
St. Aubert often looked back upon the chateau, in the plain below;
tender images crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination suggested
that he should return no more; and though he checked this wandering
thought, still he continued to look, till the haziness of distance
blended his home with the general landscape, and St. Aubert seemed to

 Drag at each remove a lengthening chain.

He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, from
which melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struck
with the grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to delightful
impressions. The road now descended into glens, confined by stupendous
walls of rock, grey and barren, except where shrubs fringed their
summits, or patches of meagre vegetation tinted their recesses, in which
the wild goat was frequently browsing. And now, the way led to the
lofty cliffs, from whence the landscape was seen extending in all its
magnificence.

Emily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pine
forests of the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched with
woods, towns, blushing vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, and
olives, stretched along, till their various colours melted in distance
into one harmonious hue, that seemed to unite earth with heaven.
Through the whole of this glorious scene the majestic Garonne wandered;
descending from its source among the Pyrenees, and winding its blue
waves towards the Bay of Biscay.

The ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers to
alight from their little carriage, but they thought themselves amply
repaid for this inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; and,
while the muleteer led his animals slowly over the broken ground, the
travellers had leisure to linger amid these solitudes, and to indulge
the sublime reflections, which soften, while they elevate, the heart,
and fill it with the certainty of a present God! Still the enjoyment
of St. Aubert was touched with that pensive melancholy, which gives
to every object a mellower tint, and breathes a sacred charm over all
around.

They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a want
of convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the carriage,
so that they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot, in the open
air, and pass the nights wherever they should happen to meet with a
comfortable cottage. For the mind, also, they had provided, by a work on
botany, written by M. Barreaux, and by several of the Latin and Italian
poets; while Emily's pencil enabled her to preserve some of those
combinations of forms, which charmed her at every step.

The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was seen
driving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the rocks,
heightened the effect of the scenery. St. Aubert was so much struck with
it, that he determined, if he could hear of a road, to penetrate further
among the mountains, and, bending his way rather more to the south, to
emerge into Rousillon, and coast the Mediterranean along part of that
country to Languedoc.

Soon after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs,
which, bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, the
tremendous walls of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part of
Gascony, and part of Languedoc. Here was shade, and the fresh water of
a spring, that, gliding among the turf, under the trees, thence
precipitated itself from rock to rock, till its dashing murmurs were
lost in the abyss, though its white foam was long seen amid the darkness
of the pines below.

This was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted to
dine, while the mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbs
that enriched this summit.

It was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw their
attention from the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their little
repast. Seated in the shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed out to her
observation the course of the rivers, the situation of great towns, and
the boundaries of provinces, which science, rather than the eye, enabled
him to describe. Notwithstanding this occupation, when he had talked
awhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful, and tears often swelled to
his eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of her own heart told
her their cause. The scene before them bore some resemblance, though it
was on a much grander scale, to a favourite one of the late Madame St.
Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They both observed this, and
thought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape,
while they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon this
world. St. Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot in
company with her, and also the mournfully presaging thoughts which had
then arisen in his mind, and were now, even thus soon, realized! The
recollections subdued him, and he abruptly rose from his seat, and
walked away to where no eye could observe his grief.

When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; he
took Emily's hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and soon
after called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerning
a road among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said, there were
several that way, but he did not know how far they extended, or even
whether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did not intend to travel
after sun-set, asked what village they could reach about that time. The
muleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau, which was in
their present road; but that, if they took a road that sloped more to
the south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he thought they
could gain before the evening shut in.

St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course,
and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, again
set forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to a
cross, that stood on a rock impending over their way. Having concluded
his devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, and, in spite of the
rough road, and the pain of his poor mules, which he had been lately
lamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge of a precipice,
which it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was terrified almost
to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending still greater danger from
suddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and trust
his fate to the strength and discretion of the mules, who seemed to
possess a greater portion of the latter quality than their master; for
they carried the travellers safely into the valley, and there stopped
upon the brink of the rivulet that watered it.

Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this
narrow valley screened by

 Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell,
 Here scorch'd by lightnings, there with ivy green.

The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreading
branches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the cliff,
or athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No living creature
appeared, except the izard, scrambling among the rocks, and often
hanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view of
them. This was such a scene as SALVATOR would have chosen, had he then
existed, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by the romantic character
of the place, almost expected to see banditti start from behind some
projecting rock, and he kept his hand upon the arms with which he always
travelled.

As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features gradually
softened, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains,
stretched in far perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell was
heard, and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to the
nightly fold. His cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the ilex,
which St. Aubert observed to flourish in higher regions of the air than
any other trees, except the fir, was all the human habitation that yet
appeared. Along the bottom of this valley the most vivid verdure was
spread; and, in the little hollow recesses of the mountains, under the
shade of the oak and chestnut, herds of cattle were grazing. Groups
of them, too, were often seen reposing on the banks of the rivulet, or
laving their sides in the cool stream, and sipping its wave.

The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon the
water, and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the heath and
broom, that overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired of Michael
the distance to the hamlet he had mentioned, but the man could not with
certainty tell; and Emily began to fear that he had mistaken the road.
Here was no human being to assist, or direct them; they had left the
shepherd and his cabin far behind, and the scene became so obscured in
twilight, that the eye could not follow the distant perspective of the
valley in search of a cottage, or a hamlet. A glow of the horizon still
marked the west, and this was of some little use to the travellers.
Michael seemed endeavouring to keep up his courage by singing; his
music, however, was not of a kind to disperse melancholy; he sung, in a
sort of chant, one of the most dismal ditties his present auditors had
ever heard, and St. Aubert at length discovered it to be a vesper-hymn
to his favourite saint.

They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which
twilight and solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended his ditty,
and nothing was heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze among the
woods, and its light flutter, as it blew freshly into the carriage. They
were at length roused by the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert called to
the muleteer to stop, and they listened. The noise was not repeated; but
presently they heard a rustling among the brakes. St. Aubert drew forth
a pistol, and ordered Michael to proceed as fast as possible; who had
not long obeyed, before a horn sounded, that made the mountains ring. He
looked again from the window, and then saw a young man spring from the
bushes into the road, followed by a couple of dogs. The stranger was in
a hunter's dress. His gun was slung across his shoulders, the hunter's
horn hung from his belt, and in his hand was a small pike, which, as
he held it, added to the manly grace of his figure, and assisted the
agility of his steps.

After a moment's hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage, and
waited till he came up, that they might enquire concerning the hamlet
they were in search of. The stranger informed him, that it was only half
a league distant, that he was going thither himself, and would readily
shew the way. St. Aubert thanked him for the offer, and, pleased with
his chevalier-like air and open countenance, asked him to take a seat
in the carriage; which the stranger, with an acknowledgment, declined,
adding that he would keep pace with the mules. 'But I fear you will be
wretchedly accommodated,' said he: 'the inhabitants of these mountains
are a simple people, who are not only without the luxuries of life,
but almost destitute of what in other places are held to be its
necessaries.'

'I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,' said St. Aubert.

'No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.'

The carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers very
thankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that now opened
among the mountains, would likewise have added to their perplexity.
Emily, as she looked up one of these, saw something at a great distance
like a bright cloud in the air. 'What light is yonder, sir?' said she.

St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of a
mountain, so much higher than any around it, that it still reflected the
sun's rays, while those below lay in deep shade.

At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk,
and, soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or rather
were seen by reflection in the stream, on whose margin they stood, and
which still gleamed with the evening light.

The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found not
only that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house of
public reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and enquire
for a cottage to accommodate them; for which further civility St. Aubert
returned his thanks, and said, that, as the village was so near, he
would alight, and walk with him. Emily followed slowly in the carriage.

On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had
in the chase. 'Not much, sir,' he replied, 'nor do I aim at it. I am
pleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among
its scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for game.
This dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures me that
respect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a lonely
stranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them.'

'I admire your taste,' said St. Aubert, 'and, if I was a younger man,
should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am a
wanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours--I go
in search of health, as much as of amusement.' St. Aubert sighed, and
paused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: 'If I can
hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, it
is my intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore to
Languedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can,
perhaps, give me information on the subject.'

The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely at
his service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which
led to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon.

They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a
cottage, that would afford a night's lodging. In several, which they
entered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and
the owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity.
Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for
one, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor of her father's
countenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill provided
with the comforts necessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which they
examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former, consisting of
two rooms, if such they could be called; the first of these occupied by
mules and pigs, the second by the family, which generally consisted of
six or eight children, with their parents, who slept on beds of skins
and dried beech leaves, spread upon a mud floor. Here, light was
admitted, and smoke discharged, through an aperture in the roof; and
here the scent of spirits (for the travelling smugglers, who haunted the
Pyrenees, had made this rude people familiar with the use of liquors)
was generally perceptible enough. Emily turned from such scenes, and
looked at her father with anxious tenderness, which the young stranger
seemed to observe; for, drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offer
of his own bed. 'It is a decent one,' said he, 'when compared with
what we have just seen, yet such as in other circumstances I should be
ashamed to offer you.' St. Aubert acknowledged how much he felt himself
obliged by this kindness, but refused to accept it, till the young
stranger would take no denial. 'Do not give me the pain of knowing,
sir,' said he, 'that an invalid, like you, lies on hard skins, while
I sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your refusal wounds my pride; I must
believe you think my offer unworthy your acceptance. Let me shew you the
way. I have no doubt my landlady can accommodate this young lady also.'

St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he would
accept his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the stranger
had proved himself so deficient in gallantry, as to administer to the
repose of an infirm man, rather than to that of a very lovely young
woman, for he had not once offered the room for Emily. But she thought
not of herself, and the animated smile she gave him, told how much she
felt herself obliged for the preference of her father.

On their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on first
to speak to his hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert into a
cottage, much superior to any he had seen. This good woman seemed very
willing to accommodate the strangers, who were soon compelled to accept
the only two beds in the place. Eggs and milk were the only food the
cottage afforded; but against scarcity of provisions St. Aubert had
provided, and he requested Valancourt to stay, and partake with him of
less homely fare; an invitation, which was readily accepted, and they
passed an hour in intelligent conversation. St. Aubert was much pleased
with the manly frankness, simplicity, and keen susceptibility to the
grandeur of nature, which his new acquaintance discovered; and, indeed,
he had often been heard to say, that, without a certain simplicity of
heart, this taste could not exist in any strong degree.

The conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar without, in which
the voice of the muleteer was heard above every other sound. Valancourt
started from his seat, and went to enquire the occasion; but the dispute
continued so long afterwards, that St. Aubert went himself, and found
Michael quarrelling with the hostess, because she had refused to let his
mules lie in a little room where he and three of her sons were to pass
the night. The place was wretched enough, but there was no other for
these people to sleep in; and, with somewhat more of delicacy than was
usual among the inhabitants of this wild tract of country, she persisted
in refusing to let the animals have the same BED-CHAMBER with her
children. This was a tender point with the muleteer; his honour was
wounded when his mules were treated with disrespect, and he would have
received a blow, perhaps, with more meekness. He declared that his
beasts were as honest beasts, and as good beasts, as any in the whole
province; and that they had a right to be well treated wherever they
went. 'They are as harmless as lambs,' said he, 'if people don't affront
them. I never knew them behave themselves amiss above once or twice in
my life, and then they had good reason for doing so. Once, indeed, they
kicked at a boy's leg that lay asleep in the stable, and broke it; but
I told them they were out there, and by St. Anthony! I believe they
understood me, for they never did so again.'

He concluded this eloquent harangue with protesting, that they should
share with him, go where he would.

The dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostess
aside, and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have the
place in question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed of
skins designed for him, for that he would wrap himself in his cloak, and
sleep on the bench by the cottage door. But this she thought it her
duty to oppose, and she felt it to be her inclination to disappoint the
muleteer. Valancourt, however, was positive, and the tedious affair was
at length settled.

It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, and
Valancourt to his station at the door, which, at this mild season, he
preferred to a close cabin and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was somewhat
surprised to find in his room volumes of Homer, Horace, and Petrarch;
but the name of Valancourt, written in them, told him to whom they
belonged.



CHAPTER IV


   In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,
  Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene,
  In darkness, and in storm he found delight;
  Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene
  The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen.
  Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul;
  And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
  And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
 A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to controul.
     THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous to
set forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and, talking
again of the road, Valancourt said, that, some months past, he had
travelled as far as Beaujeu, which was a town of some consequence on the
way to Rousillon. He recommended it to St. Aubert to take that route,
and the latter determined to do so.

'The road from this hamlet,' said Valancourt, 'and that to Beaujeu, part
at the distance of about a league and a half from hence; if you will
give me leave, I will direct your muleteer so far. I must wander
somewhere, and your company would make this a pleasanter ramble than any
other I could take.'

St. Aubert thankfully accepted his offer, and they set out together, the
young stranger on foot, for he refused the invitation of St. Aubert to
take a seat in his little carriage.

The road wound along the feet of the mountains through a pastoral
valley, bright with verdure, and varied with groves of dwarf oak,
beech and sycamore, under whose branches herds of cattle reposed. The
mountain-ash too, and the weeping birch, often threw their pendant
foliage over the steeps above, where the scanty soil scarcely concealed
their roots, and where their light branches waved to every breeze that
fluttered from the mountains.

The travellers were frequently met at this early hour, for the sun had
not yet risen upon the valley, by shepherds driving immense flocks from
their folds to feed upon the hills. St. Aubert had set out thus early,
not only that he might enjoy the first appearance of sunrise, but that
he might inhale the first pure breath of morning, which above all things
is refreshing to the spirits of the invalid. In these regions it was
particularly so, where an abundance of wild flowers and aromatic herbs
breathed forth their essence on the air.

The dawn, which softened the scenery with its peculiar grey tint, now
dispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first trembling on
the tops of the highest cliffs, then touching them with splendid light,
while their sides and the vale below were still wrapt in dewy mist.
Meanwhile, the sullen grey of the eastern clouds began to blush, then to
redden, and then to glow with a thousand colours, till the golden light
darted over all the air, touched the lower points of the mountain's
brow, and glanced in long sloping beams upon the valley and its stream.
All nature seemed to have awakened from death into life; the spirit of
St. Aubert was renovated. His heart was full; he wept, and his thoughts
ascended to the Great Creator.

Emily wished to trip along the turf, so green and bright with dew, and
to taste the full delight of that liberty, which the izard seemed to
enjoy as he bounded along the brow of the cliffs; while Valancourt often
stopped to speak with the travellers, and with social feeling to point
out to them the peculiar objects of his admiration. St. Aubert was
pleased with him: 'Here is the real ingenuousness and ardour of youth,'
said he to himself; 'this young man has never been at Paris.'

He was sorry when they came to the spot where the roads parted, and his
heart took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after so short
an acquaintance. Valancourt talked long by the side of the carriage;
seemed more than once to be going, but still lingered, and appeared to
search anxiously for topics of conversation to account for his delay. At
length he took leave. As he went, St. Aubert observed him look with an
earnest and pensive eye at Emily, who bowed to him with a countenance
full of timid sweetness, while the carriage drove on. St. Aubert, for
whatever reason, soon after looked from the window, and saw Valancourt
standing upon the bank of the road, resting on his pike with folded
arms, and following the carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and
Valancourt, seeming to awake from his reverie, returned the salute, and
started away.

The aspect of the country now began to change, and the travellers soon
found themselves among mountains covered from their base nearly to their
summits with forests of gloomy pine, except where a rock of granite shot
up from the vale, and lost its snowy top in the clouds. The rivulet,
which had hitherto accompanied them, now expanded into a river; and,
flowing deeply and silently along, reflected, as in a mirror, the
blackness of the impending shades. Sometimes a cliff was seen lifting
its bold head above the woods and the vapours, that floated mid-way down
the mountains; and sometimes a face of perpendicular marble rose from
the water's edge, over which the larch threw his gigantic arms, here
scathed with lightning, and there floating in luxuriant foliage.

They continued to travel over a rough and unfrequented road, seeing now
and then at a distance the solitary shepherd, with his dog, stalking
along the valley, and hearing only the dashing of torrents, which the
woods concealed from the eye, the long sullen murmur of the breeze,
as it swept over the pines, or the notes of the eagle and the vulture,
which were seen towering round the beetling cliff.

Often, as the carriage moved slowly over uneven ground, St. Aubert
alighted, and amused himself with examining the curious plants that grew
on the banks of the road, and with which these regions abound; while
Emily, wrapt in high enthusiasm, wandered away under the shades,
listening in deep silence to the lonely murmur of the woods.

Neither village nor hamlet was seen for many leagues; the goat-herd's or
the hunter's cabin, perched among the cliffs of the rocks, were the only
human habitations that appeared.

The travellers again took their dinner in the open air, on a pleasant
spot in the valley, under the spreading shade of cedars; and then set
forward towards Beaujeu.

The road now began to descend, and, leaving the pine forests behind,
wound among rocky precipices. The evening twilight again fell over the
scene, and the travellers were ignorant how far they might yet be from
Beaujeu. St. Aubert, however, conjectured that the distance could not be
very great, and comforted himself with the prospect of travelling on a
more frequented road after reaching that town, where he designed to pass
the night. Mingled woods, and rocks, and heathy mountains were now seen
obscurely through the dusk; but soon even these imperfect images faded
in darkness. Michael proceeded with caution, for he could scarcely
distinguish the road; his mules, however, seemed to have more sagacity,
and their steps were sure.

On turning the angle of a mountain, a light appeared at a distance, that
illumined the rocks, and the horizon to a great extent. It was evidently
a large fire, but whether accidental, or otherwise, there were no means
of knowing. St. Aubert thought it was probably kindled by some of the
numerous banditti, that infested the Pyrenees, and he became watchful
and anxious to know whether the road passed near this fire. He had arms
with him, which, on an emergency, might afford some protection, though
certainly a very unequal one, against a band of robbers, so desperate
too as those usually were who haunted these wild regions. While many
reflections rose upon his mind, he heard a voice shouting from the road
behind, and ordering the muleteer to stop. St. Aubert bade him proceed
as fast as possible; but either Michael, or his mules were obstinate,
for they did not quit the old pace. Horses' feet were now heard; a man
rode up to the carriage, still ordering the driver to stop; and St.
Aubert, who could no longer doubt his purpose, was with difficulty able
to prepare a pistol for his defence, when his hand was upon the door of
the chaise. The man staggered on his horse, the report of the pistol was
followed by a groan, and St. Aubert's horror may be imagined, when in
the next instant he thought he heard the faint voice of Valancourt.
He now himself bade the muleteer stop; and, pronouncing the name of
Valancourt, was answered in a voice, that no longer suffered him to
doubt. St. Aubert, who instantly alighted and went to his assistance,
found him still sitting on his horse, but bleeding profusely, and
appearing to be in great pain, though he endeavoured to soften the
terror of St. Aubert by assurances that he was not materially hurt, the
wound being only in his arm. St. Aubert, with the muleteer, assisted him
to dismount, and he sat down on the bank of the road, where St. Aubert
tried to bind up his arm, but his hands trembled so excessively that he
could not accomplish it; and, Michael being now gone in pursuit of the
horse, which, on being disengaged from his rider, had galloped off,
he called Emily to his assistance. Receiving no answer, he went to the
carriage, and found her sunk on the seat in a fainting fit. Between the
distress of this circumstance and that of leaving Valancourt bleeding,
he scarcely knew what he did; he endeavoured, however, to raise her,
and called to Michael to fetch water from the rivulet that flowed by the
road, but Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice. Valancourt,
who heard these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily, instantly
understood the subject of his distress; and, almost forgetting his own
condition, he hastened to her relief. She was reviving when he
reached the carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him had
occasioned her indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that trembled,
but not from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence. While he
said this St. Aubert turned round, and perceiving that he was still
bleeding, the subject of his alarm changed again, and he hastily formed
some handkerchiefs into a bandage. This stopped the effusion of the
blood; but St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of the wound, enquired
repeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when, learning that it was
at two leagues' distance, his distress increased, since he knew not how
Valancourt, in his present state, would bear the motion of the carriage,
and perceived that he was already faint from loss of blood. When he
mentioned the subject of his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that he would
not suffer himself to be thus alarmed on his account, for that he had no
doubt he should be able to support himself very well; and then he talked
of the accident as a slight one. The muleteer being now returned with
Valancourt's horse, assisted him into the chaise; and, as Emily was now
revived, they moved slowly on towards Beaujeu.

St. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by this
accident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explained
his unexpected appearance by saying, 'You, sir, renewed my taste for
society; when you had left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a solitude.
I determined, therefore, since my object was merely amusement, to change
the scene; and I took this road, because I knew it led through a more
romantic tract of mountains than the spot I have left. Besides,' added
he, hesitating for an instant, 'I will own, and why should I not? that I
had some hope of overtaking you.'

'And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment,'
said St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had produced
the accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. But Valancourt
seemed anxious only to remove from the minds of his companions every
unpleasant feeling relative to himself; and, for that purpose, still
struggled against a sense of pain, and tried to converse with gaiety.
Emily meanwhile was silent, except when Valancourt particularly
addressed her, and there was at those times a tremulous tone in his
voice that spoke much.

They were now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance on
the blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they could
distinguish figures moving about the blaze. The way winding still
nearer, they perceived in the valley one of those numerous bands of
gipsies, which at that period particularly haunted the wilds of the
Pyrenees, and lived partly by plundering the traveller. Emily looked
with some degree of terror on the savage countenances of these people,
shewn by the fire, which heightened the romantic effects of the scenery,
as it threw a red dusky gleam upon the rocks and on the foliage of the
trees, leaving heavy masses of shade and regions of obscurity, which the
eye feared to penetrate.

They were preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, over
which several figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind of
tent, round which many children and dogs were playing, and the whole
formed a picture highly grotesque. The travellers saw plainly their
danger. Valancourt was silent, but laid his hand on one of St. Aubert's
pistols; St. Aubert drew forth another, and Michael was ordered to
proceed as fast as possible. They passed the place, however,
without being attacked; the rovers being probably unprepared for the
opportunity, and too busy about their supper to feel much interest, at
the moment, in any thing besides.

After a league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellers
arrived at Beaujeu, and drove up to the only inn the place afforded;
which, though superior to any they had seen since they entered the
mountains, was bad enough.

The surgeon of the town was immediately sent for, if a surgeon he could
be called, who prescribed for horses as well as for men, and shaved
faces at least as dexterously as he set bones. After examining
Valancourt's arm, and perceiving that the bullet had passed through
the flesh without touching the bone, he dressed it, and left him with
a solemn prescription of quiet, which his patient was not inclined to
obey. The delight of ease had now succeeded to pain; for ease may be
allowed to assume a positive quality when contrasted with anguish; and,
his spirits thus re-animated, he wished to partake of the conversation
of St. Aubert and Emily, who, released from so many apprehensions, were
uncommonly cheerful. Late as it was, however, St. Aubert was obliged to
go out with the landlord to buy meat for supper; and Emily, who, during
this interval, had been absent as long as she could, upon excuses of
looking to their accommodation, which she found rather better than she
expected, was compelled to return, and converse with Valancourt alone.
They talked of the character of the scenes they had passed, of the
natural history of the country, of poetry, and of St. Aubert; a subject
on which Emily always spoke and listened to with peculiar pleasure.

The travellers passed an agreeable evening; but St. Aubert was fatigued
with his journey; and, as Valancourt seemed again sensible of pain, they
separated soon after supper.

In the morning St. Aubert found that Valancourt had passed a restless
night; that he was feverish, and his wound very painful. The surgeon,
when he dressed it, advised him to remain quietly at Beaujeu; advice
which was too reasonable to be rejected. St. Aubert, however, had no
favourable opinion of this practitioner, and was anxious to commit
Valancourt into more skilful hands; but learning, upon enquiry, that
there was no town within several leagues which seemed more likely to
afford better advice, he altered the plan of his journey, and determined
to await the recovery of Valancourt, who, with somewhat more ceremony
than sincerity, made many objections to this delay.

By order of his surgeon, Valancourt did not go out of the house that
day; but St. Aubert and Emily surveyed with delight the environs of
the town, situated at the feet of the Pyrenean Alps, that rose, some
in abrupt precipices, and others swelling with woods of cedar, fir, and
cypress, which stretched nearly to their highest summits. The cheerful
green of the beech and mountain-ash was sometimes seen, like a gleam of
light, amidst the dark verdure of the forest; and sometimes a torrent
poured its sparkling flood, high among the woods.

Valancourt's indisposition detained the travellers at Beaujeu several
days, during which interval St. Aubert had observed his disposition and
his talents with the philosophic inquiry so natural to him. He saw
a frank and generous nature, full of ardour, highly susceptible of
whatever is grand and beautiful, but impetuous, wild, and somewhat
romantic. Valancourt had known little of the world. His perceptions were
clear, and his feelings just; his indignation of an unworthy, or his
admiration of a generous action, were expressed in terms of equal
vehemence. St. Aubert sometimes smiled at his warmth, but seldom checked
it, and often repeated to himself, 'This young man has never been at
Paris.' A sigh sometimes followed this silent ejaculation. He determined
not to leave Valancourt till he should be perfectly recovered; and, as
he was now well enough to travel, though not able to manage his horse,
St. Aubert invited him to accompany him for a few days in the carriage.
This he the more readily did, since he had discovered that Valancourt
was of a family of the same name in Gascony, with whose respectability
he was well acquainted. The latter accepted the offer with great
pleasure, and they again set forward among these romantic wilds about
Rousillon.

They travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grand
appeared; frequently alighting to walk to an eminence, whither the mules
could not go, from which the prospect opened in greater magnificence;
and often sauntering over hillocks covered with lavender, wild thyme,
juniper, and tamarisc; and under the shades of woods, between those
boles they caught the long mountain-vista, sublime beyond any thing that
Emily had ever imagined.

St. Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valancourt
and Emily strolled on; he pointing out to her notice the objects that
particularly charmed him, and reciting beautiful passages from such of
the Latin and Italian poets as he had heard her admire. In the pauses of
conversation, when he thought himself not observed, he frequently fixed
his eyes pensively on her countenance, which expressed with so much
animation the taste and energy of her mind; and when he spoke again,
there was a peculiar tenderness in the tone of his voice, that defeated
any attempt to conceal his sentiments. By degrees these silent pauses
became more frequent; till Emily, only, betrayed an anxiety to interrupt
them; and she; who had been hitherto reserved, would now talk again,
and again, of the woods and the vallies and the mountains, to avoid the
danger of sympathy and silence.

From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the travellers
into the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers exhibited
their frozen horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits of the
mountains. They often paused to contemplate these stupendous scenes,
and, seated on some wild cliff, where only the ilex or the larch could
flourish, looked over dark forests of fir, and precipices where human
foot had never wandered, into the glen--so deep, that the thunder of the
torrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom, was scarcely heard to
murmur. Over these crags rose others of stupendous height, and fantastic
shape; some shooting into cones; others impending far over their base,
in huge masses of granite, along whose broken ridges was often lodged
a weight of snow, that, trembling even to the vibration of a sound,
threatened to bear destruction in its course to the vale. Around, on
every side, far as the eye could penetrate, were seen only forms of
grandeur--the long perspective of mountain-tops, tinged with ethereal
blue, or white with snow; vallies of ice, and forests of gloomy fir.
The serenity and clearness of the air in these high regions were
particularly delightful to the travellers; it seemed to inspire them
with a finer spirit, and diffused an indescribable complacency over
their minds. They had no words to express the sublime emotions they
felt. A solemn expression characterized the feelings of St. Aubert;
tears often came to his eyes, and he frequently walked away from his
companions. Valancourt now and then spoke, to point to Emily's notice
some feature of the scene. The thinness of the atmosphere, through which
every object came so distinctly to the eye, surprised and deluded her;
who could scarcely believe that objects, which appeared so near, were,
in reality, so distant. The deep silence of these solitudes was broken
only at intervals by the scream of the vultures, seen cowering round
some cliff below, or by the cry of the eagle sailing high in the air;
except when the travellers listened to the hollow thunder that sometimes
muttered at their feet. While, above, the deep blue of the heavens was
unobscured by the lightest cloud, half way down the mountains, long
billows of vapour were frequently seen rolling, now wholly excluding the
country below, and now opening, and partially revealing its features.
Emily delighted to observe the grandeur of these clouds as they changed
in shape and tints, and to watch their various effect on the lower
world, whose features, partly veiled, were continually assuming new
forms of sublimity.

After traversing these regions for many leagues, they began to descend
towards Rousillon, and features of beauty then mingled with the scene.
Yet the travellers did not look back without some regret to the sublime
objects they had quitted; though the eye, fatigued with the extension
of its powers, was glad to repose on the verdure of woods and pastures,
that now hung on the margin of the river below; to view again the humble
cottage shaded by cedars, the playful group of mountaineer-children, and
the flowery nooks that appeared among the hills.

As they descended, they saw at a distance, on the right, one of the
grand passes of the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its battlements
and towers to the splendour of the setting rays, yellow tops of woods
colouring the steeps below, while far above aspired the snowy points of
the mountains, still reflecting a rosy hue.

St. Aubert began to look out for the little town he had been directed to
by the people of Beaujeu, and where he meant to pass the night; but no
habitation yet appeared. Of its distance Valancourt could not assist him
to judge, for he had never been so far along this chain of Alps before.
There was, however, a road to guide them; and there could be little
doubt that it was the right one; for, since they had left Beaujeu, there
had been no variety of tracks to perplex or mislead.

The sun now gave his last light, and St. Aubert bade the muleteer
proceed with all possible dispatch. He found, indeed, the lassitude of
illness return upon him, after a day of uncommon fatigue, both of body
and mind, and he longed for repose. His anxiety was not soothed by
observing a numerous train, consisting of men, horses, and loaded
mules, winding down the steeps of an opposite mountain, appearing and
disappearing at intervals among the woods, so that its numbers could not
be judged of. Something bright, like arms, glanced in the setting ray,
and the military dress was distinguishable upon the men who were in the
van, and on others scattered among the troop that followed. As these
wound into the vale, the rear of the party emerged from the woods, and
exhibited a band of soldiers. St. Aubert's apprehensions now subsided;
he had no doubt that the train before him consisted of smugglers, who,
in conveying prohibited goods over the Pyrenees, had been encountered,
and conquered by a party of troops.

The travellers had lingered so long among the sublimer scenes of
these mountains, that they found themselves entirely mistaken in their
calculation that they could reach Montigny at sun-set; but, as they
wound along the valley, the saw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that united
two lofty crags of the glen, a group of mountaineer-children, amusing
themselves with dropping pebbles into a torrent below, and watching the
stones plunge into the water, that threw up its white spray high in the
air as it received them, and returned a sullen sound, which the echoes
of the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge was seen a perspective of
the valley, with its cataract descending among the rocks, and a cottage
on a cliff, overshadowed with pines. It appeared, that they could not
be far from some small town. St. Aubert bade the muleteer stop, and
then called to the children to enquire if he was near Montigny; but the
distance, and the roaring of the waters, would not suffer his voice to
be heard; and the crags, adjoining the bridge, were of such tremendous
height and steepness, that to have climbed either would have been
scarcely practicable to a person unacquainted with the ascent. St.
Aubert, therefore, did not waste more moments in delay. They continued
to travel long after twilight had obscured the road, which was so
broken, that, now thinking it safer to walk than to ride, they all
alighted. The moon was rising, but her light was yet too feeble to
assist them. While they stepped carefully on, they heard the vesper-bell
of a convent. The twilight would not permit them to distinguish anything
like a building, but the sounds seemed to come from some woods, that
overhung an acclivity to the right. Valancourt proposed to go in
search of this convent. 'If they will not accommodate us with a night's
lodging,' said he, 'they may certainly inform us how far we are from
Montigny, and direct us towards it.' He was bounding forward, without
waiting St. Aubert's reply, when the latter stopped him. 'I am very
weary,' said St. Aubert, 'and wish for nothing so much as for immediate
rest. We will all go to the convent; your good looks would defeat our
purpose; but when they see mine and Emily's exhausted countenances, they
will scarcely deny us repose.'

As he said this, he took Emily's arm within his, and, telling Michael to
wait awhile in the road with the carriage, they began to ascend towards
the woods, guided by the bell of the convent. His steps were feeble, and
Valancourt offered him his arm, which he accepted. The moon now threw
a faint light over their path, and, soon after, enabled them to
distinguish some towers rising above the tops of the woods. Still
following the note of the bell, they entered the shade of those woods,
lighted only by the moonbeams, that glided down between the leaves,
and threw a tremulous uncertain gleam upon the steep track they were
winding. The gloom and the silence that prevailed, except when the bell
returned upon the air, together with the wildness of the surrounding
scene, struck Emily with a degree of fear, which, however, the voice and
conversation of Valancourt somewhat repressed. When they had been some
time ascending, St. Aubert complained of weariness, and they stopped to
rest upon a little green summit, where the trees opened, and admitted
the moon-light. He sat down upon the turf, between Emily and Valancourt.
The bell had now ceased, and the deep repose of the scene was
undisturbed by any sound, for the low dull murmur of some distant
torrents might be said to sooth, rather than to interrupt, the silence.

Before them, extended the valley they had quitted; its rocks, and woods
to the left, just silvered by the rays, formed a contrast to the deep
shadow, that involved the opposite cliffs, whose fringed summits only
were tipped with light; while the distant perspective of the valley was
lost in the yellow mist of moon-light. The travellers sat for some time
wrapt in the complacency which such scenes inspire.

'These scenes,' said Valancourt, at length, 'soften the heart, like the
notes of sweet music, and inspire that delicious melancholy which no
person, who had felt it once, would resign for the gayest pleasures.
They waken our best and purest feelings, disposing us to benevolence,
pity, and friendship. Those whom I love--I always seem to love more in
such an hour as this.' His voice trembled, and he paused.

St. Aubert was silent; Emily perceived a warm tear fall upon the hand he
held; she knew the object of his thoughts; hers too had, for some time,
been occupied by the remembrance of her mother. He seemed by an effort
to rouse himself. 'Yes,' said he, with an half-suppressed sigh, 'the
memory of those we love--of times for ever past! in such an hour as this
steals upon the mind, like a strain of distant music in the stillness
of night;--all tender and harmonious as this landscape, sleeping in the
mellow moon-light.' After the pause of a moment, St. Aubert added, 'I
have always fancied, that I thought with more clearness, and precision,
at such an hour than at any other, and that heart must be insensible
in a great degree, that does not soften to its influence. But many such
there are.'

Valancourt sighed.

'Are there, indeed, many such?' said Emily.

'A few years hence, my Emily,' replied St. Aubert, 'and you may smile at
the recollection of that question--if you do not weep to it. But come, I
am somewhat refreshed, let us proceed.'

Having emerged from the woods, they saw, upon a turfy hillock above, the
convent of which they were in search. A high wall, that surrounded it,
led them to an ancient gate, at which they knocked; and the poor monk,
who opened it, conducted them into a small adjoining room, where he
desired they would wait while he informed the superior of their request.
In this interval, several friars came in separately to look at them;
and at length the first monk returned, and they followed him to a room,
where the superior was sitting in an arm-chair, with a large folio
volume, printed in black letter, open on a desk before him. He received
them with courtesy, though he did not rise from his seat; and, having
asked them a few questions, granted their request. After a short
conversation, formal and solemn on the part of the superior, they
withdrew to the apartment where they were to sup, and Valancourt, whom
one of the inferior friars civilly desired to accompany, went to seek
Michael and his mules. They had not descended half way down the cliffs,
before they heard the voice of the muleteer echoing far and wide.
Sometimes he called on St. Aubert, and sometimes on Valancourt; who
having, at length, convinced him that he had nothing to fear either for
himself, or his master; and having disposed of him, for the night, in a
cottage on the skirts of the woods, returned to sup with his friends,
on such sober fare as the monks thought it prudent to set before them.
While St. Aubert was too much indisposed to share it, Emily, in her
anxiety for her father, forgot herself; and Valancourt, silent and
thoughtful, yet never inattentive to them, appeared particularly
solicitous to accommodate and relieve St. Aubert, who often observed,
while his daughter was pressing him to eat, or adjusting the pillow she
had placed in the back of his arm-chair, that Valancourt fixed on her a
look of pensive tenderness, which he was not displeased to understand.

They separated at an early hour, and retired to their respective
apartments. Emily was shown to hers by a nun of the convent, whom she
was glad to dismiss, for her heart was melancholy, and her attention
so much abstracted, that conversation with a stranger was painful. She
thought her father daily declining, and attributed his present fatigue
more to the feeble state of his frame, than to the difficulty of the
journey. A train of gloomy ideas haunted her mind, till she fell asleep.

In about two hours after, she was awakened by the chiming of a bell, and
then heard quick steps pass along the gallery, into which her chamber
opened. She was so little accustomed to the manners of a convent, as to
be alarmed by this circumstance; her fears, ever alive for her father,
suggested that he was very ill, and she rose in haste to go to him.
Having paused, however, to let the persons in the gallery pass before
she opened her door, her thoughts, in the mean time, recovered from the
confusion of sleep, and she understood that the bell was the call of
the monks to prayers. It had now ceased, and, all being again still,
she forbore to go to St. Aubert's room. Her mind was not disposed
for immediate sleep, and the moon-light, that shone into her chamber,
invited her to open the casement, and look out upon the country.

It was a still and beautiful night, the sky was unobscured by any cloud,
and scarce a leaf of the woods beneath trembled in the air. As she
listened, the mid-night hymn of the monks rose softly from a chapel,
that stood on one of the lower cliffs, an holy strain, that seemed to
ascend through the silence of night to heaven, and her thoughts ascended
with it. From the consideration of His works, her mind arose to the
adoration of the Deity, in His goodness and power; wherever she turned
her view, whether on the sleeping earth, or to the vast regions of
space, glowing with worlds beyond the reach of human thought, the
sublimity of God, and the majesty of His presence appeared. Her eyes
were filled with tears of awful love and admiration; and she felt that
pure devotion, superior to all the distinctions of human system, which
lifts the soul above this world, and seems to expand it into a nobler
nature; such devotion as can, perhaps, only be experienced, when
the mind, rescued, for a moment, from the humbleness of earthly
considerations, aspires to contemplate His power in the sublimity of His
works, and His goodness in the infinity of His blessings.

     Is it not now the hour,
 The holy hour, when to the cloudless height
 Of yon starred concave climbs the full-orbed moon,
 And to this nether world in solemn stillness,
 Gives sign, that, to the list'ning ear of Heaven
 Religion's voice should plead?  The very babe
 Knows this, and, chance awak'd, his little hands
 Lifts to the gods, and on his innocent couch
 Calls down a blessing.*
     *Caractacus


The midnight chant of the monks soon after dropped into silence; but
Emily remained at the casement, watching the setting moon, and the
valley sinking into deep shade, and willing to prolong her present state
of mind. At length she retired to her mattress, and sunk into tranquil
slumber.



CHAPTER V


     While in the rosy vale
 Love breath'd his infant sighs, from anguish free.
     Thomson

St. Aubert, sufficiently restored by a night's repose to pursue his
journey, set out in the morning, with his family and Valancourt, for
Rousillon, which he hoped to reach before night-fall. The scenes,
through which they now passed, were as wild and romantic, as any they
had yet observed, with this difference, that beauty, every now and then,
softened the landscape into smiles. Little woody recesses appeared among
the mountains, covered with bright verdure and flowers; or a pastoral
valley opened its grassy bosom in the shade of the cliffs, with flocks
and herds loitering along the banks of a rivulet, that refreshed it
with perpetual green. St. Aubert could not repent the having taken this
fatiguing road, though he was this day, also, frequently obliged to
alight, to walk along the rugged precipice, and to climb the steep and
flinty mountain. The wonderful sublimity and variety of the prospects
repaid him for all this, and the enthusiasm, with which they were viewed
by his young companions, heightened his own, and awakened a remembrance
of all the delightful emotions of his early days, when the sublime
charms of nature were first unveiled to him. He found great pleasure in
conversing with Valancourt, and in listening to his ingenuous
remarks. The fire and simplicity of his manners seemed to render him
a characteristic figure in the scenes around them; and St. Aubert
discovered in his sentiments the justness and the dignity of an elevated
mind, unbiased by intercourse with the world. He perceived, that his
opinions were formed, rather than imbibed; were more the result of
thought, than of learning. Of the world he seemed to know nothing; for
he believed well of all mankind, and this opinion gave him the reflected
image of his own heart.

St. Aubert, as he sometimes lingered to examine the wild plants in his
path, often looked forward with pleasure to Emily and Valancourt, as
they strolled on together; he, with a countenance of animated delight,
pointing to her attention some grand feature of the scene; and she,
listening and observing with a look of tender seriousness, that spoke
the elevation of her mind. They appeared like two lovers who had
never strayed beyond these their native mountains; whose situation had
secluded them from the frivolities of common life, whose ideas were
simple and grand, like the landscapes among which they moved, and who
knew no other happiness, than in the union of pure and affectionate
hearts. St. Aubert smiled, and sighed at the romantic picture of
felicity his fancy drew; and sighed again to think, that nature and
simplicity were so little known to the world, as that their pleasures
were thought romantic.

'The world,' said he, pursuing this train of thought, 'ridicules a
passion which it seldom feels; its scenes, and its interests, distract
the mind, deprave the taste, corrupt the heart, and love cannot exist
in a heart that has lost the meek dignity of innocence. Virtue and taste
are nearly the same, for virtue is little more than active taste, and
the most delicate affections of each combine in real love. How then are
we to look for love in great cities, where selfishness, dissipation, and
insincerity supply the place of tenderness, simplicity and truth?'

It was near noon, when the travellers, having arrived at a piece of
steep and dangerous road, alighted to walk. The road wound up an ascent,
that was clothed with wood, and, instead of following the carriage, they
entered the refreshing shade. A dewy coolness was diffused upon the air,
which, with the bright verdure of turf, that grew under the trees, the
mingled fragrance of flowers and of balm, thyme, and lavender, that
enriched it, and the grandeur of the pines, beech, and chestnuts, that
overshadowed them, rendered this a most delicious retreat. Sometimes,
the thick foliage excluded all view of the country; at others, it
admitted some partial catches of the distant scenery, which gave
hints to the imagination to picture landscapes more interesting, more
impressive, than any that had been presented to the eye. The wanderers
often lingered to indulge in these reveries of fancy.

The pauses of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the
conversations of Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today than
ever. Valancourt often dropped suddenly from the most animating vivacity
into fits of deep musing, and there was, sometimes, an unaffected
melancholy in his smile, which Emily could not avoid understanding, for
her heart was interested in the sentiment it spoke.

St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter
under them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction of
the road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They had
continued near the brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery
it exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above.
Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice, except his own,
echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain the road were
equally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced, they perceived
a shepherd's cabin, between the boles of the trees at some distance, and
Valancourt bounded on first to ask assistance. When he reached it, he
saw only two little children, at play, on the turf before the door. He
looked into the hut, but no person was there, and the eldest of the boys
told him that their father was with his flocks, and their mother was
gone down into the vale, but would be back presently. As he stood,
considering what was further to be done, on a sudden he heard Michael's
voice roaring forth most manfully among the cliffs above, till he
made their echoes ring. Valancourt immediately answered the call, and
endeavoured to make his way through the thicket that clothed the steeps,
following the direction of the sound. After much struggle over brambles
and precipices, he reached Michael, and at length prevailed with him to
be silent, and to listen to him. The road was at a considerable distance
from the spot where St. Aubert and Emily were; the carriage could not
easily return to the entrance of the wood, and, since it would be very
fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep road to the place
where it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find a more easy ascent,
by the way he had himself passed.

Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested
themselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which
overshadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, should
return.

The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to
observe the strangers, while the younger continued his little gambols,
and teased his brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked with pleasure
upon this picture of infantine simplicity, till it brought to his
remembrance his own boys, whom he had lost about the age of these, and
their lamented mother; and he sunk into a thoughtfulness, which Emily
observing, she immediately began to sing one of those simple and lively
airs he was so fond of, and which she knew how to give with the most
captivating sweetness. St. Aubert smiled on her through his tears, took
her hand and pressed it affectionately, and then tried to dissipate the
melancholy reflections that lingered in his mind.

While she sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupt
her, and paused at a little distance to listen. When she had concluded,
he joined the party, and told them, that he had found Michael, as
well as a way, by which he thought they could ascend the cliff to
the carriage. He pointed to the woody steeps above, which St. Aubert
surveyed with an anxious eye. He was already wearied by his walk, and
this ascent was formidable to him. He thought, however, it would be less
toilsome than the long and broken road, and he determined to attempt it;
but Emily, ever watchful of his ease, proposing that he should rest, and
dine before they proceeded further, Valancourt went to the carriage for
the refreshments deposited there.

On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain, to
where the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; and
thither they were preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join the
children, and caress and weep over them.

The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her.
She took the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving the
strangers, hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage.
St. Aubert, on enquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her
husband, who was a shepherd, and lived here in the summer months to
watch over the flocks he led to feed upon these mountains, had lost, on
the preceding night, his little all. A gang of gipsies, who had for some
time infested the neighbourhood, had driven away several of his master's
sheep. 'Jacques,' added the shepherd's wife, 'had saved a little money,
and had bought a few sheep with it, and now they must go to his master
for those that are stolen; and what is worse than all, his master, when
he comes to know how it is, will trust him no longer with the care of
his flocks, for he is a hard man! and then what is to become of our
children!'

The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her manner
in relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her story; and
Valancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what was the value
of the stolen sheep; on hearing which he turned away with a look of
disappointment. St. Aubert put some money into her hand, Emily too gave
something from her little purse, and they walked towards the cliff; but
Valancourt lingered behind, and spoke to the shepherd's wife, who was
now weeping with gratitude and surprise. He enquired how much money was
yet wanting to replace the stolen sheep, and found, that it was a
sum very little short of all he had about him. He was perplexed and
distressed. 'This sum then,' said he to himself, 'would make this poor
family completely happy--it is in my power to give it--to make them
completely happy! But what is to become of me?--how shall I contrive
to reach home with the little money that will remain?' For a moment he
stood, unwilling to forego the luxury of raising a family from ruin to
happiness, yet considering the difficulties of pursuing his journey with
so small a sum as would be left.

While he was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself appeared:
his children ran to meet him; he took one of them in his arms, and, with
the other clinging to his coat, came forward with a loitering step. His
forlorn and melancholy look determined Valancourt at once; he threw down
all the money he had, except a very few louis, and bounded away
after St. Aubert and Emily, who were proceeding slowly up the steep.
Valancourt had seldom felt his heart so light as at this moment; his
gay spirits danced with pleasure; every object around him appeared more
interesting, or beautiful, than before. St. Aubert observed the uncommon
vivacity of his countenance: 'What has pleased you so much?' said he.
'O what a lovely day,' replied Valancourt, 'how brightly the sun
shines, how pure is this air, what enchanting scenery!' 'It is indeed
enchanting,' said St. Aubert, whom early experience had taught to
understand the nature of Valancourt's present feelings. 'What pity that
the wealthy, who can command such sunshine, should ever pass their days
in gloom--in the cold shade of selfishness! For you, my young friend,
may the sun always shine as brightly as at this moment; may your own
conduct always give you the sunshine of benevolence and reason united!'

Valancourt, highly flattered by this compliment, could make no reply but
by a smile of gratitude.

They continued to wind under the woods, between the grassy knolls of the
mountain, and, as they reached the shady summit, which he had pointed
out, the whole party burst into an exclamation. Behind the spot
where they stood, the rock rose perpendicularly in a massy wall to a
considerable height, and then branched out into overhanging crags. Their
grey tints were well contrasted by the bright hues of the plants and
wild flowers, that grew in their fractured sides, and were deepened by
the gloom of the pines and cedars, that waved above. The steeps below,
over which the eye passed abruptly to the valley, were fringed with
thickets of alpine shrubs; and, lower still, appeared the tufted tops of
the chesnut woods, that clothed their base, among which peeped forth the
shepherd's cottage, just left by the travellers, with its blueish smoke
curling high in the air. On every side appeared the majestic summits
of the Pyrenees, some exhibiting tremendous crags of marble, whose
appearance was changing every instant, as the varying lights fell upon
their surface; others, still higher, displaying only snowy points, while
their lower steeps were covered almost invariably with forests of pine,
larch, and oak, that stretched down to the vale. This was one of
the narrow vallies, that open from the Pyrenees into the country of
Rousillon, and whose green pastures, and cultivated beauty, form a
decided and wonderful contrast to the romantic grandeur that environs
it. Through a vista of the mountains appeared the lowlands of Rousillon,
tinted with the blue haze of distance, as they united with the waters of
the Mediterranean; where, on a promontory, which marked the boundary of
the shore, stood a lonely beacon, over which were seen circling flights
of sea-fowl. Beyond, appeared, now and then, a stealing sail, white with
the sun-beam, and whose progress was perceivable by its approach to the
light-house. Sometimes, too, was seen a sail so distant, that it served
only to mark the line of separation between the sky and the waves.

On the other side of the valley, immediately opposite to the spot where
the travellers rested, a rocky pass opened toward Gascony. Here no sign
of cultivation appeared. The rocks of granite, that screened the glen,
rose abruptly from their base, and stretched their barren points to the
clouds, unvaried with woods, and uncheered even by a hunter's cabin.
Sometimes, indeed, a gigantic larch threw its long shade over the
precipice, and here and there a cliff reared on its brow a monumental
cross, to tell the traveller the fate of him who had ventured thither
before. This spot seemed the very haunt of banditti; and Emily, as she
looked down upon it, almost expected to see them stealing out from
some hollow cave to look for their prey. Soon after an object not less
terrific struck her,--a gibbet standing on a point of rock near the
entrance of the pass, and immediately over one of the crosses she had
before observed. These were hieroglyphics that told a plain and dreadful
story. She forbore to point it out to St. Aubert, but it threw a gloom
over her spirits, and made her anxious to hasten forward, that
they might with certainty reach Rousillon before night-fall. It was
necessary, however, that St. Aubert should take some refreshment, and,
seating themselves on the short dry turf, they opened the basket of
provisions, while

     by breezy murmurs cool'd,
 Broad o'er THEIR heads the verdant cedars wave,
 And high palmetos lift their graceful shade.
 -----THEY draw
 Ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales
 Profusely breathing from the piney groves,
 And vales of fragrance; there at a distance hear
 The roaring floods, and cataracts.*
     *Thomson


St. Aubert was revived by rest, and by the serene air of this summit;
and Valancourt was so charmed with all around, and with the conversation
of his companions, that he seemed to have forgotten he had any further
to go. Having concluded their simple repast, they gave a long farewell
look to the scene, and again began to ascend. St. Aubert rejoiced when
he reached the carriage, which Emily entered with him; but Valancourt,
willing to take a more extensive view of the enchanting country, into
which they were about to descend, than he could do from a carriage,
loosened his dogs, and once more bounded with them along the banks of
the road. He often quitted it for points that promised a wider prospect,
and the slow pace, at which the mules travelled, allowed him to overtake
them with ease. Whenever a scene of uncommon magnificence appeared, he
hastened to inform St. Aubert, who, though he was too much tired to
walk himself, sometimes made the chaise wait, while Emily went to the
neighbouring cliff.

It was evening when they descended the lower alps, that bind Rousillon,
and form a majestic barrier round that charming country, leaving it open
only on the east to the Mediterranean. The gay tints of cultivation once
more beautified the landscape; for the lowlands were coloured with the
richest hues, which a luxuriant climate, and an industrious people can
awaken into life. Groves of orange and lemon perfumed the air, their
ripe fruit glowing among the foliage; while, sloping to the plains,
extensive vineyards spread their treasures. Beyond these, woods and
pastures, and mingled towns and hamlets stretched towards the sea, on
whose bright surface gleamed many a distant sail; while, over the whole
scene, was diffused the purple glow of evening. This landscape with the
surrounding alps did, indeed, present a perfect picture of the lovely
and the sublime, of 'beauty sleeping in the lap of horror.'

The travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedges
of flowering myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, where
they proposed to rest for the night. They met with simple, but neat
accommodation, and would have passed a happy evening, after the toils
and the delights of this day, had not the approaching separation thrown
a gloom over their spirit. It was St. Aubert's plan to proceed, on the
morrow, to the borders of the Mediterranean, and travel along its shores
into Languedoc; and Valancourt, since he was now nearly recovered, and
had no longer a pretence for continuing with his new friends, resolved
to leave them here. St. Aubert, who was much pleased with him, invited
him to go further, but did not repeat the invitation, and Valancourt
had resolution enough to forego the temptation of accepting it, that
he might prove himself not unworthy of the favour. On the following
morning, therefore, they were to part, St. Aubert to pursue his way to
Languedoc, and Valancourt to explore new scenes among the mountains, on
his return home. During this evening he was often silent and thoughtful;
St. Aubert's manner towards him was affectionate, though grave, and
Emily was serious, though she made frequent efforts to appear cheerful.
After one of the most melancholy evenings they had yet passed together,
they separated for the night.



CHAPTER VI


 I care not, Fortune! what you me deny;
 You cannot rob me of free nature's grace;
 You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
 Through which Aurora shews her brightening face;
 You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
 The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:
 Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
 And I their toys to the great children leave:
 Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
     THOMSON

In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily,
neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illness
still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily's fears his disorder appeared
to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxious
affection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in her
own.

At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known his
name and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for the
family estates, which were now in the possession of an elder brother of
Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant from La
Vallee, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on visits in the
neighbourhood. This knowledge had made him more willingly receive his
present companion; for, though his countenance and manners would have
won him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to trust to the
intelligence of his own eyes, with respect to countenances, he would
not have accepted these, as sufficient introductions to that of his
daughter.

The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night;
but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriage
wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started
from his chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and
he returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when
they must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would
never pass La Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt,
eagerly thanking him, assured him that he never would; as he said which
he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of
her spirits. They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation,
and St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt
following in silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutes
after they were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courage
enough to say--Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy
word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected
smile, and the carriage drove on.

The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil
pensiveness, which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by
observing, 'This is a very promising young man; it is many years since I
have been so much pleased with any person, on so short an acquaintance.
He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when every scene was
new and delightful!' St. Aubert sighed, and sunk again into a reverie;
and, as Emily looked back upon the road they had passed, Valancourt was
seen, at the door of the little inn, following them with his eyes. Her
perceived her, and waved his hand; and she returned the adieu, till the
winding road shut her from his sight.

'I remember when I was about his age,' resumed St. Aubert, 'and I
thought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon me
then, now--it is closing.'

'My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,' said Emily in a trembling
voice, 'I hope you have many, many years to live--for your own sake--for
MY sake.'

'Ah, my Emily!' replied St. Aubert, 'for thy sake! Well--I hope it is
so.' He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek, threw a
smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, 'there
is something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which is
particularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his
feelings have not been entirely corroded by the world. It is cheering
and reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person; his mind catches
somewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are lighted up with a
transient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring to me.'

Emily, who pressed her father's hand affectionately, had never before
listened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no, not even
when he had bestowed them on herself.

They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted with
the romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded, on one side, by
the grandeur of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the ocean; and,
soon after noon, they reached the town of Colioure, situated on the
Mediterranean. Here they dined, and rested till towards the cool of
day, when they pursued their way along the shores--those enchanting
shores!--which extend to Languedoc. Emily gazed with enthusiasm on the
vastness of the sea, its surface varying, as the lights and shadows
fell, and on its woody banks, mellowed with autumnal tints.

St. Aubert was impatient to reach Perpignan, where he expected letters
from M. Quesnel; and it was the expectation of these letters, that
had induced him to leave Colioure, for his feeble frame had required
immediate rest. After travelling a few miles, he fell asleep; and Emily,
who had put two or three books into the carriage, on leaving La Vallee,
had now the leisure for looking into them. She sought for one, in which
Valancourt had been reading the day before, and hoped for the pleasure
of re-tracing a page, over which the eyes of a beloved friend had
lately passed, of dwelling on the passages, which he had admired, and of
permitting them to speak to her in the language of his own mind, and to
bring himself to her presence. On searching for the book, she could find
it no where, but in its stead perceived a volume of Petrarch's poems,
that had belonged to Valancourt, whose name was written in it, and from
which he had frequently read passages to her, with all the pathetic
expression, that characterized the feelings of the author. She hesitated
in believing, what would have been sufficiently apparent to almost any
other person, that he had purposely left this book, instead of the
one she had lost, and that love had prompted the exchange; but, having
opened it with impatient pleasure, and observed the lines of his pencil
drawn along the various passages he had read aloud, and under others
more descriptive of delicate tenderness than he had dared to trust
his voice with, the conviction came, at length, to her mind. For some
moments she was conscious only of being beloved; then, a recollection
of all the variations of tone and countenance, with which he had recited
these sonnets, and of the soul, which spoke in their expression, pressed
to her memory, and she wept over the memorial of his affection.

They arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset, where St. Aubert found,
as he had expected, letters from M. Quesnel, the contents of which
so evidently and grievously affected him, that Emily was alarmed,
and pressed him, as far as her delicacy would permit, to disclose
the occasion of his concern; but he answered her only by tears, and
immediately began to talk on other topics. Emily, though she forbore
to press the one most interesting to her, was greatly affected by her
father's manner, and passed a night of sleepless solicitude.

In the morning they pursued their journey along the coast towards
Leucate, another town on the Mediterranean, situated on the borders of
Languedoc and Rousillon. On the way, Emily renewed the subject of the
preceding night, and appeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert's silence
and dejection, that he relaxed from his reserve. 'I was unwilling, my
dear Emily,' said he, 'to throw a cloud over the pleasure you receive
from these scenes, and meant, therefore, to conceal, for the present,
some circumstances, with which, however, you must at length have been
made acquainted. But your anxiety has defeated my purpose; you suffer as
much from this, perhaps, as you will do from a knowledge of the facts I
have to relate. M. Quesnel's visit proved an unhappy one to me; he came
to tell me part of the news he has now confirmed. You may have heard me
mention a M. Motteville, of Paris, but you did not know that the
chief of my personal property was invested in his hands. I had great
confidence in him, and I am yet willing to believe, that he is not
wholly unworthy of my esteem. A variety of circumstances have concurred
to ruin him, and--I am ruined with him.'

St. Aubert paused to conceal his emotion.

'The letters I have just received from M. Quesnel,' resumed he,
struggling to speak with firmness, 'enclosed others from Motteville,
which confirmed all I dreaded.'

'Must we then quit La Vallee?' said Emily, after a long pause of
silence. 'That is yet uncertain,' replied St. Aubert, 'it will depend
upon the compromise Motteville is able to make with his creditors. My
income, you know, was never large, and now it will be reduced to
little indeed! It is for you, Emily, for you, my child, that I am most
afflicted.' His last words faltered; Emily smiled tenderly upon him
through her tears, and then, endeavouring to overcome her emotion, 'My
dear father,' said she, 'do not grieve for me, or for yourself; we may
yet be happy;--if La Vallee remains for us, we must be happy. We will
retain only one servant, and you shall scarcely perceive the change in
your income. Be comforted, my dear sir; we shall not feel the want of
those luxuries, which others value so highly, since we never had a taste
for them; and poverty cannot deprive us of many consolations. It cannot
rob us of the affection we have for each other, or degrade us in our own
opinion, or in that of any person, whose opinion we ought to value.'

St. Aubert concealed his face with his handkerchief, and was unable
to speak; but Emily continued to urge to her father the truths, which
himself had impressed upon her mind.

'Besides, my dear sir, poverty cannot deprive us of intellectual
delights. It cannot deprive you of the comfort of affording me examples
of fortitude and benevolence; nor me of the delight of consoling a
beloved parent. It cannot deaden our taste for the grand, and the
beautiful, or deny us the means of indulging it; for the scenes
of nature--those sublime spectacles, so infinitely superior to all
artificial luxuries! are open for the enjoyment of the poor, as well as
of the rich. Of what, then, have we to complain, so long as we are not
in want of necessaries? Pleasures, such as wealth cannot buy, will still
be ours. We retain, then, the sublime luxuries of nature, and lose only
the frivolous ones of art.'

St. Aubert could not reply: he caught Emily to his bosom, their tears
flowed together, but--they were not tears of sorrow. After this language
of the heart, all other would have been feeble, and they remained silent
for some time. Then, St. Aubert conversed as before; for, if his mind
had not recovered its natural tranquillity, it at least assumed the
appearance of it.

They reached the romantic town of Leucate early in the day, but St.
Aubert was weary, and they determined to pass the night there. In the
evening, he exerted himself so far as to walk with his daughter to view
the environs that overlook the lake of Leucate, the Mediterranean, part
of Rousillon, with the Pyrenees, and a wide extent of the luxuriant
province of Languedoc, now blushing with the ripened vintage, which the
peasants were beginning to gather. St. Aubert and Emily saw the busy
groups, caught the joyous song, that was wafted on the breeze, and
anticipated, with apparent pleasure, their next day's journey over this
gay region. He designed, however, still to wind along the sea-shore.
To return home immediately was partly his wish, but from this he was
withheld by a desire to lengthen the pleasure, which the journey gave
his daughter, and to try the effect of the sea air on his own disorder.

On the following day, therefore, they recommenced their journey through
Languedoc, winding the shores of the Mediterranean; the Pyrenees still
forming the magnificent back-ground of their prospects, while on their
right was the ocean, and, on their left, wide extended plains melting
into the blue horizon. St. Aubert was pleased, and conversed much with
Emily, yet his cheerfulness was sometimes artificial, and sometimes a
shade of melancholy would steal upon his countenance, and betray him.
This was soon chased away by Emily's smile; who smiled, however, with an
aching heart, for she saw that his misfortunes preyed upon his mind, and
upon his enfeebled frame.

It was evening when they reached a small village of Upper Languedoc,
where they meant to pass the night, but the place could not afford
them beds; for here, too, it was the time of the vintage, and they
were obliged to proceed to the next post. The languor of illness and of
fatigue, which returned upon St. Aubert, required immediate repose,
and the evening was now far advanced; but from necessity there was no
appeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed.

The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of the
vintage, with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened St.
Aubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to the
hilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyes
moved over the scene, he considered, that they would soon, perhaps, be
closed for ever on this world. 'Those distant and sublime mountains,'
said he secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretched
towards the west, 'these luxuriant plains, this blue vault, the cheerful
light of day, will be shut from my eyes! The song of the peasant, the
cheering voice of man--will no longer sound for me!'

The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind of
her father, and she fixed them on his face, with an expression of such
tender pity, as recalled his thoughts from every desultory object of
regret, and he remembered only, that he must leave his daughter without
protection. This reflection changed regret to agony; he sighed deeply,
and remained silent, while she seemed to understand that sigh, for
she pressed his hand affectionately, and then turned to the window to
conceal her tears. The sun now threw a last yellow gleam on the waves of
the Mediterranean, and the gloom of twilight spread fast over the scene,
till only a melancholy ray appeared on the western horizon, marking the
point where the sun had set amid the vapours of an autumnal evening. A
cool breeze now came from the shore, and Emily let down the glass; but
the air, which was refreshing to health, was as chilling to sickness,
and St. Aubert desired, that the window might be drawn up. Increasing
illness made him now more anxious than ever to finish the day's journey,
and he stopped the muleteer to enquire how far they had yet to go to the
next post. He replied, 'Nine miles.' 'I feel I am unable to proceed much
further,' said St. Aubert; 'enquire, as you go, if there is any house on
the road that would accommodate us for the night.' He sunk back in
the carriage, and Michael, cracking his whip in the air, set off, and
continued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert, almost fainting, called
to him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the window, and saw a
peasant walking at some little distance on the road, for whom they
waited, till he came up, when he was asked, if there was any house in
the neighbourhood that accommodated travellers. He replied, that he knew
of none. 'There is a chateau, indeed, among those woods on the right,'
added he, 'but I believe it receives nobody, and I cannot show you the
way, for I am almost a stranger here.' St. Aubert was going to ask
him some further question concerning the chateau, but the man abruptly
passed on. After some consideration, he ordered Michael to proceed
slowly to the woods. Every moment now deepened the twilight, and
increased the difficulty of finding the road. Another peasant soon after
passed. 'Which is the way to the chateau in the woods?' cried Michael.

'The chateau in the woods!' exclaimed the peasant--'Do you mean that
with the turret, yonder?'

'I don't know as for the turret, as you call it,' said Michael, 'I mean
that white piece of a building, that we see at a distance there, among
the trees.'

'Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, that you are going thither?'
said the man with surprise.

St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiar
tone in which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. 'We are
travellers,' said he, 'who are in search of a house of accommodation for
the night; is there any hereabout?'

'None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder,'
replied the peasant, pointing to the woods, 'but I would not advise you
to go there.'

'To whom does the chateau belong?'

'I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.'

'It is uninhabited, then?' 'No, not uninhabited; the steward and
housekeeper are there, I believe.'

On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the chateau, and
risque the refusal of being accommodated for the night; he therefore
desired the countryman would shew Michael the way, and bade him expect
reward for his trouble. The man was for a moment silent, and then said,
that he was going on other business, but that the road could not be
missed, if they went up an avenue to the right, to which he pointed. St.
Aubert was going to speak, but the peasant wished him good night, and
walked on.

The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a gate,
and Michael having dismounted to open it, they entered between rows of
ancient oak and chesnut, whose intermingled branches formed a lofty arch
above. There was something so gloomy and desolate in the appearance of
this avenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almost shuddered as
she passed along; and, recollecting the manner in which the peasant had
mentioned the chateau, she gave a mysterious meaning to his words, such
as she had not suspected when he uttered them. These apprehensions,
however, she tried to check, considering that they were probably the
effect of a melancholy imagination, which her father's situation, and
a consideration of her own circumstances, had made sensible to every
impression.

They passed slowly on, for they were now almost in darkness, which,
together with the unevenness of the ground, and the frequent roots of
old trees, that shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceed
with caution. On a sudden Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St.
Aubert looked from the window to enquire the cause, he perceived a
figure at some distance moving up the avenue. The dusk would not permit
him to distinguish what it was, but he bade Michael go on.

'This seems a wild place,' said Michael; 'there is no house hereabout,
don't your honour think we had better turn back?'

'Go a little farther, and if we see no house then, we will return to the
road,' replied St. Aubert.

Michael proceeded with reluctance, and the extreme slowness of his pace
made St. Aubert look again from the window to hasten him, when again he
saw the same figure. He was somewhat startled: probably the gloominess
of the spot made him more liable to alarm than usual; however this
might be, he now stopped Michael, and bade him call to the person in the
avenue.

'Please your honour, he may be a robber,' said Michael. 'It does not
please me,' replied St. Aubert, who could not forbear smiling at the
simplicity of his phrase, 'and we will, therefore, return to the road,
for I see no probability of meeting here with what we seek.'

Michael turned about immediately, and was retracing his way with
alacrity, when a voice was heard from among the trees on the left. It
was not the voice of command, or distress, but a deep hollow tone, which
seemed to be scarcely human. The man whipped his mules till they went as
fast as possible, regardless of the darkness, the broken ground, and
the necks of the whole party, nor once stopped till he reached the gate,
which opened from the avenue into the high-road, where he went into a
more moderate pace.

'I am very ill,' said St. Aubert, taking his daughter's hand. 'You are
worse, then, sir!' said Emily, extremely alarmed by his manner, 'you
are worse, and here is no assistance. Good God! what is to be done!' He
leaned his head on her shoulder, while she endeavoured to support him
with her arm, and Michael was again ordered to stop. When the rattling
of the wheels had ceased, music was heard on their air; it was to Emily
the voice of Hope. 'Oh! we are near some human habitation!' said she,
'help may soon be had.'

She listened anxiously; the sounds were distant, and seemed to come from
a remote part of the woods that bordered the road; and, as she looked
towards the spot whence they issued, she perceived in the faint
moon-light something like a chateau. It was difficult, however, to reach
this; St. Aubert was now too ill to bear the motion of the carriage;
Michael could not quit his mules; and Emily, who still supported her
father, feared to leave him, and also feared to venture alone to such a
distance, she knew not whither, or to whom. Something, however, it was
necessary to determine upon immediately; St. Aubert, therefore, told
Michael to proceed slowly; but they had not gone far, when he fainted,
and the carriage was again stopped. He lay quite senseless.--'My dear,
dear father!' cried Emily in great agony, who began to fear that he was
dying, 'speak, if it is only one word to let me hear the sound of your
voice!' But no voice spoke in reply. In the agony of terror she bade
Michael bring water from the rivulet, that flowed along the road;
and, having received some in the man's hat, with trembling hands she
sprinkled it over her father's face, which, as the moon's rays now
fell upon it, seemed to bear the impression of death. Every emotion of
selfish fear now gave way to a stronger influence, and, committing St.
Aubert to the care of Michael, who refused to go far from his mules,
she stepped from the carriage in search of the chateau she had seen at
a distance. It was a still moon-light night, and the music, which yet
sounded on the air, directed her steps from the high road, up a shadowy
lane, that led to the woods. Her mind was for some time so entirely
occupied by anxiety and terror for her father, that she felt none for
herself, till the deepening gloom of the overhanging foliage, which now
wholly excluded the moon-light, and the wildness of the place, recalled
her to a sense of her adventurous situation. The music had ceased,
and she had no guide but chance. For a moment she paused in terrified
perplexity, till a sense of her father's condition again overcoming
every consideration for herself, she proceeded. The lane terminated in
the woods, but she looked round in vain for a house, or a human being,
and as vainly listened for a sound to guide her. She hurried on,
however, not knowing whither, avoiding the recesses of the woods, and
endeavouring to keep along their margin, till a rude kind of avenue,
which opened upon a moon-light spot, arrested her attention. The
wildness of this avenue brought to her recollection the one leading to
the turreted chateau, and she was inclined to believe, that this was a
part of the same domain, and probably led to the same point. While she
hesitated, whether to follow it or not, a sound of many voices in loud
merriment burst upon her ear. It seemed not the laugh of cheerfulness,
but of riot, and she stood appalled. While she paused, she heard a
distant voice, calling from the way she had come, and not doubting but
it was that of Michael, her first impulse was to hasten back; but a
second thought changed her purpose; she believed that nothing less than
the last extremity could have prevailed with Michael to quit his mules,
and fearing that her father was now dying, she rushed forward, with a
feeble hope of obtaining assistance from the people in the woods. Her
heart beat with fearful expectation, as she drew near the spot whence
the voices issued, and she often startled when her steps disturbed the
fallen leaves. The sounds led her towards the moon-light glade she had
before noticed; at a little distance from which she stopped, and saw,
between the boles of the trees, a small circular level of green turf,
surrounded by the woods, on which appeared a group of figures. On
drawing nearer, she distinguished these, by their dress, to be peasants,
and perceived several cottages scattered round the edge of the woods,
which waved loftily over this spot. While she gazed, and endeavoured
to overcome the apprehensions that withheld her steps, several peasant
girls came out of a cottage; music instantly struck up, and the dance
began. It was the joyous music of the vintage! the same she had before
heard upon the air. Her heart, occupied with terror for her father,
could not feel the contrast, which this gay scene offered to her own
distress; she stepped hastily forward towards a group of elder peasants,
who were seated at the door of a cottage, and, having explained her
situation, entreated their assistance. Several of them rose with
alacrity, and, offering any service in their power, followed Emily, who
seemed to move on the wind, as fast as they could towards the road.

When she reached the carriage she found St. Aubert restored to
animation. On the recovery of his senses, having heard from Michael
whither his daughter was gone, anxiety for her overcame every regard for
himself, and he had sent him in search of her. He was, however, still
languid, and, perceiving himself unable to travel much farther, he
renewed his enquiries for an inn, and concerning the chateau in the
woods. 'The chateau cannot accommodate you, sir,' said a venerable
peasant who had followed Emily from the woods, 'it is scarcely
inhabited; but, if you will do me the honour to visit my cottage, you
shall be welcome to the best bed it affords.'

St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman; he therefore was not surprised at
French courtesy; but, ill as he was, he felt the value of the offer
enhanced by the manner which accompanied it. He had too much delicacy
to apologize, or to appear to hesitate about availing himself of
the peasant's hospitality, but immediately accepted it with the same
frankness with which it was offered.

The carriage again moved slowly on; Michael following the peasants up
the lane, which Emily had just quitted, till they came to the moon-light
glade. St. Aubert's spirits were so far restored by the courtesy of
his host, and the near prospect of repose, that he looked with a sweet
complacency upon the moon-light scene, surrounded by the shadowy
woods, through which, here and there, an opening admitted the streaming
splendour, discovering a cottage, or a sparkling rivulet. He listened,
with no painful emotion, to the merry notes of the guitar and tamborine;
and, though tears came to his eyes, when he saw the debonnaire dance of
the peasants, they were not merely tears of mournful regret. With Emily
it was otherwise; immediate terror for her father had now subsided into
a gentle melancholy, which every note of joy, by awakening comparison,
served to heighten.

The dance ceased on the approach of the carriage, which was a phenomenon
in these sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked round it with
eager curiosity. On learning that it brought a sick stranger, several
girls ran across the turf, and returned with wine and baskets of grapes,
which they presented to the travellers, each with kind contention
pressing for a preference. At length, the carriage stopped at a neat
cottage, and his venerable conductor, having assisted St. Aubert to
alight, led him and Emily to a small inner room, illuminated only by
moon-beams, which the open casement admitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing in
rest, seated himself in an arm-chair, and his senses were refreshed by
the cool and balmy air, that lightly waved the embowering honeysuckles,
and wafted their sweet breath into the apartment. His host, who was
called La Voisin, quitted the room, but soon returned with fruits,
cream, and all the pastoral luxury his cottage afforded; having set down
which, with a smile of unfeigned welcome, he retired behind the chair of
his guest. St. Aubert insisted on his taking a seat at the table, and,
when the fruit had allayed the fever of his palate, and he found himself
somewhat revived, he began to converse with his host, who communicated
several particulars concerning himself and his family, which were
interesting, because they were spoken from the heart, and delineated
a picture of the sweet courtesies of family kindness. Emily sat by her
father, holding his hand, and, while she listened to the old man, her
heart swelled with the affectionate sympathy he described, and her
tears fell to the mournful consideration, that death would probably
soon deprive her of the dearest blessing she then possessed. The soft
moon-light of an autumnal evening, and the distant music, which now
sounded a plaintive strain, aided the melancholy of her mind. The old
man continued to talk of his family, and St. Aubert remained silent.
'I have only one daughter living,' said La Voisin, 'but she is happily
married, and is every thing to me. When I lost my wife,' he added with
a sigh, 'I came to live with Agnes, and her family; she has several
children, who are all dancing on the green yonder, as merry as
grasshoppers--and long may they be so! I hope to die among them,
monsieur. I am old now, and cannot expect to live long, but there is
some comfort in dying surrounded by one's children.'

'My good friend,' said St. Aubert, while his voice trembled, 'I hope you
will long live surrounded by them.'

'Ah, sir! at my age I must not expect that!' replied the old man, and he
paused: 'I can scarcely wish it,' he resumed, 'for I trust that whenever
I die I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone before me. I can
sometimes almost fancy I see her of a still moon-light night, walking
among these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur, that
we shall be permitted to revisit the earth, after we have quitted the
body?'

Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart; her tears fell
fast upon her father's hand, which she yet held. He made an effort to
speak, and at length said in a low voice, 'I hope we shall be permitted
to look down on those we have left on the earth, but I can only hope it.
Futurity is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our only
guides concerning it. We are not enjoined to believe, that disembodied
spirits watch over the friends they have loved, but we may innocently
hope it. It is a hope which I will never resign,' continued he, while
he wiped the tears from his daughter's eyes, 'it will sweeten the bitter
moments of death!' Tears fell slowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too,
and there was a pause of silence. Then, La Voisin, renewing the subject,
said, 'But you believe, sir, that we shall meet in another world the
relations we have loved in this; I must believe this.' 'Then do
believe it,' replied St. Aubert, 'severe, indeed, would be the pangs of
separation, if we believed it to be eternal. Look up, my dear Emily,
we shall meet again!' He lifted his eyes towards heaven, and a gleam
of moon-light, which fell upon his countenance, discovered peace and
resignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow.

La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too far, and he dropped
it, saying, 'We are in darkness, I forgot to bring a light.'

'No,' said St. Aubert, 'this is a light I love. Sit down, my good
friend. Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all day;
this air refreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music,
which floats so sweetly at a distance. Let me see you smile. Who touches
that guitar so tastefully? are there two instruments, or is it an echo I
hear?'

'It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That guitar is often heard at night,
when all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and it is sometimes
accompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, one would almost think the
woods were haunted.' 'They certainly are haunted,' said St. Aubert with
a smile, 'but I believe it is by mortals.' 'I have sometimes heard it
at midnight, when I could not sleep,' rejoined La Voisin, not seeming to
notice this remark, 'almost under my window, and I never heard any music
like it. It has often made me think of my poor wife till I cried. I have
sometimes got up to the window to look if I could see anybody, but as
soon as I opened the casement all was hushed, and nobody to be seen; and
I have listened, and listened till I have been so timorous, that even
the trembling of the leaves in the breeze has made me start. They say
it often comes to warn people of their death, but I have heard it these
many years, and outlived the warning.'

Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridiculous superstition,
could not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly resist its
contagion.

'Well, but, my good friend,' said St. Aubert, 'has nobody had courage to
follow the sounds? If they had, they would probably have discovered who
is the musician.' 'Yes, sir, they have followed them some way into the
woods, but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as ever,
and the people have at last been afraid of being led into harm, and
would go no further. It is very seldom that I have heard these sounds so
early in the evening. They usually come about midnight, when that bright
planet, which is rising above the turret yonder, sets below the woods on
the left.'

'What turret?' asked St. Aubert with quickness, 'I see none.'

'Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for the moon shines full
upon it;--up the avenue yonder, a long way off; the chateau it belongs
to is hid among the trees.'

'Yes, my dear sir,' said Emily, pointing, 'don't you see something
glitter above the dark woods? It is a fane, I fancy, which the rays fall
upon.'

'O yes, I see what you mean; and who does the chateau belong to?'

'The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner,' replied La Voisin,
emphatically.

'Ah!' said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, 'are we then so near Le-Blanc!'
He appeared much agitated.

'It used to be the Marquis's favourite residence,' resumed La Voisin,
'but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there for many
years. We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen into
other hands.' St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was roused by the
last words. 'Dead!' he exclaimed, 'Good God! when did he die?'

'He is reported to have died about five weeks since,' replied La Voisin.
'Did you know the Marquis, sir?'

'This is very extraordinary!' said St. Aubert without attending to the
question. 'Why is it so, my dear sir?' said Emily, in a voice of timid
curiosity. He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie; and in a
few moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked who had
succeeded to the estates. 'I have forgot his title, monsieur,' said La
Voisin; 'but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of his
coming hither.'

'The chateau is shut up then, still?'

'Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her husband the
steward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage hard
by.'

'The chateau is spacious, I suppose,' said Emily, 'and must be desolate
for the residence of only two persons.'

'Desolate enough, mademoiselle,' replied La Voisin, 'I would not pass
one night in the chateau, for the value of the whole domain.'

'What is that?' said St. Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness. As
his host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St. Aubert,
and then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastily
asked La Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. 'Almost
from my childhood, sir,' replied his host.

'You remember the late marchioness, then?' said St. Aubert in an altered
voice.

'Ah, monsieur!--that I do well. There are many besides me who remember
her.'

'Yes--' said St. Aubert, 'and I am one of those.'

'Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady. She
deserved a better fate.'

Tears stood in St. Aubert's eyes; 'Enough,' said he, in a voice almost
stifled by the violence of his emotions,--'it is enough, my friend.'

Emily, though extremely surprised by her father's manner, forbore to
express her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologize, but
St. Aubert interrupted him; 'Apology is quite unnecessary,' said he,
'let us change the topic. You was speaking of the music we just now
heard.'

'I was, monsieur--but hark!--it comes again; listen to that voice!' They
were all silent;

 At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound
 Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,
 And stole upon the air, that even Silence
 Was took ere she was 'ware, and wished she might
 Deny her nature, and be never more
 Still, to be so displaced.*
     *Milton.


In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which had
been heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert now observed,
that it produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of a
guitar, and still more melancholy and soft than the lute. They continued
to listen, but the sounds returned no more. 'This is strange!' said St.
Aubert, at length interrupting the silence. 'Very strange!' said Emily.
'It is so,' rejoined La Voisin, and they were again silent.

After a long pause, 'It is now about eighteen years since I first heard
that music,' said La Voisin; 'I remember it was on a fine summer's
night, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the woods, and
alone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, for one of my
boys was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had been watching at
his bed-side all the evening while his mother slept; for she had sat
up with him the night before. I had been watching, and went out for a
little fresh air, the day had been very sultry. As I walked under the
shades and mused, I heard music at a distance, and thought it was
Claude playing upon his flute, as he often did of a fine evening, at
the cottage door. But, when I came to a place where the trees opened, (I
shall never forget it!) and stood looking up at the north-lights, which
shot up the heaven to a great height, I heard all of a sudden such
sounds!--they came so as I cannot describe. It was like the music of
angels, and I looked up again almost expecting to see them in the sky.
When I came home, I told what I had heard, but they laughed at me, and
said it must be some of the shepherds playing on their pipes, and I
could not persuade them to the contrary. A few nights after, however, my
wife herself heard the same sounds, and was as much surprised as I was,
and Father Denis frightened her sadly by saying, that it was music come
to warn her of her child's death, and that music often came to houses
where there was a dying person.'

Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious dread entirely new
to her, and could scarcely conceal her agitation from St. Aubert.

'But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of Father Denis.'

'Father Denis!' said St. Aubert, who had listened to 'narrative old age'
with patient attention, 'are we near a convent, then?'

'Yes, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at no great distance, on the
sea shore yonder.'

'Ah!' said St. Aubert, as if struck with some sudden remembrance, 'the
convent of St. Clair!' Emily observed the clouds of grief, mingled with
a faint expression of horror, gathering on his brow; his countenance
became fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver whiteness of
the moon-light, he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument,
which seem to bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of the dead,
shewn

     by the blunted light
 That the dim moon through painted casements lends.*
     * The Emigrants.


'But, my dear sir,' said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts, 'you
forget that repose is necessary to you. If our kind host will give me
leave, I will prepare your bed, for I know how you like it to be made.'
St. Aubert, recollecting himself, and smiling affectionately, desired
she would not add to her fatigue by that attention; and La Voisin, whose
consideration for his guest had been suspended by the interests
which his own narrative had recalled, now started from his seat, and,
apologizing for not having called Agnes from the green, hurried out of
the room.

In a few moments he returned with his daughter, a young woman of
pleasing countenance, and Emily learned from her, what she had not
before suspected, that, for their accommodation, it was necessary
part of La Voisin's family should leave their beds; she lamented this
circumstance, but Agnes, by her reply, fully proved that she inherited,
at least, a share of her father's courteous hospitality. It was settled,
that some of her children and Michael should sleep in the neighbouring
cottage.

'If I am better, to-morrow, my dear,' said St. Aubert when Emily
returned to him, 'I mean to set out at an early hour, that we may rest,
during the heat of the day, and will travel towards home. In the present
state of my health and spirits I cannot look on a longer journey with
pleasure, and I am also very anxious to reach La Vallee.' Emily, though
she also desired to return, was grieved at her father's sudden wish to
do so, which she thought indicated a greater degree of indisposition
than he would acknowledge. St. Aubert now retired to rest, and Emily to
her little chamber, but not to immediate repose. Her thoughts returned
to the late conversation, concerning the state of departed spirits; a
subject, at this time, particularly affecting to her, when she had every
reason to believe that her dear father would ere long be numbered with
them. She leaned pensively on the little open casement, and in deep
thought fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue unclouded concave was
studded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of spirits, unsphered
of mortal mould. As her eyes wandered along the boundless aether, her
thoughts rose, as before, towards the sublimity of the Deity, and to the
contemplation of futurity. No busy note of this world interrupted the
course of her mind; the merry dance had ceased, and every cottager had
retired to his home. The still air seemed scarcely to breathe upon the
woods, and, now and then, the distant sound of a solitary sheep-bell,
or of a closing casement, was all that broke on silence. At length, even
this hint of human being was heard no more. Elevated and enwrapt, while
her eyes were often wet with tears of sublime devotion and solemn awe,
she continued at the casement, till the gloom of mid-night hung over the
earth, and the planet, which La Voisin had pointed out, sunk below the
woods. She then recollected what he had said concerning this planet, and
the mysterious music; and, as she lingered at the window, half
hoping and half fearing that it would return, her mind was led to the
remembrance of the extreme emotion her father had shewn on mention of
the Marquis La Villeroi's death, and of the fate of the Marchioness,
and she felt strongly interested concerning the remote cause of this
emotion. Her surprise and curiosity were indeed the greater, because she
did not recollect ever to have heard him mention the name of Villeroi.

No music, however, stole on the silence of the night, and Emily,
perceiving the lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of fatigue,
remembered that she was to rise early in the morning, and withdrew from
the window to repose.



CHAPTER VII


     Let those deplore their doom,
 Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn.
 But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,
 Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.
 Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?
 Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?--
 Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
 And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
 Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead!
     BEATTIE

Emily, called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, little
refreshed by sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred the
kindest blessing of the unhappy. But, when she opened her casement,
looked out upon the woods, bright with the morning sun, and inspired the
pure air, her mind was soothed. The scene was filled with that cheering
freshness, which seems to breathe the very spirit of health, and she
heard only sweet and PICTURESQUE sounds, if such an expression may be
allowed--the matin-bell of a distant convent, the faint murmur of the
sea-waves, the song of birds, and the far-off low of cattle, which
she saw coming slowly on between the trunks of trees. Struck with
the circumstances of imagery around her, she indulged the pensive
tranquillity which they inspired; and while she leaned on her window,
waiting till St. Aubert should descend to breakfast, her ideas arranged
themselves in the following lines:

THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING

 How sweet to wind the forest's tangled shade,
  When early twilight, from the eastern bound,
 Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,
  And fades as morning spreads her blush around!

 When ev'ry infant flower, that wept in night,
  Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,
 Expands its tender blossom to the light,
  And gives its incense to the genial air.

 How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume,
  And swells the melody of waking birds;
 The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,
  And woodman's song, and low of distant herds!

 Then, doubtful gleams the mountain's hoary head,
  Seen through the parting foliage from afar;
 And, farther still, the ocean's misty bed,
  With flitting sails, that partial sun-beams share.

 But, vain the sylvan shade--the breath of May,
  The voice of music floating on the gale,
 And forms, that beam through morning's dewy veil,
 If health no longer bid the heart be gay!
 O balmy hour! 'tis thine her wealth to give,
 Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!

Emily now heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently the
voice of Michael, who was talking to his mules, as he led them forth
from a hut adjoining. As she left her room, St. Aubert, who was now
risen, met her at the door, apparently as little restored by sleep as
herself. She led him down stairs to the little parlour, in which they
had supped on the preceding night, where they found a neat breakfast set
out, while the host and his daughter waited to bid them good-morrow.

'I envy you this cottage, my good friends,' said St. Aubert, as he met
them, 'it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air, that one
breathes--if any thing could restore lost health, it would surely be
this air.'

La Voisin bowed gratefully, and replied, with the gallantry of a
Frenchman, 'Our cottage may be envied, sir, since you and Mademoiselle
have honoured it with your presence.' St. Aubert gave him a friendly
smile for his compliment, and sat down to a table, spread with cream,
fruit, new cheese, butter, and coffee. Emily, who had observed her
father with attention and thought he looked very ill, endeavoured to
persuade him to defer travelling till the afternoon; but he seemed very
anxious to be at home, and his anxiety he expressed repeatedly, and with
an earnestness that was unusual with him. He now said, he found himself
as well as he had been of late, and that he could bear travelling better
in the cool hour of the morning, than at any other time. But, while
he was talking with his venerable host, and thanking him for his kind
attentions, Emily observed his countenance change, and, before she could
reach him, he fell back in his chair. In a few moments he recovered from
the sudden faintness that had come over him, but felt so ill, that
he perceived himself unable to set out, and, having remained a little
while, struggling against the pressure of indisposition, he begged he
might be helped up stairs to bed. This request renewed all the terror
which Emily had suffered on the preceding evening; but, though scarcely
able to support herself, under the sudden shock it gave her, she tried
to conceal her apprehensions from St. Aubert, and gave her trembling arm
to assist him to the door of his chamber.

When he was once more in bed, he desired that Emily, who was then
weeping in her own room, might be called; and, as she came, he waved his
hand for every other person to quit the apartment. When they were alone,
he held out his hand to her, and fixed his eyes upon her countenance,
with an expression so full of tenderness and grief, that all her
fortitude forsook her, and she burst into an agony of tears. St. Aubert
seemed struggling to acquire firmness, but was still unable to speak; he
could only press her hand, and check the tears that stood trembling in
his eyes. At length he commanded his voice, 'My dear child,' said he,
trying to smile through his anguish, 'my dear Emily!'--and paused again.
He raised his eyes to heaven, as if in prayer, and then, in a firmer
tone, and with a look, in which the tenderness of the father was
dignified by the pious solemnity of the saint, he said, 'My dear child,
I would soften the painful truth I have to tell you, but I find myself
quite unequal to the art. Alas! I would, at this moment, conceal it from
you, but that it would be most cruel to deceive you. It cannot be
long before we must part; let us talk of it, that our thoughts and our
prayers may prepare us to bear it.' His voice faltered, while Emily,
still weeping, pressed his hand close to her heart, which swelled with a
convulsive sigh, but she could not look up.

'Let me not waste these moments,' said St. Aubert, recovering himself,
'I have much to say. There is a circumstance of solemn consequence,
which I have to mention, and a solemn promise to obtain from you; when
this is done I shall be easier. You have observed, my dear, how anxious
I am to reach home, but know not all my reasons for this. Listen to what
I am going to say.--Yet stay--before I say more give me this promise, a
promise made to your dying father!'--St. Aubert was interrupted; Emily,
struck by his last words, as if for the first time, with a conviction of
his immediate danger, raised her head; her tears stopped, and, gazing
at him for a moment with an expression of unutterable anguish, a slight
convulsion seized her, and she sunk senseless in her chair. St.
Aubert's cries brought La Voisin and his daughter to the room, and
they administered every means in their power to restore her, but, for a
considerable time, without effect. When she recovered, St. Aubert was so
exhausted by the scene he had witnessed, that it was many minutes
before he had strength to speak; he was, however, somewhat revived by
a cordial, which Emily gave him; and, being again alone with her, he
exerted himself to tranquilize her spirits, and to offer her all the
comfort of which her situation admitted. She threw herself into his
arms, wept on his neck, and grief made her so insensible to all he said,
that he ceased to offer the alleviations, which he himself could not, at
this moment, feel, and mingled his silent tears with hers. Recalled, at
length, to a sense of duty, she tried to spare her father from a farther
view of her suffering; and, quitting his embrace, dried her tears,
and said something, which she meant for consolation. 'My dear Emily,'
replied St. Aubert, 'my dear child, we must look up with humble
confidence to that Being, who has protected and comforted us in every
danger, and in every affliction we have known; to whose eye every moment
of our lives has been exposed; he will not, he does not, forsake us now;
I feel his consolations in my heart. I shall leave you, my child, still
in his care; and, though I depart from this world, I shall be still in
his presence. Nay, weep not again, my Emily. In death there is nothing
new, or surprising, since we all know, that we are born to die; and
nothing terrible to those, who can confide in an all-powerful God.
Had my life been spared now, after a very few years, in the course
of nature, I must have resigned it; old age, with all its train of
infirmity, its privations and its sorrows, would have been mine; and
then, at last, death would have come, and called forth the tears you now
shed. Rather, my child, rejoice, that I am saved from such suffering,
and that I am permitted to die with a mind unimpaired, and sensible of
the comforts of faith and resignation.' St. Aubert paused, fatigued with
speaking. Emily again endeavoured to assume an air of composure; and, in
replying to what he had said, tried to sooth him with a belief, that he
had not spoken in vain.

When he had reposed a while, he resumed the conversation. 'Let me
return,' said he, 'to a subject, which is very near my heart. I said I
had a solemn promise to receive from you; let me receive it now, before
I explain the chief circumstance which it concerns; there are others,
of which your peace requires that you should rest in ignorance. Promise,
then, that you will perform exactly what I shall enjoin.'

Emily, awed by the earnest solemnity of his manner, dried her tears,
that had begun again to flow, in spite of her efforts to suppress them;
and, looking eloquently at St. Aubert, bound herself to do whatever he
should require by a vow, at which she shuddered, yet knew not why.

He proceeded: 'I know you too well, my Emily, to believe, that you would
break any promise, much less one thus solemnly given; your assurance
gives me peace, and the observance of it is of the utmost importance to
your tranquillity. Hear, then, what I am going to tell you. The closet,
which adjoins my chamber at La Vallee, has a sliding board in the floor.
You will know it by a remarkable knot in the wood, and by its being the
next board, except one, to the wainscot, which fronts the door. At the
distance of about a yard from that end, nearer the window, you will
perceive a line across it, as if the plank had been joined;--the way to
open it is this:--Press your foot upon the line; the end of the board
will then sink, and you may slide it with ease beneath the other. Below,
you will see a hollow place.' St. Aubert paused for breath, and Emily
sat fixed in deep attention. 'Do you understand these directions, my
dear?' said he. Emily, though scarcely able to speak, assured him that
she did.

'When you return home, then,' he added with a deep sigh--

At the mention of her return home, all the melancholy circumstances,
that must attend this return, rushed upon her fancy; she burst into
convulsive grief, and St. Aubert himself, affected beyond the resistance
of the fortitude which he had, at first, summoned, wept with her.
After some moments, he composed himself. 'My dear child,' said he, 'be
comforted. When I am gone, you will not be forsaken--I leave you only in
the more immediate care of that Providence, which has never yet forsaken
me. Do not afflict me with this excess of grief; rather teach me by
your example to bear my own.' He stopped again, and Emily, the more she
endeavoured to restrain her emotion, found it the less possible to do
so.

St. Aubert, who now spoke with pain, resumed the subject. 'That closet,
my dear,--when you return home, go to it; and, beneath the board I have
described, you will find a packet of written papers. Attend to me now,
for the promise you have given particularly relates to what I shall
direct. These papers you must burn--and, solemnly I command you, WITHOUT
EXAMINING THEM.'

Emily's surprise, for a moment, overcame her grief, and she ventured to
ask, why this must be? St. Aubert replied, that, if it had been right
for him to explain his reasons, her late promise would have been
unnecessarily exacted. 'It is sufficient for you, my love, to have a
deep sense of the importance of observing me in this instance.' St.
Aubert proceeded. 'Under that board you will also find about two hundred
louis d'ors, wrapped in a silk purse; indeed, it was to secure whatever
money might be in the chateau, that this secret place was contrived,
at a time when the province was over-run by troops of men, who took
advantage of the tumults, and became plunderers.

'But I have yet another promise to receive from you, which is--that
you will never, whatever may be your future circumstances, SELL the
chateau.' St. Aubert even enjoined her, whenever she might marry, to
make it an article in the contract, that the chateau should always
be hers. He then gave her a more minute account of his present
circumstances than he had yet done, adding, 'The two hundred louis, with
what money you will now find in my purse, is all the ready money I have
to leave you. I have told you how I am circumstanced with M. Motteville,
at Paris. Ah, my child! I leave you poor--but not destitute,' he added,
after a long pause. Emily could make no reply to any thing he now said,
but knelt at the bed-side, with her face upon the quilt, weeping over
the hand she held there.

After this conversation, the mind of St. Aubert appeared to be much more
at ease; but, exhausted by the effort of speaking, he sunk into a kind
of doze, and Emily continued to watch and weep beside him, till a gentle
tap at the chamber-door roused her. It was La Voisin, come to say, that
a confessor from the neighbouring convent was below, ready to attend St.
Aubert. Emily would not suffer her father to be disturbed, but desired,
that the priest might not leave the cottage. When St. Aubert awoke from
this doze, his senses were confused, and it was some moments before he
recovered them sufficiently to know, that it was Emily who sat beside
him. He then moved his lips, and stretched forth his hand to her; as she
received which, she sunk back in her chair, overcome by the impression
of death on his countenance. In a few minutes he recovered his voice,
and Emily then asked, if he wished to see the confessor; he replied,
that he did; and, when the holy father appeared, she withdrew. They
remained alone together above half an hour; when Emily was called in,
she found St. Aubert more agitated than when she had left him, and she
gazed, with a slight degree of resentment, at the friar, as the cause
of this; who, however, looked mildly and mournfully at her, and turned
away. St. Aubert, in a tremulous voice, said, he wished her to join in
prayer with him, and asked if La Voisin would do so too. The old man and
his daughter came; they both wept, and knelt with Emily round the bed,
while the holy father read in a solemn voice the service for the dying.
St. Aubert lay with a serene countenance, and seemed to join fervently
in the devotion, while tears often stole from beneath his closed
eyelids, and Emily's sobs more than once interrupted the service.

When it was concluded, and extreme unction had been administered,
the friar withdrew. St. Aubert then made a sign for La Voisin to come
nearer. He gave him his hand, and was, for a moment, silent. At length,
he said, in a trembling voice, 'My good friend, our acquaintance has
been short, but long enough to give you an opportunity of shewing me
much kind attention. I cannot doubt, that you will extend this kindness
to my daughter, when I am gone; she will have need of it. I entrust her
to your care during the few days she will remain here. I need say no
more--you know the feelings of a father, for you have children; mine
would be, indeed, severe if I had less confidence in you.' He paused. La
Voisin assured him, and his tears bore testimony to his sincerity, that
he would do all he could to soften her affliction, and that, if St.
Aubert wished it, he would even attend her into Gascony; an offer so
pleasing to St. Aubert, that he had scarcely words to acknowledge his
sense of the old man's kindness, or to tell him, that he accepted it.
The scene, that followed between St. Aubert and Emily, affected La
Voisin so much, that he quitted the chamber, and she was again left
alone with her father, whose spirits seemed fainting fast, but neither
his senses, or his voice, yet failed him; and, at intervals, he employed
much of these last awful moments in advising his daughter, as to her
future conduct. Perhaps, he never had thought more justly, or expressed
himself more clearly, than he did now.

'Above all, my dear Emily,' said he, 'do not indulge in the pride of
fine feeling, the romantic error of amiable minds. Those, who really
possess sensibility, ought early to be taught, that it is a dangerous
quality, which is continually extracting the excess of misery, or
delight, from every surrounding circumstance. And, since, in our passage
through this world, painful circumstances occur more frequently than
pleasing ones, and since our sense of evil is, I fear, more acute than
our sense of good, we become the victims of our feelings, unless we can
in some degree command them. I know you will say, (for you are young, my
Emily) I know you will say, that you are contented sometimes to suffer,
rather than to give up your refined sense of happiness, at others;
but, when your mind has been long harassed by vicissitude, you will be
content to rest, and you will then recover from your delusion. You will
perceive, that the phantom of happiness is exchanged for the substance;
for happiness arises in a state of peace, not of tumult. It is of a
temperate and uniform nature, and can no more exist in a heart, that is
continually alive to minute circumstances, than in one that is dead to
feeling. You see, my dear, that, though I would guard you against the
dangers of sensibility, I am not an advocate for apathy. At your age
I should have said THAT is a vice more hateful than all the errors of
sensibility, and I say so still. I call it a VICE, because it leads to
positive evil; in this, however, it does no more than an ill-governed
sensibility, which, by such a rule, might also be called a vice; but
the evil of the former is of more general consequence. I have exhausted
myself,' said St. Aubert, feebly, 'and have wearied you, my Emily; but,
on a subject so important to your future comfort, I am anxious to be
perfectly understood.'

Emily assured him, that his advice was most precious to her, and that
she would never forget it, or cease from endeavouring to profit by it.
St. Aubert smiled affectionately and sorrowfully upon her. 'I repeat
it,' said he, 'I would not teach you to become insensible, if I could;
I would only warn you of the evils of susceptibility, and point out
how you may avoid them. Beware, my love, I conjure you, of that
self-delusion, which has been fatal to the peace of so many persons;
beware of priding yourself on the gracefulness of sensibility; if you
yield to this vanity, your happiness is lost for ever. Always remember
how much more valuable is the strength of fortitude, than the grace of
sensibility. Do not, however, confound fortitude with apathy; apathy
cannot know the virtue. Remember, too, that one act of beneficence,
one act of real usefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment in the
world. Sentiment is a disgrace, instead of an ornament, unless it lead
us to good actions. The miser, who thinks himself respectable, merely
because he possesses wealth, and thus mistakes the means of doing good,
for the actual accomplishment of it, is not more blameable than the man
of sentiment, without active virtue. You may have observed persons, who
delight so much in this sort of sensibility to sentiment, which excludes
that to the calls of any practical virtue, that they turn from
the distressed, and, because their sufferings are painful to be
contemplated, do not endeavour to relieve them. How despicable is that
humanity, which can be contented to pity, where it might assuage!'

St. Aubert, some time after, spoke of Madame Cheron, his sister. 'Let
me inform you of a circumstance, that nearly affects your welfare,' he
added. 'We have, you know, had little intercourse for some years, but,
as she is now your only female relation, I have thought it proper to
consign you to her care, as you will see in my will, till you are of
age, and to recommend you to her protection afterwards. She is not
exactly the person, to whom I would have committed my Emily, but I had
no alternative, and I believe her to be upon the whole--a good kind of
woman. I need not recommend it to your prudence, my love, to endeavour
to conciliate her kindness; you will do this for his sake, who has often
wished to do so for yours.'

Emily assured him, that, whatever he requested she would religiously
perform to the utmost of her ability. 'Alas!' added she, in a voice
interrupted by sighs, 'that will soon be all which remains for me; it
will be almost my only consolation to fulfil your wishes.'

St. Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken, but
his spirit sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull. She felt
that look at her heart. 'My dear father!' she exclaimed; and then,
checking herself, pressed his hand closer, and hid her face with
her handkerchief. Her tears were concealed, but St. Aubert heard her
convulsive sobs. His spirits returned. 'O my child!' said he, faintly,
'let my consolations be yours. I die in peace; for I know, that I
am about to return to the bosom of my Father, who will still be your
Father, when I am gone. Always trust in him, my love, and he will
support you in these moments, as he supports me.'

Emily could only listen, and weep; but the extreme composure of his
manner, and the faith and hope he expressed, somewhat soothed her
anguish. Yet, whenever she looked upon his emaciated countenance, and
saw the lines of death beginning to prevail over it--saw his sunk eyes,
still bent on her, and their heavy lids pressing to a close, there was a
pang in her heart, such as defied expression, though it required filial
virtue, like hers, to forbear the attempt.

He desired once more to bless her; 'Where are you, my dear?' said he,
as he stretched forth his hands. Emily had turned to the window, that he
might not perceive her anguish; she now understood, that his sight had
failed him. When he had given her his blessing, and it seemed to be the
last effort of expiring life, he sunk back on his pillow. She kissed
his forehead; the damps of death had settled there, and, forgetting her
fortitude for a moment, her tears mingled with them. St. Aubert lifted
up his eyes; the spirit of a father returned to them, but it quickly
vanished, and he spoke no more.

St. Aubert lingered till about three o'clock in the afternoon, and, thus
gradually sinking into death, he expired without a struggle, or a sigh.

Emily was led from the chamber by La Voisin and his daughter, who did
what they could to comfort her. The old man sat and wept with her. Agnes
was more erroneously officious.



CHAPTER VIII


 O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
 Aerial forms shall sit at eve,
 and bend the pensive head.
     COLLINS

The monk, who had before appeared, returned in the evening to offer
consolation to Emily, and brought a kind message from the lady abbess,
inviting her to the convent. Emily, though she did not accept the offer,
returned an answer expressive of her gratitude. The holy conversation
of the friar, whose mild benevolence of manners bore some resemblance to
those of St. Aubert, soothed the violence of her grief, and lifted her
heart to the Being, who, extending through all place and all eternity,
looks on the events of this little world as on the shadows of a moment,
and beholds equally, and in the same instant, the soul that has passed
the gates of death, and that, which still lingers in the body. 'In the
sight of God,' said Emily, 'my dear father now exists, as truly as he
yesterday existed to me; it is to me only that he is dead; to God and to
himself he yet lives!'

The good monk left her more tranquil than she had been since St. Aubert
died; and, before she retired to her little cabin for the night, she
trusted herself so far as to visit the corpse. Silent, and without
weeping, she stood by its side. The features, placid and serene, told
the nature of the last sensations, that had lingered in the now deserted
frame. For a moment she turned away, in horror of the stillness in which
death had fixed that countenance, never till now seen otherwise
than animated; then gazed on it with a mixture of doubt and awful
astonishment. Her reason could scarcely overcome an involuntary and
unaccountable expectation of seeing that beloved countenance still
susceptible. She continued to gaze wildly; took up the cold hand;
spoke; still gazed, and then burst into a transport of grief. La Voisin,
hearing her sobs, came into the room to lead her away, but she heard
nothing, and only begged that he would leave her.

Again alone, she indulged her tears, and, when the gloom of evening
obscured the chamber, and almost veiled from her eyes the object of her
distress, she still hung over the body; till her spirits, at length,
were exhausted, and she became tranquil. La Voisin again knocked at the
door, and entreated that she would come to the common apartment. Before
she went, she kissed the lips of St. Aubert, as she was wont to do when
she bade him good night. Again she kissed them; her heart felt as if it
would break, a few tears of agony started to her eyes, she looked up to
heaven, then at St. Aubert, and left the room.

Retired to her lonely cabin, her melancholy thoughts still hovered
round the body of her deceased parent; and, when she sunk into a kind
of slumber, the images of her waking mind still haunted her fancy. She
thought she saw her father approaching her with a benign countenance;
then, smiling mournfully and pointing upwards, his lips moved, but,
instead of words, she heard sweet music borne on the distant air, and
presently saw his features glow with the mild rapture of a superior
being. The strain seemed to swell louder, and she awoke. The vision
was gone, but music yet came to her ear in strains such as angels might
breathe. She doubted, listened, raised herself in the bed, and again
listened. It was music, and not an illusion of her imagination. After
a solemn steady harmony, it paused; then rose again, in mournful
sweetness, and then died, in a cadence, that seemed to bear away the
listening soul to heaven. She instantly remembered the music of the
preceding night, with the strange circumstances, related by La Voisin,
and the affecting conversation it had led to, concerning the state of
departed spirits. All that St. Aubert had said, on that subject, now
pressed upon her heart, and overwhelmed it. What a change in a few
hours! He, who then could only conjecture, was now made acquainted with
truth; was himself become one of the departed! As she listened, she was
chilled with superstitious awe, her tears stopped; and she rose, and
went to the window. All without was obscured in shade; but Emily,
turning her eyes from the massy darkness of the woods, whose waving
outline appeared on the horizon, saw, on the left, that effulgent
planet, which the old man had pointed out, setting over the woods. She
remembered what he had said concerning it, and, the music now coming
at intervals on the air, she unclosed the casement to listen to the
strains, that soon gradually sunk to a greater distance, and tried
to discover whence they came. The obscurity prevented her from
distinguishing any object on the green platform below; and the sounds
became fainter and fainter, till they softened into silence. She
listened, but they returned no more. Soon after, she observed the
planet trembling between the fringed tops of the woods, and, in the next
moment, sink behind them. Chilled with a melancholy awe, she retired
once more to her bed, and, at length, forgot for a while her sorrows in
sleep.

On the following morning, she was visited by a sister of the convent,
who came, with kind offices and a second invitation from the lady
abbess; and Emily, though she could not forsake the cottage, while the
remains of her father were in it, consented, however painful such a
visit must be, in the present state of her spirits, to pay her respects
to the abbess, in the evening.

About an hour before sun-set, La Voisin shewed her the way through the
woods to the convent, which stood in a small bay of the Mediterranean,
crowned by a woody amphitheatre; and Emily, had she been less unhappy,
would have admired the extensive sea view, that appeared from the green
slope, in front of the edifice, and the rich shores, hung with woods
and pastures, that extended on either hand. But her thoughts were
now occupied by one sad idea, and the features of nature were to her
colourless and without form. The bell for vespers struck, as she passed
the ancient gate of the convent, and seemed the funereal note for St.
Aubert. Little incidents affect a mind, enervated by sorrow; Emily
struggled against the sickening faintness, that came over her, and was
led into the presence of the abbess, who received her with an air of
maternal tenderness; an air of such gentle solicitude and consideration,
as touched her with an instantaneous gratitude; her eyes were filled
with tears, and the words she would have spoken faltered on her lips.
The abbess led her to a seat, and sat down beside her, still holding
her hand and regarding her in silence, as Emily dried her tears and
attempted to speak. 'Be composed, my daughter,' said the abbess in
a soothing voice, 'do not speak yet; I know all you would say. Your
spirits must be soothed. We are going to prayers;--will you attend
our evening service? It is comfortable, my child, to look up in our
afflictions to a father, who sees and pities us, and who chastens in his
mercy.'

Emily's tears flowed again, but a thousand sweet emotions mingled with
them. The abbess suffered her to weep without interruption, and watched
over her with a look of benignity, that might have characterized the
countenance of a guardian angel. Emily, when she became tranquil, was
encouraged to speak without reserve, and to mention the motive, that
made her unwilling to quit the cottage, which the abbess did not oppose
even by a hint; but praised the filial piety of her conduct, and added a
hope, that she would pass a few days at the convent, before she returned
to La Vallee. 'You must allow yourself a little time to recover from
your first shock, my daughter, before you encounter a second; I will not
affect to conceal from you how much I know your heart must suffer, on
returning to the scene of your former happiness. Here, you will have
all, that quiet and sympathy and religion can give, to restore your
spirits. But come,' added she, observing the tears swell in Emily's
eyes, 'we will go to the chapel.'

Emily followed to the parlour, where the nuns were assembled, to whom
the abbess committed her, saying, 'This is a daughter, for whom I have
much esteem; be sisters to her.'

They passed on in a train to the chapel, where the solemn devotion, with
which the service was performed, elevated her mind, and brought to it
the comforts of faith and resignation.

Twilight came on, before the abbess's kindness would suffer Emily to
depart, when she left the convent, with a heart much lighter than she
had entered it, and was reconducted by La Voisin through the woods, the
pensive gloom of which was in unison with the temper of her mind; and
she pursued the little wild path, in musing silence, till her guide
suddenly stopped, looked round, and then struck out of the path into the
high grass, saying he had mistaken the road. He now walked on quickly,
and Emily, proceeding with difficulty over the obscured and uneven
ground, was left at some distance, till her voice arrested him, who
seemed unwilling to stop, and still hurried on. 'If you are in doubt
about the way,' said Emily, 'had we not better enquire it at the chateau
yonder, between the trees?'

'No,' replied La Voisin, 'there is no occasion. When we reach that
brook, ma'amselle, (you see the light upon the water there, beyond the
woods) when we reach that brook, we shall be at home presently. I don't
know how I happened to mistake the path; I seldom come this way after
sun-set.'

'It is solitary enough,' said Emily, 'but you have no banditti here.'

'No, ma'amselle--no banditti.'

'What are you afraid of then, my good friend? you are not
superstitious?' 'No, not superstitious; but, to tell you the truth,
lady, nobody likes to go near that chateau, after dusk.' 'By whom is it
inhabited,' said Emily, 'that it is so formidable?' 'Why, ma'amselle,
it is scarcely inhabited, for our lord the Marquis, and the lord of all
these find woods, too, is dead. He had not once been in it, for these
many years, and his people, who have the care of it, live in a cottage
close by.' Emily now understood this to be the chateau, which La Voisin
had formerly pointed out, as having belonged to the Marquis Villeroi, on
the mention of which her father had appeared so much affected.

'Ah! it is a desolate place now,' continued La Voisin, 'and such a
grand, fine place, as I remember it!' Emily enquired what had occasioned
this lamentable change; but the old man was silent, and Emily, whose
interest was awakened by the fear he had expressed, and above all by
a recollection of her father's agitation, repeated the question, and
added, 'If you are neither afraid of the inhabitants, my good friend,
nor are superstitious, how happens it, that you dread to pass near that
chateau in the dark?'

'Perhaps, then, I am a little superstitious, ma'amselle; and, if you
knew what I do, you might be so too. Strange things have happened
there. Monsieur, your good father, appeared to have known the late
Marchioness.' 'Pray inform me what did happen?' said Emily, with much
emotion.

'Alas! ma'amselle,' answered La Voisin, 'enquire no further; it is not
for me to lay open the domestic secrets of my lord.'--Emily, surprised
by the old man's words, and his manner of delivering them, forbore to
repeat her question; a nearer interest, the remembrance of St. Aubert,
occupied her thoughts, and she was led to recollect the music she heard
on the preceding night, which she mentioned to La Voisin. 'You was not
alone, ma'amselle, in this,' he replied, 'I heard it too; but I have so
often heard it, at the same hour, that I was scarcely surprised.'

'You doubtless believe this music to have some connection with the
chateau,' said Emily suddenly, 'and are, therefore, superstitious.' 'It
may be so, ma'amselle, but there are other circumstances, belonging to
that chateau, which I remember, and sadly too.' A heavy sigh followed:
but Emily's delicacy restrained the curiosity these words revived, and
she enquired no further.

On reaching the cottage, all the violence of her grief returned; it
seemed as if she had escaped its heavy pressure only while she was
removed from the object of it. She passed immediately to the chamber,
where the remains of her father were laid, and yielded to all the
anguish of hopeless grief. La Voisin, at length, persuaded her to
leave the room, and she returned to her own, where, exhausted by
the sufferings of the day, she soon fell into deep sleep, and awoke
considerably refreshed.

When the dreadful hour arrived, in which the remains of St. Aubert were
to be taken from her for ever, she went alone to the chamber to look
upon his countenance yet once again, and La Voisin, who had waited
patiently below stairs, till her despair should subside, with the
respect due to grief, forbore to interrupt the indulgence of it, till
surprise, at the length of her stay, and then apprehension overcame his
delicacy, and he went to lead her from the chamber. Having tapped gently
at the door, without receiving an answer, he listened attentively, but
all was still; no sigh, no sob of anguish was heard. Yet more alarmed by
this silence, he opened the door, and found Emily lying senseless across
the foot of the bed, near which stood the coffin. His calls procured
assistance, and she was carried to her room, where proper applications,
at length, restored her.

During her state of insensibility, La Voisin had given directions for
the coffin to be closed, and he succeeded in persuading Emily to forbear
revisiting the chamber. She, indeed, felt herself unequal to this, and
also perceived the necessity of sparing her spirits, and recollecting
fortitude sufficient to bear her through the approaching scene. St.
Aubert had given a particular injunction, that his remains should be
interred in the church of the convent of St. Clair, and, in mentioning
the north chancel, near the ancient tomb of the Villerois, had pointed
out the exact spot, where he wished to be laid. The superior had granted
this place for the interment, and thither, therefore, the sad procession
now moved, which was met, at the gates, by the venerable priest,
followed by a train of friars. Every person, who heard the solemn chant
of the anthem, and the peal of the organ, that struck up, when the
body entered the church, and saw also the feeble steps, and the assumed
tranquillity of Emily, gave her involuntary tears. She shed none,
but walked, her face partly shaded by a thin black veil, between two
persons, who supported her, preceded by the abbess, and followed by
nuns, whose plaintive voices mellowed the swelling harmony of the dirge.
When the procession came to the grave the music ceased. Emily drew the
veil entirely over her face, and, in a momentary pause, between the
anthem and the rest of the service, her sobs were distinctly audible.
The holy father began the service, and Emily again commanded her
feelings, till the coffin was let down, and she heard the earth rattle
on its lid. Then, as she shuddered, a groan burst from her heart, and
she leaned for support on the person who stood next to her. In a few
moments she recovered; and, when she heard those affecting and sublime
words: 'His body is buried in peace, and his soul returns to Him that
gave it,' her anguish softened into tears.

The abbess led her from the church into her own parlour, and there
administered all the consolations, that religion and gentle sympathy
can give. Emily struggled against the pressure of grief; but the abbess,
observing her attentively, ordered a bed to be prepared, and recommended
her to retire to repose. She also kindly claimed her promise to remain
a few days at the convent; and Emily, who had no wish to return to
the cottage, the scene of all her sufferings, had leisure, now that no
immediate care pressed upon her attention, to feel the indisposition,
which disabled her from immediately travelling.

Meanwhile, the maternal kindness of the abbess, and the gentle
attentions of the nuns did all, that was possible, towards soothing her
spirits and restoring her health. But the latter was too deeply wounded,
through the medium of her mind, to be quickly revived. She lingered for
some weeks at the convent, under the influence of a slow fever, wishing
to return home, yet unable to go thither; often even reluctant to
leave the spot where her father's relics were deposited, and sometimes
soothing herself with the consideration, that, if she died here, her
remains would repose beside those of St. Aubert. In the meanwhile, she
sent letters to Madame Cheron and to the old housekeeper, informing them
of the sad event, that had taken place, and of her own situation.
From her aunt she received an answer, abounding more in common-place
condolement, than in traits of real sorrow, which assured her, that a
servant should be sent to conduct her to La Vallee, for that her
own time was so much occupied by company, that she had no leisure to
undertake so long a journey. However Emily might prefer La Vallee to
Tholouse, she could not be insensible to the indecorous and unkind
conduct of her aunt, in suffering her to return thither, where she had
no longer a relation to console and protect her; a conduct, which was
the more culpable, since St. Aubert had appointed Madame Cheron the
guardian of his orphan daughter.

Madame Cheron's servant made the attendance of the good La Voisin
unnecessary; and Emily, who felt sensibly her obligations to him, for
all his kind attention to her late father, as well as to herself, was
glad to spare him a long, and what, at his time of life, must have been
a troublesome journey.

During her stay at the convent, the peace and sanctity that reigned
within, the tranquil beauty of the scenery without, and the delicate
attentions of the abbess and the nuns, were circumstances so soothing to
her mind, that they almost tempted her to leave a world, where she had
lost her dearest friends, and devote herself to the cloister, in a spot,
rendered sacred to her by containing the tomb of St. Aubert. The pensive
enthusiasm, too, so natural to her temper, had spread a beautiful
illusion over the sanctified retirement of a nun, that almost hid from
her view the selfishness of its security. But the touches, which a
melancholy fancy, slightly tinctured with superstition, gave to the
monastic scene, began to fade, as her spirits revived, and brought once
more to her heart an image, which had only transiently been banished
thence. By this she was silently awakened to hope and comfort and sweet
affections; visions of happiness gleamed faintly at a distance, and,
though she knew them to be illusions, she could not resolve to shut them
out for ever. It was the remembrance of Valancourt, of his taste, his
genius, and of the countenance which glowed with both, that, perhaps,
alone determined her to return to the world. The grandeur and sublimity
of the scenes, amidst which they had first met, had fascinated her
fancy, and had imperceptibly contributed to render Valancourt more
interesting by seeming to communicate to him somewhat of their own
character. The esteem, too, which St. Aubert had repeatedly expressed
for him, sanctioned this kindness; but, though his countenance and
manner had continually expressed his admiration of her, he had not
otherwise declared it; and even the hope of seeing him again was so
distant, that she was scarcely conscious of it, still less that it
influenced her conduct on this occasion.

It was several days after the arrival of Madame Cheron's servant before
Emily was sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey to La Vallee.
On the evening preceding her departure, she went to the cottage to take
leave of La Voisin and his family, and to make them a return for their
kindness. The old man she found sitting on a bench at his door, between
his daughter, and his son-in-law, who was just returned from his daily
labour, and who was playing upon a pipe, that, in tone, resembled an
oboe. A flask of wine stood beside the old man, and, before him, a small
table with fruit and bread, round which stood several of his grandsons,
fine rosy children, who were taking their supper, as their mother
distributed it. On the edge of the little green, that spread before
the cottage, were cattle and a few sheep reposing under the trees. The
landscape was touched with the mellow light of the evening sun, whose
long slanting beams played through a vista of the woods, and lighted
up the distant turrets of the chateau. She paused a moment, before she
emerged from the shade, to gaze upon the happy group before her--on the
complacency and ease of healthy age, depictured on the countenance of
La Voisin; the maternal tenderness of Agnes, as she looked upon her
children, and the innocency of infantine pleasures, reflected in their
smiles. Emily looked again at the venerable old man, and at the cottage;
the memory of her father rose with full force upon her mind, and she
hastily stepped forward, afraid to trust herself with a longer pause.
She took an affectionate and affecting leave of La Voisin and his
family; he seemed to love her as his daughter, and shed tears; Emily
shed many. She avoided going into the cottage, since she knew it would
revive emotions, such as she could not now endure.

One painful scene yet awaited her, for she determined to visit again her
father's grave; and that she might not be interrupted, or observed in
the indulgence of her melancholy tenderness, she deferred her visit,
till every inhabitant of the convent, except the nun who promised
to bring her the key of the church, should be retired to rest. Emily
remained in her chamber, till she heard the convent bell strike twelve,
when the nun came, as she had appointed, with the key of a private door,
that opened into the church, and they descended together the narrow
winding stair-case, that led thither. The nun offered to accompany Emily
to the grave, adding, 'It is melancholy to go alone at this hour;' but
the former, thanking her for the consideration, could not consent to
have any witness of her sorrow; and the sister, having unlocked the
door, gave her the lamp. 'You will remember, sister,' said she, 'that in
the east aisle, which you must pass, is a newly opened grave; hold the
light to the ground, that you may not stumble over the loose earth.'
Emily, thanking her again, took the lamp, and, stepping into the church,
sister Mariette departed. But Emily paused a moment at the door;
a sudden fear came over her, and she returned to the foot of the
stair-case, where, as she heard the steps of the nun ascending, and,
while she held up the lamp, saw her black veil waving over the spiral
balusters, she was tempted to call her back. While she hesitated, the
veil disappeared, and, in the next moment, ashamed of her fears, she
returned to the church. The cold air of the aisles chilled her, and
their deep silence and extent, feebly shone upon by the moon-light, that
streamed through a distant gothic window, would at any other time have
awed her into superstition; now, grief occupied all her attention. She
scarcely heard the whispering echoes of her own steps, or thought of the
open grave, till she found herself almost on its brink. A friar of the
convent had been buried there on the preceding evening, and, as she had
sat alone in her chamber at twilight, she heard, at distance, the monks
chanting the requiem for his soul. This brought freshly to her memory
the circumstances of her father's death; and, as the voices, mingling
with a low querulous peal of the organ, swelled faintly, gloomy and
affecting visions had arisen upon her mind. Now she remembered them,
and, turning aside to avoid the broken ground, these recollections made
her pass on with quicker steps to the grave of St. Aubert, when in the
moon-light, that fell athwart a remote part of the aisle, she thought
she saw a shadow gliding between the pillars. She stopped to listen,
and, not hearing any footstep, believed that her fancy had deceived her,
and, no longer apprehensive of being observed, proceeded. St. Aubert was
buried beneath a plain marble, bearing little more than his name and the
date of his birth and death, near the foot of the stately monument of
the Villerois. Emily remained at his grave, till a chime, that called
the monks to early prayers, warned her to retire; then, she wept over
it a last farewel, and forced herself from the spot. After this hour of
melancholy indulgence, she was refreshed by a deeper sleep, than she
had experienced for a long time, and, on awakening, her mind was more
tranquil and resigned, than it had been since St. Aubert's death.

But, when the moment of her departure from the convent arrived, all her
grief returned; the memory of the dead, and the kindness of the living
attached her to the place; and for the sacred spot, where her father's
remains were interred, she seemed to feel all those tender affections
which we conceive for home. The abbess repeated many kind assurances of
regard at their parting, and pressed her to return, if ever she should
find her condition elsewhere unpleasant; many of the nuns also expressed
unaffected regret at her departure, and Emily left the convent with many
tears, and followed by sincere wishes for her happiness.

She had travelled several leagues, before the scenes of the country,
through which she passed, had power to rouse her for a moment from the
deep melancholy, into which she was sunk, and, when they did, it was
only to remind her, that, on her last view of them, St. Aubert was at
her side, and to call up to her remembrance the remarks he had delivered
on similar scenery. Thus, without any particular occurrence, passed
the day in languor and dejection. She slept that night in a town on the
skirts of Languedoc, and, on the following morning, entered Gascony.

Towards the close of this day, Emily came within view of the plains in
the neighbourhood of La Vallee, and the well-known objects of former
times began to press upon her notice, and with them recollections, that
awakened all her tenderness and grief. Often, while she looked through
her tears upon the wild grandeur of the Pyrenees, now varied with the
rich lights and shadows of evening, she remembered, that, when last she
saw them, her father partook with her of the pleasure they inspired.
Suddenly some scene, which he had particularly pointed out to her, would
present itself, and the sick languor of despair would steal upon her
heart. 'There!' she would exclaim, 'there are the very cliffs, there the
wood of pines, which he looked at with such delight, as we passed this
road together for the last time. There, too, under the crag of that
mountain, is the cottage, peeping from among the cedars, which he bade
me remember, and copy with my pencil. O my father, shall I never see you
more!'

As she drew near the chateau, these melancholy memorials of past times
multiplied. At length, the chateau itself appeared, amid the glowing
beauty of St. Aubert's favourite landscape. This was an object, which
called for fortitude, not for tears; Emily dried hers, and prepared to
meet with calmness the trying moment of her return to that home, where
there was no longer a parent to welcome her. 'Yes,' said she, 'let me
not forget the lessons he has taught me! How often he has pointed out
the necessity of resisting even virtuous sorrow; how often we have
admired together the greatness of a mind, that can at once suffer and
reason! O my father! if you are permitted to look down upon your
child, it will please you to see, that she remembers, and endeavours to
practise, the precepts you have given her.'

A turn on the road now allowed a nearer view of the chateau, the
chimneys, tipped with light, rising from behind St. Aubert's favourite
oaks, whose foliage partly concealed the lower part of the building.
Emily could not suppress a heavy sigh. 'This, too, was his favourite
hour,' said she, as she gazed upon the long evening shadows, stretched
athwart the landscape. 'How deep the repose, how lovely the scene!
lovely and tranquil as in former days!'

Again she resisted the pressure of sorrow, till her ear caught the gay
melody of the dance, which she had so often listened to, as she walked
with St. Aubert, on the margin of the Garonne, when all her fortitude
forsook her, and she continued to weep, till the carriage stopped at the
little gate, that opened upon what was now her own territory. She raised
her eyes on the sudden stopping of the carriage, and saw her father's
old housekeeper coming to open the gate. Manchon also came running, and
barking before her; and when his young mistress alighted, fawned, and
played round her, gasping with joy.

'Dear ma'amselle!' said Theresa, and paused, and looked as if she
would have offered something of condolement to Emily, whose tears now
prevented reply. The dog still fawned and ran round her, and then flew
towards the carriage, with a short quick bark. 'Ah, ma'amselle!--my
poor master!' said Theresa, whose feelings were more awakened than her
delicacy, 'Manchon's gone to look for him.' Emily sobbed aloud; and, on
looking towards the carriage, which still stood with the door open, saw
the animal spring into it, and instantly leap out, and then with his
nose on the ground run round the horses.

'Don't cry so, ma'amselle,' said Theresa, 'it breaks my heart to see
you.' The dog now came running to Emily, then returned to the carriage,
and then back again to her, whining and discontented. 'Poor rogue!' said
Theresa, 'thou hast lost thy master, thou mayst well cry! But come, my
dear young lady, be comforted. What shall I get to refresh you?' Emily
gave her hand to the old servant, and tried to restrain her grief,
while she made some kind enquiries concerning her health. But she still
lingered in the walk which led to the chateau, for within was no
person to meet her with the kiss of affection; her own heart no longer
palpitated with impatient joy to meet again the well-known smile, and
she dreaded to see objects, which would recall the full remembrance of
her former happiness. She moved slowly towards the door, paused, went
on, and paused again. How silent, how forsaken, how forlorn did the
chateau appear! Trembling to enter it, yet blaming herself for delaying
what she could not avoid, she, at length, passed into the hall; crossed
it with a hurried step, as if afraid to look round, and opened the door
of that room, which she was wont to call her own. The gloom of evening
gave solemnity to its silent and deserted air. The chairs, the tables,
every article of furniture, so familiar to her in happier times,
spoke eloquently to her heart. She seated herself, without immediately
observing it, in a window, which opened upon the garden, and where St.
Aubert had often sat with her, watching the sun retire from the rich and
extensive prospect, that appeared beyond the groves.

Having indulged her tears for some time, she became more composed; and,
when Theresa, after seeing the baggage deposited in her lady's room,
again appeared, she had so far recovered her spirits, as to be able to
converse with her.

'I have made up the green bed for you, ma'amselle,' said Theresa, as she
set the coffee upon the table. 'I thought you would like it better than
your own now; but I little thought this day month, that you would come
back alone. A-well-a-day! the news almost broke my heart, when it did
come. Who would have believed, that my poor master, when he went
from home, would never return again!' Emily hid her face with her
handkerchief, and waved her hand.

'Do taste the coffee,' said Theresa. 'My dear young lady, be
comforted--we must all die. My dear master is a saint above.' Emily
took the handkerchief from her face, and raised her eyes full of tears
towards heaven; soon after she dried them, and, in a calm, but tremulous
voice, began to enquire concerning some of her late father's pensioners.

'Alas-a-day!' said Theresa, as she poured out the coffee, and handed
it to her mistress, 'all that could come, have been here every day to
enquire after you and my master.' She then proceeded to tell, that
some were dead whom they had left well; and others, who were ill, had
recovered. 'And see, ma'amselle,' added Theresa, 'there is old Mary
coming up the garden now; she has looked every day these three years as
if she would die, yet she is alive still. She has seen the chaise at the
door, and knows you are come home.'

The sight of this poor old woman would have been too much for Emily, and
she begged Theresa would go and tell her, that she was too ill to see
any person that night. 'To-morrow I shall be better, perhaps; but give
her this token of my remembrance.'

Emily sat for some time, given up to sorrow. Not an object, on which her
eye glanced, but awakened some remembrance, that led immediately to the
subject of her grief. Her favourite plants, which St. Aubert had taught
her to nurse; the little drawings, that adorned the room, which his
taste had instructed her to execute; the books, that he had selected
for her use, and which they had read together; her musical instruments,
whose sounds he loved so well, and which he sometimes awakened
himself--every object gave new force to sorrow. At length, she roused
herself from this melancholy indulgence, and, summoning all her
resolution, stepped forward to go into those forlorn rooms, which,
though she dreaded to enter, she knew would yet more powerfully affect
her, if she delayed to visit them.

Having passed through the green-house, her courage for a moment forsook
her, when she opened the door of the library; and, perhaps, the shade,
which evening and the foliage of the trees near the windows threw across
the room, heightened the solemnity of her feelings on entering that
apartment, where every thing spoke of her father. There was an arm
chair, in which he used to sit; she shrunk when she observed it, for
she had so often seen him seated there, and the idea of him rose so
distinctly to her mind, that she almost fancied she saw him before her.
But she checked the illusions of a distempered imagination, though she
could not subdue a certain degree of awe, which now mingled with her
emotions. She walked slowly to the chair, and seated herself in it;
there was a reading-desk before it, on which lay a book open, as it
had been left by her father. It was some moments before she recovered
courage enough to examine it; and, when she looked at the open page,
she immediately recollected, that St. Aubert, on the evening before his
departure from the chateau, had read to her some passages from this
his favourite author. The circumstance now affected her extremely; she
looked at the page, wept, and looked again. To her the book appeared
sacred and invaluable, and she would not have moved it, or closed the
page, which he had left open, for the treasures of the Indies. Still
she sat before the desk, and could not resolve to quit it, though the
increasing gloom, and the profound silence of the apartment, revived
a degree of painful awe. Her thoughts dwelt on the probable state of
departed spirits, and she remembered the affecting conversation, which
had passed between St. Aubert and La Voisin, on the night preceding his
death.

As she mused she saw the door slowly open, and a rustling sound in a
remote part of the room startled her. Through the dusk she thought she
perceived something move. The subject she had been considering, and the
present tone of her spirits, which made her imagination respond to
every impression of her senses, gave her a sudden terror of something
supernatural. She sat for a moment motionless, and then, her dissipated
reason returning, 'What should I fear?' said she. 'If the spirits of
those we love ever return to us, it is in kindness.'

The silence, which again reigned, made her ashamed of her late fears,
and she believed, that her imagination had deluded her, or that she had
heard one of those unaccountable noises, which sometimes occur in old
houses. The same sound, however, returned; and, distinguishing something
moving towards her, and in the next instant press beside her into the
chair, she shrieked; but her fleeting senses were instantly recalled,
on perceiving that it was Manchon who sat by her, and who now licked her
hands affectionately.

Perceiving her spirits unequal to the task she had assigned herself of
visiting the deserted rooms of the chateau this night, when she left
the library, she walked into the garden, and down to the terrace, that
overhung the river. The sun was now set; but, under the dark branches
of the almond trees, was seen the saffron glow of the west, spreading
beyond the twilight of middle air. The bat flitted silently by; and,
now and then, the mourning note of the nightingale was heard. The
circumstances of the hour brought to her recollection some lines, which
she had once heard St. Aubert recite on this very spot, and she had now
a melancholy pleasure in repeating them.

     SONNET

 Now the bat circles on the breeze of eve,
 That creeps, in shudd'ring fits, along the wave,
 And trembles 'mid the woods, and through the cave
 Whose lonely sighs the wanderer deceive;
 For oft, when melancholy charms his mind,
 He thinks the Spirit of the rock he hears,
 Nor listens, but with sweetly-thrilling fears,
 To the low, mystic murmurs of the wind!
 Now the bat circles, and the twilight-dew
 Falls silent round, and, o'er the mountain-cliff,
 The gleaming wave, and far-discover'd skiff,
 Spreads the gray veil of soft, harmonious hue.
 So falls o'er Grief the dew of pity's tear
 Dimming her lonely visions of despair.

Emily, wandering on, came to St. Aubert's favourite plane-tree, where so
often, at this hour, they had sat beneath the shade together, and with
her dear mother so often had conversed on the subject of a future state.
How often, too, had her father expressed the comfort he derived from
believing, that they should meet in another world! Emily, overcome by
these recollections, left the plane-tree, and, as she leaned pensively
on the wall of the terrace, she observed a group of peasants dancing
gaily on the banks of the Garonne, which spread in broad expanse below,
and reflected the evening light. What a contrast they formed to the
desolate, unhappy Emily! They were gay and debonnaire, as they were wont
to be when she, too, was gay--when St. Aubert used to listen to their
merry music, with a countenance beaming pleasure and benevolence. Emily,
having looked for a moment on this sprightly band, turned away, unable
to bear the remembrances it excited; but where, alas! could she turn,
and not meet new objects to give acuteness to grief?

As she walked slowly towards the house, she was met by Theresa. 'Dear
ma'amselle,' said she, 'I have been seeking you up and down this half
hour, and was afraid some accident had happened to you. How can you like
to wander about so in this night air! Do come into the house. Think what
my poor master would have said, if he could see you. I am sure, when my
dear lady died, no gentleman could take it more to heart than he did,
yet you know he seldom shed a tear.'

'Pray, Theresa, cease,' said Emily, wishing to interrupt this
ill-judged, but well-meaning harangue; Theresa's loquacity, however,
was not to be silenced so easily. 'And when you used to grieve so,' she
added, 'he often told you how wrong it was--for that my mistress was
happy. And, if she was happy, I am sure he is so too; for the prayers of
the poor, they say, reach heaven.' During this speech, Emily had walked
silently into the chateau, and Theresa lighted her across the hall
into the common sitting parlour, where she had laid the cloth, with one
solitary knife and fork, for supper. Emily was in the room before she
perceived that it was not her own apartment, but she checked the emotion
which inclined her to leave it, and seated herself quietly by the little
supper table. Her father's hat hung upon the opposite wall; while she
gazed at it, a faintness came over her. Theresa looked at her, and then
at the object, on which her eyes were settled, and went to remove it;
but Emily waved her hand--'No,' said she, 'let it remain. I am going
to my chamber.' 'Nay, ma'amselle, supper is ready.' 'I cannot take it,'
replied Emily, 'I will go to my room, and try to sleep. Tomorrow I shall
be better.'

'This is poor doings!' said Theresa. 'Dear lady! do take some food! I
have dressed a pheasant, and a fine one it is. Old Monsieur Barreaux
sent it this morning, for I saw him yesterday, and told him you were
coming. And I know nobody that seemed more concerned, when he heard the
sad news, then he.'

'Did he?' said Emily, in a tender voice, while she felt her poor heart
warmed for a moment by a ray of sympathy.

At length, her spirits were entirely overcome, and she retired to her
room.



CHAPTER IX


  Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye,
  Can Painting's glowing hand supply
  A charm so suited to my mind,
  As blows this hollow gust of wind?
  As drops this little weeping rill,
  Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill;
 While, through the west, where sinks the crimson day,
 Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners gray?
     MASON

Emily, some time after her return to La Vallee, received letters from
her aunt, Madame Cheron, in which, after some common-place condolement
and advice, she invited her to Tholouse, and added, that, as her late
brother had entrusted Emily's EDUCATION to her, she should consider
herself bound to overlook her conduct. Emily, at this time, wished
only to remain at La Vallee, in the scenes of her early happiness, now
rendered infinitely dear to her, as the late residence of those, whom
she had lost for ever, where she could weep unobserved, retrace their
steps, and remember each minute particular of their manners. But she was
equally anxious to avoid the displeasure of Madame Cheron.

Though her affection would not suffer her to question, even a moment,
the propriety of St. Aubert's conduct in appointing Madame Cheron for
her guardian, she was sensible, that this step had made her happiness
depend, in a great degree, on the humour of her aunt. In her reply, she
begged permission to remain, at present, at La Vallee, mentioning the
extreme dejection of her spirits, and the necessity she felt for quiet
and retirement to restore them. These she knew were not to be found at
Madame Cheron's, whose inclinations led her into a life of dissipation,
which her ample fortune encouraged; and, having given her answer, she
felt somewhat more at ease.

In the first days of her affliction, she was visited by Monsieur
Barreaux, a sincere mourner for St. Aubert. 'I may well lament my
friend,' said he, 'for I shall never meet with his resemblance. If I
could have found such a man in what is called society, I should not have
left it.'

M. Barreaux's admiration of her father endeared him extremely to Emily,
whose heart found almost its first relief in conversing of her parents,
with a man, whom she so much revered, and who, though with such an
ungracious appearance, possessed to much goodness of heart and delicacy
of mind.

Several weeks passed away in quiet retirement, and Emily's affliction
began to soften into melancholy. She could bear to read the books she
had before read with her father; to sit in his chair in the library--to
watch the flowers his hand had planted--to awaken the tones of that
instrument his fingers had pressed, and sometimes even to play his
favourite air.

When her mind had recovered from the first shock of affliction,
perceiving the danger of yielding to indolence, and that activity alone
could restore its tone, she scrupulously endeavoured to pass all her
hours in employment. And it was now that she understood the full value
of the education she had received from St. Aubert, for in cultivating
her understanding he had secured her an asylum from indolence, without
recourse to dissipation, and rich and varied amusement and information,
independent of the society, from which her situation secluded her. Nor
were the good effects of this education confined to selfish advantages,
since, St. Aubert having nourished every amiable qualify of her heart,
it now expanded in benevolence to all around her, and taught her, when
she could not remove the misfortunes of others, at least to soften them
by sympathy and tenderness;--a benevolence that taught her to feel for
all, that could suffer.

Madame Cheron returned no answer to Emily's letter, who began to
hope, that she should be permitted to remain some time longer in her
retirement, and her mind had now so far recovered its strength, that she
ventured to view the scenes, which most powerfully recalled the images
of past times. Among these was the fishing-house; and, to indulge still
more the affectionate melancholy of the visit, she took thither her
lute, that she might again hear there the tones, to which St. Aubert and
her mother had so often delighted to listen. She went alone, and at that
still hour of the evening which is so soothing to fancy and to grief.
The last time she had been here she was in company with Monsieur and
Madame St. Aubert, a few days preceding that, on which the latter was
seized with a fatal illness. Now, when Emily again entered the woods,
that surrounded the building, they awakened so forcibly the memory of
former times, that her resolution yielded for a moment to excess of
grief. She stopped, leaned for support against a tree, and wept for some
minutes, before she had recovered herself sufficiently to proceed. The
little path, that led to the building, was overgrown with grass and the
flowers which St. Aubert had scattered carelessly along the border
were almost choked with weeds--the tall thistle--the fox-glove, and the
nettle. She often paused to look on the desolate spot, now so silent and
forsaken, and when, with a trembling hand, she opened the door of the
fishing-house, 'Ah!' said she, 'every thing--every thing remains as when
I left it last--left it with those who never must return!' She went to
a window, that overhung the rivulet, and, leaning over it, with her eyes
fixed on the current, was soon lost in melancholy reverie. The lute
she had brought lay forgotten beside her; the mournful sighing of the
breeze, as it waved the high pines above, and its softer whispers among
the osiers, that bowed upon the banks below, was a kind of music more
in unison with her feelings. It did not vibrate on the chords of
unhappy memory, but was soothing to the heart as the voice of Pity. She
continued to muse, unconscious of the gloom of evening, and that the
sun's last light trembled on the heights above, and would probably have
remained so much longer, if a sudden footstep, without the building,
had not alarmed her attention, and first made her recollect that she was
unprotected. In the next moment, a door opened, and a stranger appeared,
who stopped on perceiving Emily, and then began to apologize for his
intrusion. But Emily, at the sound of his voice, lost her fear in a
stronger emotion: its tones were familiar to her ear, and, though she
could not readily distinguish through the dusk the features of the
person who spoke, she felt a remembrance too strong to be distrusted.

He repeated his apology, and Emily then said something in reply, when
the stranger eagerly advancing, exclaimed, 'Good God! can it be--surely
I am not mistaken--ma'amselle St. Aubert?--is it not?'

'It is indeed,' said Emily, who was confirmed in her first conjecture,
for she now distinguished the countenance of Valancourt, lighted up with
still more than its usual animation. A thousand painful recollections
crowded to her mind, and the effort, which she made to support herself,
only served to increase her agitation. Valancourt, meanwhile, having
enquired anxiously after her health, and expressed his hopes, that M.
St. Aubert had found benefit from travelling, learned from the flood of
tears, which she could no longer repress, the fatal truth. He led her
to a seat, and sat down by her, while Emily continued to weep, and
Valancourt to hold the hand, which she was unconscious he had taken,
till it was wet with the tears, which grief for St. Aubert and sympathy
for herself had called forth.

'I feel,' said he at length, 'I feel how insufficient all attempt at
consolation must be on this subject. I can only mourn with you, for I
cannot doubt the source of your tears. Would to God I were mistaken!'

Emily could still answer only by tears, till she rose, and begged they
might leave the melancholy spot, when Valancourt, though he saw her
feebleness, could not offer to detain her, but took her arm within his,
and led her from the fishing-house. They walked silently through the
woods, Valancourt anxious to know, yet fearing to ask any particulars
concerning St. Aubert; and Emily too much distressed to converse.
After some time, however, she acquired fortitude enough to speak of her
father, and to give a brief account of the manner of his death; during
which recital Valancourt's countenance betrayed strong emotion, and,
when he heard that St. Aubert had died on the road, and that Emily
had been left among strangers, he pressed her hand between his, and
involuntarily exclaimed, 'Why was I not there!' but in the next moment
recollected himself, for he immediately returned to the mention of her
father; till, perceiving that her spirits were exhausted, he gradually
changed the subject, and spoke of himself. Emily thus learned that,
after they had parted, he had wandered, for some time, along the shores
of the Mediterranean, and had then returned through Languedoc into
Gascony, which was his native province, and where he usually resided.

When he had concluded his little narrative, he sunk into a silence,
which Emily was not disposed to interrupt, and it continued, till they
reached the gate of the chateau, when he stopped, as if he had known
this to be the limit of his walk. Here, saying, that it was his
intention to return to Estuviere on the following day, he asked her if
she would permit him to take leave of her in the morning; and Emily,
perceiving that she could not reject an ordinary civility, without
expressing by her refusal an expectation of something more, was
compelled to answer, that she should be at home.

She passed a melancholy evening, during which the retrospect of all
that had happened, since she had seen Valancourt, would rise to her
imagination; and the scene of her father's death appeared in tints
as fresh, as if it had passed on the preceding day. She remembered
particularly the earnest and solemn manner, in which he had required her
to destroy the manuscript papers, and, awakening from the lethargy,
in which sorrow had held her, she was shocked to think she had not yet
obeyed him, and determined, that another day should not reproach her
with the neglect.



CHAPTER X


     Can such things be,
 And overcome us like a summer's cloud,
 Without our special wonder?
     MACBETH

On the next morning, Emily ordered a fire to be lighted in the stove
of the chamber, where St. Aubert used to sleep; and, as soon as she had
breakfasted, went thither to burn the papers. Having fastened the
door to prevent interruption, she opened the closet where they were
concealed, as she entered which, she felt an emotion of unusual awe,
and stood for some moments surveying it, trembling, and almost afraid to
remove the board. There was a great chair in one corner of the closet,
and, opposite to it, stood the table, at which she had seen her father
sit, on the evening that preceded his departure, looking over, with so
much emotion, what she believed to be these very papers.

The solitary life, which Emily had led of late, and the melancholy
subjects, on which she had suffered her thoughts to dwell, had rendered
her at times sensible to the 'thick-coming fancies' of a mind greatly
enervated. It was lamentable, that her excellent understanding should
have yielded, even for a moment, to the reveries of superstition, or
rather to those starts of imagination, which deceive the senses into
what can be called nothing less than momentary madness. Instances of
this temporary failure of mind had more than once occurred since her
return home; particularly when, wandering through this lonely mansion in
the evening twilight, she had been alarmed by appearances, which would
have been unseen in her more cheerful days. To this infirm state of her
nerves may be attributed what she imagined, when, her eyes glancing
a second time on the arm-chair, which stood in an obscure part of the
closet, the countenance of her dead father appeared there. Emily stood
fixed for a moment to the floor, after which she left the closet.
Her spirits, however, soon returned; she reproached herself with the
weakness of thus suffering interruption in an act of serious importance,
and again opened the door. By the directions which St. Aubert had given
her, she readily found the board he had described in an opposite corner
of the closet, near the window; she distinguished also the line he
had mentioned, and, pressing it as he had bade her, it slid down, and
disclosed the bundle of papers, together with some scattered ones, and
the purse of louis. With a trembling hand she removed them, replaced the
board, paused a moment, and was rising from the floor, when, on looking
up, there appeared to her alarmed fancy the same countenance in the
chair. The illusion, another instance of the unhappy effect which
solitude and grief had gradually produced upon her mind, subdued her
spirits; she rushed forward into the chamber, and sunk almost senseless
into a chair. Returning reason soon overcame the dreadful, but pitiable
attack of imagination, and she turned to the papers, though still with
so little recollection, that her eyes involuntarily settled on the
writing of some loose sheets, which lay open; and she was unconscious,
that she was transgressing her father's strict injunction, till a
sentence of dreadful import awakened her attention and her memory
together. She hastily put the papers from her; but the words, which had
roused equally her curiosity and terror, she could not dismiss from her
thoughts. So powerfully had they affected her, that she even could not
resolve to destroy the papers immediately; and the more she dwelt on the
circumstance, the more it inflamed her imagination. Urged by the most
forcible, and apparently the most necessary, curiosity to enquire
farther, concerning the terrible and mysterious subject, to which she
had seen an allusion, she began to lament her promise to destroy the
papers. For a moment, she even doubted, whether it could justly be
obeyed, in contradiction to such reasons as there appeared to be for
further information. But the delusion was momentary.

'I have given a solemn promise,' said she, 'to observe a solemn
injunction, and it is not my business to argue, but to obey. Let me
hasten to remove the temptation, that would destroy my innocence, and
embitter my life with the consciousness of irremediable guilt, while I
have strength to reject it.'

Thus re-animated with a sense of her duty, she completed the triumph
of her integrity over temptation, more forcible than any she had ever
known, and consigned the papers to the flames. Her eyes watched them as
they slowly consumed, she shuddered at the recollection of the sentence
she had just seen, and at the certainty, that the only opportunity of
explaining it was then passing away for ever.

It was long after this, that she recollected the purse; and as she was
depositing it, unopened, in a cabinet, perceiving that it contained
something of a size larger than coin, she examined it. 'His hand
deposited them here,' said she, as she kissed some pieces of the coin,
and wetted them with her tears, 'his hand--which is now dust!' At the
bottom of the purse was a small packet, having taken out which, and
unfolded paper after paper, she found to be an ivory case, containing
the miniature of a--lady! She started--'The same,' said she, 'my father
wept over!' On examining the countenance she could recollect no person
that it resembled. It was of uncommon beauty, and was characterized
by an expression of sweetness, shaded with sorrow, and tempered by
resignation.

St. Aubert had given no directions concerning this picture, nor had even
named it; she, therefore, thought herself justified in preserving
it. More than once remembering his manner, when he had spoken of the
Marchioness of Villeroi, she felt inclined to believe that this was her
resemblance; yet there appeared no reason why he should have preserved a
picture of that lady, or, having preserved it, why he should lament over
it in a manner so striking and affecting as she had witnessed on the
night preceding his departure.

Emily still gazed on the countenance, examining its features, but she
knew not where to detect the charm that captivated her attention,
and inspired sentiments of such love and pity. Dark brown hair played
carelessly along the open forehead; the nose was rather inclined to
aquiline; the lips spoke in a smile, but it was a melancholy one; the
eyes were blue, and were directed upwards with an expression of peculiar
meekness, while the soft cloud of the brow spoke of the fine sensibility
of the temper.

Emily was roused from the musing mood into which the picture had thrown
her, by the closing of the garden gate; and, on turning her eyes to
the window, she saw Valancourt coming towards the chateau. Her spirits
agitated by the subjects that had lately occupied her mind, she felt
unprepared to see him, and remained a few moments in the chamber to
recover herself.

When she met him in the parlour, she was struck with the change that
appeared in his air and countenance since they had parted in Rousillon,
which twilight and the distress she suffered on the preceding evening
had prevented her from observing. But dejection and languor disappeared,
for a moment, in the smile that now enlightened his countenance, on
perceiving her. 'You see,' said he, 'I have availed myself of the
permission with which you honoured me--of bidding YOU farewell, whom I
had the happiness of meeting only yesterday.'

Emily smiled faintly, and, anxious to say something, asked if he had
been long in Gascony. 'A few days only,' replied Valancourt, while a
blush passed over his cheek. 'I engaged in a long ramble after I had the
misfortune of parting with the friends who had made my wanderings among
the Pyrenees so delightful.'

A tear came to Emily's eye, as Valancourt said this, which he observed;
and, anxious to draw off her attention from the remembrance that had
occasioned it, as well as shocked at his own thoughtlessness, he began
to speak on other subjects, expressing his admiration of the chateau,
and its prospects. Emily, who felt somewhat embarrassed how to support
a conversation, was glad of such an opportunity to continue it on
indifferent topics. They walked down to the terrace, where Valancourt
was charmed with the river scenery, and the views over the opposite
shores of Guienne.

As he leaned on the wall of the terrace, watching the rapid current of
the Garonne, 'I was a few weeks ago,' said he, 'at the source of this
noble river; I had not then the happiness of knowing you, or I should
have regretted your absence--it was a scene so exactly suited to
your taste. It rises in a part of the Pyrenees, still wilder and more
sublime, I think, than any we passed in the way to Rousillon.' He then
described its fall among the precipices of the mountains, where its
waters, augmented by the streams that descend from the snowy summits
around, rush into the Vallee d'Aran, between whose romantic heights it
foams along, pursuing its way to the north west till it emerges upon the
plains of Languedoc. Then, washing the walls of Tholouse, and turning
again to the north west, it assumes a milder character, as it fertilizes
the pastures of Gascony and Guienne, in its progress to the Bay of
Biscay.

Emily and Valancourt talked of the scenes they had passed among
the Pyrenean Alps; as he spoke of which there was often a tremulous
tenderness in his voice, and sometimes he expatiated on them with all
the fire of genius, sometimes would appear scarcely conscious of the
topic, though he continued to speak. This subject recalled forcibly to
Emily the idea of her father, whose image appeared in every landscape,
which Valancourt particularized, whose remarks dwelt upon her memory,
and whose enthusiasm still glowed in her heart. Her silence, at length,
reminded Valancourt how nearly his conversation approached to the
occasion of her grief, and he changed the subject, though for one
scarcely less affecting to Emily. When he admired the grandeur of the
plane-tree, that spread its wide branches over the terrace, and under
whose shade they now sat, she remembered how often she had sat thus with
St. Aubert, and heard him express the same admiration.

'This was a favourite tree with my dear father,' said she; 'he used to
love to sit under its foliage with his family about him, in the fine
evenings of summer.'

Valancourt understood her feelings, and was silent; had she raised her
eyes from the ground she would have seen tears in his. He rose, and
leaned on the wall of the terrace, from which, in a few moments, he
returned to his seat, then rose again, and appeared to be greatly
agitated; while Emily found her spirits so much depressed, that several
of her attempts to renew the conversation were ineffectual. Valancourt
again sat down, but was still silent, and trembled. At length he said,
with a hesitating voice, 'This lovely scene!--I am going to leave--to
leave you--perhaps for ever! These moments may never return; I cannot
resolve to neglect, though I scarcely dare to avail myself of them. Let
me, however, without offending the delicacy of your sorrow, venture to
declare the admiration I must always feel of your goodness--O! that at
some future period I might be permitted to call it love!'

Emily's emotion would not suffer her to reply; and Valancourt, who now
ventured to look up, observing her countenance change, expected to see
her faint, and made an involuntary effort to support her, which recalled
Emily to a sense of her situation, and to an exertion of her spirits.
Valancourt did not appear to notice her indisposition, but, when he
spoke again, his voice told the tenderest love. 'I will not presume,' he
added, 'to intrude this subject longer upon your attention at this time,
but I may, perhaps, be permitted to mention, that these parting moments
would lose much of their bitterness if I might be allowed to hope the
declaration I have made would not exclude me from your presence in
future.'

Emily made another effort to overcome the confusion of her thoughts,
and to speak. She feared to trust the preference her heart acknowledged
towards Valancourt, and to give him any encouragement for hope, on so
short an acquaintance. For though in this narrow period she had observed
much that was admirable in his taste and disposition, and though these
observations had been sanctioned by the opinion of her father, they were
not sufficient testimonies of his general worth to determine her upon a
subject so infinitely important to her future happiness as that, which
now solicited her attention. Yet, though the thought of dismissing
Valancourt was so very painful to her, that she could scarcely endure to
pause upon it, the consciousness of this made her fear the partiality of
her judgment, and hesitate still more to encourage that suit, for which
her own heart too tenderly pleaded. The family of Valancourt, if not
his circumstances, had been known to her father, and known to be
unexceptionable. Of his circumstances, Valancourt himself hinted as far
as delicacy would permit, when he said he had at present little else to
offer but an heart, that adored her. He had solicited only for a distant
hope, and she could not resolve to forbid, though she scarcely dared to
permit it; at length, she acquired courage to say, that she must think
herself honoured by the good opinion of any person, whom her father had
esteemed.

'And was I, then, thought worthy of his esteem?' said Valancourt, in
a voice trembling with anxiety; then checking himself, he added, 'But
pardon the question; I scarcely know what I say. If I might dare to
hope, that you think me not unworthy such honour, and might be permitted
sometimes to enquire after your health, I should now leave you with
comparative tranquillity.'

Emily, after a moment's silence, said, 'I will be ingenuous with you,
for I know you will understand, and allow for my situation; you will
consider it as a proof of my--my esteem that I am so. Though I live
here in what was my father's house, I live here alone. I have, alas! no
longer a parent--a parent, whose presence might sanction your visits.
It is unnecessary for me to point out the impropriety of my receiving
them.'

'Nor will I affect to be insensible of this,' replied Valancourt, adding
mournfully--'but what is to console me for my candour? I distress you,
and would now leave the subject, if I might carry with me a hope of
being some time permitted to renew it, of being allowed to make myself
known to your family.'

Emily was again confused, and again hesitated what to reply; she felt
most acutely the difficulty--the forlornness of her situation, which did
not allow her a single relative, or friend, to whom she could turn
for even a look, that might support and guide her in the present
embarrassing circumstances. Madame Cheron, who was her only relative,
and ought to have been this friend, was either occupied by her own
amusements, or so resentful of the reluctance her niece had shewn to
quit La Vallee, that she seemed totally to have abandoned her.

'Ah! I see,' said Valancourt, after a long pause, during which Emily had
begun, and left unfinished two or three sentences, 'I see that I have
nothing to hope; my fears were too just, you think me unworthy of your
esteem. That fatal journey! which I considered as the happiest period of
my life--those delightful days were to embitter all my future ones. How
often I have looked back to them with hope and fear--yet never till
this moment could I prevail with myself to regret their enchanting
influence.'

His voice faltered, and he abruptly quitted his seat and walked on the
terrace. There was an expression of despair on his countenance, that
affected Emily. The pleadings of her heart overcame, in some degree, her
extreme timidity, and, when he resumed his seat, she said, in an accent
that betrayed her tenderness, 'You do both yourself and me injustice
when you say I think you unworthy of my esteem; I will acknowledge that
you have long possessed it, and--and--'

Valancourt waited impatiently for the conclusion of the sentence,
but the words died on her lips. Her eyes, however, reflected all the
emotions of her heart. Valancourt passed, in an instant, from the
impatience of despair, to that of joy and tenderness. 'O Emily!' he
exclaimed, 'my own Emily--teach me to sustain this moment! Let me seal
it as the most sacred of my life!'

He pressed her hand to his lips, it was cold and trembling; and, raising
her eyes, he saw the paleness of her countenance. Tears came to her
relief, and Valancourt watched in anxious silence over her. In a few
moments, she recovered herself, and smiling faintly through her tears,
said, 'Can you excuse this weakness? My spirits have not yet, I believe,
recovered from the shock they lately received.'

'I cannot excuse myself,' said Valancourt, 'but I will forbear to renew
the subject, which may have contributed to agitate them, now that I can
leave you with the sweet certainty of possessing your esteem.'

Then, forgetting his resolution, he again spoke of himself. 'You know
not,' said he, 'the many anxious hours I have passed near you lately,
when you believed me, if indeed you honoured me with a thought, far
away. I have wandered, near the chateau, in the still hours of the
night, when no eye could observe me. It was delightful to know I was so
near you, and there was something particularly soothing in the thought,
that I watched round your habitation, while you slept. These grounds are
not entirely new to me. Once I ventured within the fence, and spent one
of the happiest, and yet most melancholy hours of my life in walking
under what I believed to be your window.'

Emily enquired how long Valancourt had been in the neighbourhood.
'Several days,' he replied. 'It was my design to avail myself of the
permission M. St. Aubert had given me. I scarcely know how to account
for it; but, though I anxiously wished to do this, my resolution always
failed, when the moment approached, and I constantly deferred my visit.
I lodged in a village at some distance, and wandered with my dogs, among
the scenes of this charming country, wishing continually to meet you,
yet not daring to visit you.'

Having thus continued to converse, without perceiving the flight of
time, Valancourt, at length, seemed to recollect himself. 'I must go,'
said he mournfully, 'but it is with the hope of seeing you again, of
being permitted to pay my respects to your family; let me hear this hope
confirmed by your voice.' 'My family will be happy to see any friend
of my dear father,' said Emily. Valancourt kissed her hand, and still
lingered, unable to depart, while Emily sat silently, with her eyes bent
on the ground; and Valancourt, as he gazed on her, considered that it
would soon be impossible for him to recall, even to his memory, the
exact resemblance of the beautiful countenance he then beheld; at this
moment an hasty footstep approached from behind the plane-tree, and,
turning her eyes, Emily saw Madame Cheron. She felt a blush steal upon
her cheek, and her frame trembled with the emotion of her mind; but she
instantly rose to meet her visitor. 'So, niece!' said Madame Cheron,
casting a look of surprise and enquiry on Valancourt, 'so niece, how
do you do? But I need not ask, your looks tell me you have already
recovered your loss.'

'My looks do me injustice then, Madame, my loss I know can never be
recovered.'

'Well--well! I will not argue with you; I see you have exactly your
father's disposition; and let me tell you it would have been much
happier for him, poor man! if it had been a different one.'

A look of dignified displeasure, with which Emily regarded Madame
Cheron, while she spoke, would have touched almost any other heart;
she made no other reply, but introduced Valancourt, who could scarcely
stifle the resentment he felt, and whose bow Madame Cheron returned with
a slight curtsy, and a look of supercilious examination. After a few
moments he took leave of Emily, in a manner, that hastily expressed his
pain both at his own departure, and at leaving her to the society of
Madame Cheron.

'Who is that young man?' said her aunt, in an accent which equally
implied inquisitiveness and censure. 'Some idle admirer of yours I
suppose; but I believed niece you had a greater sense of propriety, than
to have received the visits of any young man in your present unfriended
situation. Let me tell you the world will observe those things, and it
will talk, aye and very freely too.'

Emily, extremely shocked at this coarse speech, attempted to interrupt
it; but Madame Cheron would proceed, with all the self-importance of a
person, to whom power is new.

'It is very necessary you should be under the eye of some person more
able to guide you than yourself. I, indeed, have not much leisure for
such a task; however, since your poor father made it his last request,
that I should overlook your conduct--I must even take you under my care.
But this let me tell you niece, that, unless you will determine to be
very conformable to my direction, I shall not trouble myself longer
about you.'

Emily made no attempt to interrupt Madame Cheron a second time, grief
and the pride of conscious innocence kept her silent, till her aunt
said, 'I am now come to take you with me to Tholouse; I am sorry
to find, that your poor father died, after all, in such indifferent
circumstances; however, I shall take you home with me. Ah! poor man, he
was always more generous than provident, or he would not have left his
daughter dependent on his relations.'

'Nor has he done so, I hope, madam,' said Emily calmly, 'nor did his
pecuniary misfortunes arise from that noble generosity, which always
distinguished him. The affairs of M. de Motteville may, I trust, yet
be settled without deeply injuring his creditors, and in the meantime I
should be very happy to remain at La Vallee.'

'No doubt you would,' replied Madame Cheron, with a smile of irony, 'and
I shall no doubt consent to this, since I see how necessary tranquillity
and retirement are to restore your spirits. I did not think you capable
of so much duplicity, niece; when you pleaded this excuse for remaining
here, I foolishly believed it to be a just one, nor expected to have
found with you so agreeable a companion as this M. La Val--, I forget
his name.'

Emily could no longer endure these cruel indignities. 'It was a just
one, madam,' said she; 'and now, indeed, I feel more than ever the value
of the retirement I then solicited; and, if the purport of your visit
is only to add insult to the sorrows of your brother's child, she could
well have spared it.'

'I see that I have undertaken a very troublesome task,' said Madame
Cheron, colouring highly. 'I am sure, madam,' said Emily mildly, and
endeavouring to restrain her tears, 'I am sure my father did not mean it
should be such. I have the happiness to reflect, that my conduct under
his eye was such as he often delighted to approve. It would be very
painful to me to disobey the sister of such a parent, and, if you
believe the task will really be so troublesome, I must lament, that it
is yours.'

'Well! niece, fine speaking signifies little. I am willing, in
consideration of my poor brother, to overlook the impropriety of your
late conduct, and to try what your future will be.'

Emily interrupted her, to beg she would explain what was the impropriety
she alluded to.

'What impropriety! why that of receiving the visits of a lover unknown
to your family,' replied Madame Cheron, not considering the impropriety
of which she had herself been guilty, in exposing her niece to the
possibility of conduct so erroneous.

A faint blush passed over Emily's countenance; pride and anxiety
struggled in her breast; and, till she recollected, that appearances
did, in some degree, justify her aunt's suspicions, she could not
resolve to humble herself so far as to enter into the defence of a
conduct, which had been so innocent and undesigning on her part. She
mentioned the manner of Valancourt's introduction to her father; the
circumstances of his receiving the pistol-shot, and of their afterwards
travelling together; with the accidental way, in which she had met him,
on the preceding evening. She owned he had declared a partiality for
her, and that he had asked permission to address her family.

'And who is this young adventurer, pray?' said Madame Cheron, 'and what
are his pretensions?' 'These he must himself explain, madam,' replied
Emily. 'Of his family my father was not ignorant, and I believe it is
unexceptionable.' She then proceeded to mention what she knew concerning
it.

'Oh, then, this it seems is a younger brother,' exclaimed her aunt, 'and
of course a beggar. A very fine tale indeed! And so my brother took a
fancy to this young man after only a few days acquaintance!--but that
was so like him! In his youth he was always taking these likes and
dislikes, when no other person saw any reason for them at all; nay,
indeed, I have often thought the people he disapproved were much more
agreeable than those he admired;--but there is no accounting for tastes.
He was always so much influenced by people's countenances; now I, for my
part, have no notion of this, it is all ridiculous enthusiasm. What has
a man's face to do with his character? Can a man of good character
help having a disagreeable face?'--which last sentence Madame Cheron
delivered with the decisive air of a person who congratulates herself
on having made a grand discovery, and believes the question to be
unanswerably settled.

Emily, desirous of concluding the conversation, enquired if her aunt
would accept some refreshment, and Madame Cheron accompanied her to the
chateau, but without desisting from a topic, which she discussed with so
much complacency to herself, and severity to her niece.

'I am sorry to perceive, niece,' said she, in allusion to somewhat that
Emily had said, concerning physiognomy, 'that you have a great many of
your father's prejudices, and among them those sudden predilections for
people from their looks. I can perceive, that you imagine yourself to be
violently in love with this young adventurer, after an acquaintance of
only a few days. There was something, too, so charmingly romantic in the
manner of your meeting!'

Emily checked the tears, that trembled in her eyes, while she said,
'When my conduct shall deserve this severity, madam, you will do well
to exercise it; till then justice, if not tenderness, should surely
restrain it. I have never willingly offended you; now I have lost my
parents, you are the only person to whom I can look for kindness. Let me
not lament more than ever the loss of such parents.' The last words were
almost stifled by her emotions, and she burst into tears. Remembering
the delicacy and the tenderness of St. Aubert, the happy, happy days
she had passed in these scenes, and contrasting them with the coarse
and unfeeling behaviour of Madame Cheron, and from the future hours
of mortification she must submit to in her presence--a degree of grief
seized her, that almost reached despair. Madame Cheron, more offended
by the reproof which Emily's words conveyed, than touched by the
sorrow they expressed, said nothing, that might soften her grief; but,
notwithstanding an apparent reluctance to receive her niece, she desired
her company. The love of sway was her ruling passion, and she knew it
would be highly gratified by taking into her house a young orphan, who
had no appeal from her decisions, and on whom she could exercise without
controul the capricious humour of the moment.

On entering the chateau, Madame Cheron expressed a desire, that she
would put up what she thought necessary to take to Tholouse, as she
meant to set off immediately. Emily now tried to persuade her to defer
the journey, at least till the next day, and, at length, with much
difficulty, prevailed.

The day passed in the exercise of petty tyranny on the part of Madame
Cheron, and in mournful regret and melancholy anticipation on that of
Emily, who, when her aunt retired to her apartment for the night, went
to take leave of every other room in this her dear native home, which
she was now quitting for she knew not how long, and for a world, to
which she was wholly a stranger. She could not conquer a presentiment,
which frequently occurred to her, this night--that she should never more
return to La Vallee. Having passed a considerable time in what had been
her father's study, having selected some of his favourite authors, to
put up with her clothes, and shed many tears, as she wiped the dust from
their covers, she seated herself in his chair before the reading desk,
and sat lost in melancholy reflection, till Theresa opened the door to
examine, as was her custom before she went to bed, if was all safe. She
started, on observing her young lady, who bade her come in, and then
gave her some directions for keeping the chateau in readiness for her
reception at all times.

'Alas-a-day! that you should leave it!' said Theresa, 'I think you would
be happier here than where you are going, if one may judge.' Emily made
no reply to this remark; the sorrow Theresa proceeded to express at
her departure affected her, but she found some comfort in the simple
affection of this poor old servant, to whom she gave such directions as
might best conduce to her comfort during her own absence.

Having dismissed Theresa to bed, Emily wandered through every lonely
apartment of the chateau, lingering long in what had been her father's
bed-room, indulging melancholy, yet not unpleasing, emotions, and,
having often returned within the door to take another look at it, she
withdrew to her own chamber. From her window she gazed upon the
garden below, shewn faintly by the moon, rising over the tops of the
palm-trees, and, at length, the calm beauty of the night increased a
desire of indulging the mournful sweetness of bidding farewel to the
beloved shades of her childhood, till she was tempted to descend.
Throwing over her the light veil, in which she usually walked, she
silently passed into the garden, and, hastening towards the distant
groves, was glad to breathe once more the air of liberty, and to sigh
unobserved. The deep repose of the scene, the rich scents, that floated
on the breeze, the grandeur of the wide horizon and of the clear
blue arch, soothed and gradually elevated her mind to that sublime
complacency, which renders the vexations of this world so insignificant
and mean in our eyes, that we wonder they have had power for a moment to
disturb us. Emily forgot Madame Cheron and all the circumstances of
her conduct, while her thoughts ascended to the contemplation of those
unnumbered worlds, that lie scattered in the depths of aether, thousands
of them hid from human eyes, and almost beyond the flight of human
fancy. As her imagination soared through the regions of space, and
aspired to that Great First Cause, which pervades and governs all being,
the idea of her father scarcely ever left her; but it was a pleasing
idea, since she resigned him to God in the full confidence of a pure and
holy faith. She pursued her way through the groves to the terrace,
often pausing as memory awakened the pang of affection, and as reason
anticipated the exile, into which she was going.

And now the moon was high over the woods, touching their summits with
yellow light, and darting between the foliage long level beams; while on
the rapid Garonne below the trembling radiance was faintly obscured by
the lightest vapour. Emily long watched the playing lustre, listened to
the soothing murmur of the current, and the yet lighter sounds of the
air, as it stirred, at intervals, the lofty palm-trees. 'How delightful
is the sweet breath of these groves,' said she. 'This lovely scene!--how
often shall I remember and regret it, when I am far away. Alas!
what events may occur before I see it again! O, peaceful, happy
shades!--scenes of my infant delights, of parental tenderness now lost
for ever!--why must I leave ye!--In your retreats I should still find
safety and repose. Sweet hours of my childhood--I am now to leave even
your last memorials! No objects, that would revive your impressions,
will remain for me!'

Then drying her tears and looking up, her thoughts rose again to the
sublime subject she had contemplated; the same divine complacency stole
over her heart, and, hushing its throbs, inspired hope and confidence
and resignation to the will of the Deity, whose works filled her mind
with adoration.

Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and then seated herself, for the
last time, on the bench under its shade, where she had so often sat with
her parents, and where, only a few hours before, she had conversed
with Valancourt, at the remembrance of whom, thus revived, a mingled
sensation of esteem, tenderness and anxiety rose in her breast. With
this remembrance occurred a recollection of his late confession--that he
had often wandered near her habitation in the night, having even passed
the boundary of the garden, and it immediately occurred to her, that
he might be at this moment in the grounds. The fear of meeting him,
particularly after the declaration he had made, and of incurring a
censure, which her aunt might so reasonably bestow, if it was known,
that she was met by her lover, at this hour, made her instantly leave
her beloved plane-tree, and walk towards the chateau. She cast an
anxious eye around, and often stopped for a moment to examine the
shadowy scene before she ventured to proceed, but she passed on without
perceiving any person, till, having reached a clump of almond trees, not
far from the house, she rested to take a retrospect of the garden, and
to sigh forth another adieu. As her eyes wandered over the landscape she
thought she perceived a person emerge from the groves, and pass slowly
along a moon-light alley that led between them; but the distance, and
the imperfect light would not suffer her to judge with any degree of
certainty whether this was fancy or reality. She continued to gaze for
some time on the spot, till on the dead stillness of the air she heard
a sudden sound, and in the next instant fancied she distinguished
footsteps near her. Wasting not another moment in conjecture, she
hurried to the chateau, and, having reached it, retired to her chamber,
where, as she closed her window she looked upon the garden, and then
again thought she distinguished a figure, gliding between the almond
trees she had just left. She immediately withdrew from the casement,
and, though much agitated, sought in sleep the refreshment of a short
oblivion.



CHAPTER XI


     I leave that flowery path for eye
 Of childhood, where I sported many a day,
 Warbling and sauntering carelessly along;
 Where every face was innocent and gay,
 Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue,
 Sweet, wild, and artless all.
     THE MINSTREL

At an early hour, the carriage, which was to take Emily and Madame
Cheron to Tholouse, appeared at the door of the chateau, and Madame was
already in the breakfast-room, when her niece entered it. The repast
was silent and melancholy on the part of Emily; and Madame Cheron, whose
vanity was piqued on observing her dejection, reproved her in a manner
that did not contribute to remove it. It was with much reluctance, that
Emily's request to take with her the dog, which had been a favourite
of her father, was granted. Her aunt, impatient to be gone, ordered the
carriage to draw up; and, while she passed to the hall door, Emily gave
another look into the library, and another farewell glance over the
garden, and then followed. Old Theresa stood at the door to take leave
of her young lady. 'God for ever keep you, ma'amselle!' said she, while
Emily gave her hand in silence, and could answer only with a pressure of
her hand, and a forced smile.

At the gate, which led out of the grounds, several of her father's
pensioners were assembled to bid her farewell, to whom she would have
spoken, if her aunt would have suffered the driver to stop; and, having
distributed to them almost all the money she had about her, she sunk
back in the carriage, yielding to the melancholy of her heart. Soon
after, she caught, between the steep banks of the road, another view of
the chateau, peeping from among the high trees, and surrounded by green
slopes and tufted groves, the Garonne winding its way beneath their
shades, sometimes lost among the vineyards, and then rising in greater
majesty in the distant pastures. The towering precipices of the
Pyrenees, that rose to the south, gave Emily a thousand interesting
recollections of her late journey; and these objects of her former
enthusiastic admiration, now excited only sorrow and regret. Having
gazed on the chateau and its lovely scenery, till the banks again closed
upon them, her mind became too much occupied by mournful reflections, to
permit her to attend to the conversation, which Madame Cheron had begun
on some trivial topic, so that they soon travelled in profound silence.

Valancourt, mean while, was returned to Estuviere, his heart occupied
with the image of Emily; sometimes indulging in reveries of future
happiness, but more frequently shrinking with dread of the opposition
he might encounter from her family. He was the younger son of an ancient
family of Gascony; and, having lost his parents at an early period
of his life, the care of his education and of his small portion had
devolved to his brother, the Count de Duvarney, his senior by nearly
twenty years. Valancourt had been educated in all the accomplishments
of his age, and had an ardour of spirit, and a certain grandeur of
mind, that gave him particular excellence in the exercises then thought
heroic. His little fortune had been diminished by the necessary expences
of his education; but M. La Valancourt, the elder, seemed to think that
his genius and accomplishments would amply supply the deficiency of his
inheritance. They offered flattering hopes of promotion in the military
profession, in those times almost the only one in which a gentleman
could engage without incurring a stain on his name; and La Valancourt
was of course enrolled in the army. The general genius of his mind was
but little understood by his brother. That ardour for whatever is great
and good in the moral world, as well as in the natural one, displayed
itself in his infant years; and the strong indignation, which he felt
and expressed at a criminal, or a mean action, sometimes drew upon him
the displeasure of his tutor; who reprobated it under the general
term of violence of temper; and who, when haranguing on the virtues of
mildness and moderation, seemed to forget the gentleness and compassion,
which always appeared in his pupil towards objects of misfortune.

He had now obtained leave of absence from his regiment when he made the
excursion into the Pyrenees, which was the means of introducing him to
St. Aubert; and, as this permission was nearly expired, he was the more
anxious to declare himself to Emily's family, from whom he reasonably
apprehended opposition, since his fortune, though, with a moderate
addition from hers, it would be sufficient to support them, would not
satisfy the views, either of vanity, or ambition. Valancourt was not
without the latter, but he saw golden visions of promotion in the army;
and believed, that with Emily he could, in the mean time, be delighted
to live within the limits of his humble income. His thoughts were now
occupied in considering the means of making himself known to her family,
to whom, however, he had yet no address, for he was entirely ignorant of
Emily's precipitate departure from La Vallee, of whom he hoped to obtain
it.

Meanwhile, the travellers pursued their journey; Emily making frequent
efforts to appear cheerful, and too often relapsing into silence and
dejection. Madame Cheron, attributing her melancholy solely to the
circumstance of her being removed to a distance from her lover, and
believing, that the sorrow, which her niece still expressed for the
loss of St. Aubert, proceeded partly from an affectation of sensibility,
endeavoured to make it appear ridiculous to her, that such deep regret
should continue to be felt so long after the period usually allowed for
grief.

At length, these unpleasant lectures were interrupted by the arrival of
the travellers at Tholouse; and Emily, who had not been there for many
years, and had only a very faint recollection of it, was surprised at
the ostentatious style exhibited in her aunt's house and furniture; the
more so, perhaps, because it was so totally different from the modest
elegance, to which she had been accustomed. She followed Madame Cheron
through a large hall, where several servants in rich liveries appeared,
to a kind of saloon, fitted up with more shew than taste; and her aunt,
complaining of fatigue, ordered supper immediately. 'I am glad to find
myself in my own house again,' said she, throwing herself on a large
settee, 'and to have my own people about me. I detest travelling;
though, indeed, I ought to like it, for what I see abroad always makes
me delighted to return to my own chateau. What makes you so silent,
child?--What is it that disturbs you now?'

Emily suppressed a starting tear, and tried to smile away the expression
of an oppressed heart; she was thinking of HER home, and felt too
sensibly the arrogance and ostentatious vanity of Madame Cheron's
conversation. 'Can this be my father's sister!' said she to herself; and
then the conviction that she was so, warming her heart with something
like kindness towards her, she felt anxious to soften the harsh
impression her mind had received of her aunt's character, and to shew
a willingness to oblige her. The effort did not entirely fail; she
listened with apparent cheerfulness, while Madame Cheron expatiated
on the splendour of her house, told of the numerous parties she
entertained, and what she should expect of Emily, whose diffidence
assumed the air of a reserve, which her aunt, believing it to be that
of pride and ignorance united, now took occasion to reprehend. She knew
nothing of the conduct of a mind, that fears to trust its own powers;
which, possessing a nice judgment, and inclining to believe, that every
other person perceives still more critically, fears to commit itself
to censure, and seeks shelter in the obscurity of silence. Emily had
frequently blushed at the fearless manners, which she had seen admired,
and the brilliant nothings, which she had heard applauded; yet this
applause, so far from encouraging her to imitate the conduct that had
won it, rather made her shrink into the reserve, that would protect her
from such absurdity.

Madame Cheron looked on her niece's diffidence with a feeling very near
to contempt, and endeavoured to overcome it by reproof, rather than to
encourage it by gentleness.

The entrance of supper somewhat interrupted the complacent discourse of
Madame Cheron and the painful considerations, which it had forced
upon Emily. When the repast, which was rendered ostentatious by the
attendance of a great number of servants, and by a profusion of plate,
was over, Madame Cheron retired to her chamber, and a female servant
came to shew Emily to hers. Having passed up a large stair-case, and
through several galleries, they came to a flight of back stairs, which
led into a short passage in a remote part of the chateau, and there
the servant opened the door of a small chamber, which she said was
Ma'amselle Emily's, who, once more alone, indulged the tears she had
long tried to restrain.

Those, who know, from experience, how much the heart becomes attached
even to inanimate objects, to which it has been long accustomed, how
unwillingly it resigns them; how with the sensations of an old friend it
meets them, after temporary absence, will understand the forlornness
of Emily's feelings, of Emily shut out from the only home she had
known from her infancy, and thrown upon a scene, and among persons,
disagreeable for more qualities than their novelty. Her father's
favourite dog, now in the chamber, thus seemed to acquire the character
and importance of a friend; and, as the animal fawned over her when she
wept, and licked her hands, 'Ah, poor Manchon!' said she, 'I have nobody
now to love me--but you!' and she wept the more. After some time, her
thoughts returning to her father's injunctions, she remembered how often
he had blamed her for indulging useless sorrow; how often he had pointed
out to her the necessity of fortitude and patience, assuring her, that
the faculties of the mind strengthen by exertion, till they finally
unnerve affliction, and triumph over it. These recollections dried her
tears, gradually soothed her spirits, and inspired her with the sweet
emulation of practising precepts, which her father had so frequently
inculcated.



CHAPTER XII


 Some pow'r impart the spear and shield,
 At which the wizard passions fly,
 By which the giant follies die.
     COLLINS

Madame Cheron's house stood at a little distance from the city of
Tholouse, and was surrounded by extensive gardens, in which Emily, who
had risen early, amused herself with wandering before breakfast. From a
terrace, that extended along the highest part of them, was a wide view
over Languedoc. On the distant horizon to the south, she discovered
the wild summits of the Pyrenees, and her fancy immediately painted
the green pastures of Gascony at their feet. Her heart pointed to her
peaceful home--to the neighbourhood where Valancourt was--where St.
Aubert had been; and her imagination, piercing the veil of distance,
brought that home to her eyes in all its interesting and romantic
beauty. She experienced an inexpressible pleasure in believing, that she
beheld the country around it, though no feature could be distinguished,
except the retiring chain of the Pyrenees; and, inattentive to the scene
immediately before her, and to the flight of time, she continued to lean
on the window of a pavilion, that terminated the terrace, with her eyes
fixed on Gascony, and her mind occupied with the interesting ideas which
the view of it awakened, till a servant came to tell her breakfast
was ready. Her thoughts thus recalled to the surrounding objects,
the straight walks, square parterres, and artificial fountains of the
garden, could not fail, as she passed through it, to appear the worse,
opposed to the negligent graces, and natural beauties of the grounds of
La Vallee, upon which her recollection had been so intensely employed.

'Whither have you been rambling so early?' said Madame Cheron, as her
niece entered the breakfast-room. 'I don't approve of these solitary
walks;' and Emily was surprised, when, having informed her aunt, that
she had been no further than the gardens, she understood these to be
included in the reproof. 'I desire you will not walk there again at
so early an hour unattended,' said Madame Cheron; 'my gardens are very
extensive; and a young woman, who can make assignations by moon-light,
at La Vallee, is not to be trusted to her own inclinations elsewhere.'

Emily, extremely surprised and shocked, had scarcely power to beg an
explanation of these words, and, when she did, her aunt absolutely
refused to give it, though, by her severe looks, and half sentences,
she appeared anxious to impress Emily with a belief, that she was well
informed of some degrading circumstances of her conduct. Conscious
innocence could not prevent a blush from stealing over Emily's cheek;
she trembled, and looked confusedly under the bold eye of Madame Cheron,
who blushed also; but hers was the blush of triumph, such as sometimes
stains the countenance of a person, congratulating himself on the
penetration which had taught him to suspect another, and who loses both
pity for the supposed criminal, and indignation of his guilt, in the
gratification of his own vanity.

Emily, not doubting that her aunt's mistake arose from the having
observed her ramble in the garden on the night preceding her departure
from La Vallee, now mentioned the motive of it, at which Madame Cheron
smiled contemptuously, refusing either to accept this explanation, or
to give her reasons for refusing it; and, soon after, she concluded the
subject by saying, 'I never trust people's assertions, I always judge
of them by their actions; but I am willing to try what will be your
behaviour in future.'

Emily, less surprised by her aunt's moderation and mysterious silence,
than by the accusation she had received, deeply considered the latter,
and scarcely doubted, that it was Valancourt whom she had seen at night
in the gardens of La Vallee, and that he had been observed there by
Madame Cheron; who now passing from one painful topic only to revive
another almost equally so, spoke of the situation of her niece's
property, in the hands of M. Motteville. While she thus talked with
ostentatious pity of Emily's misfortunes, she failed not to inculcate
the duties of humility and gratitude, or to render Emily fully sensible
of every cruel mortification, who soon perceived, that she was to be
considered as a dependant, not only by her aunt, but by her aunt's
servants.

She was now informed, that a large party were expected to dinner, on
which account Madame Cheron repeated the lesson of the preceding night,
concerning her conduct in company, and Emily wished, that she might have
courage enough to practise it. Her aunt then proceeded to examine the
simplicity of her dress, adding, that she expected to see her attired
with gaiety and taste; after which she condescended to shew Emily the
splendour of her chateau, and to point out the particular beauty, or
elegance, which she thought distinguished each of her numerous suites of
apartments. She then withdrew to her toilet, the throne of her homage,
and Emily to her chamber, to unpack her books, and to try to charm her
mind by reading, till the hour of dressing.

When the company arrived, Emily entered the saloon with an air of
timidity, which all her efforts could not overcome, and which was
increased by the consciousness of Madame Cheron's severe observation.
Her mourning dress, the mild dejection of her beautiful countenance, and
the retiring diffidence of her manner, rendered her a very interesting
object to many of the company; among whom she distinguished Signor
Montoni, and his friend Cavigni, the late visitors at M. Quesnel's, who
now seemed to converse with Madame Cheron with the familiarity of old
acquaintance, and she to attend to them with particular pleasure.

This Signor Montoni had an air of conscious superiority, animated
by spirit, and strengthened by talents, to which every person seemed
involuntarily to yield. The quickness of his perceptions was strikingly
expressed on his countenance, yet that countenance could submit
implicitly to occasion; and, more than once in this day, the triumph of
art over nature might have been discerned in it. His visage was long,
and rather narrow, yet he was called handsome; and it was, perhaps,
the spirit and vigour of his soul, sparkling through his features, that
triumphed for him. Emily felt admiration, but not the admiration that
leads to esteem; for it was mixed with a degree of fear she knew not
exactly wherefore.

Cavigni was gay and insinuating as formerly; and, though he paid almost
incessant attention to Madame Cheron, he found some opportunities of
conversing with Emily, to whom he directed, at first, the sallies of his
wit, but now and then assumed an air of tenderness, which she observed,
and shrunk from. Though she replied but little, the gentleness and
sweetness of her manners encouraged him to talk, and she felt relieved
when a young lady of the party, who spoke incessantly, obtruded herself
on his notice. This lady, who possessed all the sprightliness of
a Frenchwoman, with all her coquetry, affected to understand every
subject, or rather there was no affectation in the case; for, never
looking beyond the limits of her own ignorance, she believed she had
nothing to learn. She attracted notice from all; amused some, disgusted
others for a moment, and was then forgotten.

This day passed without any material occurrence; and Emily, though
amused by the characters she had seen, was glad when she could retire to
the recollections, which had acquired with her the character of duties.

A fortnight passed in a round of dissipation and company, and Emily, who
attended Madame Cheron in all her visits, was sometimes entertained, but
oftener wearied. She was struck by the apparent talents and knowledge
displayed in the various conversations she listened to, and it was long
before she discovered, that the talents were for the most part those of
imposture, and the knowledge nothing more than was necessary to assist
them. But what deceived her most, was the air of constant gaiety and
good spirits, displayed by every visitor, and which she supposed to
arise from content as constant, and from benevolence as ready. At
length, from the over-acting of some, less accomplished than the others,
she could perceive, that, though contentment and benevolence are
the only sure sources of cheerfulness, the immoderate and feverish
animation, usually exhibited in large parties, results partly from an
insensibility to the cares, which benevolence must sometimes derive
from the sufferings of others, and partly from a desire to display the
appearance of that prosperity, which they know will command submission
and attention to themselves.

Emily's pleasantest hours were passed in the pavilion of the terrace, to
which she retired, when she could steal from observation, with a book to
overcome, or a lute to indulge, her melancholy. There, as she sat
with her eyes fixed on the far-distant Pyrenees, and her thoughts on
Valancourt and the beloved scenes of Gascony, she would play the sweet
and melancholy songs of her native province--the popular songs she had
listened to from her childhood.

One evening, having excused herself from accompanying her aunt abroad,
she thus withdrew to the pavilion, with books and her lute. It was
the mild and beautiful evening of a sultry day, and the windows, which
fronted the west, opened upon all the glory of a setting sun. Its rays
illuminated, with strong splendour, the cliffs of the Pyrenees, and
touched their snowy tops with a roseate hue, that remained, long after
the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the shades of twilight had
stolen over the landscape. Emily touched her lute with that fine
melancholy expression, which came from her heart. The pensive hour and
the scene, the evening light on the Garonne, that flowed at no great
distance, and whose waves, as they passed towards La Vallee, she often
viewed with a sigh,--these united circumstances disposed her mind to
tenderness, and her thoughts were with Valancourt, of whom she had heard
nothing since her arrival at Tholouse, and now that she was removed from
him, and in uncertainty, she perceived all the interest he held in her
heart. Before she saw Valancourt she had never met a mind and taste so
accordant with her own, and, though Madame Cheron told her much of the
arts of dissimulation, and that the elegance and propriety of thought,
which she so much admired in her lover, were assumed for the purpose of
pleasing her, she could scarcely doubt their truth. This possibility,
however, faint as it was, was sufficient to harass her mind with
anxiety, and she found, that few conditions are more painful than that
of uncertainty, as to the merit of a beloved object; an uncertainty,
which she would not have suffered, had her confidence in her own
opinions been greater.

She was awakened from her musing by the sound of horses' feet along
a road, that wound under the windows of the pavilion, and a gentleman
passed on horseback, whose resemblance to Valancourt, in air and figure,
for the twilight did not permit a view of his features, immediately
struck her. She retired hastily from the lattice, fearing to be seen,
yet wishing to observe further, while the stranger passed on without
looking up, and, when she returned to the lattice, she saw him faintly
through the twilight, winding under the high trees, that led to
Tholouse. This little incident so much disturbed her spirits, that the
temple and its scenery were no longer interesting to her, and, after
walking awhile on the terrace, she returned to the chateau.

Madame Cheron, whether she had seen a rival admired, had lost at play,
or had witnessed an entertainment more splendid than her own, was
returned from her visit with a temper more than usually discomposed; and
Emily was glad, when the hour arrived, in which she could retire to the
solitude of her own apartment.

On the following morning, she was summoned to Madame Cheron, whose
countenance was inflamed with resentment, and, as Emily advanced, she
held out a letter to her.

'Do you know this hand?' said she, in a severe tone, and with a look
that was intended to search her heart, while Emily examined the letter
attentively, and assured her, that she did not.

'Do not provoke me,' said her aunt; 'you do know it, confess the truth
immediately. I insist upon your confessing the truth instantly.'

Emily was silent, and turned to leave the room, but Madame called her
back. 'O you are guilty, then,' said she, 'you do know the hand.' 'If
you was before in doubt of this, madam,' replied Emily calmly, 'why did
you accuse me of having told a falsehood.' Madame Cheron did not
blush; but her niece did, a moment after, when she heard the name of
Valancourt. It was not, however, with the consciousness of deserving
reproof, for, if she ever had seen his hand-writing, the present
characters did not bring it to her recollection.

'It is useless to deny it,' said Madame Cheron, 'I see in your
countenance, that you are no stranger to this letter; and, I dare say,
you have received many such from this impertinent young man, without my
knowledge, in my own house.'

Emily, shocked at the indelicacy of this accusation, still more than
by the vulgarity of the former, instantly forgot the pride, that
had imposed silence, and endeavoured to vindicate herself from the
aspersion, but Madame Cheron was not to be convinced.

'I cannot suppose,' she resumed, 'that this young man would have taken
the liberty of writing to me, if you had not encouraged him to do so,
and I must now'--'You will allow me to remind you, madam,' said Emily
timidly, 'of some particulars of a conversation we had at La Vallee.
I then told you truly, that I had only not forbade Monsieur Valancourt
from addressing my family.'

'I will not be interrupted,' said Madame Cheron, interrupting her niece,
'I was going to say--I--I-have forgot what I was going to say. But
how happened it that you did not forbid him?' Emily was silent. 'How
happened it that you encouraged him to trouble me with this letter?--A
young man that nobody knows;--an utter stranger in the place,--a young
adventurer, no doubt, who is looking out for a good fortune. However, on
that point he has mistaken his aim.'

'His family was known to my father,' said Emily modestly, and without
appearing to be sensible of the last sentence.

'O! that is no recommendation at all,' replied her aunt, with her usual
readiness upon this topic; 'he took such strange fancies to people! He
was always judging persons by their countenances, and was continually
deceived.' 'Yet it was but now, madam, that you judged me guilty by my
countenance,' said Emily, with a design of reproving Madame Cheron, to
which she was induced by this disrespectful mention of her father.

'I called you here,' resumed her aunt, colouring, 'to tell you, that
I will not be disturbed in my own house by any letters, or visits from
young men, who may take a fancy to flatter you. This M. de Valantine--I
think you call him, has the impertinence to beg I will permit him to
pay his respects to me! I shall send him a proper answer. And for you,
Emily, I repeat it once for all--if you are not contented to conform
to my directions, and to my way of live, I shall give up the task of
overlooking your conduct--I shall no longer trouble myself with your
education, but shall send you to board in a convent.'

'Dear madam,' said Emily, bursting into tears, and overcome by the rude
suspicions her aunt had expressed, 'how have I deserved these reproofs?'
She could say no more; and so very fearful was she of acting with any
degree of impropriety in the affair itself, that, at the present moment,
Madame Cheron might perhaps have prevailed with her to bind herself by
a promise to renounce Valancourt for ever. Her mind, weakened by her
terrors, would no longer suffer her to view him as she had formerly
done; she feared the error of her own judgment, not that of Madame
Cheron, and feared also, that, in her former conversation with him, at
La Vallee, she had not conducted herself with sufficient reserve. She
knew, that she did not deserve the coarse suspicions, which her aunt had
thrown out, but a thousand scruples rose to torment her, such as would
never have disturbed the peace of Madame Cheron. Thus rendered anxious
to avoid every opportunity of erring, and willing to submit to any
restrictions, that her aunt should think proper, she expressed an
obedience, to which Madame Cheron did not give much confidence, and
which she seemed to consider as the consequence of either fear, or
artifice.

'Well, then,' said she, 'promise me that you will neither see this young
man, nor write to him without my consent.' 'Dear madam,' replied Emily,
'can you suppose I would do either, unknown to you!' 'I don't know
what to suppose; there is no knowing how young women will act. It is
difficult to place any confidence in them, for they have seldom sense
enough to wish for the respect of the world.'

'Alas, madam!' said Emily, 'I am anxious for my own respect; my father
taught me the value of that; he said if I deserved my own esteem, that
the world would follow of course.'

'My brother was a good kind of a man,' replied Madame Cheron, 'but he
did not know the world. I am sure I have always felt a proper respect
for myself, yet--' she stopped, but she might have added, that the world
had not always shewn respect to her, and this without impeaching its
judgment.

'Well!' resumed Madame Cheron, 'you have not give me the promise,
though, that I demand.' Emily readily gave it, and, being then suffered
to withdraw, she walked in the garden; tried to compose her spirits,
and, at length, arrived at her favourite pavilion at the end of the
terrace, where, seating herself at one of the embowered windows, that
opened upon a balcony, the stillness and seclusion of the scene allowed
her to recollect her thoughts, and to arrange them so as to form a
clearer judgment of her former conduct. She endeavoured to review with
exactness all the particulars of her conversation with Valancourt at La
Vallee, had the satisfaction to observe nothing, that could alarm her
delicate pride, and thus to be confirmed in the self-esteem, which was
so necessary to her peace. Her mind then became tranquil, and she saw
Valancourt amiable and intelligent, as he had formerly appeared, and
Madame Cheron neither the one, or the other. The remembrance of her
lover, however, brought with it many very painful emotions, for it by no
means reconciled her to the thought of resigning him; and, Madame Cheron
having already shewn how highly she disapproved of the attachment, she
foresaw much suffering from the opposition of interests; yet with all
this was mingled a degree of delight, which, in spite of reason, partook
of hope. She determined, however, that no consideration should induce
her to permit a clandestine correspondence, and to observe in her
conversation with Valancourt, should they ever meet again, the same
nicety of reserve, which had hitherto marked her conduct. As she
repeated the words--'should we ever meet again!' she shrunk as if this
was a circumstance, which had never before occurred to her, and tears
came to her eyes, which she hastily dried, for she heard footsteps
approaching, and then the door of the pavilion open, and, on turning,
she saw--Valancourt. An emotion of mingled pleasure, surprise and
apprehension pressed so suddenly upon her heart as almost to overcome
her spirits; the colour left her cheeks, then returned brighter than
before, and she was for a moment unable to speak, or to rise from her
chair. His countenance was the mirror, in which she saw her own emotions
reflected, and it roused her to self-command. The joy, which had
animated his features, when he entered the pavilion, was suddenly
repressed, as, approaching, he perceived her agitation, and, in a
tremulous voice, enquired after her health. Recovered from her first
surprise, she answered him with a tempered smile; but a variety of
opposite emotions still assailed her heart, and struggled to subdue
the mild dignity of her manner. It was difficult to tell which
predominated--the joy of seeing Valancourt, or the terror of her aunt's
displeasure, when she should hear of this meeting. After some short and
embarrassed conversation, she led him into the gardens, and enquired if
he had seen Madame Cheron. 'No,' said he, 'I have not yet seen her, for
they told me she was engaged, and as soon as I learned that you were in
the gardens, I came hither.' He paused a moment, in great agitation, and
then added, 'May I venture to tell you the purport of my visit, without
incurring your displeasure, and to hope, that you will not accuse me of
precipitation in now availing myself of the permission you once gave
me of addressing your family?' Emily, who knew not what to reply, was
spared from further perplexity, and was sensible only of fear, when on
raising her eyes, she saw Madame Cheron turn into the avenue. As the
consciousness of innocence returned, this fear was so far dissipated as
to permit her to appear tranquil, and, instead of avoiding her aunt, she
advanced with Valancourt to meet her. The look of haughty and impatient
displeasure, with which Madame Cheron regarded them, made Emily shrink,
who understood from a single glance, that this meeting was believed to
have been more than accidental: having mentioned Valancourt's name, she
became again too much agitated to remain with them, and returned into
the chateau; where she awaited long, in a state of trembling anxiety,
the conclusion of the conference. She knew not how to account for
Valancourt's visit to her aunt, before he had received the permission
he solicited, since she was ignorant of a circumstance, which would have
rendered the request useless, even if Madame Cheron had been inclined to
grant it. Valancourt, in the agitation of his spirits, had forgotten to
date his letter, so that it was impossible for Madame Cheron to return
an answer; and, when he recollected this circumstance, he was, perhaps,
not so sorry for the omission as glad of the excuse it allowed him for
waiting on her before she could send a refusal.

Madame Cheron had a long conversation with Valancourt, and, when she
returned to the chateau, her countenance expressed ill-humour, but not
the degree of severity, which Emily had apprehended. 'I have dismissed
this young man, at last,' said she, 'and I hope my house will never
again be disturbed with similar visits. He assures me, that your
interview was not preconcerted.'

'Dear madam!' said Emily in extreme emotion, 'you surely did not ask him
the question!' 'Most certainly I did; you could not suppose I should be
so imprudent as to neglect it.'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, 'what an opinion must he form of me, since
you, Madam, could express a suspicion of such ill conduct!'

'It is of very little consequence what opinion he may form of you,'
replied her aunt, 'for I have put an end to the affair; but I believe
he will not form a worse opinion of me for my prudent conduct. I let him
see, that I was not to be trifled with, and that I had more delicacy,
than to permit any clandestine correspondence to be carried on in my
house.'

Emily had frequently heard Madame Cheron use the word delicacy, but she
was now more than usually perplexed to understand how she meant to apply
it in this instance, in which her whole conduct appeared to merit the
very reverse of the term.

'It was very inconsiderate of my brother,' resumed Madame Cheron, 'to
leave the trouble of overlooking your conduct to me; I wish you was well
settled in life. But if I find, that I am to be further troubled with
such visitors as this M. Valancourt, I shall place you in a convent at
once;--so remember the alternative. This young man has the impertinence
to own to me,--he owns it! that his fortune is very small, and that he
is chiefly dependent on an elder brother and on the profession he has
chosen! He should have concealed these circumstances, at least, if he
expected to succeed with me. Had he the presumption to suppose I would
marry my niece to a person such as he describes himself!'

Emily dried her tears when she heard of the candid confession of
Valancourt; and, though the circumstances it discovered were afflicting
to her hopes, his artless conduct gave her a degree of pleasure, that
overcame every other emotion. But she was compelled, even thus early
in life, to observe, that good sense and noble integrity are not always
sufficient to cope with folly and narrow cunning; and her heart was pure
enough to allow her, even at this trying moment, to look with more pride
on the defeat of the former, than with mortification on the conquests of
the latter.

Madame Cheron pursued her triumph. 'He has also thought proper to tell
me, that he will receive his dismission from no person but yourself;
this favour, however, I have absolutely refused him. He shall learn,
that it is quite sufficient, that I disapprove him. And I take this
opportunity of repeating,--that if you concert any means of interview
unknown to me, you shall leave my house immediately.'

'How little do you know me, madam, that you should think such an
injunction necessary!' said Emily, trying to suppress her emotion, 'how
little of the dear parents, who educated me!'

Madame Cheron now went to dress for an engagement, which she had made
for the evening; and Emily, who would gladly have been excused from
attending her aunt, did not ask to remain at home lest her request
should be attributed to an improper motive. When she retired to her own
room, the little fortitude, which had supported her in the presence of
her relation, forsook her; she remembered only that Valancourt, whose
character appeared more amiable from every circumstance, that unfolded
it, was banished from her presence, perhaps, for ever, and she passed
the time in weeping, which, according to her aunt's direction, she ought
to have employed in dressing. This important duty was, however, quickly
dispatched; though, when she joined Madame Cheron at table, her eyes
betrayed, that she had been in tears, and drew upon her a severe
reproof.

Her efforts to appear cheerful did not entirely fail when she joined the
company at the house of Madame Clairval, an elderly widow lady, who had
lately come to reside at Tholouse, on an estate of her late husband. She
had lived many years at Paris in a splendid style; had naturally a gay
temper, and, since her residence at Tholouse, had given some of the most
magnificent entertainments, that had been seen in that neighbourhood.

These excited not only the envy, but the trifling ambition of Madame
Cheron, who, since she could not rival the splendour of her festivities,
was desirous of being ranked in the number of her most intimate friends.
For this purpose she paid her the most obsequious attention, and made
a point of being disengaged, whenever she received an invitation from
Madame Clairval, of whom she talked, wherever she went, and derived much
self-consequence from impressing a belief on her general acquaintance,
that they were on the most familiar footing.

The entertainments of this evening consisted of a ball and supper; it
was a fancy ball, and the company danced in groups in the gardens,
which were very extensive. The high and luxuriant trees, under which the
groups assembled, were illuminated with a profusion of lamps, disposed
with taste and fancy. The gay and various dresses of the company, some
of whom were seated on the turf, conversing at their ease, observing
the cotillons, taking refreshments, and sometimes touching sportively a
guitar; the gallant manners of the gentlemen, the exquisitely capricious
air of the ladies; the light fantastic steps of their dances; the
musicians, with the lute, the hautboy, and the tabor, seated at the foot
of an elm, and the sylvan scenery of woods around were circumstances,
that unitedly formed a characteristic and striking picture of French
festivity. Emily surveyed the gaiety of the scene with a melancholy kind
of pleasure, and her emotion may be imagined when, as she stood with her
aunt, looking at one of the groups, she perceived Valancourt; saw him
dancing with a young and beautiful lady, saw him conversing with her
with a mixture of attention and familiarity, such as she had seldom
observed in his manner. She turned hastily from the scene, and attempted
to draw away Madame Cheron, who was conversing with Signor Cavigni,
and neither perceived Valancourt, or was willing to be interrupted. A
faintness suddenly came over Emily, and, unable to support herself, she
sat down on a turf bank beneath the trees, where several other persons
were seated. One of these, observing the extreme paleness of her
countenance, enquired if she was ill, and begged she would allow him to
fetch her a glass of water, for which politeness she thanked him, but
did not accept it. Her apprehension lest Valancourt should observe her
emotion made her anxious to overcome it, and she succeeded so far as
to re-compose her countenance. Madame Cheron was still conversing with
Cavigni; and the Count Bauvillers, who had addressed Emily, made some
observations upon the scene, to which she answered almost unconsciously,
for her mind was still occupied with the idea of Valancourt, to whom
it was with extreme uneasiness that she remained so near. Some remarks,
however, which the Count made upon the dance obliged her to turn her
eyes towards it, and, at that moment, Valancourt's met hers. Her colour
faded again, she felt, that she was relapsing into faintness, and
instantly averted her looks, but not before she had observed the altered
countenance of Valancourt, on perceiving her. She would have left the
spot immediately, had she not been conscious, that this conduct would
have shewn him more obviously the interest he held in her heart; and,
having tried to attend to the Count's conversation, and to join in
it, she, at length, recovered her spirits. But, when he made some
observation on Valancourt's partner, the fear of shewing that she was
interested in the remark, would have betrayed it to him, had not
the Count, while he spoke, looked towards the person of whom he was
speaking. 'The lady,' said he, 'dancing with that young Chevalier, who
appears to be accomplished in every thing, but in dancing, is ranked
among the beauties of Tholouse. She is handsome, and her fortune will be
very large. I hope she will make a better choice in a partner for life
than she has done in a partner for the dance, for I observe he has just
put the set into great confusion; he does nothing but commit blunders. I
am surprised, that, with his air and figure, he has not taken more care
to accomplish himself in dancing.'

Emily, whose heart trembled at every word, that was now uttered,
endeavoured to turn the conversation from Valancourt, by enquiring
the name of the lady, with whom he danced; but, before the Count could
reply, the dance concluded, and Emily, perceiving that Valancourt was
coming towards her, rose and joined Madame Cheron.

'Here is the Chevalier Valancourt, madam,' said she in a whisper, 'pray
let us go.' Her aunt immediately moved on, but not before Valancourt had
reached them, who bowed lowly to Madame Cheron, and with an earnest and
dejected look to Emily, with whom, notwithstanding all her effort, an
air of more than common reserve prevailed. The presence of Madame
Cheron prevented Valancourt from remaining, and he passed on with a
countenance, whose melancholy reproached her for having increased it.
Emily was called from the musing fit, into which she had fallen, by the
Count Bauvillers, who was known to her aunt.

'I have your pardon to beg, ma'amselle,' said he, 'for a rudeness, which
you will readily believe was quite unintentional. I did not know, that
the Chevalier was your acquaintance, when I so freely criticised his
dancing.' Emily blushed and smiled, and Madame Cheron spared her the
difficulty of replying. 'If you mean the person, who has just passed
us,' said she, 'I can assure you he is no acquaintance of either mine,
or ma'amselle St. Aubert's: I know nothing of him.'

'O! that is the Chevalier Valancourt,' said Cavigni carelessly, and
looking back. 'You know him then?' said Madame Cheron. 'I am not
acquainted with him,' replied Cavigni. 'You don't know, then, the reason
I have to call him impertinent;--he has had the presumption to admire my
niece!'

'If every man deserves the title of impertinent, who admires
ma'amselle St. Aubert,' replied Cavigni, 'I fear there are a great many
impertinents, and I am willing to acknowledge myself one of the number.'

'O Signor!' said Madame Cheron, with an affected smile, 'I perceive you
have learnt the art of complimenting, since you came into France. But it
is cruel to compliment children, since they mistake flattery for truth.'

Cavigni turned away his face for a moment, and then said with a studied
air, 'Whom then are we to compliment, madam? for it would be absurd to
compliment a woman of refined understanding; SHE is above all praise.'
As he finished the sentence he gave Emily a sly look, and the smile,
that had lurked in his eye, stole forth. She perfectly understood it,
and blushed for Madame Cheron, who replied, 'You are perfectly right,
signor, no woman of understanding can endure compliment.'

'I have heard Signor Montoni say,' rejoined Cavigni, 'that he never knew
but one woman who deserved it.'

'Well!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, with a short laugh, and a smile of
unutterable complacency, 'and who could she be?'

'O!' replied Cavigni, 'it is impossible to mistake her, for certainly
there is not more than one woman in the world, who has both the merit to
deserve compliment and the wit to refuse it. Most women reverse the case
entirely.' He looked again at Emily, who blushed deeper than before for
her aunt, and turned from him with displeasure.

'Well, signor!' said Madame Cheron, 'I protest you are a Frenchman; I
never heard a foreigner say any thing half so gallant as that!'

'True, madam,' said the Count, who had been some time silent, and with a
low bow, 'but the gallantry of the compliment had been utterly lost, but
for the ingenuity that discovered the application.'

Madame Cheron did not perceive the meaning of this too satirical
sentence, and she, therefore, escaped the pain, which Emily felt on
her account. 'O! here comes Signor Montoni himself,' said her aunt, 'I
protest I will tell him all the fine things you have been saying to me.'
The Signor, however, passed at this moment into another walk. 'Pray, who
is it, that has so much engaged your friend this evening?' asked Madame
Cheron, with an air of chagrin, 'I have not seen him once.'

'He had a very particular engagement with the Marquis La Riviere,'
replied Cavigni, 'which has detained him, I perceive, till this moment,
or he would have done himself the honour of paying his respects to you,
madam, sooner, as he commissioned me to say. But, I know not how it
is--your conversation is so fascinating--that it can charm even memory,
I think, or I should certainly have delivered my friend's apology
before.'

'The apology, sir, would have been more satisfactory from himself,' said
Madame Cheron, whose vanity was more mortified by Montoni's neglect,
than flattered by Cavigni's compliment. Her manner, at this moment, and
Cavigni's late conversation, now awakened a suspicion in Emily's mind,
which, notwithstanding that some recollections served to confirm it,
appeared preposterous. She thought she perceived, that Montoni was
paying serious addresses to her aunt, and that she not only accepted
them, but was jealously watchful of any appearance of neglect on his
part.--That Madame Cheron at her years should elect a second husband was
ridiculous, though her vanity made it not impossible; but that Montoni,
with his discernment, his figure, and pretensions, should make a choice
of Madame Cheron--appeared most wonderful. Her thoughts, however, did
not dwell long on the subject; nearer interests pressed upon them;
Valancourt, rejected of her aunt, and Valancourt dancing with a gay and
beautiful partner, alternately tormented her mind. As she passed along
the gardens she looked timidly forward, half fearing and half hoping
that he might appear in the crowd; and the disappointment she felt on
not seeing him, told her, that she had hoped more than she had feared.

Montoni soon after joined the party. He muttered over some short speech
about regret for having been so long detained elsewhere, when he knew
he should have the pleasure of seeing Madame Cheron here; and she,
receiving the apology with the air of a pettish girl, addressed herself
entirely to Cavigni, who looked archly at Montoni, as if he would have
said, 'I will not triumph over you too much; I will have the goodness to
bear my honours meekly; but look sharp, Signor, or I shall certainly run
away with your prize.'

The supper was served in different pavilions in the gardens, as well as
in one large saloon of the chateau, and with more of taste, than either
of splendour, or even of plenty. Madame Cheron and her party supped with
Madame Clairval in the saloon, and Emily, with difficulty, disguised her
emotion, when she saw Valancourt placed at the same table with herself.
There, Madame Cheron having surveyed him with high displeasure, said to
some person who sat next to her, 'Pray, who IS that young man?' 'It is
the Chevalier Valancourt,' was the answer. 'Yes, I am not ignorant
of his name, but who is this Chevalier Valancourt that thus intrudes
himself at this table?' The attention of the person, who whom she spoke,
was called off before she received a second reply. The table, at which
they sat, was very long, and, Valancourt being seated, with his partner,
near the bottom, and Emily near the top, the distance between them may
account for his not immediately perceiving her. She avoided looking to
that end of the table, but whenever her eyes happened to glance towards
it, she observed him conversing with his beautiful companion, and the
observation did not contribute to restore her peace, any more than the
accounts she heard of the fortune and accomplishments of this same lady.

Madame Cheron, to whom these remarks were sometimes addressed, because
they supported topics for trivial conversation, seemed indefatigable
in her attempts to depreciate Valancourt, towards whom she felt all the
petty resentment of a narrow pride. 'I admire the lady,' said she, 'but
I must condemn her choice of a partner.' 'Oh, the Chevalier Valancourt
is one of the most accomplished young men we have,' replied the lady,
to whom this remark was addressed: 'it is whispered, that Mademoiselle
D'Emery, and her large fortune, are to be his.'

'Impossible!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, reddening with vexation, 'it is
impossible that she can be so destitute of taste; he has so little the
air of a person of condition, that, if I did not see him at the table
of Madame Clairval, I should never have suspected him to be one. I have
besides particular reasons for believing the report to be erroneous.'

'I cannot doubt the truth of it,' replied the lady gravely, disgusted
by the abrupt contradiction she had received, concerning her opinion of
Valancourt's merit. 'You will, perhaps, doubt it,' said Madame Cheron,
'when I assure you, that it was only this morning that I rejected his
suit.' This was said without any intention of imposing the meaning it
conveyed, but simply from a habit of considering herself to be the most
important person in every affair that concerned her niece, and because
literally she had rejected Valancourt. 'Your reasons are indeed such as
cannot be doubted,' replied the lady, with an ironical smile. 'Any more
than the discernment of the Chevalier Valancourt,' added Cavigni, who
stood by the chair of Madame Cheron, and had heard her arrogate to
herself, as he thought, a distinction which had been paid to her niece.
'His discernment MAY be justly questioned, Signor,' said Madame Cheron,
who was not flattered by what she understood to be an encomium on Emily.

'Alas!' exclaimed Cavigni, surveying Madame Cheron with affected
ecstasy, 'how vain is that assertion, while that face--that shape--that
air--combine to refute it! Unhappy Valancourt! his discernment has been
his destruction.'

Emily looked surprised and embarrassed; the lady, who had lately
spoke, astonished, and Madame Cheron, who, though she did not perfectly
understand this speech, was very ready to believe herself complimented
by it, said smilingly, 'O Signor! you are very gallant; but those, who
hear you vindicate the Chevalier's discernment, will suppose that I am
the object of it.'

'They cannot doubt it,' replied Cavigni, bowing low.

'And would not that be very mortifying, Signor?'

'Unquestionably it would,' said Cavigni.

'I cannot endure the thought,' said Madame Cheron.

'It is not to be endured,' replied Cavigni.

'What can be done to prevent so humiliating a mistake?' rejoined Madame
Cheron.

'Alas! I cannot assist you,' replied Cavigni, with a deliberating
air. 'Your only chance of refuting the calumny, and of making people
understand what you wish them to believe, is to persist in your
first assertion; for, when they are told of the Chevalier's want of
discernment, it is possible they may suppose he never presumed to
distress you with his admiration.--But then again--that diffidence,
which renders you so insensible to your own perfections--they will
consider this, and Valancourt's taste will not be doubted, though you
arraign it. In short, they will, in spite of your endeavours, continue
to believe, what might very naturally have occurred to them without any
hint of mine--that the Chevalier has taste enough to admire a beautiful
woman.'

'All this is very distressing!' said Madame Cheron, with a profound
sigh.

'May I be allowed to ask what is so distressing?' said Madame Clairval,
who was struck with the rueful countenance and doleful accent, with
which this was delivered.

'It is a delicate subject,' replied Madame Cheron, 'a very mortifying
one to me.' 'I am concerned to hear it,' said Madame Clairval, 'I hope
nothing has occurred, this evening, particularly to distress you?'
'Alas, yes! within this half hour; and I know not where the report may
end;--my pride was never so shocked before, but I assure you the report
is totally void of foundation.' 'Good God!' exclaimed Madame Clairval,'
what can be done? Can you point out any way, by which I can assist, or
console you?'

'The only way, by which you can do either,' replied Madame Cheron, 'is
to contradict the report wherever you go.'

'Well! but pray inform me what I am to contradict.'

'It is so very humiliating, that I know not how to mention it,'
continued Madame Cheron, 'but you shall judge. Do you observe that
young man seated near the bottom of the table, who is conversing with
Mademoiselle D'Emery?' 'Yes, I perceive whom you mean.' 'You observe how
little he has the air of a person of condition; I was saying just now,
that I should not have thought him a gentleman, if I had not seen him
at this table.' 'Well! but the report,' said Madame Clairval, 'let
me understand the subject of your distress.' 'Ah! the subject of my
distress,' replied Madame Cheron; 'this person, whom nobody knows--(I
beg pardon, madam, I did not consider what I said)--this impertinent
young man, having had the presumption to address my niece, has, I fear,
given rise to a report, that he had declared himself my admirer. Now
only consider how very mortifying such a report must be! You, I
know, will feel for my situation. A woman of my condition!--think how
degrading even the rumour of such an alliance must be.'

'Degrading indeed, my poor friend!' said Madame Clairval. 'You may rely
upon it I will contradict the report wherever I go;' as she said which,
she turned her attention upon another part of the company; and Cavigni,
who had hitherto appeared a grave spectator of the scene, now fearing
he should be unable to smother the laugh, that convulsed him, walked
abruptly away.

'I perceive you do not know,' said the lady who sat near Madame Cheron,
'that the gentleman you have been speaking of is Madame Clairval's
nephew!' 'Impossible!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, who now began to
perceive, that she had been totally mistaken in her judgment of
Valancourt, and to praise him aloud with as much servility, as she had
before censured him with frivolous malignity.

Emily, who, during the greater part of this conversation, had been so
absorbed in thought as to be spared the pain of hearing it, was now
extremely surprised by her aunt's praise of Valancourt, with whose
relationship to Madame Clairval she was unacquainted; but she was
not sorry when Madame Cheron, who, though she now tried to appear
unconcerned, was really much embarrassed, prepared to withdraw
immediately after supper. Montoni then came to hand Madame Cheron to her
carriage, and Cavigni, with an arch solemnity of countenance, followed
with Emily, who, as she wished them good night, and drew up the glass,
saw Valancourt among the crowd at the gates. Before the carriage drove
off, he disappeared. Madame Cheron forbore to mention him to Emily, and,
as soon as they reached the chateau, they separated for the night.

On the following morning, as Emily sat at breakfast with her aunt, a
letter was brought to her, of which she knew the handwriting upon the
cover; and, as she received it with a trembling hand, Madame Cheron
hastily enquired from whom it came. Emily, with her leave, broke the
seal, and, observing the signature of Valancourt, gave it unread to her
aunt, who received it with impatience; and, as she looked it over, Emily
endeavoured to read on her countenance its contents. Having returned
the letter to her niece, whose eyes asked if she might examine it, 'Yes,
read it, child,' said Madame Cheron, in a manner less severe than she
had expected, and Emily had, perhaps, never before so willingly obeyed
her aunt. In this letter Valancourt said little of the interview of the
preceding day, but concluded with declaring, that he would accept his
dismission from Emily only, and with entreating, that she would allow
him to wait upon her, on the approaching evening. When she read this,
she was astonished at the moderation of Madame Cheron, and looked at
her with timid expectation, as she said sorrowfully--'What am I to say,
madam?'

'Why--we must see the young man, I believe,' replied her aunt, 'and hear
what he has further to say for himself. You may tell him he may come.'
Emily dared scarcely credit what she heard. 'Yet, stay,' added Madame
Cheron, 'I will tell him so myself.' She called for pen and ink; Emily
still not daring to trust the emotions she felt, and almost sinking
beneath them. Her surprise would have been less had she overheard,
on the preceding evening, what Madame Cheron had not forgotten--that
Valancourt was the nephew of Madame Clairval.

What were the particulars of her aunt's note Emily did not learn, but
the result was a visit from Valancourt in the evening, whom Madame
Cheron received alone, and they had a long conversation before Emily
was called down. When she entered the room, her aunt was conversing with
complacency, and she saw the eyes of Valancourt, as he impatiently rose,
animated with hope.

'We have been talking over this affair,' said Madame Cheron, 'the
chevalier has been telling me, that the late Monsieur Clairval was the
brother of the Countess de Duvarney, his mother. I only wish he had
mentioned his relationship to Madame Clairval before; I certainly should
have considered that circumstance as a sufficient introduction to my
house.' Valancourt bowed, and was going to address Emily, but her aunt
prevented him. 'I have, therefore, consented that you shall receive his
visits; and, though I will not bind myself by any promise, or say, that
I shall consider him as my nephew, yet I shall permit the intercourse,
and shall look forward to any further connection as an event, which may
possibly take place in a course of years, provided the chevalier rises
in his profession, or any circumstance occurs, which may make it prudent
for him to take a wife. But Mons. Valancourt will observe, and you too,
Emily, that, till that happens, I positively forbid any thoughts of
marrying.'

Emily's countenance, during this coarse speech, varied every instant,
and, towards its conclusion, her distress had so much increased,
that she was on the point of leaving the room. Valancourt, meanwhile,
scarcely less embarrassed, did not dare to look at her, for whom he
was thus distressed; but, when Madame Cheron was silent, he said,
'Flattering, madam, as your approbation is to me--highly as I am
honoured by it--I have yet so much to fear, that I scarcely dare to
hope.' 'Pray, sir, explain yourself,' said Madame Cheron; an unexpected
requisition, which embarrassed Valancourt again, and almost overcame him
with confusion, at circumstances, on which, had he been only a spectator
of the scene, he would have smiled.

'Till I receive Mademoiselle St. Aubert's permission to accept your
indulgence,' said he, falteringly--'till she allows me to hope--'

'O! is that all?' interrupted Madame Cheron. 'Well, I will take upon me
to answer for her. But at the same time, sir, give me leave to observe
to you, that I am her guardian, and that I expect, in every instance,
that my will is hers.'

As she said this, she rose and quitted the room, leaving Emily and
Valancourt in a state of mutual embarrassment; and, when Valancourt's
hopes enabled him to overcome his fears, and to address her with the
zeal and sincerity so natural to him, it was a considerable time
before she was sufficiently recovered to hear with distinctness his
solicitations and inquiries.

The conduct of Madame Cheron in this affair had been entirely governed
by selfish vanity. Valancourt, in his first interview, had with great
candour laid open to her the true state of his present circumstances,
and his future expectancies, and she, with more prudence than humanity,
had absolutely and abruptly rejected his suit. She wished her niece to
marry ambitiously, not because she desired to see her in possession of
the happiness, which rank and wealth are usually believed to bestow, but
because she desired to partake the importance, which such an alliance
would give. When, therefore, she discovered that Valancourt was the
nephew of a person of so much consequence as Madame Clairval, she became
anxious for the connection, since the prospect it afforded of future
fortune and distinction for Emily, promised the exaltation she coveted
for herself. Her calculations concerning fortune in this alliance were
guided rather by her wishes, than by any hint of Valancourt, or strong
appearance of probability; and, when she rested her expectation on the
wealth of Madame Clairval, she seemed totally to have forgotten, that
the latter had a daughter. Valancourt, however, had not forgotten this
circumstance, and the consideration of it had made him so modest in
his expectations from Madame Clairval, that he had not even named the
relationship in his first conversation with Madame Cheron. But, whatever
might be the future fortune of Emily, the present distinction, which the
connection would afford for herself, was certain, since the splendour of
Madame Clairval's establishment was such as to excite the general envy
and partial imitation of the neighbourhood. Thus had she consented to
involve her niece in an engagement, to which she saw only a distant and
uncertain conclusion, with as little consideration of her happiness,
as when she had so precipitately forbade it: for though she herself
possessed the means of rendering this union not only certain, but
prudent, yet to do so was no part of her present intention.

From this period Valancourt made frequent visits to Madame Cheron, and
Emily passed in his society the happiest hours she had known since the
death of her father. They were both too much engaged by the present
moments to give serious consideration to the future. They loved and were
beloved, and saw not, that the very attachment, which formed the delight
of their present days, might possibly occasion the sufferings of years.
Meanwhile, Madame Cheron's intercourse with Madame Clairval became
more frequent than before, and her vanity was already gratified by
the opportunity of proclaiming, wherever she went, the attachment that
subsisted between their nephew and niece.

Montoni was now also become a daily guest at the chateau, and Emily
was compelled to observe, that he really was a suitor, and a favoured
suitor, to her aunt.

Thus passed the winter months, not only in peace, but in happiness,
to Valancourt and Emily; the station of his regiment being so near
Tholouse, as to allow this frequent intercourse. The pavilion on the
terrace was the favourite scene of their interviews, and there Emily,
with Madame Cheron, would work, while Valancourt read aloud works of
genius and taste, listened to her enthusiasm, expressed his own, and
caught new opportunities of observing, that their minds were formed to
constitute the happiness of each other, the same taste, the same noble
and benevolent sentiments animating each.



CHAPTER XIII


  As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles,
  Placed far amid the melancholy main,
  (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,
  Or that aerial beings sometimes deign
  To stand embodied to our senses plain)
  Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,
  The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain,
  A vast assembly moving to and fro,
 Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.
     CASTLE OF INDOLENCE

Madame Cheron's avarice at length yielded to her vanity. Some very
splendid entertainments, which Madame Clairval had given, and the
general adulation, which was paid her, made the former more anxious than
before to secure an alliance, that would so much exalt her in her own
opinion and in that of the world. She proposed terms for the immediate
marriage of her niece, and offered to give Emily a dower, provided
Madame Clairval observed equal terms, on the part of her nephew. Madame
Clairval listened to the proposal, and, considering that Emily was the
apparent heiress of her aunt's wealth, accepted it. Meanwhile, Emily
knew nothing of the transaction, till Madame Cheron informed her, that
she must make preparation for the nuptials, which would be celebrated
without further delay; then, astonished and wholly unable to account for
this sudden conclusion, which Valancourt had not solicited (for he was
ignorant of what had passed between the elder ladies, and had not
dared to hope such good fortune), she decisively objected to it. Madame
Cheron, however, quite as jealous of contradiction now, as she had been
formerly, contended for a speedy marriage with as much vehemence as she
had formerly opposed whatever had the most remote possibility of leading
to it; and Emily's scruples disappeared, when she again saw Valancourt,
who was now informed of the happiness, designed for him, and came to
claim a promise of it from herself.

While preparations were making for these nuptials, Montoni became the
acknowledged lover of Madame Cheron; and, though Madame Clairval was
much displeased, when she heard of the approaching connection, and was
willing to prevent that of Valancourt with Emily, her conscience told
her, that she had no right thus to trifle with their peace, and Madame
Clairval, though a woman of fashion, was far less advanced than
her friend in the art of deriving satisfaction from distinction and
admiration, rather than from conscience.

Emily observed with concern the ascendancy, which Montoni had acquired
over Madame Cheron, as well as the increasing frequency of his visits;
and her own opinion of this Italian was confirmed by that of Valancourt,
who had always expressed a dislike of him. As she was, one morning,
sitting at work in the pavilion, enjoying the pleasant freshness of
spring, whose colours were now spread upon the landscape, and listening
to Valancourt, who was reading, but who often laid aside the book to
converse, she received a summons to attend Madame Cheron immediately,
and had scarcely entered the dressing-room, when she observed with
surprise the dejection of her aunt's countenance, and the contrasted
gaiety of her dress. 'So, niece!'--said Madame, and she stopped under
some degree of embarrassment.--'I sent for you--I--I wished to see you;
I have news to tell you. From this hour you must consider the Signor
Montoni as your uncle--we were married this morning.'

Astonished--not so much at the marriage, as at the secrecy with which
it had been concluded, and the agitation with which it was announced,
Emily, at length, attributed the privacy to the wish of Montoni, rather
than of her aunt. His wife, however, intended, that the contrary should
be believed, and therefore added, 'you see I wished to avoid a bustle;
but now the ceremony is over I shall do so no longer; and I wish to
announce to my servants that they must receive the Signor Montoni for
their master.' Emily made a feeble attempt to congratulate her on these
apparently imprudent nuptials. 'I shall now celebrate my marriage with
some splendour,' continued Madame Montoni, 'and to save time I shall
avail myself of the preparation that has been made for yours, which
will, of course, be delayed a little while. Such of your wedding clothes
as are ready I shall expect you will appear in, to do honour to this
festival. I also wish you to inform Monsieur Valancourt, that I have
changed my name, and he will acquaint Madame Clairval. In a few days
I shall give a grand entertainment, at which I shall request their
presence.'

Emily was so lost in surprise and various thought, that she made Madame
Montoni scarcely any reply, but, at her desire, she returned to inform
Valancourt of what had passed. Surprise was not his predominant emotion
on hearing of these hasty nuptials; and, when he learned, that they were
to be the means of delaying his own, and that the very ornaments of the
chateau, which had been prepared to grace the nuptial day of his Emily,
were to be degraded to the celebration of Madame Montoni's, grief and
indignation agitated him alternately. He could conceal neither from the
observation of Emily, whose efforts to abstract him from these serious
emotions, and to laugh at the apprehensive considerations, that assailed
him, were ineffectual; and, when, at length, he took leave, there was an
earnest tenderness in his manner, that extremely affected her; she even
shed tears, when he disappeared at the end of the terrace, yet knew not
exactly why she should do so.

Montoni now took possession of the chateau, and the command of its
inhabitants, with the ease of a man, who had long considered it to be
his own. His friend Cavigni, who had been extremely serviceable,
in having paid Madame Cheron the attention and flattery, which she
required, but from which Montoni too often revolted, had apartments
assigned to him, and received from the domestics an equal degree of
obedience with the master of the mansion.

Within a few days, Madame Montoni, as she had promised, gave a
magnificent entertainment to a very numerous company, among whom was
Valancourt; but at which Madame Clairval excused herself from attending.
There was a concert, ball and supper. Valancourt was, of course, Emily's
partner, and though, when he gave a look to the decorations of the
apartments, he could not but remember, that they were designed for
other festivities, than those they now contributed to celebrate, he
endeavoured to check his concern by considering, that a little
while only would elapse before they would be given to their original
destination. During this evening, Madame Montoni danced, laughed
and talked incessantly; while Montoni, silent, reserved and somewhat
haughty, seemed weary of the parade, and of the frivolous company it had
drawn together.

This was the first and the last entertainment, given in celebration
of their nuptials. Montoni, though the severity of his temper and the
gloominess of his pride prevented him from enjoying such festivities,
was extremely willing to promote them. It was seldom, that he could meet
in any company a man of more address, and still seldomer one of more
understanding, than himself; the balance of advantage in such parties,
or in the connections, which might arise from them, must, therefore, be
on his side; and, knowing, as he did, the selfish purposes, for which
they are generally frequented, he had no objection to measure his
talents of dissimulation with those of any other competitor for
distinction and plunder. But his wife, who, when her own interest was
immediately concerned, had sometimes more discernment than vanity,
acquired a consciousness of her inferiority to other women, in personal
attractions, which, uniting with the jealousy natural to the discovery,
counteracted his readiness for mingling with all the parties Tholouse
could afford. Till she had, as she supposed, the affections of an
husband to lose, she had no motive for discovering the unwelcome truth,
and it had never obtruded itself upon her; but, now that it influenced
her policy, she opposed her husband's inclination for company, with the
more eagerness, because she believed him to be really as well received
in the female society of the place, as, during his addresses to her, he
had affected to be.

A few weeks only had elapsed, since the marriage, when Madame Montoni
informed Emily, that the Signor intended to return to Italy, as soon as
the necessary preparation could be made for so long a journey. 'We shall
go to Venice,' said she, 'where the Signor has a fine mansion, and from
thence to his estate in Tuscany. Why do you look so grave, child?--You,
who are so fond of a romantic country and fine views, will doubtless be
delighted with this journey.'

'Am I then to be of the party, madam?' said Emily, with extreme surprise
and emotion. 'Most certainly,' replied her aunt, 'how could you imagine
we should leave you behind? But I see you are thinking of the Chevalier;
he is not yet, I believe, informed of the journey, but he very soon
will be so. Signor Montoni is gone to acquaint Madame Clairval of our
journey, and to say, that the proposed connection between the families
must from this time be thought of no more.'

The unfeeling manner, in which Madame Montoni thus informed her niece,
that she must be separated, perhaps for ever, from the man, with whom
she was on the point of being united for life, added to the dismay,
which she must otherwise have suffered at such intelligence. When
she could speak, she asked the cause of the sudden change in Madame's
sentiments towards Valancourt, but the only reply she could obtain was,
that the Signor had forbade the connection, considering it to be greatly
inferior to what Emily might reasonably expect.

'I now leave the affair entirely to the Signor,' added Madame Montoni,
'but I must say, that M. Valancourt never was a favourite with me, and
I was overpersuaded, or I should not have given my consent to the
connection. I was weak enough--I am so foolish sometimes!--to suffer
other people's uneasiness to affect me, and so my better judgment
yielded to your affliction. But the Signor has very properly pointed out
the folly of this, and he shall not have to reprove me a second time. I
am determined, that you shall submit to those, who know how to guide you
better than yourself--I am determined, that you shall be conformable.'

Emily would have been astonished at the assertions of this eloquent
speech, had not her mind been so overwhelmed by the sudden shock it had
received, that she scarcely heard a word of what was latterly addressed
to her. Whatever were the weaknesses of Madame Montoni, she might have
avoided to accuse herself with those of compassion and tenderness to the
feelings of others, and especially to those of Emily. It was the same
ambition, that lately prevailed upon her to solicit an alliance with
Madame Clairval's family, which induced her to withdraw from it, now
that her marriage with Montoni had exalted her self-consequence, and,
with it, her views for her niece.

Emily was, at this time, too much affected to employ either
remonstrance, or entreaty on this topic; and when, at length, she
attempted the latter, her emotion overcame her speech, and she retired
to her apartment, to think, if in the present state of her mind to think
was possible, upon this sudden and overwhelming subject. It was very
long, before her spirits were sufficiently composed to permit the
reflection, which, when it came, was dark and even terrible. She saw,
that Montoni sought to aggrandise himself in his disposal of her, and
it occurred, that his friend Cavigni was the person, for whom he was
interested. The prospect of going to Italy was still rendered darker,
when she considered the tumultuous situation of that country, then
torn by civil commotion, where every petty state was at war with its
neighbour, and even every castle liable to the attack of an invader.
She considered the person, to whose immediate guidance she would
be committed, and the vast distance, that was to separate her from
Valancourt, and, at the recollection of him, every other image vanished
from her mind, and every thought was again obscured by grief.

In this perturbed state she passed some hours, and, when she was
summoned to dinner, she entreated permission to remain in her own
apartment; but Madame Montoni was alone, and the request was refused.
Emily and her aunt said little during the repast; the one occupied
by her griefs, the other engrossed by the disappointment, which the
unexpected absence of Montoni occasioned; for not only was her vanity
piqued by the neglect, but her jealousy alarmed by what she considered
as a mysterious engagement. When the cloth was drawn and they were
alone, Emily renewed the mention of Valancourt; but her aunt, neither
softened to pity, or awakened to remorse, became enraged, that her will
should be opposed, and the authority of Montoni questioned, though this
was done by Emily with her usual gentleness, who, after a long, and
torturing conversation, retired in tears.

As she crossed the hall, a person entered it by the great door, whom, as
her eyes hastily glanced that way, she imagined to be Montoni, and she
was passing on with quicker steps, when she heard the well-known voice
of Valancourt.

'Emily, O! my Emily!' cried he in a tone faltering with impatience,
while she turned, and, as he advanced, was alarmed at the expression of
his countenance and the eager desperation of his air. 'In tears, Emily!
I would speak with you,' said he, 'I have much to say; conduct me to
where we may converse. But you tremble--you are ill! Let me lead you to
a seat.'

He observed the open door of an apartment, and hastily took her hand
to lead her thither; but she attempted to withdraw it, and said, with a
languid smile, 'I am better already; if you wish to see my aunt she
is in the dining-parlour.' 'I must speak with YOU, my Emily,' replied
Valancourt, 'Good God! is it already come to this? Are you indeed so
willing to resign me?' But this is an improper place--I am overheard.
Let me entreat your attention, if only for a few minutes.'--'When you
have seen my aunt,' said Emily. 'I was wretched enough when I came
hither,' exclaimed Valancourt, 'do not increase my misery by this
coldness--this cruel refusal.'

The despondency, with which he spoke this, affected her almost to tears,
but she persisted in refusing to hear him, till he had conversed with
Madame Montoni. 'Where is her husband, where, then, is Montoni?' said
Valancourt, in an altered tone: 'it is he, to whom I must speak.'

Emily, terrified for the consequence of the indignation, that flashed
in his eyes, tremblingly assured him, that Montoni was not at home,
and entreated he would endeavour to moderate his resentment. At the
tremulous accents of her voice, his eyes softened instantly from
wildness into tenderness. 'You are ill, Emily,' said he, 'they will
destroy us both! Forgive me, that I dared to doubt your affection.'

Emily no longer opposed him, as he led her into an adjoining parlour;
the manner, in which he had named Montoni, had so much alarmed her
for his own safety, that she was now only anxious to prevent the
consequences of his just resentment. He listened to her entreaties,
with attention, but replied to them only with looks of despondency and
tenderness, concealing, as much as possible, the sentiments he
felt towards Montoni, that he might soothe the apprehensions, which
distressed her. But she saw the veil he had spread over his resentment,
and, his assumed tranquillity only alarming her more, she urged, at
length, the impolicy of forcing an interview with Montoni, and of
taking any measure, which might render their separation irremediable.
Valancourt yielded to these remonstrances, and her affecting entreaties
drew from him a promise, that, however Montoni might persist in his
design of disuniting them, he would not seek to redress his wrongs by
violence. 'For my sake,' said Emily, 'let the consideration of what I
should suffer deter you from such a mode of revenge!' 'For your sake,
Emily,' replied Valancourt, his eyes filling with tears of tenderness
and grief, while he gazed upon her. 'Yes--yes--I shall subdue myself.
But, though I have given you my solemn promise to do this, do not
expect, that I can tamely submit to the authority of Montoni; if I
could, I should be unworthy of you. Yet, O Emily! how long may he
condemn me to live without you,--how long may it be before you return to
France!'

Emily endeavoured to sooth him with assurances of her unalterable
affection, and by representing, that, in little more than a year, she
should be her own mistress, as far as related to her aunt, from whose
guardianship her age would then release her; assurances, which gave
little consolation to Valancourt, who considered, that she would then
be in Italy and in the power of those, whose dominion over her would not
cease with their rights; but he affected to be consoled by them.
Emily, comforted by the promise she had obtained, and by his apparent
composure, was about to leave him, when her aunt entered the room.
She threw a glance of sharp reproof upon her niece, who immediately
withdrew, and of haughty displeasure upon Valancourt.

'This is not the conduct I should have expected from you, sir;' said
she, 'I did not expect to see you in my house, after you had been
informed, that your visits were no longer agreeable, much less, that
you would seek a clandestine interview with my niece, and that she would
grant one.'

Valancourt, perceiving it necessary to vindicate Emily from such a
design, explained, that the purpose of his own visit had been to request
an interview with Montoni, and he then entered upon the subject of it,
with the tempered spirit which the sex, rather than the respectability,
of Madame Montoni, demanded.

His expostulations were answered with severe rebuke; she lamented again,
that her prudence had ever yielded to what she termed compassion, and
added, that she was so sensible of the folly of her former consent,
that, to prevent the possibility of a repetition, she had committed the
affair entirely to the conduct of Signor Montoni.

The feeling eloquence of Valancourt, however, at length, made her
sensible in some measure of her unworthy conduct, and she became
susceptible to shame, but not remorse: she hated Valancourt, who
awakened her to this painful sensation, and, in proportion as she grew
dissatisfied with herself, her abhorrence of him increased. This was
also the more inveterate, because his tempered words and manner were
such as, without accusing her, compelled her to accuse herself, and
neither left her a hope, that the odious portrait was the caricature
of his prejudice, or afforded her an excuse for expressing the violent
resentment, with which she contemplated it. At length, her anger rose
to such an height, that Valancourt was compelled to leave the house
abruptly, lest he should forfeit his own esteem by an intemperate reply.
He was then convinced, that from Madame Montoni he had nothing to hope,
for what of either pity, or justice could be expected from a person, who
could feel the pain of guilt, without the humility of repentance?

To Montoni he looked with equal despondency, since it was nearly
evident, that this plan of separation originated with him, and it was
not probable, that he would relinquish his own views to entreaties, or
remonstrances, which he must have foreseen and have been prepared to
resist. Yet, remembering his promise to Emily, and more solicitous,
concerning his love, than jealous of his consequence, Valancourt was
careful to do nothing that might unnecessarily irritate Montoni, he
wrote to him, therefore, not to demand an interview, but to solicit one,
and, having done this, he endeavoured to wait with calmness his reply.

Madame Clairval was passive in the affair. When she gave her approbation
to Valancourt's marriage, it was in the belief, that Emily would be the
heiress of Madame Montoni's fortune; and, though, upon the nuptials
of the latter, when she perceived the fallacy of this expectation, her
conscience had withheld her from adopting any measure to prevent the
union, her benevolence was not sufficiently active to impel her towards
any step, that might now promote it. She was, on the contrary, secretly
pleased, that Valancourt was released from an engagement, which she
considered to be as inferior, in point of fortune, to his merit, as
his alliance was thought by Montoni to be humiliating to the beauty of
Emily; and, though her pride was wounded by this rejection of a member
of her family, she disdained to shew resentment otherwise, than by
silence.

Montoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said, that as an interview could
neither remove the objections of the one, or overcome the wishes of the
other, it would serve only to produce useless altercation between them.
He, therefore, thought proper to refuse it.

In consideration of the policy, suggested by Emily, and of his promise
to her, Valancourt restrained the impulse, that urged him to the house
of Montoni, to demand what had been denied to his entreaties. He only
repeated his solicitations to see him; seconding them with all the
arguments his situation could suggest. Thus several days passed, in
remonstrance, on one side, and inflexible denial, on the other; for,
whether it was fear, or shame, or the hatred, which results from both,
that made Montoni shun the man he had injured, he was peremptory in
his refusal, and was neither softened to pity by the agony, which
Valancourt's letters pourtrayed, or awakened to a repentance of his
own injustice by the strong remonstrances he employed. At length,
Valancourt's letters were returned unopened, and then, in the first
moments of passionate despair, he forgot every promise to Emily, except
the solemn one, which bound him to avoid violence, and hastened to
Montoni's chateau, determined to see him by whatever other means might
be necessary. Montoni was denied, and Valancourt, when he afterwards
enquired for Madame, and Ma'amselle St. Aubert, was absolutely refused
admittance by the servants. Not choosing to submit himself to a contest
with these, he, at length, departed, and, returning home in a state of
mind approaching to frenzy, wrote to Emily of what had passed, expressed
without restraint all the agony of his heart, and entreated, that, since
he must not otherwise hope to see her immediately, she would allow him
an interview unknown to Montoni. Soon after he had dispatched this, his
passions becoming more temperate, he was sensible of the error he had
committed in having given Emily a new subject of distress in the strong
mention of his own suffering, and would have given half the world, had
it been his, to recover the letter. Emily, however, was spared the
pain she must have received from it by the suspicious policy of Madame
Montoni, who had ordered, that all letters, addressed to her niece,
should be delivered to herself, and who, after having perused this and
indulged the expressions of resentment, which Valancourt's mention of
Montoni provoked, had consigned it to the flames.

Montoni, meanwhile, every day more impatient to leave France, gave
repeated orders for dispatch to the servants employed in preparations
for the journey, and to the persons, with whom he was transacting some
particular business. He preserved a steady silence to the letters in
which Valancourt, despairing of greater good, and having subdued the
passion, that had transgressed against his policy, solicited only the
indulgence of being allowed to bid Emily farewell. But, when the latter
[Valancourt] learned, that she was really to set out in a very few days,
and that it was designed he should see her no more, forgetting every
consideration of prudence, he dared, in a second letter to Emily, to
propose a clandestine marriage. This also was transmitted to Madame
Montoni, and the last day of Emily's stay at Tholouse arrived, without
affording Valancourt even a line to sooth his sufferings, or a hope,
that he should be allowed a parting interview.

During this period of torturing suspense to Valancourt, Emily was sunk
into that kind of stupor, with which sudden and irremediable misfortune
sometimes overwhelms the mind. Loving him with the tenderest affection,
and having long been accustomed to consider him as the friend and
companion of all her future days, she had no ideas of happiness, that
were not connected with him. What, then, must have been her suffering,
when thus suddenly they were to be separated, perhaps, for ever,
certainly to be thrown into distant parts of the world, where they could
scarcely hear of each other's existence; and all this in obedience to
the will of a stranger, for such as Montoni, and of a person, who had
but lately been anxious to hasten their nuptials! It was in vain, that
she endeavoured to subdue her grief, and resign herself to an event,
which she could not avoid. The silence of Valancourt afflicted more than
it surprised her, since she attributed it to its just occasion; but,
when the day, preceding that, on which she was to quit Tholouse,
arrived, and she had heard no mention of his being permitted to take
leave of her, grief overcame every consideration, that had made her
reluctant to speak of him, and she enquired of Madame Montoni, whether
this consolation had been refused. Her aunt informed her that it had,
adding, that, after the provocation she had herself received from
Valancourt, in their last interview, and the persecution, which the
Signor had suffered from his letters, no entreaties should avail to
procure it.

'If the Chevalier expected this favour from us,' said she, 'he should
have conducted himself in a very different manner; he should have waited
patiently, till he knew whether we were disposed to grant it, and not
have come and reproved me, because I did not think proper to bestow
my niece upon him,--and then have persisted in troubling the Signor,
because he did not think proper to enter into any dispute about
so childish an affair. His behaviour throughout has been extremely
presumptuous and impertinent, and I desire, that I may never hear his
name repeated, and that you will get the better of those foolish sorrows
and whims, and look like other people, and not appear with that dismal
countenance, as if you were ready to cry. For, though you say nothing,
you cannot conceal your grief from my penetration. I can see you are
ready to cry at this moment, though I am reproving you for it; aye, even
now, in spite of my commands.'

Emily, having turned away to hide her tears, quitted the room to indulge
them, and the day was passed in an intensity of anguish, such as she
had, perhaps, never known before. When she withdrew to her chamber for
the night, she remained in the chair where she had placed herself, on
entering the room, absorbed in her grief, till long after every member
of the family, except herself, was retired to rest. She could not divest
herself of a belief, that she had parted with Valancourt to meet no
more; a belief, which did not arise merely from foreseen circumstances,
for, though the length of the journey she was about to commence,
the uncertainty as to the period of her return, together with the
prohibitions she had received, seemed to justify it, she yielded also to
an impression, which she mistook for a pre-sentiment, that she was going
from Valancourt for ever. How dreadful to her imagination, too, was the
distance that would separate them--the Alps, those tremendous barriers!
would rise, and whole countries extend between the regions where each
must exist! To live in adjoining provinces, to live even in the same
country, though without seeing him, was comparative happiness to the
conviction of this dreadful length of distance.

Her mind was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of her
state, and the belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last time,
that she suddenly became very faint, and, looking round the chamber for
something, that might revive her, she observed the casements, and had
just strength to throw one open, near which she seated herself. The air
recalled her spirits, and the still moon-light, that fell upon the
elms of a long avenue, fronting the window, somewhat soothed them,
and determined her to try whether exercise and the open air would not
relieve the intense pain that bound her temples. In the chateau all was
still; and, passing down the great stair-case into the hall, from whence
a passage led immediately to the garden, she softly and unheard, as she
thought, unlocked the door, and entered the avenue. Emily passed on with
steps now hurried, and now faltering, as, deceived by the shadows
among the trees, she fancied she saw some person move in the distant
perspective, and feared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni. Her
desire, however, to re-visit the pavilion, where she had passed so many
happy hours with Valancourt, and had admired with him the extensive
prospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony, overcame her
apprehension of being observed, and she moved on towards the terrace,
which, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole of the
lower one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble steps, that
terminated the avenue.

Having reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for her
distance from the chateau now increased the fear, which the stillness
and obscurity of the hour had awakened. But, perceiving nothing that
could justify it, she ascended to the terrace, where the moon-light
shewed the long broad walk, with the pavilion at its extremity, while
the rays silvered the foliage of the high trees and shrubs, that
bordered it on the right, and the tufted summits of those, that rose
to a level with the balustrade on the left, from the garden below. Her
distance from the chateau again alarming her, she paused to listen; the
night was so calm, that no sound could have escaped her, but she heard
only the plaintive sweetness of the nightingale, with the light shiver
of the leaves, and she pursued her way towards the pavilion, having
reached which, its obscurity did not prevent the emotion, that a fuller
view of its well-known scene would have excited. The lattices were
thrown back, and shewed beyond their embowered arch the moon-light
landscape, shadowy and soft; its groves, and plains extending gradually
and indistinctly to the eye, its distant mountains catching a stronger
gleam, and the nearer river reflecting the moon, and trembling to her
rays.

Emily, as she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features of
this scene only as they served to bring Valancourt more immediately to
her fancy. 'Ah!' said she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw herself
into a chair by the window, 'how often have we sat together in this
spot--often have looked upon that landscape! Never, never more shall we
view it together--never--never more, perhaps, shall we look upon each
other!'

Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror--a voice spoke near her in
the pavilion; she shrieked--it spoke again, and she distinguished the
well-known tones of Valancourt. It was indeed Valancourt who supported
her in his arms! For some moments their emotion would not suffer either
to speak. 'Emily,' said Valancourt at length, as he pressed her hand in
his. 'Emily!' and he was again silent, but the accent, in which he had
pronounced her name, expressed all his tenderness and sorrow.

'O my Emily!' he resumed, after a long pause, 'I do then see you once
again, and hear again the sound of that voice! I have haunted this
place--these gardens, for many--many nights, with a faint, very faint
hope of seeing you. This was the only chance that remained to me, and
thank heaven! it has at length succeeded--I am not condemned to absolute
despair!'

Emily said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive of her
unalterable affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation of
his mind; but Valancourt could for some time only utter incoherent
expressions of his emotions; and, when he was somewhat more composed, he
said, 'I came hither, soon after sun-set, and have been watching in the
gardens, and in this pavilion ever since; for, though I had now given up
all hope of seeing you, I could not resolve to tear myself from a place
so near to you, and should probably have lingered about the chateau till
morning dawned. O how heavily the moments have passed, yet with what
various emotion have they been marked, as I sometimes thought I heard
footsteps, and fancied you were approaching, and then again--perceived
only a dead and dreary silence! But, when you opened the door of the
pavilion, and the darkness prevented my distinguishing with certainty,
whether it was my love--my heart beat so strongly with hopes and fears,
that I could not speak. The instant I heard the plaintive accents of
your voice, my doubts vanished, but not my fears, till you spoke of
me; then, losing the apprehension of alarming you in the excess of my
emotion, I could no longer be silent. O Emily! these are moments, in
which joy and grief struggle so powerfully for pre-eminence, that the
heart can scarcely support the contest!'

Emily's heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joy
she felt on thus meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she was
lamenting, that they must probably meet no more, soon melted into grief,
as reflection stole over her thoughts, and imagination prompted visions
of the future. She struggled to recover the calm dignity of mind, which
was necessary to support her through this last interview, and which
Valancourt found it utterly impossible to attain, for the transports of
his joy changed abruptly into those of suffering, and he expressed in
the most impassioned language his horror of this separation, and his
despair of their ever meeting again. Emily wept silently as she listened
to him, and then, trying to command her own distress, and to sooth his,
she suggested every circumstance that could lead to hope. But the energy
of his fears led him instantly to detect the friendly fallacies, which
she endeavoured to impose on herself and him, and also to conjure up
illusions too powerful for his reason.

'You are going from me,' said he, 'to a distant country, O how
distant!--to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too,
who will try to make you forget me, and to promote new connections! How
can I know this, and not know, that you will never return for me--never
can be mine.' His voice was stifled by sighs.

'You believe, then,' said Emily, 'that the pangs I suffer proceed from a
trivial and temporary interest; you believe--'

'Suffer!' interrupted Valancourt, 'suffer for me! O Emily--how
sweet--how bitter are those words; what comfort, what anguish do they
give! I ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection, yet such
is the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion,
however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the object
of its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel revived, as by a
new conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to you; and, wanting
these, I relapse into doubt, and too often into despondency.' Then
seeming to recollect himself, he exclaimed, 'But what a wretch am I,
thus to torture you, and in these moments, too! I, who ought to support
and comfort you!'

This reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing into
despondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again this
cruel separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that Emily
could no longer struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth his.
Valancourt, between these emotions of love and pity, lost the power, and
almost the wish, of repressing his agitation; and, in the intervals of
convulsive sobs, he, at one moment, kissed away her tears, then told
her cruelly, that possibly she might never again weep for him, and then
tried to speak more calmly, but only exclaimed, 'O Emily--my heart will
break!--I cannot--cannot leave you! Now--I gaze upon that countenance,
now I hold you in my arms! a little while, and all this will appear a
dream. I shall look, and cannot see you; shall try to recollect your
features--and the impression will be fled from my imagination;--to hear
the tones of your voice, and even memory will be silent!--I cannot,
cannot leave you! why should we confide the happiness of our whole lives
to the will of people, who have no right to interrupt, and, except in
giving you to me, have no power to promote it? O Emily! venture to trust
your own heart, venture to be mine for ever!' His voice trembled, and
he was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was silent also, when
Valancourt proceeded to propose an immediate marriage, and that at an
early hour on the following morning, she should quit Madame Montoni's
house, and be conducted by him to the church of the Augustines, where a
friar should await to unite them.

The silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love and
despair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely possible
for her to oppose it;--when her heart was softened by the sorrows of
a separation, that might be eternal, and her reason obscured by the
illusions of love and terror, encouraged him to hope, that it would not
be rejected. 'Speak, my Emily!' said Valancourt eagerly, 'let me hear
your voice, let me hear you confirm my fate.' she spoke not; her cheek
was cold, and her senses seemed to fail her, but she did not faint. To
Valancourt's terrified imagination she appeared to be dying; he called
upon her name, rose to go to the chateau for assistance, and then,
recollecting her situation, feared to go, or to leave her for a moment.

After a few minutes, she drew a deep sigh, and began to revive. The
conflict she had suffered, between love and the duty she at present owed
to her father's sister; her repugnance to a clandestine marriage,
her fear of emerging on the world with embarrassments, such as
might ultimately involve the object of her affection in misery and
repentance;--all this various interest was too powerful for a mind,
already enervated by sorrow, and her reason had suffered a transient
suspension. But duty, and good sense, however hard the conflict, at
length, triumphed over affection and mournful presentiment; above all,
she dreaded to involve Valancourt in obscurity and vain regret, which
she saw, or thought she saw, must be the too certain consequence of a
marriage in their present circumstances; and she acted, perhaps, with
somewhat more than female fortitude, when she resolved to endure a
present, rather than provoke a distant misfortune.

With a candour, that proved how truly she esteemed and loved him,
and which endeared her to him, if possible, more than ever, she told
Valancourt all her reasons for rejecting his proposals. Those, which
influenced her concerning his future welfare, he instantly refuted, or
rather contradicted; but they awakened tender considerations for her,
which the frenzy of passion and despair had concealed before, and love,
which had but lately prompted him to propose a clandestine and immediate
marriage, now induced him to renounce it. The triumph was almost too
much for his heart; for Emily's sake, he endeavoured to stifle his
grief, but the swelling anguish would not be restrained. 'O Emily!' said
he, 'I must leave you--I MUST leave you, and I know it is for ever!'

Convulsive sobs again interrupted his words, and they wept together in
silence, till Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered, and
the impropriety of prolonging an interview, which might subject her to
censure, summoned all her fortitude to utter a last farewell.

'Stay!' said Valancourt, 'I conjure you stay, for I have much to tell
you. The agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak only
on the subject that occupied it;--I have forborne to mention a doubt of
much importance, partly, lest it should appear as if I told it with
an ungenerous view of alarming you into a compliance with my late
proposal.'

Emily, much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from the
pavilion, and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as follows:

'This Montoni: I have heard some strange hints concerning him. Are you
certain he is of Madame Quesnel's family, and that his fortune is what
it appears to be?'

'I have no reason to doubt either,' replied Emily, in a voice of alarm.
'Of the first, indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no certain means
of judging of the latter, and I entreat you will tell me all you have
heard.'

'That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactory
information. I gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was speaking
to another person of this Montoni. They were talking of his marriage;
the Italian said, that if he was the person he meant, he was not likely
to make Madame Cheron happy. He proceeded to speak of him in general
terms of dislike, and then gave some particular hints, concerning his
character, that excited my curiosity, and I ventured to ask him a few
questions. He was reserved in his replies, but, after hesitating for
some time, he owned, that he had understood abroad, that Montoni was a
man of desperate fortune and character. He said something of a castle
of Montoni's, situated among the Apennines, and of some strange
circumstances, that might be mentioned, as to his former mode of life.
I pressed him to inform me further, but I believe the strong interest I
felt was visible in my manner, and alarmed him; for no entreaties could
prevail with him to give any explanation of the circumstances he had
alluded to, or to mention any thing further concerning Montoni. I
observed to him, that, if Montoni was possessed of a castle in the
Apennines, it appeared from such a circumstance, that he was of some
family, and also seemed to contradict the report, that he was a man of
entirely broken fortunes. He shook his head, and looked as if he could
have said a great deal, but made no reply.

'A hope of learning something more satisfactory, or more positive,
detained me in his company a considerable time, and I renewed the
subject repeatedly, but the Italian wrapped himself up in reserve,
said--that what he had mentioned he had caught only from a floating
report, and that reports frequently arose from personal malice, and were
very little to be depended upon. I forbore to press the subject farther,
since it was obvious that he was alarmed for the consequence of what
he had already said, and I was compelled to remain in uncertainty on a
point where suspense is almost intolerable. Think, Emily, what I must
suffer to see you depart for a foreign country, committed to the power
of a man of such doubtful character as is this Montoni! But I will not
alarm you unnecessarily;--it is possible, as the Italian said, at first,
that this is not the Montoni he alluded to. Yet, Emily, consider well
before you resolve to commit yourself to him. O! I must not trust
myself to speak--or I shall renounce all the motives, which so lately
influenced me to resign the hope of your becoming mine immediately.'

Valancourt walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emily
remained leaning on the balustrade in deep thought. The information she
had just received excited, perhaps, more alarm than it could justify,
and raised once more the conflict of contrasted interests. She had never
liked Montoni. The fire and keenness of his eye, its proud exultation,
its bold fierceness, its sullen watchfulness, as occasion, and even
slight occasion, had called forth the latent soul, she had often
observed with emotion; while from the usual expression of his
countenance she had always shrunk. From such observations she was the
more inclined to believe, that it was this Montoni, of whom the Italian
had uttered his suspicious hints. The thought of being solely in his
power, in a foreign land, was terrifying to her, but it was not
by terror alone that she was urged to an immediate marriage with
Valancourt. The tenderest love had already pleaded his cause, but had
been unable to overcome her opinion, as to her duty, her disinterested
considerations for Valancourt, and the delicacy, which made her revolt
from a clandestine union. It was not to be expected, that a vague terror
would be more powerful, than the united influence of love and grief. But
it recalled all their energy, and rendered a second conquest necessary.

With Valancourt, whose imagination was now awake to the suggestion of
every passion; whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength by
the mere mention of them, and became every instant more powerful, as
his mind brooded over them--with Valancourt no second conquest was
attainable. He thought he saw in the clearest light, and love assisted
the fear, that this journey to Italy would involve Emily in misery; he
determined, therefore, to persevere in opposing it, and in conjuring her
to bestow upon him the title of her lawful protector.

'Emily!' said he, with solemn earnestness, 'this is no time for
scrupulous distinctions, for weighing the dubious and comparatively
trifling circumstances, that may affect our future comfort. I now see,
much more clearly than before, the train of serious dangers you are
going to encounter with a man of Montoni's character. Those dark
hints of the Italian spoke much, but not more than the idea I have of
Montoni's disposition, as exhibited even in his countenance. I think I
see at this moment all that could have been hinted, written there. He is
the Italian, whom I fear, and I conjure you for your own sake, as well
as for mine, to prevent the evils I shudder to foresee. O Emily! let my
tenderness, my arms withhold you from them--give me the right to defend
you!'

Emily only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate and to
entreat with all the energy that love and apprehension could inspire.
But, as his imagination magnified to her the possible evils she was
going to meet, the mists of her own fancy began to dissipate, and
allowed her to distinguish the exaggerated images, which imposed on his
reason. She considered, that there was no proof of Montoni being the
person, whom the stranger had meant; that, even if he was so, the
Italian had noticed his character and broken fortunes merely from
report; and that, though the countenance of Montoni seemed to give
probability to a part of the rumour, it was not by such circumstances
that an implicit belief of it could be justified. These considerations
would probably not have arisen so distinctly to her mind, at this
time, had not the terrors of Valancourt presented to her such obvious
exaggerations of her danger, as incited her to distrust the fallacies of
passion. But, while she endeavoured in the gentlest manner to convince
him of his error, she plunged him into a new one. His voice and
countenance changed to an expression of dark despair. 'Emily!' said
he, 'this, this moment is the bitterest that is yet come to me. You
do not--cannot love me!--It would be impossible for you to reason thus
coolly, thus deliberately, if you did. I, _I_ am torn with anguish at
the prospect of our separation, and of the evils that may await you in
consequence of it; I would encounter any hazards to prevent it--to save
you. No! Emily, no!--you cannot love me.'

'We have now little time to waste in exclamation, or assertion,' said
Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion: 'if you are yet to learn how
dear you are, and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of mine can
give you conviction.'

The last words faltered on her lips, and her tears flowed fast. These
words and tears brought, once more, and with instantaneous force,
conviction of her love to Valancourt. He could only exclaim, 'Emily!
Emily!' and weep over the hand he pressed to his lips; but she, after
some moments, again roused herself from the indulgence of sorrow, and
said, 'I must leave you; it is late, and my absence from the chateau may
be discovered. Think of me--love me--when I am far away; the belief of
this will be my comfort!'

'Think of you!--love you!' exclaimed Valancourt.

'Try to moderate these transports,' said Emily, 'for my sake, try.'

'For your sake!'

'Yes, for my sake,' replied Emily, in a tremulous voice, 'I cannot leave
you thus!'

'Then do not leave me!' said Valancourt, with quickness. 'Why should we
part, or part for longer than till to-morrow?'

'I am, indeed I am, unequal to these moments,' replied Emily, 'you tear
my heart, but I never can consent to this hasty, imprudent proposal!'

'If we could command our time, my Emily, it should not be thus hasty; we
must submit to circumstances.'

'We must indeed! I have already told you all my heart--my spirits are
gone. You allowed the force of my objections, till your tenderness
called up vague terrors, which have given us both unnecessary anguish.
Spare me! do not oblige me to repeat the reasons I have already urged.'

'Spare you!' cried Valancourt, 'I am a wretch--a very wretch, that have
felt only for myself!--I! who ought to have shewn the fortitude of a
man, who ought to have supported you, I! have increased your sufferings
by the conduct of a child! Forgive me, Emily! think of the distraction
of my mind now that I am about to part with all that is dear to me--and
forgive me! When you are gone, I shall recollect with bitter remorse
what I have made you suffer, and shall wish in vain that I could see
you, if only for a moment, that I might sooth your grief.'

Tears again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him. 'I will shew
myself more worthy of your love,' said Valancourt, at length; 'I will
not prolong these moments. My Emily--my own Emily! never forget me! God
knows when we shall meet again! I resign you to his care.--O God!--O
God!--protect and bless her!'

He pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunk almost lifeless on his
bosom, and neither wept, nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding his own
distress, tried to comfort and re-assure her, but she appeared totally
unaffected by what he said, and a sigh, which she uttered, now and then,
was all that proved she had not fainted.

He supported her slowly towards the chateau, weeping and speaking to
her; but she answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate, that
terminated the avenue, she seemed to have recovered her consciousness,
and, looking round, perceived how near they were to the chateau. 'We
must part here,' said she, stopping, 'Why prolong these moments? Teach
me the fortitude I have forgot.'

Valancourt struggled to assume a composed air. 'Farewell, my love!' said
he, in a voice of solemn tenderness--'trust me we shall meet again--meet
for each other--meet to part no more!' His voice faltered, but,
recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer tone. 'You know not what I shall
suffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no opportunity of conveying
to you my letters, yet I tremble to think how few may occur. And trust
me, love, for your dear sake, I will try to bear this absence with
fortitude. O how little I have shewn to-night!'

'Farewell!' said Emily faintly. 'When you are gone, I shall think of
many things I would have said to you.' 'And I of many--many!' said
Valancourt; 'I never left you yet, that I did not immediately remember
some question, or some entreaty, or some circumstance, concerning my
love, that I earnestly wished to mention, and feel wretched because I
could not. O Emily! this countenance, on which I now gaze--will, in a
moment, be gone from my eyes, and not all the efforts of fancy will be
able to recall it with exactness. O! what an infinite difference between
this moment and the next! NOW, I am in your presence, can behold you!
THEN, all will be a dreary blank--and I shall be a wanderer, exiled from
my only home!'

Valancourt again pressed her to his heart, and held her there in
silence, weeping. Tears once again calmed her oppressed mind. They again
bade each other farewell, lingered a moment, and then parted. Valancourt
seemed to force himself from the spot; he passed hastily up the avenue,
and Emily, as she moved slowly towards the chateau, heard his distant
steps. She listened to the sounds, as they sunk fainter and fainter,
till the melancholy stillness of night alone remained; and then
hurried to her chamber, to seek repose, which, alas! was fled from her
wretchedness.




VOLUME 2



CHAPTER I


 Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see,
 My heart untravell'd still shall turn to thee.
     GOLDSMITH

The carriages were at the gates at an early hour; the bustle of the
domestics, passing to and fro in the galleries, awakened Emily from
harassing slumbers: her unquiet mind had, during the night, presented
her with terrific images and obscure circumstances, concerning her
affection and her future life. She now endeavoured to chase away the
impressions they had left on her fancy; but from imaginary evils she
awoke to the consciousness of real ones. Recollecting that she had
parted with Valancourt, perhaps for ever, her heart sickened as memory
revived. But she tried to dismiss the dismal forebodings that crowded on
her mind, and to restrain the sorrow which she could not subdue;
efforts which diffused over the settled melancholy of her countenance
an expression of tempered resignation, as a thin veil, thrown over
the features of beauty, renders them more interesting by a partial
concealment. But Madame Montoni observed nothing in this countenance
except its usual paleness, which attracted her censure. She told her
niece, that she had been indulging in fanciful sorrows, and begged she
would have more regard for decorum, than to let the world see that she
could not renounce an improper attachment; at which Emily's pale cheek
became flushed with crimson, but it was the blush of pride, and she made
no answer. Soon after, Montoni entered the breakfast room, spoke little,
and seemed impatient to be gone.

The windows of this room opened upon the garden. As Emily passed them,
she saw the spot where she had parted with Valancourt on the preceding
night: the remembrance pressed heavily on her heart, and she turned
hastily away from the object that had awakened it.

The baggage being at length adjusted, the travellers entered their
carriages, and Emily would have left the chateau without one sigh of
regret, had it not been situated in the neighbourhood of Valancourt's
residence.

From a little eminence she looked back upon Tholouse, and the far-seen
plains of Gascony, beyond which the broken summits of the Pyrenees
appeared on the distant horizon, lighted up by a morning sun. 'Dear
pleasant mountains!' said she to herself, 'how long may it be ere I see
ye again, and how much may happen to make me miserable in the interval!
Oh, could I now be certain, that I should ever return to ye, and find
that Valancourt still lived for me, I should go in peace! He will still
gaze on ye, gaze when I am far away!'

The trees, that impended over the high banks of the road and formed a
line of perspective with the distant country, now threatened to exclude
the view of them; but the blueish mountains still appeared beyond the
dark foliage, and Emily continued to lean from the coach window, till at
length the closing branches shut them from her sight.

Another object soon caught her attention. She had scarcely looked at
a person who walked along the bank, with his hat, in which was the
military feather, drawn over his eyes, before, at the sound of wheels,
he suddenly turned, and she perceived that it was Valancourt himself,
who waved his hand, sprung into the road, and through the window of the
carriage put a letter into her hand. He endeavoured to smile through
the despair that overspread his countenance as she passed on. The
remembrance of that smile seemed impressed on Emily's mind for ever.
She leaned from the window, and saw him on a knoll of the broken bank,
leaning against the high trees that waved over him, and pursuing the
carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and she continued to gaze
till distance confused his figure, and at length another turn of the
road entirely separated him from her sight.

Having stopped to take up Signor Cavigni at a chateau on the road,
the travellers, of whom Emily was disrespectfully seated with Madame
Montoni's woman in a second carriage, pursued their way over the plains
of Languedoc. The presence of this servant restrained Emily from reading
Valancourt's letter, for she did not choose to expose the emotions it
might occasion to the observation of any person. Yet such was her wish
to read this his last communication, that her trembling hand was every
moment on the point of breaking the seal.

At length they reached the village, where they staid only to change
horses, without alighting, and it was not till they stopped to dine,
that Emily had an opportunity of reading the letter. Though she had
never doubted the sincerity of Valancourt's affection, the fresh
assurances she now received of it revived her spirits; she wept over his
letter in tenderness, laid it by to be referred to when they should be
particularly depressed, and then thought of him with much less anguish
than she had done since they parted. Among some other requests, which
were interesting to her, because expressive of his tenderness, and
because a compliance with them seemed to annihilate for a while the pain
of absence, he entreated she would always think of him at sunset. 'You
will then meet me in thought,' said he; 'I shall constantly watch the
sun-set, and I shall be happy in the belief, that your eyes are fixed
upon the same object with mine, and that our minds are conversing. You
know not, Emily, the comfort I promise myself from these moments; but I
trust you will experience it.'

It is unnecessary to say with what emotion Emily, on this evening,
watched the declining sun, over a long extent of plains, on which she
saw it set without interruption, and sink towards the province which
Valancourt inhabited. After this hour her mind became far more tranquil
and resigned, than it had been since the marriage of Montoni and her
aunt.

During several days the travellers journeyed over the plains of
Languedoc; and then entering Dauphiny, and winding for some time among
the mountains of that romantic province, they quitted their carriages
and began to ascend the Alps. And here such scenes of sublimity opened
upon them as no colours of language must dare to paint! Emily's mind was
even so much engaged with new and wonderful images, that they sometimes
banished the idea of Valancourt, though they more frequently revived
it. These brought to her recollection the prospects among the Pyrenees,
which they had admired together, and had believed nothing could excel
in grandeur. How often did she wish to express to him the new emotions
which this astonishing scenery awakened, and that he could partake
of them! Sometimes too she endeavoured to anticipate his remarks, and
almost imagined him present. She seemed to have arisen into another
world, and to have left every trifling thought, every trifling
sentiment, in that below; those only of grandeur and sublimity now
dilated her mind, and elevated the affections of her heart.

With what emotions of sublimity, softened by tenderness, did she meet
Valancourt in thought, at the customary hour of sun-set, when, wandering
among the Alps, she watched the glorious orb sink amid their summits,
his last tints die away on their snowy points, and a solemn obscurity
steal over the scene! And when the last gleam had faded, she turned
her eyes from the west with somewhat of the melancholy regret that is
experienced after the departure of a beloved friend; while these lonely
feelings were heightened by the spreading gloom, and by the low sounds,
heard only when darkness confines attention, which make the general
stillness more impressive--leaves shook by the air, the last sigh of the
breeze that lingers after sun-set, or the murmur of distant streams.

During the first days of this journey among the Alps, the scenery
exhibited a wonderful mixture of solitude and inhabitation, of
cultivation and barrenness. On the edge of tremendous precipices, and
within the hollow of the cliffs, below which the clouds often floated,
were seen villages, spires, and convent towers; while green pastures
and vineyards spread their hues at the feet of perpendicular rocks
of marble, or of granite, whose points, tufted with alpine shrubs, or
exhibiting only massy crags, rose above each other, till they terminated
in the snow-topt mountain, whence the torrent fell, that thundered along
the valley.

The snow was not yet melted on the summit of Mount Cenis, over which
the travellers passed; but Emily, as she looked upon its clear lake and
extended plain, surrounded by broken cliffs, saw, in imagination, the
verdant beauty it would exhibit when the snows should be gone, and the
shepherds, leading up the midsummer flocks from Piedmont, to pasture on
its flowery summit, should add Arcadian figures to Arcadian landscape.

As she descended on the Italian side, the precipices became still more
tremendous, and the prospects still more wild and majestic, over which
the shifting lights threw all the pomp of colouring. Emily delighted to
observe the snowy tops of the mountains under the passing influence of
the day, blushing with morning, glowing with the brightness of noon, or
just tinted with the purple evening. The haunt of man could now only be
discovered by the simple hut of the shepherd and the hunter, or by the
rough pine bridge thrown across the torrent, to assist the latter in his
chase of the chamois over crags where, but for this vestige of man, it
would have been believed only the chamois or the wolf dared to venture.
As Emily gazed upon one of these perilous bridges, with the cataract
foaming beneath it, some images came to her mind, which she afterwards
combined in the following

     STORIED SONNET

 The weary traveller, who, all night long,
 Has climb'd among the Alps' tremendous steeps,
 Skirting the pathless precipice, where throng
 Wild forms of danger; as he onward creeps
 If, chance, his anxious eye at distance sees
 The mountain-shepherd's solitary home,
 Peeping from forth the moon-illumin'd trees,
 What sudden transports to his bosom come!
 But, if between some hideous chasm yawn,
 Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge displays,
 In dreadful silence, on the brink, forlorn
 He stands, and views in the faint rays
 Far, far below, the torrent's rising surge,
 And listens to the wild impetuous roar;
 Still eyes the depth, still shudders on the verge,
 Fears to return, nor dares to venture o'er.
 Desperate, at length the tottering plank he tries,
 His weak steps slide, he shrieks, he sinks--he dies!

Emily, often as she travelled among the clouds, watched in silent awe
their billowy surges rolling below; sometimes, wholly closing upon the
scene, they appeared like a world of chaos, and, at others, spreading
thinly, they opened and admitted partial catches of the landscape--the
torrent, whose astounding roar had never failed, tumbling down the rocky
chasm, huge cliffs white with snow, or the dark summits of the pine
forests, that stretched mid-way down the mountains. But who may describe
her rapture, when, having passed through a sea of vapour, she caught
a first view of Italy; when, from the ridge of one of those tremendous
precipices that hang upon Mount Cenis and guard the entrance of that
enchanting country, she looked down through the lower clouds, and, as
they floated away, saw the grassy vales of Piedmont at her feet, and,
beyond, the plains of Lombardy extending to the farthest distance, at
which appeared, on the faint horizon, the doubtful towers of Turin?

The solitary grandeur of the objects that immediately surrounded her,
the mountain-region towering above, the deep precipices that fell
beneath, the waving blackness of the forests of pine and oak, which
skirted their feet, or hung within their recesses, the headlong torrents
that, dashing among their cliffs, sometimes appeared like a cloud of
mist, at others like a sheet of ice--these were features which received
a higher character of sublimity from the reposing beauty of the Italian
landscape below, stretching to the wide horizon, where the same melting
blue tint seemed to unite earth and sky.

Madame Montoni only shuddered as she looked down precipices near whose
edge the chairmen trotted lightly and swiftly, almost, as the chamois
bounded, and from which Emily too recoiled; but with her fears were
mingled such various emotions of delight, such admiration, astonishment,
and awe, as she had never experienced before.

Meanwhile the carriers, having come to a landing-place, stopped to rest,
and the travellers being seated on the point of a cliff, Montoni and
Cavigni renewed a dispute concerning Hannibal's passage over the Alps,
Montoni contending that he entered Italy by way of Mount Cenis, and
Cavigni, that he passed over Mount St. Bernard. The subject brought
to Emily's imagination the disasters he had suffered in this bold and
perilous adventure. She saw his vast armies winding among the defiles,
and over the tremendous cliffs of the mountains, which at night were
lighted up by his fires, or by the torches which he caused to be carried
when he pursued his indefatigable march. In the eye of fancy, she
perceived the gleam of arms through the duskiness of night, the glitter
of spears and helmets, and the banners floating dimly on the twilight;
while now and then the blast of a distant trumpet echoed along the
defile, and the signal was answered by a momentary clash of arms. She
looked with horror upon the mountaineers, perched on the higher cliffs,
assailing the troops below with broken fragments of the mountain; on
soldiers and elephants tumbling headlong down the lower precipices; and,
as she listened to the rebounding rocks, that followed their fall,
the terrors of fancy yielded to those of reality, and she shuddered to
behold herself on the dizzy height, whence she had pictured the descent
of others.

Madame Montoni, meantime, as she looked upon Italy, was contemplating in
imagination the splendour of palaces and the grandeur of castles, such
as she believed she was going to be mistress of at Venice and in the
Apennine, and she became, in idea, little less than a princess. Being
no longer under the alarms which had deterred her from giving
entertainments to the beauties of Tholouse, whom Montoni had mentioned
with more eclat to his own vanity than credit to their discretion, or
regard to truth, she determined to give concerts, though she had neither
ear nor taste for music; conversazioni, though she had no talents for
conversation; and to outvie, if possible, in the gaieties of her parties
and the magnificence of her liveries, all the noblesse of Venice. This
blissful reverie was somewhat obscured, when she recollected the Signor,
her husband, who, though he was not averse to the profit which sometimes
results from such parties, had always shewn a contempt of the frivolous
parade that sometimes attends them; till she considered that his pride
might be gratified by displaying, among his own friends, in his native
city, the wealth which he had neglected in France; and she courted again
the splendid illusions that had charmed her before.

The travellers, as they descended, gradually, exchanged the region of
winter for the genial warmth and beauty of spring. The sky began to
assume that serene and beautiful tint peculiar to the climate of Italy;
patches of young verdure, fragrant shrubs and flowers looked gaily among
the rocks, often fringing their rugged brows, or hanging in tufts
from their broken sides; and the buds of the oak and mountain ash were
expanding into foliage. Descending lower, the orange and the myrtle,
every now and then, appeared in some sunny nook, with their yellow
blossoms peeping from among the dark green of their leaves, and mingling
with the scarlet flowers of the pomegranate and the paler ones of the
arbutus, that ran mantling to the crags above; while, lower still,
spread the pastures of Piedmont, where early flocks were cropping the
luxuriant herbage of spring.

The river Doria, which, rising on the summit of Mount Cenis, had dashed
for many leagues over the precipices that bordered the road, now began
to assume a less impetuous, though scarcely less romantic character, as
it approached the green vallies of Piedmont, into which the travellers
descended with the evening sun; and Emily found herself once more amid
the tranquil beauty of pastoral scenery; among flocks and herds, and
slopes tufted with woods of lively verdure and with beautiful shrubs,
such as she had often seen waving luxuriantly over the alps above. The
verdure of the pasturage, now varied with the hues of early flowers,
among which were yellow ranunculuses and pansey violets of delicious
fragrance, she had never seen excelled.--Emily almost wished to become
a peasant of Piedmont, to inhabit one of the pleasant embowered cottages
which she saw peeping beneath the cliffs, and to pass her careless hours
among these romantic landscapes. To the hours, the months, she was to
pass under the dominion of Montoni, she looked with apprehension; while
those which were departed she remembered with regret and sorrow.

In the present scenes her fancy often gave her the figure of Valancourt,
whom she saw on a point of the cliffs, gazing with awe and admiration
on the imagery around him; or wandering pensively along the vale
below, frequently pausing to look back upon the scenery, and then,
his countenance glowing with the poet's fire, pursuing his way to some
overhanging heights. When she again considered the time and the distance
that were to separate them, that every step she now took lengthened this
distance, her heart sunk, and the surrounding landscape charmed her no
more.

The travellers, passing Novalesa, reached, after the evening had closed,
the small and antient town of Susa, which had formerly guarded this pass
of the Alps into Piedmont. The heights which command it had, since the
invention of artillery, rendered its fortifications useless; but these
romantic heights, seen by moon-light, with the town below, surrounded
by its walls and watchtowers, and partially illumined, exhibited an
interesting picture to Emily. Here they rested for the night at an inn,
which had little accommodation to boast of; but the travellers brought
with them the hunger that gives delicious flavour to the coarsest
viands, and the weariness that ensures repose; and here Emily first
caught a strain of Italian music, on Italian ground. As she sat after
supper at a little window, that opened upon the country, observing an
effect of the moon-light on the broken surface of the mountains, and
remembering that on such a night as this she once had sat with her
father and Valancourt, resting upon a cliff of the Pyrenees, she heard
from below the long-drawn notes of a violin, of such tone and delicacy
of expression, as harmonized exactly with the tender emotions she was
indulging, and both charmed and surprised her. Cavigni, who approached
the window, smiled at her surprise. 'This is nothing extraordinary,'
said he, 'you will hear the same, perhaps, at every inn on our way. It
is one of our landlord's family who plays, I doubt not,' Emily, as she
listened, thought he could be scarcely less than a professor of music
whom she heard; and the sweet and plaintive strains soon lulled her into
a reverie, from which she was very unwillingly roused by the raillery
of Cavigni, and by the voice of Montoni, who gave orders to a servant to
have the carriages ready at an early hour on the following morning; and
added, that he meant to dine at Turin.

Madame Montoni was exceedingly rejoiced to be once more on level ground;
and, after giving a long detail of the various terrors she had suffered,
which she forgot that she was describing to the companions of her
dangers, she added a hope, that she should soon be beyond the view of
these horrid mountains, 'which all the world,' said she, 'should not
tempt me to cross again.' Complaining of fatigue she soon retired to
rest, and Emily withdrew to her own room, when she understood from
Annette, her aunt's woman, that Cavigni was nearly right in his
conjecture concerning the musician, who had awakened the violin with
so much taste, for that he was the son of a peasant inhabiting the
neighbouring valley. 'He is going to the Carnival at Venice,' added
Annette, 'for they say he has a fine hand at playing, and will get a
world of money; and the Carnival is just going to begin: but for my
part, I should like to live among these pleasant woods and hills, better
than in a town; and they say Ma'moiselle, we shall see no woods, or
hills, or fields, at Venice, for that it is built in the very middle of
the sea.'

Emily agreed with the talkative Annette, that this young man was making
a change for the worse, and could not forbear silently lamenting, that
he should be drawn from the innocence and beauty of these scenes, to the
corrupt ones of that voluptuous city.

When she was alone, unable to sleep, the landscapes of her native home,
with Valancourt, and the circumstances of her departure, haunted her
fancy; she drew pictures of social happiness amidst the grand simplicity
of nature, such as she feared she had bade farewel to for ever; and
then, the idea of this young Piedmontese, thus ignorantly sporting with
his happiness, returned to her thoughts, and, glad to escape awhile from
the pressure of nearer interests, she indulged her fancy in composing
the following lines.

     THE PIEDMONTESE

 Ah, merry swain, who laugh'd along the vales,
 And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring,
 Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gales,
 And friends belov'd, for aught that wealth can bring?
 He goes to wake o'er moon-light seas the string,
 Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails!
 Yet oft of home his simple carols sing,
 And his steps pause, as the last Alp he scales.
 Once more he turns to view his native scene--
 Far, far below, as roll the clouds away,
 He spies his cabin 'mid the pine-tops green,
 The well-known woods, clear brook, and pastures gay;
 And thinks of friends and parents left behind,
 Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song;
 And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind;
 And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong!
 Thus went the swain, till mountain-shadows fell,
 And dimm'd the landscape to his aching sight;
 And must he leave the vales he loves so well!
 Can foreign wealth, and shows, his heart delight?
 No, happy vales! your wild rocks still shall hear
 His pipe, light sounding on the morning breeze;
 Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear,
 And watch at eve beneath the western trees.
 Away, Venetian gold--your charm is o'er!
 And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow'rs,
 Where, through the leaves, his cottage light ONCE MORE
 Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours.
 Ah, merry swain! that laugh along the vales,
 And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring,
 Your cot, your woods, your thymy-scented gales--
 And friends belov'd--more joy than wealth can bring!



CHAPTER II


 TITANIA.  If you will patiently dance in our round,
  And see our moon-light revels, go with us.
     MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

Early on the following morning, the travellers set out for Turin.
The luxuriant plain, that extends from the feet of the Alps to that
magnificent city, was not then, as now, shaded by an avenue of trees
nine miles in length; but plantations of olives, mulberry and palms,
festooned with vines, mingled with the pastoral scenery, through with
the rapid Po, after its descent from the mountains, wandered to meet
the humble Doria at Turin. As they advanced towards this city, the Alps,
seen at some distance, began to appear in all their awful sublimity;
chain rising over chain in long succession, their higher points darkened
by the hovering clouds, sometimes hid, and at others seen shooting up
far above them; while their lower steeps, broken into fantastic forms,
were touched with blue and purplish tints, which, as they changed in
light and shade, seemed to open new scenes to the eye. To the east
stretched the plains of Lombardy, with the towers of Turin rising at a
distance; and beyond, the Apennines, bounding the horizon.

The general magnificence of that city, with its vistas of churches and
palaces, branching from the grand square, each opening to a landscape of
the distant Alps or Apennines, was not only such as Emily had never seen
in France, but such as she had never imagined.

Montoni, who had been often at Turin, and cared little about views of
any kind, did not comply with his wife's request, that they might survey
some of the palaces; but staying only till the necessary refreshments
could be obtained, they set forward for Venice with all possible
rapidity. Montoni's manner, during this journey, was grave, and even
haughty; and towards Madame Montoni he was more especially reserved; but
it was not the reserve of respect so much as of pride and discontent.
Of Emily he took little notice. With Cavigni his conversations were
commonly on political or military topics, such as the convulsed state
of their country rendered at this time particularly interesting, Emily
observed, that, at the mention of any daring exploit, Montoni's eyes
lost their sullenness, and seemed instantaneously to gleam with fire;
yet they still retained somewhat of a lurking cunning, and she sometimes
thought that their fire partook more of the glare of malice than the
brightness of valour, though the latter would well have harmonized with
the high chivalric air of his figure, in which Cavigni, with all his gay
and gallant manners, was his inferior.

On entering the Milanese, the gentlemen exchanged their French hats for
the Italian cap of scarlet cloth, embroidered; and Emily was somewhat
surprised to observe, that Montoni added to his the military plume,
while Cavigni retained only the feather: which was usually worn with
such caps: but she at length concluded, that Montoni assumed this ensign
of a soldier for convenience, as a means of passing with more safety
through a country over-run with parties of the military.

Over the beautiful plains of this country the devastations of war
were frequently visible. Where the lands had not been suffered to lie
uncultivated, they were often tracked with the steps of the spoiler;
the vines were torn down from the branches that had supported them, the
olives trampled upon the ground, and even the groves of mulberry trees
had been hewn by the enemy to light fires that destroyed the hamlets and
villages of their owners. Emily turned her eyes with a sigh from
these painful vestiges of contention, to the Alps of the Grison, that
overlooked them to the north, whose awful solitudes seemed to offer to
persecuted man a secure asylum.

The travellers frequently distinguished troops of soldiers moving at
a distance; and they experienced, at the little inns on the road, the
scarcity of provision and other inconveniences, which are a part of
the consequence of intestine war; but they had never reason to be much
alarmed for their immediate safety, and they passed on to Milan with
little interruption of any kind, where they staid not to survey the
grandeur of the city, or even to view its vast cathedral, which was then
building.

Beyond Milan, the country wore the aspect of a ruder devastation; and
though every thing seemed now quiet, the repose was like that of
death, spread over features, which retain the impression of the last
convulsions.

It was not till they had passed the eastern limits of the Milanese, that
the travellers saw any troops since they had left Milan, when, as the
evening was drawing to a close, they descried what appeared to be an
army winding onward along the distant plains, whose spears and other
arms caught the last rays of the sun. As the column advanced through
a part of the road, contracted between two hillocks, some of the
commanders, on horseback, were distinguished on a small eminence,
pointing and making signals for the march; while several of the officers
were riding along the line directing its progress, according to the
signs communicated by those above; and others, separating from the
vanguard, which had emerged from the pass, were riding carelessly along
the plains at some distance to the right of the army.

As they drew nearer, Montoni, distinguishing the feathers that waved
in their caps, and the banners and liveries of the bands that followed
them, thought he knew this to be the small army commanded by the famous
captain Utaldo, with whom, as well as with some of the other chiefs, he
was personally acquainted. He, therefore, gave orders that the carriages
should draw up by the side of the road, to await their arrival, and
give them the pass. A faint strain of martial music now stole by, and,
gradually strengthening as the troops approached, Emily distinguished
the drums and trumpets, with the clash of cymbals and of arms, that were
struck by a small party, in time to the march.

Montoni being now certain that these were the bands of the victorious
Utaldo, leaned from the carriage window, and hailed their general
by waving his cap in the air; which compliment the chief returned by
raising his spear, and then letting it down again suddenly, while some
of his officers, who were riding at a distance from the troops, came up
to the carriage, and saluted Montoni as an old acquaintance. The captain
himself soon after arriving, his bands halted while he conversed with
Montoni, whom he appeared much rejoiced to see; and from what he said,
Emily understood that this was a victorious army, returning into their
own principality; while the numerous waggons, that accompanied them,
contained the rich spoils of the enemy, their own wounded soldiers, and
the prisoners they had taken in battle, who were to be ransomed when
the peace, then negociating between the neighbouring states, should be
ratified. The chiefs on the following day were to separate, and each,
taking his share of the spoil, was to return with his own band to his
castle. This was therefore to be an evening of uncommon and general
festivity, in commemoration of the victory they had accomplished
together, and of the farewell which the commanders were about to take of
each other.

Emily, as these officers conversed with Montoni, observed with
admiration, tinctured with awe, their high martial air, mingled with
the haughtiness of the nobless of those days, and heightened by the
gallantry of their dress, by the plumes towering on their caps, the
armorial coat, Persian sash, and ancient Spanish cloak. Utaldo, telling
Montoni that his army were going to encamp for the night near a village
at only a few miles distance, invited him to turn back and partake
of their festivity, assuring the ladies also, that they should be
pleasantly accommodated; but Montoni excused himself, adding, that
it was his design to reach Verona that evening; and, after some
conversation concerning the state of the country towards that city, they
parted.

The travellers proceeded without any interruption; but it was some hours
after sun-set before they arrived at Verona, whose beautiful environs
were therefore not seen by Emily till the following morning; when,
leaving that pleasant town at an early hour, they set off for Padua,
where they embarked on the Brenta for Venice. Here the scene was
entirely changed; no vestiges of war, such as had deformed the plains of
the Milanese, appeared; on the contrary, all was peace and elegance. The
verdant banks of the Brenta exhibited a continued landscape of beauty,
gaiety, and splendour. Emily gazed with admiration on the villas of the
Venetian noblesse, with their cool porticos and colonnades, overhung
with poplars and cypresses of majestic height and lively verdure; on
their rich orangeries, whose blossoms perfumed the air, and on the
luxuriant willows, that dipped their light leaves in the wave, and
sheltered from the sun the gay parties whose music came at intervals on
the breeze. The Carnival did, indeed, appear to extend from Venice along
the whole line of these enchanting shores; the river was gay with boats
passing to that city, exhibiting the fantastic diversity of a masquerade
in the dresses of the people within them; and, towards evening, groups
of dancers frequently were seen beneath the trees.

Cavigni, meanwhile, informed her of the names of the noblemen to whom
the several villas they passed belonged, adding light sketches of their
characters, such as served to amuse rather than to inform, exhibiting
his own wit instead of the delineation of truth. Emily was sometimes
diverted by his conversation; but his gaiety did not entertain Madame
Montoni, as it had formerly done; she was frequently grave, and Montoni
retained his usual reserve.

Nothing could exceed Emily's admiration on her first view of Venice,
with its islets, palaces, and towers rising out of the sea, whose clear
surface reflected the tremulous picture in all its colours. The sun,
sinking in the west, tinted the waves and the lofty mountains of Friuli,
which skirt the northern shores of the Adriatic, with a saffron glow,
while on the marble porticos and colonnades of St. Mark were thrown
the rich lights and shades of evening. As they glided on, the grander
features of this city appeared more distinctly: its terraces, crowned
with airy yet majestic fabrics, touched, as they now were, with the
splendour of the setting sun, appeared as if they had been called up
from the ocean by the wand of an enchanter, rather than reared by mortal
hands.

The sun, soon after, sinking to the lower world, the shadow of the earth
stole gradually over the waves, and then up the towering sides of the
mountains of Friuli, till it extinguished even the last upward beams
that had lingered on their summits, and the melancholy purple of evening
drew over them, like a thin veil. How deep, how beautiful was the
tranquillity that wrapped the scene! All nature seemed to repose; the
finest emotions of the soul were alone awake. Emily's eyes filled with
tears of admiration and sublime devotion, as she raised them over the
sleeping world to the vast heavens, and heard the notes of solemn
music, that stole over the waters from a distance. She listened in still
rapture, and no person of the party broke the charm by an enquiry. The
sounds seemed to grow on the air; for so smoothly did the barge glide
along, that its motion was not perceivable, and the fairy city appeared
approaching to welcome the strangers. They now distinguished a female
voice, accompanied by a few instruments, singing a soft and mournful
air; and its fine expression, as sometimes it seemed pleading with the
impassioned tenderness of love, and then languishing into the cadence
of hopeless grief, declared, that it flowed from no feigned sensibility.
Ah! thought Emily, as she sighed and remembered Valancourt, those
strains come from the heart!

She looked round, with anxious enquiry; the deep twilight, that had
fallen over the scene, admitted only imperfect images to the eye, but,
at some distance on the sea, she thought she perceived a gondola: a
chorus of voices and instruments now swelled on the air--so sweet, so
solemn! it seemed like the hymn of angels descending through the silence
of night! Now it died away, and fancy almost beheld the holy choir
reascending towards heaven; then again it swelled with the breeze,
trembled awhile, and again died into silence. It brought to Emily's
recollection some lines of her late father, and she repeated in a low
voice,

     Oft I hear,
 Upon the silence of the midnight air,
 Celestial voices swell in holy chorus
 That bears the soul to heaven!

The deep stillness, that succeeded, was as expressive as the strain
that had just ceased. It was uninterrupted for several minutes, till
a general sigh seemed to release the company from their enchantment.
Emily, however, long indulged the pleasing sadness, that had stolen
upon her spirits; but the gay and busy scene that appeared, as the barge
approached St. Mark's Place, at length roused her attention. The rising
moon, which threw a shadowy light upon the terraces, and illumined
the porticos and magnificent arcades that crowned them, discovered the
various company, whose light steps, soft guitars, and softer voices,
echoed through the colonnades.

The music they heard before now passed Montoni's barge, in one of the
gondolas, of which several were seen skimming along the moon-light sea,
full of gay parties, catching the cool breeze. Most of these had music,
made sweeter by the waves over which it floated, and by the measured
sound of oars, as they dashed the sparkling tide. Emily gazed, and
listened, and thought herself in a fairy scene; even Madame Montoni was
pleased; Montoni congratulated himself on his return to Venice, which
he called the first city in the world, and Cavigni was more gay and
animated than ever.

The barge passed on to the grand canal, where Montoni's mansion was
situated. And here, other forms of beauty and of grandeur, such as her
imagination had never painted, were unfolded to Emily in the palaces of
Sansovino and Palladio, as she glided along the waves. The air bore no
sounds, but those of sweetness, echoing along each margin of the canal,
and from gondolas on its surface, while groups of masks were seen
dancing on the moon-light terraces, and seemed almost to realize the
romance of fairyland.

The barge stopped before the portico of a large house, from whence
a servant of Montoni crossed the terrace, and immediately the party
disembarked. From the portico they passed a noble hall to a stair-case
of marble, which led to a saloon, fitted up in a style of magnificence
that surprised Emily. The walls and ceilings were adorned with
historical and allegorical paintings, in fresco; silver tripods,
depending from chains of the same metal, illumined the apartment, the
floor of which was covered with Indian mats painted in a variety of
colours and devices; the couches and drapery of the lattices were of
pale green silk, embroidered and fringed with green and gold. Balcony
lattices opened upon the grand canal, whence rose a confusion of voices
and of musical instruments, and the breeze that gave freshness to the
apartment. Emily, considering the gloomy temper of Montoni, looked upon
the splendid furniture of this house with surprise, and remembered the
report of his being a man of broken fortune, with astonishment. 'Ah!'
said she to herself, 'if Valancourt could but see this mansion, what
peace would it give him! He would then be convinced that the report was
groundless.'

Madame Montoni seemed to assume the air of a princess; but Montoni was
restless and discontented, and did not even observe the civility of
bidding her welcome to her home.

Soon after his arrival, he ordered his gondola, and, with Cavigni, went
out to mingle in the scenes of the evening. Madame then became serious
and thoughtful. Emily, who was charmed with every thing she saw,
endeavoured to enliven her; but reflection had not, with Madame Montoni,
subdued caprice and ill-humour, and her answers discovered so much of
both, that Emily gave up the attempt of diverting her, and withdrew to
a lattice, to amuse herself with the scene without, so new and so
enchanting.

The first object that attracted her notice was a group of dancers on the
terrace below, led by a guitar and some other instruments. The girl, who
struck the guitar, and another, who flourished a tambourine, passed
on in a dancing step, and with a light grace and gaiety of heart, that
would have subdued the goddess of spleen in her worst humour. After
these came a group of fantastic figures, some dressed as gondolieri,
others as minstrels, while others seemed to defy all description. They
sung in parts, their voices accompanied by a few soft instruments. At a
little distance from the portico they stopped, and Emily distinguished
the verses of Ariosto. They sung of the wars of the Moors against
Charlemagne, and then of the woes of Orlando: afterwards the measure
changed, and the melancholy sweetness of Petrarch succeeded. The
magic of his grief was assisted by all that Italian music and Italian
expression, heightened by the enchantments of Venetian moonlight, could
give.

Emily, as she listened, caught the pensive enthusiasm; her tears flowed
silently, while her fancy bore her far away to France and to Valancourt.
Each succeeding sonnet, more full of charming sadness than the last,
seemed to bind the spell of melancholy: with extreme regret she saw the
musicians move on, and her attention followed the strain till the
last faint warble died in air. She then remained sunk in that pensive
tranquillity which soft music leaves on the mind--a state like that
produced by the view of a beautiful landscape by moon-light, or by the
recollection of scenes marked with the tenderness of friends lost for
ever, and with sorrows, which time has mellowed into mild regret. Such
scenes are indeed, to the mind, like 'those faint traces which the
memory bears of music that is past'.

Other sounds soon awakened her attention: it was the solemn harmony of
horns, that swelled from a distance; and, observing the gondolas arrange
themselves along the margin of the terraces, she threw on her veil, and,
stepping into the balcony, discerned, in the distant perspective of the
canal, something like a procession, floating on the light surface of
the water: as it approached, the horns and other instruments mingled
sweetly, and soon after the fabled deities of the city seemed to have
arisen from the ocean; for Neptune, with Venice personified as
his queen, came on the undulating waves, surrounded by tritons and
sea-nymphs. The fantastic splendour of this spectacle, together with the
grandeur of the surrounding palaces, appeared like the vision of a poet
suddenly embodied, and the fanciful images, which it awakened in Emily's
mind, lingered there long after the procession had passed away. She
indulged herself in imagining what might be the manners and delights of
a sea-nymph, till she almost wished to throw off the habit of mortality,
and plunge into the green wave to participate them.

'How delightful,' said she, 'to live amidst the coral bowers and crystal
caverns of the ocean, with my sister nymphs, and listen to the sounding
waters above, and to the soft shells of the tritons! and then, after
sun-set, to skim on the surface of the waves round wild rocks and along
sequestered shores, where, perhaps, some pensive wanderer comes to weep!
Then would I soothe his sorrows with my sweet music, and offer him from
a shell some of the delicious fruit that hangs round Neptune's palace.'

She was recalled from her reverie to a mere mortal supper, and could
not forbear smiling at the fancies she had been indulging, and at her
conviction of the serious displeasure, which Madame Montoni would have
expressed, could she have been made acquainted with them.

After supper, her aunt sat late, but Montoni did not return, and she
at length retired to rest. If Emily had admired the magnificence of the
saloon, she was not less surprised, on observing the half-furnished
and forlorn appearance of the apartments she passed in the way to her
chamber, whither she went through long suites of noble rooms, that
seemed, from their desolate aspect, to have been unoccupied for many
years. On the walls of some were the faded remains of tapestry; from
others, painted in fresco, the damps had almost withdrawn both colours
and design. At length she reached her own chamber, spacious, desolate,
and lofty, like the rest, with high lattices that opened towards the
Adriatic. It brought gloomy images to her mind, but the view of the
Adriatic soon gave her others more airy, among which was that of the
sea-nymph, whose delights she had before amused herself with picturing;
and, anxious to escape from serious reflections, she now endeavoured
to throw her fanciful ideas into a train, and concluded the hour with
composing the following lines:

     THE SEA-NYMPH

 Down, down a thousand fathom deep,
 Among the sounding seas I go;
 Play round the foot of ev'ry steep
 Whose cliffs above the ocean grow.

 There, within their secret cares,
 I hear the mighty rivers roar;
 And guide their streams through Neptune's waves
 To bless the green earth's inmost shore:

 And bid the freshen'd waters glide,
 For fern-crown'd nymphs of lake, or brook,
 Through winding woods and pastures wide,
 And many a wild, romantic nook.

 For this the nymphs, at fall of eave,
 Oft dance upon the flow'ry banks,
 And sing my name, and garlands weave
 To bear beneath the wave their thanks.

 In coral bow'rs I love to lie,
 And hear the surges roll above,
 And through the waters view on high
 The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move.

 And oft at midnight's stillest hour,
 When summer seas the vessel lave,
 I love to prove my charmful pow'r
 While floating on the moon-light wave.

 And when deep sleep the crew has bound,
 And the sad lover musing leans
 O'er the ship's side, I breathe around
 Such strains as speak no mortal means!

 O'er the dim waves his searching eye
 Sees but the vessel's lengthen'd shade;
 Above--the moon and azure sky;
 Entranc'd he hears, and half afraid!

 Sometimes, a single note I swell,
 That, softly sweet, at distance dies;
 Then wake the magic of my shell,
 And choral voices round me rise!

 The trembling youth, charm'd by my strain,
 Calls up the crew, who, silent, bend
 O'er the high deck, but list in vain;
 My song is hush'd, my wonders end!

 Within the mountain's woody bay,
 Where the tall bark at anchor rides,
 At twilight hour, with tritons gay,
 I dance upon the lapsing tides:

 And with my sister-nymphs I sport,
 Till the broad sun looks o'er the floods;
 Then, swift we seek our crystal court,
 Deep in the wave, 'mid Neptune's woods.

 In cool arcades and glassy halls
 We pass the sultry hours of noon,
 Beyond wherever sun-beam falls,
 Weaving sea-flowers in gay festoon.

 The while we chant our ditties sweet
 To some soft shell that warbles near;
 Join'd by the murmuring currents, fleet,
 That glide along our halls so clear.

 There, the pale pearl and sapphire blue,
 And ruby red, and em'rald green,
 Dart from the domes a changing hue,
 And sparry columns deck the scene.

 When the dark storm scowls o'er the deep,
 And long, long peals of thunder sound,
 On some high cliff my watch I keep
 O'er all the restless seas around:

 Till on the ridgy wave afar
 Comes the lone vessel, labouring slow,
 Spreading the white foam in the air,
 With sail and top-mast bending low.

 Then, plunge I 'mid the ocean's roar,
 My way by quiv'ring lightnings shewn,
 To guide the bark to peaceful shore,
 And hush the sailor's fearful groan.

 And if too late I reach its side
 To save it from the 'whelming surge,
 I call my dolphins o'er the tide,
 To bear the crew where isles emerge.

 Their mournful spirits soon I cheer,
 While round the desert coast I go,
 With warbled songs they faintly hear,
 Oft as the stormy gust sinks low.

 My music leads to lofty groves,
 That wild upon the sea-bank wave;
 Where sweet fruits bloom, and fresh spring roves,
 And closing boughs the tempest brave.

 Then, from the air spirits obey
 My potent voice they love so well,
 And, on the clouds, paint visions gay,
 While strains more sweet at distance swell.

 And thus the lonely hours I cheat,
 Soothing the ship-wreck'd sailor's heart,
 Till from the waves the storms retreat,
 And o'er the east the day-beams dart.

 Neptune for this oft binds me fast
 To rocks below, with coral chain,
 Till all the tempest's over-past,
 And drowning seamen cry in vain.

 Whoe'er ye are that love my lay,
 Come, when red sun-set tints the wave,
 To the still sands, where fairies play;
 There, in cool seas, I love to lave.



CHAPTER III


 He is a great observer, and he looks
 Quite through the deeds of men:  he loves no plays,
     he hears no music;
 Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
 As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit
 that could be mov'd to smile at any thing.
 Such men as he be never at heart's ease,
 While they behold a greater than themselves.
     JULIUS CAESAR

Montoni and his companion did not return home, till many hours after the
dawn had blushed upon the Adriatic. The airy groups, which had danced
all night along the colonnade of St. Mark, dispersed before the morning,
like so many spirits. Montoni had been otherwise engaged; his soul was
little susceptible of light pleasures. He delighted in the energies of
the passions; the difficulties and tempests of life, which wreck the
happiness of others, roused and strengthened all the powers of his
mind, and afforded him the highest enjoyments, of which his nature was
capable. Without some object of strong interest, life was to him little
more than a sleep; and, when pursuits of real interest failed, he
substituted artificial ones, till habit changed their nature, and they
ceased to be unreal. Of this kind was the habit of gaming, which he had
adopted, first, for the purpose of relieving him from the languor of
inaction, but had since pursued with the ardour of passion. In this
occupation he had passed the night with Cavigni and a party of young
men, who had more money than rank, and more vice than either. Montoni
despised the greater part of these for the inferiority of their talents,
rather than for their vicious inclinations, and associated with them
only to make them the instruments of his purposes. Among these, however,
were some of superior abilities, and a few whom Montoni admitted to
his intimacy, but even towards these he still preserved a decisive and
haughty air, which, while it imposed submission on weak and timid minds,
roused the fierce hatred of strong ones. He had, of course, many and
bitter enemies; but the rancour of their hatred proved the degree of his
power; and, as power was his chief aim, he gloried more in such hatred,
than it was possible he could in being esteemed. A feeling so tempered
as that of esteem, he despised, and would have despised himself also had
he thought himself capable of being flattered by it.

Among the few whom he distinguished, were the Signors Bertolini,
Orsino, and Verezzi. The first was a man of gay temper, strong passions,
dissipated, and of unbounded extravagance, but generous, brave, and
unsuspicious. Orsino was reserved, and haughty; loving power more than
ostentation; of a cruel and suspicious temper; quick to feel an injury,
and relentless in avenging it; cunning and unsearchable in contrivance,
patient and indefatigable in the execution of his schemes. He had a
perfect command of feature and of his passions, of which he had scarcely
any, but pride, revenge and avarice; and, in the gratification of these,
few considerations had power to restrain him, few obstacles to withstand
the depth of his stratagems. This man was the chief favourite of
Montoni. Verezzi was a man of some talent, of fiery imagination, and the
slave of alternate passions. He was gay, voluptuous, and daring; yet had
neither perseverance or true courage, and was meanly selfish in all his
aims. Quick to form schemes, and sanguine in his hope of success, he
was the first to undertake, and to abandon, not only his own plans,
but those adopted from other persons. Proud and impetuous, he revolted
against all subordination; yet those who were acquainted with his
character, and watched the turn of his passions, could lead him like a
child.

Such were the friends whom Montoni introduced to his family and his
table, on the day after his arrival at Venice. There were also of the
party a Venetian nobleman, Count Morano, and a Signora Livona, whom
Montoni had introduced to his wife, as a lady of distinguished merit,
and who, having called in the morning to welcome her to Venice, had been
requested to be of the dinner party.

Madame Montoni received with a very ill grace, the compliments of
the Signors. She disliked them, because they were the friends of her
husband; hated them, because she believed they had contributed to detain
him abroad till so late an hour of the preceding morning; and envied
them, since, conscious of her own want of influence, she was convinced,
that he preferred their society to her own. The rank of Count Morano
procured him that distinction which she refused to the rest of the
company. The haughty sullenness of her countenance and manner, and the
ostentatious extravagance of her dress, for she had not yet adopted
the Venetian habit, were strikingly contrasted by the beauty, modesty,
sweetness and simplicity of Emily, who observed, with more attention
than pleasure, the party around her. The beauty and fascinating manners
of Signora Livona, however, won her involuntary regard; while the
sweetness of her accents and her air of gentle kindness awakened with
Emily those pleasing affections, which so long had slumbered.

In the cool of the evening the party embarked in Montoni's gondola, and
rowed out upon the sea. The red glow of sun-set still touched the waves,
and lingered in the west, where the melancholy gleam seemed slowly
expiring, while the dark blue of the upper aether began to twinkle with
stars. Emily sat, given up to pensive and sweet emotions. The smoothness
of the water, over which she glided, its reflected images--a new heaven
and trembling stars below the waves, with shadowy outlines of towers and
porticos, conspired with the stillness of the hour, interrupted only by
the passing wave, or the notes of distant music, to raise those emotions
to enthusiasm. As she listened to the measured sound of the oars, and to
the remote warblings that came in the breeze, her softened mind returned
to the memory of St. Aubert and to Valancourt, and tears stole to her
eyes. The rays of the moon, strengthening as the shadows deepened,
soon after threw a silvery gleam upon her countenance, which was partly
shaded by a thin black veil, and touched it with inimitable softness.
Hers was the CONTOUR of a Madona, with the sensibility of a Magdalen;
and the pensive uplifted eye, with the tear that glittered on her cheek,
confirmed the expression of the character.

The last strain of distant music now died in air, for the gondola was
far upon the waves, and the party determined to have music of their own.
The Count Morano, who sat next to Emily, and who had been observing her
for some time in silence, snatched up a lute, and struck the chords
with the finger of harmony herself, while his voice, a fine tenor,
accompanied them in a rondeau full of tender sadness. To him, indeed,
might have been applied that beautiful exhortation of an English poet,
had it then existed:

     Strike up, my master,
 But touch the strings with a religious softness!
 Teach sounds to languish through the night's dull ear
 Till Melancholy starts from off her couch,
 And Carelessness grows concert to attention!

With such powers of expression the Count sung the following

     RONDEAU

 Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps
 Upon the ocean's trembling tide;
 Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps
 Yon sad, that swells in stately pride:

 Soft as the surge's stealing note,
 That dies along the distant shores,
 Or warbled strain, that sinks remote--
 So soft the sigh my bosom pours!

 True as the wave to Cynthia's ray,
 True as the vessel to the breeze,
 True as the soul to music's sway,
 Or music to Venetian seas:

 Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep
 Upon the ocean's trembling breast;
 So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep,
 So soft, so true, with THEE shall rest.

The cadence with which he returned from the last stanza to a repetition
of the first; the fine modulation in which his voice stole upon the
first line, and the pathetic energy with which it pronounced the last,
were such as only exquisite taste could give. When he had concluded,
he gave the lute with a sigh to Emily, who, to avoid any appearance of
affectation, immediately began to play. She sung a melancholy little
air, one of the popular songs of her native province, with a simplicity
and pathos that made it enchanting. But its well-known melody brought
so forcibly to her fancy the scenes and the persons, among which she had
often heard it, that her spirits were overcome, her voice trembled and
ceased--and the strings of the lute were struck with a disordered hand;
till, ashamed of the emotion she had betrayed, she suddenly passed on
to a song so gay and airy, that the steps of the dance seemed almost
to echo to the notes. BRAVISSIMO! burst instantly from the lips of her
delighted auditors, and she was compelled to repeat the air. Among
the compliments that followed, those of the Count were not the least
audible, and they had not concluded, when Emily gave the instrument to
Signora Livona, whose voice accompanied it with true Italian taste.

Afterwards, the Count, Emily, Cavigni, and the Signora, sung
canzonettes, accompanied by a couple of lutes and a few other
instruments. Sometimes the instruments suddenly ceased, and the voices
dropped from the full swell of harmony into a low chant; then, after a
deep pause, they rose by degrees, the instruments one by one striking
up, till the loud and full chorus soared again to heaven!

Meanwhile, Montoni, who was weary of this harmony, was considering how
he might disengage himself from his party, or withdraw with such of it
as would be willing to play, to a Casino. In a pause of the music, he
proposed returning to shore, a proposal which Orsino eagerly seconded,
but which the Count and the other gentlemen as warmly opposed.

Montoni still meditated how he might excuse himself from longer
attendance upon the Count, for to him only he thought excuse necessary,
and how he might get to land, till the gondolieri of an empty boat,
returning to Venice, hailed his people. Without troubling himself longer
about an excuse, he seized this opportunity of going thither, and,
committing the ladies to the care of his friends, departed with Orsino,
while Emily, for the first time, saw him go with regret; for she
considered his presence a protection, though she knew not what she
should fear. He landed at St. Mark's, and, hurrying to a Casino, was
soon lost amidst a crowd of gamesters.

Meanwhile, the Count having secretly dispatched a servant in Montoni's
boat, for his own gondola and musicians, Emily heard, without knowing
his project, the gay song of gondolieri approaching, as they sat on the
stern of the boat, and saw the tremulous gleam of the moon-light
wave, which their oars disturbed. Presently she heard the sound of
instruments, and then a full symphony swelled on the air, and, the boats
meeting, the gondolieri hailed each other. The count then explaining
himself, the party removed into his gondola, which was embellished with
all that taste could bestow.

While they partook of a collation of fruits and ice, the whole band,
following at a distance in the other boat, played the most sweet and
enchanting strains, and the Count, who had again seated himself by
Emily, paid her unremitted attention, and sometimes, in a low
but impassioned voice, uttered compliments which she could not
misunderstand. To avoid them she conversed with Signora Livona, and her
manner to the Count assumed a mild reserve, which, though dignified, was
too gentle to repress his assiduities: he could see, hear, speak to no
person, but Emily while Cavigni observed him now and then, with a look
of displeasure, and Emily, with one of uneasiness. She now wished for
nothing so much as to return to Venice, but it was near mid-night before
the gondolas approached St. Mark's Place, where the voice of gaiety
and song was loud. The busy hum of mingling sounds was heard at a
considerable distance on the water, and, had not a bright moon-light
discovered the city, with its terraces and towers, a stranger would
almost have credited the fabled wonders of Neptune's court, and
believed, that the tumult arose from beneath the waves.

They landed at St. Mark's, where the gaiety of the colonnades and the
beauty of the night, made Madame Montoni willingly submit to the Count's
solicitations to join the promenade, and afterwards to take a supper
with the rest of the party, at his Casino. If any thing could have
dissipated Emily's uneasiness, it would have been the grandeur, gaiety,
and novelty of the surrounding scene, adorned with Palladio's palaces,
and busy with parties of masqueraders.

At length they withdrew to the Casino, which was fitted up with infinite
taste, and where a splendid banquet was prepared; but here Emily's
reserve made the Count perceive, that it was necessary for his interest
to win the favour of Madame Montoni, which, from the condescension she
had already shewn to him, appeared to be an achievement of no great
difficulty. He transferred, therefore, part of his attention from Emily
to her aunt, who felt too much flattered by the distinction even to
disguise her emotion; and before the party broke up, he had entirely
engaged the esteem of Madame Montoni. Whenever he addressed her, her
ungracious countenance relaxed into smiles, and to whatever he proposed
she assented. He invited her, with the rest of the party, to take
coffee, in his box at the opera, on the following evening, and Emily
heard the invitation accepted, with strong anxiety, concerning the means
of excusing herself from attending Madame Montoni thither.

It was very late before their gondola was ordered, and Emily's surprise
was extreme, when, on quitting the Casino, she beheld the broad sun
rising out of the Adriatic, while St. Mark's Place was yet crowded with
company. Sleep had long weighed heavily on her eyes, but now the fresh
sea-breeze revived her, and she would have quitted the scene with
regret, had not the Count been present, performing the duty, which he
had imposed upon himself, of escorting them home. There they heard that
Montoni was not yet returned; and his wife, retiring in displeasure
to her apartment, at length released Emily from the fatigue of further
attendance.

Montoni came home late in the morning, in a very ill humour, having lost
considerably at play, and, before he withdrew to rest, had a private
conference with Cavigni, whose manner, on the following day, seemed to
tell, that the subject of it had not been pleasing to him.

In the evening, Madame Montoni, who, during the day, had observed a
sullen silence towards her husband, received visits from some Venetian
ladies, with whose sweet manners Emily was particularly charmed. They
had an air of ease and kindness towards the strangers, as if they had
been their familiar friends for years; and their conversation was by
turns tender, sentimental and gay. Madame, though she had no taste
for such conversation, and whose coarseness and selfishness sometimes
exhibited a ludicrous contrast to their excessive refinement, could not
remain wholly insensible to the captivations of their manner.

In a pause of conversation, a lady who was called Signora Herminia took
up a lute, and began to play and sing, with as much easy gaiety, as if
she had been alone. Her voice was uncommonly rich in tone, and various
in expression; yet she appeared to be entirely unconscious of its
powers, and meant nothing less than to display them. She sung from the
gaiety of her heart, as she sat with her veil half thrown back, holding
gracefully the lute, under the spreading foliage and flowers of some
plants, that rose from baskets, and interlaced one of the lattices of
the saloon. Emily, retiring a little from the company, sketched
her figure, with the miniature scenery around her, and drew a very
interesting picture, which, though it would not, perhaps, have borne
criticism, had spirit and taste enough to awaken both the fancy and
the heart. When she had finished it, she presented it to the beautiful
original, who was delighted with the offering, as well as the sentiment
it conveyed, and assured Emily, with a smile of captivating sweetness,
that she should preserve it as a pledge of her friendship.

In the evening Cavigni joined the ladies, but Montoni had other
engagements; and they embarked in the gondola for St. Mark's, where the
same gay company seemed to flutter as on the preceding night. The cool
breeze, the glassy sea, the gentle sound of its waves, and the sweeter
murmur of distant music; the lofty porticos and arcades, and the happy
groups that sauntered beneath them; these, with every feature and
circumstance of the scene, united to charm Emily, no longer teased by
the officious attentions of Count Morano. But, as she looked upon the
moon-light sea, undulating along the walls of St. Mark, and, lingering
for a moment over those walls, caught the sweet and melancholy song of
some gondolier as he sat in his boat below, waiting for his master, her
softened mind returned to the memory of her home, of her friends, and of
all that was dear in her native country.

After walking some time, they sat down at the door of a Casino, and,
while Cavigni was accommodating them with coffee and ice, were joined
by Count Morano. He sought Emily with a look of impatient delight, who,
remembering all the attention he had shewn her on the preceding evening,
was compelled, as before, to shrink from his assiduities into a timid
reserve, except when she conversed with Signora Herminia and the other
ladies of her party.

It was near midnight before they withdrew to the opera, where Emily
was not so charmed but that, when she remembered the scene she had just
quitted, she felt how infinitely inferior all the splendour of art is
to the sublimity of nature. Her heart was not now affected, tears
of admiration did not start to her eyes, as when she viewed the vast
expanse of ocean, the grandeur of the heavens, and listened to the
rolling waters, and to the faint music that, at intervals, mingled
with their roar. Remembering these, the scene before her faded into
insignificance.

Of the evening, which passed on without any particular incident, she
wished the conclusion, that she might escape from the attentions of the
Count; and, as opposite qualities frequently attract each other in
our thoughts, thus Emily, when she looked on Count Morano, remembered
Valancourt, and a sigh sometimes followed the recollection.

Several weeks passed in the course of customary visits, during which
nothing remarkable occurred. Emily was amused by the manners and scenes
that surrounded her, so different from those of France, but where Count
Morano, too frequently for her comfort, contrived to introduce himself.
His manner, figure and accomplishments, which were generally admired,
Emily would, perhaps, have admired also, had her heart been disengaged
from Valancourt, and had the Count forborne to persecute her with
officious attentions, during which she observed some traits in his
character, that prejudiced her against whatever might otherwise be good
in it.

Soon after his arrival at Venice, Montoni received a packet from M.
Quesnel, in which the latter mentioned the death of his wife's uncle,
at his villa on the Brenta; and that, in consequence of this event, he
should hasten to take possession of that estate and of other effects
bequeathed to him. This uncle was the brother of Madame Quesnel's late
mother; Montoni was related to her by the father's side, and though
he could have had neither claim nor expectation concerning these
possessions, he could scarcely conceal the envy which M. Quesnel's
letter excited.

Emily had observed with concern, that, since they left France, Montoni
had not even affected kindness towards her aunt, and that, after
treating her, at first, with neglect, he now met her with uniform
ill-humour and reserve. She had never supposed, that her aunt's foibles
could have escaped the discernment of Montoni, or that her mind or
figure were of a kind to deserve his attention. Her surprise, therefore,
at this match, had been extreme; but since he had made the choice, she
did not suspect that he would so openly have discovered his contempt of
it. But Montoni, who had been allured by the seeming wealth of Madame
Cheron, was now severely disappointed by her comparative poverty, and
highly exasperated by the deceit she had employed to conceal it, till
concealment was no longer necessary. He had been deceived in an affair,
wherein he meant to be the deceiver; out-witted by the superior
cunning of a woman, whose understanding he despised, and to whom he had
sacrificed his pride and his liberty, without saving himself from the
ruin, which had impended over his head. Madame Montoni had contrived
to have the greatest part of what she really did possess, settled upon
herself: what remained, though it was totally inadequate both to her
husband's expectations, and to his necessities, he had converted into
money, and brought with him to Venice, that he might a little longer
delude society, and make a last effort to regain the fortunes he had
lost.

The hints which had been thrown out to Valancourt, concerning Montoni's
character and condition, were too true; but it was now left to time and
occasion, to unfold the circumstances, both of what had, and of what had
not been hinted, and to time and occasion we commit them.

Madame Montoni was not of a nature to bear injuries with meekness, or to
resent them with dignity: her exasperated pride displayed itself in all
the violence and acrimony of a little, or at least of an ill-regulated
mind. She would not acknowledge, even to herself, that she had in any
degree provoked contempt by her duplicity, but weakly persisted in
believing, that she alone was to be pitied, and Montoni alone to be
censured; for, as her mind had naturally little perception of moral
obligation, she seldom understood its force but when it happened to be
violated towards herself: her vanity had already been severely shocked
by a discovery of Montoni's contempt; it remained to be farther reproved
by a discovery of his circumstances. His mansion at Venice, though its
furniture discovered a part of the truth to unprejudiced persons, told
nothing to those who were blinded by a resolution to believe whatever
they wished. Madame Montoni still thought herself little less than
a princess, possessing a palace at Venice, and a castle among the
Apennines. To the castle di Udolpho, indeed, Montoni sometimes talked of
going for a few weeks to examine into its condition, and to receive some
rents; for it appeared that he had not been there for two years, and
that, during this period, it had been inhabited only by an old servant,
whom he called his steward.

Emily listened to the mention of this journey with pleasure, for she
not only expected from it new ideas, but a release from the persevering
assiduities of Count Morano. In the country, too, she would have leisure
to think of Valancourt, and to indulge the melancholy, which his image,
and a recollection of the scenes of La Vallee, always blessed with the
memory of her parents, awakened. The ideal scenes were dearer, and more
soothing to her heart, than all the splendour of gay assemblies; they
were a kind of talisman that expelled the poison of temporary evils,
and supported her hopes of happy days: they appeared like a beautiful
landscape, lighted up by a gleam of sun-shine, and seen through a
perspective of dark and rugged rocks.

But Count Morano did not long confine himself to silent assiduities;
he declared his passion to Emily, and made proposals to Montoni, who
encouraged, though Emily rejected, him: with Montoni for his friend,
and an abundance of vanity to delude him, he did not despair of success.
Emily was astonished and highly disgusted at his perseverance, after she
had explained her sentiments with a frankness that would not allow him
to misunderstand them.

He now passed the greater part of his time at Montoni's, dining there
almost daily, and attending Madame and Emily wherever they went; and all
this, notwithstanding the uniform reserve of Emily, whose aunt seemed
as anxious as Montoni to promote this marriage; and would never dispense
with her attendance at any assembly where the Count proposed to be
present.

Montoni now said nothing of his intended journey, of which Emily waited
impatiently to hear; and he was seldom at home but when the Count, or
Signor Orsino, was there, for between himself and Cavigni a coolness
seemed to subsist, though the latter remained in his house. With Orsino,
Montoni was frequently closeted for hours together, and, whatever
might be the business, upon which they consulted, it appeared to be of
consequence, since Montoni often sacrificed to it his favourite passion
for play, and remained at home the whole night. There was somewhat of
privacy, too, in the manner of Orsino's visits, which had never before
occurred, and which excited not only surprise, but some degree of alarm
in Emily's mind, who had unwillingly discovered much of his character
when he had most endeavoured to disguise it. After these visits, Montoni
was often more thoughtful than usual; sometimes the deep workings of his
mind entirely abstracted him from surrounding objects, and threw a gloom
over his visage that rendered it terrible; at others, his eyes seemed
almost to flash fire, and all the energies of his soul appeared to
be roused for some great enterprise. Emily observed these written
characters of his thoughts with deep interest, and not without some
degree of awe, when she considered that she was entirely in his power;
but forbore even to hint her fears, or her observations, to Madame
Montoni, who discerned nothing in her husband, at these times, but his
usual sternness.

A second letter from M. Quesnel announced the arrival of himself and
his lady at the Villa Miarenti; stated several circumstances of his
good fortune, respecting the affair that had brought him into Italy; and
concluded with an earnest request to see Montoni, his wife and niece, at
his new estate.

Emily received, about the same period, a much more interesting letter,
and which soothed for a while every anxiety of her heart. Valancourt,
hoping she might be still at Venice, had trusted a letter to the
ordinary post, that told her of his health, and of his unceasing and
anxious affection. He had lingered at Tholouse for some time after her
departure, that he might indulge the melancholy pleasure of wandering
through the scenes where he had been accustomed to behold her, and had
thence gone to his brother's chateau, which was in the neighbourhood of
La Vallee. Having mentioned this, he added, 'If the duty of attending
my regiment did not require my departure, I know not when I should have
resolution enough to quit the neighbourhood of a place which is endeared
by the remembrance of you. The vicinity to La Vallee has alone detained
me thus long at Estuviere: I frequently ride thither early in the
morning, that I may wander, at leisure, through the day, among scenes,
which were once your home, where I have been accustomed to see you, and
to hear you converse. I have renewed my acquaintance with the good old
Theresa, who rejoiced to see me, that she might talk of you: I need
not say how much this circumstance attached me to her, or how eagerly
I listened to her upon her favourite subject. You will guess the motive
that first induced me to make myself known to Theresa: it was, indeed,
no other than that of gaining admittance into the chateau and gardens,
which my Emily had so lately inhabited: here, then, I wander, and meet
your image under every shade: but chiefly I love to sit beneath the
spreading branches of your favourite plane, where once, Emily, we sat
together; where I first ventured to tell you, that I loved. O Emily!
the remembrance of those moments overcomes me--I sit lost in reverie--I
endeavour to see you dimly through my tears, in all the heaven of
peace and innocence, such as you then appeared to me; to hear again the
accents of that voice, which then thrilled my heart with tenderness and
hope. I lean on the wall of the terrace, where we together watched the
rapid current of the Garonne below, while I described the wild scenery
about its source, but thought only of you. O Emily! are these moments
passed for ever--will they never more return?'

In another part of his letter he wrote thus. 'You see my letter is dated
on many different days, and, if you look back to the first, you will
perceive, that I began to write soon after your departure from France.
To write was, indeed, the only employment that withdrew me from my own
melancholy, and rendered your absence supportable, or rather, it seemed
to destroy absence; for, when I was conversing with you on paper,
and telling you every sentiment and affection of my heart, you almost
appeared to be present. This employment has been from time to time my
chief consolation, and I have deferred sending off my packet, merely
for the comfort of prolonging it, though it was certain, that what I
had written, was written to no purpose till you received it. Whenever my
mind has been more than usually depressed I have come to pour forth its
sorrows to you, and have always found consolation; and, when any little
occurrence has interested my heart, and given a gleam of joy to my
spirits, I have hastened to communicate it to you, and have received
reflected satisfaction. Thus, my letter is a kind of picture of my life
and of my thoughts for the last month, and thus, though it has been
deeply interesting to me, while I wrote it, and I dare hope will, for
the same reason, be not indifferent to you, yet to other readers it
would seem to abound only in frivolities. Thus it is always, when we
attempt to describe the finer movements of the heart, for they are too
fine to be discerned, they can only be experienced, and are therefore
passed over by the indifferent observer, while the interested one feels,
that all description is imperfect and unnecessary, except as it may
prove the sincerity of the writer, and sooth his own sufferings. You
will pardon all this egotism--for I am a lover.'

'I have just heard of a circumstance, which entirely destroys all my
fairy paradise of ideal delight, and which will reconcile me to the
necessity of returning to my regiment, for I must no longer wander
beneath the beloved shades, where I have been accustomed to meet you
in thought.--La Vallee is let! I have reason to believe this is without
your knowledge, from what Theresa told me this morning, and, therefore,
I mention the circumstance. She shed tears, while she related, that she
was going to leave the service of her dear mistress, and the chateau
where she had lived so many happy years; and all this, added she,
without even a letter from Mademoiselle to soften the news; but it is
all Mons. Quesnel's doings, and I dare say she does not even know what
is going forward.'

'Theresa added, That she had received a letter from him, informing
her the chateau was let, and that, as her services would no longer be
required, she must quit the place, on that day week, when the new tenant
would arrive.'

'Theresa had been surprised by a visit from M. Quesnel, some time before
the receipt of this letter, who was accompanied by a stranger that
viewed the premises with much curiosity.'

Towards the conclusion of his letter, which is dated a week after this
sentence, Valancourt adds, 'I have received a summons from my regiment,
and I join it without regret, since I am shut out from the scenes that
are so interesting to my heart. I rode to La Vallee this morning, and
heard that the new tenant was arrived, and that Theresa was gone. I
should not treat the subject thus familiarly if I did not believe you
to be uninformed of this disposal of your house; for your satisfaction I
have endeavoured to learn something of the character and fortune of your
tenant, but without success. He is a gentleman, they say, and this is
all I can hear. The place, as I wandered round the boundaries, appeared
more melancholy to my imagination, than I had ever seen it. I wished
earnestly to have got admittance, that I might have taken another leave
of your favourite plane-tree, and thought of you once more beneath
its shade: but I forbore to tempt the curiosity of strangers: the
fishing-house in the woods, however, was still open to me; thither I
went, and passed an hour, which I cannot even look back upon without
emotion. O Emily! surely we are not separated for ever--surely we shall
live for each other!'

This letter brought many tears to Emily's eyes; tears of tenderness and
satisfaction on learning that Valancourt was well, and that time and
absence had in no degree effaced her image from his heart. There were
passages in this letter which particularly affected her, such as those
describing his visits to La Vallee, and the sentiments of delicate
affection that its scenes had awakened. It was a considerable time
before her mind was sufficiently abstracted from Valancourt to feel
the force of his intelligence concerning La Vallee. That Mons. Quesnel
should let it, without even consulting her on the measure, both
surprised and shocked her, particularly as it proved the absolute
authority he thought himself entitled to exercise in her affairs. It is
true, he had proposed, before she left France, that the chateau should
be let, during her absence, and to the oeconomical prudence of this she
had nothing to object; but the committing what had been her father's
villa to the power and caprice of strangers, and the depriving herself
of a sure home, should any unhappy circumstances make her look back to
her home as an asylum, were considerations that made her, even then,
strongly oppose the measure. Her father, too, in his last hour, had
received from her a solemn promise never to dispose of La Vallee; and
this she considered as in some degree violated if she suffered the place
to be let. But it was now evident with how little respect M. Quesnel
had regarded these objections, and how insignificant he considered every
obstacle to pecuniary advantage. It appeared, also, that he had not even
condescended to inform Montoni of the step he had taken, since no motive
was evident for Montoni's concealing the circumstance from her, if it
had been made known to him: this both displeased and surprised her; but
the chief subjects of her uneasiness were--the temporary disposal of
La Vallee, and the dismission of her father's old and faithful
servant.--'Poor Theresa,' said Emily, 'thou hadst not saved much in thy
servitude, for thou wast always tender towards the poor, and believd'st
thou shouldst die in the family, where thy best years had been spent.
Poor Theresa!--now thou art turned out in thy old age to seek thy
bread!'

Emily wept bitterly as these thoughts passed over her mind, and she
determined to consider what could be done for Theresa, and to talk very
explicitly to M. Quesnel on the subject; but she much feared that his
cold heart could feel only for itself. She determined also to enquire
whether he had made any mention of her affairs, in his letter to
Montoni, who soon gave her the opportunity she sought, by desiring
that she would attend him in his study. She had little doubt, that the
interview was intended for the purpose of communicating to her a part
of M. Quesnel's letter concerning the transactions at La Vallee, and she
obeyed him immediately. Montoni was alone.

'I have just been writing to Mons. Quesnel,' said he when Emily
appeared, 'in reply to the letter I received from him a few days ago,
and I wished to talk to you upon a subject that occupied part of it.'

'I also wished to speak with you on this topic, sir,' said Emily.

'It is a subject of some interest to you, undoubtedly,' rejoined
Montoni, 'and I think you must see it in the light that I do; indeed
it will not bear any other. I trust you will agree with me, that any
objection founded on sentiment, as they call it, ought to yield to
circumstances of solid advantage.'

'Granting this, sir,' replied Emily, modestly, 'those of humanity ought
surely to be attended to. But I fear it is now too late to deliberate
upon this plan, and I must regret, that it is no longer in my power to
reject it.'

'It is too late,' said Montoni; 'but since it is so, I am pleased to
observe, that you submit to reason and necessity without indulging
useless complaint. I applaud this conduct exceedingly, the more,
perhaps, since it discovers a strength of mind seldom observable in your
sex. When you are older you will look back with gratitude to the friends
who assisted in rescuing you from the romantic illusions of sentiment,
and will perceive, that they are only the snares of childhood, and
should be vanquished the moment you escape from the nursery. I have not
closed my letter, and you may add a few lines to inform your uncle of
your acquiescence. You will soon see him, for it is my intention to take
you, with Madame Montoni, in a few days to Miarenti, and you can then
talk over the affair.'

Emily wrote on the opposite page of the paper as follows:

'It is now useless, sir, for me to remonstrate upon the circumstances
of which Signor Montoni informs me that he has written. I could
have wished, at least, that the affair had been concluded with
less precipitation, that I might have taught myself to subdue some
prejudices, as the Signor calls them, which still linger in my heart. As
it is, I submit. In point of prudence nothing certainly can be objected;
but, though I submit, I have yet much to say on some other points of the
subject, when I shall have the honour of seeing you. In the meantime I
entreat you will take care of Theresa, for the sake of,     Sir,
     Your affectionate niece,
     EMILY ST. AUBERT.'

Montoni smiled satirically at what Emily had written, but did not object
to it, and she withdrew to her own apartment, where she sat down to
begin a letter to Valancourt, in which she related the particulars
of her journey, and her arrival at Venice, described some of the most
striking scenes in the passage over the Alps; her emotions on her first
view of Italy; the manners and characters of the people around her, and
some few circumstances of Montoni's conduct. But she avoided even naming
Count Morano, much more the declaration he had made, since she well knew
how tremblingly alive to fear is real love, how jealously watchful of
every circumstance that may affect its interest; and she scrupulously
avoided to give Valancourt even the slightest reason for believing he
had a rival.

On the following day Count Morano dined again at Montoni's. He was in
an uncommon flow of spirits, and Emily thought there was somewhat of
exultation in his manner of addressing her, which she had never observed
before. She endeavoured to repress this by more than her usual reserve,
but the cold civility of her air now seemed rather to encourage than to
depress him. He appeared watchful of an opportunity of speaking with her
alone, and more than once solicited this; but Emily always replied, that
she could hear nothing from him which he would be unwilling to repeat
before the whole company.

In the evening, Madame Montoni and her party went out upon the sea, and
as the Count led Emily to his zendaletto, he carried her hand to his
lips, and thanked her for the condescension she had shown him. Emily,
in extreme surprise and displeasure, hastily withdrew her hand, and
concluded that he had spoken ironically; but, on reaching the steps
of the terrace, and observing by the livery, that it was the Count's
zendaletto which waited below, while the rest of the party, having
arranged themselves in the gondolas, were moving on, she determined
not to permit a separate conversation, and, wishing him a good evening,
returned to the portico. The Count followed to expostulate and entreat,
and Montoni, who then came out, rendered solicitation unnecessary, for,
without condescending to speak, he took her hand, and led her to the
zendaletto. Emily was not silent; she entreated Montoni, in a low voice,
to consider the impropriety of these circumstances, and that he would
spare her the mortification of submitting to them; he, however, was
inflexible.

'This caprice is intolerable,' said he, 'and shall not be indulged:
there is no impropriety in the case.'

At this moment, Emily's dislike of Count Morano rose to abhorrence. That
he should, with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her, notwithstanding
all she had expressed on the subject of his addresses, and think, as it
was evident he did, that her opinion of him was of no consequence, so
long as his pretensions were sanctioned by Montoni, added indignation to
the disgust which she had felt towards him. She was somewhat relieved by
observing that Montoni was to be of the party, who seated himself on one
side of her, while Morano placed himself on the other. There was a
pause for some moments as the gondolieri prepared their oars, and Emily
trembled from apprehension of the discourse that might follow this
silence. At length she collected courage to break it herself, in the
hope of preventing fine speeches from Morano, and reproof from Montoni.
To some trivial remark which she made, the latter returned a short
and disobliging reply; but Morano immediately followed with a general
observation, which he contrived to end with a particular compliment,
and, though Emily passed it without even the notice of a smile, he was
not discouraged.

'I have been impatient,' said he, addressing Emily, 'to express my
gratitude; to thank you for your goodness; but I must also thank Signor
Montoni, who has allowed me this opportunity of doing so.'

Emily regarded the Count with a look of mingled astonishment and
displeasure.

'Why,' continued he, 'should you wish to diminish the delight of this
moment by that air of cruel reserve?--Why seek to throw me again into
the perplexities of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict the
kindness of your late declaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity,
the ardour of my passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charming
Emily! surely unnecessary, any longer to attempt a disguise of your
sentiments.'

'If I ever had disguised them, sir,' said Emily, with recollected
spirit, 'it would certainly be unnecessary any longer to do so. I had
hoped, sir, that you would have spared me any farther necessity of
alluding to them; but, since you do not grant this, hear me declare, and
for the last time, that your perseverance has deprived you even of the
esteem, which I was inclined to believe you merited.'

'Astonishing!' exclaimed Montoni: 'this is beyond even my expectation,
though I have hitherto done justice to the caprice of the sex! But
you will observe, Mademoiselle Emily, that I am no lover, though Count
Morano is, and that I will not be made the amusement of your capricious
moments. Here is the offer of an alliance, which would do honour to any
family; yours, you will recollect, is not noble; you long resisted my
remonstrances, but my honour is now engaged, and it shall not be trifled
with.--You shall adhere to the declaration, which you have made me an
agent to convey to the Count.'

'I must certainly mistake you, sir,' said Emily; 'my answers on the
subject have been uniform; it is unworthy of you to accuse me of
caprice. If you have condescended to be my agent, it is an honour I
did not solicit. I myself have constantly assured Count Morano, and you
also, sir, that I never can accept the honour he offers me, and I now
repeat the declaration.'

The Count looked with an air of surprise and enquiry at Montoni, whose
countenance also was marked with surprise, but it was surprise mingled
with indignation.

'Here is confidence, as well as caprice!' said the latter. 'Will you
deny your own words, Madam?'

'Such a question is unworthy of an answer, sir;' said Emily blushing;
'you will recollect yourself, and be sorry that you have asked it.'

'Speak to the point,' rejoined Montoni, in a voice of increasing
vehemence. 'Will you deny your own words; will you deny, that you
acknowledged, only a few hours ago, that it was too late to recede from
your engagements, and that you accepted the Count's hand?'

'I will deny all this, for no words of mine ever imported it.'

'Astonishing! Will you deny what you wrote to Mons. Quesnel, your uncle?
if you do, your own hand will bear testimony against you. What have you
now to say?' continued Montoni, observing the silence and confusion of
Emily.

'I now perceive, sir, that you are under a very great error, and that I
have been equally mistaken.'

'No more duplicity, I entreat; be open and candid, if it be possible.'

'I have always been so, sir; and can claim no merit in such conduct, for
I have had nothing to conceal.'

'How is this, Signor?' cried Morano, with trembling emotion.

'Suspend your judgment, Count,' replied Montoni, 'the wiles of a female
heart are unsearchable. Now, Madame, your EXPLANATION.'

'Excuse me, sir, if I withhold my explanation till you appear willing
to give me your confidence; assertion as present can only subject me to
insult.'

'Your explanation, I entreat you!' said Morano.

'Well, well,' rejoined Montoni, 'I give you my confidence; let us hear
this explanation.'

'Let me lead to it then, by asking a question.'

'As many as you please,' said Montoni, contemptuously.

'What, then, was the subject of your letter to Mons. Quesnel?'

'The same that was the subject of your note to him, certainly. You did
well to stipulate for my confidence before you demanded that question.'

'I must beg you will be more explicit, sir; what was that subject?'

'What could it be, but the noble offer of Count Morano,' said Montoni.

'Then, sir, we entirely misunderstood each other,' replied Emily.

'We entirely misunderstood each other too, I suppose,' rejoined Montoni,
'in the conversation which preceded the writing of that note? I must do
you the justice to own, that you are very ingenious at this same art of
misunderstanding.'

Emily tried to restrain the tears that came to her eyes, and to answer
with becoming firmness. 'Allow me, sir, to explain myself fully, or to
be wholly silent.'

'The explanation may now be dispensed with; it is anticipated. If Count
Morano still thinks one necessary, I will give him an honest one--You
have changed your intention since our last conversation; and, if he
can have patience and humility enough to wait till to-morrow, he will
probably find it changed again: but as I have neither the patience or
the humility, which you expect from a lover, I warn you of the effect of
my displeasure!'

'Montoni, you are too precipitate,' said the Count, who had listened
to this conversation in extreme agitation and impatience;--'Signora, I
entreat your own explanation of this affair!'

'Signor Montoni has said justly,' replied Emily, 'that all explanation
may now be dispensed with; after what has passed I cannot suffer myself
to give one. It is sufficient for me, and for you, sir, that I repeat my
late declaration; let me hope this is the last time it will be necessary
for me to repeat it--I never can accept the honour of your alliance.'

'Charming Emily!' exclaimed the Count in an impassioned tone, 'let
not resentment make you unjust; let me not suffer for the offence of
Montoni!--Revoke--'

'Offence!' interrupted Montoni--'Count, this language is ridiculous,
this submission is childish!--speak as becomes a man, not as the slave
of a pretty tyrant.'

'You distract me, Signor; suffer me to plead my own cause; you have
already proved insufficient to it.'

'All conversation on this subject, sir,' said Emily, 'is worse than
useless, since it can bring only pain to each of us: if you would oblige
me, pursue it no farther.'

'It is impossible, Madam, that I can thus easily resign the object of
a passion, which is the delight and torment of my life.--I must still
love--still pursue you with unremitting ardour;--when you shall be
convinced of the strength and constancy of my passion, your heart must
soften into pity and repentance.'

'Is this generous, sir? is this manly? can it either deserve or obtain
the esteem you solicit, thus to continue a persecution from which I have
no present means of escaping?'

A gleam of moonlight that fell upon Morano's countenance, revealed the
strong emotions of his soul; and, glancing on Montoni discovered the
dark resentment, which contrasted his features.

'By heaven this is too much!' suddenly exclaimed the Count; 'Signor
Montoni, you treat me ill; it is from you that I shall look for
explanation.'

'From me, sir! you shall have it;' muttered Montoni, 'if your
discernment is indeed so far obscured by passion, as to make explanation
necessary. And for you, Madam, you should learn, that a man of honour is
not to be trifled with, though you may, perhaps, with impunity, treat a
BOY like a puppet.'

This sarcasm roused the pride of Morano, and the resentment which he
had felt at the indifference of Emily, being lost in indignation of the
insolence of Montoni, he determined to mortify him, by defending her.

'This also,' said he, replying to Montoni's last words, 'this also,
shall not pass unnoticed. I bid you learn, sir, that you have a stronger
enemy than a woman to contend with: I will protect Signora St. Aubert
from your threatened resentment. You have misled me, and would revenge
your disappointed views upon the innocent.'

'Misled you!' retorted Montoni with quickness, 'is my conduct--my
word'--then pausing, while he seemed endeavouring to restrain the
resentment, that flashed in his eyes, in the next moment he added, in a
subdued voice, 'Count Morano, this is a language, a sort of conduct to
which I am not accustomed: it is the conduct of a passionate boy--as
such, I pass it over in contempt.'

'In contempt, Signor?'

'The respect I owe myself,' rejoined Montoni, 'requires, that I should
converse more largely with you upon some points of the subject in
dispute. Return with me to Venice, and I will condescend to convince you
of your error.'

'Condescend, sir! but I will not condescend to be so conversed with.'

Montoni smiled contemptuously; and Emily, now terrified for the
consequences of what she saw and heard, could no longer be silent. She
explained the whole subject upon which she had mistaken Montoni in the
morning, declaring, that she understood him to have consulted her solely
concerning the disposal of La Vallee, and concluding with entreating,
that he would write immediately to M. Quesnel, and rectify the mistake.

But Montoni either was, or affected to be, still incredulous; and
Count Morano was still entangled in perplexity. While she was speaking,
however, the attention of her auditors had been diverted from the
immediate occasion of their resentment, and their passion consequently
became less. Montoni desired the Count would order his servants to row
back to Venice, that he might have some private conversation with him;
and Morano, somewhat soothed by his softened voice and manner, and eager
to examine into the full extent of his difficulties, complied.

Emily, comforted by this prospect of release, employed the present
moments in endeavouring, with conciliating care, to prevent any fatal
mischief between the persons who so lately had persecuted and insulted
her.

Her spirits revived, when she heard once more the voice of song and
laughter, resounding from the grand canal, and at length entered
again between its stately piazzas. The zendaletto stopped at Montoni's
mansion, and the Count hastily led her into the hall, where Montoni took
his arm, and said something in a low voice, on which Morano kissed
the hand he held, notwithstanding Emily's effort to disengage it,
and, wishing her a good evening, with an accent and look she could not
misunderstand, returned to his zendaletto with Montoni.

Emily, in her own apartment, considered with intense anxiety all the
unjust and tyrannical conduct of Montoni, the dauntless perseverance
of Morano, and her own desolate situation, removed from her friends and
country. She looked in vain to Valancourt, confined by his profession
to a distant kingdom, as her protector; but it gave her comfort to know,
that there was, at least, one person in the world, who would sympathize
in her afflictions, and whose wishes would fly eagerly to release her.
Yet she determined not to give him unavailing pain by relating the
reasons she had to regret the having rejected his better judgment
concerning Montoni; reasons, however, which could not induce her to
lament the delicacy and disinterested affection that had made her reject
his proposal for a clandestine marriage. The approaching interview with
her uncle she regarded with some degree of hope, for she determined to
represent to him the distresses of her situation, and to entreat that he
would allow her to return to France with him and Madame Quesnel. Then,
suddenly remembering that her beloved La Vallee, her only home, was no
longer at her command, her tears flowed anew, and she feared that she
had little pity to expect from a man who, like M. Quesnel, could dispose
of it without deigning to consult with her, and could dismiss an aged
and faithful servant, destitute of either support or asylum. But, though
it was certain, that she had herself no longer a home in France, and
few, very few friends there, she determined to return, if possible,
that she might be released from the power of Montoni, whose particularly
oppressive conduct towards herself, and general character as to others,
were justly terrible to her imagination. She had no wish to reside with
her uncle, M. Quesnel, since his behaviour to her late father and to
herself, had been uniformly such as to convince her, that in flying to
him she could only obtain an exchange of oppressors; neither had she the
slightest intention of consenting to the proposal of Valancourt for an
immediate marriage, though this would give her a lawful and a generous
protector, for the chief reasons, which had formerly influenced her
conduct, still existed against it, while others, which seemed to justify
the step, would not be done away; and his interest, his fame were at all
times too dear to her, to suffer her to consent to a union, which, at
this early period of their lives, would probably defeat both. One sure,
and proper asylum, however, would still be open to her in France.
She knew that she could board in the convent, where she had formerly
experienced so much kindness, and which had an affecting and solemn
claim upon her heart, since it contained the remains of her late father.
Here she could remain in safety and tranquillity, till the term, for
which La Vallee might be let, should expire; or, till the arrangement
of M. Motteville's affairs enabled her so far to estimate the remains of
her fortune, as to judge whether it would be prudent for her to reside
there.

Concerning Montoni's conduct with respect to his letters to M. Quesnel,
she had many doubts; however he might be at first mistaken on the
subject, she much suspected that he wilfully persevered in his error, as
a means of intimidating her into a compliance with his wishes of uniting
her to Count Morano. Whether this was or was not the fact, she was
extremely anxious to explain the affair to M. Quesnel, and looked
forward with a mixture of impatience, hope and fear, to her approaching
visit.

On the following day, Madame Montoni, being alone with Emily, introduced
the mention of Count Morano, by expressing her surprise, that she had
not joined the party on the water the preceding evening, and at
her abrupt departure to Venice. Emily then related what had passed,
expressed her concern for the mutual mistake that had occurred between
Montoni and herself, and solicited her aunt's kind offices in urging him
to give a decisive denial to the count's further addresses; but she
soon perceived, that Madame Montoni had not been ignorant of the late
conversation, when she introduced the present.

'You have no encouragement to expect from me,' said her aunt, 'in these
notions. I have already given my opinion on the subject, and think
Signor Montoni right in enforcing, by any means, your consent. If young
persons will be blind to their interest, and obstinately oppose it, why,
the greatest blessings they can have are friends, who will oppose their
folly. Pray what pretensions of any kind do you think you have to such a
match as is now offered you?'

'Not any whatever, Madam,' replied Emily, 'and, therefore, at least,
suffer me to be happy in my humility.'

'Nay, niece, it cannot be denied, that you have pride enough; my poor
brother, your father, had his share of pride too; though, let me add,
his fortune did not justify it.'

Emily, somewhat embarrassed by the indignation, which this malevolent
allusion to her father excited, and by the difficulty of rendering her
answer as temperate as it should be reprehensive, hesitated for some
moments, in a confusion, which highly gratified her aunt. At length she
said, 'My father's pride, Madam, had a noble object--the happiness which
he knew could be derived only from goodness, knowledge and charity.
As it never consisted in his superiority, in point of fortune, to some
persons, it was not humbled by his inferiority, in that respect, to
others. He never disdained those, who were wretched by poverty
and misfortune; he did sometimes despise persons, who, with many
opportunities of happiness, rendered themselves miserable by vanity,
ignorance and cruelty. I shall think it my highest glory to emulate such
pride.'

'I do not pretend to understand any thing of these high-flown
sentiments, niece; you have all that glory to yourself: I would teach
you a little plain sense, and not have you so wise as to despise
happiness.'

'That would indeed not be wisdom, but folly,' said Emily, 'for wisdom
can boast no higher attainment than happiness; but you will allow,
Madam, that our ideas of happiness may differ. I cannot doubt, that you
wish me to be happy, but I must fear you are mistaken in the means of
making me so.'

'I cannot boast of a learned education, niece, such as your father
thought proper to give you, and, therefore, do not pretend to understand
all these fine speeches about happiness. I must be contented to
understand only common sense, and happy would it have been for you and
your father, if that had been included in his education.'

Emily was too much shocked by these reflections on her father's memory,
to despise this speech as it deserved.

Madame Montoni was about to speak, but Emily quitted the room, and
retired to her own, where the little spirit she had lately exerted
yielded to grief and vexation, and left her only to her tears. From
every review of her situation she could derive, indeed, only new sorrow.
To the discovery, which had just been forced upon her, of Montoni's
unworthiness, she had now to add, that of the cruel vanity, for the
gratification of which her aunt was about to sacrifice her; of the
effrontery and cunning, with which, at the time that she meditated the
sacrifice, she boasted of her tenderness, or insulted her victim; and of
the venomous envy, which, as it did not scruple to attack her father's
character, could scarcely be expected to withhold from her own.

During the few days that intervened between this conversation and the
departure for Miarenti, Montoni did not once address himself to Emily.
His looks sufficiently declared his resentment; but that he should
forbear to renew a mention of the subject of it, exceedingly surprised
her, who was no less astonished, that, during three days, Count Morano
neither visited Montoni, or was named by him. Several conjectures arose
in her mind. Sometimes she feared that the dispute between them had been
revived, and had ended fatally to the Count. Sometimes she was inclined
to hope, that weariness, or disgust at her firm rejection of his suit
had induced him to relinquish it; and, at others, she suspected that
he had now recourse to stratagem, and forbore his visits, and prevailed
with Montoni to forbear the repetition of his name, in the expectation
that gratitude and generosity would prevail with her to give him the
consent, which he could not hope from love.

Thus passed the time in vain conjecture, and alternate hopes and fears,
till the day arrived when Montoni was to set out for the villa of
Miarenti, which, like the preceding ones, neither brought the Count, or
the mention of him.

Montoni having determined not to leave Venice, till towards evening,
that he might avoid the heats, and catch the cool breezes of night,
embarked about an hour before sun-set, with his family, in a barge, for
the Brenta. Emily sat alone near the stern of the vessel, and, as it
floated slowly on, watched the gay and lofty city lessening from her
view, till its palaces seemed to sink in the distant waves, while its
loftier towers and domes, illumined by the declining sun, appeared on
the horizon, like those far-seen clouds which, in more northern climes,
often linger on the western verge, and catch the last light of a
summer's evening. Soon after, even these grew dim, and faded in distance
from her sight; but she still sat gazing on the vast scene of
cloudless sky, and mighty waters, and listening in pleasing awe to
the deep-sounding waves, while, as her eyes glanced over the Adriatic,
towards the opposite shores, which were, however, far beyond the reach
of sight, she thought of Greece, and, a thousand classical remembrances
stealing to her mind, she experienced that pensive luxury which is felt
on viewing the scenes of ancient story, and on comparing their present
state of silence and solitude with that of their former grandeur and
animation. The scenes of the Illiad illapsed in glowing colours to her
fancy--scenes, once the haunt of heroes--now lonely, and in ruins;
but which still shone, in the poet's strain, in all their youthful
splendour.

As her imagination painted with melancholy touches, the deserted plains
of Troy, such as they appeared in this after-day, she reanimated the
landscape with the following little story.

     STANZAS

 O'er Ilion's plains, where once the warrior bled,
 And once the poet rais'd his deathless strain,
 O'er Ilion's plains a weary driver led
 His stately camels:  For the ruin'd fane

 Wide round the lonely scene his glance he threw,
 For now the red cloud faded in the west,
 And twilight o'er the silent landscape drew
 Her deep'ning veil; eastward his course he prest:

 There, on the grey horizon's glimm'ring bound,
 Rose the proud columns of deserted Troy,
 And wandering shepherds now a shelter found
 Within those walls, where princes wont to joy.

 Beneath a lofty porch the driver pass'd,
 Then, from his camels heav'd the heavy load;
 Partook with them the simple, cool repast,
 And in short vesper gave himself to God.

 From distant lands with merchandise he came,
 His all of wealth his patient servants bore;
 Oft deep-drawn sighs his anxious wish proclaim
 To reach, again, his happy cottage door;

 For there, his wife, his little children, dwell;
 Their smiles shall pay the toil of many an hour:
 Ev'n now warm tears to expectation swell,
 As fancy o'er his mind extends her pow'r.

 A death-like stillness reign'd, where once the song,
 The song of heroes, wak'd the midnight air,
 Save, when a solemn murmur roll'd along,
 That seem'd to say--'for future worlds prepare.'

 For Time's imperious voice was frequent heard
 Shaking the marble temple to its fall,
 (By hands he long had conquer'd, vainly rear'd),
 And distant ruins answer'd to his call.

 While Hamet slept, his camels round him lay,
 Beneath him, all his store of wealth was piled;
 And here, his cruse and empty wallet lay,
 And there, the flute that chear'd him in the wild.

 The robber Tartar on his slumber stole,
 For o'er the waste, at eve, he watch'd his train;
 Ah! who his thirst of plunder shall control?
 Who calls on him for mercy--calls in vain!

 A poison'd poignard in his belt he wore,
 A crescent sword depended at his side,
 The deathful quiver at his back he bore,
 And infants--at his very look had died!

 The moon's cold beam athwart the temple fell,
 And to his sleeping prey the Tartar led;
 But soft!--a startled camel shook his bell,
 Then stretch'd his limbs, and rear'd his drowsy head.

 Hamet awoke! the poignard glitter'd high!
 Swift from his couch he sprung, and 'scap'd the blow;
 When from an unknown hand the arrows fly,
 That lay the ruffian, in his vengeance, low.

 He groan'd, he died! from forth a column'd gate
 A fearful shepherd, pale and silent, crept,
 Who, as he watch'd his folded flock star-late,
 Had mark'd the robber steal where Hamet slept.

 He fear'd his own, and sav'd a stranger's life!
 Poor Hamet clasp'd him to his grateful heart;
 Then, rous'd his camels for the dusty strife,
 And, with the shepherd, hasten'd to depart.

 And now, aurora breathes her fresh'ning gale,
 And faintly trembles on the eastern cloud;
 And now, the sun, from under twilight's veil,
 Looks gaily forth, and melts her airy shroud.

 Wide o'er the level plains, his slanting beams
 Dart their long lines on Ilion's tower'd site;
 The distant Hellespont with morning gleams,
 And old Scamander winds his waves in light.

 All merry sound the camel bells, so gay,
 And merry beats fond Hamet's heart, for he,
 E'er the dim evening steals upon the day,
 His children, wife and happy home shall see.

As Emily approached the shores of Italy she began to discriminate the
rich features and varied colouring of the landscape--the purple hills,
groves of orange pine and cypress, shading magnificent villas, and towns
rising among vineyards and plantations. The noble Brenta, pouring its
broad waves into the sea, now appeared, and, when she reached its mouth,
the barge stopped, that the horses might be fastened which were now to
tow it up the stream. This done, Emily gave a last look to the Adriatic,
and to the dim sail,

     that from the sky-mix'd wave
 Dawns on the sight,

and the barge slowly glided between the green and luxuriant slopes
of the river. The grandeur of the Palladian villas, that adorn these
shores, was considerably heightened by the setting rays, which threw
strong contrasts of light and shade upon the porticos and long arcades,
and beamed a mellow lustre upon the orangeries and the tall groves of
pine and cypress, that overhung the buildings. The scent of oranges, of
flowering myrtles, and other odoriferous plants was diffused upon the
air, and often, from these embowered retreats, a strain of music stole
on the calm, and 'softened into silence.'

The sun now sunk below the horizon, twilight fell over the landscape,
and Emily, wrapt in musing silence, continued to watch its features
gradually vanishing into obscurity. She remembered her many happy
evenings, when with St. Aubert she had observed the shades of twilight
steal over a scene as beautiful as this, from the gardens of La Vallee,
and a tear fell to the memory of her father. Her spirits were softened
into melancholy by the influence of the hour, by the low murmur of
the wave passing under the vessel, and the stillness of the air, that
trembled only at intervals with distant music:--why else should she, at
these moments, have looked on her attachment to Valancourt with presages
so very afflicting, since she had but lately received letters from him,
that had soothed for a while all her anxieties? It now seemed to her
oppressed mind, that she had taken leave of him for ever, and that the
countries, which separated them, would never more be re-traced by her.
She looked upon Count Morano with horror, as in some degree the cause
of this; but apart from him, a conviction, if such that may be called,
which arises from no proof, and which she knew not how to account for,
seized her mind--that she should never see Valancourt again. Though she
knew, that neither Morano's solicitations, nor Montoni's commands
had lawful power to enforce her obedience, she regarded both with a
superstitious dread, that they would finally prevail.

Lost in this melancholy reverie, and shedding frequent tears, Emily was
at length roused by Montoni, and she followed him to the cabin, where
refreshments were spread, and her aunt was seated alone. The countenance
of Madame Montoni was inflamed with resentment, that appeared to be
the consequence of some conversation she had held with her husband, who
regarded her with a kind of sullen disdain, and both preserved, for some
time, a haughty silence. Montoni then spoke to Emily of Mons. Quesnel:
'You will not, I hope, persist in disclaiming your knowledge of the
subject of my letter to him?'

'I had hoped, sir, that it was no longer necessary for me to disclaim
it,' said Emily, 'I had hoped, from your silence, that you was convinced
of your error.'

'You have hoped impossibilities then,' replied Montoni; 'I might as
reasonably have expected to find sincerity and uniformity of conduct in
one of your sex, as you to convict me of error in this affair.'

Emily blushed, and was silent; she now perceived too clearly, that she
had hoped an impossibility, for, where no mistake had been committed no
conviction could follow; and it was evident, that Montoni's conduct had
not been the consequence of mistake, but of design.

Anxious to escape from conversation, which was both afflicting and
humiliating to her, she soon returned to the deck, and resumed her
station near the stern, without apprehension of cold, for no vapour rose
from the water, and the air was dry and tranquil; here, at least, the
benevolence of nature allowed her the quiet which Montoni had denied her
elsewhere. It was now past midnight. The stars shed a kind of twilight,
that served to shew the dark outline of the shores on either hand, and
the grey surface of the river; till the moon rose from behind a high
palm grove, and shed her mellow lustre over the scene. The vessel glided
smoothly on: amid the stillness of the hour Emily heard, now and then,
the solitary voice of the barge-men on the bank, as they spoke to their
horses; while, from a remote part of the vessel, with melancholy song,

     The sailor sooth'd,
 Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave.

Emily, meanwhile, anticipated her reception by Mons, and Madame Quesnel;
considered what she should say on the subject of La Vallee; and then, to
with-hold her mind from more anxious topics, tried to amuse herself by
discriminating the faint-drawn features of the landscape, reposing in
the moon-light. While her fancy thus wandered, she saw, at a distance,
a building peeping between the moon-light trees, and, as the barge
approached, heard voices speaking, and soon distinguished the lofty
portico of a villa, overshadowed by groves of pine and sycamore, which
she recollected to be the same, that had formerly been pointed out to
her, as belonging to Madame Quesnel's relative.

The barge stopped at a flight of marble steps, which led up the bank to
a lawn. Lights appeared between some pillars beyond the portico. Montoni
sent forward his servant, and then disembarked with his family. They
found Mons. and Madame Quesnel, with a few friends, seated on sofas in
the portico, enjoying the cool breeze of the night, and eating fruits
and ices, while some of their servants at a little distance, on
the river's bank, were performing a simple serenade. Emily was now
accustomed to the way of living in this warm country, and was not
surprised to find Mons. and Madame Quesnel in their portico, two hours
after midnight.

The usual salutations being over, the company seated themselves in the
portico, and refreshments were brought them from the adjoining hall,
where a banquet was spread, and servants attended. When the bustle
of this meeting had subsided, and Emily had recovered from the little
flutter into which it had thrown her spirits, she was struck with the
singular beauty of the hall, so perfectly accommodated to the luxuries
of the season. It was of white marble, and the roof, rising into an
open cupola, was supported by columns of the same material. Two opposite
sides of the apartment, terminating in open porticos, admitted to the
hall a full view of the gardens, and of the river scenery; in the centre
a fountain continually refreshed the air, and seemed to heighten the
fragrance, that breathed from the surrounding orangeries, while its
dashing waters gave an agreeable and soothing sound. Etruscan lamps,
suspended from the pillars, diffused a brilliant light over the interior
part of the hall, leaving the remoter porticos to the softer lustre of
the moon.

Mons. Quesnel talked apart to Montoni of his own affairs, in his usual
strain of self-importance; boasted of his new acquisitions, and
then affected to pity some disappointments, which Montoni had lately
sustained. Meanwhile, the latter, whose pride at least enabled him to
despise such vanity as this, and whose discernment at once detected
under this assumed pity, the frivolous malignity of Quesnel's mind,
listened to him in contemptuous silence, till he named his niece, and
then they left the portico, and walked away into the gardens.

Emily, however, still attended to Madame Quesnel, who spoke of France
(for even the name of her native country was dear to her) and she found
some pleasure in looking at a person, who had lately been in it. That
country, too, was inhabited by Valancourt, and she listened to the
mention of it, with a faint hope, that he also would be named. Madame
Quesnel, who, when she was in France, had talked with rapture of Italy,
now, that she was in Italy, talked with equal praise of France, and
endeavoured to excite the wonder and the envy of her auditors by
accounts of places, which they had not been happy enough to see. In
these descriptions she not only imposed upon them, but upon herself, for
she never thought a present pleasure equal to one, that was passed;
and thus the delicious climate, the fragrant orangeries and all the
luxuries, which surrounded her, slept unnoticed, while her fancy
wandered over the distant scenes of a northern country.

Emily listened in vain for the name of Valancourt. Madame Montoni spoke
in her turn of the delights of Venice, and of the pleasure she expected
from visiting the fine castle of Montoni, on the Apennine; which latter
mention, at least, was merely a retaliating boast, for Emily well knew,
that her aunt had no taste for solitary grandeur, and, particularly,
for such as the castle of Udolpho promised. Thus the party continued to
converse, and, as far as civility would permit, to torture each other
by mutual boasts, while they reclined on sofas in the portico, and were
environed with delights both from nature and art, by which any honest
minds would have been tempered to benevolence, and happy imaginations
would have been soothed into enchantment.

The dawn, soon after, trembled in the eastern horizon, and the light
tints of morning, gradually expanding, shewed the beautifully declining
forms of the Italian mountains and the gleaming landscapes, stretched
at their feet. Then the sun-beams, shooting up from behind the hills,
spread over the scene that fine saffron tinge, which seems to impart
repose to all it touches. The landscape no longer gleamed; all its
glowing colours were revealed, except that its remoter features were
still softened and united in the mist of distance, whose sweet effect
was heightened to Emily by the dark verdure of the pines and cypresses,
that over-arched the foreground of the river.

The market people, passing with their boats to Venice, now formed a
moving picture on the Brenta. Most of these had little painted awnings,
to shelter their owners from the sun-beams, which, together with
the piles of fruit and flowers, displayed beneath, and the tasteful
simplicity of the peasant girls, who watched the rural treasures,
rendered them gay and striking objects. The swift movement of the boats
down the current, the quick glance of oars in the water, and now and
then the passing chorus of peasants, who reclined under the sail of
their little bark, or the tones of some rustic instrument, played by
a girl, as she sat near her sylvan cargo, heightened the animation and
festivity of the scene.

When Montoni and M. Quesnel had joined the ladies, the party left
the portico for the gardens, where the charming scenery soon withdrew
Emily's thoughts from painful subjects. The majestic forms and rich
verdure of cypresses she had never seen so perfect before: groves of
cedar, lemon, and orange, the spiry clusters of the pine and poplar, the
luxuriant chesnut and oriental plane, threw all their pomp of shade over
these gardens; while bowers of flowering myrtle and other spicy shrubs
mingled their fragrance with that of flowers, whose vivid and various
colouring glowed with increased effect beneath the contrasted umbrage of
the groves. The air also was continually refreshed by rivulets, which,
with more taste than fashion, had been suffered to wander among the
green recesses.

Emily often lingered behind the party, to contemplate the distant
landscape, that closed a vista, or that gleamed beneath the dark foliage
of the foreground;--the spiral summits of the mountains, touched with
a purple tint, broken and steep above, but shelving gradually to their
base; the open valley, marked by no formal lines of art; and the tall
groves of cypress, pine and poplar, sometimes embellished by a ruined
villa, whose broken columns appeared between the branches of a pine,
that seemed to droop over their fall.

From other parts of the gardens, the character of the view was entirely
changed, and the fine solitary beauty of the landscape shifted for the
crowded features and varied colouring of inhabitation.

The sun was now gaining fast upon the sky, and the party quitted the
gardens, and retired to repose.



CHAPTER IV


 And poor Misfortune feels the lash of Vice.
     THOMSON

Emily seized the first opportunity of conversing alone with Mons.
Quesnel, concerning La Vallee. His answers to her enquiries were
concise, and delivered with the air of a man, who is conscious of
possessing absolute power and impatient of hearing it questioned. He
declared, that the disposal of the place was a necessary measure; and
that she might consider herself indebted to his prudence for even the
small income that remained for her. 'But, however,' added he, 'when
this Venetian Count (I have forgot his name) marries you, your present
disagreeable state of dependence will cease. As a relation to you I
rejoice in the circumstance, which is so fortunate for you, and, I may
add, so unexpected by your friends.' For some moments Emily was chilled
into silence by this speech; and, when she attempted to undeceive him,
concerning the purport of the note she had inclosed in Montoni's letter,
he appeared to have some private reason for disbelieving her assertion,
and, for a considerable time, persevered in accusing her of capricious
conduct. Being, at length, however, convinced that she really disliked
Morano and had positively rejected his suit, his resentment was
extravagant, and he expressed it in terms equally pointed and inhuman;
for, secretly flattered by the prospect of a connection with a nobleman,
whose title he had affected to forget, he was incapable of feeling
pity for whatever sufferings of his niece might stand in the way of his
ambition.

Emily saw at once in his manner all the difficulties, that awaited
her, and, though no oppression could have power to make her renounce
Valancourt for Morano, her fortitude now trembled at an encounter with
the violent passions of her uncle.

She opposed his turbulence and indignation only by the mild dignity of
a superior mind; but the gentle firmness of her conduct served to
exasperate still more his resentment, since it compelled him to feel
his own inferiority, and, when he left her, he declared, that, if she
persisted in her folly, both himself and Montoni would abandon her to
the contempt of the world.

The calmness she had assumed in his presence failed Emily, when alone,
and she wept bitterly, and called frequently upon the name of her
departed father, whose advice to her from his death-bed she then
remembered. 'Alas!' said she, 'I do indeed perceive how much more
valuable is the strength of fortitude than the grace of sensibility,
and I will also endeavour to fulfil the promise I then made; I will
not indulge in unavailing lamentation, but will try to endure, with
firmness, the oppression I cannot elude.'

Somewhat soothed by the consciousness of performing a part of St.
Aubert's last request, and of endeavouring to pursue the conduct which
he would have approved, she overcame her tears, and, when the company
met at dinner, had recovered her usual serenity of countenance.

In the cool of the evening, the ladies took the FRESCO along the bank of
the Brenta in Madame Quesnel's carriage. The state of Emily's mind was
in melancholy contrast with the gay groups assembled beneath the shades
that overhung this enchanting stream. Some were dancing under the trees,
and others reclining on the grass, taking ices and coffee and calmly
enjoying the effect of a beautiful evening, on a luxuriant landscape.
Emily, when she looked at the snow-capt Apennines, ascending in the
distance, thought of Montoni's castle, and suffered some terror, lest he
should convey her thither, for the purpose of enforcing her obedience;
but the thought vanished, when she considered, that she was as much in
his power at Venice as she could be elsewhere.

It was moonlight before the party returned to the villa, where supper
was spread in the airy hall, which had so much enchanted Emily's fancy,
on the preceding night. The ladies seated themselves in the portico,
till Mons. Quesnel, Montoni, and other gentlemen should join them at
table, and Emily endeavoured to resign herself to the tranquillity of
the hour. Presently, a barge stopped at the steps that led into the
gardens, and, soon after, she distinguished the voices of Montoni and
Quesnel, and then that of Morano, who, in the next moment, appeared. His
compliments she received in silence, and her cold air seemed at first to
discompose him; but he soon recovered his usual gaiety of manner,
though the officious kindness of M. and Madame Quesnel Emily perceived
disgusted him. Such a degree of attention she had scarcely believed
could be shewn by M. Quesnel, for she had never before seen him
otherwise than in the presence of his inferiors or equals.

When she could retire to her own apartment, her mind almost
involuntarily dwelt on the most probable means of prevailing with the
Count to withdraw his suit, and to her liberal mind none appeared more
probable, than that of acknowledging to him a prior attachment and
throwing herself upon his generosity for a release. When, however,
on the following day, he renewed his addresses, she shrunk from the
adoption of the plan she had formed. There was something so repugnant to
her just pride, in laying open the secret of her heart to such a man
as Morano, and in suing to him for compassion, that she impatiently
rejected this design and wondered, that she could have paused upon
it for a moment. The rejection of his suit she repeated in the most
decisive terms she could select, mingling with it a severe censure
of his conduct; but, though the Count appeared mortified by this, he
persevered in the most ardent professions of admiration, till he was
interrupted and Emily released by the presence of Madame Quesnel.

During her stay at this pleasant villa, Emily was thus rendered
miserable by the assiduities of Morano, together with the cruelly
exerted authority of M. Quesnel and Montoni, who, with her aunt, seemed
now more resolutely determined upon this marriage than they had even
appeared to be at Venice. M. Quesnel, finding, that both argument and
menace were ineffectual in enforcing an immediate conclusion to it, at
length relinquished his endeavours, and trusted to the power of Montoni
and to the course of events at Venice. Emily, indeed, looked to Venice
with hope, for there she would be relieved in some measure from the
persecution of Morano, who would no longer be an inhabitant of the same
house with herself, and from that of Montoni, whose engagements would
not permit him to be continually at home. But amidst the pressure of her
own misfortunes, she did not forget those of poor Theresa, for whom she
pleaded with courageous tenderness to Quesnel, who promised, in slight
and general terms, that she should not be forgotten.

Montoni, in a long conversation with M. Quesnel, arranged the plan to
be pursued respecting Emily, and M. Quesnel proposed to be at Venice, as
soon as he should be informed, that the nuptials were concluded.

It was new to Emily to part with any person, with whom she was
connected, without feeling of regret; the moment, however, in which she
took leave of M. and Madame Quesnel, was, perhaps, the only satisfactory
one she had known in their presence.

Morano returned in Montoni's barge, and Emily, as she watched her
gradual approach to that magic city, saw at her side the only person,
who occasioned her to view it with less than perfect delight. They
arrived there about midnight, when Emily was released from the presence
of the Count, who, with Montoni, went to a Casino, and she was suffered
to retire to her own apartment.

On the following day, Montoni, in a short conversation, which he held
with Emily, informed her, that he would no longer be TRIFLED with, and
that, since her marriage with the Count would be so highly advantageous
to her, that folly only could object to it, and folly of such extent
as was incapable of conviction, it should be celebrated without further
delay, and, if that was necessary, without her consent.

Emily, who had hitherto tried remonstrance, had now recourse to
supplication, for distress prevented her from foreseeing, that, with a
man of Montoni's disposition, supplication would be equally useless. She
afterwards enquired by what right he exerted this unlimited authority
over her? a question, which her better judgment would have with-held
her, in a calmer moment, from making, since it could avail her nothing,
and would afford Montoni another opportunity of triumphing over her
defenceless condition.

'By what right!' cried Montoni, with a malicious smile, 'by the right of
my will; if you can elude that, I will not inquire by what right you do
so. I now remind you, for the last time, that you are a stranger, in a
foreign country, and that it is your interest to make me your friend;
you know the means; if you compel me to become your enemy--I will
venture to tell you, that the punishment shall exceed your expectation.
You may know _I_ am not to be trifled with.'

Emily continued, for some time after Montoni had left her, in a state of
despair, or rather stupefaction; a consciousness of misery was all that
remained in her mind. In this situation Madame Montoni found her, at the
sound of whose voice Emily looked up, and her aunt, somewhat softened by
the expression of despair, that fixed her countenance, spoke in a manner
more kind than she had ever yet done. Emily's heart was touched; she
shed tears, and, after weeping for some time, recovered sufficient
composure to speak on the subject of her distress, and to endeavour to
interest Madame Montoni in her behalf. But, though the compassion of her
aunt had been surprised, her ambition was not to be overcome, and
her present object was to be the aunt of a Countess. Emily's efforts,
therefore, were as unsuccessful as they had been with Montoni, and she
withdrew to her apartment to think and weep alone. How often did she
remember the parting scene with Valancourt, and wish, that the Italian
had mentioned Montoni's character with less reserve! When her mind,
however, had recovered from the first shock of this behaviour, she
considered, that it would be impossible for him to compel her alliance
with Morano, if she persisted in refusing to repeat any part of the
marriage ceremony; and she persevered in her resolution to await
Montoni's threatened vengeance rather than give herself for life to a
man, whom she must have despised for his present conduct, had she never
even loved Valancourt; yet she trembled at the revenge she thus resolved
to brave.

An affair, however, soon after occurred, which somewhat called off
Montoni's attention from Emily. The mysterious visits of Orsino were
renewed with more frequency since the return of the former to Venice.
There were others, also, besides Orsino, admitted to these midnight
councils, and among them Cavigni and Verezzi. Montoni became more
reserved and austere in his manner than ever; and Emily, if her own
interests had not made her regardless of his, might have perceived, that
something extraordinary was working in his mind.

One night, on which a council was not held, Orsino came in great
agitation of spirits, and dispatched his confidential servant to
Montoni, who was at a Casino, desiring that he would return home
immediately; but charging the servant not to mention his name. Montoni
obeyed the summons, and, on meeting Orsino, was informed of the
circumstances, that occasioned his visit and his visible alarm, with a
part of which he was already acquainted.

A Venetian nobleman, who had, on some late occasion, provoked the hatred
of Orsino, had been way-laid and poniarded by hired assassins: and, as
the murdered person was of the first connections, the Senate had
taken up the affair. One of the assassins was now apprehended, who had
confessed, that Orsino was his employer in the atrocious deed; and the
latter, informed of his danger, had now come to Montoni to consult on
the measures necessary to favour his escape. He knew, that, at this
time, the officers of the police were upon the watch for him, all over
the city; to leave it, at present, therefore, was impracticable, and
Montoni consented to secrete him for a few days till the vigilance of
justice should relax, and then to assist him in quitting Venice. He knew
the danger he himself incurred by permitting Orsino to remain in his
house, but such was the nature of his obligations to this man, that he
did not think it prudent to refuse him an asylum.

Such was the person whom Montoni had admitted to his confidence, and for
whom he felt as much friendship as was compatible with his character.

While Orsino remained concealed in his house, Montoni was unwilling to
attract public observation by the nuptials of Count Morano; but this
obstacle was, in a few days, overcome by the departure of his criminal
visitor, and he then informed Emily, that her marriage was to be
celebrated on the following morning. To her repeated assurances, that
it should not take place, he replied only by a malignant smile; and,
telling her that the Count and a priest would be at his house, early
in the morning, he advised her no further to dare his resentment, by
opposition to his will and to her own interest. 'I am now going out for
the evening,' said he, 'remember, that I shall give your hand to Count
Morano in the morning.' Emily, having, ever since his late threats,
expected, that her trials would at length arrive to this crisis, was
less shocked by the declaration, that she otherwise would have been,
and she endeavoured to support herself by the belief, that the marriage
could not be valid, so long as she refused before the priest to repeat
any part of the ceremony. Yet, as the moment of trial approached, her
long-harassed spirits shrunk almost equally from the encounter of his
vengeance, and from the hand of Count Morano. She was not even perfectly
certain of the consequence of her steady refusal at the altar, and
she trembled, more than ever, at the power of Montoni, which seemed
unlimited as his will, for she saw, that he would not scruple to
transgress any law, if, by so doing, he could accomplish his project.

While her mind was thus suffering and in a state little short of
distraction, she was informed that Morano asked permission to see
her, and the servant had scarcely departed with an excuse, before she
repented that she had sent one. In the next moment, reverting to
her former design, and determining to try, whether expostulation and
entreaty would not succeed, where a refusal and a just disdain had
failed, she recalled the servant, and, sending a different message,
prepared to go down to the Count.

The dignity and assumed composure with which she met him, and the
kind of pensive resignation, that softened her countenance, were
circumstances not likely to induce him to relinquish her, serving,
as they did, to heighten a passion, which had already intoxicated his
judgment. He listened to all she said with an appearance of complacency
and of a wish to oblige her; but his resolution remained invariably the
same, and he endeavoured to win her admiration by every insinuating art
he so well knew how to practise. Being, at length, assured, that she
had nothing to hope from his justice, she repeated, in a solemn and
impressive manner, her absolute rejection of his suit, and quitted him
with an assurance, that her refusal would be effectually maintained
against every circumstance, that could be imagined for subduing it. A
just pride had restrained her tears in his presence, but now they flowed
from the fulness of her heart. She often called upon the name of her
late father, and often dwelt with unutterable anguish on the idea of
Valancourt.

She did not go down to supper, but remained alone in her apartment,
sometimes yielding to the influence of grief and terror, and, at others,
endeavouring to fortify her mind against them, and to prepare herself
to meet, with composed courage, the scene of the following morning, when
all the stratagem of Morano and the violence of Montoni would be united
against her.

The evening was far advanced, when Madame Montoni came to her chamber
with some bridal ornaments, which the Count had sent to Emily. She
had, this day, purposely avoided her niece; perhaps, because her usual
insensibility failed her, and she feared to trust herself with a view of
Emily's distress; or possibly, though her conscience was seldom audible,
it now reproached her with her conduct to her brother's orphan child,
whose happiness had been entrusted to her care by a dying father.

Emily could not look at these presents, and made a last, though almost
hopeless, effort to interest the compassion of Madame Montoni, who, if
she did feel any degree of pity, or remorse, successfully concealed it,
and reproached her niece with folly in being miserable, concerning a
marriage, which ought only to make her happy. 'I am sure,' said she, 'if
I was unmarried, and the Count had proposed to me, I should have been
flattered by the distinction: and if I should have been so, I am sure,
niece, you, who have no fortune, ought to feel yourself highly honoured,
and shew a proper gratitude and humility towards the Count, for his
condescension. I am often surprised, I must own, to observe how humbly
he deports himself to you, notwithstanding the haughty airs you give
yourself; I wonder he has patience to humour you so: if I was he,
I know, I should often be ready to reprehend you, and make you know
yourself a little better. I would not have flattered you, I can tell
you, for it is this absurd flattery that makes you fancy yourself of
so much consequence, that you think nobody can deserve you, and I often
tell the Count so, for I have no patience to hear him pay you such
extravagant compliments, which you believe every word of!'

'Your patience, madam, cannot suffer more cruelly on such occasions,
than my own,' said Emily.

'O! that is all mere affectation,' rejoined her aunt. 'I know that his
flattery delights you, and makes you so vain, that you think you may
have the whole world at your feet. But you are very much mistaken; I
can assure you, niece, you will not meet with many such suitors as the
Count: every other person would have turned upon his heel, and left you
to repent at your leisure, long ago.'

'O that the Count had resembled every other person, then!' said Emily,
with a heavy sigh.

'It is happy for you, that he does not,' rejoined Madame Montoni;
'and what I am now saying is from pure kindness. I am endeavouring to
convince you of your good fortune, and to persuade you to submit to
necessity with a good grace. It is nothing to me, you know, whether you
like this marriage or not, for it must be; what I say, therefore, is
from pure kindness. I wish to see you happy, and it is your own fault if
you are not so. I would ask you, now, seriously and calmly, what kind of
a match you can expect, since a Count cannot content your ambition?'

'I have no ambition whatever, madam,' replied Emily, 'my only wish is to
remain in my present station.'

'O! that is speaking quite from the purpose,' said her aunt, 'I see
you are still thinking of Mons. Valancourt. Pray get rid of all
those fantastic notions about love, and this ridiculous pride, and be
something like a reasonable creature. But, however, this is nothing to
the purpose--for your marriage with the Count takes place tomorrow, you
know, whether you approve it or not. The Count will be trifled with no
longer.'

Emily made no attempt to reply to this curious speech; she felt it
would be mean, and she knew it would be useless. Madame Montoni laid the
Count's presents upon the table, on which Emily was leaning, and then,
desiring she would be ready early in the morning, bade her good-night.
'Good-night, madam,' said Emily, with a deep sigh, as the door closed
upon her aunt, and she was left once more to her own sad reflections.
For some time she sat so lost in thought, as to be wholly unconscious
where she was; at length, raising her head, and looking round the room,
its gloom and profound stillness awed her. She fixed her eyes on the
door, through which her aunt had disappeared, and listened anxiously for
some sound, that might relieve the deep dejection of her spirits; but it
was past midnight, and all the family except the servant, who sat up for
Montoni, had retired to bed. Her mind, long harassed by distress, now
yielded to imaginary terrors; she trembled to look into the obscurity
of her spacious chamber, and feared she knew not what; a state of mind,
which continued so long, that she would have called up Annette, her
aunt's woman, had her fears permitted her to rise from her chair, and to
cross the apartment.

These melancholy illusions at length began to disperse, and she retired
to her bed, not to sleep, for that was scarcely possible, but to try, at
least, to quiet her disturbed fancy, and to collect strength of spirits
sufficient to bear her through the scene of the approaching morning.



CHAPTER V


 Dark power! with shudd'ring, meek submitted thought
 Be mine to read the visions old
 Which thy awak'ning bards have told,
 And, lest they meet my blasted view,
 Hold each strange tale devoutly true.
     COLLINS' ODE TO FEAR

Emily was recalled from a kind of slumber, into which she had, at
length, sunk, by a quick knocking at her chamber door. She started up
in terror, for Montoni and Count Morano instantly came to her mind; but,
having listened in silence for some time, and recognizing the voice
of Annette, she rose and opened the door. 'What brings you hither so
early?' said Emily, trembling excessively. She was unable to support
herself, and sat down on the bed.

'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'do not look so pale. I am quite
frightened to see you. Here is a fine bustle below stairs, all the
servants running to and fro, and none of them fast enough! Here is a
bustle, indeed, all of a sudden, and nobody knows for what!'

'Who is below besides them?' said Emily, 'Annette, do not trifle with
me!'

'Not for the world, ma'amselle, I would not trifle for the world; but
one cannot help making one's remarks, and there is the Signor in such
a bustle, as I never saw him before; and he has sent me to tell you,
ma'am, to get ready immediately.'

'Good God support me!' cried Emily, almost fainting, 'Count Morano is
below, then!'

'No, ma'amselle, he is not below that I know of,' replied Annette, 'only
his excellenza sent me to desire you would get ready directly to leave
Venice, for that the gondolas would be at the steps of the canal in a
few minutes: but I must hurry back to my lady, who is just at her wits
end, and knows not which way to turn for haste.'

'Explain, Annette, explain the meaning of all this before you go,' said
Emily, so overcome with surprise and timid hope, that she had scarcely
breath to speak.

'Nay, ma'amselle, that is more than I can do. I only know that the
Signor is just come home in a very ill humour, that he has had us
all called out of our beds, and tells us we are all to leave Venice
immediately.'

'Is Count Morano to go with the signor?' said Emily, 'and whither are we
going?'

'I know neither, ma'am, for certain; but I heard Ludovico say something
about going, after we get to terra-firma, to the signor's castle among
some mountains, that he talked of.'

'The Apennines!' said Emily, eagerly, 'O! then I have little to hope!'

'That is the very place, ma'am. But cheer up, and do not take it so much
to heart, and think what a little time you have to get ready in, and how
impatient the Signor is. Holy St. Mark! I hear the oars on the canal;
and now they come nearer, and now they are dashing at the steps below;
it is the gondola, sure enough.'

Annette hastened from the room; and Emily prepared for this unexpected
flight, as fast as her trembling hands would permit, not perceiving,
that any change in her situation could possibly be for the worse. She
had scarcely thrown her books and clothes into her travelling
trunk, when, receiving a second summons, she went down to her aunt's
dressing-room, where she found Montoni impatiently reproving his wife
for delay. He went out, soon after, to give some further orders to his
people, and Emily then enquired the occasion of this hasty journey; but
her aunt appeared to be as ignorant as herself, and to undertake the
journey with more reluctance.

The family at length embarked, but neither Count Morano, nor Cavigni,
was of the party. Somewhat revived by observing this, Emily, when the
gondolieri dashed their oars in the water, and put off from the steps
of the portico, felt like a criminal, who receives a short reprieve. Her
heart beat yet lighter, when they emerged from the canal into the ocean,
and lighter still, when they skimmed past the walls of St. Mark, without
having stopped to take up Count Morano.

The dawn now began to tint the horizon, and to break upon the shores of
the Adriatic. Emily did not venture to ask any questions of Montoni, who
sat, for some time, in gloomy silence, and then rolled himself up in his
cloak, as if to sleep, while Madame Montoni did the same; but Emily, who
could not sleep, undrew one of the little curtains of the gondola,
and looked out upon the sea. The rising dawn now enlightened the
mountain-tops of Friuli, but their lower sides, and the distant waves,
that rolled at their feet, were still in deep shadow. Emily, sunk in
tranquil melancholy, watched the strengthening light spreading upon the
ocean, shewing successively Venice and her islets, and the shores of
Italy, along which boats, with their pointed latin sails, began to move.

The gondolieri were frequently hailed, at this early hour, by the
market-people, as they glided by towards Venice, and the lagune
soon displayed a gay scene of innumerable little barks, passing from
terra-firma with provisions. Emily gave a last look to that splendid
city, but her mind was then occupied by considering the probable events,
that awaited her, in the scenes, to which she was removing, and with
conjectures, concerning the motive of this sudden journey. It appeared,
upon calmer consideration, that Montoni was removing her to his secluded
castle, because he could there, with more probability of success,
attempt to terrify her into obedience; or, that, should its gloomy and
sequestered scenes fail of this effect, her forced marriage with the
Count could there be solemnized with the secrecy, which was necessary
to the honour of Montoni. The little spirit, which this reprieve had
recalled, now began to fail, and, when Emily reached the shore, her mind
had sunk into all its former depression.

Montoni did not embark on the Brenta, but pursued his way in carriages
across the country, towards the Apennine; during which journey, his
manner to Emily was so particularly severe, that this alone would have
confirmed her late conjecture, had any such confirmation been necessary.
Her senses were now dead to the beautiful country, through which she
travelled. Sometimes she was compelled to smile at the naivete of
Annette, in her remarks on what she saw, and sometimes to sigh, as a
scene of peculiar beauty recalled Valancourt to her thoughts, who was
indeed seldom absent from them, and of whom she could never hope to hear
in the solitude, to which she was hastening.

At length, the travellers began to ascend among the Apennines. The
immense pine-forests, which, at that period, overhung these mountains,
and between which the road wound, excluded all view but of the cliffs
aspiring above, except, that, now and then, an opening through the dark
woods allowed the eye a momentary glimpse of the country below. The
gloom of these shades, their solitary silence, except when the breeze
swept over their summits, the tremendous precipices of the mountains,
that came partially to the eye, each assisted to raise the solemnity of
Emily's feelings into awe; she saw only images of gloomy grandeur, or of
dreadful sublimity, around her; other images, equally gloomy and equally
terrible, gleamed on her imagination. She was going she scarcely
knew whither, under the dominion of a person, from whose arbitrary
disposition she had already suffered so much, to marry, perhaps, a man
who possessed neither her affection, or esteem; or to endure, beyond the
hope of succour, whatever punishment revenge, and that Italian revenge,
might dictate.--The more she considered what might be the motive of the
journey, the more she became convinced, that it was for the purpose of
concluding her nuptials with Count Morano, with that secrecy, which
her resolute resistance had made necessary to the honour, if not to
the safety, of Montoni. From the deep solitudes, into which she was
immerging, and from the gloomy castle, of which she had heard
some mysterious hints, her sick heart recoiled in despair, and she
experienced, that, though her mind was already occupied by peculiar
distress, it was still alive to the influence of new and local
circumstance; why else did she shudder at the idea of this desolate
castle?

As the travellers still ascended among the pine forests, steep rose over
steep, the mountains seemed to multiply, as they went, and what was the
summit of one eminence proved to be only the base of another. At length,
they reached a little plain, where the drivers stopped to rest the
mules, whence a scene of such extent and magnificence opened below, as
drew even from Madame Montoni a note of admiration. Emily lost, for a
moment, her sorrows, in the immensity of nature. Beyond the amphitheatre
of mountains, that stretched below, whose tops appeared as numerous
almost, as the waves of the sea, and whose feet were concealed by the
forests--extended the campagna of Italy, where cities and rivers, and
woods and all the glow of cultivation were mingled in gay confusion. The
Adriatic bounded the horizon, into which the Po and the Brenta, after
winding through the whole extent of the landscape, poured their fruitful
waves. Emily gazed long on the splendours of the world she was quitting,
of which the whole magnificence seemed thus given to her sight only to
increase her regret on leaving it; for her, Valancourt alone was in that
world; to him alone her heart turned, and for him alone fell her bitter
tears.

From this sublime scene the travellers continued to ascend among the
pines, till they entered a narrow pass of the mountains, which shut out
every feature of the distant country, and, in its stead, exhibited only
tremendous crags, impending over the road, where no vestige of humanity,
or even of vegetation, appeared, except here and there the trunk and
scathed branches of an oak, that hung nearly headlong from the rock,
into which its strong roots had fastened. This pass, which led into the
heart of the Apennine, at length opened to day, and a scene of mountains
stretched in long perspective, as wild as any the travellers had yet
passed. Still vast pine-forests hung upon their base, and crowned the
ridgy precipice, that rose perpendicularly from the vale, while, above,
the rolling mists caught the sun-beams, and touched their cliffs
with all the magical colouring of light and shade. The scene seemed
perpetually changing, and its features to assume new forms, as the
winding road brought them to the eye in different attitudes; while the
shifting vapours, now partially concealing their minuter beauties and
now illuminating them with splendid tints, assisted the illusions of the
sight.

Though the deep vallies between these mountains were, for the most part,
clothed with pines, sometimes an abrupt opening presented a perspective
of only barren rocks, with a cataract flashing from their summit among
broken cliffs, till its waters, reaching the bottom, foamed along with
unceasing fury; and sometimes pastoral scenes exhibited their 'green
delights' in the narrow vales, smiling amid surrounding horror. There
herds and flocks of goats and sheep, browsing under the shade of hanging
woods, and the shepherd's little cabin, reared on the margin of a clear
stream, presented a sweet picture of repose.

Wild and romantic as were these scenes, their character had far less
of the sublime, that had those of the Alps, which guard the entrance
of Italy. Emily was often elevated, but seldom felt those emotions
of indescribable awe which she had so continually experienced, in her
passage over the Alps.

Towards the close of day, the road wound into a deep valley. Mountains,
whose shaggy steeps appeared to be inaccessible, almost surrounded
it. To the east, a vista opened, that exhibited the Apennines in their
darkest horrors; and the long perspective of retiring summits, rising
over each other, their ridges clothed with pines, exhibited a stronger
image of grandeur, than any that Emily had yet seen. The sun had just
sunk below the top of the mountains she was descending, whose long
shadow stretched athwart the valley, but his sloping rays, shooting
through an opening of the cliffs, touched with a yellow gleam the
summits of the forest, that hung upon the opposite steeps, and streamed
in full splendour upon the towers and battlements of a castle, that
spread its extensive ramparts along the brow of a precipice above. The
splendour of these illumined objects was heightened by the contrasted
shade, which involved the valley below.

'There,' said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several hours, 'is
Udolpho.'

Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she understood to
be Montoni's; for, though it was now lighted up by the setting sun, the
gothic greatness of its features, and its mouldering walls of dark grey
stone, rendered it a gloomy and sublime object. As she gazed, the light
died away on its walls, leaving a melancholy purple tint, which spread
deeper and deeper, as the thin vapour crept up the mountain, while the
battlements above were still tipped with splendour. From those, too,
the rays soon faded, and the whole edifice was invested with the solemn
duskiness of evening. Silent, lonely, and sublime, it seemed to stand
the sovereign of the scene, and to frown defiance on all, who dared to
invade its solitary reign. As the twilight deepened, its features
became more awful in obscurity, and Emily continued to gaze, till its
clustering towers were alone seen, rising over the tops of the woods,
beneath whose thick shade the carriages soon after began to ascend.

The extent and darkness of these tall woods awakened terrific images in
her mind, and she almost expected to see banditti start up from under
the trees. At length, the carriages emerged upon a heathy rock, and,
soon after, reached the castle gates, where the deep tone of the portal
bell, which was struck upon to give notice of their arrival, increased
the fearful emotions, that had assailed Emily. While they waited till
the servant within should come to open the gates, she anxiously
surveyed the edifice: but the gloom, that overspread it, allowed her to
distinguish little more than a part of its outline, with the massy walls
of the ramparts, and to know, that it was vast, ancient and dreary. From
the parts she saw, she judged of the heavy strength and extent of the
whole. The gateway before her, leading into the courts, was of gigantic
size, and was defended by two round towers, crowned by overhanging
turrets, embattled, where, instead of banners, now waved long grass and
wild plants, that had taken root among the mouldering stones, and which
seemed to sigh, as the breeze rolled past, over the desolation around
them. The towers were united by a curtain, pierced and embattled also,
below which appeared the pointed arch of a huge portcullis, surmounting
the gates: from these, the walls of the ramparts extended to other
towers, overlooking the precipice, whose shattered outline, appearing on
a gleam, that lingered in the west, told of the ravages of war.--Beyond
these all was lost in the obscurity of evening.

While Emily gazed with awe upon the scene, footsteps were heard within
the gates, and the undrawing of bolts; after which an ancient servant of
the castle appeared, forcing back the huge folds of the portal, to admit
his lord. As the carriage-wheels rolled heavily under the portcullis,
Emily's heart sunk, and she seemed, as if she was going into her prison;
the gloomy court, into which she passed, served to confirm the idea,
and her imagination, ever awake to circumstance, suggested even more
terrors, than her reason could justify.

Another gate delivered them into the second court, grass-grown, and more
wild than the first, where, as she surveyed through the twilight its
desolation--its lofty walls, overtopt with briony, moss and nightshade,
and the embattled towers that rose above,--long-suffering and murder
came to her thoughts. One of those instantaneous and unaccountable
convictions, which sometimes conquer even strong minds, impressed her
with its horror. The sentiment was not diminished, when she entered an
extensive gothic hall, obscured by the gloom of evening, which a light,
glimmering at a distance through a long perspective of arches, only
rendered more striking. As a servant brought the lamp nearer partial
gleams fell upon the pillars and the pointed arches, forming a strong
contrast with their shadows, that stretched along the pavement and the
walls.

The sudden journey of Montoni had prevented his people from making any
other preparations for his reception, than could be had in the short
interval, since the arrival of the servant, who had been sent forward
from Venice; and this, in some measure, may account for the air of
extreme desolation, that everywhere appeared.

The servant, who came to light Montoni, bowed in silence, and the
muscles of his countenance relaxed with no symptom of joy.--Montoni
noticed the salutation by a slight motion of his hand, and passed on,
while his lady, following, and looking round with a degree of surprise
and discontent, which she seemed fearful of expressing, and Emily,
surveying the extent and grandeur of the hall in timid wonder,
approached a marble stair-case. The arches here opened to a lofty vault,
from the centre of which hung a tripod lamp, which a servant was hastily
lighting; and the rich fret-work of the roof, a corridor, leading into
several upper apartments, and a painted window, stretching nearly from
the pavement to the ceiling of the hall, became gradually visible.

Having crossed the foot of the stair-case, and passed through an
ante-room, they entered a spacious apartment, whose walls, wainscoted
with black larch-wood, the growth of the neighbouring mountains, were
scarcely distinguishable from darkness itself. 'Bring more light,'
said Montoni, as he entered. The servant, setting down his lamp, was
withdrawing to obey him, when Madame Montoni observing, that the evening
air of this mountainous region was cold, and that she should like a
fire, Montoni ordered that wood might be brought.

While he paced the room with thoughtful steps, and Madame Montoni sat
silently on a couch, at the upper end of it, waiting till the servant
returned, Emily was observing the singular solemnity and desolation of
the apartment, viewed, as it now was, by the glimmer of the single lamp,
placed near a large Venetian mirror, that duskily reflected the scene,
with the tall figure of Montoni passing slowly along, his arms folded,
and his countenance shaded by the plume, that waved in his hat.

From the contemplation of this scene, Emily's mind proceeded to the
apprehension of what she might suffer in it, till the remembrance of
Valancourt, far, far distant! came to her heart, and softened it into
sorrow. A heavy sigh escaped her: but, trying to conceal her tears, she
walked away to one of the high windows, that opened upon the ramparts,
below which, spread the woods she had passed in her approach to the
castle. But the night-shade sat deeply on the mountains beyond, and
their indented outline alone could be faintly traced on the horizon,
where a red streak yet glimmered in the west. The valley between was
sunk in darkness.

The scene within, upon which Emily turned on the opening of the door,
was scarcely less gloomy. The old servant, who had received them at the
gates, now entered, bending under a load of pine-branches, while two of
Montoni's Venetian servants followed with lights.

'Your excellenza is welcome to the castle,' said the old man, as he
raised himself from the hearth, where he had laid the wood: 'it has been
a lonely place a long while; but you will excuse it, Signor, knowing we
had but short notice. It is near two years, come next feast of St. Mark,
since your excellenza was within these walls.'

'You have a good memory, old Carlo,' said Montoni: 'it is there-about;
and how hast thou contrived to live so long?'

'A-well-a-day, sir, with much ado; the cold winds, that blow through the
castle in winter, are almost too much for me; and I thought sometimes of
asking your excellenza to let me leave the mountains, and go down into
the lowlands. But I don't know how it is--I am loth to quit these old
walls I have lived in so long.'

'Well, how have you gone on in the castle, since I left it?' said
Montoni.

'Why much as usual, Signor, only it wants a good deal of repairing.
There is the north tower--some of the battlements have tumbled down, and
had liked one day to have knocked my poor wife (God rest her soul!) on
the head. Your excellenza must know'--

'Well, but the repairs,' interrupted Montoni.

'Aye, the repairs,' said Carlo: 'a part of the roof of the great hall
has fallen in, and all the winds from the mountains rushed through it
last winter, and whistled through the whole castle so, that there was no
keeping one's self warm, be where one would. There, my wife and I used
to sit shivering over a great fire in one corner of the little hall,
ready to die with cold, and'--

'But there are no more repairs wanted,' said Montoni, impatiently.

'O Lord! Your excellenza, yes--the wall of the rampart has tumbled down
in three places; then, the stairs, that lead to the west gallery, have
been a long time so bad, that it is dangerous to go up them; and the
passage leading to the great oak chamber, that overhangs the north
rampart--one night last winter I ventured to go there by myself, and
your excellenza'--

'Well, well, enough of this,' said Montoni, with quickness: 'I will talk
more with thee to-morrow.'

The fire was now lighted; Carlo swept the hearth, placed chairs, wiped
the dust from a large marble table that stood near it, and then left the
room.

Montoni and his family drew round the fire. Madame Montoni made several
attempts at conversation, but his sullen answers repulsed her, while
Emily sat endeavouring to acquire courage enough to speak to him. At
length, in a tremulous voice, she said, 'May I ask, sir, the motive
of this sudden journey?'--After a long pause, she recovered sufficient
courage to repeat the question.

'It does not suit me to answer enquiries,' said Montoni, 'nor does it
become you to make them; time may unfold them all: but I desire I may
be no further harassed, and I recommend it to you to retire to your
chamber, and to endeavour to adopt a more rational conduct, than that
of yielding to fancies, and to a sensibility, which, to call it by the
gentlest name, is only a weakness.'

Emily rose to withdraw. 'Good night, madam,' said she to her aunt, with
an assumed composure, that could not disguise her emotion.

'Good night, my dear,' said Madame Montoni, in a tone of kindness, which
her niece had never before heard from her; and the unexpected endearment
brought tears to Emily's eyes. She curtsied to Montoni, and was
retiring; 'But you do not know the way to your chamber,' said her aunt.
Montoni called the servant, who waited in the ante-room, and bade
him send Madame Montoni's woman, with whom, in a few minutes, Emily
withdrew.

'Do you know which is my room?' said she to Annette, as they crossed the
hall.

'Yes, I believe I do, ma'amselle; but this is such a strange rambling
place! I have been lost in it already: they call it the double chamber,
over the south rampart, and I went up this great stair-case to it. My
lady's room is at the other end of the castle.'

Emily ascended the marble staircase, and came to the corridor, as they
passed through which, Annette resumed her chat--'What a wild lonely
place this is, ma'am! I shall be quite frightened to live in it. How
often, and often have I wished myself in France again! I little thought,
when I came with my lady to see the world, that I should ever be shut up
in such a place as this, or I would never have left my own country!
This way, ma'amselle, down this turning. I can almost believe in giants
again, and such like, for this is just like one of their castles; and,
some night or other, I suppose I shall see fairies too, hopping about
in that great old hall, that looks more like a church, with its huge
pillars, than any thing else.'

'Yes,' said Emily, smiling, and glad to escape from more serious
thought, 'if we come to the corridor, about midnight, and look down into
the hall, we shall certainly see it illuminated with a thousand lamps,
and the fairies tripping in gay circles to the sound of delicious music;
for it is in such places as this, you know, that they come to hold
their revels. But I am afraid, Annette, you will not be able to pay the
necessary penance for such a sight: and, if once they hear your voice,
the whole scene will vanish in an instant.'

'O! if you will bear me company, ma'amselle, I will come to the
corridor, this very night, and I promise you I will hold my tongue; it
shall not be my fault if the show vanishes.--But do you think they will
come?'

'I cannot promise that with certainty, but I will venture to say, it
will not be your fault if the enchantment should vanish.'

'Well, ma'amselle, that is saying more than I expected of you: but I am
not so much afraid of fairies, as of ghosts, and they say there are a
plentiful many of them about the castle: now I should be frightened to
death, if I should chance to see any of them. But hush! ma'amselle, walk
softly! I have thought, several times, something passed by me.'

'Ridiculous!' said Emily, 'you must not indulge such fancies.'

'O ma'am! they are not fancies, for aught I know; Benedetto says these
dismal galleries and halls are fit for nothing but ghosts to live
in; and I verily believe, if I LIVE long in them I shall turn to one
myself!'

'I hope,' said Emily, 'you will not suffer Signor Montoni to hear of
these weak fears; they would highly displease him.'

'What, you know then, ma'amselle, all about it!' rejoined Annette. 'No,
no, I do know better than to do so; though, if the Signor can sleep
sound, nobody else in the castle has any right to lie awake, I am sure.'
Emily did not appear to notice this remark.

'Down this passage, ma'amselle; this leads to a back stair-case. O! if I
see any thing, I shall be frightened out of my wits!'

'That will scarcely be possible,' said Emily smiling, as she followed
the winding of the passage, which opened into another gallery: and then
Annette, perceiving that she had missed her way, while she had been
so eloquently haranguing on ghosts and fairies, wandered about through
other passages and galleries, till, at length, frightened by their
intricacies and desolation, she called aloud for assistance: but they
were beyond the hearing of the servants, who were on the other side of
the castle, and Emily now opened the door of a chamber on the left.

'O! do not go in there, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'you will only lose
yourself further.'

'Bring the light forward,' said Emily, 'we may possibly find our way
through these rooms.'

Annette stood at the door, in an attitude of hesitation, with the light
held up to shew the chamber, but the feeble rays spread through not half
of it. 'Why do you hesitate?' said Emily, 'let me see whither this room
leads.'

Annette advanced reluctantly. It opened into a suite of spacious and
ancient apartments, some of which were hung with tapestry, and others
wainscoted with cedar and black larch-wood. What furniture there was,
seemed to be almost as old as the rooms, and retained an appearance
of grandeur, though covered with dust, and dropping to pieces with the
damps, and with age.

'How cold these rooms are, ma'amselle!' said Annette: 'nobody has lived
in them for many, many years, they say. Do let us go.'

'They may open upon the great stair-case, perhaps,' said Emily, passing
on till she came to a chamber, hung with pictures, and took the light
to examine that of a soldier on horseback in a field of battle.--He was
darting his spear upon a man, who lay under the feet of the horse, and
who held up one hand in a supplicating attitude. The soldier,
whose beaver was up, regarded him with a look of vengeance, and the
countenance, with that expression, struck Emily as resembling Montoni.
She shuddered, and turned from it. Passing the light hastily over
several other pictures, she came to one concealed by a veil of black
silk. The singularity of the circumstance struck her, and she stopped
before it, wishing to remove the veil, and examine what could thus
carefully be concealed, but somewhat wanting courage. 'Holy Virgin! what
can this mean?' exclaimed Annette. 'This is surely the picture they told
me of at Venice.'

'What picture?' said Emily. 'Why a picture--a picture,' replied Annette,
hesitatingly--'but I never could make out exactly what it was about,
either.'

'Remove the veil, Annette.'

'What! I, ma'amselle!--I! not for the world!' Emily, turning round, saw
Annette's countenance grow pale. 'And pray, what have you heard of
this picture, to terrify you so, my good girl?' said she. 'Nothing,
ma'amselle: I have heard nothing, only let us find our way out.'

'Certainly: but I wish first to examine the picture; take the light,
Annette, while I lift the veil.' Annette took the light, and immediately
walked away with it, disregarding Emily's call to stay, who, not
choosing to be left alone in the dark chamber, at length followed her.
'What is the reason of this, Annette?' said Emily, when she overtook
her, 'what have you heard concerning that picture, which makes you so
unwilling to stay when I bid you?'

'I don't know what is the reason, ma'amselle, replied Annette, 'nor
any thing about the picture, only I have heard there is something very
dreadful belonging to it--and that it has been covered up in black EVER
SINCE--and that nobody has looked at it for a great many years--and it
somehow has to do with the owner of this castle before Signor Montoni
came to the possession of it--and'---

'Well, Annette,' said Emily, smiling, 'I perceive it is as you say--that
you know nothing about the picture.'

'No, nothing, indeed, ma'amselle, for they made me promise never to
tell:--but'--

'Well,' rejoined Emily, who observed that she was struggling between
her inclination to reveal a secret, and her apprehension for the
consequence, 'I will enquire no further'---

'No, pray, ma'am, do not.'

'Lest you should tell all,' interrupted Emily.

Annette blushed, and Emily smiled, and they passed on to the extremity
of this suite of apartments, and found themselves, after some further
perplexity, once more at the top of the marble stair-case, where Annette
left Emily, while she went to call one of the servants of the castle to
shew them to the chamber, for which they had been seeking.

While she was absent, Emily's thoughts returned to the picture; an
unwillingness to tamper with the integrity of a servant, had checked her
enquiries on this subject, as well as concerning some alarming hints,
which Annette had dropped respecting Montoni; though her curiosity
was entirely awakened, and she had perceived, that her questions might
easily be answered. She was now, however, inclined to go back to the
apartment and examine the picture; but the loneliness of the hour and
of the place, with the melancholy silence that reigned around her,
conspired with a certain degree of awe, excited by the mystery attending
this picture, to prevent her. She determined, however, when day-light
should have re-animated her spirits, to go thither and remove the veil.
As she leaned from the corridor, over the stair-case, and her eyes
wandered round, she again observed, with wonder, the vast strength of
the walls, now somewhat decayed, and the pillars of solid marble, that
rose from the hall, and supported the roof.

A servant now appeared with Annette, and conducted Emily to her chamber,
which was in a remote part of the castle, and at the very end of the
corridor, from whence the suite of apartments opened, through which they
had been wandering. The lonely aspect of her room made Emily unwilling
that Annette should leave her immediately, and the dampness of it
chilled her with more than fear. She begged Caterina, the servant of the
castle, to bring some wood and light a fire.

'Aye, lady, it's many a year since a fire was lighted here,' said
Caterina.

'You need not tell us that, good woman,' said Annette; 'every room in
the castle feels like a well. I wonder how you contrive to live here;
for my part, I wish myself at Venice again.' Emily waved her hand for
Caterina to fetch the wood.

'I wonder, ma'am, why they call this the double chamber?' said Annette,
while Emily surveyed it in silence and saw that it was lofty and
spacious, like the others she had seen, and, like many of them, too, had
its walls lined with dark larch-wood. The bed and other furniture was
very ancient, and had an air of gloomy grandeur, like all that she
had seen in the castle. One of the high casements, which she opened,
overlooked a rampart, but the view beyond was hid in darkness.

In the presence of Annette, Emily tried to support her spirits, and to
restrain the tears, which, every now and then, came to her eyes. She
wished much to enquire when Count Morano was expected at the castle,
but an unwillingness to ask unnecessary questions, and to mention family
concerns to a servant, withheld her. Meanwhile, Annette's thoughts were
engaged upon another subject: she dearly loved the marvellous, and
had heard of a circumstance, connected with the castle, that highly
gratified this taste. Having been enjoined not to mention it, her
inclination to tell it was so strong, that she was every instant on the
point of speaking what she had heard. Such a strange circumstance, too,
and to be obliged to conceal it, was a severe punishment; but she knew,
that Montoni might impose one much severer, and she feared to incur it
by offending him.

Caterina now brought the wood, and its bright blaze dispelled, for a
while, the gloom of the chamber. She told Annette, that her lady
had enquired for her, and Emily was once again left to her own sad
reflections. Her heart was not yet hardened against the stern manners
of Montoni, and she was nearly as much shocked now, as she had been when
she first witnessed them. The tenderness and affection, to which she had
been accustomed, till she lost her parents, had made her particularly
sensible to any degree of unkindness, and such a reverse as this no
apprehension had prepared her to support.

To call off her attention from subjects, that pressed heavily on her
spirits, she rose and again examined her room and its furniture. As
she walked round it, she passed a door, that was not quite shut, and,
perceiving, that it was not the one, through which she entered, she
brought the light forward to discover whither it led. She opened it,
and, going forward, had nearly fallen down a steep, narrow stair-case
that wound from it, between two stone walls. She wished to know to what
it led, and was the more anxious, since it communicated so immediately
with her apartment; but, in the present state of her spirits, she wanted
courage to venture into the darkness alone. Closing the door, therefore,
she endeavoured to fasten it, but, upon further examination, perceived,
that it had no bolts on the chamber side, though it had two on the
other. By placing a heavy chair against it, she in some measure remedied
the defect; yet she was still alarmed at the thought of sleeping in this
remote room alone, with a door opening she knew not whither, and which
could not be perfectly fastened on the inside. Sometimes she wished to
entreat of Madame Montoni, that Annette might have leave to remain with
her all night, but was deterred by an apprehension of betraying what
would be thought childish fears, and by an unwillingness to increase the
apt terrors of Annette.

Her gloomy reflections were, soon after, interrupted by a footstep in
the corridor, and she was glad to see Annette enter with some supper,
sent by Madame Montoni. Having a table near the fire, she made the good
girl sit down and sup with her; and, when their little repast was over,
Annette, encouraged by her kindness and stirring the wood into a blaze,
drew her chair upon the hearth, nearer to Emily, and said--'Did you ever
hear, ma'amselle, of the strange accident, that made the Signor lord of
this castle?'

'What wonderful story have you now to tell?' said Emily, concealing the
curiosity, occasioned by the mysterious hints she had formerly heard on
that subject.

'I have heard all about it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, looking round
the chamber and drawing closer to Emily; 'Benedetto told it me as we
travelled together: says he, "Annette, you don't know about this castle
here, that we are going to?" No, says I, Mr. Benedetto, pray what do you
know? But, ma'amselle, you can keep a secret, or I would not tell it
you for the world; for I promised never to tell, and they say, that the
Signor does not like to have it talked of.'

'If you promised to keep this secret,' said Emily, 'you do right not to
mention it.'

Annette paused a moment, and then said, 'O, but to you, ma'amselle, to
you I may tell it safely, I know.'

Emily smiled, 'I certainly shall keep it as faithful as yourself,
Annette.'

Annette replied very gravely, that would do, and proceeded--'This
castle, you must know, ma'amselle, is very old, and very strong, and
has stood out many sieges as they say. Now it was not Signor Montoni's
always, nor his father's; no; but, by some law or other, it was to come
to the Signor, if the lady died unmarried.'

'What lady?' said Emily.

'I am not come to that yet,' replied Annette, 'it is the lady I am going
to tell you about, ma'amselle: but, as I was saying, this lady lived in
the castle, and had everything very grand about her, as you may suppose,
ma'amselle. The Signor used often to come to see her, and was in love
with her, and offered to marry her; for, though he was somehow related,
that did not signify. But she was in love with somebody else, and would
not have him, which made him very angry, as they say, and you know,
ma'amselle, what an ill-looking gentleman he is, when he is angry.
Perhaps she saw him in a passion, and therefore would not have him. But,
as I was saying, she was very melancholy and unhappy, and all that, for
a long while, and--Holy Virgin! what noise is that? did not you hear a
sound, ma'amselle?'

'It was only the wind,' said Emily, 'but do come to the end of your
story.'

'As I was saying--O, where was I?--as I was saying--she was very
melancholy and unhappy a long while, and used to walk about upon the
terrace, there, under the windows, by herself, and cry so! it would have
done your heart good to hear her. That is--I don't mean good, but it
would have made you cry too, as they tell me.'

'Well, but, Annette, do tell me the substance of your tale.'

'All in good time, ma'am; all this I heard before at Venice, but what is
to come I never heard till to-day. This happened a great many years ago,
when Signor Montoni was quite a young man. The lady--they called her
Signora Laurentini, was very handsome, but she used to be in great
passions, too, sometimes, as well as the Signor. Finding he could not
make her listen to him--what does he do, but leave the castle, and never
comes near it for a long time! but it was all one to her; she was just
as unhappy whether he was here or not, till one evening, Holy St. Peter!
ma'amselle,' cried Annette, 'look at that lamp, see how blue it burns!'
She looked fearfully round the chamber. 'Ridiculous girl!' said Emily,
'why will you indulge those fancies? Pray let me hear the end of your
story, I am weary.'

Annette still kept her eyes on the lamp, and proceeded in a lower voice.
'It was one evening, they say, at the latter end of the year, it
might be about the middle of September, I suppose, or the beginning of
October; nay, for that matter, it might be November, for that, too, is
the latter end of the year, but that I cannot say for certain, because
they did not tell me for certain themselves. However, it was at the
latter end of the year, this grand lady walked out of the castle into
the woods below, as she had often done before, all alone, only her maid
was with her. The wind blew cold, and strewed the leaves about, and
whistled dismally among those great old chesnut trees, that we passed,
ma'amselle, as we came to the castle--for Benedetto shewed me the
trees as he was talking--the wind blew cold, and her woman would have
persuaded her to return: but all would not do, for she was fond of
walking in the woods, at evening time, and, if the leaves were falling
about her, so much the better.

'Well, they saw her go down among the woods, but night came, and she
did not return: ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock came, and no
lady! Well, the servants thought to be sure, some accident had befallen
her, and they went out to seek her. They searched all night long, but
could not find her, or any trace of her; and, from that day to this,
ma'amselle, she has never been heard of.'

'Is this true, Annette?' said Emily, in much surprise.

'True, ma'am!' said Annette, with a look of horror, 'yes, it is true,
indeed. But they do say,' she added, lowering her voice, 'they do say,
that the Signora has been seen, several times since, walking in the
woods and about the castle in the night: several of the old servants,
who remained here some time after, declare they saw her; and, since
then, she has been seen by some of the vassals, who have happened to be
in the castle, at night. Carlo, the old steward, could tell such things,
they say, if he would.'

'How contradictory is this, Annette!' said Emily, 'you say nothing has
been since known of her, and yet she has been seen!'

'But all this was told me for a great secret,' rejoined Annette, without
noticing the remark, 'and I am sure, ma'am, you would not hurt either
me or Benedetto, so much as to go and tell it again.' Emily remained
silent, and Annette repeated her last sentence.

'You have nothing to fear from my indiscretion,' replied Emily, 'and let
me advise you, my good Annette, be discreet yourself, and never mention
what you have just told me to any other person. Signor Montoni, as
you say, may be angry if he hears of it. But what inquiries were made
concerning the lady?'

'O! a great deal, indeed, ma'amselle, for the Signor laid claim to the
castle directly, as being the next heir, and they said, that is, the
judges, or the senators, or somebody of that sort, said, he could not
take possession of it till so many years were gone by, and then, if,
after all, the lady could not be found, why she would be as good as
dead, and the castle would be his own; and so it is his own. But the
story went round, and many strange reports were spread, so very strange,
ma'amselle, that I shall not tell them.'

'That is stranger still, Annette,' said Emily, smiling, and rousing
herself from her reverie. 'But, when Signora Laurentini was afterwards
seen in the castle, did nobody speak to her?'

'Speak--speak to her!' cried Annette, with a look of terror; 'no, to be
sure.'

'And why not?' rejoined Emily, willing to hear further.

'Holy Mother! speak to a spirit!'

'But what reason had they to conclude it was a spirit, unless they had
approached, and spoken to it?' 'O ma'amselle, I cannot tell. How can you
ask such shocking questions? But nobody ever saw it come in, or go out
of the castle; and it was in one place now, and then the next minute in
quite another part of the castle; and then it never spoke, and, if it
was alive, what should it do in the castle if it never spoke? Several
parts of the castle have never been gone into since, they say, for that
very reason.'

'What, because it never spoke?' said Emily, trying to laugh away the
fears that began to steal upon her.--'No, ma'amselle, no;' replied
Annette, rather angrily 'but because something has been seen there. They
say, too, there is an old chapel adjoining the west side of the castle,
where, any time at midnight, you may hear such groans!--it makes one
shudder to think of them!--and strange sights have been seen there--'

'Pr'ythee, Annette, no more of these silly tales,' said Emily.

'Silly tales, ma'amselle! O, but I will tell you one story about this,
if you please, that Caterina told me. It was one cold winter's night
that Caterina (she often came to the castle then, she says, to keep old
Carlo and his wife company, and so he recommended her afterwards to the
Signor, and she has lived here ever since) Caterina was sitting with
them in the little hall, says Carlo, "I wish we had some of those figs
to roast, that lie in the store-closet, but it is a long way off, and I
am loath to fetch them; do, Caterina," says he, "for you are young and
nimble, do bring us some, the fire is in nice trim for roasting them;
they lie," says he, "in such a corner of the store-room, at the end of
the north-gallery; here, take the lamp," says he, "and mind, as you go
up the great stair-case, that the wind, through the roof, does not blow
it out." So, with that, Caterina took the lamp--Hush! ma'amselle, I
surely heard a noise!'

Emily, whom Annette had now infected with her own terrors, listened
attentively; but every thing was still, and Annette proceeded:

'Caterina went to the north-gallery, that is the wide gallery we passed,
ma'am, before we came to the corridor, here. As she went with the lamp
in her hand, thinking of nothing at all--There, again!' cried Annette
suddenly--'I heard it again!--it was not fancy, ma'amselle!'

'Hush!' said Emily, trembling. They listened, and, continuing to sit
quite still, Emily heard a low knocking against the wall. It came
repeatedly. Annette then screamed loudly, and the chamber door slowly
opened.--It was Caterina, come to tell Annette, that her lady wanted
her. Emily, though she now perceived who it was, could not immediately
overcome her terror; while Annette, half laughing, half crying, scolded
Caterina heartily for thus alarming them; and was also terrified lest
what she had told had been overheard.--Emily, whose mind was deeply
impressed by the chief circumstance of Annette's relation, was unwilling
to be left alone, in the present state of her spirits; but, to avoid
offending Madame Montoni, and betraying her own weakness, she struggled
to overcome the illusions of fear, and dismissed Annette for the night.

When she was alone, her thoughts recurred to the strange history of
Signora Laurentini and then to her own strange situation, in the wild
and solitary mountains of a foreign country, in the castle, and the
power of a man, to whom, only a few preceding months, she was an entire
stranger; who had already exercised an usurped authority over her, and
whose character she now regarded, with a degree of terror, apparently
justified by the fears of others. She knew, that he had invention equal
to the conception and talents to the execution of any project, and
she greatly feared he had a heart too void of feeling to oppose the
perpetration of whatever his interest might suggest. She had long
observed the unhappiness of Madame Montoni, and had often been witness
to the stern and contemptuous behaviour she received from her husband.
To these circumstances, which conspired to give her just cause for
alarm, were now added those thousand nameless terrors, which exist only
in active imaginations, and which set reason and examination equally at
defiance.

Emily remembered all that Valancourt had told her, on the eve of her
departure from Languedoc, respecting Montoni, and all that he had said
to dissuade her from venturing on the journey. His fears had often since
appeared to her prophetic--now they seemed confirmed. Her heart, as
it gave her back the image of Valancourt, mourned in vain regret, but
reason soon came with a consolation which, though feeble at first,
acquired vigour from reflection. She considered, that, whatever might be
her sufferings, she had withheld from involving him in misfortune, and
that, whatever her future sorrows could be, she was, at least, free from
self-reproach.

Her melancholy was assisted by the hollow sighings of the wind along the
corridor and round the castle. The cheerful blaze of the wood had long
been extinguished, and she sat with her eyes fixed on the dying embers,
till a loud gust, that swept through the corridor, and shook the doors
and casements, alarmed her, for its violence had moved the chair she had
placed as a fastening, and the door, leading to the private stair-case
stood half open. Her curiosity and her fears were again awakened. She
took the lamp to the top of the steps, and stood hesitating whether to
go down; but again the profound stillness and the gloom of the place
awed her, and, determining to enquire further, when day-light might
assist the search, she closed the door, and placed against it a stronger
guard.

She now retired to her bed, leaving the lamp burning on the table; but
its gloomy light, instead of dispelling her fear, assisted it; for,
by its uncertain rays, she almost fancied she saw shapes flit past her
curtains and glide into the remote obscurity of her chamber.--The castle
clock struck one before she closed her eyes to sleep.



CHAPTER VI


      I think it is the weakness of mine eyes,
 That shapes this monstrous apparition.
 It comes upon me!
      JULIUS CAESAR

Daylight dispelled from Emily's mind the glooms of superstition, but
not those of apprehension. The Count Morano was the first image, that
occurred to her waking thoughts, and then came a train of anticipated
evils, which she could neither conquer, nor avoid. She rose, and, to
relieve her mind from the busy ideas, that tormented it, compelled
herself to notice external objects. From her casement she looked out
upon the wild grandeur of the scene, closed nearly on all sides by
alpine steeps, whose tops, peeping over each other, faded from the eye
in misty hues, while the promontories below were dark with woods, that
swept down to their base, and stretched along the narrow vallies. The
rich pomp of these woods was particularly delightful to Emily; and she
viewed with astonishment the fortifications of the castle spreading
along a vast extent of rock, and now partly in decay, the grandeur of
the ramparts below, and the towers and battlements and various features
of the fabric above. From these her sight wandered over the cliffs and
woods into the valley, along which foamed a broad and rapid stream, seen
falling among the crags of an opposite mountain, now flashing in the
sun-beams, and now shadowed by over-arching pines, till it was entirely
concealed by their thick foliage. Again it burst from beneath this
darkness in one broad sheet of foam, and fell thundering into the vale.
Nearer, towards the west, opened the mountain-vista, which Emily had
viewed with such sublime emotion, on her approach to the castle: a thin
dusky vapour, that rose from the valley, overspread its features with a
sweet obscurity. As this ascended and caught the sun-beams, it kindled
into a crimson tint, and touched with exquisite beauty the woods and
cliffs, over which it passed to the summit of the mountains; then, as
the veil drew up, it was delightful to watch the gleaming objects, that
progressively disclosed themselves in the valley--the green turf--dark
woods--little rocky recesses--a few peasants' huts--the foaming
stream--a herd of cattle, and various images of pastoral beauty. Then,
the pine-forests brightened, and then the broad breast of the mountains,
till, at length, the mist settled round their summit, touching them with
a ruddy glow. The features of the vista now appeared distinctly, and the
broad deep shadows, that fell from the lower cliffs, gave strong effect
to the streaming splendour above; while the mountains, gradually sinking
in the perspective, appeared to shelve into the Adriatic sea, for such
Emily imagined to be the gleam of blueish light, that terminated the
view.

Thus she endeavoured to amuse her fancy, and was not unsuccessful.
The breezy freshness of the morning, too, revived her. She raised her
thoughts in prayer, which she felt always most disposed to do, when
viewing the sublimity of nature, and her mind recovered its strength.

When she turned from the casement, her eyes glanced upon the door she
had so carefully guarded, on the preceding night, and she now determined
to examine whither it led; but, on advancing to remove the chairs,
she perceived, that they were already moved a little way. Her surprise
cannot be easily imagined, when, in the next minute, she perceived that
the door was fastened.--She felt, as if she had seen an apparition. The
door of the corridor was locked as she had left it, but this door, which
could be secured only on the outside, must have been bolted, during the
night. She became seriously uneasy at the thought of sleeping again in
a chamber, thus liable to intrusion, so remote, too, as it was from
the family, and she determined to mention the circumstance to Madame
Montoni, and to request a change.

After some perplexity she found her way into the great hall, and to the
room, which she had left, on the preceding night, where breakfast was
spread, and her aunt was alone, for Montoni had been walking over the
environs of the castle, examining the condition of its fortifications,
and talking for some time with Carlo. Emily observed that her aunt had
been weeping, and her heart softened towards her, with an affection,
that shewed itself in her manner, rather than in words, while she
carefully avoided the appearance of having noticed, that she was
unhappy. She seized the opportunity of Montoni's absence to mention the
circumstance of the door, to request that she might be allowed another
apartment, and to enquire again, concerning the occasion of their
sudden journey. On the first subject her aunt referred her to Montoni,
positively refusing to interfere in the affair; on the last, she
professed utter ignorance.

Emily, then, with a wish of making her aunt more reconciled to her
situation, praised the grandeur of the castle and the surrounding
scenery, and endeavoured to soften every unpleasing circumstance
attending it. But, though misfortune had somewhat conquered the
asperities of Madame Montoni's temper, and, by increasing her cares
for herself, had taught her to feel in some degree for others, the
capricious love of rule, which nature had planted and habit had
nourished in her heart, was not subdued. She could not now deny herself
the gratification of tyrannizing over the innocent and helpless Emily,
by attempting to ridicule the taste she could not feel.

Her satirical discourse was, however, interrupted by the entrance of
Montoni, and her countenance immediately assumed a mingled expression of
fear and resentment, while he seated himself at the breakfast-table, as
if unconscious of there being any person but himself in the room.

Emily, as she observed him in silence, saw, that his countenance was
darker and sterner than usual. 'O could I know,' said she to herself,
'what passes in that mind; could I know the thoughts, that are known
there, I should no longer be condemned to this torturing suspense!'
Their breakfast passed in silence, till Emily ventured to request, that
another apartment might be allotted to her, and related the circumstance
which made her wish it.

'I have no time to attend to these idle whims,' said Montoni, 'that
chamber was prepared for you, and you must rest contented with it. It
is not probable, that any person would take the trouble of going to that
remote stair-case, for the purpose of fastening a door. If it was not
fastened, when you entered the chamber, the wind, perhaps, shook the
door and made the bolts slide. But I know not why I should undertake to
account for so trifling an occurrence.'

This explanation was by no means satisfactory to Emily, who had
observed, that the bolts were rusted, and consequently could not be thus
easily moved; but she forbore to say so, and repeated her request.


'If you will not release yourself from the slavery of these fears,' said
Montoni, sternly, 'at least forbear to torment others by the mention
of them. Conquer such whims, and endeavour to strengthen your mind. No
existence is more contemptible than that, which is embittered by fear.'
As he said this, his eye glanced upon Madame Montoni, who coloured
highly, but was still silent. Emily, wounded and disappointed, thought
her fears were, in this instance, too reasonable to deserve ridicule;
but, perceiving, that, however they might oppress her, she must endure
them, she tried to withdraw her attention from the subject.

Carlo soon after entered with some fruit:

'Your excellenza is tired after your long ramble,' said he, as he set
the fruit upon the table; 'but you have more to see after breakfast.
There is a place in the vaulted passage leading to--'

Montoni frowned upon him, and waved his hand for him to leave the
room. Carlo stopped, looked down, and then added, as he advanced to the
breakfast-table, and took up the basket of fruit, 'I made bold, your
excellenza, to bring some cherries, here, for my honoured lady and
my young mistress. Will your ladyship taste them, madam?' said Carlo,
presenting the basket, 'they are very fine ones, though I gathered them
myself, and from an old tree, that catches all the south sun; they are
as big as plums, your ladyship.'

'Very well, old Carlo,' said Madame Montoni; 'I am obliged to you.'

'And the young Signora, too, she may like some of them,' rejoined Carlo,
turning with the basket to Emily, 'it will do me good to see her eat
some.'

'Thank you, Carlo,' said Emily, taking some cherries, and smiling
kindly.

'Come, come,' said Montoni, impatiently, 'enough of this. Leave the
room, but be in waiting. I shall want you presently.'

Carlo obeyed, and Montoni, soon after, went out to examine further into
the state of the castle; while Emily remained with her aunt, patiently
enduring her ill humour, and endeavouring, with much sweetness, to
soothe her affliction, instead of resenting its effect.

When Madame Montoni retired to her dressing-room, Emily endeavoured to
amuse herself by a view of the castle. Through a folding door she passed
from the great hall to the ramparts, which extended along the brow of
the precipice, round three sides of the edifice; the fourth was guarded
by the high walls of the courts, and by the gateway, through which
she had passed, on the preceding evening. The grandeur of the broad
ramparts, and the changing scenery they overlooked, excited her high
admiration; for the extent of the terraces allowed the features of the
country to be seen in such various points of view, that they appeared to
form new landscapes. She often paused to examine the gothic magnificence
of Udolpho, its proud irregularity, its lofty towers and battlements,
its high-arched casements, and its slender watch-towers, perched upon
the corners of turrets. Then she would lean on the wall of the terrace,
and, shuddering, measure with her eye the precipice below, till the
dark summits of the woods arrested it. Wherever she turned, appeared
mountain-tops, forests of pine and narrow glens, opening among the
Apennines and retiring from the sight into inaccessible regions.

While she thus leaned, Montoni, followed by two men, appeared, ascending
a winding path, cut in the rock below. He stopped upon a cliff, and,
pointing to the ramparts, turned to his followers, and talked with much
eagerness of gesticulation.--Emily perceived, that one of these men was
Carlo; the other was in the dress of a peasant, and he alone seemed to
be receiving the directions of Montoni.

She withdrew from the walls, and pursued her walk, till she heard at
a distance the sound of carriage wheels, and then the loud bell of
the portal, when it instantly occurred to her, that Count Morano was
arrived. As she hastily passed the folding doors from the terrace,
towards her own apartment, several persons entered the hall by an
opposite door. She saw them at the extremities of the arcades, and
immediately retreated; but the agitation of her spirits, and the extent
and duskiness of the hall, had prevented her from distinguishing the
persons of the strangers. Her fears, however, had but one object, and
they had called up that object to her fancy:--she believed that she had
seen Count Morano.

When she thought that they had passed the hall, she ventured again to
the door, and proceeded, unobserved, to her room, where she remained,
agitated with apprehensions, and listening to every distant sound. At
length, hearing voices on the rampart, she hastened to her window,
and observed Montoni, with Signor Cavigni, walking below, conversing
earnestly, and often stopping and turning towards each other, at which
time their discourse seemed to be uncommonly interesting.

Of the several persons who had appeared in the hall, here was Cavigni
alone: but Emily's alarm was soon after heightened by the steps of some
one in the corridor, who, she apprehended, brought a message from the
Count. In the next moment, Annette appeared.

'Ah! ma'amselle,' said she, 'here is the Signor Cavigni arrived! I am
sure I rejoiced to see a christian person in this place; and then he is
so good natured too, he always takes so much notice of me!--And here is
also Signor Verezzi, and who do you think besides, ma'amselle?'

'I cannot guess, Annette; tell me quickly.'

'Nay, ma'am, do guess once.'

'Well, then,' said Emily, with assumed composure, 'it is--Count Morano,
I suppose.'

'Holy Virgin!' cried Annette, 'are you ill, ma'amselle? you are going to
faint! let me get some water.'

Emily sunk into a chair. 'Stay, Annette,' said she, feebly, 'do not
leave me--I shall soon be better; open the casement.--The Count, you
say--he is come, then?'

'Who, I!--the Count! No, ma'amselle, I did not say so.' 'He is NOT come
then?' said Emily eagerly. 'No, ma'amselle.'

'You are sure of it?'

'Lord bless me!' said Annette, 'you recover very suddenly, ma'am! why, I
thought you was dying, just now.'

'But the Count--you are sure, is not come?'

'O yes, quite sure of that, ma'amselle. Why, I was looking out through
the grate in the north turret, when the carriages drove into the
court-yard, and I never expected to see such a goodly sight in this
dismal old castle! but here are masters and servants, too, enough to
make the place ring again. O! I was ready to leap through the rusty old
bars for joy!--O! who would ever have thought of seeing a christian
face in this huge dreary house? I could have kissed the very horses that
brought them.'

'Well, Annette, well, I am better now.'

'Yes, ma'amselle, I see you are. O! all the servants will lead merry
lives here, now; we shall have singing and dancing in the little hall,
for the Signor cannot hear us there--and droll stories--Ludovico's come,
ma'am; yes, there is Ludovico come with them! You remember Ludovico,
ma'am--a tall, handsome young man--Signor Cavigni's lacquey--who always
wears his cloak with such a grace, thrown round his left arm, and his
hat set on so smartly, all on one side, and--'

'No,' said Emily, who was wearied by her loquacity.

'What, ma'amselle, don't you remember Ludovico--who rowed the
Cavaliero's gondola, at the last regatta, and won the prize? And
who used to sing such sweet verses about Orlandos and about the
Black-a-moors, too; and Charly--Charly--magne, yes, that was the name,
all under my lattice, in the west portico, on the moon-light nights at
Venice? O! I have listened to him!'---

'I fear, to thy peril, my good Annette,' said Emily; 'for it seems his
verses have stolen thy heart. But let me advise you; if it is so, keep
the secret; never let him know it.'

'Ah--ma'amselle!--how can one keep such a secret as that?'

'Well, Annette, I am now so much better, that you may leave me.'

'O, but, ma'amselle, I forgot to ask--how did you sleep in this
dreary old chamber last night?'--'As well as usual.'--'Did you hear
no noises?'--'None.'--'Nor see anything?'--'Nothing.'--'Well, that is
surprising!'--'Not in the least: and now tell me, why you ask these
questions.'

'O, ma'amselle! I would not tell you for the world, nor all I have heard
about this chamber, either; it would frighten you so.'

'If that is all, you have frightened me already, and may therefore tell
me what you know, without hurting your conscience.'

'O Lord! they say the room is haunted, and has been so these many
years.'

'It is by a ghost, then, who can draw bolts,' said Emily, endeavouring
to laugh away her apprehensions; 'for I left the door open, last night,
and found it fastened this morning.'

Annette turned pale, and said not a word.

'Do you know whether any of the servants fastened this door in the
morning, before I rose?'

'No, ma'am, that I will be bound they did not; but I don't know: shall
I go and ask, ma'amselle?' said Annette, moving hastily towards the
corridor.

'Stay, Annette, I have another question to ask; tell me what you have
heard concerning this room, and whither that stair-case leads.'

'I will go and ask it all directly, ma'am; besides, I am sure my lady
wants me. I cannot stay now, indeed, ma'am.'

She hurried from the room, without waiting Emily's reply, whose heart,
lightened by the certainty, that Morano was not arrived, allowed her
to smile at the superstitious terror, which had seized on Annette; for,
though she sometimes felt its influence herself, she could smile at it,
when apparent in other persons.

Montoni having refused Emily another chamber, she determined to bear
with patience the evil she could not remove, and, in order to make the
room as comfortable as possible, unpacked her books, her sweet delight
in happier days, and her soothing resource in the hours of moderate
sorrow: but there were hours when even these failed of their effect;
when the genius, the taste, the enthusiasm of the sublimest writers were
felt no longer.

Her little library being arranged on a high chest, part of the furniture
of the room, she took out her drawing utensils, and was tranquil enough
to be pleased with the thought of sketching the sublime scenes, beheld
from her windows; but she suddenly checked this pleasure, remembering
how often she had soothed herself by the intention of obtaining
amusement of this kind, and had been prevented by some new circumstance
of misfortune.

'How can I suffer myself to be deluded by hope,' said she, 'and, because
Count Morano is not yet arrived, feel a momentary happiness? Alas! what
is it to me, whether he is here to-day, or to-morrow, if he comes at
all?--and that he will come--it were weakness to doubt.'

To withdraw her thoughts, however, from the subject of her misfortunes,
she attempted to read, but her attention wandered from the page, and,
at length, she threw aside the book, and determined to explore the
adjoining chambers of the castle. Her imagination was pleased with the
view of ancient grandeur, and an emotion of melancholy awe awakened all
its powers, as she walked through rooms, obscure and desolate, where no
footsteps had passed probably for many years, and remembered the strange
history of the former possessor of the edifice. This brought to her
recollection the veiled picture, which had attracted her curiosity,
on the preceding night, and she resolved to examine it. As she passed
through the chambers, that led to this, she found herself somewhat
agitated; its connection with the late lady of the castle, and the
conversation of Annette, together with the circumstance of the veil,
throwing a mystery over the subject, that excited a faint degree of
terror. But a terror of this nature, as it occupies and expands the
mind, and elevates it to high expectation, is purely sublime, and leads
us, by a kind of fascination, to seek even the object, from which we
appear to shrink.

Emily passed on with faltering steps, and having paused a moment at
the door, before she attempted to open it, she then hastily entered the
chamber, and went towards the picture, which appeared to be enclosed
in a frame of uncommon size, that hung in a dark part of the room.
She paused again, and then, with a timid hand, lifted the veil; but
instantly let it fall--perceiving that what it had concealed was no
picture, and, before she could leave the chamber, she dropped senseless
on the floor.

When she recovered her recollection, the remembrance of what she had
seen had nearly deprived her of it a second time. She had scarcely
strength to remove from the room, and regain her own; and, when arrived
there, wanted courage to remain alone. Horror occupied her mind, and
excluded, for a time, all sense of past, and dread of future misfortune:
she seated herself near the casement, because from thence she heard
voices, though distant, on the terrace, and might see people pass, and
these, trifling as they were, were reviving circumstances. When her
spirits had recovered their tone, she considered, whether she should
mention what she had seen to Madame Montoni, and various and important
motives urged her to do so, among which the least was the hope of the
relief, which an overburdened mind finds in speaking of the subject of
its interest. But she was aware of the terrible consequences, which such
a communication might lead to; and, dreading the indiscretion of her
aunt, at length, endeavoured to arm herself with resolution to observe a
profound silence, on the subject. Montoni and Verezzi soon after passed
under the casement, speaking cheerfully, and their voices revived her.
Presently the Signors Bertolini and Cavigni joined the party on the
terrace, and Emily, supposing that Madame Montoni was then alone, went
to seek her; for the solitude of her chamber, and its proximity to that
where she had received so severe a shock, again affected her spirit.

She found her aunt in her dressing-room, preparing for dinner. Emily's
pale and affrighted countenance alarmed even Madame Montoni; but she had
sufficient strength of mind to be silent on the subject, that still made
her shudder, and which was ready to burst from her lips. In her aunt's
apartment she remained, till they both descended to dinner. There she
met the gentlemen lately arrived, who had a kind of busy seriousness in
their looks, which was somewhat unusual with them, while their thoughts
seemed too much occupied by some deep interest, to suffer them to bestow
much attention either on Emily, or Madame Montoni. They spoke little,
and Montoni less. Emily, as she now looked on him, shuddered. The horror
of the chamber rushed on her mind. Several times the colour faded from
her cheeks, and she feared, that illness would betray her emotions,
and compel her to leave the room; but the strength of her resolution
remedied the weakness of her frame; she obliged herself to converse, and
even tried to look cheerful.

Montoni evidently laboured under some vexation, such as would probably
have agitated a weaker mind, or a more susceptible heart, but which
appeared, from the sternness of his countenance, only to bend up his
faculties to energy and fortitude.

It was a comfortless and silent meal. The gloom of the castle seemed to
have spread its contagion even over the gay countenance of Cavigni, and
with this gloom was mingled a fierceness, such as she had seldom seen
him indicate. Count Morano was not named, and what conversation there
was, turned chiefly upon the wars, which at that time agitated the
Italian states, the strength of the Venetian armies, and the characters
of their generals.

After dinner, when the servants had withdrawn, Emily learned, that the
cavalier, who had drawn upon himself the vengeance of Orsino, had since
died of his wounds, and that strict search was still making for his
murderer. The intelligence seemed to disturb Montoni, who mused, and
then enquired, where Orsino had concealed himself. His guests, who all,
except Cavigni, were ignorant, that Montoni had himself assisted him
to escape from Venice, replied, that he had fled in the night with such
precipitation and secrecy, that his most intimate companions knew not
whither. Montoni blamed himself for having asked the question, for a
second thought convinced him, that a man of Orsino's suspicious temper
was not likely to trust any of the persons present with the knowledge
of his asylum. He considered himself, however, as entitled to his utmost
confidence, and did not doubt, that he should soon hear of him.

Emily retired with Madame Montoni, soon after the cloth was withdrawn,
and left the cavaliers to their secret councils, but not before the
significant frowns of Montoni had warned his wife to depart, who passed
from the hall to the ramparts, and walked, for some time, in silence,
which Emily did not interrupt, for her mind was also occupied by
interests of its own. It required all her resolution, to forbear
communicating to Madame Montoni the terrible subject, which still
thrilled her every nerve with horror; and sometimes she was on the point
of doing so, merely to obtain the relief of a moment; but she knew
how wholly she was in the power of Montoni, and, considering, that the
indiscretion of her aunt might prove fatal to them both, she compelled
herself to endure a present and an inferior evil, rather than to tempt a
future and a heavier one. A strange kind of presentiment frequently, on
this day, occurred to her;--it seemed as if her fate rested here, and
was by some invisible means connected with this castle.

'Let me not accelerate it,' said she to herself: 'for whatever I may be
reserved, let me, at least, avoid self-reproach.'

As she looked on the massy walls of the edifice, her melancholy spirits
represented it to be her prison; and she started as at a new suggestion,
when she considered how far distant she was from her native country,
from her little peaceful home, and from her only friend--how remote was
her hope of happiness, how feeble the expectation of again seeing him!
Yet the idea of Valancourt, and her confidence in his faithful love, had
hitherto been her only solace, and she struggled hard to retain them.
A few tears of agony started to her eyes, which she turned aside to
conceal.

While she afterwards leaned on the wall of the rampart, some peasants,
at a little distance, were seen examining a breach, before which lay
a heap of stones, as if to repair it, and a rusty old cannon, that
appeared to have fallen from its station above. Madame Montoni stopped
to speak to the men, and enquired what they were going to do. 'To repair
the fortifications, your ladyship,' said one of them; a labour which
she was somewhat surprised, that Montoni should think necessary,
particularly since he had never spoken of the castle, as of a place, at
which he meant to reside for any considerable time; but she passed on
towards a lofty arch, that led from the south to the east rampart,
and which adjoined the castle, on one side, while, on the other, it
supported a small watch-tower, that entirely commanded the deep valley
below. As she approached this arch, she saw, beyond it, winding along
the woody descent of a distant mountain, a long troop of horse and foot,
whom she knew to be soldiers, only by the glitter of their pikes and
other arms, for the distance did not allow her to discover the colour
of their liveries. As she gazed, the vanguard issued from the woods into
the valley, but the train still continued to pour over the remote
summit of the mountain, in endless succession; while, in the front,
the military uniform became distinguishable, and the commanders, riding
first, and seeming, by their gestures, to direct the march of those that
followed, at length, approached very near to the castle.

Such a spectacle, in these solitary regions, both surprised and alarmed
Madame Montoni, and she hastened towards some peasants, who were
employed in raising bastions before the south rampart, where the rock
was less abrupt than elsewhere. These men could give no satisfactory
answers to her enquiries, but, being roused by them, gazed in stupid
astonishment upon the long cavalcade. Madame Montoni, then thinking it
necessary to communicate further the object of her alarm, sent Emily to
say, that she wished to speak to Montoni; an errand her niece did not
approve, for she dreaded his frowns, which she knew this message would
provoke; but she obeyed in silence.

As she drew near the apartment, in which he sat with his guests,
she heard them in earnest and loud dispute, and she paused a moment,
trembling at the displeasure, which her sudden interruption would
occasion. In the next, their voices sunk all together; she then ventured
to open the door, and, while Montoni turned hastily and looked at her,
without speaking, she delivered her message.

'Tell Madam Montoni I am engaged,' said he.

Emily then thought it proper to mention the subject of her alarm.
Montoni and his companions rose instantly and went to the windows, but,
these not affording them a view of the troops, they at length proceeded
to the ramparts, where Cavigni conjectured it to be a legion of
condottieri, on their march towards Modena.

One part of the cavalcade now extended along the valley, and another
wound among the mountains towards the north, while some troops still
lingered on the woody precipices, where the first had appeared, so that
the great length of the procession seemed to include an whole army.
While Montoni and his family watched its progress, they heard the sound
of trumpets and the clash of cymbals in the vale, and then others,
answering from the heights. Emily listened with emotion to the shrill
blast, that woke the echoes of the mountains, and Montoni explained the
signals, with which he appeared to be well acquainted, and which meant
nothing hostile. The uniforms of the troops, and the kind of arms
they bore, confirmed to him the conjecture of Cavigni, and he had the
satisfaction to see them pass by, without even stopping to gaze upon his
castle. He did not, however, leave the rampart, till the bases of
the mountains had shut them from his view, and the last murmur of the
trumpet floated away on the wind. Cavigni and Verezzi were inspirited
by this spectacle, which seemed to have roused all the fire of their
temper; Montoni turned into the castle in thoughtful silence.

Emily's mind had not yet sufficiently recovered from its late shock,
to endure the loneliness of her chamber, and she remained upon the
ramparts; for Madame Montoni had not invited her to her dressing-room,
whither she had gone evidently in low spirits, and Emily, from her
late experience, had lost all wish to explore the gloomy and mysterious
recesses of the castle. The ramparts, therefore, were almost her only
retreat, and here she lingered, till the gray haze of evening was again
spread over the scene.

The cavaliers supped by themselves, and Madame Montoni remained in her
apartment, whither Emily went, before she retired to her own. She found
her aunt weeping, and in much agitation. The tenderness of Emily was
naturally so soothing, that it seldom failed to give comfort to the
drooping heart: but Madame Montoni's was torn, and the softest accents
of Emily's voice were lost upon it. With her usual delicacy, she did
not appear to observe her aunt's distress, but it gave an involuntary
gentleness to her manners, and an air of solicitude to her countenance,
which Madame Montoni was vexed to perceive, who seemed to feel the pity
of her niece to be an insult to her pride, and dismissed her as soon
as she properly could. Emily did not venture to mention again the
reluctance she felt to her gloomy chamber, but she requested that
Annette might be permitted to remain with her till she retired to rest;
and the request was somewhat reluctantly granted. Annette, however, was
now with the servants, and Emily withdrew alone.

With light and hasty steps she passed through the long galleries, while
the feeble glimmer of the lamp she carried only shewed the gloom
around her, and the passing air threatened to extinguish it. The lonely
silence, that reigned in this part of the castle, awed her; now and
then, indeed, she heard a faint peal of laughter rise from a remote part
of the edifice, where the servants were assembled, but it was soon lost,
and a kind of breathless stillness remained. As she passed the suite of
rooms which she had visited in the morning, her eyes glanced fearfully
on the door, and she almost fancied she heard murmuring sounds within,
but she paused not a moment to enquire.

Having reached her own apartment, where no blazing wood on the
hearth dissipated the gloom, she sat down with a book, to enliven her
attention, till Annette should come, and a fire could be kindled. She
continued to read till her light was nearly expired, but Annette did not
appear, and the solitude and obscurity of her chamber again affected her
spirits, the more, because of its nearness to the scene of horror, that
she had witnessed in the morning. Gloomy and fantastic images came to
her mind. She looked fearfully towards the door of the stair-case, and
then, examining whether it was still fastened, found that it was so.
Unable to conquer the uneasiness she felt at the prospect of sleeping
again in this remote and insecure apartment, which some person seemed to
have entered during the preceding night, her impatience to see Annette,
whom she had bidden to enquire concerning this circumstance, became
extremely painful. She wished also to question her, as to the object,
which had excited so much horror in her own mind, and which Annette on
the preceding evening had appeared to be in part acquainted with, though
her words were very remote from the truth, and it appeared plainly to
Emily, that the girl had been purposely misled by a false report: above
all she was surprised, that the door of the chamber, which contained
it, should be left unguarded. Such an instance of negligence almost
surpassed belief. But her light was now expiring; the faint flashes it
threw upon the walls called up all the terrors of fancy, and she rose
to find her way to the habitable part of the castle, before it was quite
extinguished. As she opened the chamber door, she heard remote voices,
and, soon after, saw a light issue upon the further end of the corridor,
which Annette and another servant approached. 'I am glad you are
come,' said Emily: 'what has detained you so long? Pray light me a fire
immediately.'

'My lady wanted me, ma'amselle,' replied Annette in some confusion; 'I
will go and get the wood.'

'No,' said Caterina, 'that is my business,' and left the room instantly,
while Annette would have followed; but, being called back, she began
to talk very loud, and laugh, and seemed afraid to trust a pause of
silence.

Caterina soon returned with the wood, and then, when the cheerful blaze
once more animated the room, and this servant had withdrawn, Emily
asked Annette, whether she had made the enquiry she bade her. 'Yes,
ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'but not a soul knows any thing about the
matter: and old Carlo--I watched him well, for they say he knows strange
things--old Carlo looked so as I don't know how to tell, and he asked me
again and again, if I was sure the door was ever unfastened. Lord, says
I--am I sure I am alive? And as for me, ma'am, I am all astounded, as
one may say, and would no more sleep in this chamber, than I would on
the great cannon at the end of the east rampart.'

'And what objection have you to that cannon, more than to any of the
rest?' said Emily smiling: 'the best would be rather a hard bed.'

'Yes, ma'amselle, any of them would be hard enough for that matter; but
they do say, that something has been seen in the dead of night, standing
beside the great cannon, as if to guard it.'

'Well! my good Annette, the people who tell such stories, are happy in
having you for an auditor, for I perceive you believe them all.'

'Dear ma'amselle! I will shew you the very cannon; you can see it from
these windows!'

'Well,' said Emily, 'but that does not prove, that an apparition guards
it.'

'What! not if I shew you the very cannon! Dear ma'am, you will believe
nothing.'

'Nothing probably upon this subject, but what I see,' said
Emily.--'Well, ma'am, but you shall see it, if you will only step this
way to the casement.'--Emily could not forbear laughing, and Annette
looked surprised. Perceiving her extreme aptitude to credit the
marvellous, Emily forbore to mention the subject she had intended, lest
it should overcome her with idle terrors, and she began to speak on a
lively topic--the regattas of Venice.

'Aye, ma'amselle, those rowing matches,' said Annette, 'and the fine
moon-light nights, are all, that are worth seeing in Venice. To be sure
the moon is brighter than any I ever saw; and then to hear such sweet
music, too, as Ludovico has often and often sung under the lattice by
the west portico! Ma'amselle, it was Ludovico, that told me about that
picture, which you wanted so to look at last night, and---'

'What picture?' said Emily, wishing Annette to explain herself.

'O! that terrible picture with the black veil over it.'

'You never saw it, then?' said Emily.

'Who, I!--No, ma'amselle, I never did. But this morning,' continued
Annette, lowering her voice, and looking round the room, 'this morning,
as it was broad daylight, do you know, ma'am, I took a strange fancy to
see it, as I had heard such odd hints about it, and I got as far as the
door, and should have opened it, if it had not been locked!'

Emily, endeavouring to conceal the emotion this circumstance occasioned,
enquired at what hour she went to the chamber, and found, that it was
soon after herself had been there. She also asked further questions, and
the answers convinced her, that Annette, and probably her informer, were
ignorant of the terrible truth, though in Annette's account something
very like the truth, now and then, mingled with the falsehood. Emily now
began to fear, that her visit to the chamber had been observed, since
the door had been closed, so immediately after her departure; and
dreaded lest this should draw upon her the vengeance of Montoni. Her
anxiety, also, was excited to know whence, and for what purpose, the
delusive report, which had been imposed upon Annette, had originated,
since Montoni could only have wished for silence and secrecy; but she
felt, that the subject was too terrible for this lonely hour, and she
compelled herself to leave it, to converse with Annette, whose chat,
simple as it was, she preferred to the stillness of total solitude.

Thus they sat, till near midnight, but not without many hints from
Annette, that she wished to go. The embers were now nearly burnt out;
and Emily heard, at a distance, the thundering sound of the hall doors,
as they were shut for the night. She, therefore, prepared for rest, but
was still unwilling that Annette should leave her. At this instant, the
great bell of the portal sounded. They listened in fearful expectation,
when, after a long pause of silence, it sounded again. Soon after, they
heard the noise of carriage wheels in the court-yard. Emily sunk almost
lifeless in her chair; 'It is the Count,' said she.

'What, at this time of night, ma'am!' said Annette: 'no, my dear lady.
But, for that matter, it is a strange time of night for any body to
come!'

'Nay, pr'ythee, good Annette, stay not talking,' said Emily in a voice
of agony--'Go, pr'ythee, go, and see who it is.'

Annette left the room, and carried with her the light, leaving Emily in
darkness, which a few moments before would have terrified her in this
room, but was now scarcely observed by her. She listened and waited, in
breathless expectation, and heard distant noises, but Annette did not
return. Her patience, at length, exhausted, she tried to find her way
to the corridor, but it was long before she could touch the door of the
chamber, and, when she had opened it, the total darkness without made
her fear to proceed. Voices were now heard, and Emily even thought she
distinguished those of Count Morano, and Montoni. Soon after, she
heard steps approaching, and then a ray of light streamed through the
darkness, and Annette appeared, whom Emily went to meet.

'Yes, ma'amselle,' said she, 'you was right, it is the Count sure
enough.'

'It is he!' exclaimed Emily, lifting her eyes towards heaven and
supporting herself by Annette's arm.

'Good Lord! my dear lady, don't be in such a FLUSTER, and look so pale,
we shall soon hear more.'

'We shall, indeed!' said Emily, moving as fast as she was able towards
her apartment. 'I am not well; give me air.' Annette opened a casement,
and brought water. The faintness soon left Emily, but she desired
Annette would not go till she heard from Montoni.

'Dear ma'amselle! he surely will not disturb you at this time of night;
why he must think you are asleep.'

'Stay with me till I am so, then,' said Emily, who felt temporary relief
from this suggestion, which appeared probable enough, though her fears
had prevented its occurring to her. Annette, with secret reluctance,
consented to stay, and Emily was now composed enough to ask her some
questions; among others, whether she had seen the Count.

'Yes, ma'am, I saw him alight, for I went from hence to the grate in the
north turret, that overlooks the inner court-yard, you know. There I
saw the Count's carriage, and the Count in it, waiting at the great
door,--for the porter was just gone to bed--with several men on
horseback all by the light of the torches they carried.' Emily was
compelled to smile. 'When the door was opened, the Count said something,
that I could not make out, and then got out, and another gentleman with
him. I thought, to be sure, the Signor was gone to bed, and I hastened
away to my lady's dressing-room, to see what I could hear. But in the
way I met Ludovico, and he told me that the Signor was up, counselling
with his master and the other Signors, in the room at the end of the
north gallery; and Ludovico held up his finger, and laid it on his lips,
as much as to say--There is more going on, than you think of, Annette,
but you must hold your tongue. And so I did hold my tongue, ma'amselle,
and came away to tell you directly.'

Emily enquired who the cavalier was, that accompanied the Count, and how
Montoni received them; but Annette could not inform her.

'Ludovico,' she added, 'had just been to call Signor Montoni's valet,
that he might tell him they were arrived, when I met him.'

Emily sat musing, for some time, and then her anxiety was so much
increased, that she desired Annette would go to the servants' hall,
where it was possible she might hear something of the Count's intention,
respecting his stay at the castle.

'Yes, ma'am,' said Annette with readiness; 'but how am I to find the
way, if I leave the lamp with you?'

Emily said she would light her, and they immediately quitted the
chamber. When they had reached the top of the great stair-case, Emily
recollected, that she might be seen by the Count, and, to avoid the
great hall, Annette conducted her through some private passages to a
back stair-case, which led directly to that of the servants.

As she returned towards her chamber, Emily began to fear, that she
might again lose herself in the intricacies of the castle, and again
be shocked by some mysterious spectacle; and, though she was already
perplexed by the numerous turnings, she feared to open one of the many
doors that offered. While she stepped thoughtfully along, she fancied,
that she heard a low moaning at no great distance, and, having paused a
moment, she heard it again and distinctly. Several doors appeared on the
right hand of the passage. She advanced, and listened. When she came to
the second, she heard a voice, apparently in complaint, within, to which
she continued to listen, afraid to open the door, and unwilling to
leave it. Convulsive sobs followed, and then the piercing accents of an
agonizing spirit burst forth. Emily stood appalled, and looked through
the gloom, that surrounded her, in fearful expectation. The lamentations
continued. Pity now began to subdue terror; it was possible she might
administer comfort to the sufferer, at least, by expressing sympathy,
and she laid her hand on the door. While she hesitated she thought
she knew this voice, disguised as it was by tones of grief. Having,
therefore, set down the lamp in the passage, she gently opened the door,
within which all was dark, except that from an inner apartment a partial
light appeared; and she stepped softly on. Before she reached it, the
appearance of Madame Montoni, leaning on her dressing-table, weeping,
and with a handkerchief held to her eyes, struck her, and she paused.

Some person was seated in a chair by the fire, but who it was she could
not distinguish. He spoke, now and then, in a low voice, that did not
allow Emily to hear what was uttered, but she thought, that Madame
Montoni, at those times, wept the more, who was too much occupied by her
own distress, to observe Emily, while the latter, though anxious to know
what occasioned this, and who was the person admitted at so late an
hour to her aunt's dressing-room, forbore to add to her sufferings by
surprising her, or to take advantage of her situation, by listening to a
private discourse. She, therefore, stepped softly back, and, after
some further difficulty, found the way to her own chamber, where nearer
interests, at length, excluded the surprise and concern she had felt,
respecting Madame Montoni.

Annette, however, returned without satisfactory intelligence, for the
servants, among whom she had been, were either entirely ignorant, or
affected to be so, concerning the Count's intended stay at the castle.
They could talk only of the steep and broken road they had just passed,
and of the numerous dangers they had escaped and express wonder how
their lord could choose to encounter all these, in the darkness of
night; for they scarcely allowed, that the torches had served for any
other purpose but that of shewing the dreariness of the mountains.
Annette, finding she could gain no information, left them, making noisy
petitions, for more wood on the fire and more supper on the table.

'And now, ma'amselle,' added she, 'I am so sleepy!--I am sure, if you
was so sleepy, you would not desire me to sit up with you.'

Emily, indeed, began to think it was cruel to wish it; she had also
waited so long, without receiving a summons from Montoni, that it
appeared he did not mean to disturb her, at this late hour, and she
determined to dismiss Annette. But, when she again looked round her
gloomy chamber, and recollected certain circumstances, fear seized her
spirits, and she hesitated.

'And yet it were cruel of me to ask you to stay, till I am asleep,
Annette,' said she, 'for I fear it will be very long before I forget
myself in sleep.'

'I dare say it will be very long, ma'amselle,' said Annette.

'But, before you go,' rejoined Emily, 'let me ask you--Had Signor
Montoni left Count Morano, when you quitted the hall?'

'O no, ma'am, they were alone together.'

'Have you been in my aunt's dressing-room, since you left me?'

'No, ma'amselle, I called at the door as I passed, but it was fastened;
so I thought my lady was gone to bed.'

'Who, then, was with your lady just now?' said Emily, forgetting, in
surprise, her usual prudence.

'Nobody, I believe, ma'am,' replied Annette, 'nobody has been with her,
I believe, since I left you.'

Emily took no further notice of the subject, and, after some struggle
with imaginary fears, her good nature prevailed over them so far, that
she dismissed Annette for the night. She then sat, musing upon her own
circumstances and those of Madame Montoni, till her eye rested on the
miniature picture, which she had found, after her father's death, among
the papers he had enjoined her to destroy. It was open upon the table,
before her, among some loose drawings, having, with them, been taken out
of a little box by Emily, some hours before. The sight of it called
up many interesting reflections, but the melancholy sweetness of the
countenance soothed the emotions, which these had occasioned. It was
the same style of countenance as that of her late father, and, while
she gazed on it with fondness on this account, she even fancied
a resemblance in the features. But this tranquillity was suddenly
interrupted, when she recollected the words in the manuscript, that had
been found with this picture, and which had formerly occasioned her
so much doubt and horror. At length, she roused herself from the deep
reverie, into which this remembrance had thrown her; but, when she rose
to undress, the silence and solitude, to which she was left, at this
midnight hour, for not even a distant sound was now heard, conspired
with the impression the subject she had been considering had given to
her mind, to appall her. Annette's hints, too, concerning this chamber,
simple as they were, had not failed to affect her, since they followed
a circumstance of peculiar horror, which she herself had witnessed, and
since the scene of this was a chamber nearly adjoining her own.

The door of the stair-case was, perhaps, a subject of more reasonable
alarm, and she now began to apprehend, such was the aptitude of her
fears, that this stair-case had some private communication with the
apartment, which she shuddered even to remember. Determined not to
undress, she lay down to sleep in her clothes, with her late father's
dog, the faithful MANCHON, at the foot of the bed, whom she considered
as a kind of guard.

Thus circumstanced, she tried to banish reflection, but her busy fancy
would still hover over the subjects of her interest, and she heard the
clock of the castle strike two, before she closed her eyes.

From the disturbed slumber, into which she then sunk, she was soon
awakened by a noise, which seemed to arise within her chamber; but the
silence, that prevailed, as she fearfully listened, inclined her to
believe, that she had been alarmed by such sounds as sometimes occur in
dreams, and she laid her head again upon the pillow.

A return of the noise again disturbed her; it seemed to come from that
part of the room, which communicated with the private stair-case, and
she instantly remembered the odd circumstance of the door having been
fastened, during the preceding night, by some unknown hand. Her late
alarming suspicion, concerning its communication, also occurred to her.
Her heart became faint with terror. Half raising herself from the bed,
and gently drawing aside the curtain, she looked towards the door of the
stair-case, but the lamp, that burnt on the hearth, spread so feeble a
light through the apartment, that the remote parts of it were lost in
shadow. The noise, however, which, she was convinced, came from the
door, continued. It seemed like that made by the undrawing of rusty
bolts, and often ceased, and was then renewed more gently, as if the
hand, that occasioned it, was restrained by a fear of discovery.

While Emily kept her eyes fixed on the spot, she saw the door move,
and then slowly open, and perceived something enter the room, but the
extreme duskiness prevented her distinguishing what it was. Almost
fainting with terror, she had yet sufficient command over herself, to
check the shriek, that was escaping from her lips, and, letting the
curtain drop from her hand, continued to observe in silence the motions
of the mysterious form she saw. It seemed to glide along the remote
obscurity of the apartment, then paused, and, as it approached the
hearth, she perceived, in the stronger light, what appeared to be a
human figure. Certain remembrances now struck upon her heart, and almost
subdued the feeble remains of her spirits; she continued, however, to
watch the figure, which remained for some time motionless, but then,
advancing slowly towards the bed, stood silently at the feet, where
the curtains, being a little open, allowed her still to see it; terror,
however, had now deprived her of the power of discrimination, as well as
of that of utterance.

Having continued there a moment, the form retreated towards the hearth,
when it took the lamp, held it up, surveyed the chamber, for a few
moments, and then again advanced towards the bed. The light at that
instant awakening the dog, that had slept at Emily's feet, he barked
loudly, and, jumping to the floor, flew at the stranger, who struck the
animal smartly with a sheathed sword, and, springing towards the bed,
Emily discovered--Count Morano!

She gazed at him for a moment in speechless affright, while he, throwing
himself on his knee at the bed-side, besought her to fear nothing,
and, having thrown down his sword, would have taken her hand, when the
faculties, that terror had suspended, suddenly returned, and she
sprung from the bed, in the dress, which surely a kind of prophetic
apprehension had prevented her, on this night, from throwing aside.

Morano rose, followed her to the door, through which he had entered,
and caught her hand, as she reached the top of the stair-case, but not
before she had discovered, by the gleam of a lamp, another man half-way
down the steps. She now screamed in despair, and, believing herself
given up by Montoni, saw, indeed, no possibility of escape.

The Count, who still held her hand, led her back into the chamber.

'Why all this terror?' said he, in a tremulous voice. 'Hear me, Emily: I
come not to alarm you; no, by Heaven! I love you too well--too well for
my own peace.'

Emily looked at him for a moment, in fearful doubt.

'Then leave me, sir,' said she, 'leave me instantly.'

'Hear me, Emily,' resumed Morano, 'hear me! I love, and am in
despair--yes--in despair. How can I gaze upon you, and know, that it
is, perhaps, for the last time, without suffering all the phrensy of
despair? But it shall not be so; you shall be mine, in spite of Montoni
and all his villany.'

'In spite of Montoni!' cried Emily eagerly: 'what is it I hear?'

'You hear, that Montoni is a villain,' exclaimed Morano with
vehemence,--'a villain who would have sold you to my love!--Who---'

'And is he less, who would have bought me?' said Emily, fixing on the
Count an eye of calm contempt. 'Leave the room, sir, instantly,' she
continued in a voice, trembling between joy and fear, 'or I will alarm
the family, and you may receive that from Signor Montoni's vengeance,
which I have vainly supplicated from his pity.' But Emily knew, that she
was beyond the hearing of those, who might protect her.

'You can never hope any thing from his pity,' said Morano, 'he has used
me infamously, and my vengeance shall pursue him. And for you, Emily,
for you, he has new plans more profitable than the last, no doubt.'
The gleam of hope, which the Count's former speech had revived, was
now nearly extinguished by the latter; and, while Emily's countenance
betrayed the emotions of her mind, he endeavoured to take advantage of
the discovery.

'I lose time,' said he: 'I came not to exclaim against Montoni; I came
to solicit, to plead--to Emily; to tell her all I suffer, to entreat
her to save me from despair, and herself from destruction. Emily! the
schemes of Montoni are insearchable, but, I warn you, they are terrible;
he has no principle, when interest, or ambition leads. Can I love you,
and abandon you to his power? Fly, then, fly from this gloomy prison,
with a lover, who adores you! I have bribed a servant of the castle to
open the gates, and, before tomorrow's dawn, you shall be far on the way
to Venice.'

Emily, overcome by the sudden shock she had received, at the moment,
too, when she had begun to hope for better days, now thought she saw
destruction surround her on every side. Unable to reply, and almost to
think, she threw herself into a chair, pale and breathless. That Montoni
had formerly sold her to Morano, was very probable; that he had now
withdrawn his consent to the marriage, was evident from the Count's
present conduct; and it was nearly certain, that a scheme of stronger
interest only could have induced the selfish Montoni to forego a plan,
which he had hitherto so strenuously pursued. These reflections made her
tremble at the hints, which Morano had just given, which she no longer
hesitated to believe; and, while she shrunk from the new scenes of
misery and oppression, that might await her in the castle of Udolpho,
she was compelled to observe, that almost her only means of escaping
them was by submitting herself to the protection of this man, with whom
evils more certain and not less terrible appeared,--evils, upon which
she could not endure to pause for an instant.

Her silence, though it was that of agony, encouraged the hopes of
Morano, who watched her countenance with impatience, took again the
resisting hand she had withdrawn, and, as he pressed it to his heart,
again conjured her to determine immediately. 'Every moment we lose, will
make our departure more dangerous,' said he: 'these few moments lost may
enable Montoni to overtake us.'

'I beseech you, sir, be silent,' said Emily faintly: 'I am indeed very
wretched, and wretched I must remain. Leave me--I command you, leave me
to my fate.'

'Never!' cried the Count vehemently: 'let me perish first! But forgive
my violence! the thought of losing you is madness. You cannot
be ignorant of Montoni's character, you may be ignorant of his
schemes--nay, you must be so, or you would not hesitate between my love
and his power.'

'Nor do I hesitate,' said Emily.

'Let us go, then,' said Morano, eagerly kissing her hand, and rising,
'my carriage waits, below the castle walls.'

'You mistake me, sir,' said Emily. 'Allow me to thank you for the
interest you express in my welfare, and to decide by my own choice. I
shall remain under the protection of Signor Montoni.'

'Under his protection!' exclaimed Morano, proudly, 'his PROTECTION!
Emily, why will you suffer yourself to be thus deluded? I have already
told you what you have to expect from his PROTECTION.'

'And pardon me, sir, if, in this instance, I doubt mere assertion, and,
to be convinced, require something approaching to proof.'

'I have now neither the time, or the means of adducing proof,' replied
the Count.

'Nor have I, sir, the inclination to listen to it, if you had.'

'But you trifle with my patience and my distress,' continued Morano. 'Is
a marriage with a man, who adores you, so very terrible in your eyes,
that you would prefer to it all the misery, to which Montoni may
condemn you in this remote prison? Some wretch must have stolen those
affections, which ought to be mine, or you would not thus obstinately
persist in refusing an offer, that would place you beyond the reach
of oppression.' Morano walked about the room, with quick steps, and a
disturbed air.

'This discourse, Count Morano, sufficiently proves, that my affections
ought not to be yours,' said Emily, mildly, 'and this conduct, that
I should not be placed beyond the reach of oppression, so long as I
remained in your power. If you wish me to believe otherwise, cease to
oppress me any longer by your presence. If you refuse this, you will
compel me to expose you to the resentment of Signor Montoni.'

'Yes, let him come,' cried Morano furiously, 'and brave MY resentment!
Let him dare to face once more the man he has so courageously injured;
danger shall teach him morality, and vengeance justice--let him come,
and receive my sword in his heart!'

The vehemence, with which this was uttered, gave Emily new cause of
alarm, who arose from her chair, but her trembling frame refused to
support her, and she resumed her seat;--the words died on her lips, and,
when she looked wistfully towards the door of the corridor, which was
locked, she considered it was impossible for her to leave the apartment,
before Morano would be apprised of, and able to counteract, her
intention.

Without observing her agitation, he continued to pace the room in the
utmost perturbation of spirits. His darkened countenance expressed
all the rage of jealousy and revenge; and a person, who had seen his
features under the smile of ineffable tenderness, which he so lately
assumed, would now scarcely have believed them to be the same.

'Count Morano,' said Emily, at length recovering her voice, 'calm, I
entreat you, these transports, and listen to reason, if you will not to
pity. You have equally misplaced your love, and your hatred.--I never
could have returned the affection, with which you honour me, and
certainly have never encouraged it; neither has Signor Montoni injured
you, for you must have known, that he had no right to dispose of my
hand, had he even possessed the power to do so. Leave, then, leave
the castle, while you may with safety. Spare yourself the dreadful
consequences of an unjust revenge, and the remorse of having prolonged
to me these moments of suffering.'

'Is it for mine, or for Montoni's safety, that you are thus alarmed?'
said Morano, coldly, and turning towards her with a look of acrimony.

'For both,' replied Emily, in a trembling voice.

'Unjust revenge!' cried the Count, resuming the abrupt tones of passion.
'Who, that looks upon that face, can imagine a punishment adequate to
the injury he would have done me? Yes, I will leave the castle; but it
shall not be alone. I have trifled too long. Since my prayers and my
sufferings cannot prevail, force shall. I have people in waiting, who
shall convey you to my carriage. Your voice will bring no succour; it
cannot be heard from this remote part of the castle; submit, therefore,
in silence, to go with me.'

This was an unnecessary injunction, at present; for Emily was too
certain, that her call would avail her nothing; and terror had so
entirely disordered her thoughts, that she knew not how to plead to
Morano, but sat, mute and trembling, in her chair, till he advanced
to lift her from it, when she suddenly raised herself, and, with a
repulsive gesture, and a countenance of forced serenity, said, 'Count
Morano! I am now in your power; but you will observe, that this is not
the conduct which can win the esteem you appear so solicitous to obtain,
and that you are preparing for yourself a load of remorse, in the
miseries of a friendless orphan, which can never leave you. Do you
believe your heart to be, indeed, so hardened, that you can look without
emotion on the suffering, to which you would condemn me?'---

Emily was interrupted by the growling of the dog, who now came again
from the bed, and Morano looked towards the door of the stair-case,
where no person appearing, he called aloud, 'Cesario!'

'Emily,' said the Count, 'why will you reduce me to adopt this conduct?
How much more willingly would I persuade, than compel you to become my
wife! but, by Heaven! I will not leave you to be sold by Montoni. Yet a
thought glances across my mind, that brings madness with it. I know not
how to name it. It is preposterous--it cannot be.--Yet you tremble--you
grow pale! It is! it is so;--you--you--love Montoni!' cried Morano,
grasping Emily's wrist, and stamping his foot on the floor.

An involuntary air of surprise appeared on her countenance. 'If you have
indeed believed so,' said she, 'believe so still.'

'That look, those words confirm it,' exclaimed Morano, furiously. 'No,
no, no, Montoni had a richer prize in view, than gold. But he shall not
live to triumph over me!--This very instant---'

He was interrupted by the loud barking of the dog.

'Stay, Count Morano,' said Emily, terrified by his words, and by the
fury expressed in his eyes, 'I will save you from this error.--Of all
men, Signor Montoni is not your rival; though, if I find all other means
of saving myself vain, I will try whether my voice may not arouse his
servants to my succour.'

'Assertion,' replied Morano, 'at such a moment, is not to be depended
upon. How could I suffer myself to doubt, even for an instant, that he
could see you, and not love?--But my first care shall be to convey you
from the castle. Cesario! ho,--Cesario!'

A man now appeared at the door of the stair-case, and other steps were
heard ascending. Emily uttered a loud shriek, as Morano hurried her
across the chamber, and, at the same moment, she heard a noise at the
door, that opened upon the corridor. The Count paused an instant, as if
his mind was suspended between love and the desire of vengeance; and,
in that instant, the door gave way, and Montoni, followed by the old
steward and several other persons, burst into the room.

'Draw!' cried Montoni to the Count, who did not pause for a second
bidding, but, giving Emily into the hands of the people, that appeared
from the stair-case, turned fiercely round. 'This in thine heart,
villain!' said he, as he made a thrust at Montoni with his sword, who
parried the blow, and aimed another, while some of the persons, who
had followed him into the room, endeavoured to part the combatants, and
others rescued Emily from the hands of Morano's servants.

'Was it for this, Count Morano,' said Montoni, in a cool sarcastic tone
of voice, 'that I received you under my roof, and permitted you, though
my declared enemy, to remain under it for the night? Was it, that you
might repay my hospitality with the treachery of a fiend, and rob me of
my niece?'

'Who talks of treachery?' said Morano, in a tone of unrestrained
vehemence. 'Let him that does, shew an unblushing face of innocence.
Montoni, you are a villain! If there is treachery in this affair, look
to yourself as the author of it. IF--do I say? I--whom you have wronged
with unexampled baseness, whom you have injured almost beyond redress!
But why do I use words?--Come on, coward, and receive justice at my
hands!'

'Coward!' cried Montoni, bursting from the people who held him, and
rushing on the Count, when they both retreated into the corridor, where
the fight continued so desperately, that none of the spectators dared
approach them, Montoni swearing, that the first who interfered, should
fall by his sword.

Jealousy and revenge lent all their fury to Morano, while the superior
skill and the temperance of Montoni enabled him to wound his adversary,
whom his servants now attempted to seize, but he would not be
restrained, and, regardless of his wound, continued to fight. He seemed
to be insensible both of pain and loss of blood, and alive only to the
energy of his passions. Montoni, on the contrary, persevered in the
combat, with a fierce, yet wary, valour; he received the point of
Morano's sword on his arm, but, almost in the same instant, severely
wounded and disarmed him. The Count then fell back into the arms of his
servant, while Montoni held his sword over him, and bade him ask his
life. Morano, sinking under the anguish of his wound, had scarcely
replied by a gesture, and by a few words, feebly articulated, that he
would not--when he fainted; and Montoni was then going to have plunged
the sword into his breast, as he lay senseless, but his arm was arrested
by Cavigni. To the interruption he yielded without much difficulty, but
his complexion changed almost to blackness, as he looked upon his fallen
adversary, and ordered, that he should be carried instantly from the
castle.

In the mean time, Emily, who had been with-held from leaving the chamber
during the affray, now came forward into the corridor, and pleaded a
cause of common humanity, with the feelings of the warmest benevolence,
when she entreated Montoni to allow Morano the assistance in the castle,
which his situation required. But Montoni, who had seldom listened to
pity, now seemed rapacious of vengeance, and, with a monster's cruelty,
again ordered his defeated enemy to be taken from the castle, in
his present state, though there were only the woods, or a solitary
neighbouring cottage, to shelter him from the night.

The Count's servants having declared, that they would not move him till
he revived, Montoni's stood inactive, Cavigni remonstrating, and Emily,
superior to Montoni's menaces, giving water to Morano, and directing the
attendants to bind up his wound. At length, Montoni had leisure to feel
pain from his own hurt, and he withdrew to examine it.

The Count, meanwhile, having slowly recovered, the first object he saw,
on raising his eyes, was Emily, bending over him with a countenance
strongly expressive of solicitude. He surveyed her with a look of
anguish.

'I have deserved this,' said he, 'but not from Montoni. It is from you,
Emily, that I have deserved punishment, yet I receive only pity!' He
paused, for he had spoken with difficulty. After a moment, he proceeded.
'I must resign you, but not to Montoni. Forgive me the sufferings I have
already occasioned you! But for THAT villain--his infamy shall not go
unpunished. Carry me from this place,' said he to his servants. 'I am
in no condition to travel: you must, therefore, take me to the nearest
cottage, for I will not pass the night under his roof, although I may
expire on the way from it.'

Cesario proposed to go out, and enquire for a cottage, that might
receive his master, before he attempted to remove him: but Morano was
impatient to be gone; the anguish of his mind seemed to be even greater
than that of his wound, and he rejected, with disdain, the offer of
Cavigni to entreat Montoni, that he might be suffered to pass the night
in the castle. Cesario was now going to call up the carriage to the
great gate, but the Count forbade him. 'I cannot bear the motion of a
carriage,' said he: 'call some others of my people, that they may assist
in bearing me in their arms.'

At length, however, Morano submitted to reason, and consented, that
Cesario should first prepare some cottage to receive him. Emily,
now that he had recovered his senses, was about to withdraw from the
corridor, when a message from Montoni commanded her to do so, and also
that the Count, if he was not already gone, should quit the castle
immediately. Indignation flashed from Morano's eyes, and flushed his
cheeks.

'Tell Montoni,' said he, 'that I shall go when it suits my own
convenience; that I quit the castle, he dares to call his, as I would
the nest of a serpent, and that this is not the last he shall hear from
me. Tell him, I will not leave ANOTHER murder on his conscience, if I
can help it.'

'Count Morano! do you know what you say?' said Cavigni.

'Yes, Signor, I know well what I say, and he will understand well what I
mean. His conscience will assist his understanding, on this occasion.'

'Count Morano,' said Verezzi, who had hitherto silently observed him,
'dare again to insult my friend, and I will plunge this sword in your
body.'

'It would be an action worthy the friend of a villain!' said Morano, as
the strong impulse of his indignation enabled him to raise himself from
the arms of his servants; but the energy was momentary, and he sunk
back, exhausted by the effort. Montoni's people, meanwhile, held
Verezzi, who seemed inclined, even in this instant, to execute his
threat; and Cavigni, who was not so depraved as to abet the cowardly
malignity of Verezzi, endeavoured to withdraw him from the corridor;
and Emily, whom a compassionate interest had thus long detained, was
now quitting it in new terror, when the supplicating voice of Morano
arrested her, and, by a feeble gesture, he beckoned her to draw
nearer. She advanced with timid steps, but the fainting languor of his
countenance again awakened her pity, and overcame her terror.

'I am going from hence for ever,' said he: 'perhaps, I shall never see
you again. I would carry with me your forgiveness, Emily; nay more--I
would also carry your good wishes.'

'You have my forgiveness, then,' said Emily, 'and my sincere wishes for
your recovery.'

'And only for my recovery?' said Morano, with a sigh. 'For your general
welfare,' added Emily.

'Perhaps I ought to be contented with this,' he resumed; 'I certainly
have not deserved more; but I would ask you, Emily, sometimes to think
of me, and, forgetting my offence, to remember only the passion which
occasioned it. I would ask, alas! impossibilities: I would ask you to
love me! At this moment, when I am about to part with you, and that,
perhaps, for ever, I am scarcely myself. Emily--may you never know the
torture of a passion like mine! What do I say? O, that, for me, you
might be sensible of such a passion!'

Emily looked impatient to be gone. 'I entreat you, Count, to consult
your own safety,' said she, 'and linger here no longer. I tremble
for the consequences of Signor Verezzi's passion, and of Montoni's
resentment, should he learn that you are still here.'

Morano's face was overspread with a momentary crimson, his eyes
sparkled, but he seemed endeavouring to conquer his emotion, and replied
in a calm voice, 'Since you are interested for my safety, I will regard
it, and be gone. But, before I go, let me again hear you say, that you
wish me well,' said he, fixing on her an earnest and mournful look.

Emily repeated her assurances. He took her hand, which she scarcely
attempted to withdraw, and put it to his lips. 'Farewell, Count Morano!'
said Emily; and she turned to go, when a second message arrived from
Montoni, and she again conjured Morano, as he valued his life, to quit
the castle immediately. He regarded her in silence, with a look of fixed
despair. But she had no time to enforce her compassionate entreaties,
and, not daring to disobey the second command of Montoni, she left the
corridor, to attend him.

He was in the cedar parlour, that adjoined the great hall, laid upon
a couch, and suffering a degree of anguish from his wound, which few
persons could have disguised, as he did. His countenance, which was
stern, but calm, expressed the dark passion of revenge, but no symptom
of pain; bodily pain, indeed, he had always despised, and had yielded
only to the strong and terrible energies of the soul. He was attended by
old Carlo and by Signor Bertolini, but Madame Montoni was not with him.

Emily trembled, as she approached and received his severe rebuke,
for not having obeyed his first summons; and perceived, also, that
he attributed her stay in the corridor to a motive, that had not even
occurred to her artless mind.

'This is an instance of female caprice,' said he, 'which I ought to have
foreseen. Count Morano, whose suit you obstinately rejected, so long as
it was countenanced by me, you favour, it seems, since you find I have
dismissed him.'

Emily looked astonished. 'I do not comprehend you, sir,' said she: 'You
certainly do not mean to imply, that the design of the Count to visit
the double-chamber, was founded upon any approbation of mine.'

'To that I reply nothing,' said Montoni; 'but it must certainly be a
more than common interest, that made you plead so warmly in his cause,
and that could detain you thus long in his presence, contrary to my
express order--in the presence of a man, whom you have hitherto, on all
occasions, most scrupulously shunned!'

'I fear, sir, it was a more than common interest, that detained me,'
said Emily calmly; 'for of late I have been inclined to think, that of
compassion is an uncommon one. But how could I, could YOU, sir, witness
Count Morano's deplorable condition, and not wish to relieve it?'

'You add hypocrisy to caprice,' said Montoni, frowning, 'and an attempt
at satire, to both; but, before you undertake to regulate the morals
of other persons, you should learn and practise the virtues, which
are indispensable to a woman--sincerity, uniformity of conduct and
obedience.'

Emily, who had always endeavoured to regulate her conduct by the nicest
laws, and whose mind was finely sensible, not only of what is just
in morals, but of whatever is beautiful in the female character, was
shocked by these words; yet, in the next moment, her heart swelled with
the consciousness of having deserved praise, instead of censure, and she
was proudly silent. Montoni, acquainted with the delicacy of her mind,
knew how keenly she would feel his rebuke; but he was a stranger to the
luxury of conscious worth, and, therefore, did not foresee the energy of
that sentiment, which now repelled his satire. Turning to a servant who
had lately entered the room, he asked whether Morano had quitted the
castle. The man answered, that his servants were then removing him, on
a couch, to a neighbouring cottage. Montoni seemed somewhat appeased,
on hearing this; and, when Ludovico appeared, a few moments after,
and said, that Morano was gone, he told Emily she might retire to her
apartment.

She withdrew willingly from his presence; but the thought of passing the
remainder of the night in a chamber, which the door from the stair-case
made liable to the intrusion of any person, now alarmed her more than
ever, and she determined to call at Madame Montoni's room, and request,
that Annette might be permitted to be with her.

On reaching the great gallery, she heard voices seemingly in
dispute, and, her spirits now apt to take alarm, she paused, but soon
distinguished some words of Cavigni and Verezzi, and went towards them,
in the hope of conciliating their difference. They were alone. Verezzi's
face was still flushed with rage; and, as the first object of it was
now removed from him, he appeared willing to transfer his resentment
to Cavigni, who seemed to be expostulating, rather than disputing, with
him.

Verezzi was protesting, that he would instantly inform Montoni of the
insult, which Morano had thrown out against him, and above all, that,
wherein he had accused him of murder.

'There is no answering,' said Cavigni, 'for the words of a man in a
passion; little serious regard ought to be paid to them. If you persist
in your resolution, the consequences may be fatal to both. We have now
more serious interests to pursue, than those of a petty revenge.'

Emily joined her entreaties to Cavigni's arguments, and they, at length,
prevailed so far, as that Verezzi consented to retire, without seeing
Montoni.

On calling at her aunt's apartment, she found it fastened. In a few
minutes, however, it was opened by Madame Montoni herself.

It may be remembered, that it was by a door leading into the bedroom
from a back passage, that Emily had secretly entered a few hours
preceding. She now conjectured, by the calmness of Madame Montoni's
air, that she was not apprised of the accident, which had befallen her
husband, and was beginning to inform her of it, in the tenderest manner
she could, when her aunt interrupted her, by saying, she was acquainted
with the whole affair.

Emily knew indeed, that she had little reason to love Montoni, but could
scarcely have believed her capable of such perfect apathy, as she now
discovered towards him; having obtained permission, however, for Annette
to sleep in her chamber, she went thither immediately.

A track of blood appeared along the corridor, leading to it; and on
the spot, where the Count and Montoni had fought, the whole floor was
stained. Emily shuddered, and leaned on Annette, as she passed. When she
reached her apartment, she instantly determined, since the door of the
stair-case had been left open, and that Annette was now with her, to
explore whither it led,--a circumstance now materially connected with
her own safety. Annette accordingly, half curious and half afraid,
proposed to descend the stairs; but, on approaching the door, they
perceived, that it was already fastened without, and their care was then
directed to the securing it on the inside also, by placing against it as
much of the heavy furniture of the room, as they could lift. Emily then
retired to bed, and Annette continued on a chair by the hearth, where
some feeble embers remained.



CHAPTER VII


 Of aery tongues, that syllable men's names
 On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.
      MILTON

It is now necessary to mention some circumstances, which could not be
related amidst the events of Emily's hasty departure from Venice, or
together with those, which so rapidly succeeded to her arrival in the
castle.

On the morning of her journey, Count Morano had gone at the appointed
hour to the mansion of Montoni, to demand his bride. When he reached
it, he was somewhat surprised by the silence and solitary air of the
portico, where Montoni's lacqueys usually loitered; but surprise
was soon changed to astonishment, and astonishment to the rage of
disappointment, when the door was opened by an old woman, who told his
servants, that her master and his family had left Venice, early in the
morning, for terra-firma. Scarcely believing what his servants told, he
left his gondola, and rushed into the hall to enquire further. The old
woman, who was the only person left in care of the mansion, persisted in
her story, which the silent and deserted apartments soon convinced him
was no fiction. He then seized her with a menacing air, as if he meant
to wreak all his vengeance upon her, at the same time asking her twenty
questions in a breath, and all these with a gesticulation so furious,
that she was deprived of the power of answering them; then suddenly
letting her go, he stamped about the hall, like a madman, cursing
Montoni and his own folly.

When the good woman was at liberty, and had somewhat recovered from her
fright, she told him all she knew of the affair, which was, indeed, very
little, but enough to enable Morano to discover, that Montoni was gone
to his castle on the Apennine. Thither he followed, as soon as his
servants could complete the necessary preparation for the journey,
accompanied by a friend, and attended by a number of his people,
determined to obtain Emily, or a full revenge on Montoni. When his mind
had recovered from the first effervescence of rage, and his
thoughts became less obscured, his conscience hinted to him certain
circumstances, which, in some measure, explained the conduct of Montoni:
but how the latter could have been led to suspect an intention, which,
he had believed, was known only to himself, he could not even guess. On
this occasion, however, he had been partly betrayed by that sympathetic
intelligence, which may be said to exist between bad minds, and which
teaches one man to judge what another will do in the same circumstances.
Thus it was with Montoni, who had now received indisputable proof of a
truth, which he had some time suspected--that Morano's circumstances,
instead of being affluent, as he had been bidden to believe, were
greatly involved. Montoni had been interested in his suit, by motives
entirely selfish, those of avarice and pride; the last of which would
have been gratified by an alliance with a Venetian nobleman, the former
by Emily's estate in Gascony, which he had stipulated, as the price of
his favour, should be delivered up to him from the day of her marriage.
In the meantime, he had been led to suspect the consequence of the
Count's boundless extravagance; but it was not till the evening,
preceding the intended nuptials, that he obtained certain information
of his distressed circumstances. He did not hesitate then to infer,
that Morano designed to defraud him of Emily's estate; and in this
supposition he was confirmed, and with apparent reason, by the
subsequent conduct of the Count, who, after having appointed to meet him
on that night, for the purpose of signing the instrument, which was to
secure to him his reward, failed in his engagement. Such a circumstance,
indeed, in a man of Morano's gay and thoughtless character, and at a
time when his mind was engaged by the bustle of preparation for his
nuptials, might have been attributed to a cause less decisive, than
design; but Montoni did not hesitate an instant to interpret it his own
way, and, after vainly waiting the Count's arrival, for several hours,
he gave orders for his people to be in readiness to set off at a
moment's notice. By hastening to Udolpho he intended to remove Emily
from the reach of Morano, as well as to break off the affair, without
submitting himself to useless altercation: and, if the Count meant what
he called honourably, he would doubtless follow Emily, and sign the
writings in question. If this was done, so little consideration had
Montoni for her welfare, that he would not have scrupled to sacrifice
her to a man of ruined fortune, since by that means he could enrich
himself; and he forbore to mention to her the motive of his sudden
journey, lest the hope it might revive should render her more
intractable, when submission would be required.

With these considerations, he had left Venice; and, with others totally
different, Morano had, soon after, pursued his steps across the rugged
Apennines. When his arrival was announced at the castle, Montoni did
not believe, that he would have presumed to shew himself, unless he had
meant to fulfil his engagement, and he, therefore, readily admitted him;
but the enraged countenance and expressions of Morano, as he entered the
apartment, instantly undeceived him; and, when Montoni had explained, in
part, the motives of his abrupt departure from Venice, the Count still
persisted in demanding Emily, and reproaching Montoni, without even
naming the former stipulation.

Montoni, at length, weary of the dispute, deferred the settling of
it till the morrow, and Morano retired with some hope, suggested by
Montoni's apparent indecision. When, however, in the silence of his own
apartment, he began to consider the past conversation, the character of
Montoni, and some former instances of his duplicity, the hope, which
he had admitted, vanished, and he determined not to neglect the present
possibility of obtaining Emily by other means. To his confidential
valet he told his design of carrying away Emily, and sent him back to
Montoni's servants to find out one among them, who might enable him to
execute it. The choice of this person he entrusted to the fellow's own
discernment, and not imprudently; for he discovered a man, whom Montoni
had, on some former occasion, treated harshly, and who was now ready
to betray him. This man conducted Cesario round the castle, through a
private passage, to the stair-case, that led to Emily's chamber; then
shewed him a short way out of the building, and afterwards procured him
the keys, that would secure his retreat. The man was well rewarded for
his trouble; how the Count was rewarded for his treachery, had already
appeared.

Meanwhile, old Carlo had overheard two of Morano's servants, who had
been ordered to be in waiting with the carriage, beyond the castle
walls, expressing their surprise at their master's sudden, and secret
departure, for the valet had entrusted them with no more of Morano's
designs, than it was necessary for them to execute. They, however,
indulged themselves in surmises, and in expressing them to each other;
and from these Carlo had drawn a just conclusion. But, before he
ventured to disclose his apprehensions to Montoni, he endeavoured to
obtain further confirmation of them, and, for this purpose, placed
himself, with one of his fellow-servants, at the door of Emily's
apartment, that opened upon the corridor. He did not watch long in vain,
though the growling of the dog had once nearly betrayed him. When he was
convinced, that Morano was in the room, and had listened long enough
to his conversation, to understand his scheme, he immediately alarmed
Montoni, and thus rescued Emily from the designs of the Count.

Montoni, on the following morning, appeared as usual, except that
he wore his wounded arm in a sling; he went out upon the ramparts;
overlooked the men employed in repairing them; gave orders for
additional workmen, and then came into the castle to give audience
to several persons, who were just arrived, and who were shewn into a
private apartment, where he communicated with them, for near an hour.
Carlo was then summoned, and ordered to conduct the strangers to a part
of the castle, which, in former times, had been occupied by the upper
servants of the family, and to provide them with every necessary
refreshment.--When he had done this, he was bidden to return to his
master.

Meanwhile, the Count remained in a cottage in the skirts of the woods
below, suffering under bodily and mental pain, and meditating deep
revenge against Montoni. His servant, whom he had dispatched for a
surgeon to the nearest town, which was, however, at a considerable
distance, did not return till the following day, when, his wounds being
examined and dressed, the practitioner refused to deliver any positive
opinion, concerning the degree of danger attending them; but giving his
patient a composing draught and ordering him to be quiet, remained at
the cottage to watch the event.

Emily, for the remainder of the late eventful night, had been suffered
to sleep, undisturbed; and, when her mind recovered from the confusion
of slumber, and she remembered, that she was now released from the
addresses of Count Morano, her spirits were suddenly relieved from a
part of the terrible anxiety, that had long oppressed them; that which
remained, arose chiefly from a recollection of Morano's assertions,
concerning the schemes of Montoni. He had said, that plans of the
latter, concerning Emily, were insearchable, yet that he knew them to
be terrible. At the time he uttered this, she almost believed it to be
designed for the purpose of prevailing with her to throw herself into
his protection, and she still thought it might be chiefly so accounted
for; but his assertions had left an impression on her mind, which a
consideration of the character and former conduct of Montoni did not
contribute to efface. She, however, checked her propensity to anticipate
evil; and, determined to enjoy this respite from actual misfortune,
tried to dismiss thought, took her instruments for drawing, and placed
herself at a window, to select into a landscape some features of the
scenery without.

As she was thus employed, she saw, walking on the rampart below, the
men, who had so lately arrived at the castle. The sight of strangers
surprised her, but still more, of strangers such as these. There was a
singularity in their dress, and a certain fierceness in their air, that
fixed all her attention. She withdrew from the casement, while they
passed, but soon returned to observe them further. Their figures seemed
so well suited to the wildness of the surrounding objects, that, as they
stood surveying the castle, she sketched them for banditti, amid the
mountain-view of her picture, when she had finished which, she was
surprised to observe the spirit of her group. But she had copied from
nature.

Carlo, when he had placed refreshment before these men in the apartment
assigned to them, returned, as he was ordered, to Montoni, who was
anxious to discover by what servant the keys of the castle had been
delivered to Morano, on the preceding night. But this man, though he was
too faithful to his master quietly to see him injured, would not
betray a fellow-servant even to justice; he, therefore, pretended to be
ignorant who it was, that had conspired with Count Morano, and related,
as before, that he had only overheard some of the strangers describing
the plot.

Montoni's suspicions naturally fell upon the porter, whom he ordered now
to attend. Carlo hesitated, and then with slow steps went to seek him.

Barnardine, the porter, denied the accusation with a countenance so
steady and undaunted, that Montoni could scarcely believe him guilty,
though he knew not how to think him innocent. At length, the man was
dismissed from his presence, and, though the real offender, escaped
detection.

Montoni then went to his wife's apartment, whither Emily followed soon
after, but, finding them in high dispute, was instantly leaving the
room, when her aunt called her back, and desired her to stay.--'You
shall be a witness,' said she, 'of my opposition. Now, sir, repeat the
command, I have so often refused to obey.'

Montoni turned, with a stern countenance, to Emily, and bade her quit
the apartment, while his wife persisted in desiring, that she would
stay. Emily was eager to escape from this scene of contention, and
anxious, also, to serve her aunt; but she despaired of conciliating
Montoni, in whose eyes the rising tempest of his soul flashed terribly.

'Leave the room,' said he, in a voice of thunder. Emily obeyed, and,
walking down to the rampart, which the strangers had now left, continued
to meditate on the unhappy marriage of her father's sister, and on her
own desolate situation, occasioned by the ridiculous imprudence of her,
whom she had always wished to respect and love. Madame Montoni's conduct
had, indeed, rendered it impossible for Emily to do either; but
her gentle heart was touched by her distress, and, in the pity thus
awakened, she forgot the injurious treatment she had received from her.

As she sauntered on the rampart, Annette appeared at the hall door,
looked cautiously round, and then advanced to meet her.

'Dear ma'amselle, I have been looking for you all over the castle,' said
she. 'If you will step this way, I will shew you a picture.'

'A picture!' exclaimed Emily, and shuddered.

'Yes, ma'am, a picture of the late lady of this place. Old Carlo just
now told me it was her, and I thought you would be curious to see it. As
to my lady, you know, ma'amselle, one cannot talk about such things to
her.'--

'And so,' said Emily smilingly, 'as you must talk of them to somebody--'

'Why, yes, ma'amselle; what can one do in such a place as this, if one
must not talk? If I was in a dungeon, if they would let me talk--it
would be some comfort; nay, I would talk, if it was only to the walls.
But come, ma'amselle, we lose time--let me shew you to the picture.'

'Is it veiled?' said Emily, pausing.

'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, fixing her eyes on Emily's face, 'what
makes you look so pale?--are you ill?'

'No, Annette, I am well enough, but I have no desire to see this
picture; return into the hall.'

'What! ma'am, not to see the lady of this castle?' said the girl--'the
lady, who disappeared to strangely? Well! now, I would have run to the
furthest mountain we can see, yonder, to have got a sight of such a
picture; and, to speak my mind, that strange story is all, that makes
me care about this old castle, though it makes me thrill all over, as it
were, whenever I think of it.'

'Yes, Annette, you love the wonderful; but do you know, that, unless you
guard against this inclination, it will lead you into all the misery of
superstition?'

Annette might have smiled in her turn, at this sage observation of
Emily, who could tremble with ideal terrors, as much as herself, and
listen almost as eagerly to the recital of a mysterious story. Annette
urged her request.

'Are you sure it is a picture?' said Emily, 'Have you seen it?--Is it
veiled?'

'Holy Maria! ma'amselle, yes, no, yes. I am sure it is a picture--I have
seen it, and it is not veiled!'

The tone and look of surprise, with which this was uttered, recalled
Emily's prudence; who concealed her emotion under a smile, and bade
Annette lead her to the picture. It was in an obscure chamber, adjoining
that part of the castle, allotted to the servants. Several other
portraits hung on the walls, covered, like this, with dust and cobweb.

'That is it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, in a low voice, and pointing.
Emily advanced, and surveyed the picture. It represented a lady in the
flower of youth and beauty; her features were handsome and noble, full
of strong expression, but had little of the captivating sweetness, that
Emily had looked for, and still less of the pensive mildness she loved.
It was a countenance, which spoke the language of passion, rather than
that of sentiment; a haughty impatience of misfortune--not the placid
melancholy of a spirit injured, yet resigned.

'How many years have passed, since this lady disappeared, Annette?' said
Emily.

'Twenty years, ma'amselle, or thereabout, as they tell me; I know it is
a long while ago.' Emily continued to gaze upon the portrait.

'I think,' resumed Annette, 'the Signor would do well to hang it in a
better place, than this old chamber. Now, in my mind, he ought to place
the picture of a lady, who gave him all these riches, in the handsomest
room in the castle. But he may have good reasons for what he does:
and some people do say that he has lost his riches, as well as his
gratitude. But hush, ma'am, not a word!' added Annette, laying her
finger on her lips. Emily was too much absorbed in thought, to hear what
she said.

''Tis a handsome lady, I am sure,' continued Annette: 'the Signor need
not be ashamed to put her in the great apartment, where the veiled
picture hangs.' Emily turned round. 'But for that matter, she would be
as little seen there, as here, for the door is always locked, I find.'

'Let us leave this chamber,' said Emily: 'and let me caution you again,
Annette; be guarded in your conversation, and never tell, that you know
any thing of that picture.'

'Holy Mother!' exclaimed Annette, 'it is no secret; why all the servants
have seen it already!'

Emily started. 'How is this?' said she--'Have seen it! When?--how?'

'Dear, ma'amselle, there is nothing surprising in that; we had all a
little more CURIOUSNESS than you had.'

'I thought you told me, the door was kept locked?' said Emily.

'If that was the case, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, looking about her,
'how could we get here?'

'Oh, you mean THIS picture,' said Emily, with returning calmness. 'Well,
Annette, here is nothing more to engage my attention; we will go.'

Emily, as she passed to her own apartment, saw Montoni go down to the
hall, and she turned into her aunt's dressing-room, whom she found
weeping and alone, grief and resentment struggling on her countenance.
Pride had hitherto restrained complaint. Judging of Emily's disposition
from her own, and from a consciousness of what her treatment of her
deserved, she had believed, that her griefs would be cause of triumph
to her niece, rather than of sympathy; that she would despise, not pity
her. But she knew not the tenderness and benevolence of Emily's heart,
that had always taught her to forget her own injuries in the misfortunes
of her enemy. The sufferings of others, whoever they might be, called
forth her ready compassion, which dissipated at once every obscuring
cloud to goodness, that passion or prejudice might have raised in her
mind.

Madame Montoni's sufferings, at length, rose above her pride, and, when
Emily had before entered the room, she would have told them all, had not
her husband prevented her; now that she was no longer restrained by his
presence, she poured forth all her complaints to her niece.

'O Emily!' she exclaimed, 'I am the most wretched of women--I am
indeed cruelly treated! Who, with my prospects of happiness, could have
foreseen such a wretched fate as this?--who could have thought, when I
married such a man as the Signor, I should ever have to bewail my lot?
But there is no judging what is for the best--there is no knowing what
is for our good! The most flattering prospects often change--the best
judgments may be deceived--who could have foreseen, when I married the
Signor, that I should ever repent my GENEROSITY?'

Emily thought she might have foreseen it, but this was not a thought
of triumph. She placed herself in a chair near her aunt, took her
hand, and, with one of those looks of soft compassion, which might
characterize the countenance of a guardian angel, spoke to her in
the tenderest accents. But these did not sooth Madame Montoni, whom
impatience to talk made unwilling to listen. She wanted to complain, not
to be consoled; and it was by exclamations of complaint only, that Emily
learned the particular circumstances of her affliction.

'Ungrateful man!' said Madame Montoni, 'he has deceived me in every
respect; and now he has taken me from my country and friends, to shut
me up in this old castle; and, here he thinks he can compel me to do
whatever he designs! But he shall find himself mistaken, he shall find
that no threats can alter--But who would have believed! who would have
supposed, that a man of his family and apparent wealth had absolutely
no fortune?--no, scarcely a sequin of his own! I did all for the best;
I thought he was a man of consequence, of great property, or I am sure
I would never have married him,--ungrateful, artful man!' She paused to
take breath.

'Dear Madam, be composed,' said Emily: 'the Signor may not be so rich as
you had reason to expect, but surely he cannot be very poor, since
this castle and the mansion at Venice are his. May I ask what are the
circumstances, that particularly affect you?'

'What are the circumstances!' exclaimed Madame Montoni with resentment:
'why is it not sufficient, that he had long ago ruined his own fortune
by play, and that he has since lost what I brought him--and that now he
would compel me to sign away my settlement (it was well I had the chief
of my property settled on myself!) that he may lose this also, or throw
it away in wild schemes, which nobody can understand but himself? And,
and--is not all this sufficient?'

'It is, indeed,' said Emily, 'but you must recollect, dear madam, that I
knew nothing of all this.'

'Well, and is it not sufficient,' rejoined her aunt, 'that he is also
absolutely ruined, that he is sunk deeply in debt, and that neither
this castle, or the mansion at Venice, is his own, if all his debts,
honourable and dishonourable, were paid!'

'I am shocked by what you tell me, madam,' said Emily.

'And is it not enough,' interrupted Madame Montoni, 'that he has treated
me with neglect, with cruelty, because I refused to relinquish my
settlements, and, instead of being frightened by his menaces, resolutely
defied him, and upbraided him with his shameful conduct? But I bore all
meekly,--you know, niece, I never uttered a word of complaint, till now;
no! That such a disposition as mine should be so imposed upon! That I,
whose only faults are too much kindness, too much generosity, should be
chained for life to such a vile, deceitful, cruel monster!'

Want of breath compelled Madame Montoni to stop. If any thing could have
made Emily smile in these moments, it would have been this speech of
her aunt, delivered in a voice very little below a scream, and with a
vehemence of gesticulation and of countenance, that turned the whole
into burlesque. Emily saw, that her misfortunes did not admit of real
consolation, and, contemning the commonplace terms of superficial
comfort, she was silent; while Madame Montoni, jealous of her own
consequence, mistook this for the silence of indifference, or of
contempt, and reproached her with want of duty and feeling.

'O! I suspected what all this boasted sensibility would prove to be!'
rejoined she; 'I thought it would not teach you to feel either duty,
or affection, for your relations, who have treated you like their own
daughter!'

'Pardon me, madam,' said Emily, mildly, 'it is not natural to me to
boast, and if it was, I am sure I would not boast of sensibility--a
quality, perhaps, more to be feared, than desired.'

'Well, well, niece, I will not dispute with you. But, as I said, Montoni
threatens me with violence, if I any longer refuse to sign away my
settlements, and this was the subject of our contest, when you came into
the room before. Now, I am determined no power on earth shall make me
do this. Neither will I bear all this tamely. He shall hear his true
character from me; I will tell him all he deserves, in spite of his
threats and cruel treatment.'

Emily seized a pause of Madame Montoni's voice, to speak. 'Dear madam,'
said she, 'but will not this serve to irritate the Signor unnecessarily?
will it not provoke the harsh treatment you dread?'

'I do not care,' replied Madame Montoni, 'it does not signify: I will
not submit to such usage. You would have me give up my settlements, too,
I suppose!'

'No, madam, I do not exactly mean that.'

'What is it you do mean then?'

'You spoke of reproaching the Signor,'--said Emily, with hesitation.
'Why, does he not deserve reproaches?' said her aunt.

'Certainly he does; but will it be prudent in you, madam, to make them?'

'Prudent!' exclaimed Madame Montoni. 'Is this a time to talk of
prudence, when one is threatened with all sorts of violence?'

'It is to avoid that violence, that prudence is necessary.' said Emily.

'Of prudence!' continued Madame Montoni, without attending to her, 'of
prudence towards a man, who does not scruple to break all the common
ties of humanity in his conduct to me! And is it for me to consider
prudence in my behaviour towards him! I am not so mean.'

'It is for your own sake, not for the Signor's, madam,' said Emily
modestly, 'that you should consult prudence. Your reproaches, however
just, cannot punish him, but they may provoke him to further violence
against you.'

'What! would you have me submit, then, to whatever he commands--would
you have me kneel down at his feet, and thank him for his cruelties?
Would you have me give up my settlements?'

'How much you mistake me, madam!' said Emily, 'I am unequal to advise
you on a point so important as the last: but you will pardon me for
saying, that, if you consult your own peace, you will try to conciliate
Signor Montoni, rather than to irritate him by reproaches.'

'Conciliate indeed! I tell you, niece, it is utterly impossible; I
disdain to attempt it.'

Emily was shocked to observe the perverted understanding and obstinate
temper of Madame Montoni; but, not less grieved for her sufferings,
she looked round for some alleviating circumstance to offer her. 'Your
situation is, perhaps, not so desperate, dear madam,' said Emily, 'as
you may imagine. The Signor may represent his affairs to be worse than
they are, for the purpose of pleading a stronger necessity for his
possession of your settlement. Besides, so long as you keep this, you
may look forward to it as a resource, at least, that will afford you
a competence, should the Signor's future conduct compel you to sue for
separation.'

Madame Montoni impatiently interrupted her. 'Unfeeling, cruel girl!'
said she, 'and so you would persuade me, that I have no reason to
complain; that the Signor is in very flourishing circumstances, that my
future prospects promise nothing but comfort, and that my griefs are
as fanciful and romantic as your own! Is it the way to console me, to
endeavour to persuade me out of my senses and my feelings, because you
happen to have no feelings yourself? I thought I was opening my heart
to a person, who could sympathize in my distress, but I find, that your
people of sensibility can feel for nobody but themselves! You may retire
to your chamber.'

Emily, without replying, immediately left the room, with a mingled
emotion of pity and contempt, and hastened to her own, where she yielded
to the mournful reflections, which a knowledge of her aunt's situation
had occasioned. The conversation of the Italian with Valancourt, in
France, again occurred to her. His hints, respecting the broken fortunes
of Montoni, were now completely justified; those, also, concerning his
character, appeared not less so, though the particular circumstances,
connected with his fame, to which the stranger had alluded, yet remained
to be explained. Notwithstanding, that her own observations and the
words of Count Morano had convinced her, that Montoni's situation was
not what it formerly appeared to be, the intelligence she had just
received from her aunt on this point, struck her with all the force of
astonishment, which was not weakened, when she considered the present
style of Montoni's living, the number of servants he maintained, and the
new expences he was incurring, by repairing and fortifying his castle.
Her anxiety for her aunt and for herself increased with reflection.
Several assertions of Morano, which, on the preceding night, she
had believed were prompted either by interest, or by resentment, now
returned to her mind with the strength of truth. She could not doubt,
that Montoni had formerly agreed to give her to the Count, for a
pecuniary reward;--his character, and his distressed circumstances
justified the belief; these, also, seemed to confirm Morano's assertion,
that he now designed to dispose of her, more advantageously for himself,
to a richer suitor.

Amidst the reproaches, which Morano had thrown out against Montoni,
he had said--he would not quit the castle HE DARED TO CALL HIS, nor
willingly leave ANOTHER murder on his conscience--hints, which might
have no other origin than the passion of the moment: but Emily was now
inclined to account for them more seriously, and she shuddered to think,
that she was in the hands of a man, to whom it was even possible they
could apply. At length, considering, that reflection could neither
release her from her melancholy situation, or enable her to bear it with
greater fortitude, she tried to divert her anxiety, and took down from
her little library a volume of her favourite Ariosto; but his wild
imagery and rich invention could not long enchant her attention; his
spells did not reach her heart, and over her sleeping fancy they played,
without awakening it.

She now put aside the book, and took her lute, for it was seldom that
her sufferings refused to yield to the magic of sweet sounds; when they
did so, she was oppressed by sorrow, that came from excess of tenderness
and regret; and there were times, when music had increased such sorrow
to a degree, that was scarcely endurable; when, if it had not suddenly
ceased, she might have lost her reason. Such was the time, when she
mourned for her father, and heard the midnight strains, that floated by
her window near the convent in Languedoc, on the night that followed his
death.

She continued to play, till Annette brought dinner into her chamber,
at which Emily was surprised, and enquired whose order she obeyed. 'My
lady's, ma'amselle,' replied Annette: 'the Signor ordered her dinner to
be carried to her own apartment, and so she has sent you yours. There
have been sad doings between them, worse than ever, I think.'

Emily, not appearing to notice what she said, sat down to the little
table, that was spread for her. But Annette was not to be silenced thus
easily. While she waited, she told of the arrival of the men, whom
Emily had observed on the ramparts, and expressed much surprise at their
strange appearance, as well as at the manner, in which they had been
attended by Montoni's order. 'Do they dine with the Signor, then?' said
Emily.

'No, ma'amselle, they dined long ago, in an apartment at the north end
of the castle, but I know not when they are to go, for the Signor told
old Carlo to see them provided with every thing necessary. They have
been walking all about the castle, and asking questions of the workmen
on the ramparts. I never saw such strange-looking men in my life; I am
frightened whenever I see them.'

Emily enquired, if she had heard of Count Morano, and whether he was
likely to recover: but Annette only knew, that he was lodged in a
cottage in the wood below, and that every body said he must die. Emily's
countenance discovered her emotion.

'Dear ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'to see how young ladies will disguise
themselves, when they are in love! I thought you hated the Count, or I
am sure I would not have told you; and I am sure you have cause enough
to hate him.'

'I hope I hate nobody,' replied Emily, trying to smile; 'but certainly
I do not love Count Morano. I should be shocked to hear of any person
dying by violent means.'

'Yes, ma'amselle, but it is his own fault.'

Emily looked displeased; and Annette, mistaking the cause of her
displeasure, immediately began to excuse the Count, in her way. 'To
be sure, it was very ungenteel behaviour,' said she, 'to break into a
lady's room, and then, when he found his discoursing was not agreeable
to her, to refuse to go; and then, when the gentleman of the castle
comes to desire him to walk about his business--to turn round, and draw
his sword, and swear he'll run him through the body!--To be sure it was
very ungenteel behaviour, but then he was disguised in love, and so did
not know what he was about.'

'Enough of this,' said Emily, who now smiled without an effort; and
Annette returned to a mention of the disagreement between Montoni, and
her lady. 'It is nothing new,' said she: 'we saw and heard enough of
this at Venice, though I never told you of it, ma'amselle.'

'Well, Annette, it was very prudent of you not to mention it then: be as
prudent now; the subject is an unpleasant one.'

'Ah dear, ma'amselle!--to see now how considerate you can be about
some folks, who care so little about you! I cannot bear to see you so
deceived, and I must tell you. But it is all for your own good, and not
to spite my lady, though, to speak truth, I have little reason to love
her; but--'

'You are not speaking thus of my aunt, I hope, Annette?' said Emily,
gravely.

'Yes, ma'amselle, but I am, though; and if you knew as much as I do, you
would not look so angry. I have often, and often, heard the Signor and
her talking over your marriage with the Count, and she always advised
him never to give up to your foolish whims, as she was pleased to call
them, but to be resolute, and compel you to be obedient, whether you
would, or no. And I am sure, my heart has ached a thousand times, and
I have thought, when she was so unhappy herself, she might have felt a
little for other people, and--'

'I thank you for your pity, Annette,' said Emily, interrupting her: 'but
my aunt was unhappy then, and that disturbed her temper perhaps, or I
think--I am sure--You may take away, Annette, I have done.'

'Dear ma'amselle, you have eat nothing at all! Do try, and take a
little bit more. Disturbed her temper truly! why, her temper is always
disturbed, I think. And at Tholouse too I have heard my lady talking of
you and Mons. Valancourt to Madame Merveille and Madame Vaison, often
and often, in a very ill-natured way, as I thought, telling them what
a deal of trouble she had to keep you in order, and what a fatigue and
distress it was to her, and that she believed you would run away with
Mons. Valancourt, if she was not to watch you closely; and that you
connived at his coming about the house at night, and--'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, blushing deeply, 'it is surely impossible
my aunt could thus have represented me!'

'Indeed, ma'am, I say nothing more than the truth, and not all of
that. But I thought, myself, she might have found something better to
discourse about, than the faults of her own niece, even if you had been
in fault, ma'amselle; but I did not believe a word of what she said. But
my lady does not care what she says against any body, for that matter.'

'However that may be, Annette,' interrupted Emily, recovering her
composure, 'it does not become you to speak of the faults of my aunt to
me. I know you have meant well, but--say no more.--I have quite dined.'

Annette blushed, looked down, and then began slowly to clear the table.

'Is this, then, the reward of my ingenuousness?' said Emily, when she
was alone; 'the treatment I am to receive from a relation--an
aunt--who ought to have been the guardian, not the slanderer of my
reputation,--who, as a woman, ought to have respected the delicacy of
female honour, and, as a relation, should have protected mine! But, to
utter falsehoods on so nice a subject--to repay the openness, and, I
may say with honest pride, the propriety of my conduct, with
slanders--required a depravity of heart, such as I could scarcely
have believed existed, such as I weep to find in a relation. O! what a
contrast does her character present to that of my beloved father;
while envy and low cunning form the chief traits of hers, his was
distinguished by benevolence and philosophic wisdom! But now, let me
only remember, if possible, that she is unfortunate.'

Emily threw her veil over her, and went down to walk upon the ramparts,
the only walk, indeed, which was open to her, though she often wished,
that she might be permitted to ramble among the woods below, and
still more, that she might sometimes explore the sublime scenes of the
surrounding country. But, as Montoni would not suffer her to pass the
gates of the castle, she tried to be contented with the romantic views
she beheld from the walls. The peasants, who had been employed on the
fortifications, had left their work, and the ramparts were silent and
solitary. Their lonely appearance, together with the gloom of a lowering
sky, assisted the musings of her mind, and threw over it a kind of
melancholy tranquillity, such as she often loved to indulge. She turned
to observe a fine effect of the sun, as his rays, suddenly streaming
from behind a heavy cloud, lighted up the west towers of the castle,
while the rest of the edifice was in deep shade, except, that, through
a lofty gothic arch, adjoining the tower, which led to another terrace,
the beams darted in full splendour, and shewed the three strangers
she had observed in the morning. Perceiving them, she started, and a
momentary fear came over her, as she looked up the long rampart, and saw
no other persons. While she hesitated, they approached. The gate at the
end of the terrace, whither they were advancing, she knew, was always
locked, and she could not depart by the opposite extremity, without
meeting them; but, before she passed them, she hastily drew a thin
veil over her face, which did, indeed, but ill conceal her beauty. They
looked earnestly at her, and spoke to each other in bad Italian,
of which she caught only a few words; but the fierceness of their
countenances, now that she was near enough to discriminate them, struck
her yet more than the wild singularity of their air and dress had
formerly done. It was the countenance and figure of him, who walked
between the other two, that chiefly seized her attention, which
expressed a sullen haughtiness and a kind of dark watchful villany, that
gave a thrill of horror to her heart. All this was so legibly written on
his features, as to be seen by a single glance, for she passed the group
swiftly, and her timid eyes scarcely rested on them a moment. Having
reached the terrace, she stopped, and perceived the strangers standing
in the shadow of one of the turrets, gazing after her, and seemingly, by
their action, in earnest conversation. She immediately left the rampart,
and retired to her apartment.

In the evening, Montoni sat late, carousing with his guests in the cedar
chamber. His recent triumph over Count Morano, or, perhaps, some other
circumstance, contributed to elevate his spirits to an unusual height.
He filled the goblet often, and gave a loose to merriment and talk. The
gaiety of Cavigni, on the contrary, was somewhat clouded by anxiety. He
kept a watchful eye upon Verezzi, whom, with the utmost difficulty,
he had hitherto restrained from exasperating Montoni further against
Morano, by a mention of his late taunting words.

One of the company exultingly recurred to the event of the preceding
evening. Verezzi's eyes sparkled. The mention of Morano led to that of
Emily, of whom they were all profuse in the praise, except Montoni, who
sat silent, and then interrupted the subject.

When the servants had withdrawn, Montoni and his friends entered into
close conversation, which was sometimes checked by the irascible temper
of Verezzi, but in which Montoni displayed his conscious superiority,
by that decisive look and manner, which always accompanied the vigour
of his thought, and to which most of his companions submitted, as to
a power, that they had no right to question, though of each
other's self-importance they were jealously scrupulous. Amidst this
conversation, one of them imprudently introduced again the name of
Morano; and Verezzi, now more heated by wine, disregarded the expressive
looks of Cavigni, and gave some dark hints of what had passed on the
preceding night. These, however, Montoni did not appear to understand,
for he continued silent in his chair, without discovering any emotion,
while, the choler of Verezzi increasing with the apparent insensibility
of Montoni, he at length told the suggestion of Morano, that this castle
did not lawfully belong to him, and that he would not willingly leave
another murder on his conscience.

'Am I to be insulted at my own table, and by my own friends?' said
Montoni, with a countenance pale in anger. 'Why are the words of that
madman repeated to me?' Verezzi, who had expected to hear Montoni's
indignation poured forth against Morano, and answered by thanks to
himself, looked with astonishment at Cavigni, who enjoyed his confusion.
'Can you be weak enough to credit the assertions of a madman?' rejoined
Montoni, 'or, what is the same thing, a man possessed by the spirit of
vengeance? But he has succeeded too well; you believe what he said.'

'Signor,' said Verezzi, 'we believe only what we know.'--'How!'
interrupted Montoni, sternly: 'produce your proof.'

'We believe only what we know,' repeated Verezzi, 'and we know nothing
of what Morano asserts.' Montoni seemed to recover himself. 'I am hasty,
my friends,' said he, 'with respect to my honour; no man shall question
it with impunity--you did not mean to question it. These foolish words
are not worth your remembrance, or my resentment. Verezzi, here is to
your first exploit.'

'Success to your first exploit,' re-echoed the whole company.

'Noble Signor,' replied Verezzi, glad to find he had escaped Montoni's
resentment, 'with my good will, you shall build your ramparts of gold.'

'Pass the goblet,' cried Montoni. 'We will drink to Signora St. Aubert,'
said Cavigni. 'By your leave we will first drink to the lady of the
castle.' said Bertolini.--Montoni was silent. 'To the lady of the
castle,' said his guests. He bowed his head.

'It much surprises me, Signor,' said Bertolini, 'that you have so long
neglected this castle; it is a noble edifice.'

'It suits our purpose,' replied Montoni, 'and IS a noble edifice. You
know not, it seems, by what mischance it came to me.'

'It was a lucky mischance, be it what it may, Signor,' replied
Bertolini, smiling. 'I would, that one so lucky had befallen me.'

Montoni looked gravely at him. 'If you will attend to what I say,' he
resumed, 'you shall hear the story.'

The countenances of Bertolini and Verezzi expressed something more than
curiosity; Cavigni, who seemed to feel none, had probably heard the
relation before.

'It is now near twenty years,' said Montoni, 'since this castle came
into my possession. I inherit it by the female line. The lady, my
predecessor, was only distantly related to me; I am the last of her
family. She was beautiful and rich; I wooed her; but her heart was fixed
upon another, and she rejected me. It is probable, however, that she
was herself rejected of the person, whoever he might be, on whom she
bestowed her favour, for a deep and settled melancholy took possession
of her; and I have reason to believe she put a period to her own life.
I was not at the castle at the time; but, as there are some singular and
mysterious circumstances attending that event, I shall repeat them.'

'Repeat them!' said a voice.

Montoni was silent; the guests looked at each other, to know who spoke;
but they perceived, that each was making the same enquiry. Montoni, at
length, recovered himself. 'We are overheard,' said he: 'we will finish
this subject another time. Pass the goblet.'

The cavaliers looked round the wide chamber.

'Here is no person, but ourselves,' said Verezzi: 'pray, Signor,
proceed.'

'Did you hear any thing?' said Montoni.

'We did,' said Bertolini.

'It could be only fancy,' said Verezzi, looking round again. 'We see no
person besides ourselves; and the sound I thought I heard seemed within
the room. Pray, Signor, go on.'

Montoni paused a moment, and then proceeded in a lowered voice, while
the cavaliers drew nearer to attend.

'Ye are to know, Signors, that the Lady Laurentini had for some months
shewn symptoms of a dejected mind, nay, of a disturbed imagination. Her
mood was very unequal; sometimes she was sunk in calm melancholy, and,
at others, as I have been told, she betrayed all the symptoms of
frantic madness. It was one night in the month of October, after she had
recovered from one of those fits of excess, and had sunk again into her
usual melancholy, that she retired alone to her chamber, and forbade all
interruption. It was the chamber at the end of the corridor, Signors,
where we had the affray, last night. From that hour, she was seen no
more.'

'How! seen no more!' said Bertolini, 'was not her body found in the
chamber?'

'Were her remains never found?' cried the rest of the company all
together.

'Never!' replied Montoni.

'What reasons were there to suppose she destroyed herself, then?' said
Bertolini.--'Aye, what reasons?' said Verezzi.--'How happened it, that
her remains were never found? Although she killed herself, she could
not bury herself.' Montoni looked indignantly at Verezzi, who began to
apologize. 'Your pardon, Signor,' said he: 'I did not consider, that the
lady was your relative, when I spoke of her so lightly.'

Montoni accepted the apology.

'But the Signor will oblige us with the reasons, which urged him to
believe, that the lady committed suicide.'

'Those I will explain hereafter,' said Montoni: 'at present let me
relate a most extraordinary circumstance. This conversation goes no
further, Signors. Listen, then, to what I am going to say.'

'Listen!' said a voice.

They were all again silent, and the countenance of Montoni changed.
'This is no illusion of the fancy,' said Cavigni, at length breaking the
profound silence.--'No,' said Bertolini; 'I heard it myself, now. Yet
here is no person in the room but ourselves!'

'This is very extraordinary,' said Montoni, suddenly rising. 'This is
not to be borne; here is some deception, some trick. I will know what it
means.'

All the company rose from their chairs in confusion.

'It is very odd!' said Bertolini. 'Here is really no stranger in the
room. If it is a trick, Signor, you will do well to punish the author of
it severely.'

'A trick! what else can it be?' said Cavigni, affecting a laugh.

The servants were now summoned, and the chamber was searched, but
no person was found. The surprise and consternation of the company
increased. Montoni was discomposed. 'We will leave this room,' said he,
'and the subject of our conversation also; it is too solemn.' His guests
were equally ready to quit the apartment; but the subject had roused
their curiosity, and they entreated Montoni to withdraw to another
chamber, and finish it; no entreaties could, however, prevail with
him. Notwithstanding his efforts to appear at ease, he was visibly and
greatly disordered.

'Why, Signor, you are not superstitious,' cried Verezzi, jeeringly;
'you, who have so often laughed at the credulity of others!'

'I am not superstitious,' replied Montoni, regarding him with stern
displeasure, 'though I know how to despise the common-place sentences,
which are frequently uttered against superstition. I will enquire
further into this affair.' He then left the room; and his guests,
separating for the night, retired to their respective apartments.



CHAPTER VIII


 He wears the rose of youth upon his cheek.
     SHAKESPEARE

We now return to Valancourt, who, it may be remembered, remained
at Tholouse, some time after the departure of Emily, restless and
miserable. Each morrow that approached, he designed should carry
him from thence; yet to-morrow and to-morrow came, and still saw him
lingering in the scene of his former happiness. He could not immediately
tear himself from the spot, where he had been accustomed to converse
with Emily, or from the objects they had viewed together, which appeared
to him memorials of her affection, as well as a kind of surety for its
faithfulness; and, next to the pain of bidding her adieu, was that of
leaving the scenes which so powerfully awakened her image. Sometimes he
had bribed a servant, who had been left in the care of Madame Montoni's
chateau, to permit him to visit the gardens, and there he would wander,
for hours together, rapt in a melancholy, not unpleasing. The terrace,
and the pavilion at the end of it, where he had taken leave of Emily, on
the eve of her departure from Tholouse, were his most favourite haunts.
There, as he walked, or leaned from the window of the building, he would
endeavour to recollect all she had said, on that night; to catch the
tones of her voice, as they faintly vibrated on his memory, and to
remember the exact expression of her countenance, which sometimes came
suddenly to his fancy, like a vision; that beautiful countenance, which
awakened, as by instantaneous magic, all the tenderness of his heart,
and seemed to tell with irresistible eloquence--that he had lost her
forever! At these moments, his hurried steps would have discovered to a
spectator the despair of his heart. The character of Montoni, such as
he had received from hints, and such as his fears represented it, would
rise to his view, together with all the dangers it seemed to threaten
to Emily and to his love. He blamed himself, that he had not urged these
more forcibly to her, while it might have been in his power to detain
her, and that he had suffered an absurd and criminal delicacy, as he
termed it, to conquer so soon the reasonable arguments he had opposed to
this journey. Any evil, that might have attended their marriage, seemed
so inferior to those, which now threatened their love, or even to the
sufferings, that absence occasioned, that he wondered how he could have
ceased to urge his suit, till he had convinced her of its propriety; and
he would certainly now have followed her to Italy, if he could have been
spared from his regiment for so long a journey. His regiment, indeed,
soon reminded him, that he had other duties to attend, than those of
love.

A short time after his arrival at his brother's house, he was summoned
to join his brother officers, and he accompanied a battalion to Paris;
where a scene of novelty and gaiety opened upon him, such as, till then,
he had only a faint idea of. But gaiety disgusted, and company fatigued,
his sick mind; and he became an object of unceasing raillery to his
companions, from whom, whenever he could steal an opportunity, he
escaped, to think of Emily. The scenes around him, however, and the
company with whom he was obliged to mingle, engaged his attention,
though they failed to amuse his fancy, and thus gradually weakened the
habit of yielding to lamentation, till it appeared less a duty to his
love to indulge it. Among his brother-officers were many, who added
to the ordinary character of a French soldier's gaiety some of those
fascinating qualities, which too frequently throw a veil over folly, and
sometimes even soften the features of vice into smiles. To these men
the reserved and thoughtful manners of Valancourt were a kind of tacit
censure on their own, for which they rallied him when present, and
plotted against him when absent; they gloried in the thought of reducing
him to their own level, and, considering it to be a spirited frolic,
determined to accomplish it.

Valancourt was a stranger to the gradual progress of scheme and
intrigue, against which he could not be on his guard. He had not been
accustomed to receive ridicule, and he could ill endure its sting; he
resented it, and this only drew upon him a louder laugh. To escape from
such scenes, he fled into solitude, and there the image of Emily met
him, and revived the pangs of love and despair. He then sought to renew
those tasteful studies, which had been the delight of his early years;
but his mind had lost the tranquillity, which is necessary for their
enjoyment. To forget himself and the grief and anxiety, which the idea
of her recalled, he would quit his solitude, and again mingle in the
crowd--glad of a temporary relief, and rejoicing to snatch amusement for
the moment.

Thus passed weeks after weeks, time gradually softening his sorrow, and
habit strengthening his desire of amusement, till the scenes around him
seemed to awaken into a new character, and Valancourt, to have fallen
among them from the clouds.

His figure and address made him a welcome visitor, wherever he had been
introduced, and he soon frequented the most gay and fashionable circles
of Paris. Among these, was the assembly of the Countess Lacleur, a woman
of eminent beauty and captivating manners. She had passed the spring of
youth, but her wit prolonged the triumph of its reign, and they mutually
assisted the fame of each other; for those, who were charmed by her
loveliness, spoke with enthusiasm of her talents; and others, who
admired her playful imagination, declared, that her personal graces were
unrivalled. But her imagination was merely playful, and her wit, if such
it could be called, was brilliant, rather than just; it dazzled, and its
fallacy escaped the detection of the moment; for the accents, in which
she pronounced it, and the smile, that accompanied them, were a spell
upon the judgment of the auditors. Her petits soupers were the most
tasteful of any in Paris, and were frequented by many of the second
class of literati. She was fond of music, was herself a scientific
performer, and had frequently concerts at her house. Valancourt, who
passionately loved music, and who sometimes assisted at these concerts,
admired her execution, but remembered with a sigh the eloquent
simplicity of Emily's songs and the natural expression of her manner,
which waited not to be approved by the judgment, but found their way at
once to the heart.

Madame La Comtesse had often deep play at her house, which she affected
to restrain, but secretly encouraged; and it was well known among her
friends, that the splendour of her establishment was chiefly supplied
from the profits of her tables. But her petits soupers were the most
charming imaginable! Here were all the delicacies of the four quarters
of the world, all the wit and the lighter efforts of genius, all the
graces of conversation--the smiles of beauty, and the charm of music;
and Valancourt passed his pleasantest, as well as most dangerous hours
in these parties.

His brother, who remained with his family in Gascony, had contented
himself with giving him letters of introduction to such of his
relations, residing at Paris, as the latter was not already known to.
All these were persons of some distinction; and, as neither the person,
mind, or manners of Valancourt the younger threatened to disgrace their
alliance, they received him with as much kindness as their nature,
hardened by uninterrupted prosperity, would admit of; but their
attentions did not extend to acts of real friendship; for they were too
much occupied by their own pursuits, to feel any interest in his; and
thus he was set down in the midst of Paris, in the pride of youth, with
an open, unsuspicious temper and ardent affections, without one friend,
to warn him of the dangers, to which he was exposed. Emily, who, had
she been present, would have saved him from these evils by awakening
his heart, and engaging him in worthy pursuits, now only increased
his danger;--it was to lose the grief, which the remembrance of her
occasioned, that he first sought amusement; and for this end he pursued
it, till habit made it an object of abstract interest.

There was also a Marchioness Champfort, a young widow, at whose
assemblies he passed much of his time. She was handsome, still more
artful, gay and fond of intrigue. The society, which she drew round her,
was less elegant and more vicious, than that of the Countess Lacleur:
but, as she had address enough to throw a veil, though but a slight
one, over the worst part of her character, she was still visited by many
persons of what is called distinction. Valancourt was introduced to her
parties by two of his brother officers, whose late ridicule he had now
forgiven so far, that he could sometimes join in the laugh, which a
mention of his former manners would renew.

The gaiety of the most splendid court in Europe, the magnificence of
the palaces, entertainments, and equipages, that surrounded him--all
conspired to dazzle his imagination, and re-animate his spirits, and
the example and maxims of his military associates to delude his mind.
Emily's image, indeed, still lived there; but it was no longer the
friend, the monitor, that saved him from himself, and to which he
retired to weep the sweet, yet melancholy, tears of tenderness. When
he had recourse to it, it assumed a countenance of mild reproach, that
wrung his soul, and called forth tears of unmixed misery; his only
escape from which was to forget the object of it, and he endeavoured,
therefore, to think of Emily as seldom as he could.

Thus dangerously circumstanced was Valancourt, at the time, when Emily
was suffering at Venice, from the persecuting addresses of Count Morano,
and the unjust authority of Montoni; at which period we leave him.



CHAPTER IX


 The image of a wicked, heinous fault
 Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his
 Does shew the mood of a much-troubled breast.
     KING JOHN

Leaving the gay scenes of Paris, we return to those of the gloomy
Apennine, where Emily's thoughts were still faithful to Valancourt.
Looking to him as to her only hope, she recollected, with jealous
exactness, every assurance and every proof she had witnessed of his
affection; read again and again the letters she had received from him;
weighed, with intense anxiety, the force of every word, that spoke of
his attachment; and dried her tears, as she trusted in his truth.

Montoni, meanwhile, had made strict enquiry concerning the strange
circumstance of his alarm, without obtaining information; and was, at
length, obliged to account for it by the reasonable supposition, that
it was a mischievous trick played off by one of his domestics. His
disagreements with Madame Montoni, on the subject of her settlements,
were now more frequent than ever; he even confined her entirely to her
own apartment, and did not scruple to threaten her with much greater
severity, should she persevere in a refusal.

Reason, had she consulted it, would now have perplexed her in the choice
of a conduct to be adopted. It would have pointed out the danger of
irritating by further opposition a man, such as Montoni had proved
himself to be, and to whose power she had so entirely committed herself;
and it would also have told her, of what extreme importance to her
future comfort it was, to reserve for herself those possessions, which
would enable her to live independently of Montoni, should she ever
escape from his immediate controul. But she was directed by a more
decisive guide than reason--the spirit of revenge, which urged her to
oppose violence to violence, and obstinacy to obstinacy.

Wholly confined to the solitude of her apartment, she was now reduced
to solicit the society she had lately rejected; for Emily was the only
person, except Annette, with whom she was permitted to converse.

Generously anxious for her peace, Emily, therefore, tried to persuade,
when she could not convince, and sought by every gentle means to induce
her to forbear that asperity of reply, which so greatly irritated
Montoni. The pride of her aunt did sometimes soften to the soothing
voice of Emily, and there even were moments, when she regarded her
affectionate attentions with goodwill.

The scenes of terrible contention, to which Emily was frequently
compelled to be witness, exhausted her spirits more than any
circumstances, that had occurred since her departure from Tholouse. The
gentleness and goodness of her parents, together with the scenes of her
early happiness, often stole on her mind, like the visions of a higher
world; while the characters and circumstances, now passing beneath her
eye, excited both terror and surprise. She could scarcely have
imagined, that passions so fierce and so various, as those which Montoni
exhibited, could have been concentrated in one individual; yet what
more surprised her, was, that, on great occasions, he could bend these
passions, wild as they were, to the cause of his interest, and generally
could disguise in his countenance their operation on his mind; but she
had seen him too often, when he had thought it unnecessary to conceal
his nature, to be deceived on such occasions.

Her present life appeared like the dream of a distempered imagination,
or like one of those frightful fictions, in which the wild genius of
the poets sometimes delighted. Reflection brought only regret, and
anticipation terror. How often did she wish to 'steal the lark's wing,
and mount the swiftest gale,' that Languedoc and repose might once more
be hers!

Of Count Morano's health she made frequent enquiry; but Annette heard
only vague reports of his danger, and that his surgeon had said he would
never leave the cottage alive; while Emily could not but be shocked to
think, that she, however innocently, might be the means of his death;
and Annette, who did not fail to observe her emotion, interpreted it in
her own way.

But a circumstance soon occurred, which entirely withdrew Annette's
attention from this subject, and awakened the surprise and curiosity so
natural to her. Coming one day to Emily's apartment, with a countenance
full of importance, 'What can all this mean, ma'amselle?' said she.
'Would I was once safe in Languedoc again, they should never catch me
going on my travels any more! I must think it a fine thing, truly, to
come abroad, and see foreign parts! I little thought I was coming to be
catched up in a old castle, among such dreary mountains, with the chance
of being murdered, or, what is as good, having my throat cut!'

'What can all this mean, indeed, Annette?' said Emily, in astonishment.

'Aye, ma'amselle, you may look surprised; but you won't believe it,
perhaps, till they have murdered you, too. You would not believe about
the ghost I told you of, though I shewed you the very place, where it
used to appear!--You will believe nothing, ma'amselle.'

'Not till you speak more reasonably, Annette; for Heaven's sake, explain
your meaning. You spoke of murder!'

'Aye, ma'amselle, they are coming to murder us all, perhaps; but what
signifies explaining?--you will not believe.'

Emily again desired her to relate what she had seen, or heard.

'O, I have seen enough, ma'am, and heard too much, as Ludovico can
prove. Poor soul! they will murder him, too! I little thought, when
he sung those sweet verses under my lattice, at Venice!'--Emily looked
impatient and displeased. 'Well, ma'amselle, as I was saying, these
preparations about the castle, and these strange-looking people, that
are calling here every day, and the Signor's cruel usage of my lady, and
his odd goings-on--all these, as I told Ludovico, can bode no good. And
he bid me hold my tongue. So, says I, the Signor's strangely altered,
Ludovico, in this gloomy castle, to what he was in France; there, all so
gay! Nobody so gallant to my lady, then; and he could smile, too, upon
a poor servant, sometimes, and jeer her, too, good-naturedly enough.
I remember once, when he said to me, as I was going out of my lady's
dressing-room--Annette, says he--'

'Never mind what the Signor said,' interrupted Emily; 'but tell me, at
once, the circumstance, which has thus alarmed you.'

'Aye, ma'amselle,' rejoined Annette, 'that is just what Ludovico said:
says he, Never mind what the Signor says to you. So I told him what I
thought about the Signor. He is so strangely altered, said I: for now he
is so haughty, and so commanding, and so sharp with my lady; and, if he
meets one, he'll scarcely look at one, unless it be to frown. So much
the better, says Ludovico, so much the better. And to tell you the
truth, ma'amselle, I thought this was a very ill-natured speech of
Ludovico: but I went on. And then, says I, he is always knitting his
brows; and if one speaks to him, he does not hear; and then he sits up
counselling so, of a night, with the other Signors--there they are, till
long past midnight, discoursing together! Aye, but says Ludovico,
you don't know what they are counselling about. No, said I, but I
can guess--it is about my young lady. Upon that, Ludovico burst out
a-laughing, quite loud; so he put me in a huff, for I did not like that
either I or you, ma'amselle, should be laughed at; and I turned away
quick, but he stopped me. "Don't be affronted, Annette," said he, "but I
cannot help laughing;" and with that he laughed again. "What!" says he,
"do you think the Signors sit up, night after night, only to counsel
about thy young lady! No, no, there is something more in the wind than
that. And these repairs about the castle, and these preparations about
the ramparts--they are not making about young ladies." Why, surely, said
I, the Signor, my master, is not going to make war? "Make war!" said
Ludovico, "what, upon the mountains and the woods? for here is no living
soul to make war upon that I see."

'What are these preparations for, then? said I; why surely nobody
is coming to take away my master's castle! "Then there are so many
ill-looking fellows coming to the castle every day," says Ludovico,
without answering my question, "and the Signor sees them all, and talks
with them all, and they all stay in the neighbourhood! By holy St.
Marco! some of them are the most cut-throat-looking dogs I ever set my
eyes upon."

'I asked Ludovico again, if he thought they were coming to take away my
master's castle; and he said, No, he did not think they were, but he did
not know for certain. "Then yesterday," said he, but you must not tell
this, ma'amselle, "yesterday, a party of these men came, and left all
their horses in the castle stables, where, it seems, they are to
stay, for the Signor ordered them all to be entertained with the
best provender in the manger; but the men are, most of them, in the
neighbouring cottages."

'So, ma'amselle, I came to tell you all this, for I never heard any
thing so strange in my life. But what can these ill-looking men be come
about, if it is not to murder us? And the Signor knows this, or why
should he be so civil to them? And why should he fortify the castle, and
counsel so much with the other Signors, and be so thoughtful?'

'Is this all you have to tell, Annette?' said Emily. 'Have you heard
nothing else, that alarms you?'

'Nothing else, ma'amselle!' said Annette; 'why, is not this enough?'
'Quite enough for my patience, Annette, but not quite enough to convince
me we are all to be murdered, though I acknowledge here is sufficient
food for curiosity.' She forbore to speak her apprehensions, because
she would not encourage Annette's wild terrors; but the present
circumstances of the castle both surprised, and alarmed her. Annette,
having told her tale, left the chamber, on the wing for new wonders.

In the evening, Emily had passed some melancholy hours with Madame
Montoni, and was retiring to rest, when she was alarmed by a strange and
loud knocking at her chamber door, and then a heavy weight fell against
it, that almost burst it open. She called to know who was there, and
receiving no answer, repeated the call; but a chilling silence followed.
It occurred to her--for, at this moment, she could not reason on the
probability of circumstances--that some one of the strangers, lately
arrived at the castle, had discovered her apartment, and was come with
such intent, as their looks rendered too possible--to rob, perhaps to
murder, her. The moment she admitted this possibility, terror supplied
the place of conviction, and a kind of instinctive remembrance of her
remote situation from the family heightened it to a degree, that almost
overcame her senses. She looked at the door, which led to the staircase,
expecting to see it open, and listening, in fearful silence, for a
return of the noise, till she began to think it had proceeded from this
door, and a wish of escaping through the opposite one rushed upon her
mind. She went to the gallery door, and then, fearing to open it, lest
some person might be silently lurking for her without, she stopped,
but with her eyes fixed in expectation upon the opposite door of the
stair-case. As thus she stood, she heard a faint breathing near her, and
became convinced, that some person was on the other side of the door,
which was already locked. She sought for other fastening, but there was
none.

While she yet listened, the breathing was distinctly heard, and her
terror was not soothed, when, looking round her wide and lonely chamber,
she again considered her remote situation. As she stood hesitating
whether to call for assistance, the continuance of the stillness
surprised her; and her spirits would have revived, had she not continued
to hear the faint breathing, that convinced her, the person, whoever it
was, had not quitted the door.

At length, worn out with anxiety, she determined to call loudly for
assistance from her casement, and was advancing to it, when, whether the
terror of her mind gave her ideal sounds, or that real ones did come,
she thought footsteps were ascending the private stair-case; and,
expecting to see its door unclose, she forgot all other cause of alarm,
and retreated towards the corridor. Here she endeavoured to make her
escape, but, on opening the door, was very near falling over a person,
who lay on the floor without. She screamed, and would have passed, but
her trembling frame refused to support her; and the moment, in which she
leaned against the wall of the gallery, allowed her leisure to observe
the figure before her, and to recognise the features of Annette. Fear
instantly yielded to surprise. She spoke in vain to the poor girl, who
remained senseless on the floor, and then, losing all consciousness of
her own weakness, hurried to her assistance.

When Annette recovered, she was helped by Emily into the chamber, but
was still unable to speak, and looked round her, as if her eyes followed
some person in the room. Emily tried to sooth her disturbed spirits, and
forbore, at present, to ask her any questions; but the faculty of speech
was never long with-held from Annette, and she explained, in broken
sentences, and in her tedious way, the occasion of her disorder. She
affirmed, and with a solemnity of conviction, that almost staggered
the incredulity of Emily, that she had seen an apparition, as she was
passing to her bedroom, through the corridor.

'I had heard strange stories of that chamber before,' said Annette:
'but as it was so near yours, ma'amselle, I would not tell them to you,
because they would frighten you. The servants had told me, often and
often, that it was haunted, and that was the reason why it was shut up:
nay, for that matter, why the whole string of these rooms, here, are
shut up. I quaked whenever I went by, and I must say, I did sometimes
think I heard odd noises within it. But, as I said, as I was passing
along the corridor, and not thinking a word about the matter, or even
of the strange voice that the Signors heard the other night, all of a
sudden comes a great light, and, looking behind me, there was a tall
figure, (I saw it as plainly, ma'amselle, as I see you at this moment),
a tall figure gliding along (Oh! I cannot describe how!) into the room,
that is always shut up, and nobody has the key of it but the Signor, and
the door shut directly.'

'Then it doubtless was the Signor,' said Emily.

'O no, ma'amselle, it could not be him, for I left him busy
a-quarrelling in my lady's dressing-room!'

'You bring me strange tales, Annette,' said Emily: 'it was but this
morning, that you would have terrified me with the apprehension of
murder; and now you would persuade me, you have seen a ghost! These
wonderful stories come too quickly.'

'Nay, ma'amselle, I will say no more, only, if I had not been
frightened, I should not have fainted dead away, so. I ran as fast as I
could, to get to your door; but, what was worst of all, I could not call
out; then I thought something must be strangely the matter with me, and
directly I dropt down.'

'Was it the chamber where the black veil hangs?' said Emily. 'O! no,
ma'amselle, it was one nearer to this. What shall I do, to get to my
room? I would not go out into the corridor again, for the whole world!'
Emily, whose spirits had been severely shocked, and who, therefore,
did not like the thought of passing the night alone, told her she might
sleep where she was. 'O, no, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, 'I would not
sleep in the room, now, for a thousand sequins!'

Wearied and disappointed, Emily first ridiculed, though she shared, her
fears, and then tried to sooth them; but neither attempt succeeded, and
the girl persisted in believing and affirming, that what she had seen
was nothing human. It was not till some time after Emily had recovered
her composure, that she recollected the steps she had heard on the
stair-case--a remembrance, however, which made her insist that Annette
should pass the night with her, and, with much difficulty, she, at
length, prevailed, assisted by that part of the girl's fear, which
concerned the corridor.

Early on the following morning, as Emily crossed the hall to the
ramparts, she heard a noisy bustle in the court-yard, and the clatter of
horses' hoofs. Such unusual sounds excited her curiosity; and, instead
of going to the ramparts, she went to an upper casement, from whence
she saw, in the court below, a large party of horsemen, dressed in a
singular, but uniform, habit, and completely, though variously, armed.
They wore a kind of short jacket, composed of black and scarlet, and
several of them had a cloak, of plain black, which, covering the person
entirely, hung down to the stirrups. As one of these cloaks glanced
aside, she saw, beneath, daggers, apparently of different sizes, tucked
into the horseman's belt. She further observed, that these were carried,
in the same manner, by many of the horsemen without cloaks, most of whom
bore also pikes, or javelins. On their heads, were the small Italian
caps, some of which were distinguished by black feathers. Whether these
caps gave a fierce air to the countenance, or that the countenances
they surmounted had naturally such an appearance, Emily thought she had
never, till then, seen an assemblage of faces so savage and terrific.
While she gazed, she almost fancied herself surrounded by banditti; and
a vague thought glanced athwart her fancy--that Montoni was the captain
of the group before her, and that this castle was to be the place of
rendezvous. The strange and horrible supposition was but momentary,
though her reason could supply none more probable, and though she
discovered, among the band, the strangers she had formerly noticed with
so much alarm, who were now distinguished by the black plume.

While she continued gazing, Cavigni, Verezzi, and Bertolini came forth
from the hall, habited like the rest, except that they wore hats, with
a mixed plume of black and scarlet, and that their arms differed from
those of the rest of the party. As they mounted their horses, Emily was
struck with the exulting joy, expressed on the visage of Verezzi, while
Cavigni was gay, yet with a shade of thought on his countenance; and, as
he managed his horse with dexterity, his graceful and commanding figure,
which exhibited the majesty of a hero, had never appeared to more
advantage. Emily, as she observed him, thought he somewhat resembled
Valancourt, in the spirit and dignity of his person; but she looked in
vain for the noble, benevolent countenance--the soul's intelligence,
which overspread the features of the latter.

As she was hoping, she scarcely knew why, that Montoni would accompany
the party, he appeared at the hall door, but un-accoutred. Having
carefully observed the horsemen, conversed awhile with the cavaliers,
and bidden them farewel, the band wheeled round the court, and, led by
Verezzi, issued forth under the portcullis; Montoni following to the
portal, and gazing after them for some time. Emily then retired from
the casement, and, now certain of being unmolested, went to walk on the
ramparts, from whence she soon after saw the party winding among the
mountains to the west, appearing and disappearing between the woods,
till distance confused their figures, consolidated their numbers, and
only a dingy mass appeared moving along the heights.

Emily observed, that no workmen were on the ramparts, and that the
repairs of the fortifications seemed to be completed. While she
sauntered thoughtfully on, she heard distant footsteps, and, raising her
eyes, saw several men lurking under the castle walls, who were evidently
not workmen, but looked as if they would have accorded well with the
party, which was gone. Wondering where Annette had hid herself so
long, who might have explained some of the late circumstances, and then
considering that Madame Montoni was probably risen, she went to her
dressing-room, where she mentioned what had occurred; but Madame Montoni
either would not, or could not, give any explanation of the event. The
Signor's reserve to his wife, on this subject, was probably nothing
more than usual; yet, to Emily, it gave an air of mystery to the whole
affair, that seemed to hint, there was danger, if not villany, in his
schemes.

Annette presently came, and, as usual, was full of alarm; to her lady's
eager enquiries of what she had heard among the servants, she replied:

'Ah, madam! nobody knows what it is all about, but old Carlo; he knows
well enough, I dare say, but he is as close as his master. Some say the
Signor is going out to frighten the enemy, as they call it: but where is
the enemy? Then others say, he is going to take away some body's castle:
but I am sure he has room enough in his own, without taking other
people's; and I am sure I should like it a great deal better, if there
were more people to fill it.'

'Ah! you will soon have your wish, I fear,' replied Madame Montoni.

'No, madam, but such ill-looking fellows are not worth having. I mean
such gallant, smart, merry fellows as Ludovico, who is always telling
droll stories, to make one laugh. It was but yesterday, he told me such
a HUMOURSOME tale! I can't help laughing at it now.--Says he--'

'Well, we can dispense with the story,' said her lady. 'Ah!' continued
Annette, 'he sees a great way further than other people! Now he sees
into all the Signor's meaning, without knowing a word about the matter!'

'How is that?' said Madame Montoni.

'Why he says--but he made me promise not to tell, and I would not
disoblige him for the world.'

'What is it he made you promise not to tell?' said her lady, sternly. 'I
insist upon knowing immediately--what is it he made you promise?'

'O madam,' cried Annette, 'I would not tell for the universe!' 'I insist
upon your telling this instant,' said Madame Montoni. 'O dear madam!
I would not tell for a hundred sequins! You would not have me forswear
myself madam!' exclaimed Annette.

'I will not wait another moment,' said Madame Montoni. Annette was
silent.

'The Signor shall be informed of this directly,' rejoined her mistress:
'he will make you discover all.'

'It is Ludovico, who has discovered,' said Annette: 'but for mercy's
sake, madam, don't tell the Signor, and you shall know all directly.'
Madame Montoni said, that she would not.

'Well then, madam, Ludovico says, that the Signor, my master,
is--is--that is, he only thinks so, and any body, you know, madam, is
free to think--that the Signor, my master, is--is--'

'Is what?' said her lady, impatiently.

'That the Signor, my master, is going to be--a great robber--that is--he
is going to rob on his own account;--to be, (but I am sure I don't
understand what he means) to be a--captain of--robbers.'

'Art thou in thy senses, Annette?' said Madame Montoni; 'or is this a
trick to deceive me? Tell me, this instant, what Ludovico DID say to
thee;--no equivocation;--this instant.'

'Nay, madam,' cried Annette, 'if this is all I am to get for having
told the secret'--Her mistress thus continued to insist, and Annette to
protest, till Montoni, himself, appeared, who bade the latter leave the
room, and she withdrew, trembling for the fate of her story. Emily also
was retiring, but her aunt desired she would stay; and Montoni had so
often made her a witness of their contention, that he no longer had
scruples on that account.

'I insist upon knowing this instant, Signor, what all this means:' said
his wife--'what are all these armed men, whom they tell me of, gone
out about?' Montoni answered her only with a look of scorn; and Emily
whispered something to her. 'It does not signify,' said her aunt: 'I
will know; and I will know, too, what the castle has been fortified
for.'

'Come, come,' said Montoni, 'other business brought me here. I must
be trifled with no longer. I have immediate occasion for what I
demand--those estates must be given up, without further contention; or I
may find a way--'

'They never shall be given up,' interrupted Madame Montoni: 'they never
shall enable you to carry on your wild schemes;--but what are these?
I will know. Do you expect the castle to be attacked? Do you expect
enemies? Am I to be shut up here, to be killed in a siege?'

'Sign the writings,' said Montoni, 'and you shall know more.'

'What enemy can be coming?' continued his wife. 'Have you entered into
the service of the state? Am I to be blocked up here to die?'

'That may possibly happen,' said Montoni, 'unless you yield to my
demand: for, come what may, you shall not quit the castle till then.'
Madame Montoni burst into loud lamentation, which she as suddenly
checked, considering, that her husband's assertions might be only
artifices, employed to extort her consent. She hinted this suspicion,
and, in the next moment, told him also, that his designs were not so
honourable as to serve the state, and that she believed he had only
commenced a captain of banditti, to join the enemies of Venice, in
plundering and laying waste the surrounding country.

Montoni looked at her for a moment with a steady and stern countenance;
while Emily trembled, and his wife, for once, thought she had said too
much. 'You shall be removed, this night,' said he, 'to the east turret:
there, perhaps, you may understand the danger of offending a man, who
has an unlimited power over you.'

Emily now fell at his feet, and, with tears of terror, supplicated for
her aunt, who sat, trembling with fear, and indignation; now ready to
pour forth execrations, and now to join the intercessions of Emily.
Montoni, however, soon interrupted these entreaties with an horrible
oath; and, as he burst from Emily, leaving his cloak, in her hand, she
fell to the floor, with a force, that occasioned her a severe blow on
the forehead. But he quitted the room, without attempting to raise her,
whose attention was called from herself, by a deep groan from Madame
Montoni, who continued otherwise unmoved in her chair, and had not
fainted. Emily, hastening to her assistance, saw her eyes rolling, and
her features convulsed.

Having spoken to her, without receiving an answer, she brought
water, and supported her head, while she held it to her lips; but the
increasing convulsions soon compelled Emily to call for assistance. On
her way through the hall, in search of Annette, she met Montoni, whom
she told what had happened, and conjured to return and comfort her aunt;
but he turned silently away, with a look of indifference, and went out
upon the ramparts. At length she found old Carlo and Annette, and they
hastened to the dressing-room, where Madame Montoni had fallen on the
floor, and was lying in strong convulsions. Having lifted her into the
adjoining room, and laid her on the bed, the force of her disorder still
made all their strength necessary to hold her, while Annette trembled
and sobbed, and old Carlo looked silently and piteously on, as his
feeble hands grasped those of his mistress, till, turning his eyes upon
Emily, he exclaimed, 'Good God! Signora, what is the matter?'

Emily looked calmly at him, and saw his enquiring eyes fixed on her: and
Annette, looking up, screamed loudly; for Emily's face was stained
with blood, which continued to fall slowly from her forehead: but her
attention had been so entirely occupied by the scene before her, that
she had felt no pain from the wound. She now held an handkerchief to
her face, and, notwithstanding her faintness, continued to watch Madame
Montoni, the violence of whose convulsions was abating, till at length
they ceased, and left her in a kind of stupor.

'My aunt must remain quiet,' said Emily. 'Go, good Carlo; if we should
want your assistance, I will send for you. In the mean time, if you have
an opportunity, speak kindly of your mistress to your master.'

'Alas!' said Carlo, 'I have seen too much! I have little influence with
the Signor. But do, dear young lady, take some care of yourself; that is
an ugly wound, and you look sadly.'

'Thank you, my friend, for your consideration,' said Emily, smiling
kindly: 'the wound is trifling, it came by a fall.'

Carlo shook his head, and left the room; and Emily, with Annette,
continued to watch by her aunt. 'Did my lady tell the Signor what
Ludovico said, ma'amselle?' asked Annette in a whisper; but Emily
quieted her fears on the subject.

'I thought what this quarrelling would come to,' continued Annette: 'I
suppose the Signor has been beating my lady.'

'No, no, Annette, you are totally mistaken, nothing extra-ordinary has
happened.'

'Why, extraordinary things happen here so often, ma'amselle, that there
is nothing in them. Here is another legion of those ill-looking fellows,
come to the castle, this morning.'

'Hush! Annette, you will disturb my aunt; we will talk of that by and
bye.'

They continued watching silently, till Madame Montoni uttered a low
sigh, when Emily took her hand, and spoke soothingly to her; but the
former gazed with unconscious eyes, and it was long before she knew her
niece. Her first words then enquired for Montoni; to which Emily replied
by an entreaty, that she would compose her spirits, and consent to be
kept quiet, adding, that, if she wished any message to be conveyed to
him, she would herself deliver it. 'No,' said her aunt faintly, 'no--I
have nothing new to tell him. Does he persist in saying I shall be
removed from my chamber?'

Emily replied, that he had not spoken, on the subject, since Madame
Montoni heard him; and then she tried to divert her attention to some
other topic; but her aunt seemed to be inattentive to what she said, and
lost in secret thoughts. Emily, having brought her some refreshment, now
left her to the care of Annette, and went in search of Montoni, whom she
found on a remote part of the rampart, conversing among a group of
the men described by Annette. They stood round him with fierce, yet
subjugated, looks, while he, speaking earnestly, and pointing to the
walls, did not perceive Emily, who remained at some distance, waiting
till he should be at leisure, and observing involuntarily the appearance
of one man, more savage than his fellows, who stood resting on his pike,
and looking, over the shoulders of a comrade, at Montoni, to whom he
listened with uncommon earnestness. This man was apparently of low
condition; yet his looks appeared not to acknowledge the superiority of
Montoni, as did those of his companions; and sometimes they even assumed
an air of authority, which the decisive manner of the Signor could not
repress. Some few words of Montoni then passed in the wind; and, as the
men were separating, she heard him say, 'This evening, then, begin the
watch at sun-set.'

'At sun-set, Signor,' replied one or two of them, and walked away; while
Emily approached Montoni, who appeared desirous of avoiding her: but,
though she observed this, she had courage to proceed. She endeavoured to
intercede once more for her aunt, represented to him her sufferings,
and urged the danger of exposing her to a cold apartment in her present
state. 'She suffers by her own folly,' said Montoni, 'and is not to be
pitied;--she knows how she may avoid these sufferings in future--if she
is removed to the turret, it will be her own fault. Let her be obedient,
and sign the writings you heard of, and I will think no more of it.'

When Emily ventured still to plead, he sternly silenced and rebuked her
for interfering in his domestic affairs, but, at length, dismissed her
with this concession--That he would not remove Madame Montoni, on the
ensuing night, but allow her till the next to consider, whether she
would resign her settlements, or be imprisoned in the east turret of
the castle, 'where she shall find,' he added, 'a punishment she may not
expect.'

Emily then hastened to inform her aunt of this short respite and of the
alternative, that awaited her, to which the latter made no reply,
but appeared thoughtful, while Emily, in consideration of her extreme
languor, wished to sooth her mind by leading it to less interesting
topics: and, though these efforts were unsuccessful, and Madame Montoni
became peevish, her resolution, on the contended point, seemed somewhat
to relax, and Emily recommended, as her only means of safety, that she
should submit to Montoni's demand. 'You know not what you advise,' said
her aunt. 'Do you understand, that these estates will descend to you at
my death, if I persist in a refusal?'

'I was ignorant of that circumstance, madam,' replied Emily, 'but the
knowledge of it cannot with-hold me from advising you to adopt the
conduct, which not only your peace, but, I fear, your safety requires,
and I entreat, that you will not suffer a consideration comparatively so
trifling, to make you hesitate a moment in resigning them.'

'Are you sincere, niece?' 'Is it possible you can doubt it, madam?' Her
aunt appeared to be affected. 'You are not unworthy of these estates,
niece,' said she: 'I would wish to keep them for your sake--you shew a
virtue I did not expect.'

'How have I deserved this reproof, madam?' said Emily sorrowfully.

'Reproof!' replied Madame Montoni: 'I meant to praise your virtue.'

'Alas! here is no exertion of virtue,' rejoined Emily, 'for here is no
temptation to be overcome.'

'Yet Monsieur Valancourt'--said her aunt. 'O, madam!' interrupted Emily,
anticipating what she would have said, 'do not let me glance on that
subject: do not let my mind be stained with a wish so shockingly
self-interested.' She immediately changed the topic, and continued with
Madame Montoni, till she withdrew to her apartment for the night.

At that hour, the castle was perfectly still, and every inhabitant of
it, except herself, seemed to have retired to rest. As she passed along
the wide and lonely galleries, dusky and silent, she felt forlorn
and apprehensive of--she scarcely knew what; but when, entering the
corridor, she recollected the incident of the preceding night, a dread
seized her, lest a subject of alarm, similar to that, which had befallen
Annette, should occur to her, and which, whether real, or ideal, would,
she felt, have an almost equal effect upon her weakened spirits. The
chamber, to which Annette had alluded, she did not exactly know, but
understood it to be one of those she must pass in the way to her own;
and, sending a fearful look forward into the gloom, she stepped lightly
and cautiously along, till, coming to a door, from whence issued a low
sound, she hesitated and paused; and, during the delay of that moment,
her fears so much increased, that she had no power to move from the
spot. Believing, that she heard a human voice within, she was somewhat
revived; but, in the next moment, the door was opened, and a person,
whom she conceived to be Montoni, appeared, who instantly started back,
and closed it, though not before she had seen, by the light that burned
in the chamber, another person, sitting in a melancholy attitude by the
fire. Her terror vanished, but her astonishment only began, which was
now roused by the mysterious secrecy of Montoni's manner, and by
the discovery of a person, whom he thus visited at midnight, in an
apartment, which had long been shut up, and of which such extraordinary
reports were circulated.

While she thus continued hesitating, strongly prompted to watch
Montoni's motions, yet fearing to irritate him by appearing to notice
them, the door was again opened cautiously, and as instantly closed as
before. She then stepped softly to her chamber, which was the next
but one to this, but, having put down her lamp, returned to an obscure
corner of the corridor, to observe the proceedings of this half-seen
person, and to ascertain, whether it was indeed Montoni.

Having waited in silent expectation for a few minutes, with her eyes
fixed on the door, it was again opened, and the same person appeared,
whom she now knew to be Montoni. He looked cautiously round, without
perceiving her, then, stepping forward, closed the door, and left the
corridor. Soon after, Emily heard the door fastened on the inside, and
she withdrew to her chamber, wondering at what she had witnessed.

It was now twelve o'clock. As she closed her casement, she heard
footsteps on the terrace below, and saw imperfectly, through the gloom,
several persons advancing, who passed under the casement. She then
heard the clink of arms, and, in the next moment, the watch-word; when,
recollecting the command she had overheard from Montoni, and the hour
of the night, she understood, that these men were, for the first time,
relieving guard in the castle. Having listened till all was again still,
she retired to sleep.



CHAPTER X


 And shall no lay of death
 With pleasing murmur sooth
 Her parted soul?
 Shall no tear wet her grave?
     SAYERS

On the following morning, Emily went early to the apartment of Madame
Montoni, who had slept well, and was much recovered. Her spirits had
also returned with her health, and her resolution to oppose Montoni's
demands revived, though it yet struggled with her fears, which Emily,
who trembled for the consequence of further opposition, endeavoured to
confirm.

Her aunt, as has been already shewn, had a disposition, which delighted
in contradiction, and which taught her, when unpleasant circumstances
were offered to her understanding, not to enquire into their truth, but
to seek for arguments, by which she might make them appear false. Long
habit had so entirely confirmed this natural propensity, that she
was not conscious of possessing it. Emily's remonstrances and
representations, therefore, roused her pride, instead of alarming, or
convincing her judgment, and she still relied upon the discovery of
some means, by which she might yet avoid submitting to the demand of her
husband. Considering, that, if she could once escape from his castle,
she might defy his power, and, obtaining a decisive separation, live in
comfort on the estates, that yet remained for her, she mentioned this to
her niece, who accorded with her in the wish, but differed from her, as
to the probability of its completion. She represented the impossibility
of passing the gates, secured and guarded as they were, and the extreme
danger of committing her design to the discretion of a servant, who
might either purposely betray, or accidentally disclose it.--Montoni's
vengeance would also disdain restraint, if her intention was detected:
and, though Emily wished, as fervently as she could do, to regain her
freedom, and return to France, she consulted only Madame Montoni's
safety, and persevered in advising her to relinquish her settlement,
without braving further outrage.

The struggle of contrary emotions, however, continued to rage in her
aunt's bosom, and she still brooded over the chance of effecting an
escape. While she thus sat, Montoni entered the room, and, without
noticing his wife's indisposition, said, that he came to remind her of
the impolicy of trifling with him, and that he gave her only till the
evening to determine, whether she would consent to his demand, or compel
him, by a refusal, to remove her to the east turret. He added, that a
party of cavaliers would dine with him, that day, and that he expected
that she would sit at the head of the table, where Emily, also, must
be present. Madame Montoni was now on the point of uttering an absolute
refusal, but, suddenly considering, that her liberty, during this
entertainment, though circumscribed, might favour her further plans, she
acquiesced, with seeming reluctance, and Montoni, soon after, left the
apartment. His command struck Emily with surprise and apprehension, who
shrank from the thought of being exposed to the gaze of strangers, such
as her fancy represented these to be, and the words of Count Morano, now
again recollected, did not sooth her fears.

When she withdrew to prepare for dinner, she dressed herself with even
more simplicity than usual, that she might escape observation--a policy,
which did not avail her, for, as she re-passed to her aunt's apartment,
she was met by Montoni, who censured what he called her prudish
appearance, and insisted, that she should wear the most splendid dress
she had, even that, which had been prepared for her intended nuptials
with Count Morano, and which, it now appeared, her aunt had carefully
brought with her from Venice. This was made, not in the Venetian, but,
in the Neapolitan fashion, so as to set off the shape and figure, to the
utmost advantage. In it, her beautiful chestnut tresses were negligently
bound up in pearls, and suffered to fall back again on her neck. The
simplicity of a better taste, than Madame Montoni's, was conspicuous in
this dress, splendid as it was, and Emily's unaffected beauty never had
appeared more captivatingly. She had now only to hope, that Montoni's
order was prompted, not by any extraordinary design, but by an
ostentation of displaying his family, richly attired, to the eyes
of strangers; yet nothing less than his absolute command could have
prevailed with her to wear a dress, that had been designed for such an
offensive purpose, much less to have worn it on this occasion. As she
descended to dinner, the emotion of her mind threw a faint blush over
her countenance, and heightened its interesting expression; for timidity
had made her linger in her apartment, till the utmost moment, and,
when she entered the hall, in which a kind of state dinner was spread,
Montoni and his guests were already seated at the table. She was then
going to place herself by her aunt; but Montoni waved his hand, and two
of the cavaliers rose, and seated her between them.

The eldest of these was a tall man, with strong Italian features, an
aquiline nose, and dark penetrating eyes, that flashed with fire, when
his mind was agitated, and, even in its state of rest, retained somewhat
of the wildness of the passions. His visage was long and narrow, and his
complexion of a sickly yellow.

The other, who appeared to be about forty, had features of a different
cast, yet Italian, and his look was slow, subtle and penetrating; his
eyes, of a dark grey, were small, and hollow; his complexion was a
sun-burnt brown, and the contour of his face, though inclined to oval,
was irregular and ill-formed.

Eight other guests sat round the table, who were all dressed in an
uniform, and had all an expression, more or less, of wild fierceness,
of subtle design, or of licentious passions. As Emily timidly surveyed
them, she remembered the scene of the preceding morning, and again
almost fancied herself surrounded by banditti; then, looking back to
the tranquillity of her early life, she felt scarcely less astonishment,
than grief, at her present situation. The scene, in which they sat,
assisted the illusion; it was an antient hall, gloomy from the style
of its architecture, from its great extent, and because almost the only
light it received was from one large gothic window, and from a pair of
folding doors, which, being open, admitted likewise a view of the west
rampart, with the wild mountains of the Apennine beyond.

The middle compartment of this hall rose into a vaulted roof, enriched
with fretwork, and supported, on three sides, by pillars of marble;
beyond these, long colonnades retired in gloomy grandeur, till their
extent was lost in twilight. The lightest footsteps of the servants,
as they advanced through these, were returned in whispering echoes,
and their figures, seen at a distance imperfectly through the dusk,
frequently awakened Emily's imagination. She looked alternately
at Montoni, at his guests and on the surrounding scene; and then,
remembering her dear native province, her pleasant home and the
simplicity and goodness of the friends, whom she had lost, grief and
surprise again occupied her mind.

When her thoughts could return from these considerations, she fancied
she observed an air of authority towards his guests, such as she had
never before seen him assume, though he had always been distinguished
by an haughty carriage; there was something also in the manners of the
strangers, that seemed perfectly, though not servilely, to acknowledge
his superiority.

During dinner, the conversation was chiefly on war and politics. They
talked with energy of the state of Venice, its dangers, the character of
the reigning Doge and of the chief senators; and then spoke of the state
of Rome. When the repast was over, they rose, and, each filling his
goblet with wine from the gilded ewer, that stood beside him, drank
'Success to our exploits!' Montoni was lifting his goblet to his lips to
drink this toast, when suddenly the wine hissed, rose to the brim, and,
as he held the glass from him, it burst into a thousand pieces.

To him, who constantly used that sort of Venice glass, which had the
quality of breaking, upon receiving poisoned liquor, a suspicion, that
some of his guests had endeavoured to betray him, instantly occurred,
and he ordered all the gates to be closed, drew his sword, and, looking
round on them, who stood in silent amazement, exclaimed, 'Here is a
traitor among us; let those, that are innocent, assist in discovering
the guilty.'

Indignation flashed from the eyes of the cavaliers, who all drew their
swords; and Madame Montoni, terrified at what might ensue, was hastening
from the hall, when her husband commanded her to stay; but his further
words could not now be distinguished, for the voice of every person rose
together. His order, that all the servants should appear, was at length
obeyed, and they declared their ignorance of any deceit--a protestation
which could not be believed; for it was evident, that, as Montoni's
liquor, and his only, had been poisoned, a deliberate design had been
formed against his life, which could not have been carried so far
towards its accomplishment, without the connivance of the servant, who
had the care of the wine ewers.

This man, with another, whose face betrayed either the consciousness
of guilt, or the fear of punishment, Montoni ordered to be chained
instantly, and confined in a strong room, which had formerly been used
as a prison. Thither, likewise, he would have sent all his guests,
had he not foreseen the consequence of so bold and unjustifiable a
proceeding. As to those, therefore, he contented himself with swearing,
that no man should pass the gates, till this extraordinary affair
had been investigated, and then sternly bade his wife retire to her
apartment, whither he suffered Emily to attend her.

In about half an hour, he followed to the dressing-room; and Emily
observed, with horror, his dark countenance and quivering lip, and heard
him denounce vengeance on her aunt.

'It will avail you nothing,' said he to his wife, 'to deny the fact;
I have proof of your guilt. Your only chance of mercy rests on a full
confession;--there is nothing to hope from sullenness, or falsehood;
your accomplice has confessed all.'

Emily's fainting spirits were roused by astonishment, as she heard her
aunt accused of a crime so atrocious, and she could not, for a moment,
admit the possibility of her guilt. Meanwhile Madame Montoni's agitation
did not permit her to reply; alternately her complexion varied from
livid paleness to a crimson flush; and she trembled,--but, whether with
fear, or with indignation, it were difficult to decide.

'Spare your words,' said Montoni, seeing her about to speak, 'your
countenance makes full confession of your crime.--You shall be instantly
removed to the east turret.'

'This accusation,' said Madame Montoni, speaking with difficulty, 'is
used only as an excuse for your cruelty; I disdain to reply to it. You
do not believe me guilty.'

'Signor!' said Emily solemnly, 'this dreadful charge, I would answer
with my life, is false. Nay, Signor,' she added, observing the severity
of his countenance, 'this is no moment for restraint, on my part; I do
not scruple to tell you, that you are deceived--most wickedly deceived,
by the suggestion of some person, who aims at the ruin of my aunt:--it
is impossible, that you could yourself have imagined a crime so
hideous.'

Montoni, his lips trembling more than before, replied only, 'If you
value your own safety,' addressing Emily, 'you will be silent. I shall
know how to interpret your remonstrances, should you persevere in them.'

Emily raised her eyes calmly to heaven. 'Here is, indeed, then, nothing
to hope!' said she.

'Peace!' cried Montoni, 'or you shall find there is something to fear.'

He turned to his wife, who had now recovered her spirits, and who
vehemently and wildly remonstrated upon this mysterious suspicion: but
Montoni's rage heightened with her indignation, and Emily, dreading
the event of it, threw herself between them, and clasped his knees in
silence, looking up in his face with an expression, that might have
softened the heart of a fiend. Whether his was hardened by a conviction
of Madame Montoni's guilt, or that a bare suspicion of it made him
eager to exercise vengeance, he was totally and alike insensible to the
distress of his wife, and to the pleading looks of Emily, whom he made
no attempt to raise, but was vehemently menacing both, when he was
called out of the room by some person at the door. As he shut the door,
Emily heard him turn the lock and take out the key; so that Madame
Montoni and herself were now prisoners; and she saw that his designs
became more and more terrible. Her endeavours to explain his motives
for this circumstance were almost as ineffectual as those to sooth the
distress of her aunt, whose innocence she could not doubt; but she, at
length, accounted for Montoni's readiness to suspect his wife by his own
consciousness of cruelty towards her, and for the sudden violence of
his present conduct against both, before even his suspicions could be
completely formed, by his general eagerness to effect suddenly whatever
he was led to desire and his carelessness of justice, or humanity, in
accomplishing it.

Madame Montoni, after some time, again looked round, in search of a
possibility of escape from the castle, and conversed with Emily on the
subject, who was now willing to encounter any hazard, though she forbore
to encourage a hope in her aunt, which she herself did not admit. How
strongly the edifice was secured, and how vigilantly guarded, she knew
too well; and trembled to commit their safety to the caprice of
the servant, whose assistance they must solicit. Old Carlo was
compassionate, but he seemed to be too much in his master's interest to
be trusted by them; Annette could of herself do little, and Emily knew
Ludovico only from her report. At present, however, these considerations
were useless, Madame Montoni and her niece being shut up from all
intercourse, even with the persons, whom there might be these reasons to
reject.

In the hall, confusion and tumult still reigned. Emily, as she listened
anxiously to the murmur, that sounded along the gallery, sometimes
fancied she heard the clashing of swords, and, when she considered the
nature of the provocation, given by Montoni, and his impetuosity, it
appeared probable, that nothing less than arms would terminate the
contention. Madame Montoni, having exhausted all her expressions of
indignation, and Emily, hers of comfort, they remained silent, in that
kind of breathless stillness, which, in nature, often succeeds to the
uproar of conflicting elements; a stillness, like the morning, that
dawns upon the ruins of an earthquake.

An uncertain kind of terror pervaded Emily's mind; the circumstances
of the past hour still came dimly and confusedly to her memory; and her
thoughts were various and rapid, though without tumult.

From this state of waking visions she was recalled by a knocking at the
chamber-door, and, enquiring who was there, heard the whispering voice
of Annette.

'Dear madam, let me come in, I have a great deal to say,' said the poor
girl.

'The door is locked,' answered the lady.

'Yes, ma'am, but do pray open it.'

'The Signor has the key,' said Madame Montoni.

'O blessed Virgin! what will become of us?' exclaimed Annette.

'Assist us to escape,' said her mistress. 'Where is Ludovico?'

'Below in the hall, ma'am, amongst them all, fighting with the best of
them!'

'Fighting! Who are fighting?' cried Madame Montoni.

'Why the Signor, ma'am, and all the Signors, and a great many more.'

'Is any person much hurt?' said Emily, in a tremulous voice. 'Hurt!
Yes, ma'amselle,--there they lie bleeding, and the swords are clashing,
and--O holy saints! Do let me in, ma'am, they are coming this way--I
shall be murdered!'

'Fly!' cried Emily, 'fly! we cannot open the door.'

Annette repeated, that they were coming, and in the same moment fled.

'Be calm, madam,' said Emily, turning to her aunt, 'I entreat you to be
calm, I am not frightened--not frightened in the least, do not you be
alarmed.'

'You can scarcely support yourself,' replied her aunt; 'Merciful God!
what is it they mean to do with us?'

'They come, perhaps, to liberate us,' said Emily, 'Signor Montoni
perhaps is--is conquered.'

The belief of his death gave her spirits a sudden shock, and she grew
faint as she saw him in imagination, expiring at her feet.

'They are coming!' cried Madame Montoni--'I hear their steps--they are
at the door!'

Emily turned her languid eyes to the door, but terror deprived her of
utterance. The key sounded in the lock; the door opened, and Montoni
appeared, followed by three ruffian-like men. 'Execute your orders,'
said he, turning to them, and pointing to his wife, who shrieked, but
was immediately carried from the room; while Emily sunk, senseless, on
a couch, by which she had endeavoured to support herself. When she
recovered, she was alone, and recollected only, that Madame Montoni had
been there, together with some unconnected particulars of the preceding
transaction, which were, however, sufficient to renew all her terror.
She looked wildly round the apartment, as if in search of some means of
intelligence, concerning her aunt, while neither her own danger, or an
idea of escaping from the room, immediately occurred.

When her recollection was more complete, she raised herself and went,
but with only a faint hope, to examine whether the door was unfastened.
It was so, and she then stepped timidly out into the gallery, but paused
there, uncertain which way she should proceed. Her first wish was to
gather some information, as to her aunt, and she, at length, turned her
steps to go to the lesser hall, where Annette and the other servants
usually waited.

Every where, as she passed, she heard, from a distance, the uproar of
contention, and the figures and faces, which she met, hurrying along the
passages, struck her mind with dismay. Emily might now have appeared,
like an angel of light, encompassed by fiends. At length, she reached
the lesser hall, which was silent and deserted, but, panting for breath,
she sat down to recover herself. The total stillness of this place was
as awful as the tumult, from which she had escaped: but she had now time
to recall her scattered thoughts, to remember her personal danger, and
to consider of some means of safety. She perceived, that it was useless
to seek Madame Montoni, through the wide extent and intricacies of the
castle, now, too, when every avenue seemed to be beset by ruffians; in
this hall she could not resolve to stay, for she knew not how soon it
might become their place of rendezvous; and, though she wished to go to
her chamber, she dreaded again to encounter them on the way.

Thus she sat, trembling and hesitating, when a distant murmur broke on
the silence, and grew louder and louder, till she distinguished voices
and steps approaching. She then rose to go, but the sounds came along
the only passage, by which she could depart, and she was compelled to
await in the hall, the arrival of the persons, whose steps she heard.
As these advanced, she distinguished groans, and then saw a man borne
slowly along by four others. Her spirits faltered at the sight, and she
leaned against the wall for support. The bearers, meanwhile, entered the
hall, and, being too busily occupied to detain, or even notice Emily,
she attempted to leave it, but her strength failed, and she again sat
down on the bench. A damp chillness came over her; her sight became
confused; she knew not what had passed, or where she was, yet the groans
of the wounded person still vibrated on her heart. In a few moments, the
tide of life seemed again to flow; she began to breathe more freely, and
her senses revived. She had not fainted, nor had ever totally lost her
consciousness, but had contrived to support herself on the bench; still
without courage to turn her eyes upon the unfortunate object, which
remained near her, and about whom the men were yet too much engaged to
attend to her.

When her strength returned, she rose, and was suffered to leave
the hall, though her anxiety, having produced some vain enquiries,
concerning Madame Montoni, had thus made a discovery of herself. Towards
her chamber she now hastened, as fast as her steps would bear her, for
she still perceived, upon her passage, the sounds of confusion at a
distance, and she endeavoured, by taking her way through some obscure
rooms, to avoid encountering the persons, whose looks had terrified her
before, as well as those parts of the castle, where the tumult might
still rage.

At length, she reached her chamber, and, having secured the door of the
corridor, felt herself, for a moment, in safety. A profound stillness
reigned in this remote apartment, which not even the faint murmur of
the most distant sounds now reached. She sat down, near one of the
casements, and, as she gazed on the mountain-view beyond, the deep
repose of its beauty struck her with all the force of contrast, and she
could scarcely believe herself so near a scene of savage discord. The
contending elements seemed to have retired from their natural spheres,
and to have collected themselves into the minds of men, for there alone
the tempest now reigned.

Emily tried to tranquillize her spirits, but anxiety made her constantly
listen for some sound, and often look out upon the ramparts, where all,
however, was lonely and still. As a sense of her own immediate danger
had decreased, her apprehension concerning Madame Montoni heightened,
who, she remembered, had been fiercely threatened with confinement in
the east turret, and it was possible, that her husband had satisfied his
present vengeance with this punishment. She, therefore, determined, when
night should return, and the inhabitants of the castle should be asleep,
to explore the way to the turret, which, as the direction it stood in
was mentioned, appeared not very difficult to be done. She knew, indeed,
that although her aunt might be there, she could afford her no effectual
assistance, but it might give her some comfort even to know, that she
was discovered, and to hear the sound of her niece's voice; for
herself, any certainty, concerning Madame Montoni's fate, appeared more
tolerable, than this exhausting suspense.

Meanwhile, Annette did not appear, and Emily was surprised, and somewhat
alarmed for her, whom, in the confusion of the late scene, various
accidents might have befallen, and it was improbable, that she would
have failed to come to her apartment, unless something unfortunate had
happened.

Thus the hours passed in solitude, in silence, and in anxious
conjecturing. Being not once disturbed by a message, or a sound, it
appeared, that Montoni had wholly forgotten her, and it gave her some
comfort to find, that she could be so unnoticed. She endeavoured to
withdraw her thoughts from the anxiety, that preyed upon them, but they
refused controul; she could neither read, or draw, and the tones of her
lute were so utterly discordant with the present state of her feelings,
that she could not endure them for a moment.

The sun, at length, set behind the western mountains; his fiery beams
faded from the clouds, and then a dun melancholy purple drew over them,
and gradually involved the features of the country below. Soon after,
the sentinels passed on the rampart to commence the watch.

Twilight had now spread its gloom over every object; the dismal
obscurity of her chamber recalled fearful thoughts, but she remembered,
that to procure a light she must pass through a great extent of the
castle, and, above all, through the halls, where she had already
experienced so much horror. Darkness, indeed, in the present state of
her spirits, made silence and solitude terrible to her; it would also
prevent the possibility of her finding her way to the turret, and
condemn her to remain in suspense, concerning the fate of her aunt; yet
she dared not to venture forth for a lamp.

Continuing at the casement, that she might catch the last lingering
gleam of evening, a thousand vague images of fear floated on her fancy.
'What if some of these ruffians,' said she, 'should find out the private
stair-case, and in the darkness of night steal into my chamber!' Then,
recollecting the mysterious inhabitant of the neighbouring apartment,
her terror changed its object. 'He is not a prisoner,' said she, 'though
he remains in one chamber, for Montoni did not fasten the door, when he
left it; the unknown person himself did this; it is certain, therefore,
he can come out when he pleases.'

She paused, for, notwithstanding the terrors of darkness, she considered
it to be very improbable, whoever he was, that he could have any
interest in intruding upon her retirement; and again the subject of her
emotion changed, when, remembering her nearness to the chamber, where
the veil had formerly disclosed a dreadful spectacle, she doubted
whether some passage might not communicate between it and the insecure
door of the stair-case.

It was now entirely dark, and she left the casement. As she sat with
her eyes fixed on the hearth, she thought she perceived there a spark
of light; it twinkled and disappeared, and then again was visible. At
length, with much care, she fanned the embers of a wood fire, that had
been lighted in the morning, into flame, and, having communicated it to
a lamp, which always stood in her room, felt a satisfaction not to be
conceived, without a review of her situation. Her first care was to
guard the door of the stair-case, for which purpose she placed against
it all the furniture she could move, and she was thus employed, for
some time, at the end of which she had another instance how much more
oppressive misfortune is to the idle, than to the busy; for, having then
leisure to think over all the circumstances of her present afflictions,
she imagined a thousand evils for futurity, and these real and ideal
subjects of distress alike wounded her mind.

Thus heavily moved the hours till midnight, when she counted the sullen
notes of the great clock, as they rolled along the rampart, unmingled
with any sound, except the distant foot-fall of a sentinel, who came
to relieve guard. She now thought she might venture towards the turret,
and, having gently opened the chamber door to examine the corridor, and
to listen if any person was stirring in the castle, found all around
in perfect stillness. Yet no sooner had she left the room, than she
perceived a light flash on the walls of the corridor, and, without
waiting to see by whom it was carried, she shrunk back, and closed her
door. No one approaching, she conjectured, that it was Montoni going to
pay his mid-night visit to her unknown neighbour, and she determined to
wait, till he should have retired to his own apartment.

When the chimes had tolled another half hour, she once more opened
the door, and, perceiving that no person was in the corridor, hastily
crossed into a passage, that led along the south side of the castle
towards the stair-case, whence she believed she could easily find her
way to the turret. Often pausing on her way, listening apprehensively to
the murmurs of the wind, and looking fearfully onward into the gloom of
the long passages, she, at length, reached the stair-case; but there her
perplexity began. Two passages appeared, of which she knew not how to
prefer one, and was compelled, at last, to decide by chance, rather than
by circumstances. That she entered, opened first into a wide gallery,
along which she passed lightly and swiftly; for the lonely aspect of the
place awed her, and she started at the echo of her own steps.

On a sudden, she thought she heard a voice, and, not distinguishing
from whence it came, feared equally to proceed, or to return. For some
moments, she stood in an attitude of listening expectation, shrinking
almost from herself and scarcely daring to look round her. The voice
came again, but, though it was now near her, terror did not allow her to
judge exactly whence it proceeded. She thought, however, that it was the
voice of complaint, and her belief was soon confirmed by a low moaning
sound, that seemed to proceed from one of the chambers, opening into
the gallery. It instantly occurred to her, that Madame Montoni might be
there confined, and she advanced to the door to speak, but was checked
by considering, that she was, perhaps, going to commit herself to a
stranger, who might discover her to Montoni; for, though this person,
whoever it was, seemed to be in affliction, it did not follow, that he
was a prisoner.

While these thoughts passed over her mind, and left her still in
hesitation, the voice spoke again, and, calling 'Ludovico,' she then
perceived it to be that of Annette; on which, no longer hesitating, she
went in joy to answer her.

'Ludovico!' cried Annette, sobbing--'Ludovico!'

'It is not Ludovico, it is I--Mademoiselle Emily.'

Annette ceased sobbing, and was silent.

'If you can open the door, let me in,' said Emily, 'here is no person to
hurt you.'

'Ludovico!--O, Ludovico!' cried Annette.

Emily now lost her patience, and her fear of being overheard increasing,
she was even nearly about to leave the door, when she considered, that
Annette might, possibly, know something of the situation of Madame
Montoni, or direct her to the turret. At length, she obtained a reply,
though little satisfactory, to her questions, for Annette knew nothing
of Madame Montoni, and only conjured Emily to tell her what was become
of Ludovico. Of him she had no information to give, and she again asked
who had shut Annette up.

'Ludovico,' said the poor girl, 'Ludovico shut me up. When I ran away
from the dressing-room door to-day, I went I scarcely knew where, for
safety; and, in this gallery, here, I met Ludovico, who hurried me into
this chamber, and locked me up to keep me out of harm, as he said. But
he was in such a hurry himself, he hardly spoke ten words, but he told
me he would come, and let me out, when all was quiet, and he took away
the key with him. Now all these hours are passed, and I have neither
seen, or heard a word of him; they have murdered him--I know they have!'

Emily suddenly remembered the wounded person, whom she had seen borne
into the servants' hall, and she scarcely doubted, that he was Ludovico,
but she concealed the circumstance from Annette, and endeavoured to
comfort her. Then, impatient to learn something of her aunt, she again
enquired the way to the turret.

'O! you are not going, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'for Heaven's sake, do
not go, and leave me here by myself.'

'Nay, Annette, you do not think I can wait in the gallery all night,'
replied Emily. 'Direct me to the turret; in the morning I will endeavour
to release you.'

'O holy Mary!' exclaimed Annette, 'am I to stay here by myself all
night! I shall be frightened out of my senses, and I shall die of
hunger; I have had nothing to eat since dinner!'

Emily could scarcely forbear smiling at the heterogeneous distresses of
Annette, though she sincerely pitied them, and said what she could to
sooth her. At length, she obtained something like a direction to the
east turret, and quitted the door, from whence, after many intricacies
and perplexities, she reached the steep and winding stairs of the
turret, at the foot of which she stopped to rest, and to re-animate her
courage with a sense of her duty. As she surveyed this dismal place, she
perceived a door on the opposite side of the stair-case, and, anxious
to know whether it would lead her to Madame Montoni, she tried to undraw
the bolts, which fastened it. A fresher air came to her face, as she
unclosed the door, which opened upon the east rampart, and the sudden
current had nearly extinguished her light, which she now removed to a
distance; and again, looking out upon the obscure terrace, she perceived
only the faint outline of the walls and of some towers, while, above,
heavy clouds, borne along the wind, seemed to mingle with the stars, and
wrap the night in thicker darkness. As she gazed, now willing to defer
the moment of certainty, from which she expected only confirmation of
evil, a distant footstep reminded her, that she might be observed by
the men on watch, and, hastily closing the door, she took her lamp,
and passed up the stair-case. Trembling came upon her, as she ascended
through the gloom. To her melancholy fancy this seemed to be a place of
death, and the chilling silence, that reigned, confirmed its character.
Her spirits faltered. 'Perhaps,' said she, 'I am come hither only to
learn a dreadful truth, or to witness some horrible spectacle; I feel
that my senses would not survive such an addition of horror.'

The image of her aunt murdered--murdered, perhaps, by the hand of
Montoni, rose to her mind; she trembled, gasped for breath--repented
that she had dared to venture hither, and checked her steps. But, after
she had paused a few minutes, the consciousness of her duty returned,
and she went on. Still all was silent. At length a track of blood, upon
a stair, caught her eye; and instantly she perceived, that the wall and
several other steps were stained. She paused, again struggled to support
herself, and the lamp almost fell from her trembling hand. Still
no sound was heard, no living being seemed to inhabit the turret; a
thousand times she wished herself again in her chamber; dreaded to
enquire farther--dreaded to encounter some horrible spectacle, and
yet could not resolve, now that she was so near the termination of her
efforts, to desist from them. Having again collected courage to proceed,
after ascending about half way up the turret, she came to another door,
but here again she stopped in hesitation; listened for sounds within,
and then, summoning all her resolution, unclosed it, and entered a
chamber, which, as her lamp shot its feeble rays through the darkness,
seemed to exhibit only dew-stained and deserted walls. As she stood
examining it, in fearful expectation of discovering the remains of her
unfortunate aunt, she perceived something lying in an obscure corner of
the room, and, struck with an horrible conviction, she became, for
an instant, motionless and nearly insensible. Then, with a kind of
desperate resolution, she hurried towards the object that excited her
terror, when, perceiving the clothes of some person, on the floor,
she caught hold of them, and found in her grasp the old uniform of a
soldier, beneath which appeared a heap of pikes and other arms. Scarcely
daring to trust her sight, she continued, for some moments, to gaze
on the object of her late alarm, and then left the chamber, so much
comforted and occupied by the conviction, that her aunt was not there,
that she was going to descend the turret, without enquiring farther;
when, on turning to do so, she observed upon some steps on the second
flight an appearance of blood, and remembering, that there was yet
another chamber to be explored, she again followed the windings of
the ascent. Still, as she ascended, the track of blood glared upon the
stairs.

It led her to the door of a landing-place, that terminated them, but she
was unable to follow it farther. Now that she was so near the sought-for
certainty, she dreaded to know it, even more than before, and had not
fortitude sufficient to speak, or to attempt opening the door.

Having listened, in vain, for some sound, that might confirm, or destroy
her fears, she, at length, laid her hand on the lock, and, finding it
fastened, called on Madame Montoni; but only a chilling silence ensued.

'She is dead!' she cried,--'murdered!--her blood is on the stairs!'

Emily grew very faint; could support herself no longer, and had scarcely
presence of mind to set down the lamp, and place herself on a step.

When her recollection returned, she spoke again at the door, and again
attempted to open it, and, having lingered for some time, without
receiving any answer, or hearing a sound, she descended the turret,
and, with all the swiftness her feebleness would permit, sought her own
apartment.

As she turned into the corridor, the door of a chamber opened, from
whence Montoni came forth; but Emily, more terrified than ever to behold
him, shrunk back into the passage soon enough to escape being noticed,
and heard him close the door, which she had perceived was the same she
formerly observed. Having here listened to his departing steps, till
their faint sound was lost in distance, she ventured to her apartment,
and, securing it once again, retired to her bed, leaving the lamp
burning on the hearth. But sleep was fled from her harassed mind, to
which images of horror alone occurred. She endeavoured to think it
possible, that Madame Montoni had not been taken to the turret; but,
when she recollected the former menaces of her husband and the terrible
spirit of vengeance, which he had displayed on a late occasion; when she
remembered his general character, the looks of the men, who had forced
Madame Montoni from her apartment, and the written traces on the stairs
of the turret--she could not doubt, that her aunt had been carried
thither, and could scarcely hope, that she had not been carried to be
murdered.

The grey of morning had long dawned through her casements, before Emily
closed her eyes in sleep; when wearied nature, at length, yielded her a
respite from suffering.



CHAPTER XI


 Who rears the bloody hand?
     SAYERS

Emily remained in her chamber, on the following morning, without
receiving any notice from Montoni, or seeing a human being, except the
armed men, who sometimes passed on the terrace below. Having tasted no
food since the dinner of the preceding day, extreme faintness made her
feel the necessity of quitting the asylum of her apartment to obtain
refreshment, and she was also very anxious to procure liberty for
Annette. Willing, however, to defer venturing forth, as long as
possible, and considering, whether she should apply to Montoni, or to
the compassion of some other person, her excessive anxiety concerning
her aunt, at length, overcame her abhorrence of his presence, and she
determined to go to him, and to entreat, that he would suffer her to see
Madame Montoni.

Meanwhile, it was too certain, from the absence of Annette, that some
accident had befallen Ludovico, and that she was still in confinement;
Emily, therefore, resolved also to visit the chamber, where she had
spoken to her, on the preceding night, and, if the poor girl was yet
there, to inform Montoni of her situation.

It was near noon, before she ventured from her apartment, and went
first to the south gallery, whither she passed without meeting a single
person, or hearing a sound, except, now and then, the echo of a distant
footstep.

It was unnecessary to call Annette, whose lamentations were audible
upon the first approach to the gallery, and who, bewailing her own and
Ludovico's fate, told Emily, that she should certainly be starved to
death, if she was not let out immediately. Emily replied, that she
was going to beg her release of Montoni; but the terrors of hunger now
yielded to those of the Signor, and, when Emily left her, she was loudly
entreating, that her place of refuge might be concealed from him.

As Emily drew near the great hall, the sounds she heard and the people
she met in the passages renewed her alarm. The latter, however, were
peaceable, and did not interrupt her, though they looked earnestly at
her, as she passed, and sometimes spoke. On crossing the hall towards
the cedar room, where Montoni usually sat, she perceived, on the
pavement, fragments of swords, some tattered garments stained with
blood, and almost expected to have seen among them a dead body; but
from such a spectacle she was, at present, spared. As she approached
the room, the sound of several voices issued from within, and a dread
of appearing before many strangers, as well as of irritating Montoni
by such an intrusion, made her pause and falter from her purpose. She
looked up through the long arcades of the hall, in search of a servant,
who might bear a message, but no one appeared, and the urgency of what
she had to request made her still linger near the door. The voices
within were not in contention, though she distinguished those of several
of the guests of the preceding day; but still her resolution failed,
whenever she would have tapped at the door, and she had determined to
walk in the hall, till some person should appear, who might call Montoni
from the room, when, as she turned from the door, it was suddenly opened
by himself. Emily trembled, and was confused, while he almost started
with surprise, and all the terrors of his countenance unfolded
themselves. She forgot all she would have said, and neither enquired for
her aunt, or entreated for Annette, but stood silent and embarrassed.

After closing the door he reproved her for a meanness, of which she had
not been guilty, and sternly questioned her what she had overheard; an
accusation, which revived her recollection so far, that she assured
him she had not come thither with an intention to listen to his
conversation, but to entreat his compassion for her aunt, and for
Annette. Montoni seemed to doubt this assertion, for he regarded her
with a scrutinizing look; and the doubt evidently arose from no trifling
interest. Emily then further explained herself, and concluded with
entreating him to inform her, where her aunt was placed, and to permit,
that she might visit her; but he looked upon her only with a malignant
smile, which instantaneously confirmed her worst fears for her aunt,
and, at that moment, she had not courage to renew her entreaties.

'For Annette,' said he,--'if you go to Carlo, he will release the
girl; the foolish fellow, who shut her up, died yesterday.' Emily
shuddered.--'But my aunt, Signor'--said she, 'O tell me of my aunt!'

'She is taken care of,' replied Montoni hastily, 'I have no time to
answer idle questions.'

He would have passed on, but Emily, in a voice of agony, that could not
be wholly resisted, conjured him to tell her, where Madame Montoni was;
while he paused, and she anxiously watched his countenance, a trumpet
sounded, and, in the next moment, she heard the heavy gates of the
portal open, and then the clattering of horses' hoofs in the court, with
the confusion of many voices. She stood for a moment hesitating whether
she should follow Montoni, who, at the sound of the trumpet, had passed
through the hall, and, turning her eyes whence it came, she saw through
the door, that opened beyond a long perspective of arches into the
courts, a party of horsemen, whom she judged, as well as the distance
and her embarrassment would allow, to be the same she had seen depart, a
few days before. But she staid not to scrutinize, for, when the trumpet
sounded again, the chevaliers rushed out of the cedar room, and men came
running into the hall from every quarter of the castle. Emily once more
hurried for shelter to her own apartment. Thither she was still pursued
by images of horror. She re-considered Montoni's manner and words, when
he had spoken of his wife, and they served only to confirm her most
terrible suspicions. Tears refused any longer to relieve her distress,
and she had sat for a considerable time absorbed in thought, when a
knocking at the chamber door aroused her, on opening which she found old
Carlo.

'Dear young lady,' said he, 'I have been so flurried, I never once
thought of you till just now. I have brought you some fruit and wine,
and I am sure you must stand in need of them by this time.'

'Thank you, Carlo,' said Emily, 'this is very good of you Did the Signor
remind you of me?'

'No, Signora,' replied Carlo, 'his excellenza has business enough on his
hands.' Emily then renewed her enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, but
Carlo had been employed at the other end of the castle, during the time,
that she was removed, and he had heard nothing since, concerning her.

While he spoke, Emily looked steadily at him, for she scarcely knew
whether he was really ignorant, or concealed his knowledge of the truth
from a fear of offending his master. To several questions, concerning
the contentions of yesterday, he gave very limited answers; but told,
that the disputes were now amicably settled, and that the Signor
believed himself to have been mistaken in his suspicions of his guests.
'The fighting was about that, Signora,' said Carlo; 'but I trust I shall
never see such another day in this castle, though strange things are
about to be done.'

On her enquiring his meaning, 'Ah, Signora!' added he, 'it is not for me
to betray secrets, or tell all I think, but time will tell.'

She then desired him to release Annette, and, having described the
chamber in which the poor girl was confined, he promised to obey her
immediately, and was departing, when she remembered to ask who were the
persons just arrived. Her late conjecture was right; it was Verezzi,
with his party.

Her spirits were somewhat soothed by this short conversation with Carlo;
for, in her present circumstances, it afforded some comfort to hear the
accents of compassion, and to meet the look of sympathy.

An hour passed before Annette appeared, who then came weeping and
sobbing. 'O Ludovico--Ludovico!' cried she.

'My poor Annette!' said Emily, and made her sit down.

'Who could have foreseen this, ma'amselle? O miserable, wretched,
day--that ever I should live to see it!' and she continued to moan and
lament, till Emily thought it necessary to check her excess of grief.
'We are continually losing dear friends by death,' said she, with
a sigh, that came from her heart. 'We must submit to the will of
Heaven--our tears, alas! cannot recall the dead!'

Annette took the handkerchief from her face.

'You will meet Ludovico in a better world, I hope,' added Emily.

'Yes--yes,--ma'amselle,' sobbed Annette, 'but I hope I shall meet him
again in this--though he is so wounded!'

'Wounded!' exclaimed Emily, 'does he live?'

'Yes, ma'am, but--but he has a terrible wound, and could not come to
let me out. They thought him dead, at first, and he has not been rightly
himself, till within this hour.'

'Well, Annette, I rejoice to hear he lives.'

'Lives! Holy Saints! why he will not die, surely!'

Emily said she hoped not, but this expression of hope Annette thought
implied fear, and her own increased in proportion, as Emily endeavoured
to encourage her. To enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, she could
give no satisfactory answers.

'I quite forgot to ask among the servants, ma'amselle,' said she, 'for I
could think of nobody but poor Ludovico.'

Annette's grief was now somewhat assuaged, and Emily sent her to make
enquiries, concerning her lady, of whom, however, she could obtain no
intelligence, some of the people she spoke with being really ignorant of
her fate, and others having probably received orders to conceal it.

This day passed with Emily in continued grief and anxiety for her aunt;
but she was unmolested by any notice from Montoni; and, now that Annette
was liberated, she obtained food, without exposing herself to danger, or
impertinence.

Two following days passed in the same manner, unmarked by any
occurrence, during which she obtained no information of Madame Montoni.
On the evening of the second, having dismissed Annette, and retired to
bed, her mind became haunted by the most dismal images, such as her long
anxiety, concerning her aunt, suggested; and, unable to forget herself,
for a moment, or to vanquish the phantoms, that tormented her, she
rose from her bed, and went to one of the casements of her chamber, to
breathe a freer air.

All without was silent and dark, unless that could be called light,
which was only the faint glimmer of the stars, shewing imperfectly
the outline of the mountains, the western towers of the castle and the
ramparts below, where a solitary sentinel was pacing. What an image of
repose did this scene present! The fierce and terrible passions, too,
which so often agitated the inhabitants of this edifice, seemed now
hushed in sleep;--those mysterious workings, that rouse the elements of
man's nature into tempest--were calm. Emily's heart was not so; but her
sufferings, though deep, partook of the gentle character of her mind.
Hers was a silent anguish, weeping, yet enduring; not the wild energy of
passion, inflaming imagination, bearing down the barriers of reason and
living in a world of its own.

The air refreshed her, and she continued at the casement, looking on the
shadowy scene, over which the planets burned with a clear light, amid
the deep blue aether, as they silently moved in their destined course.
She remembered how often she had gazed on them with her dear father, how
often he had pointed out their way in the heavens, and explained their
laws; and these reflections led to others, which, in an almost equal
degree, awakened her grief and astonishment.

They brought a retrospect of all the strange and mournful events, which
had occurred since she lived in peace with her parents. And to Emily,
who had been so tenderly educated, so tenderly loved, who once knew
only goodness and happiness--to her, the late events and her present
situation--in a foreign land--in a remote castle--surrounded by vice
and violence--seemed more like the visions of a distempered imagination,
than the circumstances of truth. She wept to think of what her parents
would have suffered, could they have foreseen the events of her future
life.

While she raised her streaming eyes to heaven, she observed the same
planet, which she had seen in Languedoc, on the night, preceding her
father's death, rise above the eastern towers of the castle, while she
remembered the conversation, which has passed, concerning the probable
state of departed souls; remembered, also, the solemn music she had
heard, and to which the tenderness of her spirits had, in spite of her
reason, given a superstitious meaning. At these recollections she wept
again, and continued musing, when suddenly the notes of sweet music
passed on the air. A superstitious dread stole over her; she stood
listening, for some moments, in trembling expectation, and then
endeavoured to re-collect her thoughts, and to reason herself into
composure; but human reason cannot establish her laws on subjects, lost
in the obscurity of imagination, any more than the eye can ascertain the
form of objects, that only glimmer through the dimness of night.

Her surprise, on hearing such soothing and delicious sounds, was, at
least, justifiable; for it was long--very long, since she had listened
to any thing like melody. The fierce trumpet and the shrill fife were
the only instruments she had heard, since her arrival at Udolpho.

When her mind was somewhat more composed, she tried to ascertain from
what quarter the sounds proceeded, and thought they came from below; but
whether from a room of the castle, or from the terrace, she could not
with certainty judge. Fear and surprise now yielded to the enchantment
of a strain, that floated on the silent night, with the most soft
and melancholy sweetness. Suddenly, it seemed removed to a distance,
trembled faintly, and then entirely ceased.

She continued to listen, sunk in that pleasing repose, which soft music
leaves on the mind--but it came no more. Upon this strange circumstance
her thoughts were long engaged, for strange it certainly was to hear
music at midnight, when every inhabitant of the castle had long since
retired to rest, and in a place, where nothing like harmony had been
heard before, probably, for many years. Long-suffering had made her
spirits peculiarly sensible to terror, and liable to be affected by the
illusions of superstition.--It now seemed to her, as if her dead father
had spoken to her in that strain, to inspire her with comfort and
confidence, on the subject, which had then occupied her mind. Yet reason
told her, that this was a wild conjecture, and she was inclined to
dismiss it; but, with the inconsistency so natural, when imagination
guides the thoughts, she then wavered towards a belief as wild. She
remembered the singular event, connected with the castle, which had
given it into the possession of its present owner; and, when she
considered the mysterious manner, in which its late possessor had
disappeared, and that she had never since been heard of, her mind was
impressed with an high degree of solemn awe; so that, though there
appeared no clue to connect that event with the late music, she was
inclined fancifully to think they had some relation to each other. At
this conjecture, a sudden chillness ran through her frame; she looked
fearfully upon the duskiness of her chamber, and the dead silence, that
prevailed there, heightened to her fancy its gloomy aspect.

At length, she left the casement, but her steps faltered, as she
approached the bed, and she stopped and looked round. The single lamp,
that burned in her spacious chamber, was expiring; for a moment, she
shrunk from the darkness beyond; and then, ashamed of the weakness,
which, however, she could not wholly conquer, went forward to the bed,
where her mind did not soon know the soothings of sleep. She still mused
on the late occurrence, and looked with anxiety to the next night, when,
at the same hour, she determined to watch whether the music returned.
'If those sounds were human,' said she, 'I shall probably hear them
again.'



CHAPTER XII


  Then, oh, you blessed ministers above,
 Keep me in patience; and, in ripen'd time,
 Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up
 In countenance.
     SHAKESPEARE

Annette came almost breathless to Emily's apartment in the morning. 'O
ma'amselle!' said she, in broken sentences, 'what news I have to tell! I
have found out who the prisoner is--but he was no prisoner, neither;--he
that was shut up in the chamber I told you of. I must think him a ghost,
forsooth!'

'Who was the prisoner?' enquired Emily, while her thoughts glanced back
to the circumstance of the preceding night.

'You mistake, ma'am,' said Annette; 'he was not a prisoner, after all.'

'Who is the person, then?'

'Holy Saints!' rejoined Annette; 'How I was surprised! I met him just
now, on the rampart below, there. I never was so surprised in my life!
Ah! ma'amselle! this is a strange place! I should never have done
wondering, if I was to live here an hundred years. But, as I was saying,
I met him just now on the rampart, and I was thinking of nobody less
than of him.'

'This trifling is insupportable,' said Emily; 'prythee, Annette, do not
torture my patience any longer.'

'Nay, ma'amselle, guess--guess who it was; it was somebody you know very
well.'

'I cannot guess,' said Emily impatiently.

'Nay, ma'amselle, I'll tell you something to guess by--A tall Signor,
with a longish face, who walks so stately, and used to wear such a high
feather in his hat; and used often to look down upon the ground, when
people spoke to him; and to look at people from under his eyebrows, as
it were, all so dark and frowning. You have seen him, often and often,
at Venice, ma'am. Then he was so intimate with the Signor, too. And, now
I think of it, I wonder what he could be afraid of in this lonely old
castle, that he should shut himself up for. But he is come abroad now,
for I met him on the rampart just this minute. I trembled when I saw
him, for I always was afraid of him, somehow; but I determined I would
not let him see it; so I went up to him, and made him a low curtesy,
"You are welcome to the castle, Signor Orsino," said I.'

'O, it was Signor Orsino, then!' said Emily.

'Yes, ma'amselle, Signor Orsino, himself, who caused that Venetian
gentleman to be killed, and has been popping about from place to place,
ever since, as I hear.'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, recovering from the shock of this
intelligence; 'and is HE come to Udolpho! He does well to endeavour to
conceal himself.'

'Yes, ma'amselle, but if that was all, this desolate place would conceal
him, without his shutting himself up in one room. Who would think of
coming to look for him here? I am sure I should as soon think of going
to look for any body in the other world.'

'There is some truth in that,' said Emily, who would now have concluded
it was Orsino's music, which she had heard, on the preceding night,
had she not known, that he had neither taste, or skill in the art. But,
though she was unwilling to add to the number of Annette's surprises, by
mentioning the subject of her own, she enquired, whether any person in
the castle played on a musical instrument?

'O yes, ma'amselle! there is Benedetto plays the great drum to
admiration; and then, there is Launcelot the trumpeter; nay, for that
matter, Ludovico himself can play on the trumpet;--but he is ill now. I
remember once'--

Emily interrupted her; 'Have you heard no other music since you came to
the castle--none last night?'

'Why, did YOU hear any last night, ma'amselle?'

Emily evaded this question, by repeating her own.

'Why, no, ma'am,' replied Annette; 'I never heard any music here, I
must say, but the drums and the trumpet; and, as for last night, I did
nothing but dream I saw my late lady's ghost.'

'Your LATE lady's,' said Emily in a tremulous voice; 'you have heard
more, then. Tell me--tell me all, Annette, I entreat; tell me the worst
at once.'

'Nay, ma'amselle, you know the worst already.'

'I know nothing,' said Emily.

'Yes, you do, ma'amselle; you know, that nobody knows any thing about
her; and it is plain, therefore, she is gone, the way of the first lady
of the castle--nobody ever knew any thing about her.'

Emily leaned her head upon her hand, and was, for some time, silent;
then, telling Annette she wished to be alone, the latter left the room.

The remark of Annette had revived Emily's terrible suspicion, concerning
the fate of Madame Montoni; and she resolved to make another effort to
obtain certainty on this subject, by applying to Montoni once more.

When Annette returned, a few hours after, she told Emily, that the
porter of the castle wished very much to speak with her, for that he had
something of importance to say; her spirits had, however, of late been
so subject to alarm, that any new circumstance excited it; and this
message from the porter, when her first surprise was over, made her look
round for some lurking danger, the more suspiciously, perhaps, because
she had frequently remarked the unpleasant air and countenance of this
man. She now hesitated, whether to speak with him, doubting even, that
this request was only a pretext to draw her into some danger; but a
little reflection shewed her the improbability of this, and she blushed
at her weak fears.

'I will speak to him, Annette,' said she; 'desire him to come to the
corridor immediately.'

Annette departed, and soon after returned.

'Barnardine, ma'amselle,' said she, 'dare not come to the corridor, lest
he should be discovered, it is so far from his post; and he dare not
even leave the gates for a moment now; but, if you will come to him
at the portal, through some roundabout passages he told me of, without
crossing the courts, he has that to tell, which will surprise you. But
you must not come through the courts, lest the Signor should see you.'

Emily, neither approving these 'roundabout passage,' nor the other part
of the request, now positively refused to go. 'Tell him,' said she,
'if he has any thing of consequence to impart, I will hear him in the
corridor, whenever he has an opportunity of coming thither.'

Annette went to deliver this message, and was absent a considerable
time. When she returned, 'It won't do, ma'amselle,' said she.
'Barnardine has been considering all this time what can be done, for it
is as much as his place is worth to leave his post now. But, if you will
come to the east rampart in the dusk of the evening, he can, perhaps,
steal away, and tell you all he has to say.'

Emily was surprised and alarmed, at the secrecy which this man seemed
to think so necessary, and hesitated whether to meet him, till,
considering, that he might mean to warn her of some serious danger, she
resolved to go.

'Soon after sun-set,' said she, 'I will be at the end of the east
rampart. But then the watch will be set,' she added, recollecting
herself, 'and how can Barnardine pass unobserved?'

'That is just what I said to him, ma'am, and he answered me, that he had
the key of the gate, at the end of the rampart, that leads towards
the courts, and could let himself through that way; and as for the
sentinels, there were none at this end of the terrace, because the place
is guarded enough by the high walls of the castle, and the east turret;
and he said those at the other end were too far off to see him, if it
was pretty duskyish.'

'Well,' said Emily, 'I must hear what he has to tell; and, therefore,
desire you will go with me to the terrace, this evening.'

'He desired it might be pretty duskyish, ma'amselle,' repeated Annette,
'because of the watch.'

Emily paused, and then said she would be on the terrace, an hour after
sun-set;--'and tell Barnardine,' she added, 'to be punctual to the
time; for that I, also, may be observed by Signor Montoni. Where is the
Signor? I would speak with him.'

'He is in the cedar chamber, ma'am, counselling with the other Signors.
He is going to give them a sort of treat to-day, to make up for what
passed at the last, I suppose; the people are all very busy in the
kitchen.'

Emily now enquired, if Montoni expected any new guests? and Annette
believed that he did not. 'Poor Ludovico!' added she, 'he would be as
merry as the best of them, if he was well; but he may recover yet. Count
Morano was wounded as bad, as he, and he is got well again, and is gone
back to Venice.'

'Is he so?' said Emily, 'when did you hear this?'

'I heard it, last night, ma'amselle, but I forgot to tell it.'

Emily asked some further questions, and then, desiring Annette would
observe and inform her, when Montoni was alone, the girl went to deliver
her message to Barnardine.

Montoni was, however, so much engaged, during the whole day, that Emily
had no opportunity of seeking a release from her terrible suspense,
concerning her aunt. Annette was employed in watching his steps, and in
attending upon Ludovico, whom she, assisted by Caterina, nursed with
the utmost care; and Emily was, of course, left much alone. Her
thoughts dwelt often on the message of the porter, and were employed
in conjecturing the subject, that occasioned it, which she sometimes
imagined concerned the fate of Madame Montoni; at others, that it
related to some personal danger, which threatened herself. The cautious
secrecy which Barnardine observed in his conduct, inclined her to
believe the latter.

As the hour of appointment drew near, her impatience increased. At
length, the sun set; she heard the passing steps of the sentinels going
to their posts; and waited only for Annette to accompany her to the
terrace, who, soon after, came, and they descended together. When Emily
expressed apprehensions of meeting Montoni, or some of his guests, 'O,
there is no fear of that, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'they are all set
in to feasting yet, and that Barnardine knows.'

They reached the first terrace, where the sentinels demanded who passed;
and Emily, having answered, walked on to the east rampart, at the
entrance of which they were again stopped; and, having again replied,
were permitted to proceed. But Emily did not like to expose herself to
the discretion of these men, at such an hour; and, impatient to withdraw
from the situation, she stepped hastily on in search of Barnardine. He
was not yet come. She leaned pensively on the wall of the rampart,
and waited for him. The gloom of twilight sat deep on the surrounding
objects, blending in soft confusion the valley, the mountains, and the
woods, whose tall heads, stirred by the evening breeze, gave the only
sounds, that stole on silence, except a faint, faint chorus of distant
voices, that arose from within the castle.

'What voices are those?' said Emily, as she fearfully listened.

'It is only the Signor and his guests, carousing,' replied Annette.

'Good God!' thought Emily, 'can this man's heart be so gay, when he has
made another being so wretched; if, indeed, my aunt is yet suffered to
feel her wretchedness? O! whatever are my own sufferings, may my heart
never, never be hardened against those of others!'

She looked up, with a sensation of horror, to the east turret, near
which she then stood; a light glimmered through the grates of the lower
chamber, but those of the upper one were dark. Presently, she perceived
a person moving with a lamp across the lower room; but this circumstance
revived no hope, concerning Madame Montoni, whom she had vainly
sought in that apartment, which had appeared to contain only soldiers'
accoutrements. Emily, however, determined to attempt the outer door
of the turret, as soon as Barnardine should withdraw; and, if it was
unfastened, to make another effort to discover her aunt.

The moments passed, but still Barnardine did not appear; and Emily,
becoming uneasy, hesitated whether to wait any longer. She would have
sent Annette to the portal to hasten him, but feared to be left alone,
for it was now almost dark, and a melancholy streak of red, that still
lingered in the west, was the only vestige of departed day. The strong
interest, however, which Barnardine's message had awakened, overcame
other apprehensions, and still detained her.

While she was conjecturing with Annette what could thus occasion his
absence, they heard a key turn in the lock of the gate near them, and
presently saw a man advancing. It was Barnardine, of whom Emily hastily
enquired what he had to communicate, and desired, that he would tell her
quickly, 'for I am chilled with this evening air,' said she.

'You must dismiss your maid, lady,' said the man in a voice, the deep
tone of which shocked her, 'what I have to tell is to you only.'

Emily, after some hesitation, desired Annette to withdraw to a little
distance. 'Now, my friend, what would you say?'

He was silent a moment, as if considering, and then said,--

'That which would cost me my place, at least, if it came to the Signor's
ears. You must promise, lady, that nothing shall ever make you tell a
syllable of the matter; I have been trusted in this affair, and, if it
was known, that I betrayed my trust, my life, perhaps, might answer
it. But I was concerned for you, lady, and I resolved to tell you.' He
paused.--

Emily thanked him, assured him that he might repose on her discretion,
and entreated him to dispatch.

'Annette told us in the hall how unhappy you was about Signora Montoni,
and how much you wished to know what was become of her.'

'Most true,' said Emily eagerly, 'and you can inform me. I conjure you
tell me the worst, without hesitation.' She rested her trembling arm
upon the wall.

'I can tell you,' said Barnardine, and paused.--

Emily had no power to enforce her entreaties.

'I CAN tell you,' resumed Barnardine,--'but'--

'But what?' exclaimed Emily, recovering her resolution.

'Here I am, ma'amselle,' said Annette, who, having heard the eager tone,
in which Emily pronounced these words, came running towards her.

'Retire!' said Barnardine, sternly; 'you are not wanted;' and, as Emily
said nothing, Annette obeyed.

'I CAN tell you,' repeated the porter,--'but I know not how--you was
afflicted before.'--

'I am prepared for the worst, my friend,' said Emily, in a firm and
solemn voice. 'I can support any certainty better than this suspense.'

'Well, Signora, if that is the case, you shall hear.--You know, I
suppose, that the Signor and his lady used sometimes to disagree. It is
none of my concerns to enquire what it was about, but I believe you know
it was so.'

'Well,' said Emily, 'proceed.'

'The Signor, it seems, had lately been very wrath against her. I saw
all, and heard all,--a great deal more than people thought for; but it
was none of my business, so I said nothing. A few days ago, the Signor
sent for me. "Barnardine," says he, "you are--an honest man, I think I
can trust you." I assured his excellenza that he could. "Then," says he,
as near as I can remember, "I have an affair in hand, which I want you
to assist me in."--Then he told me what I was to do; but that I shall
say nothing about--it concerned only the Signora.'

'O Heavens!' exclaimed Emily--'what have you done?'

Barnardine hesitated, and was silent.

'What fiend could tempt him, or you, to such an act!' cried Emily,
chilled with horror, and scarcely able to support her fainting spirits.

'It was a fiend,' said Barnardine in a gloomy tone of voice. They
were now both silent;--Emily had not courage to enquire further, and
Barnardine seemed to shrink from telling more. At length he said, 'It
is of no use to think of the past; the Signor was cruel enough, but he
would be obeyed. What signified my refusing? He would have found others,
who had no scruples.'

'You have murdered her, then!' said Emily, in a hollow and inward
voice--'I am talking with a murderer!' Barnardine stood silent; while
Emily turned from him, and attempted to leave the place.

'Stay, lady!' said he, 'You deserve to think so still--since you can
believe me capable of such a deed.'

'If you are innocent, tell me quickly,' said Emily, in faint accents,
'for I feel I shall not be able to hear you long.'

'I will tell you no more,' said he, and walked away. Emily had just
strength enough to bid him stay, and then to call Annette, on whose arm
she leaned, and they walked slowly up the rampart, till they heard steps
behind them. It was Barnardine again.

'Send away the girl,' said he, 'and I will tell you more.'

'She must not go,' said Emily; 'what you have to say, she may hear.'

'May she so, lady?' said he. 'You shall know no more, then;' and he was
going, though slowly, when Emily's anxiety, overcoming the resentment
and fear, which the man's behaviour had roused, she desired him to stay,
and bade Annette retire.

'The Signora is alive,' said he, 'for me. She is my prisoner, though;
his excellenza has shut her up in the chamber over the great gates of
the court, and I have the charge of her. I was going to have told you,
you might see her--but now--'

Emily, relieved from an unutterable load of anguish by this speech, had
now only to ask Barnardine's forgiveness, and to conjure, that he would
let her visit her aunt.

He complied with less reluctance, than she expected, and told her, that,
if she would repair, on the following night, when the Signor was retired
to rest, to the postern-gate of the castle, she should, perhaps, see
Madame Montoni.

Amid all the thankfulness, which Emily felt for this concession,
she thought she observed a malicious triumph in his manner, when he
pronounced the last words; but, in the next moment, she dismissed the
thought, and, having again thanked him, commended her aunt to his
pity, and assured him, that she would herself reward him, and would
be punctual to her appointment, she bade him good night, and retired,
unobserved, to her chamber. It was a considerable time, before
the tumult of joy, which Barnardine's unexpected intelligence had
occasioned, allowed Emily to think with clearness, or to be conscious of
the real dangers, that still surrounded Madame Montoni and herself.
When this agitation subsided, she perceived, that her aunt was yet the
prisoner of a man, to whose vengeance, or avarice, she might fall a
sacrifice; and, when she further considered the savage aspect of the
person, who was appointed to guard Madame Montoni, her doom appeared to
be already sealed, for the countenance of Barnardine seemed to bear the
stamp of a murderer; and, when she had looked upon it, she felt inclined
to believe, that there was no deed, however black, which he might not be
prevailed upon to execute. These reflections brought to her remembrance
the tone of voice, in which he had promised to grant her request to
see his prisoner; and she mused upon it long in uneasiness and doubt.
Sometimes, she even hesitated, whether to trust herself with him at the
lonely hour he had appointed; and once, and only once, it struck her,
that Madame Montoni might be already murdered, and that this ruffian was
appointed to decoy herself to some secret place, where her life also
was to be sacrificed to the avarice of Montoni, who then would claim
securely the contested estates in Languedoc. The consideration of the
enormity of such guilt did, at length, relieve her from the belief
of its probability, but not from all the doubts and fears, which a
recollection of Barnardine's manner had occasioned. From these subjects,
her thoughts, at length, passed to others; and, as the evening advanced,
she remembered, with somewhat more than surprise, the music she had
heard, on the preceding night, and now awaited its return, with more
than curiosity.

She distinguished, till a late hour, the distant carousals of Montoni
and his companions--the loud contest, the dissolute laugh and the choral
song, that made the halls re-echo. At length, she heard the heavy gates
of the castle shut for the night, and those sounds instantly sunk into
a silence, which was disturbed only by the whispering steps of persons,
passing through the galleries to their remote rooms. Emily now judging
it to be about the time, when she had heard the music, on the preceding
night, dismissed Annette, and gently opened the casement to watch
for its return. The planet she had so particularly noticed, at the
recurrence of the music, was not yet risen; but, with superstitious
weakness, she kept her eyes fixed on that part of the hemisphere, where
it would rise, almost expecting, that, when it appeared, the sounds
would return. At length, it came, serenely bright, over the eastern
towers of the castle. Her heart trembled, when she perceived it, and she
had scarcely courage to remain at the casement, lest the returning
music should confirm her terror, and subdue the little strength she yet
retained. The clock soon after struck one, and, knowing this to be about
the time, when the sounds had occurred, she sat down in a chair, near
the casement, and endeavoured to compose her spirits; but the anxiety
of expectation yet disturbed them. Every thing, however, remained still;
she heard only the solitary step of a sentinel, and the lulling murmur
of the woods below, and she again leaned from the casement, and again
looked, as if for intelligence, to the planet, which was now risen high
above the towers.

Emily continued to listen, but no music came. 'Those were surely no
mortal sounds!' said she, recollecting their entrancing melody. 'No
inhabitant of this castle could utter such; and, where is the feeling,
that could modulate such exquisite expression? We all know, that it
has been affirmed celestial sounds have sometimes been heard on earth.
Father Pierre and Father Antoine declared, that they had sometimes heard
them in the stillness of night, when they alone were waking to offer
their orisons to heaven. Nay, my dear father himself, once said, that,
soon after my mother's death, as he lay watchful in grief, sounds of
uncommon sweetness called him from his bed; and, on opening his window,
he heard lofty music pass along the midnight air. It soothed him, he
said; he looked up with confidence to heaven, and resigned her to his
God.'

Emily paused to weep at this recollection. 'Perhaps,' resumed she,
'perhaps, those strains I heard were sent to comfort,--to encourage me!
Never shall I forget those I heard, at this hour, in Languedoc!
Perhaps, my father watches over me, at this moment!' She wept again in
tenderness. Thus passed the hour in watchfulness and solemn thought; but
no sounds returned; and, after remaining at the casement, till the
light tint of dawn began to edge the mountain-tops and steal upon the
night-shade, she concluded, that they would not return, and retired
reluctantly to repose.




VOLUME 3



CHAPTER 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.
     MACBETH

Emily was somewhat surprised, on the following day, to find that Annette
had heard of Madame Montoni's confinement in the chamber over the
portal, as well as of her purposed visit there, on the approaching
night. That the circumstance, which Barnardine had so solemnly enjoined
her to conceal, he had himself told to so indiscreet an hearer as
Annette, appeared very improbable, though he had now charged her with
a message, concerning the intended interview. He requested, that Emily
would meet him, unattended, on the terrace, at a little after midnight,
when he himself would lead her to the place he had promised; a proposal,
from which she immediately shrunk, for a thousand vague fears darted
athwart her mind, such as had tormented her on the preceding night,
and which she neither knew how to trust, or to dismiss. It frequently
occurred to her, that Barnardine might have deceived her, concerning
Madame Montoni, whose murderer, perhaps, he really was; and that he had
deceived her by order of Montoni, the more easily to draw her into some
of the desperate designs of the latter. The terrible suspicion, that
Madame Montoni no longer lived, thus came, accompanied by one not less
dreadful for herself. Unless the crime, by which the aunt had suffered,
was instigated merely by resentment, unconnected with profit, a motive,
upon which Montoni did not appear very likely to act, its object must be
unattained, till the niece was also dead, to whom Montoni knew that
his wife's estates must descend. Emily remembered the words, which had
informed her, that the contested estates in France would devolve to her,
if Madame Montoni died, without consigning them to her husband, and the
former obstinate perseverance of her aunt made it too probable, that
she had, to the last, withheld them. At this instant, recollecting
Barnardine's manner, on the preceding night, she now believed, what she
had then fancied, that it expressed malignant triumph. She shuddered at
the recollection, which confirmed her fears, and determined not to
meet him on the terrace. Soon after, she was inclined to consider these
suspicions as the extravagant exaggerations of a timid and harassed
mind, and could not believe Montoni liable to such preposterous
depravity as that of destroying, from one motive, his wife and her
niece. She blamed herself for suffering her romantic imagination to
carry her so far beyond the bounds of probability, and determined to
endeavour to check its rapid flights, lest they should sometimes extend
into madness. Still, however, she shrunk from the thought of meeting
Barnardine, on the terrace, at midnight; and still the wish to be
relieved from this terrible suspense, concerning her aunt, to see her,
and to sooth her sufferings, made her hesitate what to do.

'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 Barnardine told me about. He gave me this key, and bade me say it
unlocks the door at the end of the vaulted gallery, that opens near the
end of the east rampart, so that you need not pass any of the men on
watch. He bade me say, too, that his reason for requesting you to come
to the terrace was, because he could take you to the place you want
to go to, without opening the great doors of the hall, which grate so
heavily.'

Emily's spirits were somewhat calmed by this explanation, which seemed
to be honestly given to Annette. 'But why did he desire I would come
alone, Annette?' said she.

'Why that was what I asked him myself, ma'amselle. Says I, Why is my
young lady to come alone?--Surely I may come with her!--What harm can I
do? But he said "No--no--I tell you not," in his gruff way. Nay, says I,
I have been trusted in as great affairs as this, I warrant, and it's a
hard matter if _I_ can't keep a secret now. Still he would say nothing
but--"No--no--no." Well, says I, if you will only trust me, I will
tell you a great secret, that was told me a month ago, and I have never
opened my lips about it yet--so you need not be afraid of telling me.
But all would not do. Then, ma'amselle, I went so far as to offer him a
beautiful new sequin, that Ludovico gave me for a keep sake, and I would
not have parted with it for all St. Marco's Place; but even that would
not do! Now what can be the reason of this? But I know, you know, ma'am,
who you are going to see.'

'Pray did Barnardine tell you this?'

'He! No, ma'amselle, 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 subject of meeting this
Barnardine on the rampart, and submitting herself to his guidance,
she scarcely knew whither. Pity for her aunt and anxiety for herself
alternately swayed her determination, and night came, before she
had decided upon her conduct. She heard the castle clock strike
eleven--twelve--and yet her mind wavered. The time, however, was now
come, when she could hesitate no longer: and then the interest she felt
for her aunt overcame other considerations, and, bidding Annette follow
her to the outer door of the vaulted gallery, and there await her
return, she descended from her chamber. The castle was perfectly
still, and the great hall, where so lately she had witnessed a scene of
dreadful contention, now returned only the whispering footsteps of the
two solitary figures gliding fearfully between the pillars, and gleamed
only to the feeble lamp they carried. Emily, deceived by the long
shadows of the pillars and by the catching lights between, often
stopped, imagining she saw some person, moving in the distant obscurity
of the perspective; and, as she passed these pillars, she feared to turn
her eyes toward them, almost expecting to see a figure start out from
behind their broad shaft. She reached, however, the vaulted gallery,
without interruption, but unclosed its outer door with a trembling hand,
and, charging Annette not to quit it and to keep it a little open, that
she might be heard if she called, she delivered to her the lamp, which
she did not dare to take herself because of the men on watch, and,
alone, stepped out upon the dark terrace. Every thing was so still,
that she feared, lest her own light steps should be heard by the distant
sentinels, and she walked cautiously towards the spot, where she had
before met Barnardine, listening for a sound, and looking onward through
the gloom in search of him. At length, she was startled by a deep voice,
that spoke near her, and she paused, uncertain whether it was his, till
it spoke again, and she then 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 rays of the lamp stream through a small opening, was
certain, that Annette was still there. But her remote situation could
little befriend Emily, after she had quitted the terrace; and, when
Barnardine unclosed the gate, the dismal aspect of the passage beyond,
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 refused to permit, mingling at the
same time with his refusal such artful circumstances to heighten the
pity and curiosity of Emily towards her aunt, that she, at length,
consented to follow him alone to the portal.

He then took up the torch, and led her along the passage, at the
extremity of which he unlocked another door, whence they descended,
a few steps, into a chapel, which, as Barnardine held up the torch
to light her, Emily observed to be in ruins, and she immediately
recollected a former conversation of Annette, concerning it, with very
unpleasant emotions. She looked fearfully on the almost roofless walls,
green with damps, and on the gothic points of the windows, where the ivy
and the briony had long supplied the place of glass, and ran mantling
among the broken capitals of some columns, that had once supported the
roof. Barnardine stumbled over the broken pavement, and his voice, as he
uttered a sudden oath, was returned in hollow echoes, that made it more
terrific. Emily's heart sunk; but she still followed him, and he turned
out of what had been the principal aisle of the chapel. 'Down these
steps, lady,' said Barnardine, as he descended a flight, which appeared
to lead into the vaults; but Emily paused on the top, and demanded, in a
tremulous tone, whither he was conducting her.

'To the portal,' said Barnardine.

'Cannot we go through the chapel to the portal?' said Emily.

'No, Signora, that leads to the inner court, which I don't choose to
unlock. This way, and we shall reach the outer court presently.'

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 dimly, that Emily expected
every moment to see it extinguished, and Barnardine could scarcely find
his way. As they advanced, these vapours thickened, and Barnardine,
believing the torch was expiring, stopped for a moment to trim it. As he
then rested against a pair of iron gates, that opened from the passage,
Emily saw, by uncertain flashes of light, the vaults beyond, and, near
her, heaps of earth, that seemed to surround an open grave. Such an
object, in such a scene, would, at any time, have disturbed her; but
now she was shocked by an instantaneous presentiment, that this was the
grave of her unfortunate aunt, and that the treacherous Barnardine was
leading herself to destruction. The obscure and terrible place, to which
he had conducted her, seemed to justify the thought; it was a place
suited for murder, a receptacle for the dead, where a deed of horror
might be committed, and no vestige appear to proclaim it. Emily was so
overwhelmed with terror, that, for a moment, she was unable to determine
what conduct to pursue. She then considered, that it would be vain to
attempt an escape from Barnardine, by flight, since the length and the
intricacy of the way she had passed would soon enable him to overtake
her, who was unacquainted with the turnings, and whose feebleness
would not suffer her to run long with swiftness. She feared equally
to irritate him by a disclosure of her suspicions, which a refusal to
accompany him further certainly would do; and, since she was already
as much in his power as it was possible she could be, if she proceeded,
she, at length, determined to suppress, as far as she could, the
appearance of apprehension, and to follow silently whither he designed
to lead her. Pale with horror and anxiety, she now waited till
Barnardine had trimmed the torch, and, as her sight glanced again upon
the grave, she could not forbear enquiring, for whom it was prepared.
He took his eyes from the torch, and fixed them upon her face without
speaking. She faintly repeated the question, but the man, shaking the
torch, passed on; and she followed, trembling, to a second flight of
steps, having ascended which, a door delivered them into the first court
of the castle. As they crossed it, the light shewed the high black walls
around them, fringed with long grass and dank weeds, that found a scanty
soil among the mouldering stones; the heavy buttresses, with, here and
there, between them, a narrow grate, that admitted a freer circulation
of air to the court, the massy iron gates, that led to the castle, whose
clustering turrets appeared above, and, opposite, the huge towers and
arch of the portal itself. In this scene the large, uncouth person of
Barnardine, bearing the torch, formed a characteristic figure. This
Barnardine was wrapt in a long dark cloak, which scarcely allowed
the kind of half-boots, or sandals, that were laced upon his legs, to
appear, and shewed only the point of a broad sword, which he usually
wore, slung in a belt across his shoulders. On his head was a heavy flat
velvet cap, somewhat resembling a turban, in which was a short feather;
the visage beneath it shewed strong features, and a countenance furrowed
with the lines of cunning and darkened by habitual discontent.

The view of the court, however, reanimated Emily, who, as she crossed
silently towards the portal, began to hope, that her own fears, and not
the treachery of Barnardine, had deceived her. She looked anxiously
up at the first casement, that appeared above the lofty arch of the
portcullis; but it was dark, and she enquired, whether it belonged to
the chamber, where Madame Montoni was confined. Emily spoke low, and
Barnardine, perhaps, did not hear her question, for he returned no
answer; and they, soon after, entered the postern door of the gate-way,
which brought them to the foot of a narrow stair-case, that wound up one
of the towers.

'Up this stair-case the Signora lies,' said Barnardine.

'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 sallow countenance of Barnardine, and discovered more fully the
desolation of the place--the rough stone walls, the spiral stairs, black
with age, and a suit of antient armour, with an iron visor, that hung
upon the walls, and appeared a trophy of some 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,' replied Emily, 'my aunt will rejoice to
see me.'

'I am not so sure of that,' said Barnardine, 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, desired he would
not leave her in darkness. He looked around, and, observing a tripod
lamp, that stood on the stairs, lighted and gave it to Emily, who
stepped forward into a large old chamber, and he closed the door. As
she listened anxiously to his departing steps, she thought he descended,
instead of ascending, the stairs; but the gusts of wind, that whistled
round the portal, would not allow her to hear distinctly any other
sound. Still, however, she listened, and, perceiving no step in the
room above, where he had affirmed Madame Montoni to be, her anxiety
increased, though she considered, that the thickness of the floor in
this strong building might prevent any sound reaching her from the upper
chamber. The next moment, in a pause of the wind, she distinguished
Barnardine's step descending to the court, and then thought she heard
his voice; but, the rising gust again overcoming other sounds, Emily, to
be certain on this point, moved softly to the door, which, on attempting
to open it, she discovered was fastened. All the horrid apprehensions,
that had lately assailed her, returned at this instant with redoubled
force, and no longer appeared like the exaggerations of a timid spirit,
but seemed to have been sent to warn her of her fate. She now did not
doubt, that Madame Montoni had been murdered, perhaps in this very
chamber; or that she herself was brought hither for the same purpose.
The countenance, the manners and the recollected words of Barnardine,
when he had spoken of her aunt, confirmed her worst fears. For some
moments, she was incapable of considering of any means, by which she
might attempt an escape. Still she listened, but heard footsteps neither
on the stairs, or in the room above; she thought, however, that she
again distinguished Barnardine's voice below, and went to a grated
window, that opened upon the court, to enquire further. Here, she
plainly heard his hoarse accents, mingling with the blast, that swept
by, but they were lost again so quickly, that their meaning could not be
interpreted; and then the light of a torch, which seemed to issue from
the portal below, flashed across the court, and the long shadow of a
man, who was under the arch-way, appeared upon the pavement. Emily,
from the hugeness of this sudden portrait, concluded it to be that
of Barnardine; but other deep tones, which passed in the wind, soon
convinced her he was not alone, and that his companion was not a person
very liable to pity.

When her spirits had overcome the first shock of her situation, she
held up the lamp to examine, if the chamber afforded a possibility of an
escape. It was a spacious room, whose walls, wainscoted with rough oak,
shewed no casement but the grated one, which Emily had left, and no
other door than that, by which she had entered. The feeble rays of the
lamp, however, did not allow her to see at once its full extent; she
perceived no furniture, except, indeed, an iron chair, fastened in the
centre of the chamber, immediately over which, depending on a chain from
the ceiling, hung an iron ring. Having gazed upon these, for some time,
with wonder and horror, she next observed iron bars below, made for the
purpose of confining the feet, and on the arms of the chair were rings
of the same metal. As she continued to survey them, she concluded, that
they were instruments of torture, and it struck her, that some poor
wretch had once been fastened in this chair, and had there been starved
to death. She was chilled by the thought; but, what was her agony, when,
in the next moment, it occurred to her, that her aunt might have been
one of these victims, and that she herself might be the next! An acute
pain seized her head, she was scarcely able to hold the lamp, and,
looking round for support, was seating herself, unconsciously, in the
iron chair itself; but suddenly perceiving where she was, she started
from it in horror, and sprung towards a remote end of the room. Here
again she looked round for a seat to sustain her, and perceived only a
dark curtain, which, descending from the ceiling to the floor, was drawn
along the whole side of the chamber. Ill as she was, the appearance of
this curtain struck her, and she paused to gaze upon it, in wonder and
apprehension.

It seemed to conceal a recess of the chamber; she wished, yet dreaded,
to lift it, and to discover what it veiled: twice she was withheld by
a recollection of the terrible spectacle her daring hand had formerly
unveiled in an apartment of the castle, till, suddenly conjecturing,
that it concealed the body of her murdered aunt, she seized it, in a fit
of desperation, and drew it aside. Beyond, appeared a corpse, stretched
on a kind of low couch, which was crimsoned with human blood, as was
the floor beneath. The features, deformed by death, were ghastly and
horrible, and more than one livid wound appeared in the face. Emily,
bending over the body, gazed, for a moment, with an eager, frenzied eye;
but, in the next, the lamp dropped from her hand, and she fell senseless
at the foot of the couch.

When her senses returned, she found herself surrounded by men, among
whom was Barnardine, who were lifting her from the floor, and then bore
her along the chamber. She was sensible of what passed, but the extreme
languor of her spirits did not permit her to speak, or move, or even to
feel any distinct fear. They carried her down the stair-case, by which
she had ascended; when, having reached the arch-way, they stopped, and
one of the men, taking the torch from Barnardine, opened a small door,
that was cut in the great gate, and, as he stepped out upon the road,
the light he bore shewed several men on horseback, in waiting. Whether
it was the freshness of the air, that revived Emily, or that the objects
she now saw roused the spirit of alarm, she suddenly spoke, and made an
ineffectual effort to disengage herself from the grasp of the ruffians,
who held her.

Barnardine, meanwhile, called loudly for the torch, while distant voices
answered, and several persons approached, and, in the same instant, a
light flashed upon the court of the castle. Again he vociferated for the
torch, and the men hurried Emily through the gate. At a short distance,
under the shelter of the castle walls, she perceived the fellow, who had
taken the light from the porter, holding it to a man, busily employed
in altering the saddle of a horse, round which were several horsemen,
looking on, whose harsh features received the full glare of the torch;
while the broken ground beneath them, the opposite walls, with the
tufted shrubs, that overhung their summits, and an embattled watch-tower
above, were reddened with the gleam, which, fading gradually away, left
the remoter ramparts and the woods below to the obscurity of night.

'What do you waste time for, there?' said Barnardine with an oath, as he
approached the horsemen. 'Dispatch--dispatch!'

'The saddle will be ready in a minute,' replied the man who was buckling
it, at whom Barnardine now swore again, for his negligence, and Emily,
calling feebly for help, was hurried towards the horses, while the
ruffians disputed on which to place her, the one designed for her not
being ready. At this moment a cluster of lights issued from the great
gates, and she immediately heard the shrill voice of Annette above
those of several other persons, who advanced. In the same moment, she
distinguished Montoni and Cavigni, followed by a number of ruffian-faced
fellows, to whom she no longer looked with terror, but with hope, for,
at this instant, she did not tremble at the thought of any dangers, that
might await her within the castle, whence so lately, and so anxiously
she had wished to escape. Those, which threatened her from without, had
engrossed all her apprehensions.

A short contest ensued between the parties, in which that of Montoni,
however, were presently victors, and the horsemen, perceiving that
numbers were against them, and being, perhaps, not very warmly
interested in the affair they had undertaken, galloped off, while
Barnardine had run far enough to be lost in the darkness, and Emily was
led back into the castle. As she 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 shuddered for herself, and,
almost forgetting 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 Emily to await him in the cedar parlour, whither he soon
followed, and then sternly questioned her on this mysterious affair.
Though she now viewed him with horror, as the murderer of her aunt, and
scarcely knew what she said in reply to his impatient enquiries, her
answers and her manner convinced him, that she had not taken a voluntary
part in the late scheme, and he dismissed her upon the appearance of his
servants, whom he had ordered to attend, that he might enquire further
into the affair, and discover those, who had been accomplices in it.

Emily had been some time in her apartment, before the tumult of her mind
allowed her to remember several of the past circumstances. Then, again,
the dead form, which the curtain in the portal-chamber had disclosed,
came to her fancy, and she uttered a groan, which terrified Annette the
more, as Emily forbore to satisfy her curiosity, on the subject of
it, for she feared to trust her with so fatal a secret, lest her
indiscretion should call down the immediate vengeance of Montoni on
herself.

Thus compelled to bear within her own mind the whole horror of the
secret, that oppressed it, her reason seemed to totter under the
intolerable weight. She often fixed a wild and vacant look on Annette,
and, when she spoke, either did not hear her, or answered from the
purpose. Long fits of abstraction succeeded; Annette spoke repeatedly,
but her voice seemed not to make any impression on the sense of the long
agitated Emily, who sat fixed and silent, except that, now and then, she
heaved a heavy sigh, but without tears.

Terrified at her condition, Annette, at length, left the room, to inform
Montoni of it, who had just dismissed his servants, without having made
any discoveries on the subject of his enquiry. The wild description,
which this girl now gave of Emily, induced him to follow her immediately
to the chamber.

At the sound of his voice, Emily turned her eyes, and a gleam of
recollection seemed to shoot athwart her mind, for she immediately rose
from her seat, and moved slowly to a remote part of the room. He spoke
to her in accents somewhat softened from their usual harshness, but
she regarded him with a kind of half curious, half terrified look,
and answered only 'yes,' to whatever he said. Her mind still seemed to
retain no other impression, than that of fear.

Of this disorder Annette could give no explanation, and Montoni, having
attempted, for some time, to persuade Emily to talk, retired, after
ordering Annette to remain with her, during the night, and to inform
him, in the morning, of her condition.

When he was gone, Emily again came forward, and asked who it was, that
had been there to disturb her. Annette said it was the Signor-Signor
Montoni. Emily repeated the name after her, several times, as if she
did not recollect it, and then suddenly groaned, and relapsed into
abstraction.

With some difficulty, Annette led her to the bed, which Emily examined
with an eager, frenzied eye, before she lay down, and then, pointing,
turned with shuddering emotion, to Annette, who, now more terrified,
went towards the door, that she might bring one of the female servants
to pass the night with them; but Emily, observing her going, called her
by name, and then in the naturally soft and plaintive tone of her voice,
begged, that she, too, would not forsake her.--'For since my father
died,' added she, sighing, 'every body forsakes me.'

'Your father, ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'he was dead before you knew
me.'

'He was, indeed!' rejoined Emily, and her tears began to flow. She now
wept silently and long, after which, becoming quite calm, she at length
sunk to sleep, Annette having had discretion enough not to interrupt
her tears. This girl, as affectionate as she was simple, lost in these
moments all her former fears of remaining in the chamber, and watched
alone by Emily, during the whole night.



CHAPTER II


     unfold
 What worlds, or what vast regions, hold
 Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook
 Her mansion in this fleshly nook!
     IL PENSEROSO

Emily's mind was refreshed by sleep. On waking in the morning, she
looked with surprise on Annette, who sat sleeping in a chair beside the
bed, and then endeavoured to recollect herself; but the circumstances of
the preceding night were swept from her memory, which seemed to retain
no trace of what had passed, and she was still gazing with surprise on
Annette, when the latter awoke.

'O dear ma'amselle! do you know me?' cried she.

'Know you! Certainly,' replied Emily, 'you are Annette; but why are you
sitting by me thus?'

'O you have been very ill, ma'amselle,--very ill indeed! and I am sure I
thought--'

'This is very strange!' said Emily, still trying to recollect the
past.--'But I think I do remember, that my fancy has been haunted by
frightful dreams. Good God!' she added, suddenly starting--'surely it
was nothing more than a dream!'

She fixed a terrified look upon Annette, who, intending to quiet her,
said 'Yes, ma'amselle, it was more than a dream, but it is all over
now.'

'She IS murdered, then!' said Emily in an inward voice, and shuddering
instantaneously. Annette screamed; for, being ignorant of the
circumstance to which Emily referred, she attributed her manner to a
disordered fancy; but, when she had explained to what her own speech
alluded, Emily, recollecting the attempt that had been made to carry her
off, asked if the contriver of it had been discovered. Annette replied,
that he had not, though he might easily be guessed at; and then told
Emily she might thank her for her deliverance, who, endeavouring to
command the emotion, which the remembrance of her aunt had occasioned,
appeared calmly to listen to Annette, though, in truth, she heard
scarcely a word that was said.

'And so, ma'amselle,' continued the latter, 'I was determined to be even
with Barnardine for refusing to tell me the secret, by finding it out
myself; so I watched you, on the terrace, and, as soon as he had opened
the door at the end, I stole out from the castle, to try to follow you;
for, says I, I am sure no good can be planned, or why all this secrecy?
So, sure enough, he had not bolted the door after him, and, when I
opened it, I saw, by the glimmer of the torch, at the other end of the
passage, which way you were going. I followed the light, at a distance,
till you came to the vaults of the chapel, and there I was afraid to go
further, for I had heard strange things about these vaults. But then,
again, I was afraid to go back, all in darkness, by myself; so by the
time Barnardine had trimmed the light, I had resolved to follow you, and
I did so, till you came to the great court, and there I was afraid he
would see me; so I stopped at the door again, and watched you across to
the gates, and, when you 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 hard work to find my way through the passage under the chapel, and
what is very strange, I quite forgot to look for the ghosts they had
told me about, though I would not go into that place again by myself for
all the world! Luckily the Signor and Signor Cavigni were up, so we had
soon a train at our heels, sufficient to frighten that Barnardine and
his rogues, all together.'

Annette ceased to speak, but Emily still appeared to listen. At length
she said, suddenly, 'I think I will go to him myself;--where is he?'

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 perfectly just;
Emily, too, when she thought on the scheme, had attributed it to
him; and Montoni, who had not a doubt on this subject, also, began
to believe, that it was by the direction of Morano, that poison had
formerly been mingled with his wine.

The professions of repentance, which Morano had made to Emily, under the
anguish of his wound, was sincere at the moment he offered them; but
he had mistaken the subject of his sorrow, for, while he thought he was
condemning the cruelty of his late design, he was lamenting only the
state of suffering, to which it had reduced him. As these sufferings
abated, his former views revived, till, his health being re-established,
he again found himself ready for enterprise and difficulty. The porter
of the castle, who had served him, on a former occasion, willingly
accepted a second bribe; and, having concerted the means of drawing
Emily to the gates, Morano publicly left the hamlet, whither he had been
carried after the affray, and withdrew with his people to another
at several miles distance. From thence, on a night agreed upon by
Barnardine, who had discovered from the thoughtless prattle of Annette,
the most probable means of decoying Emily, the Count sent back his
servants to the castle, while he awaited her arrival at the hamlet, with
an intention of carrying her immediately to Venice. How this, his second
scheme, was frustrated, has already appeared; but the violent, and
various passions with which this Italian lover was now agitated, on his
return to that city, can only be imagined.

Annette having made her report to Montoni of Emily's health and of her
request to see him, he replied, that she might attend him in the cedar
room, in about an hour. It was on the subject, that pressed so heavily
on her mind, that Emily wished to speak to him, yet she did not
distinctly know what good purpose this could answer, and sometimes
she even recoiled in horror from the expectation of his presence. She
wished, also, to petition, though she scarcely dared to believe the
request would be granted, that he would permit her, since her aunt was
no more, to return to her native country.

As the moment of interview approached, her agitation increased so much,
that she almost resolved to excuse herself under what could scarcely
be called a pretence of illness; and, when she considered what could
be said, either concerning herself, or the fate of her aunt, she was
equally hopeless as to the event of her entreaty, and terrified as
to its effect upon the vengeful spirit of Montoni. Yet, to pretend
ignorance of her death, appeared, in some degree, to be sharing its
criminality, and, indeed, this event was the only ground, on which Emily
could rest her petition for leaving Udolpho.

While her thoughts thus wavered, a message was brought, importing, that
Montoni could not see her, till the next day; and her spirits were
then relieved, for a moment, from an almost intolerable weight of
apprehension. Annette said, she fancied the Chevaliers were going out
to the wars again, for the 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, 'say
to his comrade, that he would warrant they'd bring home a rare deal of
booty.--So, thinks I, if the Signor can, with a safe conscience, send
his people out a-robbing--why it is no business of mine. I only wish
I was once safe out of this castle; and, if it had not been for poor
Ludovico's sake, I would have let Count Morano's people run away with
us both, for it would have been serving you a good turn, ma'amselle, as
well as myself.'

Annette might have continued thus talking for hours for any interruption
she would have received from Emily, who was silent, inattentive,
absorbed in thought, and passed the whole of this day in a kind
of solemn tranquillity, such as is often the result of faculties
overstrained by suffering.

When night returned, Emily recollected the mysterious strains of music,
that she had lately heard, in which she still felt some degree of
interest, and of which she hoped to hear again the soothing sweetness.
The influence of superstition now gained on the weakness of her
long-harassed mind; she looked, with enthusiastic expectation, to the
guardian spirit of her father, and, having dismissed Annette for the
night, determined to watch alone for their return. It was not yet,
however, near the time when she had heard the music on a former night,
and anxious to call off her thoughts from distressing subjects, she sat
down with one of the few books, that she had brought from France; but
her mind, refusing controul, became restless and agitated, and she went
often to the casement to listen for a sound. Once, she thought she heard
a voice, but then, every thing without the casement remaining still, she
concluded, that her fancy had deceived her.

Thus passed the time, till twelve o'clock, soon after which the distant
sounds, that murmured through the castle, ceased, and sleep seemed to
reign over all. Emily then seated herself at the casement, where she
was soon recalled from the reverie, into which she sunk, by very unusual
sounds, not of music, but like the low mourning of some person in
distress. As she listened, her heart faltered in terror, and she became
convinced, that the former sound was more than imaginary. Still,
at intervals, she heard a kind of feeble lamentation, and sought to
discover whence it came. There were several rooms underneath, adjoining
the rampart, which had been long shut up, and, as the sound probably
rose from one of these, she leaned from the casement to observe, whether
any light was visible there. The chambers, as far as she could perceive,
were quite dark, but, at a little distance, on the rampart below, she
thought she saw something moving.

The faint twilight, which the stars shed, did not enable her to
distinguish what it was; but she judged it to be a sentinel, on watch,
and she removed her light to a remote part of the chamber, that she
might escape notice, during her further observation.

The same object still appeared. Presently, it advanced along the
rampart, towards her window, and she then distinguished something like
a human form, but the silence, with which it moved, convinced her it
was no sentinel. As it drew near, she hesitated whether to retire; a
thrilling curiosity inclined her to stay, but a dread of she scarcely
knew what warned her to withdraw.

While she paused, the figure came opposite to her casement, and was
stationary. Every thing remained quiet; she had not heard even a
foot-fall; and the solemnity of this silence, with the mysterious form
she saw, subdued her spirits, so that she was moving from the casement,
when, on a sudden, she observed the figure start away, and glide down
the rampart, after which it was soon lost in the obscurity of night.
Emily continued to gaze, for some time, on the way it had passed, and
then retired within her chamber, musing on this strange circumstance,
and scarcely doubting, that she had witnessed a supernatural appearance.

When her spirits recovered composure, she looked round for some other
explanation. Remembering what she had heard of the daring enterprises of
Montoni, it occurred to her, that she had just seen some unhappy
person, who, having been plundered by his banditti, was brought hither a
captive; and that the music she had formerly heard, came from him.
Yet, if they had plundered him, it still appeared improbable, that they
should have brought him to the castle, and it was also more consistent
with the manners of banditti to murder those they rob, than to make them
prisoners. But what, more than any other circumstance, contradicted
the supposition, that it was a prisoner, was that it wandered on the
terrace, without a guard: a consideration, which made her dismiss
immediately her first surmise.

Afterwards, she was inclined to believe, that Count Morano had obtained
admittance into the castle; but she soon recollected the difficulties
and dangers, that must have opposed such an enterprise, and that, if he
had so far succeeded, to come alone and in silence to her casement at
midnight was not the conduct he would have adopted, particularly since
the private stair-case, communicating with her apartment, was known to
him; neither would he have uttered the dismal sounds she had heard.

Another suggestion represented, that this might be some person, who had
designs upon the castle; but the mournful sounds destroyed, also, that
probability. Thus, enquiry only perplexed her. Who, or what, it could be
that haunted this lonely hour, complaining in such doleful accents and
in such sweet music (for she was still inclined to believe, that the
former strains and the late appearance were connected,) she had no means
of ascertaining; and imagination again assumed her empire, and roused
the mysteries of superstition.

She determined, however, to watch on the following night, when her
doubts might, perhaps, be cleared up; and she almost resolved to address
the figure, if it should appear again.



CHAPTER III


 Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp,
 Oft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchres,
 Lingering, and sitting, by a new-made grave.
     MILTON

On the following day, Montoni sent a second excuse to Emily, who was
surprised at the circumstance. 'This is very strange!' said she to
herself. 'His conscience tells him the purport of my visit, and he
defers it, to avoid an explanation.' She now almost resolved to throw
herself in his way, but terror checked the intention, and this day
passed, as the preceding one, with Emily, except that a degree of awful
expectation, concerning the approaching night, now somewhat disturbed
the dreadful calmness that had pervaded her mind.

Towards evening, the second part of the band, which had made the first
excursion among the mountains, returned to the castle, where, as they
entered the courts, Emily, in her remote chamber, heard their loud
shouts and strains of exultation, like the orgies of furies over
some horrid sacrifice. She even feared they were about to commit some
barbarous deed; a conjecture from which, however, Annette soon relieved
her, by telling, that the people were only exulting over the plunder
they had brought with them. This circumstance still further confirmed
her in the belief, that Montoni had really commenced to be a captain of
banditti, and meant to retrieve his broken fortunes by the plunder of
travellers! Indeed, when she considered all the circumstances of his
situation--in an armed, and almost inaccessible castle, retired far
among the recesses of wild and solitary mountains, along whose distant
skirts were scattered towns, and cities, whither wealthy travellers were
continually passing--this appeared to be the situation of all others
most suited for the success of schemes of rapine, and she yielded to
the strange thought, that Montoni was become a captain of robbers. His
character also, unprincipled, dauntless, cruel and enterprising, seemed
to fit him for the situation. Delighting in the tumult and in the
struggles of life, he was equally a stranger to pity and to fear; his
very courage was a sort of animal ferocity; not the noble impulse of
a principle, such as inspirits the mind against the oppressor, in the
cause of the oppressed; but a constitutional hardiness of nerve, that
cannot feel, and that, therefore, cannot fear.

Emily's supposition, however natural, was in part erroneous, for she was
a stranger to the state of this country and to the circumstances, under
which its frequent wars were partly conducted. The revenues of the many
states of Italy being, at that time, insufficient to the support of
standing armies, even during the short periods, which the turbulent
habits both of the governments and the people permitted to pass in
peace, an order of men arose not known in our age, and but faintly
described in the history of their own. Of the soldiers, disbanded at
the end of every war, few returned to the safe, but unprofitable
occupations, then usual in peace. Sometimes they passed into other
countries, and mingled with armies, which still kept the field.
Sometimes they formed themselves into bands of robbers, and occupied
remote fortresses, where their desperate character, the weakness of the
governments which they offended, and the certainty, that they could
be recalled to the armies, when their presence should be again wanted,
prevented them from being much pursued by the civil power; and,
sometimes, they attached themselves to the fortunes of a popular chief,
by whom they were led into the service of any state, which could settle
with him the price of their valour. From this latter practice arose
their name--CONDOTTIERI; a term formidable all over Italy, for a period,
which concluded in the earlier part of the seventeenth century, but of
which it is not so easy to ascertain the commencement.

Contests between the smaller states were then, for the most part,
affairs of enterprize alone, and the probabilities of success were
estimated, not from the skill, but from the personal courage of the
general, and the soldiers. The ability, which was necessary to the
conduct of tedious operations, was little valued. It was enough to
know how a party might be led towards their enemies, with the greatest
secrecy, or conducted from them in the compactest order. The officer was
to precipitate himself into a situation, where, but for his example,
the soldiers might not have ventured; and, as the opposed parties knew
little of each other's strength, the event of the day was frequently
determined by the boldness of the first movements. In such services the
condottieri were eminent, and in these, where plunder always followed
success, their characters acquired a mixture of intrepidity and
profligacy, which awed even those whom they served.

When they were not thus engaged, their chief had usually his own
fortress, in which, or in its neighbourhood, they enjoyed an irksome
rest; and, though their wants were, at one time, partly supplied from
the property of the inhabitants, the lavish distribution of their
plunder at others, prevented them from being obnoxious; and the peasants
of such districts gradually shared the character of their warlike
visitors. The neighbouring governments sometimes professed, but seldom
endeavoured, to suppress these military communities; both because it was
difficult to do so, and because a disguised protection of them ensured,
for the service of their wars, a body of men, who could not otherwise
be so cheaply maintained, or so perfectly qualified. The commanders
sometimes even relied so far upon this policy of the several powers, as
to frequent their capitals; and Montoni, having met them in the gaming
parties of Venice and Padua, conceived a desire to emulate their
characters, before his ruined fortunes tempted him to adopt their
practices. It was for the arrangement of his present plan of life, that
the midnight councils were held at his mansion in Venice, and at which
Orsino and some other members of the present community then assisted
with suggestions, which they had since executed with the wreck of their
fortunes.

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 shew the lonely terrace and the surrounding objects, more
distinctly, than the twilight of the stars had done, and promised Emily
to assist her observations, should the mysterious form return. On this
subject, she again wavered in conjecture, and hesitated whether to speak
to the figure, to which a strong and almost irresistible interest urged
her; but terror, at intervals, made her reluctant to do so.

'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 horror, the suggestions of imagination seized her mind with all
the force of truth, and she believed, that the form she had seen was
supernatural. She trembled, breathed with difficulty, an icy coldness
touched her cheeks, and her fears for a while overcame her judgment.
Her resolution now forsook her, and she determined, if the figure should
appear, not to speak to it.

Thus the time passed, as she sat at her casement, awed by expectation,
and by the gloom and stillness of midnight; for she saw obscurely in
the moon-light 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
centinels on duty, and afterwards the steps of the men who came to
relieve guard, and whom she knew at a distance on the rampart by their
pikes, that glittered in the moonbeam, and then, by the few short words,
in which they hailed their fellows of the night. Emily retired within
her chamber, while they passed the casement. When she returned to
it, all was again quiet. It was now very late, she was wearied with
watching, and began to doubt the reality of what she had seen on the
preceding night; but she still lingered at the window, for her mind was
too perturbed to admit of sleep. The moon shone with a clear lustre,
that afforded her a complete view of the terrace; but she saw only a
solitary centinel, pacing at 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 complaining she had formerly heard, as well as by the figure, which
she fancied she had seen, that she determined to repeat the watch, on
the following night.

Montoni, on the next day, took no notice of Emily's appointed visit, but
she, more anxious than before to see him, sent Annette to enquire, at
what hour he would admit her. He mentioned eleven o'clock, and Emily
was punctual to the moment; at which she called up all her fortitude
to support the shock of his presence and the dreadful recollections it
enforced. He was with several of his officers, in the cedar room;
on observing whom she paused; and her agitation increased, while he
continued to converse with them, apparently not observing her, till some
of his officers, turning round, saw Emily, and uttered an exclamation.
She was hastily retiring, when Montoni's voice arrested her, and, in a
faultering accent, she said,--'I would speak with you, Signor Montoni,
if you are at leisure.'

'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 Montoni then followed her to the hall, whence he led her to a small
room, of which he shut the door with violence. As she looked on his dark
countenance, she again thought she saw the murderer of her aunt; and
her mind was so convulsed with horror, that she had not power to recall
thought enough to explain the purport of her visit; and to trust herself
with the mention of Madame Montoni was more than she dared.

Montoni at length impatiently enquired what she had to say? 'I have no
time for trifling,' he added, 'my moments are important.'

Emily then told him, that she wished to return to France, and came to
beg, that he would permit her to do so.--But when he looked surprised,
and enquired for the motive of the request, she hesitated, became paler
than before, trembled, and had nearly sunk at his feet. He observed
her emotion, with apparent indifference, and interrupted the silence
by telling her, he must be gone. Emily, however, recalled her spirits
sufficiently to enable her to repeat her request. And, when Montoni
absolutely refused it, her slumbering mind was roused.

'I can no longer remain here with propriety, sir,' said she, 'and I may
be allowed to ask, by what right you detain me.'

'It is my will that you remain here,' said Montoni, laying his hand on
the door to go; 'let that suffice you.'

Emily, considering that she had no appeal from this will, forbore to
dispute his right, and made a feeble effort to persuade him to be
just. 'While my aunt lived, sir,' said she, in a tremulous voice, 'my
residence here was not improper; but now, that she is no more, I may
surely be permitted to depart. My stay cannot benefit you, sir, and will
only distress me.'

'Who told you, that Madame Montoni was dead?' said Montoni, with an
inquisitive eye. Emily hesitated, for nobody had told her so, and
she did not dare to avow the having seen that spectacle in the
portal-chamber, which had compelled her to the belief.

'Who told you so?' he repeated, more sternly.

'Alas! I know it too well,' replied Emily: 'spare me on this terrible
subject!'

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 her reply, and returned to the
cedar chamber, where such of the chevaliers as had not before seen
Emily, began to rally him, on the discovery they had made; but Montoni
did not appear disposed to bear this mirth, and they changed the
subject.

Having talked with the subtle Orsino, on the plan of an excursion, which
he meditated for a future day, his friend advised, that they should lie
in wait for the enemy, which Verezzi impetuously opposed, reproached
Orsino with want of spirit, and swore, that, if Montoni would let him
lead on fifty men, he would conquer all that should oppose him.

Orsino smiled contemptuously; Montoni smiled too, but he also listened.
Verezzi then proceeded with vehement declamation and assertion, till he
was stopped by an argument of Orsino, which he knew not how to answer
better than by invective. His fierce spirit detested the cunning caution
of Orsino, whom he constantly opposed, and whose inveterate, though
silent, hatred he had long ago incurred. And Montoni was a calm observer
of both, whose different qualifications he knew, and how to bend their
opposite character to the perfection of his own designs. But Verezzi,
in the heat of opposition, now did not scruple to accuse Orsino of
cowardice, at which the countenance of the latter, while he made no
reply, was overspread with a livid paleness; and Montoni, who watched
his lurking eye, saw him put his hand hastily into his bosom. But
Verezzi, whose face, glowing with crimson, formed a striking contrast to
the complexion of Orsino, remarked not the action, and continued boldly
declaiming against cowards to Cavigni, who was slily laughing at his
vehemence, and at the silent mortification of Orsino, when the latter,
retiring a few steps behind, drew forth a stilletto to stab his
adversary in the back. Montoni arrested his half-extended arm, and, with
a significant look, made him return the poinard into his bosom, unseen
by all except himself; for most of the party were disputing at a
distant window, on the situation of a dell where they meant to form an
ambuscade.

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 assassins; if you have business for brave men employ me on this
expedition: you shall have the last drop of my blood; if you have
only work for cowards--keep him,' pointing to Orsino, 'and let me quit
Udolpho.'

Orsino, still more incensed, again drew forth his stilletto, and rushed
towards Verezzi, who, at the same instant, advanced with his sword, when
Montoni and the rest of the party interfered and separated them.

'This is the conduct of a boy,' said 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
Orsino made another attempt to stab Verezzi, and was again prevented.

The combatants were, at length, separated; and, after a very long and
violent dispute, reconciled. Montoni then left the room with Orsino,
whom he detained in private consultation for a considerable time.

Emily, meanwhile, stunned by the last words of Montoni, forgot, for the
moment, his declaration, that she should continue in the castle, while
she thought of her unfortunate aunt, who, he had said, was laid in
the east turret. In suffering the remains of his wife to lie thus long
unburied, there appeared a degree of brutality more shocking than she
had suspected even Montoni could practise.

After a long struggle, she determined to accept his permission to visit
the turret, and to take a last look of her ill-fated aunt: with which
design she returned to her chamber, and, while she waited for Annette
to accompany her, endeavoured to acquire fortitude sufficient to support
her through the approaching scene; for, though she trembled to encounter
it, she knew that to remember the performance of this last act of duty
would hereafter afford her consoling satisfaction.

Annette came, and Emily mentioned her purpose, from which the former
endeavoured to dissuade her, though without effect, and Annette was,
with much difficulty, prevailed upon to accompany her to the turret; but
no consideration could make her promise to enter the chamber of death.

They now left the corridor, and, having reached the foot of the
stair-case, which Emily had formerly ascended, Annette declared she
would go no further, and Emily proceeded alone. When she saw the track
of blood, which she had before observed, her spirits fainted, and, being
compelled to rest on the stairs, she almost determined to proceed no
further. The pause of a few moments restored her resolution, and she
went on.

As she drew near the landing-place, upon which the upper chamber opened,
she remembered, that the door was formerly fastened, and apprehended,
that it might still be so. In this expectation, however, she was
mistaken; for the door opened at once, into a dusky and silent chamber,
round which she fearfully looked, and then slowly advanced, when a
hollow voice spoke. Emily, who was unable to speak, or to move from
the spot, uttered no sound of terror. The voice spoke again; and, then,
thinking that it resembled that of Madame Montoni, Emily's spirits were
instantly roused; she rushed towards a bed, that stood in a remote part
of the room, and drew aside the curtains. Within, appeared a pale and
emaciated face. She started back, then again advanced, shuddered as she
took up the skeleton hand, that lay stretched upon the quilt; then let
it drop, and then viewed the face with a long, unsettled gaze. It
was that of Madame Montoni, though so changed by illness, that the
resemblance of what it had been, could scarcely be traced in what it now
appeared. She was still alive, and, raising her heavy eyes, she turned
them on her niece.

'Where have you been so long?' said she, in the same tone, 'I
thought you had forsaken me.'

'Do you indeed live,' said Emily, at length, 'or is this but a terrible
apparition?' she received no answer, and again she snatched up the hand.
'This is substance,' she exclaimed, 'but it is cold--cold as marble!'
She let it fall. 'O, if you really live, speak!' said Emily, in a voice
of desperation, 'that I may not lose my senses--say you know me!'

'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 silent for some moments. Then Emily endeavoured to soothe her, and
enquired what had reduced her to this present deplorable 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
suggestions of his suspecting mind. His consciousness of the hatred he
deserved it was natural enough should at first led 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 unbound wound of one of the men employed to carry Madame Montoni,
and which he had received in the late affray. At night these men, having
contented themselves with securing the door of their prisoner's room,
had retired from guard; and then it was, that Emily, at the time of her
first enquiry, had found the turret so silent and deserted.

When she had attempted to open the door of the chamber, her aunt was
sleeping, and this occasioned the silence, which had contributed to
delude her into a belief, that she was no more; yet had her terror
permitted her to persevere longer in the call, she would probably
have awakened Madame Montoni, and have been spared much suffering. The
spectacle in the portal-chamber, which afterwards confirmed Emily's
horrible suspicion, was the corpse of a man, who had fallen in the
affray, and the same which had been borne into the servants' hall, where
she took refuge from the tumult. This man had lingered under his wounds
for some days; and, soon after his death, his body had been removed
on the couch, on which he died, for interment in the vault beneath the
chapel, through which Emily and Barnardine had passed to the chamber.

Emily, after asking Madame Montoni a thousand questions concerning
herself, left her, and sought Montoni; for the more solemn interest
she felt for her aunt, made her now regardless of the resentment her
remonstrances might draw upon herself, and of the improbability of his
granting what she meant to entreat.

'Madame Montoni is now dying, sir,' said Emily, as soon as she saw
him--'Your resentment, surely will not pursue her to the last moment!
Suffer her to be removed from that forlorn room to her own apartment,
and to have necessary comforts administered.'

'Of what service will that be, if she is dying?' said Montoni, with
apparent indifference.

'The service, at leave, of saving you, sir, from a few of those pangs
of conscience you must suffer, when you shall be in the same situation,'
said Emily, with imprudent indignation, of which Montoni soon made her
sensible, by commanding her to quit his presence. Then, forgetting her
resentment, and impressed only by compassion for the piteous state of
her aunt, dying without succour, she submitted to humble herself to
Montoni, and to adopt every persuasive means, that might induce him to
relent towards his wife.

For a considerable time he was proof against all she said, and all she
looked; but at length the divinity of pity, beaming in Emily's eyes,
seemed to touch his heart. He turned away, ashamed of his better
feelings, half sullen and half relenting; but finally consented, that
his wife should be removed to her own apartment, and that Emily should
attend her. Dreading equally, that this relief might arrive too late,
and that Montoni might retract his concession, Emily scarcely staid to
thank him for it, but, assisted by Annette, she quickly prepared Madame
Montoni's bed, and they carried her a cordial, that might enable her
feeble frame to sustain the fatigue of a removal.

Madame was scarcely arrived in her own apartment, when an order was
given by her husband, that she should remain in the turret; but Emily,
thankful that she had made such dispatch, hastened to inform him of it,
as well as that a second removal would instantly prove fatal, and he
suffered his wife to continue where she was.

During this day, Emily never left Madame Montoni, except to prepare such
little nourishing things as she judged necessary to sustain her, and
which Madame Montoni received with quiet acquiescence, though she seemed
sensible that they could not save her from approaching dissolution, and
scarcely appeared to wish for life. Emily meanwhile watched over her
with the most tender solicitude, no longer seeing her imperious aunt in
the poor object before her, but the sister of her late beloved father,
in a situation that called for all her compassion and kindness. When
night came, she determined to sit up with her aunt, but this the latter
positively forbade, commanding her to retire to rest, and Annette alone
to remain in her chamber. Rest was, indeed, necessary to Emily, whose
spirits and frame were equally wearied by the occurrences and exertions
of the day; but she would not leave Madame Montoni, till after the turn
of midnight, a period then thought so critical by the physicians.

Soon after twelve, having enjoined Annette to be wakeful, and to call
her, should any change appear for the worse, Emily sorrowfully bade
Madame Montoni good night, and withdrew to her chamber. Her spirits were
more than usually depressed by the piteous condition of her aunt, whose
recovery she scarcely dared to expect. To her own misfortunes she saw no
period, inclosed as she was, in a remote castle, beyond the reach of any
friends, had she possessed such, and beyond the pity even of strangers;
while she knew herself to be in the power of a man capable of any
action, which his interest, or his ambition, might suggest.

Occupied by melancholy reflections and by anticipations as sad, she
did not retire immediately to rest, but leaned thoughtfully on her open
casement. The scene before her of woods and mountains, reposing in the
moon-light, formed a regretted contrast with the state of her mind;
but the lonely murmur of these woods, and the view of this sleeping
landscape, gradually soothed her emotions and softened her to tears.

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
below, the figure she had formerly observed, which stood fixed and
silent, immediately opposite to her casement. On perceiving it, she
started back, and terror for some time overcame curiosity;--at length,
she returned to the casement, and still the figure was before it, which
she now compelled herself to observe, but was utterly unable to speak,
as she had formerly intended. The moon shone with a clear light, and
it was, perhaps, the agitation of her mind, that prevented her
distinguishing, with any degree of accuracy, the form before her. It
was still stationary, and she began to doubt, whether it was really
animated.

Her scattered thoughts were now so far returned as to remind her, that
her light exposed her to dangerous observation, and she was stepping
back to remove it, when she perceived the figure move, and then wave
what seemed to be its arm, as if to beckon her; and, while she gazed,
fixed in fear, it repeated the action. She now attempted to speak, but
the words died on her lips, and she went from the casement to remove her
light; as she was doing which, she heard, from without, a faint groan.
Listening, but not daring to return, she presently heard it repeated.

'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 to the casement,
when she again saw the same appearance! It beckoned again, and again
uttered a low sound.

'That groan was surely human!' said she. '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 started away, and glided down
the terrace. She watched it, for a long while, passing swiftly in
the moon-light, but heard no footstep, till a sentinel from the other
extremity of the rampart walked slowly along. The man stopped under
her window, and, looking up, called her by name. She was retiring
precipitately, but, a second summons inducing her to reply, the
soldier then respectfully asked if she had seen any thing pass. On
her answering, that she had; he said no more, but walked away down the
terrace, Emily following him with her eyes, till he was lost in the
distance. But, as he was on guard, she knew he could not go beyond the
rampart, and, therefore, resolved to await his return.

Soon after, his voice was heard, at a distance, calling loudly; and
then a voice still more distant answered, and, in the next moment, the
watch-word was given, and passed along the terrace. As the soldiers
moved hastily under the casement, she called to enquire what had
happened, but they passed without regarding her.

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 sound 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 some inhabitant of the castle, who wandered under her casement in
the hope of seeing her, and of being allowed to declare his admiration;
but this opinion never occurred to Emily, and, if it had, she would have
dismissed it as improbable, on considering, that, when the opportunity
of speaking had occurred, it had been suffered to pass in silence; and
that, even at the moment in which she had spoken, the form had abruptly
quitted the place.

While she mused, two sentinels walked up the rampart in earnest
conversation, of which she caught a few words, and learned from these,
that one of their comrades had fallen down senseless. Soon after, three
other soldiers appeared slowly advancing from the bottom of the terrace,
but she heard only a low voice, that came at intervals. As they drew
near, she perceived this to be the voice of him, who walked in the
middle, apparently supported by his comrades; and she again called
to them, enquiring what had happened. At the sound of her voice, they
stopped, and looked up, while she repeated her question, and was told,
that Roberto, their fellow of the watch, had been seized with a fit, and
that his cry, as he fell, had caused a false alarm.

'Is he subject to fits?' said Emily.

'Yes, Signora,' replied Roberto; 'but if I had not, what I saw was
enough to have frightened the Pope himself.'

'What was it?' enquired Emily, trembling.

'I cannot tell what it was, lady, or what I saw, or how it vanished,'
replied the soldier, who seemed to shudder at the recollection.

'Was it the person, whom you followed down the rampart, that has
occasioned you this alarm?' said Emily, endeavouring 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.

'No, no, I warrant not,' said another.

'Well,' rejoined Roberto, 'you may 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,' replied 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 soon 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 get within the walls at midnight? Why, I might just as well
pretend to march to Venice, and get among all the Senators, when they
are counselling; and I warrant I should have more chance of getting
out again alive, than any fellow, that we should catch within the gates
after dark. So I think I have proved plainly enough, that this can be
nobody that lives out of the castle; and now I will prove, that it can
be nobody that lives in the castle--for, if he did--why should he be
afraid to be seen? So after this, I hope nobody will pretend to tell
me it was anybody. No, I say again, by holy Pope! it was the devil, and
Sebastian, there, knows this is not the first time we have seen him.'

'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 Sebastian, 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--Sebastian! do you see nothing? I turned my head a
little to the left, as it might be--thus. No, says I. Hush! said
Launcelot,--look yonder--just by the last cannon on the rampart! I
looked, and then thought I did see something move; but there being no
light, but what the stars gave, I could not be certain. We stood quite
silent, to watch it, and presently saw something pass along the castle
wall just opposite to us!'

'Why did you not seize it, then?' cried a soldier, who had scarcely
spoken till now.

'Aye, why did you not seize it?' said 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 such a liberty, perhaps,
because we are not so well acquainted with him, as you are. But, as I
was saying, it stole by us so quickly, that we had not time to get rid
of our surprise, before it was gone. Then, we knew it was in vain to
follow. We kept constant watch all that night, but we saw it no more.
Next morning, we told some of our comrades, who were on duty on other
parts of the ramparts, what we had seen; but they had seen nothing, and
laughed at us, and it was not till 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 man, 'you might see me go down the
rampart, but it was not till I reached the east terrace, that I saw
any thing. Then, the moon shining bright, I saw something like a shadow
flitting before me, as it were, at some distance. I stopped, when I
turned the corner of the east tower, where I had seen this figure not
a moment before,--but it was gone! As I stood, looking through the
old arch, which leads to the east rampart, and where I am sure it had
passed, I heard, all of a sudden, such a sound!--it was not like a
groan, or a cry, or a shout, or 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 comrades, 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
casement and retired to reflect upon the strange circumstance that had
just occurred, connecting which with what had happened on former nights,
she endeavoured to derive from the whole something more positive, than
conjecture. But her imagination was inflamed, while her judgment was not
enlightened, and the terrors of superstition again pervaded her mind.



CHAPTER IV


     There is one within,
 Besides the things, that we have heard and seen,
 Recounts most horrid sights, seen by the watch.
     JULIUS CAESAR

In the morning, Emily found Madame Montoni nearly in the same condition,
as on the preceding night; she had slept little, and that little had
not refreshed her; she smiled on her niece, and seemed cheered by her
presence, but spoke only a few words, and never named Montoni, who,
however, soon after, entered the room. His wife, when she understood
that he was there, appeared much agitated, but was entirely silent, till
Emily rose from a chair at the bed-side, when she begged, in a feeble
voice, that she would not leave her.

The visit of Montoni was not to sooth his wife, whom he knew to be
dying, or to console, or to ask her forgiveness, but to make a last
effort to procure that signature, which would transfer her estates in
Languedoc, after her death, to him rather than to Emily. This was a
scene, that exhibited, on his part, his usual inhumanity, and, on that
of Madame Montoni, a persevering spirit, contending with a feeble frame;
while Emily repeatedly declared to him her willingness to resign all
claim to those estates, rather than that the last hours of her aunt
should be disturbed by contention. Montoni, however, did not leave the
room, till his wife, exhausted by the obstinate dispute, had fainted,
and she lay so long insensible, that Emily began to fear that the spark
of life was extinguished. At length, she revived, and, looking feebly
up at her niece, whose tears were falling over her, made an effort to
speak, but her words were unintelligible, and Emily again apprehended
she was dying. Afterwards, however, she recovered her speech, and, being
somewhat restored by a cordial, conversed for a considerable time, on
the subject of her estates in France, with clearness and precision. She
directed her niece where to find some papers relative to them, which she
had hitherto concealed from the search of Montoni, and earnestly charged
her never to suffer these papers to escape her.

Soon after this conversation, Madame Montoni sunk into a dose, and
continued slumbering, till evening, when she seemed better than she
had been since her removal from the turret. Emily never left her, for a
moment, till long after midnight, and even then would not have quitted
the room, had not her aunt entreated, that she would retire to rest. She
then obeyed, the more willingly, because her patient appeared somewhat
recruited by sleep; and, giving Annette the same injunction, as on the
preceding night, she withdrew to her own apartment. But her spirits
were wakeful and agitated, and, finding it impossible to sleep, she
determined to watch, once more, for the mysterious appearance, that had
so much interested and alarmed her.

It was now the second watch of the night, and about the time when
the figure had before appeared. Emily heard the passing steps of the
sentinels, on the rampart, as they changed guard; and, when all was
again silent, she took her station at the casement, leaving her lamp in
a remote part of the chamber, that she might escape notice from without.
The moon gave a faint and uncertain light, for heavy vapours surrounded
it, and, often rolling over the disk, left the scene below in total
darkness. It was in one of these moments of obscurity, that she observed
a small and lambent flame, moving at some distance on the terrace. While
she gazed, it disappeared, and, the moon again emerging from the lurid
and heavy thunder clouds, she turned her attention to the heavens, where
the vivid lightnings darted from cloud to cloud, and flashed silently on
the woods below. She loved to catch, in the momentary gleam, the gloomy
landscape. Sometimes, a cloud opened its light upon a distant mountain,
and, while the sudden splendour illumined all its recesses of rock and
wood, the rest of the scene remained in deep shadow; at others, partial
features of the castle were revealed by the glimpse--the antient arch
leading to the east rampart, the turret above, or the fortifications
beyond; and then, perhaps, the whole edifice with all its towers, its
dark massy walls and pointed casements would appear, and vanish in an
instant.

Emily, looking again upon the rampart, perceived the flame she had
seen before; it moved onward; and, soon after, she thought she heard a
footstep. The light appeared and disappeared frequently, while, as she
watched, it glided under her casements, and, at the same instant, she
was certain, that a footstep passed, but the darkness did not permit her
to distinguish any object except the flame. It moved away, and then, by
a gleam of lightning, she perceived some person on the terrace. All the
anxieties of the preceding night returned. This person advanced, and the
playing flame alternately appeared and vanished. Emily wished to speak,
to end her doubts, whether this figure were human or supernatural; but
her courage failed as often as she attempted utterance, till the light
moved again under the casement, and she faintly demanded, who passed.

'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 upwards,--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 on watch; but what
it means I cannot tell.'

'This is very strange!' said Emily.

'My fellow-guard,' continued the man, 'has the same flame on his arms;
he says he has sometimes seen it before. I never did; I am but lately
come to the castle, for I have not been long a soldier.'

'How does your comrade account for it?' said Emily.

'He says it is an omen, lady, and bodes no good.'

'And what harm can it bode?' rejoined 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 immediately occurred to her, that it might be he,
who had occasioned so much alarm on the preceding night. There were,
however, some circumstances, that still required explanation. As far
as she could judge by the faint moon-light, that had assisted her
observation, the figure she had seen did not resemble this man either
in shape or size; besides, she was certain it had carried no arms. The
silence of its steps, if steps it had, the moaning sounds, too, which
it had uttered, and its strange disappearance, were circumstances of
mysterious import, that did not apply, with probability, to a soldier
engaged in the duty of his guard.

She now enquired of the sentinel, whether he had seen any person besides
his fellow watch, walking on the terrace, about midnight; and then
briefly related what she had herself observed.

'I was not on guard that night, lady,' replied the man, 'but I heard of
what happened. There are amongst us, who believe strange things. Strange
stories, too, have long been told of this castle, but it is no business
of mine to repeat them; and, for my part, I have no reason to complain;
our Chief does nobly by us.'

'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, she opened it again, listened with a gloomy pleasure
to the distant thunder, that began to murmur among the mountains, and
watched the arrowy lightnings, which broke over the remoter scene. The
pealing thunder rolled onward, and then, reverbed by the mountains,
other thunder seemed to answer from the opposite horizon; while the
accumulating clouds, entirely concealing the moon, assumed a red
sulphureous tinge, that foretold a violent storm.

Emily remained at her casement, till the vivid lightning, that now,
every instant, revealed the wide horizon and the landscape below, made
it no longer safe to do so, and she went to her couch; but, unable
to compose her mind to sleep, still listened in silent awe to the
tremendous sounds, that seemed to shake the castle to its foundation.

She had continued thus for a considerable time, when, amidst the uproar
of the storm, she thought she heard a voice, and, raising herself to
listen, saw the chamber door open, and Annette enter with a countenance
of wild affright.

'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 was over--she was
gone for ever.

When Emily perceived, that all her efforts were ineffectual, she
interrogated the terrified Annette, and learned, that Madame Montoni
had fallen into a doze soon after Emily's departure, in which she had
continued, until a few minutes before her death.

'I wondered, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'what was the reason my lady did
not seem frightened at the thunder, when I was so terrified, and I went
often to the bed to speak to her, but she appeared to be asleep; till
presently I heard a strange noise, and, on going to her, saw she was
dying.'

Emily, at this recital, shed tears. She had no doubt but that the
violent change in the air, which the tempest produced, had effected this
fatal one, on the exhausted frame of Madame Montoni.

After some deliberation, she determined that Montoni should not be
informed of this event till the morning, for she considered, that he
might, perhaps, utter some inhuman expressions, such as in the present
temper of her spirits she could not bear. With Annette alone, therefore,
whom she encouraged by her own example, she performed some of the last
solemn offices for the dead, and compelled herself to watch during the
night, by the body of her deceased aunt. During this solemn period,
rendered more awful by the tremendous storm that shook the air, she
frequently addressed herself to Heaven for support and protection, and
her pious prayers, we may believe, were accepted of the God, that giveth
comfort.



CHAPTER V


 The midnight clock has toll'd; 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 sullen sound.
     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 anxiously avoided his presence, and
watched, during two days and two nights, with little intermission, by
the corpse of her late aunt. Her mind deeply impressed with the unhappy
fate of this object, she forgot all her faults, her unjust and imperious
conduct to herself; and, remembering only her sufferings, thought of
her only with tender compassion. Sometimes, however, she could not avoid
musing upon the strange infatuation that had proved so fatal to her
aunt, and had involved herself in a labyrinth of misfortune, from which
she saw no means of escaping,--the marriage with Montoni. But, when
she considered this circumstance, it was 'more in sorrow than in
anger,'--more for the purpose of indulging lamentation, than reproach.

In her pious cares she was not disturbed by Montoni, who not only
avoided the chamber, where the remains of his wife were laid, but that
part of the castle adjoining to it, as if he had apprehended a contagion
in death. He seemed to have given no orders respecting the funeral,
and Emily began to fear he meant to offer a new insult to the memory of
Madame Montoni; but from this apprehension she was relieved, when, on
the evening of the second day, Annette informed her, that the interment
was to take place that night. She knew, that Montoni would not attend;
and it was so very grievous to her to think that the remains of her
unfortunate aunt would pass to the grave without one relative, or friend
to pay them the last decent rites, that she determined to be deterred
by no considerations for herself, from observing this duty. She would
otherwise have shrunk from the circumstance of following them to the
cold vault, to which they were to be carried by men, whose air and
countenances seemed to stamp them for murderers, at the midnight hour
of silence and privacy, which Montoni had chosen for committing, if
possible, to oblivion the reliques of a woman, whom his harsh conduct
had, at least, contributed to destroy.

Emily, shuddering with emotions of horror and grief, assisted by
Annette, prepared the corpse for interment; and, having wrapt it in
cerements, and covered it with a winding-sheet, they watched beside it,
till past midnight, when they heard the approaching footsteps of the
men, who were to lay it in its earthy bed. It was with difficulty, that
Emily overcame her emotion, when, the door of the chamber being thrown
open, their gloomy countenances were seen by the glare of the torch they
carried, and two of them, without speaking, lifted the body on their
shoulders, while the third preceding them with the light, descended
through the castle towards the grave, which was in the lower vault of
the chapel within the castle walls.

They had to cross two courts, towards the east wing of the castle,
which, adjoining the chapel, was, like it, in ruins: but the silence and
gloom of these courts had now little power over Emily's mind, occupied
as it was, with more mournful ideas; and she scarcely heard the low
and dismal hooting of the night-birds, that roosted among the 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 aisles, the bearers
stopped at a flight of steps, that led down to a low arched door, and,
their comrade having descended to unlock it, she saw imperfectly the
gloomy abyss beyond;--saw the corpse of her aunt carried down these
steps, and the ruffian-like figure, that stood with a torch at the
bottom to receive it--all her fortitude was lost in emotions of
inexpressible grief and terror. She turned to lean upon Annette, who was
cold and trembling like herself, and she lingered so long on the summit
of the flight, that the gleam of the torch began to die away on the
pillars of the chapel, and the men were almost beyond her view. Then,
the gloom around her awakening other fears, and a sense of what she
considered to be her duty overcoming her reluctance, she descended to
the vaults, following the echo of footsteps and the faint ray, that
pierced the darkness, till the harsh grating of a distant door, that was
opened to receive the corpse, again appalled her.

After the pause of a moment, she went on, and, as she entered the
vaults, saw between the arches, at some distance, the men lay down the
body near the edge of an open grave, where stood another of Montoni's
men and a priest, whom she did not observe, till he began the burial
service; then, lifting her eyes from the ground, she saw the venerable
figure of the friar, and heard him in a low voice, equally solemn and
affecting, perform the service for the dead. At the moment, in which
they let down the body into the earth, the scene was such as only the
dark pencil of a Domenichino, perhaps, could have done justice to. The
fierce features and wild dress of the condottieri, bending with their
torches over the grave, into which the corpse was descending, were
contrasted by the venerable figure of the monk, wrapt in long black
garments, his cowl thrown back from his pale face, on which the light
gleaming strongly shewed the lines of affliction softened by piety, and
the few grey locks, which time had spared on his temples: while,
beside him, stood the softer form of Emily, who leaned for support upon
Annette; her face half averted, and shaded by a thin veil, that fell
over her figure; and her mild and beautiful countenance fixed in
grief so solemn as admitted not of tears, while she thus saw committed
untimely to the earth her last relative and friend. The gleams, thrown
between the arches of the vaults, where, here and there, the broken
ground marked the spots in which other bodies had been recently
interred, and the general obscurity beyond were circumstances, that
alone would have led on the imagination of a spectator to scenes
more horrible, than even that, which was pictured at the grave of the
misguided and unfortunate Madame Montoni.

When the service was over, the friar regarded Emily with attention and
surprise, and looked as if he wished to speak to her, but was restrained
by the presence of the condottieri, who, as they now led the way to
the courts, amused themselves with jokes upon his holy order, which
he endured in silence, demanding only to be conducted safely to his
convent, and to which Emily listened with concern and even horror. When
they reached the court, the monk gave her his blessing, and, after a
lingering look of pity, turned away to the portal, whither one of the
men carried a torch; while Annette, lighting another, preceded Emily to
her apartment. The appearance of the friar and the expression of tender
compassion, with which he had regarded her, had interested Emily, who,
though it was at her earnest supplication, that Montoni had consented
to allow a priest to perform the last rites for his deceased wife, knew
nothing concerning this person, till Annette now informed her, that he
belonged to a monastery, situated among the mountains at a few miles
distance. The Superior, who regarded Montoni and his associates, not
only with aversion, but with terror, had probably feared to offend him
by refusing his request, and had, therefore, ordered a monk to officiate
at the funeral, who, with the meek spirit of a christian, had overcome
his reluctance to enter the walls of such a castle, by the wish of
performing what he considered to be his duty, and, as the chapel was
built on consecrated ground, had not objected to commit to it the
remains of the late unhappy Madame Montoni.

Several days passed with Emily in total seclusion, and in a state of
mind partaking both of terror for herself, and grief for the departed.
She, at length, determined to make other efforts to persuade Montoni to
permit her return to France. Why he should wish to detain her, she could
scarcely dare to conjecture; but it was too certain that he did so, and
the absolute refusal he had formerly given to her departure allowed her
little hope, that he would now consent to it. But the horror, which his
presence inspired, made her defer, from day to day, the mention of this
subject; and at last she was awakened from her inactivity only by a
message from him, desiring her attendance at a certain hour. She began
to hope he meant to resign, now that her aunt was no more, the authority
he had usurped over her; till she recollected, that the estates, which
had occasioned so much contention, were now hers, and she then feared
Montoni was about to employ some stratagem for obtaining them, and
that he would detain her his prisoner, till he succeeded. This thought,
instead of overcoming her with despondency, roused all the latent
powers of her fortitude into action; and the property, which she would
willingly have resigned to secure the peace of her aunt, she resolved,
that no common sufferings of her own should ever compel her to give to
Montoni. For Valancourt's sake also she determined to preserve these
estates, since they would afford that competency, by which she hoped to
secure the comfort of their future lives. As she thought of this, she
indulged the tenderness of tears, and anticipated the delight of that
moment, when, with affectionate generosity, she might tell him they
were his own. She saw the smile, that lighted up his features--the
affectionate regard, which spoke at once his joy and thanks; and, at
this instant, she believed she could brave any suffering, which the evil
spirit of Montoni might be preparing for her. Remembering then, for the
first time since her aunt's death, the papers relative to the estates
in question, she determined to search for them, as soon as her interview
with Montoni was over.

With these resolutions she met him at the appointed time, and waited to
hear his intention before she renewed her request. With him were Orsino
and another officer, and both were standing near a table, covered with
papers, which he appeared to be examining.

'I sent for you, Emily,' said Montoni, raising his head, 'that you might
be a witness in some business, which I am transacting with my friend
Orsino. All that is required of you will be to sign your name to this
paper:' he then took one up, hurried unintelligibly over some lines,
and, laying it before her on the table, offered her a pen. She took it,
and was going to write--when the design of Montoni came upon her mind
like a flash of lightning; she trembled, let the pen fall, and refused
to sign what she had not read. Montoni affected to laugh at her
scruples, and, taking up the paper, again pretended to read; but Emily,
who still trembled on perceiving her danger, and was astonished, that
her own credulity had so nearly betrayed her, positively refused to sign
any paper whatever. Montoni, for some time, persevered in affecting
to ridicule this refusal; but, when he perceived by her steady
perseverance, that she understood his design, he changed his manner, and
bade her follow him to another room. There he told her, that he had been
willing to spare himself and her the trouble of useless contest, in an
affair, where his will was justice, and where she should find it law;
and had, therefore, endeavoured to persuade, rather than to compel, her
to the practice of her duty.

'I, as the husband of the late Signora Montoni,' he added, 'am the heir
of all she possessed; the estates, therefore, which she refused to me
in her life-time, can no longer be withheld, and, for your own sake, I
would undeceive you, respecting a foolish assertion she once made to you
in my hearing--that these estates would be yours, if she died without
resigning them to me. She knew at that moment, she had no power to
withhold them from me, after her decease; and I think you have more
sense, than to provoke my resentment by advancing an unjust claim. I
am not in the habit of flattering, and you will, therefore, receive,
as sincere, the praise I bestow, when I say, that you possess an
understanding superior to that of your sex; and that you have none
of those contemptible foibles, that frequently mark the female
character--such as avarice and the love of power, which latter makes
women delight to contradict and to tease, when they cannot conquer. If
I understand your disposition and your mind, you hold in sovereign
contempt these common failings of your sex.'

Montoni paused; and Emily remained silent and expecting; for she knew
him too well, to believe he would condescend to such flattery, unless he
thought it would promote his own interest; and, though he had forborne
to name vanity among the foibles of women, it was evident, that he
considered it to be a predominant one, since he designed to sacrifice to
hers the character and understanding of her whole sex.

'Judging as I do,' resumed Montoni, 'I cannot believe you will oppose,
where you know you cannot conquer, or, indeed, that you would wish to
conquer, or be avaricious of any property, when you have not justice
on your side. I think it proper, however, to acquaint you with the
alternative. If you have a just opinion of the subject in question, you
shall be allowed a safe conveyance to France, within a short period;
but, if you are so unhappy as to be misled by the late assertion of the
Signora, you shall remain my prisoner, till you are convinced of your
error.'

Emily calmly said,

'I am not so ignorant, Signor, of the laws on this subject, as to be
misled by the assertion of any person. The law, in the present instance,
gives me the estates in question, and my own hand shall never betray my
right.'

'I have been mistaken in my opinion of you, it appears,' rejoined
Montoni, sternly. 'You speak boldly, and presumptuously, upon a subject,
which you do not understand. For once, I am willing to pardon the
conceit of ignorance; the weakness of your sex, too, from which, it
seems, you are not exempt, claims some allowance; but, if you persist in
this strain--you have 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 resumed, 'to credit the idle
assertion I alluded to! For your own sake I lament this; as to me, it
is of little consequence. Your credulity can punish only yourself; and I
must pity the weakness of mind, which leads you to so much suffering as
you are compelling me to prepare for you.'

'You may find, perhaps, Signor,' said Emily, with mild dignity, 'that
the strength of my mind is equal to the justice of my cause; and that I
can endure with fortitude, when it is in resistance of oppression.'

'You speak like a heroine,' said Montoni, contemptuously; 'we shall see
whether you can suffer like one.'

Emily was silent, and he left the room.

Recollecting, that it was for Valancourt's sake she had thus resisted,
she now smiled complacently upon the threatened sufferings, and retired
to the spot, which her aunt had pointed out as the repository of the
papers, relative to the estates, where she found them as described; and,
since she knew of no better place of concealment, than this, returned
them, without examining their contents, being fearful of discovery,
while she should attempt a perusal.

To her own solitary chamber she once more returned, and there thought
again of the late conversation with Montoni, and of the evil she might
expect from opposition to his will. But his power did not appear so
terrible to her imagination, as it was wont to do: a sacred pride was
in her heart, that taught it to swell against the pressure of injustice,
and almost to glory in the quiet sufferance of ills, in a cause, which
had also the interest of Valancourt for its object. For the first time,
she felt the full extent of her own superiority to Montoni, and despised
the authority, which, till now, she had only feared.

As she sat musing, a peal of laughter rose from the terrace, and, on
going to the casement, she saw, with inexpressible surprise, three
ladies, dressed in the gala habit of Venice, walking with several
gentlemen below. She gazed in an astonishment that made her remain at
the window, regardless of being observed, till the group passed under
it; and, one of the strangers looking up, she perceived the features of
Signora Livona, with whose manners she had been so much charmed, the day
after her arrival at Venice, and who had been there introduced at the
table of Montoni. This discovery occasioned her an emotion of doubtful
joy; for it was matter of joy and comfort to know, that a person, of a
mind so gentle, as that of Signora Livona seemed to be, was near her;
yet there was something so extraordinary in her being at this castle,
circumstanced as it now was, and evidently, by the gaiety of her air,
with her own consent, that a very painful surmise arose, concerning her
character. But the thought was so shocking to Emily, whose affection the
fascinating manners of the Signora had won, and appeared so improbable,
when she remembered these manners, that she dismissed it almost
instantly.

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'amselle,' said Annette, 'with two Signors from
Venice, and I was glad to see such Christian faces once again.--But
what can they mean by coming here? They must surely be stark mad to come
freely to such a place as this! Yet they do come freely, for they seem
merry enough, I am sure.'

'They were taken prisoners, perhaps?' said Emily.

'Taken prisoners!' exclaimed Annette; 'no, indeed, ma'amselle, not they.
I remember one of them very well at Venice: she came two or three times,
to the Signor's you know, ma'amselle, and it was said, but I did not
believe a word of it--it was said, that the Signor liked her better than
he should do. Then why, says I, bring her to my lady? Very true, said
Ludovico; but he looked as if he knew more, too.'

Emily desired Annette would endeavour to learn who these ladies were, as
well as all she could concerning them; and she then changed the subject,
and spoke of distant France.

'Ah, ma'amselle! we shall never see it more!' said Annette, almost
weeping.--'I must come on my travels, forsooth!'

Emily tried to sooth and to cheer her, with a hope, in which she
scarcely herself indulged.

'How--how, ma'amselle, could you leave France, and leave Mons.
Valancourt, too?' said Annette, sobbing. 'I--I--am sure, if Ludovico had
been in France, I would never have left it.'

'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, serving
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 pleasures of pure intellect. The enthusiasm of genius,
with all its pictured scenes, now appeared cold, and dim. As she mused
upon the book before her, she involuntarily exclaimed, 'Are these,
indeed, the passages, that have so often given me exquisite delight?
Where did the charm exist?--Was it in my mind, or in the imagination
of the poet? It lived in each,' said she, pausing. 'But the fire of the
poet is vain, if the mind of his reader is not tempered like his own,
however it may be inferior to his in power.'

Emily would have pursued this train of thinking, because it relieved her
from more painful reflection, but she found again, that thought cannot
always be controlled by will; and hers returned to the consideration of
her own situation.

In the evening, not choosing to venture down to the ramparts, where she
would be exposed to the rude gaze of Montoni's associates, she walked
for air in the gallery, adjoining her chamber; on reaching the further
end of which she heard distant sounds of merriment and laughter. It was
the wild uproar of riot, not the cheering gaiety of tempered mirth; and
seemed to come from that part of the castle, where Montoni usually was.
Such sounds, at this time, when her aunt had been so few days dead,
particularly shocked her, consistent as they were with the late conduct
of Montoni.

As she listened, she thought she distinguished female voices mingling
with the laughter, and this confirmed her worst surmise, concerning the
character of Signora Livona and her companions. It was evident, that
they had not been brought hither by compulsion; and she beheld herself
in the remote wilds of the Apennine, surrounded by men, whom she
considered to be little less than ruffians, and their worst associates,
amid scenes of vice, from which her soul recoiled in horror. It was at
this moment, when the scenes of the present and the future opened to her
imagination, that the image of Valancourt failed in its influence, and
her resolution shook with dread. She thought she understood all the
horrors, which Montoni was preparing for her, and shrunk from an
encounter with such remorseless vengeance, as he could inflict. The
disputed estates she now almost determined to yield at once, whenever
he should again call upon her, that she might regain safety and freedom;
but then, the remembrance of Valancourt would steal to her heart, and
plunge her into the distractions of doubt.

She continued walking in the gallery, till evening threw its melancholy
twilight through the painted casements, and deepened the gloom of
the oak wainscoting around her; while the distant perspective of
the corridor was so much obscured, as to be discernible only by the
glimmering window, that terminated it.

Along the vaulted halls and passages below, peals of laughter echoed
faintly, at intervals, to this remote part of the castle, and seemed to
render the succeeding stillness more dreary. Emily, however, unwilling
to return to her more forlorn chamber, whither Annette was not yet come,
still paced the gallery. As she passed the door of the apartment, where
she had once dared to lift the veil, which discovered to her a spectacle
so horrible, that she had never after remembered it, but with emotions
of indescribable awe, this remembrance suddenly recurred. It now brought
with it reflections more terrible, than it had yet done, which the late
conduct of Montoni occasioned; and, hastening to quit the gallery, while
she had power to do so, she heard a sudden step behind her.--It might
be that of Annette; but, turning fearfully to look, she saw, through the
gloom, a tall figure following her, and all the horrors of that chamber
rushed upon her mind. In the next moment, she found herself clasped in
the arms of some person, and heard a deep voice murmur in her ear.

When she had power to speak, or to distinguish articulated sounds, she
demanded who detained her.

'It is I,' 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 sake
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 endeavoured to liberate herself.

'Promise, that you will come,' he continued, 'and I will release you
immediately; but first give me a reward for so doing.'

'Who are you?' demanded Emily, in a tone of mingled terror and
indignation, while she still struggled for liberty--'who are you, that
have the cruelty thus to insult me?'

'Why call me cruel?' said the man, 'I would remove you from this dreary
solitude to a merry party below. Do you not know me?'

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 solitude, and
come with me to the company, and eclipse the beauties who make part of
it; you, only, are worthy of my love.' He attempted to kiss her hand,
but the strong impulse of her indignation gave her power to liberate
herself, and she fled towards the chamber. She closed the door, before
he reached it, having secured which, she sunk in a chair, overcome by
terror and by the exertion she had made, while she heard his voice,
and his attempts to open the door, without having the power to raise
herself. At length, she perceived him depart, and had remained,
listening, for a considerable time, and was somewhat revived by not
hearing any sound, when suddenly she remembered the door of the private
stair-case, and that he might enter that way, since it was fastened only
on the other side. She then employed herself in endeavouring to secure
it, in the manner she had formerly done. It appeared to her, that
Montoni had already commenced his scheme of vengeance, by withdrawing
from her his protection, and she repented of the rashness, that had made
her brave the power of such a man. To retain the estates seemed to be
now utterly impossible, and to preserve her life, perhaps her honour,
she resolved, if she should escape the horrors of this night, to give up
all claims to the estates, on the morrow, provided Montoni would suffer
her to depart from Udolpho.

When she had come to this decision, her mind became more composed,
though she still anxiously listened, and often started at ideal sounds,
that appeared to issue from the stair-case.

Having sat in darkness for some hours, during all which time Annette did
not appear, she began to have serious apprehensions for her; but, not
daring to venture down into the castle, was compelled to remain in
uncertainty, as to the cause of this unusual absence.

Emily often stole to the stair-case door, to listen if any step
approached, but still no sound alarmed her: determining, however, to
watch, during the night, she once more rested on her dark and desolate
couch, and bathed the pillow with innocent tears. She thought of her
deceased parents and then of the absent Valancourt, and frequently
called upon their names; for the profound stillness, that now reigned,
was propitious to the musing sorrow of her mind.

While she thus remained, her ear suddenly caught the notes of distant
music, to which she listened attentively, and, soon perceiving this
to be the instrument she had formerly heard at midnight, she rose, and
stepped softly to the casement, to which the sounds appeared to come
from a lower room.

In a few moments, their soft melody was accompanied by a voice so full
of pathos, that it evidently sang not of imaginary sorrows. Its sweet
and peculiar tones she thought she had somewhere heard before; yet, if
this was not fancy, it was, at most, a very faint recollection. It
stole over her mind, amidst the anguish of her present suffering, like a
celestial strain, soothing, and re-assuring her;--'Pleasant as the gale
of spring, that sighs on the hunter's ear, when he awakens from dreams
of joy, and has heard the music of the spirits of the hill.'*

(*Ossian. [A. R.])


But her emotion can scarcely be imagined, when she heard sung, with the
taste and simplicity of true feeling, one of the popular airs of her
native province, to which she had so often listened with delight, when
a child, and which she had so often heard her father repeat! To this
well-known song, never, till now, heard but in her native country, her
heart melted, while the memory of past times returned. The pleasant,
peaceful scenes of Gascony, the tenderness and goodness of her parents,
the taste and simplicity of her former life--all rose to her fancy, and
formed a picture, so sweet and glowing, so strikingly contrasted
with the scenes, the characters and the dangers, which now surrounded
her--that her mind could not bear to pause upon the retrospect, and
shrunk at the acuteness of its own sufferings.

Her sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to the
strain, that had so often charmed her to tranquillity, and she withdrew
from the casement to a remote part of the chamber. But she was not yet
beyond the reach of the music; she heard the measure change, and the
succeeding air called her again to the window, for she immediately
recollected it to be the same she had formerly heard in the
fishing-house in Gascony. Assisted, perhaps, by the mystery, which had
then accompanied this strain, it had made so deep an impression on her
memory, that she had never since entirely forgotten it; and the manner,
in which it was now sung, convinced her, however unaccountable the
circumstances appeared, that this was the same voice she had then
heard. Surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a thought darted,
like lightning, upon her mind, which discovered a train of hopes, that
revived all her spirits. Yet these hopes were so new, so unexpected,
so astonishing, that she did not dare to trust, though she could not
resolve to discourage them. She sat down by the casement, breathless,
and overcome with the alternate emotions of hope and fear; then rose
again, leaned from the window, that she might catch a nearer sound,
listened, now doubting and then believing, softly exclaimed the name of
Valancourt, and then sunk again into the chair. Yes, it was possible,
that Valancourt was near her, and she recollected circumstances,
which induced her to believe it was his voice she had just heard. She
remembered he had more than once said that the fishing-house, where
she had formerly listened to this voice and air, and where she had seen
pencilled sonnets, addressed to herself, had been his favourite haunt,
before he had been made known to her; there, too, she had herself
unexpectedly met him. It appeared, from these circumstances, more
than probable, that he was the musician, who had formerly charmed her
attention, and the author of the lines, which had expressed such tender
admiration;--who else, indeed, could it be? She was unable, at
that time, to form a conjecture, as to the writer, but, since
her acquaintance with Valancourt, whenever he had mentioned the
fishing-house to have been known to him, she had not scrupled to believe
that he was the author of the sonnets.

As these considerations passed over her mind, joy, fear and tenderness
contended at her heart; she leaned again from the casement to catch the
sounds, which might confirm, or destroy her hope, though she did
not recollect to have ever heard him sing; but the voice, and the
instrument, now ceased.

She considered for a moment whether she should venture to speak: then,
not choosing, lest it should be he, to mention his name, and yet too
much interested to neglect the opportunity of enquiring, she called from
the casement, 'Is that song from Gascony?' Her anxious attention was
not cheered by any reply; every thing remained silent. Her impatience
increasing with her fears, she repeated the question; but still no sound
was heard, except the sighings of the wind among the battlements above;
and she endeavoured to console herself with a belief, that the stranger,
whoever he was, had retired, before she had spoken, beyond the reach
of her voice, which, it appeared certain, had Valancourt heard and
recognized, he would instantly have replied to. Presently, however, she
considered, that a motive of prudence, and not an accidental removal,
might occasion his silence; but the surmise, that led to this
reflection, suddenly changed her hope and joy to terror and grief; for,
if Valancourt were in the castle, it was too probable, that he was here
a prisoner, taken with some of his countrymen, many of whom were at that
time engaged in the wars of Italy, or intercepted in some attempt to
reach her. Had he even recollected Emily's voice, he would have feared,
in these circumstances, to reply to it, in the presence of the men, who
guarded his prison.

What so lately she had eagerly hoped she now believed she
dreaded;--dreaded to know, that Valancourt was near her; and, while she
was anxious to be relieved from her apprehension for his safety, she
still was unconscious, that a hope of soon seeing him, struggled with
the fear.

She remained listening at the casement, till the air began to freshen,
and one high mountain in the east to glimmer with the morning; when,
wearied with anxiety, she retired to her couch, where she found
it utterly impossible to sleep, for joy, tenderness, doubt and
apprehension, distracted her during the whole night. Now she rose from
the couch, and opened the casement to listen; then she would pace the
room with impatient steps, and, at length, return with despondence to
her pillow. Never did hours appear to move so heavily, as those of this
anxious night; after which she hoped that Annette might appear, and
conclude her present state of torturing suspense.



CHAPTER VI


     might we but hear
 The folded flocks penn'd in their watled cotes,
 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, some 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'amselle,' said
she, as soon as she entered the room,--'fine doings, indeed! Was you not
frightened, ma'amselle, at not seeing me?'

'I was alarmed both on your account and on my own,' replied Emily--'What
detained you?'

'Aye, I said so, I told him so; but it would not do. It was not my
fault, indeed, ma'amselle, for I could not get out. That rogue Ludovico
locked me up again.'

'Locked you up!' said Emily, with displeasure, 'Why do you permit
Ludovico 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 so much, if the
casements here were not all so high; one can hardly scramble up to them
on the inside, and one should break one's neck, I suppose, going down
on the outside. But you know, I dare say, ma'am, what a hurly-burly the
castle was in, last night; you must have heard some of the uproar.'

'What, were they disputing, then?' said Emily.

'No, ma'amselle, nor fighting, but almost as good, for I believe there
was not one of the Signors sober; and what is more, not one of those
fine ladies sober, either. I thought, when I saw them first, that all
those fine silks and fine veils,--why, ma'amselle, their veils were
worked with silver! and fine trimmings--boded no good--I guessed what
they were!'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, 'what will become of me!'

'Aye, ma'am, Ludovico said much the same thing of me. Good God! said he,
Annette, what is to become of you, if you are to go running about the
castle among all these drunken Signors?'

'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 stair-case and along the north
gallery and through the west wing of the castle and I am in the corridor
in a minute.' 'Are you so? says he, and what is to become of you, if
you meet any of those noble cavaliers in the way?' 'Well, says I, if you
think there is danger, then, go with me, and guard me; I am never afraid
when you are by.' 'What! says he, when I am scarcely recovered of one
wound, shall I put myself in the way of getting another? for if any of
the cavaliers meet you, they will fall a-fighting with me directly.
No, no, says he, I will cut the way shorter, than through the vaulted
passage and up the marble stair-case, and along the north gallery and
through the west wing of the castle, for you shall stay here, Annette;
you shall not go out of this room, to-night.' 'So, with that I says'--

'Well, well,' said Emily, impatiently, and anxious to enquire on another
subject,--'so he locked you up?'

'Yes, he did indeed, ma'amselle, notwithstanding all I could say to the
contrary; and Caterina and I and he staid there all night. And in a few
minutes after I was not so vexed, for there came Signor Verezzi roaring
along the passage, like a mad bull, and he mistook Ludovico's hall, for
old Carlo's; so he tried to burst open the door, and called out for more
wine, for that he had drunk all the flasks dry, and was dying of thirst.
So we were all as still as night, that he might suppose there was nobody
in the room; but the Signor was as cunning as the best of us, and kept
calling out at the door, "Come forth, my 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 subject,' interrupted
Emily, quite wearied by this story. 'Do you know whether there are any
prisoners in the castle, and whether they are confined at this end of
the edifice?'

'I was not in the way, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, 'when the first
party came in from the mountains, and the last party is not come
back yet, so I don't know, whether there are any prisoners; but it is
expected back 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 Monsieur Valancourt, and that he may have come among the armies,
which, they say, are come from our country, to fight against this state,
and that he has met with some of 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 be sure I should, ma'am,' replied Annette, 'and would not you be
glad too, to see Signor Valancourt? I don't know any chevalier I like
better, I have a very great regard for the Signor, truly.'

'Your regard for him cannot be doubted,' said Emily, 'since you wish to
see him a prisoner.'

'Why no, ma'amselle, not a prisoner either; but one must be glad to see
him, you know. And it was only the other night I dreamt--I dreamt I saw
him drive into the castle-yard all in a coach and six, and dressed out,
with a laced coat and a sword, like a lord as he is.'

Emily could not forbear smiling at Annette's ideas of Valancourt,
and repeated her enquiry, whether she had heard the servants talk of
prisoners.

'No, ma'amselle,' replied she, 'never; and lately they have done nothing
but talk of the apparition, that has been walking about of a night on
the ramparts, and that frightened the sentinels into fits. It came among
them like a flash of fire, they say, and they all fell down in a row,
till they came to themselves again; and then it was gone, and nothing to
be seen but the old castle walls; so they helped one another up again as
fast as they could. You would not believe, ma'amselle, though I shewed
you the very cannon, where it used to appear.'

'And are you, indeed, so simple, Annette,' said Emily, smiling at this
curious exaggeration of the circumstances she had witnessed, 'as to
credit these stories?'

'Credit them, ma'amselle! why all the world could not persuade me out
of them. Roberto and Sebastian and half a dozen more of them went into
fits! To be sure, there was no occasion for that; I said, myself, there
was no need of that, for, says I, when the enemy comes, what a pretty
figure they will cut, if they are to fall down in fits, all of a row!
The enemy won't be so civil, perhaps, as to walk off, like the ghost,
and leave them to help one another up, but will fall to, cutting and
slashing, till he makes them all rise up dead men. No, no, says I, there
is reason in all things: though I might have fallen down in a fit that
was no rule for them, being, because it is no business of mine to look
gruff, and fight battles.'

Emily endeavoured to correct the superstitious weakness of Annette,
though she could not entirely subdue her own; to which the latter only
replied, 'Nay, ma'amselle, you will believe nothing; you are almost as
bad as the Signor himself, who was in a great passion when they told
of what had happened, and swore that the first man, who repeated such
nonsense, should be thrown into the dungeon under the east turret. This
was a hard punishment too, for only talking nonsense, as he called it,
but I dare say he had other reasons for calling it so, than you have,
ma'am.'

Emily looked displeased, and made no reply. As she mused upon the
recollected appearance, which had lately so much alarmed her, and
considered the circumstances of the figure having stationed itself
opposite to her casement, she was for a moment inclined to believe it
was Valancourt, whom she had seen. Yet, if it was he, why did he not
speak to her, when he had the opportunity of doing so--and, if he was a
prisoner in the castle, and he could be here in no other character, how
could he obtain the means of walking abroad on the rampart? Thus she
was utterly unable to decide, whether the musician and the form she had
observed, were the same, or, if they were, whether this was Valancourt.
She, however, desired that Annette would endeavour to learn whether any
prisoners were in the castle, and also their names.

'O dear, ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'I forget to tell you what you bade
me ask about, the ladies, as they call themselves, who are lately come
to Udolpho. Why that Signora Livona, that the Signor brought to see my
late lady at Venice, is his mistress now, and was little better then,
I dare say. And Ludovico says (but pray be secret, ma'am) that his
excellenza introduced her only to impose upon the world, that had begun
to make free with her character. So when people saw my lady notice her,
they thought what they had heard must be scandal. The other two are the
mistresses of Signor Verezzi and Signor Bertolini; and Signor Montoni
invited them all to the castle; and so, yesterday, he gave a great
entertainment; and there they were, all drinking Tuscany wine and all
sorts, and laughing and singing, till they made the castle ring again.
But I thought they were dismal sounds, so soon after my poor lady's
death too; and they brought to my mind what she would have thought, if
she had heard them--but she cannot hear them now, poor soul! said I.'

Emily turned away to conceal her emotion, and then desired Annette to
go, and make enquiry, concerning the prisoners, that might be in the
castle, but conjured her to do it with caution, and on no account to
mention her name, or that of Monsieur Valancourt.

'Now I think of it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'I do believe there are
prisoners, for I overheard one of the Signor's men, yesterday, in the
servants hall, talking something about ransoms, and saying what a fine
thing it was for his 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 fortitude, and she determined to brave the threatened
vengeance, at least, till she could be assured whether he was really in
the castle. She was in this temper of mind, when she received a message
from Montoni, requiring her attendance in the cedar parlour, which she
obeyed with trembling, and, on her way thither, endeavoured to animate
her fortitude with the idea of Valancourt.

Montoni was alone. 'I sent for you,' said he, 'to give you another
opportunity of retracting your late mistaken assertions concerning the
Languedoc estates. I will condescend to advise, where I may command.--If
you are really deluded by an opinion, that you have any right to these
estates, at least, do not persist in the error--an error, which you
may perceive, too late, has been fatal to you. Dare my resentment no
further, but sign the papers.'

'If I have no right in these estates, sir,' said Emily, 'of what service
can it be to you, that I should sign any papers, concerning them? If
the lands are yours by law, you certainly may possess them, without my
interference, or my consent.'

'I will have no more argument,' said Montoni, with a look that made
her tremble. 'What had I but trouble to expect, when I condescended
to reason with a baby! But I will be trifled with no longer: let the
recollection of your aunt's sufferings, in consequence of her folly and
obstinacy, teach you a lesson.--Sign the papers.'

Emily's resolution was for a moment awed:--she shrunk at the
recollections he revived, and from the vengeance he threatened; but
then, the image of Valancourt, who so long had loved her, and who was
now, perhaps, so near her, came to her heart, and, together with the
strong feelings of indignation, with which she had always, from her
infancy, regarded an act of injustice, inspired her with a noble, though
imprudent, courage.

'Sign the papers,' said Montoni, more impatiently than before.

'Never, sir,' replied Emily; 'that request would have proved to me the
injustice 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
oath. 'And think not it shall be delayed. Neither the estates in
Languedoc, or Gascony, shall be yours; you have dared to question my
right,--now dare to question my power. I have a punishment which you
think not of; it is terrible! This night--this very night'--

'This night!' repeated another voice.

Montoni paused, and turned half round, but, seeming to recollect
himself, he proceeded in a lower tone.

'You have lately seen one terrible example of obstinacy and folly; yet
this, it appears, has not been sufficient to deter you.--I could tell
you of others--I could make you tremble at the bare recital.'

He was interrupted by a groan, which seemed to rise from underneath the
chamber they were in; and, as he threw a glance round it, impatience and
rage flashed from his eyes, yet something like a shade of fear passed
over his countenance. Emily sat down in a chair, near the door, for the
various emotions she had suffered, now almost overcame her; but Montoni
paused scarcely an instant, and, commanding his features, resumed his
discourse in a lower, yet sterner voice.

'I say, I could give you other instances of my power and of my
character, which it seems you do not understand, or you would not defy
me.--I could tell you, that, when once my resolution is taken--but I
am talking to a baby. Let me, however, repeat, that terrible as are the
examples I could recite, the recital could not now benefit you; for,
though your repentance would put an immediate end to opposition, it
would not now appease my indignation.--I will have vengeance as well as
justice.'

Another groan filled the pause which Montoni made.

'Leave the room instantly!' said he, seeming not to notice this strange
occurrence. Without power to implore his pity, she rose to go, but found
that she could not support herself; awe and terror overcame her, and she
sunk again into the chair.

'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 still unable
to leave the room.

'I heard my own voice,' rejoined Montoni, sternly.

'And nothing else?' said Emily, speaking 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 Montoni followed her; but, instead of calling aloud to his
servants to search the chamber, as he had formerly done on a similar
occurrence, passed to the ramparts.

As, in her way to the corridor, she rested for a moment at an open
casement, Emily saw a party of Montoni's troops winding down a distant
mountain, whom she noticed no further, than as they brought to her mind
the wretched prisoners they were, perhaps, bringing to the castle. At
length, having reached her apartment, she threw herself upon the couch,
overcome with the new horrors of her situation. Her thoughts lost in
tumult and perplexity, she could neither repent of, or approve, her late
conduct; she could only remember, that she was in the power of a man,
who had no principle of action--but his will; and the astonishment and
terrors of superstition, which had, for a moment, so strongly assailed
her, now yielded to those of reason.

She was, at length, roused from the reverie, which engaged her, by a
confusion of distant voices, and a clattering of hoofs, that seemed to
come, on the wind, from the courts. A sudden hope, that some good was
approaching, seized her mind, till she remembered the troops she had
observed from the casement, and concluded this to be the party, which
Annette had said were expected at Udolpho.

Soon after, she heard voices faintly from the halls, and the noise
of horses' feet sunk away in the wind; silence ensued. Emily listened
anxiously for Annette's step in the corridor, but a pause of total
stillness continued, till again the castle seemed to be all tumult and
confusion. She heard the echoes of many footsteps, passing to and fro
in the halls and avenues below, and then busy tongues were loud on the
rampart. Having hurried to her casement, she perceived Montoni, with
some of his officers, leaning on the walls, and pointing from them;
while several soldiers were employed at the further end of the rampart
about some cannon; and she continued to observe them, careless of the
passing time.

Annette at length appeared, but brought no intelligence of Valancourt,
'For, ma'amselle,' said she, 'all the people pretend to know nothing
about any prisoners. But here is a fine piece of business! The rest of
the party are just arrived, ma'am; they came scampering in, as if they
would have broken their necks; one scarcely knew whether the man, or his
horse would get within the gates first. And they have brought word--and
such news! they have brought word, that a party of the enemy, as they
call them, are coming towards the castle; so we shall have all the
officers of justice, I suppose, besieging it! all those terrible-looking
fellows one used to see at Venice.'

'Thank God!' exclaimed Emily, fervently, 'there is yet a hope left for
me, then!'

'What mean you, ma'amselle? Do you wish to fall into the hands of those
sad-looking men! Why I used to shudder as I passed them, and should have
guessed what they were, if Ludovico had not told me.'

'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 the Signor this,
ma'amselle, and I overheard two of them talking--Holy Mother! what makes
you look so sad, ma'amselle? You don't hear what I say!'

'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 examining the great gates, and
the walls all round, and are hammering and patching up, just as if all
those repairs had never been made, that were so long about. But what is
to become of me and you, ma'amselle, and Ludovico? O! when I hear the
sound of the cannon, I shall die with fright. If I could but catch the
great gate open for one minute, I would be even with it for shutting me
within these walls so long!--it should never see me again.'

Emily caught the latter words of Annette. 'O! if you could find it open,
but for one moment!' she exclaimed, 'my peace might yet be saved!'
The heavy groan she uttered, and the wildness of her look, terrified
Annette, still more than her words; who entreated Emily to explain the
meaning of them, to whom it suddenly occurred, that Ludovico might be
of some service, if there should be a possibility of escape, and who
repeated the substance of what had passed between Montoni and herself,
but conjured her to mention this to no person except to Ludovico. 'It
may, perhaps, be in his power,' she added, 'to effect our escape. Go to
him, Annette, tell him what I have to apprehend, and what I have
already suffered; but entreat him to be secret, and to lose no time in
attempting to release us. If he is willing to undertake this he shall
be amply rewarded. I cannot speak with him myself, for we might be
observed, and then effectual care would be taken to prevent our flight.
But be quick, Annette, and, above all, be discreet--I will await your
return in this apartment.'

The girl, whose honest heart had been much affected by the recital, was
now as eager to obey, as Emily was to employ her, and she immediately
quitted the room.

Emily's surprise increased, as she reflected upon Annette's
intelligence. 'Alas!' said she, 'what can the officers of justice
do against an armed castle? these cannot be such.' Upon further
consideration, however, she concluded, that, Montoni's bands having
plundered the country round, the inhabitants had taken arms, and were
coming with the officers of police and a party of soldiers, to force
their way into the castle. 'But they know not,' thought she, 'its
strength, or the armed numbers within it. Alas! except from flight, I
have nothing to hope!'

Montoni, though not precisely what Emily apprehended him to be--a
captain of banditti--had employed his troops in enterprises not less
daring, or less atrocious, than such a character would have undertaken.
They had not only pillaged, whenever opportunity offered, the helpless
traveller, but had attacked, and plundered the villas of several
persons, which, being situated among the solitary recesses of the
mountains, were totally unprepared for resistance. In these expeditions
the commanders of the party did not appear, and the men, partly
disguised, had sometimes been mistaken for common robbers, and, at
others, for bands of the foreign enemy, who, at that period, invaded
the country. But, though they had already pillaged several mansions, and
brought home considerable treasures, they had ventured to approach only
one castle, in the attack of which they were assisted by other troops of
their own order; from this, however, they were vigorously repulsed,
and pursued by some of the foreign enemy, who were in league with the
besieged. Montoni's troops fled precipitately towards Udolpho, but were
so closely tracked over the mountains, that, when they reached one of
the heights in the neighbourhood of the castle, and looked back upon the
road, they perceived the enemy winding among the cliffs below, and
at not more than a league distant. Upon this discovery, they hastened
forward with increased speed, to prepare Montoni for the enemy; and it
was their arrival, which had thrown the castle into such confusion and
tumult.

As Emily awaited anxiously some information from below, she now saw from
her casements a body of troops pour over the neighbouring heights; and,
though Annette had been gone a very short time, and had a difficult and
dangerous business to accomplish, her impatience for intelligence became
painful: she listened; opened her door; and often went out upon the
corridor to meet her.

At length, she heard a footstep approach her chamber; and, on opening
the door, saw, not Annette, but old Carlo! New fears rushed upon her
mind. He said he came from the Signor, who had ordered him to inform
her, that she must be ready to depart from Udolpho immediately, for that
the castle was about to be besieged; and that mules were preparing to
convey her, with her guides, to a place of safety.

'Of safety!' exclaimed Emily, thoughtlessly; 'has, then, the Signor so
much consideration for me?'

Carlo looked upon the ground, and made no reply. A thousand opposite
emotions agitated Emily, successively, as she listened to old Carlo;
those of joy, grief, distrust and apprehension, appeared, and vanished
from her mind, with the quickness of lightning. One moment, it seemed
impossible, that Montoni could take this measure merely for her
preservation; and so very strange was his sending her from the castle
at all, that she could attribute it only to the design of carrying into
execution the new scheme of vengeance, with which he had menaced her. In
the next instant, it appeared so desirable to quit the castle, under any
circumstances, that she could not but rejoice in the prospect, believing
that change must be for the better, till she remembered the probability
of Valancourt being detained in it, when sorrow and regret usurped her
mind, and she wished, much more fervently than she had yet done, that it
might not be his voice which she had heard.

Carlo having reminded her, that she had no time to lose, for that the
enemy were within sight of the castle, Emily entreated him to inform
her whither she was to go; and, after some hesitation, he said he had
received no orders to tell; but, on her repeating the question, replied,
that he believed she was to be carried into Tuscany.'

'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
package, that she meant to take with her; while she was employed about
which Annette returned.

'O ma'amselle!' said she, 'nothing can be done! Ludovico says the new
porter is more watchful even than Barnardine was, and we might as well
throw ourselves in the way of a dragon, as in his. Ludovico is almost as
broken-hearted as you are, ma'am, on my account, he says, and I am sure
I shall never live to hear the cannon fire twice!'

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, surrounded by
his officers, where she began her petition. He sharply bade her go into
the castle, and absolutely refused her request. Annette, however, not
only pleaded for herself, but for Ludovico; and Montoni had ordered some
of his men to take her from his presence, before she would retire.

In an agony of disappointment, she returned to Emily, who foreboded
little good towards herself, from this refusal to Annette, and who, soon
after, received a summons to repair to the great court, where the mules,
with her guides, were in waiting. Emily here tried in vain to sooth the
weeping Annette, who persisted in saying, that she should never see her
dear young lady again; a fear, which her mistress secretly thought
too well justified, but which she endeavoured to restrain, while,
with apparent composure, she bade this affectionate servant farewell.
Annette, however, followed to the courts, which were now thronged with
people, busy in preparation for the enemy; and, having seen her mount
her mule and depart, with her attendants, through the portal, turned
into the castle and wept again.

Emily, meanwhile, as she looked back upon the gloomy courts of the
castle, no longer silent as when she had first entered them, but
resounding with the noise of preparation for their defence, as well as
crowded with soldiers and workmen, hurrying to and fro; and, when she
passed once more under the huge portcullis, which had formerly struck
her with terror and dismay, and, looking round, saw no walls to confine
her steps--felt, in spite of anticipation, the sudden joy of a prisoner,
who unexpectedly finds himself at liberty. This emotion would not suffer
her now to look impartially on the dangers that awaited her without; on
mountains infested by hostile parties, who seized every opportunity for
plunder; and on a journey commended under the guidance of men, whose
countenances certainly did not speak favourably of their dispositions.
In the present moments, she could only rejoice, that she was liberated
from those walls, which she had entered with such dismal forebodings;
and, remembering the superstitious presentiment, which had then seized
her, she could now smile at the impression it had made upon her mind.

As she gazed, with these emotions, upon the turrets of the castle,
rising high over the woods, among which she wound, the stranger, whom
she believed to be confined there, returned to her remembrance, and
anxiety and apprehension, lest he should be Valancourt, again passed
like a cloud upon her joy. She recollected every circumstance,
concerning this unknown person, since the night, when she had first
heard him play the song of her native province;--circumstances, which
she had so often recollected, and compared before, without extracting
from them any thing like conviction, and which still only prompted her
to believe, that Valancourt was a prisoner at Udolpho. It was possible,
however, that the men, who were her conductors, might afford her
information, on this subject; but, fearing to question them immediately,
lest they should be unwilling to discover any circumstance to her in the
presence of each other, she watched for an opportunity of speaking with
them separately.

Soon after, a trumpet echoed faintly from a distance; the guides
stopped, and looked toward the quarter whence it came, but the thick
woods, which surrounded them, excluding all view of the country beyond,
one of the men rode on to the point of an eminence, that afforded a
more extensive prospect, to observe how near the enemy, whose trumpet he
guessed this to be, were advanced; the other, meanwhile, remained with
Emily, and to him she put some questions, concerning the stranger at
Udolpho. Ugo, for this was his name, said, that there were several
prisoners in the castle, but he neither recollected their persons,
or the precise time of their arrival, and could therefore give her no
information. There was a surliness in his manner, as he spoke, that made
it probable he would not have satisfied her enquiries, even if he could
have done so.

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 returned, Emily enquired no further,
and, when he had related to his companion what he had seen, they
travelled on in deep silence; while Emily often caught, between the
opening woods, partial glimpses of the castle above--the west towers,
whose battlements were now crowded with archers, and the ramparts
below, where soldiers were seen hurrying along, or busy upon the walls,
preparing the cannon.

Having emerged from the woods, they wound along the valley in an
opposite direction to that, from whence the enemy were approaching.
Emily now had a full view of Udolpho, with its gray walls, towers and
terraces, high over-topping the precipices and the dark woods, and
glittering partially with the arms of the condottieri, as the sun's
rays, streaming through an autumnal cloud, glanced upon a part of
the edifice, whose remaining features stood in darkened majesty. She
continued to gaze, through her tears, upon walls that, perhaps, confined
Valancourt, and which now, as the cloud floated away, were lighted up
with sudden splendour, and then, as suddenly were shrouded in gloom;
while the passing gleam fell on the wood-tops below, and heightened the
first tints of autumn, that had begun to steal upon the foliage. The
winding mountains, at length, shut Udolpho from her view, and she
turned, with mournful reluctance, to other objects. The melancholy
sighing of the wind among the pines, that waved high over the steeps,
and the distant thunder of a torrent assisted her musings, and conspired
with the wild scenery around, to diffuse over her mind emotions solemn,
yet not unpleasing, but which were soon interrupted by the distant roar
of cannon, echoing among the mountains. The sounds rolled along the
wind, and were repeated in faint and fainter reverberation, till they
sunk in sullen murmurs. This was a signal, that the enemy had reached
the castle, and fear for Valancourt again tormented Emily. She turned
her anxious eyes towards that part of the country, where the edifice
stood, but the intervening heights concealed it from her view; still,
however, she saw the tall head of a mountain, which immediately fronted
her late chamber, and on this she fixed her gaze, as if it could have
told her of all that was passing in the scene it overlooked. The guides
twice reminded her, that she was losing time and that they had far to
go, before she could turn from this interesting object, and, even when
she again moved onward, she often sent a look back, till only its blue
point, brightening in a gleam of sunshine, appeared peeping over other
mountains.

The sound of the cannon affected Ugo, as the blast of the trumpet
does the war-horse; it called forth all the fire of his nature; he
was impatient to be in the midst of the fight, and uttered frequent
execrations against Montoni for having sent him to a distance. The
feelings of his comrade seemed to be very opposite, and adapted rather
to the cruelties, than to the dangers of war.

Emily asked frequent questions, concerning the place of her destination,
but could only learn, that she was going to a cottage in Tuscany; and,
whenever she mentioned the subject, she fancied she perceived, in the
countenances of these men, an expression of malice and cunning, that
alarmed her.

It was afternoon, when they had left the castle. During several hours,
they travelled through regions of profound solitude, where no bleat of
sheep, or bark of watch-dog, broke on silence, and they were now too far
off to hear even the faint thunder of the cannon. Towards evening, they
wound down precipices, black with forests of cypress, pine and cedar,
into a glen so savage and secluded, that, if Solitude ever had local
habitation, this might have been 'her place of dearest residence.' To
Emily it appeared a spot exactly suited for the retreat of banditti,
and, in her imagination, she already saw them lurking under the brow of
some projecting rock, whence their shadows, lengthened by the setting
sun, stretched across the road, and warned the traveller of his danger.
She shuddered at the idea, and, looking at her conductors, to observe
whether they were armed, thought she saw in them the banditti she
dreaded!

It was in this glen, that they proposed to alight, 'For,' said Ugo,
'night will come on presently, and then the wolves will make it
dangerous to stop.' This was a new subject of alarm to Emily, but
inferior to what she suffered from the thought of being left in these
wilds, at midnight, with two such men as her present conductors. Dark
and dreadful hints of what might be Montoni's purpose in sending her
hither, came to her mind. She endeavoured to dissuade the men from
stopping, and enquired, with anxiety, how far they had yet to go.

'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 towards a cliff, overhung with cedars, Emily following in
trembling silence. They lifted her from her mule, and, having seated
themselves on the grass, at the foot of the rocks, drew some homely
fare from a wallet, of which Emily tried to eat a little, the better to
disguise her apprehensions.

The sun was now sunk behind the high mountains in the west, upon which a
purple haze began to spread, and the gloom of twilight to draw over the
surrounding objects. To the low and sullen murmur of the breeze, passing
among the woods, she no longer listened with any degree of pleasure,
for it conspired with the wildness of the scene and the evening hour, to
depress her spirits.

Suspense had so much increased her anxiety, as to the prisoner at
Udolpho, that, finding it impracticable to speak alone with Bertrand, on
that subject, she renewed her questions in the presence of Ugo; but
he either was, or pretended to be entirely ignorant, concerning the
stranger. When he had dismissed the question, he talked with Ugo on some
subject, which led to the mention of Signor Orsino and of the affair
that had banished him from Venice; respecting which Emily had ventured
to ask a few questions. Ugo appeared to be well acquainted with
the circumstances of that tragical event, and related some minute
particulars, that both shocked and surprised her; for it appeared
very extraordinary how such particulars could be known to any, but to
persons, present when the assassination was committed.

'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 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--you may stay long enough. Why if I want a friend of mine properly
served, how am I to get my revenge? Ten to one they will tell me he is
in the right, and I am in the wrong. Or, if a fellow has got possession
of property, which I think ought to be mine, why I may wait, till I
starve, perhaps, before the law will give it me, and then, after all,
the judge may say--the estate is his. What is to be done then?--Why the
case is plain enough, I must take it at last.'

Emily's horror at this conversation was heightened by a suspicion, that
the latter part of it was pointed against herself, and that these men
had been commissioned by Montoni to execute a similar kind of JUSTICE,
in his cause.

'But I was speaking of Signor Orsino,' resumed Bertrand, 'he is one of
those, who love to do justice at once. I remember, about ten years ago,
the Signor had a quarrel with a cavaliero of Milan. The story was told
me then, and it is still fresh in my head. They quarrelled about a
lady, that the Signor liked, and she was perverse enough to prefer the
gentleman of Milan, and even carried her whim so far as to marry him.
This provoked the Signor, as well it might, for he had tried to talk
reason to her a long while, and used to send people to serenade her,
under her windows, of a night; and used to make verses about her, and
would swear she was the handsomest lady in Milan--But all would not
do--nothing would bring her to reason; and, as I said, she went so far
at last, as to marry this other cavaliero. This made the Signor wrath,
with a vengeance; he resolved to be even with her though, and he watched
his opportunity, and did not wait long, for, soon after the marriage,
they set out for Padua, nothing doubting, I warrant, of what was
preparing for them. The cavaliero thought, to be sure, he was to be
called to no account, but was to go off triumphant; but he was soon made
to know another sort of story.'

'What then, the lady had promised to have Signor Orsino?' said Ugo.

'Promised! No,' replied Bertrand, 'she had not wit enough even to tell
him she liked him, as I heard, but the contrary, for she used to say,
from the first, she never meant to have him. And this was what provoked
the Signor, so, and with good reason, for, who likes to be told that he
is disagreeable? and this was saying as good. It was enough to tell him
this; she need not have gone, and married another.'

'What, she married, then, on purpose to plague the Signor?' said Ugo.

'I don't know as for that,' replied Bertrand, 'they said, indeed, that
she had had a regard for the other gentleman a great while; but that is
nothing to the purpose, she should not have married him, and then the
Signor would not have been so much provoked. She might have expected
what was to follow; it was not to be supposed he would bear her ill
usage tamely, and she might thank herself for what happened. But, as I
said, they set out for Padua, she and her husband, and the road lay over
some barren mountains like these. This suited the Signor's purpose well.
He watched the time of their departure, and sent his men after them,
with directions what to do. They kept their distance, till they saw
their opportunity, and this did not happen, till the second day's
journey, when, the gentleman having sent his servants forward to
the next town, 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 missed.'

Emily turned pale, at these words, and then hoped she had mistaken them;
while Bertrand proceeded:

'The gentleman fired again, but he was soon made to alight, and it was
as he turned to call his people, that he was struck. It was the most
dexterous feat you ever saw--he was struck in the back with three
stillettos at once. He fell, and was dispatched in a minute; but the
lady escaped, for the servants had heard the firing, and came up before
she could be taken care of. "Bertrand," said the Signor, when his men
returned'--

'Bertrand!' exclaimed Emily, pale with horror, on whom not a syllable 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;--"Bertrand," said the Signor'--

'Bertrand, again!' said Emily, in a faltering voice, 'Why do you repeat
that name?'

Bertrand swore. 'What signifies it,' he proceeded, 'what the man was
called--Bertrand, or Giovanni--or Roberto? it's all one for that. You
have put me out twice with that--question. "Bertrand," or Giovanni--or
what you will--"Bertrand," said the Signor, "if your comrades had done
their duty, as well as you, I should not have lost the lady. Go, my
honest fellow, and be happy with this." He game 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 she saw these men, their appearance and their connection with
Montoni had been sufficient to impress her with distrust; but now, when
one of them had betrayed himself to be a murderer, and she saw herself,
at the approach of night, under his guidance, among wild and solitary
mountains, and going she scarcely knew whither, the most agonizing
terror seized her, which was the less supportable from the necessity
she found herself under of concealing all symptoms of it from her
companions. Reflecting on the character and the menaces of Montoni,
it appeared not improbable, that he had delivered her to them, for the
purpose of having her murdered, and of thus securing to himself, without
further opposition, or delay, the estates, for which he had so long and
so desperately contended. Yet, if this was his design, there appeared
no necessity for sending her to such a distance from the castle; for,
if any dread of discovery had made him unwilling to perpetrate the
deed there, a much nearer place might have sufficed for the purpose of
concealment. These considerations, however, did not immediately occur to
Emily, with whom so many circumstances conspired to rouse terror, that
she had no power to oppose it, or to enquire coolly into its grounds;
and, if she had done so, still there were many appearances which would
too well have justified her most terrible apprehensions. She did not
now dare to speak to her conductors, at the sound of whose voices she
trembled; and when, now and then, she stole a glance at them, their
countenances, seen imperfectly through the gloom of evening, served to
confirm her fears.

The sun had now been set some time; heavy clouds, whose lower skirts
were tinged with sulphureous crimson, lingered in the west, and threw a
reddish tint upon the pine forests, which sent forth a solemn sound, as
the breeze rolled over them. The hollow moan struck upon Emily's heart,
and served to render more gloomy and terrific every object around
her,--the mountains, shaded in twilight--the gleaming torrent, hoarsely
roaring--the black forests, and the deep glen, broken into rocky
recesses, high overshadowed by cypress and sycamore and winding into
long obscurity. To this glen, Emily, as she sent forth her anxious eye,
thought there was no end; no hamlet, or even cottage, was seen, and
still no distant bark of watch dog, or even faint, far-off halloo
came on the wind. In a tremulous voice, she now ventured to remind the
guides, that it was growing late, and to ask again how far they had to
go: but they were too much occupied by their own discourse to attend
to her question, which she forbore to repeat, lest it should provoke a
surly answer. Having, however, soon after, finished their supper, the
men collected the fragments into their wallet, and proceeded along this
winding glen, in gloomy silence; while Emily again mused upon her own
situation, and concerning the motives of Montoni for involving her in
it. That it was for some evil purpose towards herself, she could not
doubt; and it seemed, that, if he did not intend to destroy her, with a
view of immediately seizing her estates, he meant to reserve her a
while in concealment, for some more terrible design, for one that might
equally gratify his avarice and still more his deep revenge. At this
moment, remembering Signor Brochio and his behaviour in the corridor,
a few preceding nights, the latter supposition, horrible as it was,
strengthened in her belief. Yet, why remove her from the castle,
where deeds of darkness had, she feared, been often executed with
secrecy?--from chambers, perhaps

  With many a foul, and midnight murder stain'd.

The dread of what she might be going to encounter was now so excessive,
that it sometimes threatened her senses; and, often as she went, she
thought of her late father and of all he would have suffered, could he
have foreseen the strange and dreadful events of her future life;
and how anxiously he would have avoided that fatal confidence, which
committed his daughter to the care of a woman so weak as was Madame
Montoni. So romantic and improbable, indeed, did her present situation
appear to Emily herself, particularly when she compared it with the
repose and beauty of her early days, that there were moments, when she
could almost have believed herself the victim of frightful visions,
glaring upon a disordered fancy.

Restrained by the presence of her guides from expressing her terrors,
their acuteness was, at length, lost in gloomy despair. The dreadful
view of what might await her hereafter rendered her almost indifferent
to the surrounding dangers. She now looked, with little emotion, on the
wild dingles, and the gloomy road and mountains, whose outlines were
only distinguishable through the dusk;--objects, which but lately had
affected her spirits so much, as to awaken horrid views of the future,
and to tinge these with their own gloom.

It was now so nearly dark, that the travellers, who proceeded only by
the slowest pace, could scarcely discern their way. The clouds, which
seemed charged with thunder, passed slowly along the heavens, 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 grows 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 straggling party of the enemy is abroad.'

Ugo muttered something, which Emily did not understand, and they
proceeded in darkness, while she almost wished, that the enemy might
discover them; for from change there was something to hope, since she
could scarcely imagine any situation more dreadful than her present one.

As they moved slowly along, her attention was surprised by a thin
tapering flame, that appeared, by fits, at the point of the pike, which
Bertrand carried, resembling what she had observed on the lance of the
sentinel, the night Madame Montoni died, and which he had said was
an omen. The event immediately following it appeared to justify the
assertion, and a superstitious impression had remained on Emily's mind,
which the present appearance confirmed. She thought it was an omen of
her own fate, and watched it successively vanish and return, in gloomy
silence, which was at length interrupted by Bertrand.

'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 tapering at its point.*

(*See the Abbe Berthelon on Electricity. [A. R.])


'Aye,' said Ugo, 'you are not one of those, that believe in omens: we
have left cowards at the castle, who would turn pale at such a sight.
I have often seen it before a thunder storm, it is an omen of that, and
one is coming now, sure enough. The clouds flash fast already.'

Emily was relieved by this conversation from some of the terrors of
superstition, but those of reason increased, as, waiting while Ugo
searched for a flint, to strike fire, she watched the pale lightning
gleam over the woods they were about to enter, and illumine the harsh
countenances of her companions. Ugo could not find a flint, and Bertrand
became impatient, for the thunder sounded hollowly at a distance, and
the lightning was more frequent. Sometimes, it revealed the nearer
recesses of the woods, or, displaying some opening in their summits,
illumined the ground beneath with partial splendour, the thick foliage
of the trees preserving the surrounding scene in deep shadow.

At length, Ugo found a flint, and the torch was lighted. The men then
dismounted, and, having assisted Emily, led the mules towards the woods,
that skirted the glen, on the left, over broken ground, frequently
interrupted with brush-wood and wild plants, which she was often obliged
to make a circuit to avoid.

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 circumstances, that contributed to renew all
her most terrible apprehensions; she thought, too, that, at this moment,
the countenances of her conductors displayed more than their usual
fierceness, mingled with a kind of lurking exultation, which they seemed
endeavouring to disguise. To her affrighted fancy it occurred, that they
were leading her into these woods to complete the will of Montoni by
her murder. The horrid suggestion called a groan from her heart, which
surprised her companions, who turned round quickly towards her, and she
demanded why they led her thither, beseeching them to continue their way
along the open glen, which she represented to be less dangerous than the
woods, in a thunder storm.

'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
numbers! 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--I would
lay you quietly in a dry ditch, where you might peep out, and see me put
the rogues to flight.--Who talks of fear!'

Bertrand replied, with an horrible oath, that he did not like such
jesting, and a violent altercation ensued, which was, at length,
silenced by the thunder, whose deep volley was heard afar, rolling
onward till it burst over their heads in sounds, that seemed to shake
the earth to its centre. The ruffians paused, and looked upon each
other. Between the boles of the trees, the blue lightning flashed and
quivered along the ground, while, as Emily looked under the boughs, the
mountains beyond, frequently appeared to be clothed in livid flame. At
this moment, perhaps, she felt less fear of the storm, than did either
of her companions, for other terrors occupied her mind.

The men now rested under an enormous chesnut-tree, and fixed their
pikes in the ground, at some distance, on the iron points of which Emily
repeatedly observed the lightning play, and then glide down them into
the earth.

'I would we were well in the Signor's castle!' said Bertrand, 'I know
not why he should send us on this business. Hark! how it rattles above,
there! I could almost find in my heart to turn priest, and pray. Ugo,
hast got a rosary?'

'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
mountains, silenced them for a moment. As it rolled away, Ugo proposed
going on. 'We are only losing time here,' said he, 'for the thick boughs
of the woods will shelter us as well as this chesnut-tree.'

They again led the mules forward, between the boles of the trees, and
over pathless grass, that concealed their high knotted roots. The rising
wind was now heard contending with the thunder, as it rushed furiously
among the branches above, and brightened the red flame of the torch,
which threw a stronger light forward among the woods, and shewed their
gloomy recesses to be suitable resorts for the wolves, of which Ugo had
formerly spoken.

At length, the strength of the wind seemed to drive the storm before it,
for the thunder rolled away into distance, and was only faintly heard.
After travelling through the woods for nearly an hour, during which the
elements seemed to have returned to repose, the travellers, gradually
ascending from the glen, found themselves upon the open brow of a
mountain, with a wide valley, extending in misty moon-light, at their
feet, and above, the blue sky, trembling through the few thin clouds,
that lingered after the storm, and were sinking slowly to the verge of
the horizon.

Emily's spirits, now that she had quitted the woods, began to revive;
for she considered, that, if these men had received an order to destroy
her, they would probably have executed their barbarous purpose in the
solitary wild, from whence they had just emerged, where the deed would
have been shrouded from every human eye. Reassured by this reflection,
and by the quiet demeanour of her guides, Emily, as they proceeded
silently, in a kind of sheep track, that wound along the skirts of the
woods, which ascended on the right, could not survey the sleeping beauty
of the vale, to which they were declining, without a momentary sensation
of pleasure. It seemed varied with woods, pastures, and sloping grounds,
and was screened to the north and the east by an amphitheatre of the
Apennines, whose outline on the horizon was here broken into varied
and elegant forms; to the west and the south, the landscape extended
indistinctly into the lowlands of Tuscany.

'There is the sea yonder,' said Bertrand, as if he had known that Emily
was examining the twilight view, 'yonder in the west, though we cannot
see it.'

Emily already perceived a change in the climate, from that of the wild
and mountainous tract she had left; and, as she continued descending,
the air became perfumed by the breath of a thousand nameless flowers
among the grass, called forth by the late rain. So soothingly beautiful
was the scene around her, and so strikingly contrasted to the gloomy
grandeur of those, to which she had long been confined, and to the
manners of the people, who moved among them, that she could almost have
fancied herself again at La Vallee, and, wondering why Montoni had sent
her hither, could scarcely believe, that he had selected so enchanting
a spot for any cruel design. It was, however, probably not the spot,
but the persons, who happened to inhabit it, and to whose care he could
safely commit the execution of his plans, whatever they might be, that
had determined his choice.

She now ventured again to enquire, whether they were near the place of
their destination, and was answered by Ugo, that they had not far to go.
'Only to the wood of chesnuts in the valley yonder,' said he, 'there, by
the brook, that sparkles with the moon; I wish I was once at rest there,
with a flask of good wine, and a slice of Tuscany bacon.'

Emily's spirits revived, when she heard, that the journey was so nearly
concluded, and saw the wood of chesnuts in an open part of the vale, on
the margin of the stream.

In a short time, they reached the entrance of the wood, and perceived,
between the twinkling leaves, a light, streaming from a distant cottage
window. They proceeded along the edge of the brook to where the trees,
crowding over it, excluded the moon-beams, but a long line of light,
from the cottage above, was seen on its dark tremulous surface. Bertrand
now stepped on first, and Emily heard him knock, and call loudly at
the door. As she reached it, the small upper casement, where the light
appeared, was unclosed by a man, who, having enquired what they wanted,
immediately descended, let them into a neat rustic cot, and called
up his wife to set refreshments before the travellers. As this man
conversed, rather apart, with Bertrand, Emily anxiously surveyed him. He
was a tall, but not robust, peasant, of a sallow complexion, and had a
shrewd and cunning eye; his countenance was not of a character to win
the ready confidence of youth, and there was nothing in his manner, that
might conciliate a stranger.

Ugo called impatiently for supper, and in a tone as if he knew his
authority here to be unquestionable. 'I expected you an hour ago,' said
the peasant, 'for I have had Signor Montoni's letter these three hours,
and I and my wife had given you up, and gone to bed. How did you fare in
the storm?'

'Ill enough,' replied Ugo, 'ill enough and we are like to fare ill
enough here, too, unless you will make more haste. Get us more wine, and
let us see what you have to eat.'

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 answers,
pretending ignorance of his excellenza's intention in sending Emily
hither, but acknowledging that her husband had been apprized of
the circumstance. Perceiving, that she could obtain no intelligence
concerning her destination, Emily dismissed Dorina, and retired to
repose; but all the busy scenes of her past and the anticipated ones of
the future came to her anxious mind, and conspired with the sense of her
new situation to banish sleep.



CHAPTER VII


     Was nought around but images of rest,
 Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between,
 And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kept,
 From poppies breath'd, and banks of pleasant green,
 Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
 Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets play'd,
 And hurled every where their water's sheen,
 That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade,
 Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
     THOMSON

When Emily, in the morning, opened her casement, she was surprised
to observe the beauties, that surrounded it. The cottage was nearly
embowered in the woods, which were chiefly of chesnut intermixed
with some cypress, larch and sycamore. Beneath the dark and spreading
branches, appeared, to the north, and to the east, the woody Apennines,
rising in majestic amphitheatre, not black with pines, as she had been
accustomed to see them, but their loftiest summits crowned with antient
forests of chesnut, oak, and oriental plane, now animated with the rich
tints of autumn, and which swept downward to the valley uninterruptedly,
except where some bold rocky promontory looked out from among the
foliage, and caught the passing gleam. Vineyards stretched along the
feet of the mountains, where the elegant villas of the Tuscan nobility
frequently adorned the scene, and overlooked slopes clothed with
groves of olive, mulberry, orange and lemon. The plain, to which these
declined, was coloured with the riches of cultivation, whose mingled
hues were mellowed into harmony by an Italian sun. Vines, their purple
clusters blushing between the russet foliage, hung in luxuriant festoons
from the branches of standard fig and cherry trees, while pastures of
verdure, such as Emily had seldom seen in Italy, enriched the banks of
a stream that, after descending from the mountains, wound along the
landscape, which it reflected, to a bay of the sea. There, far in the
west, the waters, fading into the sky, assumed a tint of the faintest
purple, and the line of separation between them was, now and then,
discernible only by the progress of a sail, brightened with the sunbeam,
along the horizon.

The cottage, which was shaded by the woods from the intenser rays of the
sun, and was open only to his evening light, was covered entirely with
vines, fig-trees and jessamine, whose flowers surpassed in size and
fragrance any that Emily had seen. These and ripening clusters of grapes
hung round her little casement. The turf, that grew under the woods, was
inlaid with a variety of wild flowers and perfumed herbs, and, on the
opposite margin of the stream, whose current diffused freshness beneath
the shades, rose a grove of lemon and orange trees. This, though nearly
opposite to Emily's window, did not interrupt her prospect, but rather
heightened, by its dark verdure, the effect of the perspective; and
to her this spot was a bower of sweets, whose charms communicated
imperceptibly to her mind somewhat of their own serenity.

She was soon summoned to breakfast, by the peasant's daughter, a girl
about seventeen, of a pleasant countenance, which, Emily was glad to
observe, seemed animated with the pure affections of nature, though
the others, that surrounded her, expressed, more or less, the worst
qualities--cruelty, ferocity, cunning and duplicity; of the latter style
of countenance, especially, were those of the peasant and his wife.
Maddelina spoke little, but what she said was in a soft voice, and
with an air of modesty and complacency, that interested Emily, who
breakfasted at a separate table with Dorina, while Ugo and Bertrand
were taking a repast of Tuscany bacon and wine with their host, near
the cottage door; when they had finished which, Ugo, rising hastily,
enquired for his mule, and Emily learned that he was to return to
Udolpho, while Bertrand remained at the cottage; a circumstance, which,
though it did not surprise, distressed her.

When Ugo was departed, Emily proposed to walk in the neighbouring woods;
but, on being told, that she must not quit the cottage, without having
Bertrand for her attendant, she withdrew to her own room. There, as her
eyes settled on the towering Apennines, she recollected the terrific
scenery they had exhibited and the horrors she had suffered, on the
preceding night, particularly at the moment when Bertrand had betrayed
himself to be an assassin; and these remembrances awakened a train of
images, which, since they abstracted her from a consideration of her own
situation, she pursued for some time, and then arranged in the following
lines; pleased to have discovered any innocent means, by which she could
beguile an hour of misfortune.

  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, last purple streaks of day
 Along the melancholy West fade slow.
 High o'er his head, the restless pines complain,
 As on their summit rolls the breeze of night;
 Beneath, the hoarse stream chides the rocks in vain:
 The Pilgrim pauses on the dizzy height.
 Then to the vale his cautious step he prest,
 For there a hermit's cross was dimly seen,
 Cresting the rock, and there his limbs might rest,
 Cheer'd in the good man's cave, by faggot's sheen,
 On leafy beds, nor guile his sleep molest.
 Unhappy Luke! he trusts a treacherous clue!
 Behind the cliff the lurking robber stood;
 No friendly moon his giant shadow threw
 Athwart the road, to save the Pilgrim's blood;
 On as he went a vesper-hymn he sang,
 The hymn, that nightly sooth'd him to repose.
 Fierce on his harmless prey the ruffian sprang!
 The Pilgrim bleeds to death, his eye-lids close.
 Yet his meek spirit knew no vengeful care,
 But, dying, for his murd'rer breath'd--a sainted pray'r!

(* This poem and that entitled THE TRAVELLER in vol. ii, have already
appeared in a periodical publication. [A. R.])


Preferring the solitude of her room to the company of the persons below
stairs, Emily dined above, and Maddelina was suffered to attend her,
from whose simple conversation she learned, that the peasant and his
wife were old inhabitants of this cottage, which had been purchased for
them by Montoni, in reward of some service, rendered him, many years
before, by Marco, to whom Carlo, the steward at the castle, was nearly
related. 'So many years ago, Signora,' added Maddelina, 'that I know
nothing about it; but my father did the Signor a great good, for my
mother has often said to him, this cottage was the least he ought to
have had.'

To the mention of this circumstance Emily listened with a painful
interest, since it appeared to give a frightful colour to the character
of Marco, whose service, thus rewarded by Montoni, she could scarcely
doubt have been criminal; and, if so, had too much reason to believe,
that she had been committed into his hands for some desperate
purpose. 'Did you ever hear how many years it is,' said Emily, who was
considering of Signora Laurentini's disappearance from Udolpho, 'since
your father performed the services you spoke of?'

'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 assisted in that
mysterious affair, and, perhaps, had been employed in a murder! This
horrible suggestion fixed her in such profound reverie, that Maddelina
quitted the room, unperceived by her, and she remained unconscious of
all around her, for a considerable time. Tears, at length, came to her
relief, after indulging which, her spirits becoming calmer, she
ceased to tremble at a view of evils, that might never arrive; and had
sufficient resolution to endeavour to withdraw her thoughts from the
contemplation of her own interests. Remembering the few books, which
even in the hurry of her departure from Udolpho she had put into her
little package, she sat down with one of them at her pleasant casement,
whence her eyes often wandered from the page to the landscape, whose
beauty gradually soothed her mind into gentle melancholy.

Here, she remained alone, till evening, and saw the sun descend the
western sky, throw all his pomp of light and shadow upon the mountains,
and gleam upon the distant ocean and the stealing sails, as he sunk
amidst the waves. Then, at the musing hour of twilight, her softened
thoughts returned to Valancourt; she again recollected every
circumstance, connected with the midnight music, and all that might
assist her conjecture, concerning his imprisonment at the castle, and,
becoming confirmed in the supposition, that it was his voice she had
heard there, she looked back to that gloomy abode with emotions of grief
and momentary regret.

Refreshed by the cool and fragrant air, 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 sun
had set, watching the valley sinking into obscurity, till only the
grand outline of the surrounding mountains, shadowed upon the horizon,
remained visible. But a clear moon-light, that succeeded, gave to the
landscape, what time gives to the scenes of past life, when it softens
all their harsher features, and throws over the whole the mellowing
shade of distant contemplation. The scenes of La Vallee, in the early
morn of her life, when she was protected and beloved by parents equally
loved, appeared in Emily's memory tenderly beautiful, like the prospect
before her, and awakened mournful comparisons. Unwilling to encounter
the coarse behaviour of the peasant's wife, she remained supperless in
her room, while she wept again over her forlorn and perilous situation,
a review of which entirely overcame the small remains of her fortitude,
and, reducing her to temporary despondence, she wished to be released
from the heavy load of life, that had so long oppressed her, and prayed
to Heaven to take her, in its mercy, to her parents.

Wearied with weeping, she, at length, lay down on her mattress, and sunk
to sleep, but was soon awakened by a knocking at her chamber door,
and, starting up in terror, she heard a voice calling her. The image of
Bertrand, with a stilletto in his hand, appeared to her alarmed fancy,
and she neither opened the door, or answered, but listened in profound
silence, till, the voice repeating her name in the same low tone, she
demanded who called. 'It is I, Signora,' replied the voice, which she
now distinguished to be Maddelina's, 'pray open the door. Don't be
frightened, it is I.'

'And what brings you here so late, Maddelina?' said Emily, as she let
her in.

'Hush! signora, for heaven's sake hush!--if we are overheard I shall
never be forgiven. My father and mother and Bertrand are all gone
to bed,' continued Maddelina, as she gently shut the door, and crept
forward, 'and I have brought you some supper, for you had none, you
know, Signora, below stairs. Here are some grapes and figs and half a
cup of wine.' Emily thanked her, but expressed apprehension lest
this kindness should draw upon her the resentment of Dorina, when she
perceived the fruit was gone. 'Take it back, therefore, Maddelina,'
added Emily, 'I shall suffer much less from the want of it, than
I should do, if this act of good-nature was to subject you to your
mother's displeasure.'

'O Signora! there is no danger of that,' replied Maddelina, 'my mother
cannot miss the fruit, for I saved it from my own supper. You will make
me very unhappy, if you refuse to take it, Signora.' Emily was so
much affected by this instance of the good girl's generosity, that she
remained for some time unable to reply, and Maddelina watched her in
silence, till, mistaking the cause of her emotion, she said, 'Do not
weep so, Signora! My mother, to be sure, is a little cross, sometimes,
but then it is soon over,--so don't take it so much to heart. She often
scolds me, too, but then I have learned to bear it, and, when she has
done, if I can but steal out into the woods, and play upon my sticcado,
I forget it all directly.'

Emily, smiling through her tears, told Maddelina, that she was a good
girl, and then accepted her offering. She wished anxiously to know,
whether Bertrand and Dorina had spoken of Montoni, or of his designs,
concerning herself, in the presence of Maddelina, but disdained to tempt
the innocent girl to a conduct so mean, as that of betraying the private
conversations of her parents. When she was departing, Emily requested,
that she would come to her room as often as she dared, without offending
her mother, and Maddelina, after promising that she would do so, stole
softly back again to her own chamber.

Thus several days passed, during which Emily remained in her own room,
Maddelina attending her only at her repast, whose gentle countenance and
manners soothed her more than any circumstance she had known for many
months. Of her pleasant embowered chamber she now became fond, and
began to experience in it those feelings of security, which we naturally
attach to home. In this interval also, her mind, having been undisturbed
by any new circumstance of disgust, or alarm, recovered its tone
sufficiently to permit her the enjoyment of her books, among which she
found some unfinished sketches of landscapes, several blank sheets of
paper, with her drawing instruments, and she was thus enabled to amuse
herself with selecting some of the lovely features of the prospect,
that her window commanded, and combining them in scenes, to which her
tasteful fancy gave a last grace. In these little sketches she generally
placed interesting groups, characteristic of the scenery they animated,
and often contrived to tell, with perspicuity, some simple and affecting
story, when, as a tear fell over the pictured griefs, which her
imagination drew, she would forget, for a moment, her real sufferings.
Thus innocently she beguiled the heavy hours of misfortune, and, with
meek patience, awaited the events of futurity.

A beautiful evening, that had succeeded to a sultry day, at length
induced Emily to walk, though she knew that Bertrand must attend her,
and, with Maddelina for her companion, she left the cottage, followed by
Bertrand, who allowed her to choose her own way. The hour was cool and
silent, and she could not look upon the country around her, without
delight. How lovely, too, appeared the brilliant blue, that coloured all
the upper region of the air, and, thence fading downward, was lost in
the saffron glow of the horizon! Nor less so were the varied shades and
warm colouring of the Apennines, as the evening sun threw his slanting
rays athwart their broken surface. Emily followed the course of the
stream, under the shades, that overhung its grassy margin. On the
opposite banks, the pastures were animated with herds of cattle of a
beautiful cream-colour; and, beyond, were groves of lemon and orange,
with fruit glowing on the branches, frequent almost as the leaves,
which partly concealed it. She pursued her way towards the sea, which
reflected the warm glow of 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 shattered battlements and the extended wings of some sea-fowl,
that circled near it, were still illumined by the upward beams of the
sun, though his disk was now sunk beneath the horizon; while the lower
part of the ruin, the cliff on which it stood and the waves at its foot,
were shaded with the first tints of twilight.

Having reached this headland, Emily gazed with solemn pleasure on the
cliffs, that extended on either hand along the sequestered shores,
some crowned with groves of pine, and others exhibiting only barren
precipices of grayish marble, except where the crags were tufted with
myrtle and other aromatic shrubs. The sea slept in a perfect calm;
its waves, dying in murmurs on the shores, flowed with the gentlest
undulation, while its clear surface reflected in softened beauty the
vermeil tints of the west. Emily, as she looked upon the ocean, thought
of France and of past times, and she wished, Oh! how ardently, and
vainly--wished! that its waves would bear her to her distant, native
home!

'Ah! that vessel,' said she, 'that vessel, which glides along so
stately, with its tall sails reflected in the water is, perhaps, bound
for France! Happy--happy bark!' She continued to gaze upon it, with warm
emotion, till the gray of twilight obscured the distance, and veiled it
from her view. The melancholy sound of the waves at her feet assisted
the tenderness, that occasioned her tears, and this was the only sound,
that broke upon the hour, till, having followed the windings of the
beach, for some time, a chorus of voices passed her on the air. She
paused a moment, wishing to hear more, yet fearing to be seen, and,
for the first time, looked back to Bertrand, as her protector, who
was following, at a short distance, in company with some other person.
Reassured by this circumstance, she advanced towards the sounds, which
seemed to arise from behind a high promontory, that projected athwart
the beach. There was now a sudden pause in the music, and then one
female voice was heard to sing in a kind of chant. Emily quickened
her steps, and, winding round the rock, saw, within the sweeping bay,
beyond, which was hung with woods from the borders of the beach to the
very summit of the cliffs, two groups of peasants, one seated beneath
the shades, and the other standing on the edge of the sea, round the
girl, who was singing, and who held in her hand a chaplet of flowers,
which she seemed about to drop into the waves.

Emily, listening with surprise and attention, distinguished the
following invocation delivered in the pure and elegant tongue of
Tuscany, and accompanied by a few pastoral instruments.

  TO A SEA-NYMPH

 O nymph! who loves to float on the green wave,
 When Neptune sleeps beneath the moon-light hour,
 Lull'd by the music's melancholy pow'r,
 O nymph, arise from out thy pearly cave!

 For Hesper beams amid the twilight shade,
 And soon shall Cynthia tremble o'er the tide,
 Gleam on these cliffs, that bound the ocean's pride,
 And lonely silence all the air pervade.

 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 sudden magic of thy shell.

 While the long coast in echo sweet replies,
 Thy soothing strains the pensive heart beguile,
 And bid the visions of the future smile,
 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?'

'O, Signora,' rejoined Maddelina, mistaking the reason of Emily's
surprise, 'nobody BELIEVES in such things, but our old songs tell of
them, and, when we are at our sports, we sometimes sing to them, and
throw garlands into the sea.'

Emily had been early taught to venerate Florence as the seat of
literature and of the fine arts; but, that its taste for classic story
should descend to the peasants of the country, occasioned her both
surprise and admiration. The Arcadian air of the girls next attracted
her attention. Their dress was a very short full petticoat of light
green, with a boddice of white silk; the sleeves loose, and tied up at
the shoulders with ribbons and bunches of flowers. Their hair, falling
in ringlets on their necks, was also ornamented with flowers, and with a
small straw hat, which, set rather backward and on one side of the head,
gave an expression of gaiety and smartness to the whole figure. When
the song had concluded, several of these girls approached Emily, and,
inviting her to sit down among them, offered her, and Maddelina, whom
they knew, grapes and figs.

Emily accepted their courtesy, much pleased with the gentleness and
grace of their manners, which appeared to be perfectly natural to them;
and when Bertrand, soon after, approached, and was hastily drawing her
away, a peasant, holding up a flask, invited him to drink; a temptation,
which Bertrand was seldom very valiant in resisting.

'Let the young lady join in the dance, my friend,' said the peasant,
'while we empty this flask. They are going to begin directly. Strike up!
my lads, strike up your tambourines and merry flutes!'

They sounded gaily; and the younger peasants formed themselves into a
circle, which Emily would readily have joined, had her spirits been in
unison with their mirth. Maddelina, however, tripped it lightly,
and Emily, as she looked on the happy group, lost the sense of her
misfortunes in that of a benevolent pleasure. But the pensive melancholy
of her mind returned, as she sat rather apart from the company,
listening to the mellow music, which the breeze softened as it bore it
away, and watching the moon, stealing its tremulous light over the waves
and on the woody summits of the cliffs, that wound along these Tuscan
shores.

Meanwhile, Bertrand was so well pleased with his first flask, that he
very willingly commenced the attack on a second, and it was late before
Emily, not without some apprehension, returned to the cottage.

After this evening, she frequently walked with Maddelina, but was never
unattended by Bertrand; and her mind became by degrees as tranquil as
the circumstances of her situation would permit. The quiet, in which
she was suffered to live, encouraged her to hope, that she was not sent
hither with an evil design; and, had it not appeared probable, that
Valancourt was at this time an inhabitant of Udolpho, she would have
wished to remain at the cottage, till an opportunity should offer of
returning to her native country. But, concerning Montoni's motive for
sending her into Tuscany, she was more than ever perplexed, nor could
she believe that any consideration for her safety had influenced him on
this occasion.

She had been some time at the cottage, before she recollected, that, in
the hurry of leaving Udolpho, she had forgotten the papers committed
to her by her late aunt, relative to the Languedoc estates; but, though
this remembrance occasioned her much uneasiness, she had some hope,
that, in the obscure place, where they were deposited, they would escape
the detection of Montoni.



CHAPTER 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 suffering
under an accumulation of misfortunes. Soon after his arrival in that
city, he had been arrested by order of the Senate, and, without knowing
of what he was suspected, was conveyed to a place of confinement,
whither the most strenuous enquiries of his friends had been unable to
trace him. Who the enemy was, that had occasioned him this calamity, he
had not been able to guess, unless, indeed, it was Montoni, on whom his
suspicions rested, and not only with much apparent probability, but with
justice.

In the affair of the poisoned cup, Montoni had suspected Morano; but,
being unable to obtain the degree of proof, which was necessary to
convict him of a guilty intention, he had recourse to means of other
revenge, than he could hope to obtain by prosecution. He employed
a person, in whom he believed he might confide, to drop a letter of
accusation into the DENUNZIE SECRETE, or lions' mouths, which are
fixed in a gallery of the Doge's palace, as receptacles for anonymous
information, concerning persons, who may be disaffected towards the
state. As, on these occasions, the accuser is not confronted with the
accused, a man may falsely impeach his enemy, and accomplish an unjust
revenge, without fear of punishment, or detection. That Montoni should
have recourse to these diabolical means of ruining a person, whom he
suspected of having attempted his life, is not in the least surprising.
In the letter, which he had employed as the instrument of his revenge,
he accused Morano of designs against the state, which he attempted to
prove, with all the plausible simplicity of which he was master; and
the Senate, with whom a suspicion was, at that time, almost equal to
a proof, arrested the Count, in consequence of this accusation; and,
without even hinting to him his crime, threw him into one of those
secret prisons, which were the terror of the Venetians, and in which
persons often languished, and sometimes died, without being discovered
by their friends.

Morano had incurred the personal resentment of many members of the
state; his habits of life had rendered him obnoxious to some; and his
ambition, and the bold rivalship, which he discovered, on several public
occasions,--to others; and it was not to be expected, that mercy would
soften the rigour of a law, which was to be dispensed from the hands of
his enemies.

Montoni, meantime, was beset by dangers of another kind. His castle
was besieged 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 dispatched Ugo into Tuscany for Emily, whom he had sent from
considerations of her personal safety, to a place of greater security,
than a castle, which was, at that time, liable to be overrun by his
enemies. Tranquillity being once more restored to Udolpho, he was
impatient to secure her again under his roof, and had commissioned Ugo
to assist Bertrand in guarding her back to the castle. Thus compelled to
return, Emily bade the kind Maddelina farewell, with regret, and,
after about a fortnight's stay in Tuscany, where she had experienced
an interval of quiet, which was absolutely necessary to sustain her
long-harassed spirits, began once more to ascend the Apennines, from
whose heights she gave a long and sorrowful look to the beautiful
country, that extended at their feet, and to the distant Mediterranean,
whose waves she had so often wished would bear her back to France.
The distress she felt, on her return towards the place of her former
sufferings, was, however, softened by a conjecture, that Valancourt was
there, and she found some degree of comfort in the thought of being near
him, notwithstanding the consideration, that he was probably a prisoner.

It was noon, when she had left the cottage, and the evening was closed,
long before she came within the neighbourhood of Udolpho. There was a
moon, but it shone only at intervals, for the night was cloudy, and,
lighted by the torch, which Ugo carried, the travellers paced silently
along, Emily musing on her situation, and Bertrand and Ugo anticipating
the comforts of a flask of wine and a good fire, for they had perceived
for some time the difference between the warm climate of the lowlands
of Tuscany and the nipping air of these upper regions. Emily was, at
length, roused from her reverie by the far-off sound of the castle
clock, to which she listened not without some degree of awe, as it
rolled away on the breeze. Another and another note succeeded, and died
in sullen murmur among the mountains:--to her mournful imagination it
seemed a knell measuring out some fateful period for her.

'Aye, there is the old clock,' said Bertrand, 'there he is still; the
cannon have not silenced 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 hottest fire I have seen this
many a day! I said that some of them would have a hit at the old fellow,
but he escaped, and the tower too.'

The road winding round the base of a mountain, they now came within view
of the castle, which was shewn in the perspective 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 massy and
gloomy walls gave her terrible ideas of imprisonment and suffering:
yet, as she advanced, some degree of hope mingled with her terror; for,
though this was certainly the residence of Montoni, it was possibly,
also, that of Valancourt, and she could not approach a place, where he
might be, without experiencing somewhat of the joy of hope.

They continued to wind along the valley, and, soon after, she saw again
the old walls and moon-lit towers, rising over the woods: the strong
rays enabled her, also, to perceive the ravages, which the siege had
made,--with the broken walls, and shattered battlements, for they were
now at the foot of the steep, on which Udolpho stood. Massy fragments
had rolled down among the woods, through which the travellers now began
to ascend, and there mingled with the loose earth, and pieces of rock
they had brought with them. The woods, too, had suffered much from the
batteries above, for here the enemy had endeavoured to screen themselves
from the fire of the ramparts. Many noble trees were levelled with the
ground, and others, to a wide extent, were entirely stripped of their
upper branches. 'We had better dismount,' said Ugo, 'and lead the mules
up the hill, or we shall get into some of the holes, which the balls
have left. Here are plenty of them. Give me the torch,' continued Ugo,
after they had dismounted, 'and take care you don't stumble over 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, '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 breastplate on the ground, which Bertrand raised, and
they saw, that it was pierced through, and that the lining was entirely
covered with blood; but upon Emily's earnest entreaties, that they would
proceed, Bertrand, uttering some joke upon the unfortunate person, to
whom it had belonged, threw it hard upon the ground, and they passed on.

At every step she took, Emily feared to see some vestige of death.
Coming soon after to an opening in the woods, Bertrand stopped to survey
the ground, which was encumbered with massy trunks and branches of the
trees, that had so lately adorned it, and seemed to have been a spot
particularly fatal to the besiegers; for it was evident from the
destruction of the trees, that here the hottest fire of the garrison
had been directed. As Ugo held again forth the torch, steel glittered
between the fallen trees; the ground beneath was covered with broken
arms, and with the torn vestments of soldiers, whose mangled forms
Emily almost expected to see; and she again entreated her companions to
proceed, who were, however, too intent in their examination, to regard
her, and she turned her eyes from this desolated scene to the castle
above, where she observed lights gliding along the ramparts. Presently,
the castle clock struck twelve, and then a trumpet sounded, of which
Emily enquired the occasion.

'O! they are only changing watch,' replied Ugo. 'I do not remember
this trumpet,' said Emily, 'it is a new custom.' 'It is only an old one
revived, lady; we always use it in time of war. We have sounded it, at
midnight, ever since the place was besieged.'

'Hark!' said Emily, as the trumpet sounded again; and, in the next
moment, she heard a faint clash of arms, and then the watchword passed
along the terrace above, and was answered from a distant part of the
castle; after which all was again still. She complained of cold, and
begged to go on. 'Presently, lady,' said Bertrand, turning over some
broken arms with the pike he usually carried. 'What have we here?'

'Hark!' cried Emily, 'what noise was that?'

'What noise was it?' said Ugo, starting up and listening.

'Hush!' repeated Emily. 'It surely came from the ramparts above:' and,
on looking up, they perceived a light moving along the walls, while,
in the next instant, the breeze swelling, the voice sounded louder than
before.

'Who goes yonder?' cried a sentinel of the castle. 'Speak or it will be
worse for you.' Bertrand uttered a shout of joy. 'Hah! my brave comrade,
is it you?' said he, and he blew a shrill whistle, which signal was
answered by another from the soldier on watch; and the party, then
passing forward, soon after emerged from the woods upon the broken road,
that led immediately to the castle gates, and Emily saw, with renewed
terror, the whole of that stupendous structure. 'Alas!' said she to
herself, 'I am going again into my prison!'

'Here has been warm work, by St. Marco!' cried Bertrand, waving a
torch over the ground; 'the balls have torn up the earth here with a
vengeance.'

'Aye,' replied Ugo, 'they were fired from that redoubt, yonder, and
rare execution they did. The enemy made a furious attack upon the great
gates; but they might have guessed they could never carry it there; for,
besides the cannon from the walls, our archers, on the two round towers,
showered down upon them at such a rate, that, by holy Peter! there was
no standing it. I never saw a better sight in my life; I laughed,
till my sides aked, to see how the knaves scampered. Bertrand, my good
fellow, thou shouldst have been among them; I warrant thou wouldst have
won the race!'

'Hah! you are at your old tricks again,' said Bertrand in a surly tone.
'It is well for thee thou art so near the castle; thou knowest I have
killed my man before now.' Ugo replied only by a laugh, and then gave
some further account of the siege, to which as Emily listened, she was
struck by the strong contrast of the present scene with that which had
so lately been acted here.

The mingled uproar of cannon, drums, and trumpets, the groans of the
conquered, and the shouts of the conquerors were now sunk into a silence
so profound, that it seemed as if death had triumphed alike over the
vanquished and the victor. The shattered condition of one of the towers
of the great gates by no means confirmed the 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 battlements were nearly
demolished. While she gazed, a light glimmered through one of the lower
loop-holes, and disappeared; but, in the next moment, she perceived
through the broken wall, a soldier, with a lamp, ascending the narrow
staircase, that wound within the tower, and, remembering that it was the
same she had passed up, on the night, when Barnardine had deluded her
with a promise of seeing Madame Montoni, fancy gave her somewhat of
the terror she had then suffered. She was now very near the gates, over
which the soldier having opened the door of the portal-chamber, the lamp
he carried gave her a dusky view of that terrible apartment, and she
almost sunk under the recollected horrors of the moment, when she had
drawn aside the curtain, and discovered the object it was meant to
conceal.

'Perhaps,' said she to herself, 'it is now used for a similar purpose;
perhaps, that soldier goes, at this dead hour, to watch over the corpse
of his friend!' The little remains of her fortitude now gave way to the
united force of remembered and anticipated horrors, for the melancholy
fate of Madame Montoni appeared to foretell her own. She considered,
that, though the Languedoc estates, if she relinquished them, would
satisfy Montoni's avarice, they might not appease his vengeance, which
was seldom pacified but by a terrible sacrifice; and she even thought,
that, were she to resign them, the fear of justice might urge him either
to detain her a prisoner, or to take away her life.

They were now arrived at the gates, where Bertrand, observing the light
glimmer through a small casement of the portal-chamber, called aloud;
and the soldier, looking out, demanded who was there. 'Here, I have
brought you a prisoner,' said Ugo, 'open the gate, and let us in.'

'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 comrade, is it you?' said the soldier--'I'll be with
you directly.'

Emily presently heard his steps descending the stairs within, and then
the heavy chain fall, and the bolts undraw of a small postern door,
which he opened to admit the party. He held the lamp low, to 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
despair; while the dead hour of the night, the gothic gloom of the
surrounding buildings, and the hollow and imperfect echoes, which
they returned, as Ugo and the soldier conversed together, assisted to
increase the melancholy forebodings of her heart. Passing on to the
second court, a distant sound broke feebly on the silence, and gradually
swelling louder, as they advanced, Emily distinguished voices of revelry
and laughter, but they were to her far other than sounds of joy. 'Why,
you have got some Tuscany wine among you, HERE,' said Bertrand, 'if one
may judge by the uproar that is going forward. Ugo has taken a larger
share of that than of fighting, I'll be sworn. Who is carousing at this
late hour?'

'His excellenza and the Signors,' replied the soldier: 'it is a sign you
are a stranger at the castle, or you would not need to ask the question.
They are brave spirits, that do without sleep--they generally pass the
night in good cheer; would that we, who keep the watch, had a little of
it! It is cold work, pacing the ramparts so many hours of the night, if
one has no good liquor to warm one's heart.'

'Courage, my lad, courage ought to warm your heart,' said Ugo.
'Courage!' replied the soldier sharply, with a menacing air, which Ugo
perceiving, prevented his saying more, by returning to the subject of
the carousal. 'This is a new custom,' said he; 'when I left the castle,
the Signors used to sit up counselling.'

'Aye, and for that matter, carousing too,' replied the soldier, 'but,
since the siege, they have done nothing but make merry: and if I was
they, I would settle accounts with myself, for all my hard fighting, the
same way.'

They had now crossed the second court, and reached the hall door, when
the soldier, bidding them good night, hastened back to his post; and,
while they waited for admittance, Emily considered how she might avoid
seeing Montoni, and retire unnoticed to her former apartment, for she
shrunk from the thought of encountering either him, or any of his party,
at this hour. The uproar within the castle was now so loud, that, though
Ugo knocked repeatedly at the hall door, he was not heard by any of
the servants, a circumstance, which increased Emily's alarm, while it
allowed her time to deliberate on the means of retiring unobserved; for,
though she might, perhaps, pass up the great stair-case unseen, it was
impossible she could find the way to her chamber, without a light, the
difficulty of procuring which, and the danger of wandering about the
castle, without one, immediately struck her. Bertrand had only a torch,
and she knew, that the servants never brought a taper to the door, for
the hall was sufficiently lighted by the large tripod lamp, which hung
in the vaulted roof; and, while she should wait till Annette could bring
a taper, Montoni, or some of his companions, might discover her.

The door was now opened by Carlo; and Emily, having requested him to
send Annette immediately with a light to the great gallery, where
she determined to await her, passed on with hasty steps towards the
stair-case; while Bertrand and Ugo, with the torch, followed old Carlo
to the servants' hall, impatient for supper and the warm blaze of a wood
fire. Emily, lighted only by the feeble rays, which the lamp above threw
between the arches of this extensive hall, endeavoured to find her way
to the stair-case, now hid in obscurity; while the shouts of merriment,
that burst from a remote apartment, served, by heightening her terror,
to increase her perplexity, and she expected, every instant, to see
the door of that room open, and Montoni and his companions issue forth.
Having, at length, reached the stair-case, and found her way to the top,
she seated herself on the last stair, to await the arrival of Annette;
for the profound darkness of the gallery deterred her from proceeding
farther, and, while she listened for her footstep, she heard only
distant sounds of revelry, which rose in sullen echoes from among the
arcades below. Once she thought she heard a low sound from the dark
gallery behind her; and, turning her eyes, fancied she saw something
luminous move in it; and, since she could not, at this moment, subdue
the weakness that caused her fears, she quitted her seat, and crept
softly down a few stairs lower.

Annette not yet appearing, Emily now concluded, that she was gone
to bed, and that nobody chose to call her up; and the prospect, that
presented itself, of passing the night in darkness, in this place, or
in some other equally forlorn (for she knew it would be impracticable to
find her way through the intricacies of the galleries to her chamber),
drew tears of mingled terror and despondency from her eyes.

While thus she sat, she fancied she heard again an odd sound from
the gallery, and she listened, scarcely daring to breathe, but the
increasing voices below overcame every other sound. Soon after, she
heard Montoni and his companions burst into the hall, who spoke, as
if they were much intoxicated, and seemed to be advancing towards the
stair-case. She now remembered, that they must come this way to their
chambers, and, forgetting all the terrors of the gallery, hurried
towards it with an intention of secreting herself in some of the
passages, that opened beyond, and of endeavouring, when the Signors were
retired, to find her way to her own room, or to that of Annette, which
was in a remote part of the castle.

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 stair-case, and then pausing for a moment to listen, half fearful
of going further into the darkness of the gallery, where she still
imagined, from the noise she had heard, that some person was lurking,
'They are already informed of my arrival,' said she, 'and Montoni is
coming himself to seek me! In the present state of his mind, his purpose
must be desperate.' Then, recollecting the scene, that had passed in
the corridor, on the night preceding her departure from the castle, 'O
Valancourt!' said she, 'I must then resign you for ever. To brave any
longer the injustice of Montoni, would not be fortitude, but rashness.'
Still the voices below did not draw nearer, but they became louder, and
she distinguished those of Verezzi and Bertolini above the rest, while
the few words she caught made her listen more anxiously for others. The
conversation seemed to concern herself; and, having ventured to step
a few paces nearer to the stair-case, she discovered, that they were
disputing about her, each seeming to claim some former promise of
Montoni, who appeared, at first, inclined to appease and to persuade
them to return to their wine, but afterwards to be weary of the dispute,
and, saying that he left them to settle it as they could, was returning
with the rest of the party to the apartment he had just quitted.
Verezzi then stopped him. 'Where is she? Signor,' said he, in a voice of
impatience: 'tell us where she is.' 'I have already told you that I
do not know,' replied Montoni, who seemed to be somewhat overcome with
wine; 'but she is most probably gone to her apartment.' Verezzi
and Bertolini now desisted from their enquiries, and sprang to the
stair-case together, while Emily, who, during this discourse, had
trembled so excessively, that she had with difficulty supported herself,
seemed inspired with new strength, the moment she heard the sound
of their steps, and ran along the gallery, dark as it was, with the
fleetness of a fawn. But, long before she reached its extremity, the
light, which Verezzi carried, flashed upon the walls; both appeared,
and, instantly perceiving Emily, pursued her. At this moment, Bertolini,
whose steps, though swift, were not steady, and whose impatience
overcame what little caution he had hitherto used, stumbled, and fell
at his length. The lamp fell with him, and was presently expiring on the
floor; but Verezzi, regardless of saving it, seized the advantage this
accident gave him over his rival, and followed Emily, to whom, however,
the light had shown one of the passages that branched from the gallery,
and she instantly turned into it. Verezzi could just discern the way she
had taken, and this he pursued; but the sound of her steps soon sunk
in distance, while he, less acquainted with the passage, was obliged
to proceed through the dark, with caution, lest he should fall down
a flight of steps, such as in this extensive old castle frequently
terminated an avenue. This passage at length brought Emily to the
corridor, into which her own chamber opened, and, not hearing any
footstep, she paused to take breath, and consider what was the safest
design to be adopted. She had followed this passage, merely because it
was the first that appeared, and now that she had reached the end of it,
was as perplexed as before. Whither to go, or how further to find her
way in the dark, she knew not; she was aware only that she must not seek
her apartment, for there she would certainly be sought, and her danger
increased every instant, while she remained near it. Her spirits and her
breath, however, were so much exhausted, that she was compelled to rest,
for a few minutes, at the end of the passage, and still she heard no
steps approaching. As thus she stood, light glimmered under an opposite
door of the gallery, and, from its situation, she knew, that it was
the door of that mysterious chamber, where she had made a discovery so
shocking, that she never remembered it but with the utmost horror. That
there should be light in this chamber, and at this hour, excited her
strong surprise, and she felt a momentary terror concerning it, which
did not permit her to look again, for her spirits were now in such a
state of weakness, that she almost expected to see the door slowly open,
and some horrible object appear at it. Still she listened for a
step along the passage, and looked up it, where, not a ray of light
appearing, she concluded, that Verezzi had gone back for the lamp; and,
believing that he would shortly be there, she again considered which way
she should go, or rather which way she could find in the dark.

A faint ray still glimmered under the opposite door, but so great, and,
perhaps, so just was her horror of that chamber, that she would not
again have tempted its secrets, though she had been certain of obtaining
the light so important to her safety. She was still breathing with
difficulty, and resting at the end of the passage, when she heard a
rustling sound, and then a low voice, so very near her, that it seemed
close to her ear; but she had presence of mind to check her emotions,
and to remain quite still; in the next moment, she perceived it to be
the voice of Verezzi, who did not appear to know, that she was there,
but to have spoken to himself. 'The air is fresher here,' said he: 'this
should be the corridor.' Perhaps, he was one of those heroes, whose
courage can defy an enemy better than darkness, and he tried to rally
his spirits with the sound of his own voice. However this might be,
he turned to the right, and proceeded, with the same stealing steps,
towards Emily's apartment, apparently forgetting, that, in darkness,
she could easily elude his search, even in her chamber; and, like an
intoxicated person, he followed pertinaciously the one idea, that had
possessed his imagination.

The moment she heard his steps steal away, she left her station and
moved softly to the other end of the corridor, determined to trust
again to chance, and to quit it by the first avenue she could find; but,
before she could effect this, light broke upon the walls of the gallery,
and, looking back, she saw Verezzi crossing it towards her chamber.
She now glided into a passage, that opened on the left, without, as
she thought, being perceived; but, in the next instant, another light,
glimmering at the further end of this passage, threw her into new
terror. While she stopped and hesitated which way to go, the pause
allowed her to perceive, that it was Annette, who advanced, and
she hurried to meet her: but her imprudence again alarmed Emily,
on perceiving whom, she burst into a scream of joy, and it was some
minutes, before she could be prevailed with to be silent, or to release
her mistress from the ardent clasp, in which she held her. When, at
length, Emily made Annette comprehend her danger, they hurried
towards Annette's room, which was in a distant part of the castle.
No apprehensions, however, could yet silence the latter. 'Oh dear
ma'amselle,' said she, as they passed along, 'what a terrified time have
I had of it! Oh! I thought I should have died an hundred times! I never
thought I should live to see you again! and I never was so glad to see
any body in my whole life, as I am to see you now.' 'Hark!' cried Emily,
'we are pursued; that was the echo of steps!' 'No, ma'amselle,' said
Annette, 'it was only the echo of a door shutting; sound runs along
these vaulted passages so, that one is continually deceived by it; if
one does but speak, or cough, it makes a noise as loud as a cannon.'
'Then there is the greater necessity for us to be silent,' said Emily:
'pr'ythee say no more, till we reach your chamber.' Here, at length,
they arrived, without interruption, and, Annette having fastened the
door, Emily sat down on her little bed, to recover breath and composure.
To her enquiry, whether Valancourt was among the prisoners in the
castle, Annette replied, that she had not been able to hear, but that
she knew there were several persons confined. She then proceeded, in her
tedious way, to give an account of the siege, or rather a detail of her
terrors and various sufferings, during the attack. 'But,' added she,
'when I heard the shouts of victory from the ramparts, I thought we were
all taken, and gave myself up for lost, instead of which, WE had driven
the enemy away. I went then to the north gallery, and saw a great many
of them scampering away among the mountains; but the rampart walls were
all in ruins, as one may say, and there was a dismal sight to see down
among the woods below, where the poor fellows were lying in heaps, but
were carried off presently by their comrades. While the siege was going
on, the Signor was here, and there, and 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, 'and how have affairs gone on, since the
siege?'

'O! sad hurly burly doings, ma'amselle,' replied Annette; 'the Signors
have done nothing but sit and drink and game, ever since. They sit up,
all night, and play among themselves, for all those riches and fine
things, they brought in, some time since, when they used to go out
a-robbing, or as good, for days together; and then they have dreadful
quarrels about who loses, and who wins. That fierce Signor Verezzi is
always losing, as they tell me, and Signor Orsino wins from him, and
this makes him very wroth, and they have had several hard set-to's about
it. Then, all those fine ladies are at the castle still; and I declare I
am frighted, whenever I meet any of them in the passages.'--

'Surely, Annette,' said Emily starting, 'I heard a noise: listen.' After
a long pause, 'No, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'it was only the wind in
the gallery; I often hear it, when it shakes the old doors, at the other
end. But won't you go to bed, ma'amselle? you surely will not sit up
starving, all night.' Emily now laid herself down on the mattress, and
desired Annette to leave the lamp burning on the hearth; having done
which, the latter placed herself beside Emily, who, however, was not
suffered to sleep, for she again thought she heard a noise from the
passage; and Annette was again trying to convince her, that it was only
the wind, when footsteps were distinctly heard near the door. Annette
was now starting from the bed, but Emily prevailed with her to remain
there, and listened with her in a state of terrible expectation. The
steps still loitered at the door, when presently an attempt was made on
the lock, and, in the next instant, a voice called. 'For heaven's sake,
Annette, do not answer,' said Emily softly, 'remain quite still; but I
fear we must extinguish the lamp, or its glare will betray us.' 'Holy
Virgin!' exclaimed Annette, forgetting her discretion, 'I would not be
in darkness now for the whole world.' While she spoke, the voice became
louder than before, and repeated Annette's name; 'Blessed Virgin!' cried
she suddenly, 'it is only Ludovico.' She rose to open the door, but
Emily prevented her, till they should be more certain, that it was he
alone; with whom Annette, at length, talked for some time, and learned,
that he was come to enquire after herself, whom he had let out of her
room to go to Emily, and that he was now returned to lock her in again.
Emily, fearful of being overheard, if they conversed any longer through
the door, consented that it should be opened, and a young man appeared,
whose open countenance confirmed the favourable opinion of him, which
his care of Annette had already prompted her to form. She entreated his
protection, should Verezzi make this requisite; and Ludovico offered
to pass the night in an old chamber, adjoining, that opened from the
gallery, and, on the first alarm, to come to their defence.

Emily was much soothed by this proposal; and Ludovico, having lighted
his lamp, went to his station, while she, once more, endeavoured to
repose on her mattress. But a variety of interests pressed upon her
attention, and prevented sleep. She thought much on what Annette had
told her of the dissolute manners of Montoni and his associates, and
more of his present conduct towards herself, and of the danger, from
which she had just escaped. From the view of her present situation she
shrunk, as from a new picture of terror. She saw herself in a castle,
inhabited by vice and violence, seated beyond the reach of law or
justice, and in the power of a man, whose perseverance was equal to
every occasion, and in whom passions, of which revenge was not the
weakest, entirely supplied the place of principles. She was compelled,
once more, to acknowledge, that it would be folly, and not fortitude,
any longer to dare his power; and, resigning all hopes of future
happiness with Valancourt, she determined, that, on the following
morning, she would compromise with Montoni, and give up her estates,
on condition, that he would permit her immediate return to France. Such
considerations kept her waking for many hours; but, the night passed,
without further alarm from Verezzi.

On the next morning, Emily had a long conversation with Ludovico, in
which she heard circumstances concerning the castle, and received hints
of the designs of Montoni, that considerably increased her alarms. On
expressing her surprise, that Ludovico, who seemed to be so sensible of
the evils of his situation, should continue in it, he informed her, that
it was not his intention to do so, and she then ventured to ask him, if
he would assist her to escape from the castle. Ludovico assured her of
his readiness to attempt this, but strongly represented the difficulty
of the enterprise, and the certain destruction which must ensue,
should Montoni overtake them, before they had passed the mountains;
he, however, promised to be watchful of every circumstance, that might
contribute to the success of the attempt, and to think upon some plan of
departure.

Emily now confided to him the name of Valancourt, and begged he would
enquire for such a person among the prisoners in the castle; for the
faint hope, which this conversation awakened, made her now recede from
her resolution of an immediate compromise with Montoni. She determined,
if possible, to delay this, till she heard further from Ludovico, and,
if his designs were found to be impracticable, to resign the estates
at once. Her thoughts were on this subject, when Montoni, who was now
recovered from the intoxication of the preceding night, sent for her,
and she immediately obeyed the summons. He was alone. 'I find,' said he,
'that you were not in your chamber, last night; where were you?' Emily
related to him some circumstances of her alarm, and entreated his
protection from a repetition of them. 'You know the terms of my
protection,' said he; 'if you really value this, you will secure it.'
His open declaration, that he would only conditionally protect her,
while she remained a prisoner in the castle, shewed Emily the necessity
of an immediate compliance with his terms; but she first demanded,
whether he would permit her immediately to depart, if she gave up her
claim to the contested estates. In a very solemn manner he then assured
her, that he would, and immediately laid before her a paper, which was
to transfer the right of those estates to himself.

She was, for a considerable time, unable to sign it, and her heart
was torn with contending interests, for she was about to resign the
happiness of all her future years--the hope, which had sustained her in
so many hours of adversity.

After hearing from Montoni a recapitulation of the conditions of her
compliance, and a remonstrance, that his time was valuable, she put her
hand to the paper; when she had done which, she fell back in her chair,
but soon recovered, and desired, that he would give orders for her
departure, and that he would allow Annette to accompany her. Montoni
smiled. 'It was necessary to deceive you,' said he,--'there was no other
way of making you act reasonably; you shall go, but it must not be at
present. I must first secure these estates by possession: when that is
done, you may return to France if you will.'

The deliberate villany, with which he violated the solemn engagement he
had just entered into, shocked Emily as much, as the certainty, that she
had made a fruitless sacrifice, and must still remain his prisoner. She
had no words to express what she felt, and knew, that it would have been
useless, if she had. As she looked piteously at Montoni, he turned away,
and at the same time desired she would withdraw to her apartment; but,
unable to leave the room, she sat down in a chair near the door, and
sighed heavily. She had neither words nor tears.

'Why will you indulge this childish grief?' said he. 'Endeavour to
strengthen your mind, to bear patiently what cannot now be avoided; you
have no real evil to lament; be patient, and you will be sent back to
France. At present retire to your apartment.'


'I dare not go, sir,' said she, 'where I shall be liable to the
intrusion of Signor Verezzi.' 'Have I not promised to protect you?'
said Montoni. 'You have promised, sir,'--replied Emily, after some
hesitation. 'And is not my promise sufficient?' added he sternly. 'You
will recollect your former promise, Signor,' said Emily, trembling,
'and may determine for me, whether I ought to rely upon this.' 'Will you
provoke me to declare to you, that I will not protect you then?' said
Montoni, in a tone of haughty displeasure. 'If that will satisfy you,
I will do it immediately. Withdraw to your chamber, before I retract my
promise; you have nothing to fear there.' Emily left the room, and moved
slowly into the hall, where the fear of meeting Verezzi, or Bertolini,
made her quicken her steps, though she could scarcely support herself;
and soon after she reached once more her own apartment. Having looked
fearfully round her, to examine if any person was there, and having
searched every part of it, she fastened the door, and sat down by one of
the casements. Here, while she looked out for some hope to support her
fainting spirits, which had been so long harassed and oppressed, that,
if she had not now struggled much against misfortune, they would have
left her, perhaps, for ever, she endeavoured to believe, that Montoni
did really intend to permit her return to France as soon as he had
secured her property, and that he would, in the mean time, protect her
from insult; but her chief hope rested with Ludovico, who, she doubted
not, would be zealous in her cause, though he seemed almost to despair
of success in it. One circumstance, however, she had to rejoice in. Her
prudence, or rather her fears, had saved her from mentioning the name
of Valancourt to Montoni, which she was several times on the point of
doing, before she signed the paper, and of stipulating for his release,
if he should be really a prisoner in the castle. Had she done this,
Montoni's jealous fears would now probably have loaded Valancourt
with new severities, and have suggested the advantage of holding him a
captive for life.

Thus passed the melancholy day, as she had before passed many in this
same chamber. When night drew on, she would have withdrawn herself to
Annette's bed, had not a particular interest inclined her to remain
in this chamber, in spite of her fears; for, when the castle should be
still, and the customary hour arrived, she determined to watch for the
music, which she had formerly heard. Though its sounds might not enable
her positively to determine, whether Valancourt was there, they would
perhaps strengthen her opinion that he was, and impart the comfort, so
necessary to her present support.--But, on the other hand, if all should
be silent--! She hardly dared to suffer her thoughts to glance that way,
but waited, with impatient expectation, the approaching hour.

The night was stormy; the battlements of the castle appeared to rock in
the wind, and, at intervals, long groans seemed to pass on the air,
such as those, which often deceive the melancholy mind, in tempests,
and amidst scenes of desolation. Emily heard, as formerly, the sentinels
pass along the terrace to their posts, and, looking out from her
casement, observed, that the watch was doubled; a precaution, which
appeared necessary enough, when she threw her eyes on the walls, and saw
their shattered condition. The well-known sounds of the soldiers' march,
and of their distant voices, which passed her in the wind, and were lost
again, recalled to her memory the melancholy sensation she had
suffered, when she formerly heard the same sounds; and occasioned almost
involuntary comparisons between her present, and her late situation.
But this was no subject for congratulations, and she wisely checked the
course of her thoughts, while, as the hour was not yet come, in which
she had been accustomed to hear the music, she closed the casement,
and endeavoured to await it in patience. The door of the stair-case she
tried to secure, as usual, with some of the furniture of the room; but
this expedient her fears now represented to her to be very inadequate to
the power and perseverance of Verezzi; and she often looked at a large
and heavy chest, that stood in the chamber, with wishes that she and
Annette had strength enough to move it. While she blamed the long
stay of this girl, who was still with Ludovico and some other of the
servants, she trimmed her wood fire, to make the room appear less
desolate, and sat down beside it with a book, which her eyes perused,
while her thoughts wandered to Valancourt, and her own misfortunes. As
she sat thus, she thought, in a pause of the wind, she distinguished
music, and went to the casement to listen, but the loud swell of the
gust overcame every other sound. When the wind sunk again, she heard
distinctly, in the deep pause that succeeded, the sweet strings of a
lute; but again the rising tempest bore away the notes, and again was
succeeded by a solemn pause. Emily, trembling with hope and fear, opened
her casement to listen, and to try whether her own voice could be
heard by the musician; for to endure any longer this state of torturing
suspense concerning Valancourt, seemed to be utterly impossible. There
was a kind of breathless stillness in the chambers, that permitted her
to distinguish from below the tender notes of the very lute she had
formerly heard, and with it, a plaintive voice, made sweeter by the low
rustling sound, that now began to creep along the wood-tops, till it
was lost in the rising wind. Their tall heads then began to wave, while,
through a forest of pine, on the left, the wind, groaning heavily,
rolled onward over the woods below, bending them almost to their roots;
and, as the long-resounding gale swept away, other woods, on the
right, seemed to answer the 'loud lament;' then, others, further still,
softened it into a murmur, that died into silence. Emily listened,
with mingled awe and expectation, hope and fear; and again the melting
sweetness of the lute was heard, and the same solemn-breathing voice.
Convinced that these came from an apartment underneath, she leaned far
out of her window, that she might discover whether any light was there;
but the casements below, as well as those above, were sunk so deep in
the thick walls of the castle, that she could not see them, or even the
faint ray, that probably glimmered through their bars. She then ventured
to call; but the wind bore her voice to the other end of the terrace,
and then the music was heard as before, in the pause of the gust.
Suddenly, she thought she heard a noise in her chamber, and she drew
herself within the casement; but, in a moment after, distinguishing
Annette's voice at the door, she concluded it was her she had heard
before, and she let her in. 'Move softly, Annette, to the casement,'
said she, 'and listen with me; the music is returned.' They were silent
till, the measure changing, Annette exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin! I know that
song well; it is a French song, one of the favourite songs of my dear
country.' This was the ballad Emily had heard on a former night, though
not the one she had first listened to from the fishing-house in Gascony.
'O! it is a Frenchman, that sings,' said Annette: 'it must be Monsieur
Valancourt.' 'Hark! Annette, do not speak so loud,' said Emily, 'we may
be overheard.' 'What! by the Chevalier?' said Annette. 'No,' replied
Emily mournfully, 'but by somebody, who may report us to the Signor.
What reason have you to think it is Monsieur Valancourt, who sings? But
hark! now the voice swells louder! Do you recollect those tones? I fear
to trust my own judgment.' 'I never happened to hear the Chevalier
sing, Mademoiselle,' replied Annette, who, as Emily was disappointed to
perceive, had no stronger reason for concluding this to be Valancourt,
than that the musician must be a Frenchman. Soon after, she heard the
song of the fishing-house, and distinguished her own name, which was
repeated so distinctly, that Annette had heard it also. She trembled,
sunk into a chair by the window, and Annette called aloud, 'Monsieur
Valancourt! Monsieur Valancourt!' while Emily endeavoured to check her,
but she repeated the call more loudly than before, and the lute and the
voice suddenly stopped. Emily listened, for some time, in a state
of intolerable suspense; but, no answer being returned, 'It does not
signify, Mademoiselle,' said Annette; 'it is the Chevalier, and I will
speak to him.' 'No, Annette,' said Emily, 'I think I will speak myself;
if it is he, he will know my voice, and speak again.' 'Who is it,' said
she, 'that sings at this late hour?'

A long silence ensued, and, having repeated the question, she perceived
some faint accents, mingling in the blast, that swept by; but the sounds
were so distant, and passed so suddenly, that she could scarcely hear
them, much less distinguish the words they uttered, or recognise the
voice. After another pause, Emily called again; and again they heard
a voice, but as faintly as before; and they perceived, that there were
other circumstances, besides the strength, and direction of the wind, to
content with; for the great depth, at which the casements were fixed in
the castle walls, contributed, still more than the distance, to prevent
articulated sounds from being understood, though general ones were
easily heard. Emily, however, ventured to believe, from the circumstance
of her voice alone having been answered, that the stranger was
Valancourt, as well as that he knew her, and she gave herself up to
speechless joy. Annette, however, was not speechless.--She renewed
her calls, but received no answer; and Emily, fearing, that a further
attempt, which certainly was, as present, highly dangerous, might expose
them to the guards of the castle, while it could not perhaps terminate
her suspense, insisted on Annette's dropping the enquiry for this night;
though she determined herself to question Ludovico, on the subject, in
the morning, more urgently than she had yet done. She was now enabled
to say, that the stranger, whom she had formerly heard, was still in
the castle, and to direct Ludovico to that part of it, in which he was
confined.

Emily, attended by Annette, continued at the casement, for some time,
but all remained still; they heard neither lute or voice again, and
Emily was now as much oppressed by anxious joy, as she lately was by a
sense of her misfortunes. With hasty steps she paced the room, now half
calling on Valancourt's name, then suddenly stopping, and now going to
the casement and listening, where, however, she heard nothing but
the solemn waving of the woods. Sometimes her impatience to speak to
Ludovico prompted her to send Annette to call him; but a sense of the
impropriety of this at midnight restrained her. Annette, meanwhile, as
impatient as her mistress, went as often to the casement to listen, and
returned almost as much disappointed. She, at length, mentioned
Signor Verezzi, and her fear, lest he should enter the chamber by the
staircase, door. 'But the night is now almost past, Mademoiselle,' said
she, recollecting herself; 'there is the morning light, beginning to
peep over those mountains yonder in the east.'

Emily had forgotten, till this moment, that such a person existed as
Verezzi, and all the danger that had appeared to threaten her; but the
mention of his name renewed her alarm, and she remembered the old chest,
that she had wished to place against the door, which she now, with
Annette, attempted to move, but it was so heavy, that they could not
lift it from the floor. 'What is in this great old chest, Mademoiselle,'
said Annette, 'that makes it so weighty?' Emily having replied, 'that
she found it in the chamber, when she first came to the castle, and had
never examined it.'--'Then I will, ma'amselle,' said Annette, and she
tried to lift the lid; but this was held by a lock, for which she had
no key, and which, indeed, appeared, from its peculiar construction, to
open with a spring. The morning now glimmered through the casements, and
the wind had sunk into a calm. Emily looked out upon the dusky woods,
and on the twilight mountains, just stealing in the eye, and saw the
whole scene, after the storm, lying in profound stillness, the woods
motionless, and the clouds above, through which the dawn trembled,
scarcely appearing to move along the heavens. One soldier was pacing the
terrace beneath, with measured steps; and two, more distant, were sunk
asleep on the walls, wearied with the night's watch. Having inhaled, for
a while, the pure spirit of the air, and of vegetation, which the late
rains had called forth; and having listened, once more, for a note of
music, she now closed the casement, and retired to rest.



CHAPTER 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 silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,
 Torrents are hurl'd, green hills emerge, and lo,
 The trees with foliage, cliffs with flow'rs 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 skirmishes, with a party of his
countrymen. During this interval, Emily escaped the persecutions of
Bertolini, and Verezzi, by confining herself to her apartment; except
that sometimes, in an evening, she ventured to walk in the adjoining
corridor. Montoni appeared to respect his last promise, though he had
prophaned his first; for to his protection only could she attribute her
present repose; and in this she was now so secure, that she did not wish
to leave the castle, till she could obtain some certainty concerning
Valancourt; for which she waited, indeed, without any sacrifice of
her own comfort, since no circumstance had occurred to make her escape
probable.

On the fourth day, Ludovico informed her, that he had hopes of being
admitted to the presence of the prisoner; it being the turn of a
soldier, with whom he had been for some time familiar, to attend him
on the following night. He was not deceived in his hope; for, under
pretence of carrying in a pitcher of water, he entered the prison,
though, his prudence having prevented him from telling the sentinel the
real motive of his visit, he was obliged to make his conference with the
prisoner a very short one.

Emily awaited the result in her own apartment, Ludovico having promised
to accompany Annette to the corridor, in the evening; where, after
several hours impatiently counted, he arrived. Emily, having then
uttered the name of Valancourt, could articulate no more, but hesitated
in trembling expectation. 'The Chevalier would not entrust me with his
name, Signora,' replied Ludovico; 'but, when I just mentioned yours, he
seemed overwhelmed with joy, though he was not so much surprised as I
expected.' 'Does he then remember me?' she exclaimed.

'O! it is Mons. Valancourt,' said Annette, and looked impatiently at
Ludovico, who understood her look, and replied to Emily: 'Yes, lady, the
Chevalier does, indeed, remember you, and, I am sure, has a very great
regard for you, and I made bold to say you had for him. He then enquired
how you came to know he was in the castle, and whether you ordered me
to speak to him. The first question I could not answer, but the second I
did; and then he went off into his ecstasies again. I was afraid his joy
would have betrayed him to the sentinel at the door.'

'But how does he look, Ludovico?' interrupted Emily: 'is he not
melancholy and ill with this long confinement?'--'Why, as to melancholy,
I saw no symptom of that, lady, while I was with him, for he seemed
in the finest spirits I ever saw 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.
'O yes, Signora, and something besides,' replied Ludovico, who searched
his pockets. 'Surely, I have not lost it,' added he. 'The Chevalier
said, he would have written, madam, if he had had pen and ink, and was
going to have sent a very long message, when the sentinel entered the
room, but not before he had give me this.' Ludovico then drew forth a
miniature from his bosom, which Emily received with a trembling hand,
and perceived to be a portrait of herself--the very picture, which her
mother had lost so strangely in the fishing-house at La Vallee.

Tears of mingled joy and tenderness flowed to her eyes, while Ludovico
proceeded--'"Tell your lady," said the Chevalier, as he gave me the
picture, "that this has been my companion, and only solace in all my
misfortunes. Tell her, that I have worn it next my heart, and that I
sent it her as the pledge of an affection, which can never die; that I
would not part with it, but to her, for the wealth of worlds, and that I
now part with it, only in the hope of soon receiving it from her hands.
Tell her"--Just then, Signora, the sentinel came in, and the Chevalier
said no more; but he had before asked me to contrive an interview for
him with you; and when I told him, how little hope I had of prevailing
with the guard to assist me, he said, that was not, perhaps, of so
much consequence as I imagined, and bade me contrive to bring back your
answer, and he would inform me of more than he chose to do then. So
this, I think, lady, is the whole of what passed.'

'How, Ludovico, shall I reward you for your zeal?' said Emily: 'but,
indeed, I do not now possess the means. When can you see the Chevalier
again?' 'That is uncertain, Signora,' replied he. 'It depends upon who
stands guard next: there are not more than one or two among them, from
whom I would dare to ask admittance to the prison-chamber.'

'I need not bid you remember, Ludovico,' resumed Emily, 'how very much
interested I am in your seeing the Chevalier soon; and, when you do so,
tell him, that I have received the picture, and, with the sentiments he
wished. Tell him I have suffered much, and still suffer--' She paused.
'But shall I tell him you will see him, lady?' said Ludovico. 'Most
certainly I will,' replied Emily. 'But when, Signora, and where?' 'That
must depend upon circumstances,' returned Emily. 'The place, and the
hour, must be regulated by his opportunities.'

'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 possible;
and, Ludovico, I think it is needless to tell you I shall very anxiously
look for you.' Having then wished her good night, Ludovico descended
the staircase, and Emily retired to rest, but not to sleep, for joy now
rendered her as wakeful, as she had ever been from grief. Montoni and
his castle had all vanished from her mind, like the frightful vision of
a necromancer, and she wandered, once more, in fairy scenes of unfading
happiness:

     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 stream.

A week elapsed, before Ludovico again visited the prison; for the
sentinels, during that period, were men, in whom he could not confide,
and he feared to awaken curiosity, by asking to see their prisoner. In
this interval, he communicated to Emily terrific reports of what
was passing in the castle; of riots, quarrels, and of carousals more
alarming than either; while from some circumstances, which he mentioned,
she not only doubted, whether Montoni meant ever to release her, but
greatly feared, that he had designs, concerning her,--such as she
had formerly dreaded. Her name was frequently mentioned in the
conversations, which Bertolini and Verezzi held together, and, at those
times, they were frequently in contention. Montoni had lost large sums
to Verezzi, so that there was a dreadful possibility of his designing
her to be a substitute for the debt; but, as she was ignorant, that he
had formerly encouraged the hopes of Bertolini also, concerning herself,
after the latter had done him some signal service, she knew not how to
account for these contentions between Bertolini and Verezzi. The cause
of them, however, appeared to be of little consequence, for she thought
she saw destruction approaching in many forms, and her entreaties to
Ludovico to contrive an escape and to see the prisoner again, were more
urgent than ever.

At length, he informed her, that he had again visited the Chevalier, who
had directed him to confide in the guard of the prison, from whom he
had already received some instances of kindness, and who had promised to
permit his going into the castle for half an hour, on the ensuing night,
when Montoni and his companions should be engaged at their carousals.
'This was kind, to be sure,' added Ludovico: 'but Sebastian knows he
runs no 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 same roof, without
seeing you; the hour, he said, he could not mention, for it must depend
on circumstances (just as you said, Signora); and the place he desired
you would appoint, as knowing which was best for your own safety.'

Emily was now so much agitated by the near prospect of meeting
Valancourt, that it was some time, before she could give any answer to
Ludovico, or consider of the place of meeting; when she did, she saw
none, that promised so much security, as the corridor, near her own
apartment, which she was checked from leaving, by the apprehension of
meeting any of Montoni's guests, on their way to their rooms; and she
dismissed the scruples, which delicacy opposed, now that a serious
danger was to be avoided by encountering them. It was settled,
therefore, that the Chevalier should meet her in the corridor, at that
hour of the night, which Ludovico, who was to be upon the watch, should
judge safest: and Emily, as may be imagined, passed this interval in
a tumult of hope and joy, anxiety and impatience. Never, since her
residence in the castle, had she watched, with so much pleasure, the
sun set behind the mountains, and twilight shade, and darkness veil the
scene, as on this evening. She counted the notes of the great clock, and
listened to the steps of the sentinels, as they changed the watch,
only to rejoice, that another hour was gone. 'O, Valancourt!' said she,
'after all I have suffered; after our long, long separation, when I
thought I should never--never see you more--we are still to meet again!
O! I have endured grief, and anxiety, and terror, and let me, then, not
sink beneath this joy!' These were moments, when it was impossible
for her to feel emotions of regret, or melancholy, for any ordinary
interests;--even the reflection, that she had resigned the estates,
which would have been a provision for herself and Valancourt for life,
threw only a light and transient shade upon her spirits. The idea of
Valancourt, and that she should see him so soon, alone occupied her
heart.

At length the clock struck twelve; she opened the door to listen, if
any noise was in the castle, and heard only distant shouts of riot and
laughter, echoed feebly along the gallery. She guessed, that the Signor
and his guests were at the banquet. 'They are now engaged for the
night,' said she; 'and Valancourt will soon be here.' Having softly
closed the door, she paced the room with impatient steps, and often went
to the casement to listen for the lute; but all was silent, and, her
agitation every moment increasing, she was at length unable to support
herself, and sat down by the window. Annette, whom she detained, was, in
the meantime, as loquacious as usual; but Emily heard scarcely any thing
she said, and having at length risen to the casement, she distinguished
the chords of the lute, struck with an expressive hand, and then the
voice, she had formerly listened to, accompanied it.

     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 tenderness; and, when the strain ceased,
she considered it as a signal, that Valancourt was about to leave the
prison. Soon after, she heard steps in the corridor;--they were the
light, quick steps of hope; she could scarcely support herself, as they
approached, but opening the door of the apartment, she advanced to meet
Valancourt, and, in the next moment, sunk in the arms of a stranger. His
voice--his countenance instantly convinced her, and she fainted away.

On reviving, she found herself supported by the stranger, who was
watching over her recovery, with a countenance of ineffable tenderness
and anxiety. She had no spirits for reply, or enquiry; she asked no
questions, but burst into tears, and disengaged herself from his
arms; when the expression of his countenance changed to surprise and
disappointment, and he turned to Ludovico, for an explanation; Annette
soon gave the information, which Ludovico could not. 'O, sir!' said
she, in a voice, interrupted with sobs; 'O, sir! you are not the other
Chevalier. We expected Monsieur Valancourt, but you are not he! O
Ludovico! how could you deceive us so? my poor lady will never recover
it--never!' The stranger, who now appeared much agitated, attempted to
speak, but his words faltered; and then striking his hand against his
forehead, as if in sudden despair, he walked abruptly to the other end
of the corridor.

Suddenly, Annette dried her tears, and spoke to Ludovico. 'But,
perhaps,' said she, 'after all, the other Chevalier is not this: perhaps
the Chevalier Valancourt is still below.' Emily raised her head.
'No,' replied Ludovico, 'Monsieur Valancourt never was below, if this
gentleman is not he.' 'If you, sir,' said Ludovico, addressing the
stranger, 'would but have had the goodness to trust me with your name,
this mistake had been avoided.' 'Most true,' replied the stranger,
speaking in broken Italian, 'but it was of the utmost consequence to me,
that my name should be concealed from Montoni. Madam,' added he then,
addressing Emily in French, 'will you permit me to 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 his request. At length,
desiring, 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 communicate what he wished to say, in that
language.--Having withdrawn to a distant part of the corridor, he said,
with a long-drawn sigh, 'You, madam, are no stranger to me, though I am
so unhappy as to be unknown to you.--My name is Du Pont; I am of France,
of Gascony, your native province, and have long admired,--and, why
should I affect to disguise it?--have long loved you.' He paused,
but, in the next moment, proceeded. 'My family, madam, is probably not
unknown to you, for we lived within a few miles of La Vallee, and I
have, sometimes, had the happiness of meeting you, on visits in
the neighbourhood. I will not offend you by repeating how much you
interested me; how much I loved to wander in the scenes you frequented;
how often I visited your favourite fishing-house, and lamented the
circumstance, which, at that time, forbade me to reveal my passion. I
will not explain how I surrendered to temptation, and became possessed
of a treasure, which was to me inestimable; a treasure, which I
committed to your messenger, a few days ago, with expectations
very different from my present ones. I will say nothing of these
circumstances, for I know they will avail me little; let me only
supplicate from you forgiveness, and the picture, which I so unwarily
returned. Your generosity will pardon the theft, and restore the
prize. My crime has been my punishment; for the portrait I stole has
contributed to nourish a passion, which must still be my torment.'

Emily now interrupted him. 'I think, sir, I may leave it to your
integrity to determine, whether, after what has just appeared,
concerning Mons. Valancourt, I ought to return the picture. I think you
will acknowledge, that this would not be generosity; and you will allow
me to add, that it would be doing myself an injustice. I must consider
myself honoured by your good opinion, but'--and she hesitated,--'the
mistake of this evening makes it unnecessary for me to say more.'

'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 encounter to deliver you from this recess of vice.
Accept the offered services of a friend; do not refuse me the reward of
having, at least, attempted to deserve your thanks.'

'You deserve them already, sir,' said Emily; 'the wish deserves my
warmest thanks. But you will excuse me for reminding you of the danger
you incur by prolonging this interview. It will be a great consolation
to me to remember, whether your friendly attempts to release me succeed
or not, that I have a countryman, who would so generously protect
me.'--Monsieur Du Pont took her hand, which she but feebly attempted to
withdraw, and pressed it respectfully to his lips. 'Allow me to breathe
another fervent sigh for your happiness,' said he, 'and to applaud
myself for an affection, which I cannot conquer.' As he said this, Emily
heard a noise from her apartment, and, turning round, saw the door from
the stair-case open, and a man rush into her chamber. 'I will teach you
to conquer it,' cried he, as he advanced into the corridor, and drew a
stiletto, which he aimed at Du Pont, who was unarmed, but who, stepping
back, avoided the blow, and then sprung upon Verezzi, from whom he
wrenched the stiletto. While they struggled in each other's grasp,
Emily, followed by Annette, ran further into the corridor, calling
on Ludovico, who was, however, gone from the stair-case, and, as she
advanced, terrified and uncertain what to do, a distant noise, that
seemed to arise from the hall, reminded her of the danger she was
incurring; and, sending Annette forward in search of Ludovico, she
returned to the spot where Du Pont and Verezzi were still struggling for
victory. It was her own cause which was to be decided with that of
the former, whose conduct, independently of this circumstance, would,
however, have interested her in his success, even had she not disliked
and dreaded Verezzi. She threw herself in a chair, and supplicated them
to desist from further violence, till, at length, Du Pont forced Verezzi
to the floor, where he lay stunned by the violence of his fall; and she
then entreated Du Pont to escape from the room, before Montoni, or his
party, should appear; but he still refused to leave her unprotected;
and, while Emily, now more terrified for him, than for herself, enforced
the entreaty, they heard steps ascending the private stair-case.

'O you are lost!' cried she, 'these are Montoni's people.' Du Pont
made no reply, but supported Emily, while, with a steady, though eager,
countenance, he awaited their appearance, and, in the next moment,
Ludovico, alone, mounted the landing-place. Throwing an hasty 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, Signora,' replied Ludovico: 'fly! fly!'

She immediately followed him, accompanied 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 further on, Signora,' said
Ludovico, almost breathless with haste; 'the gates were open, a moment
since, to a party just come in from the mountains: they will be shut,
I fear, before we can reach them! Through this door, Signora,' added
Ludovico, holding down the lamp, 'take care, here are two steps.'

Emily followed, trembling still more, than before she had understood,
that her escape from the castle, depended upon the present moment; while
Du Pont supported her, and endeavoured, as they passed along, to cheer
her spirits.

'Speak low, Signor,' said Ludovico, 'these passages send echoes all
round the castle.'

'Take care of the light,' cried Emily, 'you go so fast, that the air
will extinguish it.'

Ludovico now opened another door, where they found Annette, and the
party then descended a short flight of steps into a passage, which,
Ludovico said, led round the inner court of the castle, and opened into
the outer one. As they advanced, confused and tumultuous sounds, that
seemed to come from the inner court, alarmed Emily. 'Nay, Signora,' said
Ludovico, 'our only hope is in that tumult; while the Signor's people
are busied about the men, who are just arrived, we may, perhaps, pass
unnoticed through the gates. But hush!' he added, as they approached the
small door, that opened into the outer court, 'if you will remain here a
moment, I will go to see whether the gates are open, and any body is
in the way. Pray extinguish the light, Signor, if you hear me talking,'
continued Ludovico, delivering the lamp to Du Pont, 'and remain quite
still.'

Saying this, he stepped out upon the court, and they closed the door,
listening anxiously to his departing steps. No voice, however, was heard
in the court, which he was crossing, though a confusion of many voices
yet issued from the inner one. 'We shall soon be beyond the walls,' said
Du Pont softly to Emily, 'support yourself a little longer, Madam, and
all will be well.'

But soon they heard Ludovico speaking loud, and the voice also of some
other person, and Du Pont immediately extinguished the lamp. 'Ah! it
is too late!' exclaimed Emily, 'what is to become of us?' They listened
again, and then perceived, that Ludovico was talking with a sentinel,
whose voices were heard also by Emily's favourite dog, that had followed
her from the chamber, and now barked loudly. 'This dog will betray us!'
said Du Pont, 'I will hold him.' 'I fear he has already betrayed us!'
replied Emily. Du Pont, however, caught him up, and, again listening
to what was going on without, they heard Ludovico say, 'I'll watch the
gates the while.'

'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 you do
not care about yours, I see no reason why I should 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.'

(* A kind of blunderbuss. [A. R.])


'There, my good fellow,' returned the soldier, 'there, take it--it has
seen service, though it could do little in defending the castle. I'll
tell you a good story, though, about this same trombone.'

'You'll tell it better when you have had the wine,' said Ludovico.
'There! they are coming out from the court already.'

'I'll have the wine, though,' said the sentinel, running off. 'I won't
keep you a minute.'

'Take your time, I am in no haste,' replied Ludovico, who was already
hurrying across the court, when the soldier came back. 'Whither so fast,
friend--whither so fast?' said the latter. 'What! is this the way you
keep watch! I must stand to my post myself, I see.'

'Aye, well,' replied Ludovico, 'you have saved me the trouble of
following you further, for I wanted to tell you, if you have a mind to
drink the Tuscany wine, you must go to Sebastian, he is dealing it out;
the other that Federico has, is not worth having. But you are not likely
to have any, I see, for they are all coming out.'

'By St. Peter! so they are,' said the soldier, and again ran off, while
Ludovico, once more at liberty, hastened to the door of the passage,
where Emily was sinking under the anxiety this long discourse had
occasioned; but, on his telling them the court was clear, they followed
him to the gates, without waiting another instant, yet not before he
had seized two horses, that had strayed from the second court, and were
picking a scanty meal among the grass, which grew between the pavement
of the first.

They passed, without interruption, the dreadful gates, and took the road
that led down among the woods, Emily, Monsieur Du Pont and Annette on
foot, and Ludovico, who was mounted on one horse, leading the other.
Having reached them, they stopped, while Emily and Annette were placed
on horseback with their two protectors, when, Ludovico leading the way,
they set off as fast as the broken road, and the feeble light, which a
rising moon threw among the foliage, would permit.

Emily was so much astonished by this sudden departure, that she scarcely
dared to believe herself awake; and she yet much doubted whether this
adventure would terminate in escape,--a doubt, which had too much
probability to justify it; for, before they quitted the woods, they
heard shouts in the wind, and, on emerging from them, saw lights moving
quickly near the castle above. Du Pont whipped his horse, and with some
difficulty compelled him to go faster.

'Ah! poor beast,' said Ludovico, 'he is weary enough;--he has been out
all day; but, Signor, we must fly for it, now; for yonder are lights
coming this way.'

Having given his own horse a lash, they now both set off on a full
gallop; and, when they again looked back, the lights were so distant
as scarcely to be discerned, and the voices were sunk into silence. The
travellers then abated their pace, and, consulting whither they should
direct their course, it was determined they should descend into Tuscany,
and endeavour to reach the Mediterranean, where they could readily
embark for France. Thither Du Pont meant to attend Emily, if he should
learn, that the regiment he had accompanied into Italy, was returned to
his native country.

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 necessaries could be procured for their journey.

'But, I hope,' added he, 'we shall meet with no straggling parties of
banditti; some of them are abroad, I know. However, I have got a good
trombone, which will be of some service, if we should encounter any of
those brave spirits. You have no arms, Signor?' 'Yes,' replied Du Pont,
'I have the villain's stilletto, who would have stabbed me--but let us
rejoice in our escape from Udolpho, nor torment ourselves with looking
out for dangers, that may never arrive.'

The moon was now risen high over the woods, that hung upon the sides of
the narrow glen, through which they wandered, and afforded them light
sufficient to distinguish their way, and to avoid the loose and broken
stones, that frequently crossed it. They now travelled leisurely, and
in profound silence; for they had scarcely yet recovered from the
astonishment, into which this sudden escape had thrown them.--Emily's
mind, especially, was sunk, after the various emotions it had suffered,
into a kind of musing stillness, which the reposing beauty of the
surrounding scene and the creeping murmur of the night-breeze among the
foliage above contributed to prolong. She thought of Valancourt and of
France, with hope, and she would have thought of them with joy, had
not the first events of this evening harassed her spirits too much, to
permit her now to feel so lively a sensation. Meanwhile, Emily was
alone the object of Du Pont's melancholy consideration; yet, with the
despondency he suffered, as he mused on his recent disappointment, was
mingled a sweet pleasure, occasioned by her presence, though they
did not now exchange a single word. Annette thought of this wonderful
escape, of the bustle in which Montoni and his people must be, now that
their flight was discovered; of her native country, whither she hoped
she was returning, and of her marriage with Ludovico, to which there no
longer appeared any impediment, for poverty she did not consider such.
Ludovico, on his part, congratulated himself, on having rescued his
Annette and Signora Emily from the danger, that had surrounded them; on
his own liberation from people, whose manners he had long detested;
on the freedom he had given to Monsieur Du Pont; on his prospect of
happiness with the object of his affections, and not a little on the
address, with which he had deceived the sentinel, and conducted the
whole of this affair.

Thus variously engaged in thought, the travellers passed on silently,
for above an hour, a question only being, now and then, asked by Du
Pont, concerning the road, or a remark uttered by Annette, respecting
objects, seen imperfectly in the twilight. At length, lights were
perceived twinkling on the side of a mountain, and Ludovico had no
doubt, that they proceeded from the town he had mentioned, while his
companions, satisfied by this assurance, sunk again into silence.
Annette was the first who interrupted this. 'Holy Peter!' said she,
'What shall we do for money on our journey? for I know neither I, or my
lady, have a single sequin; the Signor took care of that!'

This remark produced a serious enquiry, which ended in as serious an
embarrassment, for Du Pont had been rifled of nearly all his money, when
he was taken prisoner; the remainder he had given to the sentinel, who
had enabled him occasionally to leave his prison-chamber; and Ludovico,
who had for some time found a difficulty, in procuring any part of the
wages due to him, had now scarcely cash sufficient to procure necessary
refreshment at the first town, in which they should arrive.

Their poverty was the more distressing, since it would detain them
among the mountains, where, even in a town, they could scarcely consider
themselves safe from Montoni. The travellers, however, had only to
proceed and dare the future; and they continued their way through lonely
wilds and dusky vallies, where the overhanging 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 contradict this
error, for the high grass and other luxuriant vegetation, with which it
was overgrown, told how very seldom the foot of a traveller had passed
it.

At length, from a distance, was heard the faint tinkling of a
sheep-bell; and, soon after, the bleat of flocks, and the party then
knew, that they were near some human habitation, for the light, which
Ludovico had fancied to proceed from a town, had long been concealed by
intervening mountains. Cheered by this hope, they quickened their pace
along the narrow pass they were winding, and it opened upon one of those
pastoral vallies of the Apennines, which might be painted for a scene
of Arcadia, and whose beauty and simplicity are finely contrasted by the
grandeur of the snow-topt mountains above.

The morning light, now glimmering in the horizon, shewed faintly, at
a little distance, upon the brow of a hill, which seemed to peep from
'under the opening eye-lids of the morn,' the town they were in
search of, and which they soon after reached. It was not without some
difficulty, that they there found a house, which could afford shelter
for themselves and their horses; and Emily desired they might not rest
longer than was necessary for refreshment. Her appearance excited some
surprise, for she was without a hat, having had time only to throw on
her veil before she left the castle, a circumstance, that compelled her
to regret again the want of money, without which it was impossible to
procure this necessary article of dress.

Ludovico, on examining his purse, found it even insufficient to supply
present refreshment, and Du Pont, at length, ventured to inform the
landlord, whose countenance was simple and honest, of their exact
situation, and requested, that he would assist them to pursue their
journey; a purpose, which he promised to comply with, as far as he was
able, when he learned that they were prisoners escaping from Montoni,
whom he had too much reason to hate. But, though he consented to lend
them fresh horses to carry them to the next town, he was too poor
himself to trust them with money, and they were again lamenting their
poverty, when Ludovico, who had been with his tired horses to the hovel,
which served for a stable, entered the room, half frantic with joy, in
which his auditors soon participated. On removing the saddle from one of
the horses, he had found beneath it a small bag, containing, no doubt,
the booty of one of the 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
reward of his exploit.

On counting over this, Du Pont found, that it would be more than
sufficient to carry them all to France, where he now determined to
accompany Emily, whether he should obtain intelligence of his regiment,
or not; for, though he had as much confidence in the integrity of
Ludovico, as his small knowledge of him allowed, he could not endure the
thought of committing her to his care for the voyage; nor, perhaps, had
he resolution enough to deny himself the dangerous pleasure, which he
might derive from her presence.

He now consulted them, concerning the sea-port, to which they should
direct their way, and Ludovico, better informed of the geography of the
country, said, that Leghorn was the nearest port of consequence, which
Du Pont knew also to be the most likely of any in Italy to assist
their plan, since from thence vessels of all nations were continually
departing. Thither, therefore, it was determined, that they should
proceed.

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
sun was rising over the mountains, and, after travelling through this
romantic country, for several hours, began to descend into the vale
of Arno. And here Emily beheld all the charms of sylvan and pastoral
landscape united, adorned with the elegant villas of the Florentine
nobles, and diversified with the various riches of cultivation. How
vivid the shrubs, that embowered the slopes, with the woods, that
stretched amphitheatrically along the mountains! and, above all, how
elegant the outline of these waving Apennines, now softening from the
wildness, which their interior regions exhibited! At a distance, in the
east, Emily discovered Florence, with its towers rising on the
brilliant horizon, and its luxuriant plain, spreading to the feet of
the Apennines, speckled with gardens and magnificent villas, or coloured
with groves of orange and lemon, with vines, corn, and plantations of
olives and mulberry; while, to the west, the vale opened to the waters
of the Mediterranean, so distant, that they were known only by a blueish
line, that appeared upon the horizon, and by the light marine vapour,
which just stained the aether above.

With a full heart, Emily hailed the waves, that were to bear her back to
her native country, the remembrance of which, however, brought with it
a pang; for she had there no home to receive, no parents to welcome her,
but was going, like a forlorn pilgrim, to weep over the sad spot, where
he, who WAS her father, lay interred. Nor were her spirits cheered,
when she considered how long it would probably be before she should see
Valancourt, who might be stationed with his regiment in a distant part
of France, and that, when they did meet, it would be only to lament
the successful villany of Montoni; yet, still she would have felt
inexpressible delight at the thought of being once more in the same
country with Valancourt, had it even been certain, that she could not
see him.

The intense heat, for it was now noon, obliged the travellers to look
out for a shady recess, where they might rest, for a few hours, and
the neighbouring thickets, abounding with wild grapes, raspberries, and
figs, promised them grateful refreshment. Soon after, they turned
from the road into a grove, whose thick foliage entirely excluded the
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 Pyrenees, took their simple repast, and viewed, with new
delight, beneath the dark umbrage of gigantic pines, the glowing
landscape stretching to the sea.

Emily and Du Pont gradually became thoughtful and silent; but Annette
was all joy and loquacity, and Ludovico was gay, without forgetting the
respectful distance, which was due to his companions. The repast being
over, Du Pont recommended Emily to endeavour to sleep, during these
sultry hours, and, desiring the servants would do the same, said he
would watch the while; but Ludovico wished to spare him this trouble;
and Emily and Annette, wearied with travelling, tried to repose, while
he stood guard with his trombone.

When Emily, refreshed by slumber, awoke, she found the sentinel asleep
on his post and Du Pont awake, but lost in melancholy thought. As the
sun was yet too high to allow them to continue their journey, and as
it was necessary, that Ludovico, after the toils and trouble he had
suffered, should finish his sleep, Emily took this opportunity of
enquiring by what accident Du Pont became Montoni's prisoner, and he,
pleased with the interest this enquiry expressed and with the excuse
it gave him for talking to her of himself, immediately answered her
curiosity.

'I came into Italy, madam,' said Du Pont, 'in the service of my country.
In an adventure among the mountains our party, engaging with the bands
of Montoni, was routed, and I, with a few of my comrades, was taken
prisoner. When they told me, whose captive I was, the name of Montoni
struck me, for I remembered, that Madame Cheron, your aunt, had married
an Italian of that name, and that you had accompanied them into Italy.
It was not, however, till some time after, that I became convinced this
was the same Montoni, or learned that you, madam, was under the same
roof with myself. I will not pain you by describing what were my
emotions upon this discovery, which I owed to a sentinel, whom I had
so far won to my interest, that he granted me many indulgences, one of
which was very important to me, and somewhat dangerous to himself; but
he persisted in refusing to convey any letter, or notice of my situation
to you, for he justly dreaded a discovery and the consequent vengeance
of Montoni. He however enabled me to see you more than once. You are
surprised, madam, and I will explain myself. My health and spirits
suffered extremely from want of air and exercise, and, at length, I
gained so far upon the pity, or the avarice of the man, that he gave me
the means of walking on the terrace.'

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 terrace of which rose over a perpendicular
rock; he shewed me also,' continued Du Pont, 'a door concealed in
the cedar wainscot of the apartment where I was confined, which he
instructed me how to open; and which, leading into a passage, formed
within the thickness of the wall, that extended far along the castle,
finally opened in an obscure corner of the eastern rampart. I have since
been informed, that there are many passages of the same kind
concealed within the prodigious walls of that edifice, and which were,
undoubtedly, contrived for the purpose of facilitating escapes in time
of war. Through this avenue, at the dead of night, I often stole to the
terrace, where I walked with the utmost caution, lest my steps should
betray me to the sentinels on duty in distant parts; for this end of it,
being guarded by high buildings, was not watched by soldiers. In one of
these midnight wanderings, I saw light in a casement that overlooked the
rampart, and which, I observed, was immediately over my prison-chamber.
It occurred to me, that you might be in that apartment, and, with the
hope of seeing you, I placed myself opposite to the window.'

Emily, remembering the figure that had formerly appeared on the terrace,
and which had occasioned her so much anxiety, exclaimed, 'It was you
then, Monsieur Du Pont, who occasioned me much foolish terror; my
spirits were, at that time, so much weakened by long suffering, that
they took alarm at every hint.' Du Pont, after lamenting, that he
had occasioned her any apprehension, added, 'As I rested on the
wall, opposite to your casement, the consideration of your melancholy
situation and of my own called from me involuntary sounds of
lamentation, which drew you, I fancy, to the casement; I saw there a
person, whom I believed to be you. O! I will say nothing of my emotion
at that moment; I wished to speak, but prudence restrained me, till
the distant foot-step of a sentinel compelled me suddenly to quit my
station.

'It was some time, before I had another opportunity of walking, for I
could only leave my prison, when it happened to be the turn of one
man to guard me; meanwhile I became convinced from some circumstances
related by him, that your apartment was over mine, and, when again I
ventured forth, I returned to your casement, where again I saw you, but
without daring to speak. I waved my hand, and you suddenly disappeared;
then it was, that I forgot my prudence, and yielded to lamentation;
again you appeared--you spoke--I heard the well-known accent of your
voice! and, at that moment, my discretion would have forsaken me
again, had I not heard also the approaching steps of a soldier, when I
instantly quitted the place, though not before the man had seen me.
He followed down the terrace and gained so fast upon me, that I was
compelled to make use of a stratagem, ridiculous enough, to save myself.
I had heard of the superstition of many of these men, and I uttered
a strange noise, with a hope, that my pursuer would mistake it for
something supernatural, and desist from pursuit. Luckily for myself I
succeeded; the man, it seems, was subject to fits, and the terror he
suffered threw him into one, by which accident I secured my retreat. A
sense of the danger I had escaped, and the increased watchfulness, which
my appearance had occasioned among the sentinels, deterred me ever
after from walking on the terrace; but, in the stillness of night,
I frequently beguiled myself with an old lute, procured for me by a
soldier, which I sometimes accompanied with my voice, and sometimes, I
will acknowledge, with a hope of making myself heard by you; but it was
only a few evenings ago, that this hope was answered. I then thought I
heard a voice in the wind, calling me; yet, even then I feared to reply,
lest the sentinel at the prison door should hear me. Was I right, madam,
in this conjecture--was it you who spoke?'

'Yes,' said Emily, with an involuntary sigh, 'you was right indeed.'

Du Pont, observing the painful emotions, which this question revived,
now changed the subject. 'In one of my excursions through the passage,
which I have mentioned, I overheard a singular conversation,' said he.

'In the passage!' said Emily, with surprise.

'I heard it in the passage,' said Du Pont, 'but it proceeded from an
apartment, adjoining the wall, within which the passage wound, and the
shell of the wall was there so thin, and was also somewhat decayed,
that I could distinctly hear every word, spoken on the other side. It
happened that Montoni and his companions were assembled in the room,
and Montoni began to relate the extraordinary history of the lady, his
predecessor, in the castle. He did, indeed, mention some very surprising
circumstances, and whether they were strictly true, his conscience
must decide; I fear it will determine against him. But you, madam, have
doubtless heard the report, which he designs should circulate, on the
subject of that lady's mysterious fate.'

'I have, sir,' replied Emily, 'and I perceive, that you doubt it.'

'I doubted it before the period I am speaking of,' rejoined Du
Pont;--'but some circumstances, mentioned by Montoni, greatly
contributed to my suspicions. The account I then heard, almost convinced
me, that he was a murderer. I trembled for you;--the more so that I had
heard the guests mention your name in a manner, that threatened your
repose; and, knowing, that the most impious men are often the most
superstitious, I determined to try whether I could not awaken their
consciences, and awe them from the commission of the crime I dreaded. I
listened closely to Montoni, and, in the most striking passages of his
story, I joined my voice, and repeated his last words, in a disguised
and hollow tone.'

'But was you not afraid of being discovered?' said Emily.

'I was not,' replied Du Pont; 'for I knew, that, if Montoni had been
acquainted with the secret of this passage, he would not have confined
me in the apartment, to which it led. I knew also, from better
authority, that he was ignorant of it. The party, for some time,
appeared inattentive to my voice; but, at length, were so much alarmed,
that they quitted the apartment; and, having heard Montoni order his
servants to search it, I returned to my prison, which was very distant
from this part of the passage.' 'I remember perfectly to have heard of
the conversation you mention,' said Emily; 'it spread a general alarm
among Montoni's people, and I will own I was weak enough to partake of
it.'

Monsieur Du Pont and Emily thus continued to converse of Montoni, and
then of France, and of the plan of their voyage; when Emily told him,
that it was her intention to retire to a convent in Languedoc, where she
had been formerly treated with much kindness, and from thence to write
to her relation Monsieur Quesnel, and inform him of her conduct. There,
she designed to wait, till La Vallee should again be her own, whither
she hoped her income would some time permit her to return; for Du
Pont now taught her to expect, that the estate, of which Montoni had
attempted to defraud her, was not irrecoverably lost, and he again
congratulated her on her escape from Montoni, who, he had not a doubt,
meant to have detained her for life. The possibility of recovering her
aunt's estates for Valancourt and herself lighted up a joy in Emily's
heart, such as she had not known for many months; but she endeavoured to
conceal this from Monsieur Du Pont, lest it should lead him to a painful
remembrance of his rival.

They continued to converse, till the sun was declining in the west, when
Du Pont awoke Ludovico, and they set forward on their journey. Gradually
descending the lower slopes of the valley, they reached the Arno, and
wound along its pastoral margin, for many miles, delighted with the
scenery around them, and with the remembrances, which its classic waves
revived. At a distance, they heard the gay song of the peasants among
the vineyards, and observed the setting sun tint the waves with yellow
lustre, and twilight draw a dusky purple over the mountains, which, at
length, deepened into night. Then the LUCCIOLA, the fire-fly of Tuscany,
was seen to flash its sudden sparks among the foliage, while the
cicala, with its shrill note, became more clamorous than even during the
noon-day heat, loving best the hour when the English beetle, with less
offensive sound,

     winds
 His small but sullen horn,
 As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
 Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.*

(* Collins. [A. R.])


The travellers crossed the Arno by moon-light, at a ferry, and, learning
that Pisa was distant only a few miles down the river, they wished to
have proceeded thither in a boat, but, as none could be procured, they
set out on their wearied horses for that city. As they approached it,
the vale expanded into a plain, variegated with vineyards, corn, olives
and mulberry groves; but it was late, before they reached its gates,
where Emily was surprised to hear the busy sound of footsteps and the
tones of musical instruments, as well as to see the lively groups, that
filled the streets, and she almost fancied herself again at Venice;
but here was no 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 balconies over its waters; it gave only the busy voices
of sailors on board vessels just arrived from the Mediterranean;
the melancholy heaving of the anchor, and the shrill boatswain's
whistle;--sounds, which, since that period, have there sunk almost into
silence. They then served to remind Du Pont, that it was probable he
might hear of a vessel, sailing soon to France from this port, and thus
be spared the trouble of going to Leghorn. As soon as Emily had reached
the inn, he went therefore to the quay, to make his enquiries; but,
after all the endeavours of himself and Ludovico, they could hear of no
bark, destined immediately for France, and the travellers returned to
their resting-place. Here also, Du Pont endeavoured to learn where his
regiment then lay, but could acquire no information concerning it. The
travellers retired early to rest, after the fatigues of this day;
and, on the following, rose early, and, without pausing to view the
celebrated antiquities of the place, or the wonders of its hanging
tower, pursued their journey in the cooler hours, through a charming
country, rich with wine, and corn and oil. The Apennines, no longer
awful, or even grand, here softened into the beauty of sylvan and
pastoral landscape; and Emily, as she descended them, looked down
delighted on Leghorn, and its spacious bay, filled with vessels, and
crowned with these beautiful hills.

She was no less surprised and amused, on entering this town, to find
it crowded with persons in the dresses of all nations; a scene, which
reminded her of a Venetian masquerade, such as she had witnessed at the
time of the Carnival; but here, was bustle, without gaiety, and noise
instead of music, while elegance was to be looked for only in the waving
outlines of the surrounding hills.

Monsieur Du Pont, immediately on their arrival, went down to the quay,
where he heard of several French vessels, and of one, that was to sail,
in a few days, for Marseilles, from whence another vessel could be
procured, without difficulty, to take them across the gulf of Lyons
towards Narbonne, on the coast not many leagues from which city he
understood the convent was seated, to which Emily wished to retire.
He, therefore, immediately engaged with the captain to take them to
Marseilles, and Emily was delighted to hear, that her passage to France
was secured. Her mind was now relieved from the terror of pursuit, and
the pleasing hope of soon seeing her native country--that country which
held Valancourt, restored to her spirits a degree of cheerfulness, such
as she had scarcely known, since the death of her father. At Leghorn
also, Du Pont heard of his regiment, and that it had embarked for
France; a circumstance, which gave him great satisfaction, for he could
now accompany Emily thither, without reproach to his conscience, or
apprehension of displeasure from his commander. During these days, he
scrupulously forbore to distress her by a mention of his passion, and
she was compelled to esteem and pity, though she could not love him. He
endeavoured to amuse her by shewing the environs of the town, and they
often walked together on the sea-shore, and on the busy quays, where
Emily was frequently interested by the arrival and departure of vessels,
participating in the joy of meeting friends, and, sometimes, shedding
a sympathetic tear to the sorrow of those, that were separating. It was
after having witnessed a scene of the latter kind, that she arranged the
following stanzas:

THE MARINER

 Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow'd the tide;
 And blue the heaven in its mirror smil'd;
 The white sail trembled, swell'd, expanded wide,
 The busy sailors at the anchor toil'd.

 With anxious friends, that shed the parting tear,
 The deck was throng'd--how swift the moments fly!
 The vessel heaves, the farewel signs appear;
 Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!

 The last dread moment comes!--The sailor-youth
 Hides the big drop, then smiles amid his pain,
 Sooths his sad bride, and vows eternal truth,
 'Farewel, my love--we shall--shall meet again!'

 Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood;
 The crowded shore sinks, lessening, from his view,
 As gradual glides the bark along the flood;
 His bride is seen no more--'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 sigh,
 He sooths her griefs, and tells of joys to come.

 Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales,
 In one vast shade the seas and shores repose;
 He turns his aching eyes,--his spirit fails,
 The chill tear falls;--sad to the deck he goes!

 The storm of midnight swells, the sails 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, Ellen! 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, appall the bravest soul!

 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 sunk 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;
 Nor is the dirge by village-maidens fear'd,
 For lovers' spirits guard the holy shade!



CHAPTER 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

We now return to Languedoc and to the mention of Count De Villefort, the
nobleman, who succeeded to an estate of the Marquis De Villeroi situated
near the monastery of St. Claire. It may be recollected, that this
chateau was uninhabited, when St. Aubert and his daughter were in the
neighbourhood, and that the former was much affected on discovering
himself to be so near 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 into possession
of the mansion and extensive domain called Chateau-le-Blanc, situated
in the province of Languedoc, on the shore of the Mediterranean. This
estate, which, during some centuries, had belonged to his family,
now descended to him, on the decease of his relative, the Marquis De
Villeroi, who had been latterly a man of reserved manners and austere
character; circumstances, which, together with the duties of his
profession, that often called him into the field, had prevented any
degree of intimacy with his cousin, the Count De Villefort. For many
years, they had known little of each other, and the Count received the
first intelligence of his death, which happened in a distant part of
France, together with the instruments, that gave him possession of the
domain Chateau-le-Blanc; but it was not till the following year, that
he determined to visit that estate, when he designed to pass the autumn
there. The scenes of Chateau-le-Blanc often came to his remembrance,
heightened by the touches, which a warm imagination gives to the
recollection of early pleasures; for, many years before, in the
life-time of the Marchioness, and at that age when the mind is
particularly sensible to impressions of gaiety and delight, he had once
visited this spot, and, though he had passed a long intervening period
amidst the vexations and tumults of public affairs, which too frequently
corrode the heart, and vitiate the taste, the shades of Languedoc and
the grandeur of its distant scenery had never been remembered by him
with indifference.

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 comfortable residence, had been a principal
motive with the Count for passing the autumnal months in Languedoc; and
neither the remonstrances, or the tears of the Countess, for, on
urgent occasions, she could weep, were powerful enough to overcome his
determination. She prepared, therefore, to obey the command, which she
could not conquer, and to resign the gay assemblies of Paris,--where her
beauty was generally unrivalled and won the applause, to which her
wit had but feeble claim--for the twilight canopy of woods, the lonely
grandeur of mountains and the solemnity of gothic halls and of long,
long galleries, which echoed only the solitary step of a domestic, or
the measured clink, that ascended from the great clock--the ancient
monitor of the hall below. From these melancholy expectations she
endeavoured to relieve her spirits by recollecting all that she had ever
heard, concerning the joyous vintage of the plains of Languedoc; but
there, alas! no airy forms would bound to the gay melody of Parisian
dances, and a view of the rustic festivities of peasants could afford
little pleasure to a heart, in which even the feelings of ordinary
benevolence had long since decayed under the corruptions of luxury.

The Count had a son and a daughter, the children of a former marriage,
who, he designed, should accompany him to the south of France; Henri,
who was in his twentieth year, was in the French service; and Blanche,
who was not yet eighteen, had been hitherto confined to the convent,
where she had been placed immediately on her father's second
marriage. The present Countess, who had neither sufficient ability, or
inclination, to superintend the education of her daughter-in-law, had
advised this step, and the dread of superior beauty had since urged
her to employ every art, that might prevail on the Count to prolong
the period of Blanche's seclusion; it was, therefore, with extreme
mortification, that she now understood he would no longer submit on this
subject, yet it afforded her some consolation to consider, that, though
the Lady Blanche would emerge from her convent, the shades of the
country would, for some time, veil her beauty from the public eye.

On the morning, which commenced the journey, the postillions stopped at
the convent, by the Count's order, to take up Blanche, whose heart beat
with delight, at the prospect of novelty and freedom now before her. As
the time of her departure drew nigh, her impatience had increased, and
the last night, during which she counted every note of every hour, had
appeared the most tedious of any she had ever known. The morning light,
at length, dawned; the matin-bell rang; she heard the nuns descending
from their chambers, and she started from a sleepless pillow to welcome
the day, which was to emancipate her from the severities of a cloister,
and introduce her to a world, where pleasure was ever smiling, and
goodness ever blessed--where, in short, nothing but pleasure and
goodness reigned! When the bell of the great gate rang, and the sound
was followed by that of carriage wheels, she ran, with a palpitating
heart, to her lattice, and, perceiving her father's carriage in the
court below, danced, with airy steps, along the gallery, where she was
met by a nun with a summons from the abbess. In the next moment, she was
in the parlour, and in the presence of the Countess who now appeared to
her as an angel, that was to lead her into happiness. But the emotions
of the Countess, on beholding her, were not in unison with those of
Blanche, who had never appeared so lovely as at this moment, when her
countenance, animated by the lightning smile of joy, glowed with the
beauty of happy innocence.

After conversing for a few minutes with the abbess, the Countess rose to
go. This was the moment, which Blanche had anticipated with such eager
expectation, the summit from which she looked down upon the fairy-land
of happiness, and surveyed all its enchantment; was it a moment, then,
for tears of regret? Yet it was so. She turned, with an altered and
dejected countenance, to her young companions, who were come to bid her
farewell, and wept! Even my lady abbess, so stately and so solemn, she
saluted with a degree of sorrow, which, an hour before, she would
have believed it impossible to feel, and which may be accounted for by
considering how reluctantly we all part, even with unpleasing objects,
when the separation is consciously for ever. Again, she kissed the poor
nuns and then followed the Countess from that spot with tears, which she
expected to leave only with smiles.

But the presence of her father and the variety of objects, on the road,
soon engaged her attention, and dissipated the shade, which tender
regret had thrown upon her spirits. Inattentive to a conversation, which
was passing between the Countess and a Mademoiselle Bearn, her friend,
Blanche sat, lost in pleasing reverie, as she watched the clouds
floating silently along the blue expanse, now veiling the sun and
stretching their shadows along the distant scene, and then disclosing
all his brightness. The journey continued to give Blanche inexpressible
delight, for new scenes of nature were every instant opening to her
view, and her fancy became stored with gay and beautiful imagery.

It was on the evening of the seventh day, that the travellers came
within view of Chateau-le-Blanc, the romantic beauty of whose situation
strongly impressed the imagination of Blanche, who observed, with
sublime astonishment, the Pyrenean mountains, which had been seen only
at a distance during the day, now rising within a few leagues, with
their wild cliffs and immense precipices, which the evening clouds,
floating round them, now disclosed, and again veiled. The setting rays,
that tinged their snowy summits with a roseate hue, touched their lower
points with various colouring, while the blueish tint, that pervaded
their shadowy recesses, gave the strength of contrast to the splendour
of light. The plains of Languedoc, blushing with the purple vine and
diversified with groves of mulberry, almond and olives, spread far to
the north and the east; to the south, appeared the Mediterranean, clear
as crystal, and blue as the heavens it reflected, bearing on its bosom
vessels, whose white sails caught the sun-beams, and gave animation
to the scene. On a high promontory, washed by the waters of the
Mediterranean, stood her father's mansion, almost secluded from the
eye by woods of intermingled pine, oak and chesnut, which crowned the
eminence, and sloped towards the plains, on one side; while, on the
other, they extended to a considerable distance along the sea-shores.

As Blanche drew nearer, the gothic features of this antient mansion
successively appeared--first an embattled turret, rising above the
trees--then the broken arch of an immense gate-way, retiring beyond
them; and she almost fancied herself approaching a castle, such as is
often celebrated in early story, where the knights look out from the
battlements on some champion below, who, clothed in black armour,
comes, with his companions, to rescue the fair lady of his love from
the oppression of his rival; a sort of legends, to which she had once
or twice obtained access in the library of her convent, that, like
many others, belonging to the monks, was stored with these reliques of
romantic fiction.

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 Blanche leaned from the coach window, she resigned herself to the
sweet and gentle emotions, which the hour and the scenery awakened. The
sun had now left the earth, and twilight began to darken the mountains;
while the distant waters, reflecting the blush that still glowed in
the west, appeared like a line of light, skirting the horizon. The low
murmur of waves, breaking on the shore, came in the breeze, and, now and
then, the melancholy dashing of oars was feebly heard from a distance.
She was suffered to indulge her pensive mood, for the thoughts of the
rest of the party were silently engaged upon the subjects of their
several interests. Meanwhile, the Countess, reflecting, with regret,
upon the gay parties she had left at Paris, surveyed, with disgust, what
she thought the gloomy woods and solitary wildness of the scene; and,
shrinking from the prospect of being shut up in an old castle, was
prepared to meet every object with displeasure. The feelings of Henri
were somewhat similar to those of the Countess; he gave a mournful sigh
to the delights of the capital, and to the remembrance of a lady,
who, he believed, had engaged his affections, and who had certainly
fascinated his imagination; but the surrounding country, and the mode
of life, on which he was entering, had, for him, at least, the charm of
novelty, and his regret was softened by the gay expectations of youth.
The gates being at length unbarred, the carriage moved slowly on, under
spreading chesnuts, that almost excluded the remains of day, following
what had been formerly a road, but which now, overgrown with luxuriant
vegetation, could be traced only by the boundary, formed by trees,
on either side, and which wound for near half a mile among the woods,
before it reached the chateau. This was the very avenue that St.
Aubert and Emily had formerly entered, on their first arrival in the
neighbourhood, with the hope of finding a house, that would receive
them, for the night, and had so abruptly quitted, on perceiving the
wildness of the place, and a figure, which the postillion had fancied
was a robber.

'What a dismal place is this!' exclaimed the Countess, as the carriage
penetrated the deeper recesses of the woods. 'Surely, my lord, you do
not mean to pass all the autumn in this barbarous spot! One ought to
bring hither a cup of the waters of Lethe, that the remembrance of
pleasanter scenes may not heighten, at least, the natural dreariness of
these.'

'I shall be governed by circumstances, madam,' said the Count, 'this
barbarous spot was inhabited by my ancestors.'

The carriage now stopped at the chateau, where, at the door of the great
hall, appeared the old steward and the Parisian servants, who had been
sent to prepare the chateau, waiting to receive their lord. Lady Blanche
now perceived, that the edifice was not built entirely in the gothic
style, but that it had additions of a more modern date; the large and
gloomy hall, however, into which she now entered, was entirely gothic,
and sumptuous tapestry, which it was now too dark to distinguish, hung
upon the walls, and depictured scenes from some of the antient Provencal
romances. A vast gothic window, embroidered with CLEMATIS and eglantine,
that ascended to the south, led the eye, now that the casements were
thrown open, through this verdant shade, over a sloping lawn, to the
tops of dark woods, that hung upon the brow of the promontory. Beyond,
appeared the waters of the Mediterranean, stretching far to the south,
and to the east, where they were lost in the horizon; while, to the
north-east, they were bounded by the luxuriant shores of Languedoc and
Provence, enriched with wood, and gay with vines and sloping pastures;
and, to the south-west, by the majestic Pyrenees, now fading from the
eye, beneath the gradual gloom.

Blanche, as she crossed the hall, stopped a moment to observe this
lovely prospect, which the evening twilight obscured, yet did not
conceal. But she was quickly awakened from the complacent delight,
which this scene had diffused upon her mind, by the Countess, who,
discontented with every object around, and impatient for refreshment
and repose, hastened forward to a large parlour, whose cedar wainscot,
narrow, pointed casements, and dark ceiling of carved cypress wood,
gave it an aspect of peculiar gloom, which the dingy green velvet of the
chairs and couches, fringed with tarnished gold, had once been designed
to enliven.

While the Countess enquired for refreshment, 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 desolate place?' said her ladyship, to
the old house keeper, who came to pay her duty.

'Above twenty years, your ladyship, on the next feast of St. Jerome.'

'How happened it, that you have lived here so long, and almost alone,
too? I understood, that the chateau had been shut up for some 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 so large, and has of late been so lonely,
that we were lost in it, and, after some time, we went to live in a
cottage at the end of the woods, near some of the tenants, and came to
look after the chateau, every now and then. When my lord returned to
France from the wars, he took a dislike to the place, and never came
to live here again, and so he was satisfied with our remaining at the
cottage. Alas--alas! how the chateau is changed from what it once was!
What delight my late lady used to take in it! I well remember when she
came here a bride, and how fine it was. Now, it has been neglected so
long, and is gone into such decay! I shall never see those days again!'

The Countess appearing to be somewhat offended by the thoughtless
simplicity, with which the old woman regretted former times, Dorothee
added--'But the chateau 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,
displeased that her own silence had been unable to awe the loquacity of
this rustic old housekeeper, now spared from further attendance by the
entrance of the Count, who said he had been viewing part of the
chateau, and found, that it would require considerable repairs and some
alterations, before it would be perfectly comfortable, as a place of
residence. 'I am sorry to hear it, my lord,' replied the Countess. 'And
why sorry, madam?' 'Because the place will ill repay your trouble; and
were it even a paradise, it would be insufferable at such a distance
from Paris.'

The Count made no reply, but walked abruptly to a window. 'There are
windows, my lord, but they neither admit entertainment, or light; they
shew 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, deserve the name?'

'Those mountains certainly do, my lord,' rejoined the Countess, pointing
to the Pyrenees, '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 me to say, that your present conversation discovers
neither good taste, or good manners.' Blanche, now shocked at an
altercation, which appeared to be increasing to a serious disagreement,
rose to leave the room, when her mother's woman entered it; and the
Countess, immediately desiring to be shewn to her own apartment,
withdrew, attended by Mademoiselle 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
distant window, that seemed to terminate the gallery, were seen the
purple clouds of evening and a landscape, whose features, thinly veiled
in twilight, no longer appeared distinctly, but, blended into one grand
mass, stretched to the horizon, coloured only with a tint of solemn
grey.

The gallery terminated in a saloon, to which the window she had seen
through an open door, belonged; but the increasing dusk permitted her
only an imperfect view of this apartment, which seemed to be magnificent
and of modern architecture; though it had been either suffered to fall
into decay, or had never been properly finished. The windows, which were
numerous and large, descended low, and afforded a very extensive, and
what Blanche's fancy represented to be, a very lovely prospect; and
she stood for some time, surveying the grey obscurity and depicturing
imaginary woods and mountains, vallies and rivers, on this scene of
night; her solemn sensations rather assisted, than interrupted, by the
distant bark of a watch-dog, and by the breeze, as it trembled upon the
light foliage of the shrubs. Now and then, appeared for a moment, among
the woods, a cottage light; and, at length, was heard, afar off, the
evening bell of a convent, dying on the air. When she withdrew her
thoughts from these subjects of fanciful delight, the gloom and silence
of the saloon somewhat awed her; and, having sought the door of the
gallery, and pursued, for a considerable time, a dark passage, she came
to a hall, but one totally different from that she had formerly seen.
By the twilight, admitted through an open portico, she could just
distinguish this apartment to be of very light and airy architecture,
and that it was paved with white marble, pillars of which supported the
roof, that rose into arches built in the Moorish style. While Blanche
stood on the steps of this portico, the moon rose over the sea, and
gradually disclosed, in partial light, the beauties of the eminence, on
which she stood, whence a lawn, now rude and overgrown with high grass,
sloped to the woods, that, almost surrounding the chateau, extended in a
grand sweep down the southern sides of the promontory to the very margin
of the ocean. Beyond the woods, on the north-side, appeared a long tract
of the plains of Languedoc; and, to the east, the landscape she had
before dimly seen, with the towers of a monastery, illumined by the
moon, rising over dark groves.

The soft and shadowy tint, that overspread the scene, the waves,
undulating in the moon-light, and their low and measured murmurs on the
beach, were circumstances, that united to elevate the unaccustomed 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 experienced these delights! Every
peasant girl, on my father's domain, has viewed from her infancy the
face of nature; has ranged, at liberty, her romantic wilds, while I have
been shut in a cloister from the view of these beautiful appearances,
which were designed to enchant all eyes, and awaken all hearts. How
can the poor nuns and friars feel the full fervour of devotion, if they
never see the sun rise, or set? Never, till this evening, did I know
what true devotion is; for, never before did I see the sun sink below
the vast earth! To-morrow, for the first time in my life, I will see
it rise. O, who would live in Paris, to look upon black walls and dirty
streets, when, in the country, they might gaze on the blue heavens, and
all the green earth!'

This enthusiastic soliloquy was interrupted by a rustling noise in the
hall; and, while the loneliness of the place made her sensible to fear,
she thought she perceived something moving between the pillars. For
a moment, she continued silently observing it, till, ashamed of her
ridiculous apprehensions, she recollected courage enough to demand who
was there. 'O my young lady, is it you?' said the old housekeeper, who
was come to shut the windows, 'I am glad it is you.' The manner, in
which she spoke this, with a faint breath, rather surprised Blanche, who
said, 'You seemed frightened, Dorothee, what is the matter?'

'No, not frightened, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee, hesitating and
trying to appear composed, 'but I am old, and--a little matter startles
me.' The Lady Blanche smiled at the distinction. 'I am glad, that my
lord the Count is come to live at the chateau, ma'amselle,' continued
Dorothee, 'for it has been many a year deserted, and dreary enough; now,
the place will look a little as it used to do, when my poor lady was
alive.' Blanche enquired how long it was, since the Marchioness died?
'Alas! my lady,' replied Dorothee, '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
shew you to the other side of the chateau?'

Blanche enquired how long this part of the edifice had been built. 'Soon
after my lord's marriage, ma'am,' replied Dorothee. '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 antient mansion gloomy, and gloomy enough it is!'
Lady Blanche now desired to be shewn to the inhabited part of the
chateau; and, as the passages were entirely dark, Dorothee conducted her
along the edge of the lawn to the opposite side of the edifice, where,
a door opening into the great hall, she was met by Mademoiselle Bearn.
'Where have you been so long?' said she, 'I had begun to think some
wonderful adventure had befallen you, and that the giant of this
enchanted castle, or the ghost, which, no doubt, haunts it, had conveyed
you through a trap-door into some subterranean vault, whence you 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
them.'

'My dear Mademoiselle Bearn,' said Henri, as he met her at the door of
the parlour, 'no ghost of these days would be so savage as to impose
silence on you. Our ghosts are more civilized than to condemn a lady to
a purgatory severer even, than their own, be it what it may.'

Mademoiselle Bearn replied only by a laugh; and, the Count now entering
the room, supper was served, during which he spoke little, frequently
appeared to be abstracted from the company, and more than once remarked,
that the place was greatly altered, since he had last seen it. 'Many
years have intervened since that period,' said he; 'and, though the
grand features of the scenery admit of no change, they impress me with
sensations very different from those I formerly experienced.'

'Did these scenes, sir,' said Blanche, 'ever appear more lovely, than
they do now? To me this seems hardly possible.' The Count, regarding her
with a melancholy smile, said, 'They once were as delightful to me, as
they are now to you; the landscape is not changed, but time has changed
me; from my mind the illusion, which gave spirit to the colouring of
nature, is fading fast! If you live, my dear Blanche, to re-visit this
spot, at the distance of many years, you will, perhaps, remember and
understand the feelings of your father.'

Lady Blanche, affected by these words, remained silent; she looked
forward to the period, which the Count anticipated, and considering,
that he, who now spoke, would then probably be no more, her eyes, bent
to the ground, were filed with tears. She gave her hand to her father,
who, smiling affectionately, rose from his chair, and went to a window
to conceal his emotion.

The fatigues of the day made the party separate at an early hour,
when Blanche retired through a long oak gallery to her chamber, whose
spacious and lofty walls, high antiquated casements, and, what was the
effect of these, its gloomy air, did not reconcile her to its remote
situation, in this antient building. The furniture, also, was of antient
date; the bed was of blue damask, trimmed with tarnished gold lace,
and its lofty tester rose in the form of a canopy, whence the curtains
descended, like those of such tents as are sometimes represented in old
pictures, and, indeed, much resembling those, exhibited on the faded
tapestry, with which the chamber was hung. To Blanche, every object here
was matter of curiosity; and, taking the light from her woman to examine
the tapestry, she perceived, that it represented scenes from the wars
of Troy, though the almost colourless worsted now mocked the glowing
actions they once had painted. She laughed at the ludicrous absurdity
she observed, till, recollecting, that the hands, which had wove it,
were, like the poet, whose thoughts of fire they had attempted to
express, long since mouldered into dust, a train of melancholy ideas
passed over her mind, and she almost wept.

Having given her woman a strict injunction to awaken her, before
sun-rise, she dismissed her; and then, to dissipate the gloom, which
reflection had cast upon her spirits, opened one of the high casements,
and was again cheered by the face of living nature. The shadowy earth,
the air, and ocean--all was still. Along the deep serene of the heavens,
a few light clouds floated slowly, through whose skirts the stars now
seemed to tremble, and now to emerge with purer splendour. Blanche's
thoughts arose involuntarily to the Great Author of the sublime objects
she contemplated, and she breathed a prayer of finer devotion, than any
she had ever uttered beneath the vaulted roof of a cloister. At this
casement, she remained till the glooms of midnight were stretched over
the prospect. She then retired to her pillow, and, 'with gay visions of
to-morrow,' to those sweet slumbers, which health and happy innocence
only know.

  To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.



CHAPTER 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 slumbers continued, till long after the hour, which she had
so impatiently anticipated, for her woman, fatigued with travelling,
did not call her, till breakfast was nearly ready. Her disappointment,
however, was instantly forgotten, when, on opening the casement, she
saw, on one hand, the wide sea sparkling in the morning rays, with its
stealing sails and glancing oars; and, on the other, the fresh woods,
the plains far-stretching and the blue mountains, all glowing with the
splendour of day.

As she inspired the pure breeze, health spread a deeper blush upon her
countenance, 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 religion a pretence, too,
where all that should inspire it, is so carefully shut out! God is
best pleased with the homage of a grateful heart, and, when we view his
glories, we feel most grateful. I never felt so much devotion, during
the many dull years I was in the convent, as I have done in the few
hours, that I have been here, where I need only look on all around
me--to adore God in my inmost heart!'

Saying this, she left the window, bounded along the gallery, and, in
the next moment, was in the breakfast room, where the Count was
already seated. The cheerfulness of a bright sunshine had dispersed
the melancholy glooms of his reflections, a pleasant smile was on his
countenance, and he spoke in an enlivening voice to Blanche, whose
heart echoed back the tones. Henri and, soon after, the Countess with
Mademoiselle Bearn appeared, and the whole party seemed to acknowledge
the influence of the scene; even the Countess was so much 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 condition of
his premises, and to visit some of his tenants; Henri hastened with
alacrity to the shore to examine a boat, that was to bear them on a
little voyage in the evening and to superintend the adjustment of a silk
awning; while the Countess, attended by Mademoiselle Bearn, retired to
an apartment on the modern side of the chateau, which was fitted up with
airy elegance; and, as the windows opened upon balconies, that fronted
the sea, she was there saved from a view of the HORRID Pyrenees. Here,
while she reclined on a sofa, and, casting her languid eyes over the
ocean, which appeared beyond the wood-tops, indulged in the luxuries of
ENNUI, her companion read aloud a sentimental novel, on some 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, hastened 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 interwoven branches, where the fresh dew still hung upon every
flower, that peeped from among the grass; and now tripped sportively
along the path, on which the sunbeams darted and the checquered foliage
trembled--where the tender greens of the beech, the acacia and the
mountain-ash, mingling with the solemn tints of the cedar, the pine and
cypress, exhibited as fine a contrast of colouring, as the majestic oak
and oriental plane did of form, to the feathery lightness of the cork
tree and the waving grace of the poplar.

Having reached a rustic seat, within a deep recess of the woods, she
rested awhile, and, as her eyes caught, through a distant opening, a
glimpse of the blue waters of the Mediterranean, with the white sail,
gliding on its bosom, or of the broad mountain, glowing beneath the
mid-day sun, her mind experienced somewhat of that exquisite delight,
which awakens the fancy, and leads to poetry. The hum of bees alone
broke the stillness around her, as, with other insects of various
hues, they sported gaily in the shade, or sipped sweets from the fresh
flowers: and, while Blanche watched a butter-fly, flitting from bud to
bud, she indulged herself in imagining the pleasures of its short day,
till she had composed the following stanzas.

  THE BUTTER-FLY TO HIS LOVE

 What bowery 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 fluttering sounds thy coming tell,
 No waving wings, at distance, gleam.

 But fountain fresh, nor breathing grove,
 Nor sunny mead, nor blossom'd tree,
 So sweet as lily's cell shall prove,--
 The bower 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 wanton gales breathe through the shade,
 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, where the jasmine spreads
 Her snowy leaf, where may-flow'rs hide,
 And rose-buds rear their peeping heads.

 With me the mountain's summit scale,
 And taste the wild-thyme's honied bloom,
 Whose fragrance, floating on the gale,
 Oft 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 wish'd to please,
 And with me only thou wouldst stray.

 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 roam!

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
antient first attracted her curiosity; for, though what she had seen of
the modern was gay and elegant, there was something in the former more
interesting to her imagination. Having passed up the great stair-case,
and through the oak gallery, she entered upon a long suite of chambers,
whose walls were either hung with tapestry, or wainscoted with cedar,
the furniture of which looked almost as antient as the rooms themselves;
the spacious fire-places, where no mark of social cheer remained,
presented an image of cold desolation; and the whole suite had so much
the air of neglect and desertion, that it seemed, as if the venerable
persons, whose portraits hung upon the walls, had been the last to
inhabit them.

On leaving these rooms, she found herself in another gallery, one end of
which was terminated by a back stair-case, and the other by a door,
that seemed to communicate with the north-side of the chateau, but which
being fastened, she descended the stair-case, and, opening a door in
the wall, a few steps down, found herself in a small square room, that
formed part of the west turret of the castle. Three windows presented
each a separate and beautiful prospect; that to the north, overlooking
Languedoc; another to the west, the hills ascending towards the
Pyrenees, whose awful summits crowned the landscape; and a third,
fronting the south, gave the Mediterranean, and a part of the wild
shores of Rousillon, to the eye.

Having left the turret, and descended the narrow stair-case, she found
herself in a dusky passage, where she wandered, unable to find her way,
till impatience yielded to apprehension, and she called for assistance.
Presently steps approached, and light glimmered through a door at the
other extremity of the passage, which was opened with caution by some
person, who did not venture beyond it, and whom Blanche observed
in silence, till the door was closing, when she called aloud, and,
hastening towards it, perceived the old housekeeper. 'Dear ma'amselle!
is it you?' said Dorothee, 'How could you find your way hither?' Had
Blanche been less occupied by her own fears, she would probably have
observed the strong expressions of terror and surprise on Dorothee's
countenance, who now led her through a long succession of passages and
rooms, that looked as if they had been uninhabited for a century,
till they reached that appropriated to the housekeeper, where Dorothee
entreated she would sit down and take refreshment. Blanche accepted the
sweet meats, offered to her, mentioned her discovery of the pleasant
turret, and her wish to appropriate it to her own use. Whether
Dorothee's taste was not so sensible to the beauties of landscape as her
young lady's, or that the constant view of lovely scenery had deadened
it, she forbore to praise the subject of Blanche's enthusiasm, which,
however, her silence did not repress. To Lady Blanche's enquiry of
whither the door she had found fastened at the end of the gallery led,
she replied, that it opened to a suite of rooms, which had not been
entered, during many years, 'For,' added she, 'my late lady died in one
of them, and I could never find in my heart to go into them since.'

Blanche, though she wished to see these chambers, forbore, on observing
that Dorothee's eyes were filled with tears, to ask her to unlock them,
and, soon after, went to dress for dinner, at which the whole party met
in good spirits and good humour, except the Countess, whose vacant mind,
overcome by the languor of idleness, would neither suffer her to be
happy herself, or to contribute to the happiness of others. Mademoiselle
Bearn, attempting to be witty, directed her badinage against Henri,
who answered, because he could not well avoid it, rather than from any
inclination to notice her, whose liveliness sometimes amused, but whose
conceit and insensibility often disgusted him.

The cheerfulness, with which Blanche rejoined the party, vanished, on
her reaching the margin of the sea; she gazed with apprehension upon
the immense expanse of waters, which, at a distance, she had beheld only
with delight and astonishment, and it was by a strong effort, that she
so far overcame her fears as to follow her father into the boat.

As she silently surveyed the vast horizon, bending round the distant
verge of the ocean, an emotion of sublimest rapture struggled to
overcome a sense of personal danger. A light breeze played on the
water, and on the silk awning of the boat, and waved the foliage of the
receding woods, that crowned the cliffs, for many miles, and which the
Count surveyed with the pride of conscious property, as well as with the
eye of taste.

At some distance, among these woods, stood a pavilion, which had once
been the scene of social gaiety, and which its situation still made
one of romantic beauty. Thither, the Count had ordered coffee and other
refreshment to be carried, and thither the sailors now steered
their course, following the windings of the shore round many a woody
promontory and circling bay; while the pensive tones of horns and other
wind instruments, played by the attendants in a distant boat, echoed
among the rocks, and died along the waves. Blanche had now subdued her
fears; a delightful tranquillity stole over her mind, and held her in
silence; and she was too happy even to remember the convent, or her
former sorrows, as subjects of comparison with her present felicity.

The Countess felt less unhappy than she had done, since the moment of
her leaving Paris; for her mind was now under some degree of restraint;
she feared to indulge its wayward humours, and even wished to recover
the Count's good opinion. On his family, and on the surrounding scene,
he looked with tempered pleasure and benevolent satisfaction, while his
son exhibited the gay spirits of youth, anticipating new delights, and
regretless of those, that were passed.

After near an hour's rowing, the party landed, and ascended a little
path, overgrown with vegetation. At a little distance from the point
of the eminence, within the shadowy recess of the woods, appeared
the pavilion, which Blanche perceived, as she caught a glimpse of its
portico between the trees, to be built of variegated marble. As she
followed the Countess, she often turned her eyes with rapture towards
the ocean, seen beneath the dark foliage, far below, and from thence
upon the deep woods, whose silence and impenetrable gloom awakened
emotions more solemn, but scarcely less delightful.

The pavilion had been prepared, as far as was possible, on a very short
notice, for the reception of its visitors; but the faded colours of
its painted walls and ceiling, and the decayed drapery of its once
magnificent furniture, declared how long it had been neglected, and
abandoned to the empire of the changing seasons. While the party partook
of a collation of fruit and coffee, the horns, placed in a distant part
of the woods, where an echo sweetened and prolonged their melancholy
tones, broke softly on the stillness of the scene. This spot seemed to
attract even the admiration of the Countess, or, perhaps, it was merely
the pleasure of planning furniture and decorations, that made her dwell
so long on the necessity of repairing and adorning it; while the Count,
never happier than when he saw her mind engaged by natural and simple
objects, acquiesced in all her designs, concerning the pavilion.
The paintings on the walls and coved ceiling were to be renewed, the
canopies and sofas were to be of light green damask; marble statues of
wood-nymphs, bearing on their heads baskets of living flowers, were to
adorn the recesses between the windows, which, descending to the ground,
were to admit to every part of the room, and it was of octagonal form,
the various landscape. One window opened upon a romantic glade, where
the eye roved among the woody recesses, and the scene was bounded
only by a lengthened pomp of groves; from another, the woods receding
disclosed the distant summits of the Pyrenees; a third fronted an
avenue, beyond which the grey towers of Chateau-le-Blanc, and a
picturesque part of its ruin were seen partially among the foliage;
while a fourth gave, between the trees, a glimpse of the green pastures
and villages, that diversify the banks of the Aude. The Mediterranean,
with the bold cliffs, that overlooked its shores, were the grand objects
of a fifth window, and the others gave, in different points of view, the
wild scenery of the woods.

After wandering, for some time, in these, the party returned to the
shore and embarked; and, the beauty of the evening tempting them to
extend their excursion, they proceeded further up the bay. A dead calm
had succeeded the light breeze, that wafted them hither, and the men
took to their oars. Around, the waters were spread into one vast expanse
of polished mirror, reflecting the grey cliffs and feathery woods, that
over-hung its surface, the glow of the western horizon and the dark
clouds, that came slowly from the east. Blanche loved to see the dipping
oars imprint the water, and to watch the spreading circles they left,
which gave a tremulous motion to the reflected landscape, without
destroying the harmony of its features.

Above the darkness of the woods, her eye now caught a cluster of high
towers, touched with the splendour of the setting rays; and, soon after,
the horns being then silent, she heard the faint swell of choral voices
from a distance.

'What voices are those, upon the air?' said the Count, looking
round, and listening; but the strain had ceased. 'It seemed to be a
vesper-hymn, which I have often heard in my convent,' said Blanche.

'We are near the monastery, then,' observed the Count; and, the boat
soon after doubling a lofty head-land, the monastery of St. Claire
appeared, seated near the margin of the sea, where the cliffs, suddenly
sinking, formed a low shore within a small bay, almost encircled with
woods, among which partial features of the edifice were seen;--the great
gate and gothic window of the hall, the cloisters and the side of a
chapel more remote; while a venerable arch, which had once led to a part
of the fabric, now demolished, stood a majestic ruin detached from the
main building, beyond which appeared a grand perspective of the woods.
On the grey walls, the moss had fastened, and, round the pointed windows
of the chapel, the ivy and the briony hung in many a fantastic wreath.

All without was silent and forsaken; but, while Blanche gazed with
admiration on this venerable pile, whose effect was heightened by the
strong lights and shadows thrown athwart it by a cloudy sun-set, a sound
of many voices, slowly chanting, arose from within. The Count bade his
men rest on their oars. The monks were singing the hymn of vespers, and
some female voices mingled with the strain, which rose by soft degrees,
till the high organ and the choral sounds swelled into full and solemn
harmony. The strain, soon after, dropped into sudden silence, and was
renewed in a low and still more solemn key, till, at length, the holy
chorus died away, and was heard no more.--Blanche sighed, tears trembled
in her eyes, and her thoughts seemed wafted with the sounds to heaven.
While a rapt stillness prevailed in the boat, a train of friars, and
then of nuns, veiled in white, issued from the cloisters, and passed,
under the shade of the woods, to the main body of the edifice.

The Countess was the first of her party to awaken from this pause of
silence.

'These dismal hymns and friars make one quite melancholy,' said she;
'twilight is coming on; pray let us return, or it will be dark before we
get home.'

The count, looking up, now perceived, that the twilight of evening
was anticipated by an approaching storm. In the east a tempest was
collecting; a heavy gloom came on, opposing and contrasting the glowing
splendour of the setting sun. The clamorous sea-fowl skimmed in fleet
circles upon the surface of the sea, dipping their light pinions in the
wave, as they fled away in search of shelter. The boatmen pulled hard
at their oars; but the thunder, that now muttered at a distance, and the
heavy drops, that began to dimple the water, made the Count determine
to put back to the monastery for shelter, and the course of the boat
was immediately changed. As the clouds approached the west, their lurid
darkness changed to a deep ruddy glow, which, by reflection, seemed to
fire the tops of the woods and the shattered towers of the monastery.

The appearance of the heavens alarmed the Countess and Mademoiselle
Bearn, whose expressions of apprehension distressed the Count, and
perplexed his men; while Blanche continued silent, now agitated with
fear, and now with admiration, as she viewed the grandeur of the clouds,
and their effect on the scenery, and listened to the long, long peals of
thunder, that rolled through the air.

The boat having reached the lawn before the monastery, the Count sent a
servant to announce his arrival, and to entreat shelter of the Superior,
who, soon after, appeared at the great gate, attended by several
monks, while the servant returned with a message, expressive at once of
hospitality and pride, but of pride disguised in submission. The party
immediately disembarked, and, having hastily crossed the lawn--for the
shower was now heavy--were received at the gate by the Superior, who, as
they entered, stretched forth his hands and gave his blessing; and they
passed into the great hall, where the lady abbess waited, attended by
several nuns, clothed, like herself, in black, and veiled in white.
The veil of the abbess was, however, thrown half back, and discovered a
countenance, whose chaste dignity was sweetened by the smile of welcome,
with which she addressed the Countess, whom she led, with Blanche and
Mademoiselle Bearn, into the convent parlour, while the Count and Henri
were conducted by the Superior to the refectory.

The Countess, fatigued and discontented, received the politeness of the
abbess with careless haughtiness, and had followed her, with indolent
steps, to the parlour, over which the painted casements and wainscot of
larch-wood threw, at all times, a melancholy shade, and where the gloom
of evening now loured almost to darkness.

While the lady abbess ordered refreshment, and conversed with the
Countess, Blanche withdrew to a window, the lower panes of which, being
without painting, allowed her to observe the progress of the storm over
the Mediterranean, whose dark waves, that had so lately slept, now came
boldly swelling, in long succession, to the shore, where they burst in
white foam, and threw up a high spray over the rocks. A red sulphureous
tint overspread the long line of clouds, that hung above the western
horizon, beneath whose dark skirts the sun looking out, illumined the
distant shores of Languedoc, as well as the tufted summits of the nearer
woods, and shed a partial gleam on the western waves. The rest of the
scene was in deep gloom, except where a sun-beam, darting between the
clouds, glanced on the white wings of the sea-fowl, that circled high
among them, or touched the swelling sail of a vessel, which was seen
labouring in the storm. Blanche, for some time, anxiously watched the
progress of the bark, as it threw the waves in foam around it, and, as
the lightnings flashed, looked to the opening heavens, with many a sigh
for the fate of the poor mariners.

The sun, at length, set, and the heavy clouds, which had long impended,
dropped over the splendour of his course; the vessel, however, was
yet dimly seen, and Blanche continued to observe it, till the quick
succession of flashes, lighting up the gloom of the whole horizon,
warned her to retire from the window, and she joined the Abbess, who,
having exhausted all her topics of conversation with the Countess, had
now leisure to notice her.

But their discourse was interrupted by tremendous peals of thunder;
and the bell of the monastery soon after ringing out, summoned the
inhabitants to prayer. As Blanche passed the window, she gave another
look to the ocean, where, by the momentary flash, that illumined the
vast body of the waters, she distinguished the vessel she had observed
before, amidst a sea of foam, breaking the billows, the mast now bowing
to the waves, and then rising high in air.

She sighed fervently as she gazed, and then followed the Lady Abbess
and the Countess to the chapel. Meanwhile, some of the Count's servants,
having gone by land to the 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 vesper bell she had heard, on the
preceding evening, from the windows of the west saloon, and whose towers
she would also have seen from thence, had not twilight veiled them.

On their arrival at the chateau, the Countess, affecting more fatigue,
than she really felt, withdrew to her apartment, and the Count, with
his daughter and Henri, went to the supper-room, where they had not been
long, when they heard, in a pause of the gust, a firing of guns, which
the Count understanding to be signals of distress from some vessel in
the storm, went to a window, that opened towards the Mediterranean, to
observe further; but the sea was now involved in utter darkness, and
the loud howlings of the tempest had again overcome every other sound.
Blanche, remembering the bark, which she had before seen, now joined her
father, with trembling anxiety. In a few moments, the report of guns was
again borne along the wind, and as suddenly wafted away; a tremendous
burst of thunder followed, and, in the flash, that had preceded it, and
which seemed to quiver over the whole surface of the waters, a vessel
was discovered, tossing amidst the white foam of the waves at some
distance from the shore. Impenetrable darkness again involved the scene,
but soon a second flash shewed the bark, with one sail unfurled, driving
towards the coast. Blanche hung upon her father's arm, with looks full
of the agony of united terror and pity, which were unnecessary to
awaken the heart of the Count, who gazed upon the sea with a piteous
expression, and, perceiving, that no boat could live in the storm,
forbore to send one; but he gave orders to his people to carry torches
out upon the cliffs, hoping they might prove a kind of beacon to the
vessel, or, at least, warn the crew of the rocks they were approaching.
While Henri went out to direct on what part of the cliffs the lights
should appear, Blanche remained with her father, at the window,
catching, every now and then, as the lightnings flashed, a glimpse of
the vessel; and she soon saw, with reviving hope, the torches flaming
on the blackness of night, and, as they waved over the cliffs, casting a
red gleam on the gasping billows. When the firing of guns was repeated,
the torches were tossed high in the air, as if answering the signal, and
the firing was then redoubled; but, though the wind bore the sound away,
she fancied, as the lightnings glanced, that the vessel was much nearer
the shore.

The Count's servants were now seen, running to and fro, on the rocks;
some venturing almost to the point of the crags, and bending over, held
out their torches fastened to long poles; while others, whose steps
could be traced only by the course of the lights, descended the steep
and dangerous path, that wound to the margin of the sea, and, with loud
halloos, hailed the mariners, whose shrill whistle, and then feeble
voices, were heard, at intervals, mingling with the storm. Sudden shouts
from the people on the rocks increased the anxiety of Blanche to an
almost intolerable degree: but her suspense, concerning the fate of the
mariners, was soon over, when Henri, running breathless into the room,
told that the vessel was anchored in the bay below, but in so shattered
a condition, that it was feared she would part before the crew could
disembark. The Count immediately gave orders for his own boats to assist
in bringing them to shore, and that such of these unfortunate
strangers as could not be accommodated in the adjacent hamlet should
be entertained at the 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 monastery 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 Monsieur Du Pont the Count discovered an old acquaintance, and
much joy and congratulation passed between them, after which Emily was
introduced by name to the Count's family, whose hospitable benevolence
dissipated the little embarrassment, which her situation had occasioned
her, and the party were soon seated at the supper-table. The unaffected
kindness of Blanche and the lively joy she expressed on the escape of
the strangers, for whom her pity had been so much interested, gradually
revived Emily's languid spirits; and Du Pont, relieved from his terrors
for her and for himself, felt the full contrast, between his late
situation on a dark and tremendous ocean, and his present one, in a
cheerful mansion, where he was surrounded with plenty, elegance and
smiles of welcome.

Annette, meanwhile, in the servants' hall, was telling of all the
dangers she had encountered, and congratulating herself so heartily upon
her own and Ludovico's escape, and on her present comforts, that
she often made all that part of the chateau ring with merriment
and laughter. Ludovico's spirits were as gay as her own, but he had
discretion enough to restrain them, and tried to check hers, though in
vain, till her laughter, at length, ascended to MY LADY'S chamber, who
sent to enquire what occasioned so much uproar in the chateau, and to
command silence.

Emily withdrew early to seek the repose she so much required, but
her pillow was long a sleepless one. On this her return to her native
country, many interesting remembrances were awakened; all the events
and sufferings she had experienced, since she quitted it, came in
long succession to her fancy, and were chased only by the image of
Valancourt, with whom to believe herself once more in the same land,
after they had been so long, and so distantly separated, gave her
emotions of indescribable joy, but which afterwards yielded to anxiety
and apprehension, when she considered the long period, that had elapsed,
since any letter had passed between them, and how much might have
happened in this interval to affect her future peace. But the thought,
that Valancourt might be now no more, or, if living, might have
forgotten her, was so very terrible to her heart, that she would
scarcely suffer herself to pause upon the possibility. She determined to
inform him, on the following day, of her arrival in France, which it was
scarcely possible he could know but by a letter from herself, and, after
soothing her spirits with the hope of soon hearing, that he was well,
and unchanged in his affections, she, at length, sunk to repose.



CHAPTER XII


     Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright,
 In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of folly,
 With freedom by my side, and soft-ey'd melancholy.
     GRAY

The Lady Blanche was so much interested for Emily, that, upon hearing
she was going to reside in the neighbouring convent, she requested the
Count would invite her to lengthen her stay at the chateau. 'And you
know, my dear sir,' added Blanche, 'how delighted I shall be with such
a companion; for, at present, I have no friend to walk, or to read with,
since Mademoiselle Bearn is my mamma's friend only.'

The Count smiled at the youthful simplicity, with which his daughter
yielded to first impressions; and, though he chose to warn her of their
danger, he silently applauded the benevolence, that could thus readily
expand in confidence to a stranger. He had observed Emily, with
attention, on the preceding evening, and was as much pleased with
her, as it was possible he could be with any person, on so short an
acquaintance. The mention, made of her by Mons. Du Pont, had also given
him a favourable impression of Emily; but, extremely cautious as
to those, whom he introduced to the intimacy of his daughter, he
determined, on hearing that the former was no stranger at the convent of
St. Claire, to visit the abbess, and, if her account corresponded with
his wish, to invite Emily to pass some time at the chateau. On this
subject, he was influenced by a consideration of the Lady Blanche's
welfare, still more than by either a wish to oblige her, or to befriend
the orphan Emily, for whom, however, he felt considerably interested.

On the following morning, Emily was too much fatigued to appear; but
Mons. Du Pont was at the breakfast-table, when the Count entered the
room, who pressed him, as his former acquaintance, and the son of a very
old friend, to prolong his stay at the 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 affection, he had not fortitude enough to attempt, at
present, to overcome it.

Emily, when she was somewhat recovered, 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
monastery, and remarked, that it was to this convent she designed to go.

'Ah!' said Blanche with surprise, 'I am but just released from a
convent, and would you go into one? If you could know what pleasure
I feel in wandering here, at liberty,--and in seeing the sky and the
fields, and the woods all round me, I think you would not.' Emily,
smiling at the warmth, with which the Lady Blanche spoke, observed, that
she did not mean to confine herself to a convent for life.

'No, you may not intend it now,' said Blanche; 'but you do not know to
what the nuns may persuade you to consent: I know how kind they will
appear, and how happy, for I have seen too much of their art.'

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 castle of Udolpho, which were yet more antique and grotesque.
She was also interested by Dorothee the house-keeper, who attended them,
whose appearance was almost as antique as the objects around her, and
who seemed no less interested by Emily, on whom she frequently gazed
with so much deep attention, as scarcely to hear what was said to her.

While Emily looked from one of the casements, she perceived, with
surprise, some objects, that were familiar to her memory;--the fields
and woods, with the gleaming brook, which she had passed with La Voisin,
one evening, soon after the death of Monsieur St. Aubert, in her way
from the monastery to her cottage; and she now knew this to be the
chateau, which he 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 silence, and remembered the emotion, which her father
had betrayed on finding himself so near this mansion, and some other
circumstances of his conduct, that now greatly interested her. The
music, too, which she had formerly heard, and, respecting which La
Voisin had given such an odd account, occurred to her, and, desirous of
knowing more concerning it, she asked Dorothee whether it returned at
midnight, as usual, and whether the musician had yet been discovered.

'Yes, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee, '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, she felt awe mingle with her curiosity, on
this subject; and Blanche, who had hitherto listened in silence, now
enquired what this music was, and how long it had been heard.

'Ever since the death of my lady, madam,' replied Dorothee.

'Why, the place is not haunted, surely?' said Blanche, between jesting
and seriousness.

'I have heard that music almost ever since my dear lady died,' continued
Dorothee, '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 sister Henriette, and
sister 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 Dorothee. 'Never!' replied Blanche
with impatience.

'Nor the reason, that my lord, the Marquis'--Dorothee checked herself,
hesitated, and then endeavoured to change the topic; but the curiosity
of Blanche was too much awakened to suffer the subject thus easily to
escape her, and she pressed the old house-keeper to proceed with her
account, upon whom, however, no entreaties could prevail; and it was
evident, that she was alarmed for the imprudence, into which she had
already betrayed herself.

'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 silent; Dorothee looked grave, and sighed; and Emily felt
herself still inclined to believe more of the wonderful, than she
chose to acknowledge. Just then, she remembered the spectacle she had
witnessed in a chamber of Udolpho, and, by an odd kind of coincidence,
the alarming words, that had accidentally met her eye in the MS. papers,
which she had destroyed, in obedience to the command of her father; and
she shuddered at the meaning they seemed to impart, almost as much as at
the horrible appearance, disclosed by the black veil.

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, unable to prevail with Dorothee to explain
the subject of her late hints, had desired, on reaching the door, that
terminated the gallery, and which she found fastened on the preceding
day, to see the suite of rooms beyond. 'Dear young lady,' said the
housekeeper, 'I have told you my reason for not opening them; I have
never seen them, since my dear lady died; and it would go hard with me
to see them now. Pray, madam, do not ask me again.'

'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 remember every thing, that happened then, as if it was but
yesterday. Many things, that have passed of late years, are gone quite
from my memory, while those so long ago, I can see as if in a glass.'
She paused, but afterwards, as they walked up the gallery, added to
Emily, 'this young lady sometimes brings the late Marchioness to my
mind; I can remember, when she looked just as blooming, and very like
her, when she smiles. Poor lady! how gay she was, when she first came to
the chateau!'

'And was she not gay, afterwards?' said Blanche.

Dorothee shook her head; and Emily observed her, with eyes strongly
expressive of the interest she now felt. 'Let us sit down in this
window,' said the Lady Blanche, on reaching the opposite end of the
gallery: 'and pray, Dorothee, if it is not painful to you, tell us
something more about the Marchioness. I should like to look into the
glass you spoke of just now, and see a few of the circumstances, which
you say often pass over it.'

'No, my lady,' replied Dorothee; 'if you knew as much as I do, you would
not, for you would find there a dismal train of them; I often wish I
could shut them out, but they will rise to my mind. I see my dear lady
on her death-bed,--her very look,--and remember all she said--it was a
terrible scene!'

'Why was it so terrible?' said Emily with emotion.

'Ah, dear young lady! is not death always terrible?' replied Dorothee.

To some further enquiries of Blanche Dorothee was silent; and Emily,
observing the tears in her eyes, forbore to urge the subject, and
endeavoured to withdraw the attention of her young friend to some object
in the gardens, where the Count, with the Countess and Monsieur Du Pont,
appearing, they went down to join them.

When he perceived Emily, he advanced to meet her, and presented her to
the Countess, in a manner so benign, that it recalled most powerfully
to her mind the idea of her late father, and she felt more gratitude to
him, than embarrassment towards the Countess, who, however, received
her with one of those fascinating smiles, which her caprice sometimes
allowed her to assume, and which was now the result of a conversation
the Count had held with her, concerning Emily. Whatever this might be,
or whatever had passed in his conversation with the lady abbess, whom
he had just visited, esteem and kindness were strongly apparent in his
manner, when he addressed Emily, who experienced that sweet emotion,
which arises from the consciousness of possessing the approbation of
the good; for to the Count's worth she had been inclined to yield her
confidence almost from the first moment, in which she had seen him.

Before she could finish her acknowledgments for the hospitality she had
received, and mention of her design of going immediately to the convent,
she was interrupted by an invitation to lengthen her stay at the
chateau, which was pressed by the Count and the Countess, with an
appearance of such friendly sincerity, that, though she much wished to
see her old friends at the monastery, and to sigh, once more, over her
father's grave, she consented to remain a few days at the chateau.

To the abbess, however, she immediately wrote, mentioning her arrival
in Languedoc and her wish to be received into the convent, as a boarder;
she also sent letters to Monsieur Quesnel and to Valancourt, whom she
merely informed of her arrival in France; and, as she knew not where the
latter might be stationed, she directed her letter to his brother's seat
in Gascony.

In the evening, Lady Blanche and Mons. Du Pont walked with Emily to
the cottage of La Voisin, which she had now a melancholy pleasure in
approaching, for time had softened her grief for the loss of St. Aubert,
though it could not annihilate it, and she felt a soothing sadness in
indulging the recollections, which this scene recalled. La Voisin was
still living, and seemed to enjoy, as much as formerly, the tranquil
evening of a blameless life. He was sitting at the door of his cottage,
watching some of his grandchildren, playing on the grass before him,
and, now and then, with a laugh, or a commendation, encouraging their
sports. He immediately recollected Emily, whom he was much pleased to
see, and she was as rejoiced to hear, that he had not lost one of his
family, since her departure.

'Yes, ma'amselle,' said the old man, 'we all live merrily together
still, thank God! and I believe there is not a happier family to be
found in Languedoc, than ours.'

Emily did not trust herself in the chamber, where St. Aubert died; and,
after half an hour's conversation with La Voisin and his family, she
left the cottage.

During these the first days of her stay at Chateau-le-Blanc, she was
often affected, by observing the deep, but silent melancholy, which, at
times, stole over Du Pont; and Emily, pitying the self-delusion, which
disarmed him of the will to depart, determined to withdraw herself as
soon as the respect she owed the Count and Countess De Villefort would
permit. The dejection of his friend soon alarmed the anxiety of the
Count, to whom Du Pont, at length, confided the secret of his hopeless
affection, which, however, the former could only commiserate, though he
secretly determined to befriend his suit, if an opportunity of doing so
should ever occur. Considering the dangerous situation of Du Pont, he
but feebly opposed his intention of leaving Chateau-le-Blanc, on the
following day, but drew from him a promise of a longer visit, when he
could return with safety to his peace. Emily herself, though she could
not encourage his affection, esteemed him both for the many virtues he
possessed, and for the services she had received from him; and it was
not without tender emotions of gratitude and pity, that she now saw him
depart for his family seat in Gascony; while he took leave of her with
a countenance so expressive of love and grief, as to interest the Count
more warmly in his cause than before.

In a few days, Emily also left the chateau, but not before the Count and
Countess had received her promise to repeat her visit very soon; and
she was welcomed by the abbess, with the same maternal kindness she had
formerly experienced, and by the nuns, with much expression of regard.
The well-known scenes of the convent occasioned her many melancholy
recollections, but with these were mingled others, that inspired
gratitude for having escaped the various dangers, that had pursued her,
since she quitted it, and for the good, which she yet possessed; and,
though she once more wept over her father's grave, with tears of tender
affection, her grief was softened from its former acuteness.

Some time after her return to the monastery, she received a letter from
her uncle, Mons. Quesnel, in answer to information that she had arrived
in France, and to her enquiries, concerning such of her affairs as
he had undertaken to conduct during her absence, especially as to the
period for which La Vallee had been let, whither it was her wish to
return, if it should appear, that her income would permit her to do
so. The reply of Mons. Quesnel was cold and formal, as she expected,
expressing neither concern for the evils she suffered, nor pleasure,
that she was now removed from them; nor did he allow the opportunity
to pass, of reproving her for her rejection of Count Morano, whom he
affected still to believe a man of honour and fortune; nor of vehemently
declaiming against Montoni, to whom he had always, till now, felt
himself to be inferior. On Emily's pecuniary concerns, he was not very
explicit; he informed her, however, that the term, for which La Vallee
had been engaged, was nearly expired; but, without inviting her to his
own house, added, that her circumstances would by no means allow her to
reside there, and earnestly advised her to remain, for the present, in
the convent of St. Claire.

To her enquiries respecting poor old Theresa, her late father's servant,
he gave no answer. In the postscript to his letter, Monsieur Quesnel
mentioned M. Motteville, in whose hands the late St. Aubert had placed
the chief of his personal property, as being likely to arrange his
affairs nearly to the satisfaction of his creditors, and that Emily
would recover much more of her fortune, than she had formerly reason to
expect. The letter also inclosed to Emily an order upon a merchant at
Narbonne, for a small sum of money.

The tranquillity of the monastery, and the liberty she was suffered
to enjoy, in wandering among the woods and shores of this delightful
province, gradually restored her spirits to their natural tone, except
that anxiety would sometimes intrude, concerning Valancourt, as the time
approached, when it was possible that she might receive an answer to her
letter.



CHAPTER 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 masts, and sing through ev'ry shroud:
 Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors 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 delight she received from the beautiful scenery around. She had now
no person, to whom she could express her admiration and communicate
her pleasures, no eye, that sparkled to her smile, or countenance, that
reflected her happiness; and she became spiritless and pensive. The
Count, observing her dissatisfaction, readily yielded to her entreaties,
and reminded Emily of her promised visit; but the silence of Valancourt,
which was now prolonged far beyond the period, when a letter might
have arrived from Estuviere, oppressed Emily with severe anxiety, and,
rendering her averse to society, she would willingly have deferred her
acceptance of this invitation, till her spirits should be relieved.
The Count and his family, however, pressed to see her; and, as the
circumstances, that prompted her wish for solitude, could not be
explained, there was an appearance of caprice in her refusal, which she
could not persevere in, without offending the friends, whose esteem
she valued. At length, therefore, she returned upon a second visit
to Chateau-le-Blanc. Here the friendly manner of Count De Villefort
encouraged Emily to mention to him her situation, respecting the estates
of her late aunt, and to consult him on the means of recovering them. He
had little doubt, that the law would decide in her favour, and, advising
her to apply to it, offered first to write to an advocate at Avignon,
on whose opinion he thought he could rely. His kindness was gratefully
accepted by Emily, who, soothed by the courtesy she daily experienced,
would have been once more happy, could she have been assured of
Valancourt's welfare and unaltered affection. She had now been above a
week at the chateau, without receiving intelligence of him, and, though
she knew, that, if he was absent from his brother's residence, it was
scarcely probable her letter had yet reached him, she could not forbear
to admit doubts and fears, that destroyed her peace. Again she would
consider of all, that might have happened in the long period, since her
first seclusion at Udolpho, and her mind was sometimes so overwhelmed
with an apprehension, that Valancourt was no more, or that he lived
no longer for her, that the company even of Blanche became intolerably
oppressive, and she would sit alone in her apartment for hours together,
when the engagements of the family allowed her to do so, without
incivility.

In one of these solitary hours, she unlocked a little box, which
contained some letters of Valancourt, with some drawings she had
sketched, during her stay in Tuscany, the latter of which were no
longer interesting to her; but, in the letters, she now, with melancholy
indulgence, meant to retrace the tenderness, that had so often soothed
her, and rendered her, for a moment, insensible of the distance, which
separated her from the writer. But their effect was now changed; the
affection they expressed appealed so forcibly to her heart, when she
considered that it had, perhaps, yielded to the powers of time and
absence, and even the view of the hand-writing recalled so many painful
recollections, that she found herself unable to go through the first she
had opened, and sat musing, with her cheek resting on her arm, and tears
stealing from her eyes, when old Dorothee entered the room to inform
her, that dinner would be ready, an hour before the usual time. Emily
started on perceiving her, and hastily put up the papers, but not before
Dorothee had observed both her agitation and her tears.

'Ah, ma'amselle!' said she, 'you, who are so young,--have you reason for
sorrow?'

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 serious, to grieve you.'

'No, Dorothee, nothing of any consequence,' replied Emily. Dorothee, 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 see?' said Emily, alarmed by her manner, and looking
round the room.

'It is herself,' said Dorothee, 'her very self! just as she looked a
little before she died!'

Emily, still more alarmed, began now to fear, that Dorothee was seized
with sudden phrensy, but entreated her to explain herself.

'That picture!' 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 seen him shed such tender and affecting tears; and,
recollecting all the various circumstances of his conduct, that had long
perplexed her, her emotions increased to an excess, which deprived her
of all power to ask the questions she trembled to have answered, and she
could only enquire, whether Dorothee was certain the picture resembled
the late marchioness.

'O, ma'amselle!' said she, 'how came it to strike me so, the instant I
saw it, if it was not my lady's likeness? Ah!' added she, taking up the
miniature, 'these are her own blue eyes--looking so sweet and so mild;
and there is her very look, such as I have often seen it, when she had
sat thinking for a long while, and then, the tears would often steal
down her cheeks--but she never would complain! It was that look so meek,
as it were, and resigned, that used to break my heart and make me love
her so!'

'Dorothee!' said Emily solemnly, 'I am interested in the cause of that
grief, more so, perhaps, than you may imagine; and I entreat, that you
will no longer refuse to indulge my curiosity;--it is not a common one.'

As Emily said this, she remembered the papers, with which the picture
had been found, and had scarcely a doubt, that they had concerned the
Marchioness de Villeroi; but with this supposition came a scruple,
whether she ought to enquire further on a subject, which might prove to
be the same, that her father had so carefully endeavoured to conceal.
Her curiosity, concerning the Marchioness, powerful as it was, it is
probable she would now have resisted, as she had formerly done, on
unwarily observing the few terrible words in the papers, which had never
since been erased from her memory, had she been certain that the history
of that lady was the subject of those papers, or, that such simple
particulars only as it was probable Dorothee could relate were included
in her father's command. What was known to her could be no secret to
many other persons; and, since it appeared very unlikely, that St.
Aubert should attempt to conceal what Emily might learn by ordinary
means, she at length concluded, that, if the papers had related to the
story of the Marchioness, it was not those circumstances of it, which
Dorothee could disclose, that he had thought sufficiently important to
wish to have concealed. She, therefore, no longer hesitated to make the
enquiries, that might lead to the gratification of her curiosity.

'Ah, ma'amselle!' said Dorothee, 'it is a sad story, and cannot be told
now: but what am I saying? I never will tell it. Many years have passed,
since it happened; and I never loved to talk of the Marchioness to any
body, but my husband. He lived in the family, at that time, as well as
myself, and he knew many particulars from me, which nobody else did; for
I was about the person of my lady in her last illness, and saw and heard
as much, or more than my lord himself. Sweet saint! how patient she was!
When she died, I thought I could have died with her!'

'Dorothee,' said Emily, interrupting her, 'what you shall tell, you may
depend upon it, shall never be disclosed by me. I have, I repeat it,
particular reasons for wishing to be informed on this subject, and am
willing to bind myself, in the most solemn manner, never to mention what
you shall wish me to conceal.'

Dorothee seemed surprised at the earnestness of Emily's manner, and,
after regarding her for some moments, in silence, said, 'Young lady!
that look of yours pleads for you--it is so like my dear mistress's,
that I can almost fancy I see her before me; if you were her daughter,
you could not remind me of her more. But dinner will be ready--had you
not better go down?'

'You will first promise to grant my request,' said Emily.

'And ought not you first to tell me, ma'amselle, how this picture fell
into your hands, and the reasons you say you have for curiosity about my
lady?'

'Why, no, Dorothee,' replied Emily, recollecting herself, 'I have also
particular reasons for observing silence, on these subjects, at least,
till I know further; and, remember, I do not promise ever to speak upon
them; therefore, do not let me induce you to satisfy my curiosity, from
an expectation, that I shall gratify yours. What I may judge proper to
conceal, does not concern myself alone, or I should have less scruple
in revealing it: let a confidence in my honour alone persuade you to
disclose what I request.'

'Well, lady!' replied Dorothee, after a long pause, during which her
eyes were fixed upon Emily, 'you seem so much interested,--and this
picture and that face of yours make me think you have some reason to
be so,--that I will trust you--and tell some things, that I never told
before to any body, but my husband, though there are people, who have
suspected as much. I will tell you the particulars of my lady's death,
too, and some of my own suspicions; but you must first promise me by all
the saints'--

Emily, interrupting her, solemnly promised never to reveal what should
be confided to her, without Dorothee's consent.

'But there is the horn, ma'amselle, sounding for dinner,' said Dorothee;
'I must be gone.'

'When shall I see you again?' enquired Emily.

Dorothee mused, and then replied, 'Why, madam, it may make people
curious, if it is known I am so much in your apartment, and that
I should be sorry for; so I will come when I am least likely to be
observed. I have little leisure in the day, and I shall have a good deal
to say; so, if you please, ma'am, I will come, when the family are all
in bed.'

'That will suit me very well,' replied Emily: 'Remember, then,
to-night'--

'Aye, that is well remembered,' said Dorothee, 'I fear I cannot come
to-night, madam, for there will be the dance of the vintage, and it will
be late, before the servants go to rest; for, when they once set in to
dance, they will keep it up, in the cool of the air, till morning; at
least, it used to be so in my time.'

'Ah! is it the dance of the vintage?' said Emily, with a deep sigh,
remembering, that it was on the evening of this festival, in the
preceding year, that St. Aubert and herself had arrived in the
neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc. She paused a moment, overcome by
the sudden recollection, and then, recovering herself, added--'But this
dance is in the open woods; you, therefore, will not be wanted, and can
easily come to me.'

Dorothee replied, that she had been accustomed to be present at the
dance of the vintage, and she did not wish to be absent now; 'but if I
can get away, madam, I will,' said she.

Emily then hastened to the dining-room, where the Count conducted
himself with the courtesy, which is inseparable from true dignity, and
of which the Countess frequently practised little, though her manner to
Emily was an exception to her usual habit. But, if she retained few of
the ornamental virtues, she cherished other qualities, which she seemed
to consider invaluable. She had dismissed the grace of modesty, but
then she knew perfectly well how to manage the stare of assurance; her
manners had little of the tempered sweetness, which is necessary to
render the female character interesting, but she could occasionally
throw into them an affectation of spirits, which seemed to triumph over
every person, who approached her. In the country, however, she generally
affected an elegant languor, that persuaded her almost to faint,
when her favourite read to her a story of fictitious sorrow; but
her countenance suffered no change, when living objects of distress
solicited her charity, and her heart beat with no transport to the
thought of giving them instant relief;--she was a stranger to the
highest luxury, of which, perhaps, the human mind can be sensible, for
her benevolence had never yet called smiles upon the face of misery.

In the evening, the Count, with all his family, except the Countess and
Mademoiselle Bearn, went to the woods to witness the festivity of the
peasants. The scene was in a glade, where the trees, opening, formed a
circle round the turf they highly overshadowed; between their branches,
vines, loaded with ripe clusters, were hung in gay festoons; and,
beneath, were tables, with fruit, wine, cheese and other rural
fare,--and seats for the Count and his family. At a little distance,
were benches for the elder peasants, few of whom, however, could forbear
to join the jocund dance, which began soon after sun-set, when several
of sixty tripped it with almost as much glee and airy lightness, as
those of sixteen.

The musicians, who sat carelessly on the grass, at the foot of a tree,
seemed inspired by the sound of their own instruments, which were
chiefly flutes and a kind of long guitar. Behind, stood a boy,
flourishing a tamborine, and dancing a solo, except that, as he
sometimes gaily tossed the instrument, he tripped among the other
dancers, when his antic gestures called forth a broader laugh, and
heightened the rustic spirit of the scene.

The Count was highly delighted with the happiness he witnessed, to which
his bounty had largely contributed, and the Lady Blanche joined the
dance with a young gentleman of her father's party. Du Pont requested
Emily's hand, but her spirits were too much depressed, to permit her to
engage in the present festivity, which called to her remembrance that
of the preceding year, when St. Aubert was living, and of the melancholy
scenes, which had immediately followed it.

Overcome by these recollections, she, at length, left the spot, and
walked slowly into the woods, where the softened music, floating at a
distance, soothed her melancholy mind. The moon threw a mellow light
among the foliage; the air was balmy and cool, and Emily, lost in
thought, strolled on, without observing whither, till she perceived the
sounds sinking afar off, and an awful stillness round her, except that,
sometimes, the nightingale beguiled the silence with

     Liquid notes, that close the eye of day.

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 remembering the emotions, which she had
formerly suffered there, she suddenly recollected the figure, that had
been seen stealing among the trees, and which had returned no answer to
Michael's repeated calls; and she experienced somewhat of the fear, that
had then assailed her, for it did not appear improbable, that these deep
woods were occasionally the haunt of banditti. She, therefore, turned
back, and was hastily pursuing her way to the dancers, when she heard
steps approaching from the avenue; and, being still beyond the call of
the peasants on the green, for she could neither hear their voices, or
their music, she quickened her pace; but the persons following gained
fast upon her, and, at length, distinguishing the voice of Henri, she
walked leisurely, till he came up. He expressed some surprise at meeting
her so far from the company; and, on her saying, that the pleasant
moon-light had beguiled her to walk farther than she intended, an
exclamation burst from the lips of his companion, and she thought she
heard Valancourt speak! It was, indeed, he! and the meeting was such as
may be imagined, between persons so affectionate, and so long separated
as they had been.

In the joy of these moments, Emily forgot all her past sufferings, and
Valancourt seemed to have forgotten, that any person but Emily existed;
while Henri was a silent and astonished spectator of the scene.

Valancourt asked a thousand questions, concerning herself and Montoni,
which there was now no time to answer; but she learned, that her letter
had been forwarded to him, at Paris, which he had previously quitted,
and was returning to Gascony, whither the letter also returned, which,
at length, informed him of Emily's arrival, and on the receipt of which
he had immediately set out for Languedoc. On reaching the
monastery, whence she had dated her letter, he found, to his extreme
disappointment, that the gates were already closed for the night;
and believing, that he should not see Emily, till the morrow, he was
returning to his little inn, with the intention of writing to her, when
he was overtaken by Henri, with whom he had been intimate at Paris, and
was led to her, whom he was secretly lamenting that he should not see,
till the following day.

Emily, with Valancourt and Henri, now returned to the green, where the
latter presented Valancourt to the Count, who, she fancied, received him
with less than his usual benignity, though it appeared, that they were
not strangers to each other. He was invited, however, to partake of the
diversions of the evening; and, when he had paid his respects to the
Count, and while the dancers continued their festivity, he seated
himself by Emily, and conversed, without restraint. The lights, which
were hung among the trees, under which they sat, allowed her a more
perfect view of the countenance she had so frequently in absence
endeavoured to recollect, and she perceived, with some regret, that
it was not the same as when last she saw it. There was all its wonted
intelligence and fire; but it had lost much of the simplicity, and
somewhat of the open benevolence, that used to characterise it. Still,
however, it was an interesting countenance; but Emily thought she
perceived, at intervals, anxiety contract, and melancholy fix the
features of Valancourt; sometimes, too, he fell into a momentary musing,
and then appeared anxious to dissipate thought; while, at others, as he
fixed his eyes on Emily, a kind of sudden distraction seemed to
cross his mind. In her he perceived the same goodness and beautiful
simplicity, that had charmed him, on their first acquaintance. The bloom
of her countenance was somewhat faded, but all its sweetness remained,
and it was rendered more interesting, than ever, by the faint expression
of melancholy, that sometimes mingled with her smile.

At his request, she related the most important circumstances, that
had occurred to her, since she left France, and emotions of pity and
indignation alternately prevailed in his mind, when he heard how much
she had suffered from the villany of Montoni. More than once, when she
was speaking of his conduct, of which the guilt was rather softened,
than exaggerated, by her representation, he started from his seat,
and walked away, apparently overcome as much by self accusation as by
resentment. Her sufferings alone were mentioned in the few words, which
he could address to her, and he listened not to the account, which she
was careful to give as distinctly as possible, of the present loss of
Madame Montoni's estates, and of the little reason there was to expect
their restoration. At length, Valancourt remained lost in thought, and
then some secret cause seemed to overcome him with anguish. Again he
abruptly left her. When he returned, she perceived, that he had been
weeping, and tenderly begged, that he would compose himself. 'My
sufferings are all passed now,' said she, 'for I have escaped from the
tyranny of Montoni, and I see you well--let me also see you happy.'

Valancourt was more agitated, than before. 'I am unworthy of you,
Emily,' said he, 'I am unworthy of you;'--words, by his manner of
uttering which Emily was then more shocked than by their import. She
fixed on him a mournful and enquiring eye. 'Do not look thus on me,'
said he, turning away and pressing her hand; 'I cannot bear those
looks.'

'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 innocent and elegant delights--I had once an
uncorrupted heart.' Then, checking himself, he added, 'Do you remember
our journey together in the Pyrenees?'

'Can I forget it?' said Emily.--'Would that I could!' he replied;--'that
was the happiest period of my life. I then loved, with enthusiasm,
whatever was truly great, or good.' It was some time before Emily could
repress her tears, and try to command her emotions. 'If you wish to
forget that journey,' said she, 'it must certainly be my wish to forget
it also.' She paused, and then added, 'You make me very uneasy; but this
is not the time for further enquiry;--yet, how can I bear to believe,
even for a moment, that you are less worthy of my esteem than formerly?
I have still sufficient confidence in your candour, to believe, that,
when I shall ask for an explanation, you will give it me.'--'Yes,' said
Valancourt, 'yes, Emily: I have not yet lost my candour: if I had, I
could better have disguised my emotions, on learning what were your
sufferings--your virtues, while I--I--but I will say no more. I did
not mean to have said even so much--I have been surprised into
the self-accusation. Tell me, Emily, that you will not forget that
journey--will not wish to forget it, and I will be calm. I would not
lose the remembrance of it for the whole earth.'

'How contradictory is this!' said Emily;--'but we may be overheard. My
recollection of it shall depend upon yours; I will endeavour to forget,
or to recollect it, as you may do. Let us join the Count.'--'Tell
me first,' said Valancourt, 'that you forgive the uneasiness I have
occasioned you, this evening, and that you will still love me.'--'I
sincerely forgive you,' replied Emily. 'You best know whether I shall
continue to love you, for you know whether you deserve my esteem. At
present, I will believe that you do. It is unnecessary to say,' added
she, observing his dejection, 'how much pain it would give me to believe
otherwise.--The young lady, who approaches, is the Count's daughter.'

Valancourt and Emily now joined the Lady Blanche; and the party, soon
after, sat down with the Count, his son, and the Chevalier Du Pont, at a
banquet, spread under a gay awning, beneath the trees. At the table also
were seated several of the most venerable of the Count's tenants, and
it was a festive repast to all but Valancourt and Emily. When the Count
retired to the chateau, he did not invite Valancourt to accompany him,
who, therefore, took leave of Emily, and retired to his solitary inn for
the night: meanwhile, she soon withdrew to her own apartment, where
she mused, with deep anxiety and concern, on his behaviour, and on the
Count's reception of him. Her attention was thus so wholly engaged, that
she forgot Dorothee 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 the following day, when the Count had accidentally joined Emily in
one of the walks, they talked of the festival of the preceding evening,
and this led him to a mention of Valancourt. 'That is a young man of
talents,' said he; 'you were formerly acquainted with him, I perceive.'
Emily said, that she was. 'He was introduced to me, at Paris,' said the
Count, 'and I was much pleased with him, on our first acquaintance.' He
paused, and Emily trembled, between the desire of hearing more and the
fear of shewing the Count, that she felt an interest on the subject.
'May I ask,' said he, at length, 'how long you have known Monsieur
Valancourt?'--'Will you allow me to ask your reason for the question,
sir?' said she; 'and I will answer it immediately.'--'Certainly,' said
the Count, 'that is but just. I will tell you my reason. I cannot but
perceive, that Monsieur Valancourt admires you; in that, however, there
is nothing extraordinary; every person, who sees you, must do the same.
I am above using common-place compliments; I speak with sincerity. What
I fear, is, that he is a favoured admirer.'--'Why do you fear it, sir?'
said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion.--'Because,' replied the
Count, 'I think him not worthy of your favour.' Emily, greatly agitated,
entreated further explanation. 'I will give it,' said he, 'if you will
believe, that nothing but a strong interest in your welfare could induce
me to hazard that assertion.'--'I must believe so, sir,' replied Emily.

'But let us rest under these trees,' said the Count, observing the
paleness of her countenance; 'here is a seat--you are fatigued.' They
sat down, and the Count proceeded. 'Many young ladies, circumstanced as
you are, would think my conduct, on this occasion, and on so short
an acquaintance, impertinent, instead of friendly; from what I have
observed of your temper and understanding, I do not fear such a return
from you. Our acquaintance has been short, but long enough to make me
esteem you, and feel a lively interest in your happiness. You deserve
to be very happy, and I trust that you will be so.' Emily sighed
softly, and bowed her thanks. The Count paused again. 'I am unpleasantly
circumstanced,' said he; 'but an opportunity of rendering you important
service shall overcome inferior considerations. Will you inform me of
the manner of your first acquaintance with the Chevalier Valancourt, if
the subject is not too painful?'

Emily briefly related the accident of their meeting in the presence of
her father, and then so earnestly entreated the Count not to hesitate in
declaring what he knew, that he perceived the violent emotion, against
which she was contending, and, regarding her with a look of tender
compassion, considered how he might communicate his information with
least pain to his anxious auditor.

'The Chevalier and my son,' said he, 'were introduced to each other,
at the table of a brother officer, at whose house I also met him, and
invited him to my own, whenever he should be disengaged. I did not then
know, that he had formed an acquaintance with a set of men, a disgrace
to their species, who live by plunder and pass their lives in continual
debauchery. I knew several of the Chevalier's family, resident at Paris,
and considered them as sufficient pledges for his introduction to my
own. But you are ill; I will leave the subject.'--'No, sir,' said Emily,
'I beg you will proceed: I am only distressed.'--'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, nor the inclination, to extricate
himself. He lost large sums at the gaming-table; he became infatuated
with play; and was ruined. I spoke tenderly of this to his friends, who
assured me, that they had remonstrated with him, till they were weary.
I afterwards learned, that, in consideration of his talents for play,
which were generally successful, when unopposed by the tricks of
villany,--that in consideration of these, the party had initiated him
into the secrets of their trade, and allotted him a share of their
profits.' 'Impossible!' said Emily suddenly; 'but--pardon me, sir, I
scarcely know what I say; allow for the distress of my mind. I must,
indeed, I must believe, that you have not been truly informed. The
Chevalier had, doubtless, enemies, who misrepresented him.'--'I should
be most happy to believe so,' replied the Count, 'but I cannot. Nothing
short of conviction, and a regard for your happiness, could have urged
me to repeat these unpleasant reports.'

Emily was silent. She recollected Valancourt's sayings, on the preceding
evening, which discovered the pangs of self-reproach, and seemed to
confirm all that the Count had related. Yet she had not fortitude enough
to dare conviction. Her heart was overwhelmed with anguish at the mere
suspicion of his guilt, and she could not endure a belief of it. After
a silence, the Count said, 'I perceive, and can allow for, your want
of conviction. It is necessary I should give some proof of what I have
asserted; but this I cannot do, without subjecting one, who is very dear
to me, to danger.'--'What is the danger you apprehend, sir?' said Emily;
'if I can prevent it, you may safely confide in my honour.'--'On your
honour I am certain I can rely,' said the Count; 'but can I trust your
fortitude? Do you think you can resist the solicitation of a favoured
admirer, when he pleads, in affliction, for the name of one, who
has robbed him of a blessing?'--'I shall not be exposed to such a
temptation, sir,' said Emily, with modest pride, 'for I cannot favour
one, whom I must no longer esteem. I, however, readily give my word.'
Tears, in the mean time, contradicted her first assertion; and she felt,
that time and effort only could eradicate an affection, which had been
formed on virtuous esteem, and cherished by habit and difficulty.

'I will trust you then,' said the Count, 'for conviction is necessary
to your peace, and cannot, I perceive, be obtained, without this
confidence. My son has too often been an eye-witness of the Chevalier's
ill conduct; he was very near being drawn in by it; he was, indeed,
drawn in to the commission of many follies, but I rescued him from guilt
and destruction. Judge then, Mademoiselle St. Aubert, whether a father,
who had nearly lost his only son by the example of the Chevalier, has
not, from conviction, reason to warn those, whom he esteems, against
trusting their happiness in such hands. I have myself seen the Chevalier
engaged in deep play with men, whom I almost shuddered to look upon. If
you still doubt, I will refer you to my son.'

'I must not doubt what you have yourself witnessed,' replied Emily,
sinking with grief, 'or what you assert. But the Chevalier has, perhaps,
been drawn only into a transient folly, which he may never repeat. If
you had known the justness of his former principles, you would allow for
my present incredulity.'

'Alas!' observed the Count, 'it is difficult to believe that, which
will make us wretched. But I will not sooth you by flattering and
false hopes. We all know how fascinating the vice of gaming is, and how
difficult it is, also, to conquer habits; the Chevalier might, perhaps,
reform for a while, but he would soon relapse into dissipation--for I
fear, not only the bonds of habit would be powerful, but that his morals
are corrupted. And--why should I conceal from you, that play is not his
only vice? he appears to have a taste for every vicious pleasure.'

The Count hesitated and paused; while Emily endeavoured to support
herself, as, with increasing perturbation, she expected what he might
further say. A long pause of silence ensued, during which he was visibly
agitated; at length, he said, 'It would be a cruel delicacy, that
could prevail with me to be silent--and I will inform you, that the
Chevalier's extravagance has brought him twice into the prisons of
Paris, from whence he was last extricated, as I was told upon authority,
which I cannot doubt, by a well-known Parisian Countess, with whom he
continued to reside, when I left Paris.'

He paused again; and, looking at Emily, perceived her countenance
change, and that she was falling from the seat; he caught her, but she
had fainted, and he called loudly for assistance. They were, however,
beyond the hearing of his servants at the 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 he endeavoured to support Emily against the tree, under which
she had been sitting, while he went thither for water. But again he was
perplexed, for he had nothing near him, in which water could be brought;
but while, with increased anxiety, he watched her, he thought he
perceived in her countenance symptoms of returning life.

It was long, however, before she revived, and then she found herself
supported--not by the Count, but by Valancourt, who was observing her
with looks of earnest apprehension, and who now spoke to her in a tone,
tremulous with his anxiety. At the sound of his well-known voice, she
raised her eyes, but presently closed them, and a faintness again came
over her.

The Count, with a look somewhat stern, waved him to withdraw; but he
only sighed heavily, and called on the name of Emily, as he again held
the water, that had been brought, to her lips. On the Count's repeating
his action, and accompanying it with words, Valancourt answered him
with a look of deep resentment, and refused to leave the place, till she
should revive, or to resign her for a moment to the care of any person.
In the next instant, his conscience seemed to inform him of what had
been the subject of the Count's conversation with Emily, and indignation
flashed in his eyes; but it was quickly repressed, and succeeded by an
expression of serious anguish, that induced the Count to regard him with
more pity than resentment, and the view of which so much affected Emily,
when she again revived, that she yielded to the weakness of tears.
But she soon restrained them, and, exerting her resolution to appear
recovered, she rose, thanked the Count and Henri, with whom Valancourt
had entered the garden, for their care, and moved towards the 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, without replying, but with increased emotion, quickened her
steps. 'What has thus disordered you, Emily?' said he, as he still
walked by her side: 'give me a few moments' conversation, I entreat
you;--I am very miserable!'

Though this was spoken in a low voice, it was overheard by the Count,
who immediately replied, that Mademoiselle St. Aubert was then too much
indisposed, to attend to any conversation, but that he would venture
to promise she would see Monsieur Valancourt on the morrow, if she was
better.

Valancourt's cheek was crimsoned: he looked haughtily at the Count,
and then at Emily, with successive expressions of surprise, grief and
supplication, which she could neither misunderstand, or resist, and she
said languidly--'I shall be better tomorrow, and if you wish to accept
the Count's permission, I will see you then.'

'See me!' exclaimed Valancourt, as he threw a glance of mingled pride
and resentment upon the Count; and then, seeming to recollect
himself, he added--'But I will come, madam; I will accept the Count's
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 expressive of
tenderness and grief, that Emily's heart was not proof against it, he
bade her good morning, and, bowing slightly to the Count, disappeared.

Emily withdrew to her own apartment, under such oppression of heart as
she had seldom known, when she endeavoured to recollect all that the
Count had told, to examine the probability of the circumstances
he himself believed, and to consider of her future conduct towards
Valancourt. But, when she attempted to think, her mind refused controul,
and she could only feel that she was miserable. One moment, she sunk
under the conviction, that Valancourt was no longer the same, whom she
had so tenderly loved, the idea of whom had hitherto supported her
under affliction, and cheered her with the hope of happier days,--but
a fallen, a worthless character, whom she must teach herself to
despise--if she could not forget. Then, unable to endure this terrible
supposition, she rejected it, and disdained to believe him capable of
conduct, such as the Count had described, to whom she believed he had
been misrepresented by some artful enemy; and there were moments, when
she even ventured to doubt the integrity of the Count himself, and to
suspect, that he was influenced by some selfish motive, to break her
connection with Valancourt. But this was the error of an instant, only;
the Count's character, which she had heard spoken of by Du Pont and
many other persons, and had herself observed, enabled her to judge, and
forbade the supposition; had her confidence, indeed, been less, there
appeared to be no temptation to betray him into conduct so treacherous,
and so cruel. Nor did reflection suffer her to preserve the hope, that
Valancourt had been mis-represented to the Count, who had said, that he
spoke chiefly from his own observation, and from his son's experience.
She must part from Valancourt, therefore, for ever--for what of either
happiness or tranquillity could she expect with a man, whose tastes were
degenerated into low inclinations, and to whom vice was become habitual?
whom she must no longer esteem, though the remembrance of what he once
was, and the long habit of loving him, would render it very difficult
for her to despise him. 'O Valancourt!' she would exclaim, 'having been
separated so long--do we meet, only to be miserable--only to part for
ever?'

Amidst all the tumult of her mind, she remembered pertinaciously the
seeming candour and simplicity of his conduct, on the preceding night;
and, had she dared to trust her own heart, it would have led her to hope
much from this. Still she could not resolve to dismiss him for ever,
without obtaining further proof of his ill conduct; yet she saw no
probability of procuring it, if, indeed, proof more positive was
possible. Something, however, it was necessary to decide upon, and she
almost determined to be guided in her opinion solely by the manner, with
which Valancourt should receive her hints concerning his late conduct.

Thus passed the hours till dinner-time, when Emily, struggling against
the pressure of her grief, dried her tears, and joined the family
at table, where the Count preserved towards her the most delicate
attention; but the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, having looked, for a
moment, with surprise, on her dejected countenance, began, as usual,
to talk of trifles, while the eyes of Lady Blanche asked much of her
friend, who could only reply by a mournful smile.

Emily withdrew as soon after dinner as possible, and was followed by the
Lady Blanche, whose anxious enquiries, however, she found herself quite
unequal to answer, and whom she entreated to spare her on the subject
of her distress. To converse on any topic, was now, indeed, so extremely
painful to her, that she soon gave up the attempt, and Blanche left
her, with pity of the sorrow, which she perceived she had no power to
assuage.

Emily secretly determined to go to her convent in a day or two; for
company, especially that of the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, was
intolerable to her, in the present state of her spirits; and, in the
retirement of the convent, as well as the kindness of the abbess, she
hoped to recover the command of her mind, and to teach it resignation to
the event, which, she too plainly perceived, was approaching.

To have lost Valancourt by death, or to have seen him married to
a rival, would, she thought, have given her less anguish, than a
conviction of his unworthiness, which must terminate in misery to
himself, and which robbed her even of the solitary image her heart so
long had cherished. These painful reflections were interrupted, for a
moment, by a note from Valancourt, written in evident distraction
of mind, entreating, that she would permit him to see her on the
approaching evening, instead of the following morning; a request, which
occasioned her so much agitation, that she was unable to answer it. She
wished to see him, and to terminate her present state of suspense, yet
shrunk from the interview, and, incapable of deciding for herself, she,
at length, sent to beg a few moments' conversation with the Count in his
library, where she delivered to him the note, and requested his advice.
After reading it, he said, that, if she believed herself well enough
to support the interview, his opinion was, that, for the relief of both
parties, it ought to take place, that evening.

'His affection for you is, undoubtedly, a very sincere one,' added the
Count; 'and he appears so much distressed, and you, my amiable friend,
are so ill at ease--that the sooner the affair is decided, the better.'

Emily replied, therefore, to Valancourt, that she would see him, and
then exerted herself in endeavours to attain fortitude and composure,
to bear her through the approaching scene--a scene so afflictingly the
reverse of any, to which she had looked forward!




VOLUME 4



CHAPTER I


  Is all the council that we two have shared,
     the hours that we have spent,
 When we have chid the hasty-footed time
 For parting us--Oh! and is all forgot?

 And will you rend our ancient love asunder?
     MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

In the evening, when Emily was at length informed, that Count De
Villefort requested to see her, she guessed that Valancourt was below,
and, endeavouring to assume composure and to recollect all her spirits,
she rose and left the apartment; but on reaching the door of the
library, where she imagined him to be, her emotion returned with such
energy, that, fearing to trust herself in the room, she returned into
the hall, where she continued for a considerable time, unable to command
her agitated spirits.

When she could recall them, she found in the library Valancourt, seated
with the Count, who both rose on her entrance; but she did not dare
to look at Valancourt, and the Count, having led her to a chair,
immediately withdrew.

Emily remained with her eyes fixed on the floor, under such oppression
of heart, that she could not speak, and with difficulty breathed; while
Valancourt threw himself into a chair beside her, and, sighing heavily,
continued silent, when, had she raised her eyes, she would have
perceived the violent emotions, with which he was agitated.

At length, in a tremulous voice, he said, 'I have solicited to see you
this evening, that I might, at least, be spared the further torture of
suspense, which your altered manner had occasioned me, and which the
hints I have just received from the Count have in part explained. I
perceive I have enemies, Emily, who envied me my late happiness, and
who have been busy in searching out the means to destroy it: I perceive,
too, that time and absence have weakened the affection you once felt for
me, and that you can now easily be taught to forget me.'

His last words faltered, and Emily, less able to speak than before,
continued silent.

'O what a meeting is this!' exclaimed Valancourt, starting from his
seat, and pacing the room with hurried steps, 'what a meeting is this,
after our long--long separation!' Again he sat down, and, after the
struggle of a moment, he added in a firm but despairing tone, 'This is
too much--I cannot bear it! Emily, will you not speak to me?'

He covered his face with his hand, as if to conceal his emotion, and
took Emily's, which she did not withdraw. Her tears could no longer
be restrained; and, when he raised his eyes and perceived that she was
weeping, all his tenderness returned, and a gleam of hope appeared to
cross his mind, for he exclaimed, 'O! you do pity me, then, you do love
me! Yes, you are still my own Emily--let me believe those tears, that
tell me so!'

Emily now made an effort to recover her firmness, and, hastily drying
them, 'Yes,' said she, 'I do pity you--I weep for you--but, ought I to
think of you with affection? You may remember, that yester-evening I
said, I had still sufficient confidence in your candour to believe,
that, when I should request an explanation of your words, you would give
it. This explanation is now unnecessary, I understand them too well; but
prove, at least, that your candour is deserving of the confidence I
give it, when I ask you, whether you are conscious of being the same
estimable Valancourt--whom I once loved.'

'Once loved!' cried he,--'the same--the same!' He paused in
extreme emotion, and then added, in a voice at once solemn, and
dejected,--'No--I am not the same!--I am lost--I am no longer worthy of
you!'

He again concealed his face. Emily was too much affected by this honest
confession to reply immediately, and, while she struggled to overcome
the pleadings of her heart, and to act with the decisive firmness, which
was necessary for her future peace, she perceived all the danger of
trusting long to her resolution, in the presence of Valancourt, and was
anxious to conclude an interview, that tortured them both; yet, when
she considered, that this was probably their last meeting, her fortitude
sunk at once, and she experienced only emotions of tenderness and of
despondency.

Valancourt, meanwhile, lost in emotions of remorse and grief, which he
had neither the power, or the will to express, sat insensible almost
of the presence of Emily, his features still concealed, and his breast
agitated by convulsive sighs.

'Spare me the necessity,' said Emily, recollecting her fortitude, 'spare
me the necessity of mentioning those circumstances of your conduct,
which oblige me to break our connection forever.--We must part, I now
see you for the last time.'

'Impossible!' cried Valancourt, roused from his deep silence, 'You
cannot mean what you say!--you cannot mean to throw me from you
forever!'

'We must part,' repeated Emily, with emphasis,--'and that forever! Your
own conduct has made this necessary.'

'This is the Count's determination,' said he haughtily, 'not yours,
and I shall enquire by what authority he interferes between us.' He now
rose, and walked about the room in great emotion.

'Let me save you from this error,' said Emily, not less agitated--'it is
my determination, and, if you reflect a moment on your late conduct, you
will perceive, that my future peace requires it.'

'Your future peace requires, that we should part--part forever!' said
Valancourt, 'How little did I ever expect to hear you say so!'

'And how little did I expect, that it would be necessary for me to say
so!' rejoined Emily, while her voice softened into tenderness, and her
tears flowed again.--'That you--you, Valancourt, would ever fall from my
esteem!'

He was silent a moment, as if overwhelmed by the consciousness of no
longer deserving this esteem, as well as the certainty of having lost
it, and then, with impassioned grief, lamented the criminality of his
late conduct and the misery to which it had reduced him, till, overcome
by a recollection of the past and a conviction of the future, he burst
into tears, and uttered only deep and broken sighs.

The remorse he had expressed, and the distress he suffered could not
be witnessed by Emily with indifference, and, had she not called to
her recollection all the circumstances, of which Count De Villefort
had informed her, and all he had said of the danger of confiding in
repentance, formed under the influence of passion, she might perhaps
have trusted to the assurances of her heart, and have forgotten his
misconduct in the tenderness, which that repentance excited.

Valancourt, returning to the chair beside her, at length, said, in a
calm voice, ''Tis true, I am fallen--fallen from my own esteem! but
could you, Emily, so soon, so suddenly resign, if you had not before
ceased to love me, or, if your conduct was not governed by the designs,
I will say, the selfish designs of another person! Would you not
otherwise be willing to hope for my reformation--and could you bear, by
estranging me from you, to abandon me to misery--to myself!'--Emily wept
aloud.--'No, Emily--no--you would not do this, if you still loved me.
You would find your own happiness in saving mine.'

'There are too many probabilities against that hope,' said Emily, 'to
justify me in trusting the comfort of my whole life to it. May I not
also ask, whether you could wish me to do this, if you really loved me?'

'Really loved you!' exclaimed Valancourt--'is it possible you can doubt
my love! Yet it is reasonable, that you should do so, since you see,
that I am less ready to suffer the horror of parting with you, than
that of involving you in my ruin. Yes, Emily--I am ruined--irreparably
ruined--I am involved in debts, which I can never discharge!'
Valancourt's look, which was wild, as he spoke this, soon settled into
an expression of gloomy despair; and Emily, while she was compelled to
admire his sincerity, saw, with unutterable anguish, new reasons for
fear in the suddenness of his feelings and the extent of the misery, in
which they might involve him. After some minutes, she seemed to
contend against her grief and to struggle for fortitude to conclude
the interview. 'I will not prolong these moments,' said she, 'by a
conversation, which can answer no good purpose. Valancourt, farewell!'

'You are not going?' said he, wildly interrupting her--'You will not
leave me thus--you will not abandon me even before my mind has suggested
any possibility of compromise between the last indulgence of my despair
and the endurance of my loss!' Emily was terrified by the sternness
of his look, and said, in a soothing voice, 'You have yourself
acknowledged, that it is necessary we should part;--if you
wish, that I should believe you love me, you will repeat the
acknowledgment.'--'Never--never,' cried he--'I was distracted when I
made it. O! Emily--this is too much;--though you are not deceived as to
my faults, you must be deluded into this exasperation against them. The
Count is the barrier between us; but he shall not long remain so.'

'You are, indeed, distracted,' said Emily, 'the Count is not your enemy;
on the contrary, he is my friend, and that might, in some degree, induce
you to consider him as yours.'--'Your friend!' said Valancourt, hastily,
'how long has he been your friend, that he can so easily make you forget
your lover? Was it he, who recommended to your favour the Monsieur Du
Pont, who, you say, accompanied you from Italy, and who, I say, has
stolen your affections? But I have no right to question you;--you are
your own mistress. Du Pont, perhaps, may not long triumph over my fallen
fortunes!' Emily, more frightened than before by the frantic looks of
Valancourt, said, in a tone scarcely audible, 'For heaven's sake be
reasonable--be composed. Monsieur Du Pont is not your rival, nor is the
Count his advocate. You have no rival; nor, except yourself, an enemy.
My heart is wrung with anguish, which must increase while your
frantic behaviour shews me, more than ever, that you are no longer the
Valancourt I have been accustomed to love.'

He made no reply, but sat with his arms rested on the table and his
face concealed by his hands; while Emily stood, silent and trembling,
wretched for herself and dreading to leave him in this state of mind.

'O excess of misery!' he suddenly exclaimed, 'that I can never lament
my sufferings, without accusing myself, nor remember you, without
recollecting the folly and the vice, by which I have lost you! Why was I
forced to Paris, and why did I yield to allurements, which were to make
me despicable for ever! O! why cannot I look back, without interruption,
to those days of innocence and peace, the days of our early love!'--The
recollection seemed to melt his heart, and the frenzy of despair yielded
to tears. After a long pause, turning towards her and taking her hand,
he said, in a softened voice, 'Emily, can you bear that we should
part--can you resolve to give up an heart, that loves you like mine--an
heart, which, though it has erred--widely erred, is not irretrievable
from error, as, you well know, it never can be retrievable from love?'
Emily made no reply, but with her tears. 'Can you,' continued he, 'can
you forget all our former days of happiness and confidence--when I had
not a thought, that I might wish to conceal from you--when I had no
taste--no pleasures, in which you did not participate?'

'O do not lead me to the remembrance of those days,' said Emily, 'unless
you can teach me to forget the present; I do not mean to reproach you;
if I did, I should be spared these tears; but why will you render your
present sufferings more conspicuous, by contrasting them with your
former virtues?'

'Those virtues,' said Valancourt, 'might, perhaps, again be mine, if
your affection, which nurtured them, was unchanged;--but I fear, indeed,
I see, that you can no longer love me; else the happy hours, which we
have passed together, would plead for me, and you could not look
back upon them unmoved. Yet, why should I torture myself with the
remembrance--why do I linger here? Am I not ruined--would it not be
madness to involve you in my misfortunes, even if your heart was still
my own? I will not distress you further. Yet, before I go,' added he,
in a solemn voice, 'let me repeat, that, whatever may be my
destiny--whatever I may be doomed to suffer, I must always love
you--most fondly love you! I am going, Emily, I am going to leave
you--to leave you, forever!' As he spoke the last words, his voice
trembled, and he threw himself again into the chair, from which he had
risen. Emily was utterly unable to leave the room, or to say farewell.
All impression of his criminal conduct and almost of his follies was
obliterated from her mind, and she was sensible only of pity and grief.

'My fortitude is gone,' said Valancourt at length; 'I can no longer
even struggle to recall it. I cannot now leave you--I cannot bid you
an eternal farewell; say, at least, that you will see me once again.'
Emily's heart was somewhat relieved by the request, and she endeavoured
to believe, that she ought not to refuse it. Yet she was embarrassed
by recollecting, that she was a visitor in the house of the Count, who
could not be pleased by the return of Valancourt. Other considerations,
however, soon overcame this, and she granted his request, on the
condition, that he would neither think of the Count, as his enemy, nor
Du Pont as his rival. He then left her, with a heart, so much lightened
by this short respite, that he almost lost every former sense of
misfortune.

Emily withdrew to her own room, that she might compose her spirits and
remove the traces of her tears, which would encourage the censorious
remarks of the Countess and her favourite, as well as excite the
curiosity of the rest of the family. She found it, however, impossible
to tranquillize her mind, from which she could not expel the remembrance
of the late scene with Valancourt, or the consciousness, that she was to
see him again, on the morrow. This meeting now appeared more terrible to
her than the last, for the ingenuous confession he had made of his
ill conduct and his embarrassed circumstances, with the strength and
tenderness of affection, which this confession discovered, had deeply
impressed her, and, in spite of all she had heard and believed to his
disadvantage, her esteem began to return. It frequently appeared to her
impossible, that he could have been guilty of the depravities, reported
of him, which, if not inconsistent with his warmth and impetuosity,
were entirely so with his candour and sensibility. Whatever was the
criminality, which had given rise to the reports, she could not now
believe them to be wholly true, nor that his heart was finally closed
against the charms of virtue. The deep consciousness, which he felt as
well as expressed of his errors, seemed to justify the opinion; and,
as she understood not the instability of youthful dispositions, when
opposed by habit, and that professions frequently deceive those, who
make, as well as those, who hear them, she might have yielded to the
flattering persuasions of her own heart and the pleadings of Valancourt,
had she not been guided by the superior prudence of the Count. He
represented to her, in a clear light, the danger of her present
situation, that of listening to promises of amendment, made under the
influence of strong passion, and the slight hope, which could attach
to a connection, whose chance of happiness rested upon the retrieval
of ruined circumstances and the reform of corrupted habits. On these
accounts, he lamented, that Emily had consented to a second interview,
for he saw how much it would shake her resolution and increase the
difficulty of her conquest.

Her mind was now so entirely occupied by nearer interests, that she
forgot the old housekeeper and the promised history, which so lately had
excited her curiosity, but which Dorothee was probably not very anxious
to disclose, for night came; the hours passed; and she did not appear
in Emily's chamber. With the latter it was a sleepless and dismal
night; the more she suffered her memory to dwell on the late scenes with
Valancourt, the more her resolution declined, and she was obliged
to recollect all the arguments, which the Count had made use of to
strengthen it, and all the precepts, which she had received from her
deceased father, on the subject of self-command, to enable her to act,
with prudence and dignity, on this the most severe occasion of her
life. There were moments, when all her fortitude forsook her, and when,
remembering the confidence of former times, she thought it impossible,
that she could renounce Valancourt. His reformation then appeared
certain; the arguments of Count De Villefort were forgotten; she readily
believed all she wished, and was willing to encounter any evil, rather
than that of an immediate separation.

Thus passed the night in ineffectual struggles between affection
and reason, and she rose, in the morning, with a mind, weakened and
irresolute, and a frame, trembling with illness.



CHAPTER II


 Come, weep with me;--past hope, past cure, past help!
     ROMEO AND JULIET

Valancourt, meanwhile, suffered the tortures of remorse and despair.
The sight of Emily had renewed all the ardour, with which he first loved
her, and which had suffered a temporary abatement from absence and the
passing scenes of busy life. When, on the receipt of her letter, he set
out for Languedoc, he then knew, that his own folly had involved him in
ruin, and it was no part of his design to conceal this from her. But
he lamented only the delay which his ill-conduct must give to their
marriage, and did not foresee, that the information could induce her to
break their connection forever. While the prospect of this separation
overwhelmed his mind, before stung with self-reproach, he awaited their
second interview, in a state little short of distraction, yet was still
inclined to hope, that his pleadings might prevail upon her not to exact
it. In the morning, he sent to know at what hour she would see him;
and his note arrived, when she was with the Count, who had sought an
opportunity of again conversing with her of Valancourt; for he perceived
the extreme distress of her mind, and feared, more than ever, that her
fortitude would desert her. Emily having dismissed the messenger, the
Count returned to the subject of their late conversation, urging his
fear of Valancourt's entreaties, and again pointing out to her the
lengthened misery, that must ensue, if she should refuse to encounter
some present uneasiness. His repeated arguments could, indeed, alone
have protected her from the affection she still felt for Valancourt, and
she resolved to be governed by them.

The hour of interview, at length, arrived. Emily went to it, at least,
with composure of manner, but Valancourt was so much agitated, that
he could not speak, for several minutes, and his first words were
alternately those of lamentation, entreaty, and self-reproach.
Afterward, he said, 'Emily, I have loved you--I do love you, better than
my life; but I am ruined by my own conduct. Yet I would seek to entangle
you in a connection, that must be miserable for you, rather than subject
myself to the punishment, which is my due, the loss of you. I am a
wretch, but I will be a villain no longer.--I will not endeavour to
shake your resolution by the pleadings of a selfish passion. I resign
you, Emily, and will endeavour to find consolation in considering, that,
though I am miserable, you, at least, may be happy. The merit of the
sacrifice is, indeed, not my own, for I should never have attained
strength of mind to surrender you, if your prudence had not demanded
it.'

He paused a moment, while Emily attempted to conceal the tears, which
came to her eyes. She would have said, 'You speak now, as you were wont
to do,' but she checked herself.--'Forgive me, Emily,' said he, 'all the
sufferings I have occasioned you, and, sometimes, when you think of the
wretched Valancourt, remember, that his only consolation would be to
believe, that you are no longer unhappy by his folly.' The tears now
fell fast upon her cheek, and he was relapsing into the phrensy of
despair, when Emily endeavoured to recall her fortitude and to terminate
an interview, which only seemed to increase the distress of both.
Perceiving her tears and that she was rising to go, Valancourt
struggled, once more, to overcome his own feelings and to sooth hers.
'The remembrance of this sorrow,' said he, 'shall in future be my
protection. O! never again will example, or temptation have power to
seduce me to evil, exalted as I shall be by the recollection of your
grief for me.'

Emily was somewhat comforted by this assurance. 'We are now parting for
ever,' said she; 'but, if my happiness is dear to you, you will always
remember, that nothing can contribute to it more, than to believe, that
you have recovered your own esteem.' Valancourt took her hand;--his eyes
were covered with tears, and the farewell he would have spoken was lost
in sighs. After a few moments, Emily said, with difficulty and emotion,
'Farewell, Valancourt, may you be happy!' She repeated her 'farewell,'
and attempted to withdraw her hand, but he still held it and bathed
it with his tears. 'Why prolong these moments?' said Emily, in a voice
scarcely audible, 'they are too painful to us both.' 'This is too--too
much,' exclaimed Valancourt, resigning her hand and throwing himself
into a chair, where he covered his face with his hands and was overcome,
for some moments, by convulsive sighs. After a long pause, during which
Emily wept in silence, and Valancourt seemed struggling with his grief,
she again rose to take leave of him. Then, endeavouring to recover his
composure, 'I am again afflicting you,' said he, 'but let the anguish I
suffer plead for me.' He then added, in a solemn voice, which frequently
trembled with the agitation of his heart, 'Farewell, Emily, you will
always be the only object of my tenderness. Sometimes you will think of
the unhappy Valancourt, and it will be with pity, though it may not be
with esteem. O! what is the whole world to me, without you--without your
esteem!' He checked himself--'I am falling again into the error I have
just lamented. I must not intrude longer upon your patience, or I shall
relapse into despair.'

He once more bade Emily adieu, pressed her hand to his lips, looked at
her, for the last time, and hurried out of the room.

Emily remained in the chair, where he had left her, oppressed with
a pain at her heart, which scarcely permitted her to breathe, and
listening to his departing steps, sinking fainter and fainter, as
he crossed the hall. She was, at length, roused by the voice of the
Countess in the garden, and, her attention being then awakened, the
first object, which struck her sight, was the vacant chair, where
Valancourt had sat. The tears, which had been, for some time, repressed
by the kind of astonishment, that followed his departure, now came to
her relief, and she was, at length, sufficiently composed to return to
her own room.



CHAPTER III


  This is no mortal business, nor no sound
 That the earth owes!
     SHAKESPEARE

We now return to the mention of Montoni, whose rage and disappointment
were soon lost in nearer interests, than any, which the unhappy Emily
had awakened. His depredations having exceeded their usual limits, and
reached an extent, at which neither the timidity of the then commercial
senate of Venice, nor their hope of his occasional assistance would
permit them to connive, the same effort, it was resolved, should
complete the suppression of his power and the correction of his
outrages. While a corps of considerable strength was upon the point of
receiving orders to march for Udolpho, a young officer, prompted partly
by resentment, for some injury, received from Montoni, and partly by
the hope of distinction, solicited an interview with the Minister, who
directed the enterprise. To him he represented, that the situation of
Udolpho rendered it too strong to be taken by open force, except after
some tedious operations; that Montoni had lately shewn how capable he
was of adding to its strength all the advantages, which could be derived
from the skill of a commander; that so considerable a body of troops, as
that allotted to the expedition, could not approach Udolpho without his
knowledge, and that it was not for the honour of the republic to have a
large part of its regular force employed, for such a time as the siege
of Udolpho would require, upon the attack of a handful of banditti. The
object of the expedition, he thought, might be accomplished much more
safely and speedily by mingling contrivance with force. It was possible
to meet Montoni and his party, without their walls, and to attack them
then; or, by approaching the fortress, with the secrecy, consistent with
the march of smaller bodies of troops, to take advantage either of the
treachery, or negligence of some of his party, and to rush unexpectedly
upon the whole even in the castle of Udolpho.

This advice was seriously attended to, and the officer, who gave it,
received the command of the troops, demanded for his purpose. His
first efforts were accordingly those of contrivance alone. In the
neighbourhood of Udolpho, he waited, till he had secured the assistance
of several of the condottieri, of whom he found none, that he addressed,
unwilling to punish their imperious master and to secure their own
pardon from the senate. He learned also the number of Montoni's troops,
and that it had been much increased, since his late successes. The
conclusion of his plan was soon effected. Having returned with his
party, who received the watch-word and other assistance from their
friends within, Montoni and his officers were surprised by one division,
who had been directed to their apartment, while the other maintained the
slight combat, which preceded the surrender of the whole garrison. Among
the persons, seized with Montoni, was Orsino, the assassin, who had
joined him on his first arrival at Udolpho, and whose concealment had
been made known to the senate by Count Morano, after the unsuccessful
attempt of the latter to carry off Emily. It was, indeed, partly for
the purpose of capturing this man, by whom one of the senate had been
murdered, that the expedition was undertaken, and its success was so
acceptable to them, that Morano was instantly released, notwithstanding
the political suspicions, which Montoni, by his secret accusation,
had excited against him. The celerity and ease, with which this whole
transaction was completed, prevented it from attracting curiosity, or
even from obtaining a place in any of the published records of that
time; so that Emily, who remained in Languedoc, was ignorant of the
defeat and signal humiliation of her late persecutor.

Her mind was now occupied with sufferings, which no effort of reason had
yet been able to controul. Count De Villefort, who sincerely attempted
whatever benevolence could suggest for softening them, sometimes
allowed her the solitude she wished for, sometimes led her into friendly
parties, and constantly protected her, as much as possible, from the
shrewd enquiries and critical conversation of the Countess. He often
invited her to make excursions, with him and his daughter, during which
he conversed entirely on questions, suitable to her taste, without
appearing to consult it, and thus endeavoured gradually to withdraw her
from the subject of her grief, and to awake other interests in her mind.
Emily, to whom he appeared as the enlightened friend and protector of
her youth, soon felt for him the tender affection of a daughter, and
her heart expanded to her young friend Blanche, as to a sister, whose
kindness and simplicity compensated for the want of more brilliant
qualities. It was long before she could sufficiently abstract her
mind from Valancourt to listen to the story, promised by old Dorothee,
concerning which her curiosity had once been so deeply interested; but
Dorothee, at length, reminded her of it, and Emily desired, that she
would come, that night, to her chamber.

Still her thoughts were employed by considerations, which weakened her
curiosity, and Dorothee's tap at the door, soon after twelve, surprised
her almost as much as if it had not been appointed. 'I am come, at
last, lady,' said she; 'I wonder what it is makes my old limbs shake
so, to-night. I thought, once or twice, I should have dropped, as I
was a-coming.' Emily seated her in a chair, and desired, that she would
compose her spirits, before she entered upon the subject, that had
brought her thither. 'Alas,' said Dorothee, 'it is thinking of that, I
believe, which has disturbed me so. In my way hither too, I passed
the chamber, where my dear lady died, and every thing was so still and
gloomy about me, that I almost fancied I saw her, as she appeared upon
her death-bed.'

Emily now drew her chair near to Dorothee, who went on. 'It is about
twenty years since my lady Marchioness came a bride to the chateau. O!
I well remember how she looked, when she came into the great hall, where
we servants were all assembled to welcome her, and how happy my lord the
Marquis seemed. Ah! who would have thought then!--But, as I was saying,
ma'amselle, I thought the Marchioness, with all her sweet looks, did not
look happy at heart, and so I told my husband, and he said it was all
fancy; so I said no more, but I made my remarks, for all that. My lady
Marchioness was then about your age, and, as I have often thought, very
like you. Well! my lord the Marquis kept open house, for a long time,
and gave such entertainments and there were such gay doings as have
never been in the chateau since. I was younger, ma'amselle, then, than
I am now, and was as gay at the best of them. I remember I danced with
Philip, the butler, in a pink gown, with yellow ribbons, and a coif, not
such as they wear now, but plaited high, with ribbons all about it. It
was very becoming truly;--my lord, the Marquis, noticed me. Ah! he was a
good-natured gentleman then--who would have thought that he!'--

'But the Marchioness, Dorothee,' said Emily, 'you was telling me of
her.'

'O yes, my lady Marchioness, I thought she did not seem happy at heart,
and once, soon after the marriage, I caught her crying in her chamber;
but, when she saw me, she dried her eyes, and pretended to smile. I did
not dare then to ask what was the matter; but, the next time I saw her
crying, I did, and she seemed displeased;--so I said no more. I found
out, some time after, how it was. Her father, it seems, had commanded
her to marry my lord, the Marquis, for his money, and there was another
nobleman, or else a chevalier, that she liked better and that was very
fond of her, and she fretted for the loss of him, I fancy, but she never
told me so. My lady always tried to conceal her tears from the Marquis,
for I have often seen her, after she has been so sorrowful, look so calm
and sweet, when he came into the room! But my lord, all of a sudden,
grew gloomy and fretful, and very unkind sometimes to my lady. This
afflicted her very much, as I saw, for she never complained, and she
used to try so sweetly to oblige him and to bring him into a good
humour, that my heart has often ached to see it. But he used to be
stubborn, and give her harsh answers, and then, when she found it all
in vain, she would go to her own room, and cry so! I used to hear her
in the anti-room, poor dear lady! but I seldom ventured to go to her.
I used, sometimes, to think my lord was jealous. To be sure my lady was
greatly admired, but she was too good to deserve suspicion. Among the
many chevaliers, that visited at the chateau, there was one, that I
always thought seemed just suited for my lady; he was so courteous, yet
so spirited, and there was such a grace, as it were, in all he did, or
said. I always observed, that, whenever he had been there, the Marquis
was more gloomy and my lady more thoughtful, and it came into my head,
that this was the chevalier she ought to have married, but I never could
learn for certain.'

'What was the chevalier's name, Dorothee?' said Emily.

'Why that I will not tell even to you, ma'amselle, for evil may come of
it. I once heard from a person, who is since dead, that the Marchioness
was not in law the wife of the Marquis, for that she had before been
privately married to the gentleman she was so much attached to, and was
afterwards afraid to own it to her father, who was a very stern man; but
this seems very unlikely, and I never gave much faith to it. As I was
saying, the Marquis was most out of humour, as I thought, when the
chevalier I spoke of had been at the chateau, and, at last, his ill
treatment of my lady made her quite miserable. He would see hardly any
visitors at the castle, and made her live almost by herself. I was
her constant attendant, and saw all she suffered, but still she never
complained.

'After matters had gone on thus, for near a year, my lady was taken ill,
and I thought her long fretting had made her so,--but, alas! I fear it
was worse than that.'

'Worse! Dorothee,' said Emily, 'can that be possible?'

'I fear it was so, madam, there were strange appearances. But I will
only tell what happened. My lord, the Marquis--'

'Hush, Dorothee, what sounds were those?' said Emily.

Dorothee changed countenance, and, while they both listened, they heard,
on the stillness of the night, music of uncommon sweetness.

'I have surely heard that voice before!' said Emily, at length.

'I have often heard it, and at this same hour,' said Dorothee, solemnly,
'and, if spirits ever bring music--that is surely the music of one!'

Emily, as the sounds drew nearer, knew them to be the same she had
formerly heard at the time of her father's death, and, whether it was
the remembrance they now revived of that melancholy event, or that
she was struck with superstitious awe, it is certain she was so much
affected, that she had nearly fainted.

'I think I once told you, madam,' said Dorothee, 'that I first heard
this music, soon after my lady's death! I well remember the night!'--
'Hark! it comes again!' said Emily, 'let us open the window, and
listen.'

They did so; but, soon, the sounds floated gradually away into distance,
and all was again still; they seemed to have sunk among the woods,
whose tufted tops were visible upon the clear horizon, while every other
feature of the scene was involved in the night-shade, which, however,
allowed the eye an indistinct view of some objects in the garden below.

As Emily leaned on the window, gazing with a kind of thrilling awe
upon the obscurity beneath, and then upon the cloudless arch above,
enlightened only by the stars, Dorothee, in a low voice, resumed her
narrative.

'I was saying, ma'amselle, that I well remember when first I heard that
music. It was one night, soon after my lady's death, that I had sat up
later than usual, and I don't know how it was, but I had been thinking
a great deal about my poor mistress, and of the sad scene I had lately
witnessed. The chateau was quite still, and I was in the chamber at a
good distance from the rest of the servants, and this, with the mournful
things I had been thinking of, I suppose, made me low spirited, for I
felt very lonely and forlorn, as it were, and listened often, wishing to
hear a sound in the chateau, for you know, ma'amselle, when one can hear
people moving, one does not so much mind, about one's fears. But all the
servants were gone to bed, and I sat, thinking and thinking, till I was
almost afraid to look round the room, and my poor lady's countenance
often came to my mind, such as I had seen her when she was dying, and,
once or twice, I almost thought I saw her before me,--when suddenly I
heard such sweet music! It seemed just at my window, and I shall never
forget what I felt. I had not power to move from my chair, but then,
when I thought it was my dear lady's voice, the tears came to my eyes.
I had often heard her sing, in her life-time, and to be sure she had a
very fine voice; it had made me cry to hear her, many a time, when she
has sat in her oriel, of an evening, playing upon her lute such sad
songs, and singing so. O! it went to one's heart! I have listened in
the anti-chamber, for the hour together, and she would sometimes sit
playing, with the window open, when it was summer time, till it was
quite dark, and when I have gone in, to shut it, she has hardly seemed
to know what hour it was. But, as I said, madam,' continued Dorothee,
'when first I heard the music, that came just now, I thought it was my
late lady's, and I have often thought so again, when I have heard it, as
I have done at intervals, ever since. Sometimes, many months have gone
by, but still it has returned.'

'It is extraordinary,' observed Emily, 'that no person has yet
discovered the musician.'

'Aye, ma'amselle, if it had been any thing earthly it would have been
discovered long ago, but who could have courage to follow a spirit, and
if they had, what good could it do?--for spirits, YOU KNOW, ma'am, can
take any shape, or no shape, and they will be here, one minute, and, the
next perhaps, in a quite different place!'

'Pray resume your story of the Marchioness,' said Emily, 'and acquaint
me with the manner of her death.'

'I will, ma'am,' said Dorothee, 'but shall we leave the window?'

'This cool air refreshes me,' replied Emily, 'and I love to hear it
creep along the woods, and to look upon this dusky landscape. You was
speaking of my lord, the Marquis, when the music interrupted us.'

'Yes, madam, my lord, the Marquis, became more and more gloomy; and
my lady grew worse and worse, till, one night, she was taken very ill,
indeed. I was called up, and, when I came to her bedside, I was shocked
to see her countenance--it was so changed! She looked piteously up at
me, and desired I would call the Marquis again, for he was not yet come,
and tell him she had something particular to say to him. At last, he
came, and he did, to be sure, seem very sorry to see her, but he said
very little. My lady told him she felt herself to be dying, and wished
to speak with him alone, and then I left the room, but I shall never
forget his look as I went.'

'When I returned, I ventured to remind my lord about sending for a
doctor, for I supposed he had forgot to do so, in his grief; but my lady
said it was then too late; but my lord, so far from thinking so, seemed
to think light of her disorder--till she was seized with such terrible
pains! O, I never shall forget her shriek! My lord then sent off a man
and horse for the doctor, and walked about the room and all over the
chateau in the greatest distress; and I staid by my dear lady, and did
what I could to ease her sufferings. She had intervals of ease, and in
one of these she sent for my lord again; when he came, I was going, but
she desired I would not leave her. O! I shall never forget what a
scene passed--I can hardly bear to think of it now! My lord was almost
distracted, for my lady behaved with so much goodness, and took such
pains to comfort him, that, if he ever had suffered a suspicion to enter
his head, he must now have been convinced he was wrong. And to be sure
he did seem to be overwhelmed with the thought of his treatment of her,
and this affected her so much, that she fainted away.

'We then got my lord out of the room; he went into his library, and
threw himself on the floor, and there he staid, and would hear no
reason, that was talked to him. When my lady recovered, she enquired
for him, but, afterwards, said she could not bear to see his grief, and
desired we would let her die quietly. She died in my arms, ma'amselle,
and she went off as peacefully as a child, for all the violence of her
disorder was passed.'

Dorothee paused, and wept, and Emily wept with her; for she was much
affected by the goodness of the late Marchioness, and by the meek
patience, with which she had suffered.

'When the doctor came,' resumed Dorothee, 'alas! he came too late;
he appeared greatly shocked to see her, for soon after her death a
frightful blackness spread all over her face. When he had sent the
attendants out of the room, he asked me several odd questions about the
Marchioness, particularly concerning the manner, in which she had been
seized, and he often shook his head at my answers, and seemed to mean
more, than he chose to say. But I understood him too well. However, I
kept my remarks to myself, and only told them to my husband, who bade
me hold my tongue. Some of the other servants, however, suspected what
I did, and strange reports were whispered about the neighbourhood, but
nobody dared to make any stir about them. When my lord heard that my
lady was dead, he shut himself up, and would see nobody but the doctor,
who used to be with him alone, sometimes for an hour together; and,
after that, the doctor never talked with me again about my lady. When
she was buried in the church of the convent, at a little distance
yonder, if the moon was up you might see the towers here, ma'amselle,
all my lord's vassals followed the funeral, and there was not a dry eye
among them, for she had done a deal of good among the poor. My lord, the
Marquis, I never saw any body so melancholy as he was afterwards, and
sometimes he would be in such fits of violence, that we almost thought
he had lost his senses. He did not stay long at the chateau, but joined
his regiment, and, soon after, all the servants, except my husband and
I, received notice to go, for my lord went to the wars. I never saw him
after, for he would not return to the chateau, though it is such a fine
place, and never finished those fine rooms he was building on the west
side of it, and it has, in a manner, been shut up ever since, till my
lord the Count came here.'

'The death of the Marchioness appears extraordinary,' said Emily, who
was anxious to know more than she dared to ask.

'Yes, madam,' replied Dorothee, 'it was extraordinary; I have told you
all I saw, and you may easily guess what I think, I cannot say more,
because I would not spread reports, that might offend my lord the
Count.'

'You are very right,' said Emily;--'where did the Marquis die?'--'In the
north of France, I believe, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee. 'I was very
glad, when I heard my lord the Count was coming, for this had been a
sad desolate place, these many years, and we heard such strange noises,
sometimes, after my lady's death, that, as I told you before, my husband
and I left it for a neighbouring cottage. And now, lady, I have told you
all this sad history, and all my thoughts, and you have promised, you
know, never to give the least hint about it.'--'I have,' said Emily,
'and I will be faithful to my promise, Dorothee;--what you have told
has interested me more than you can imagine. I only wish I could
prevail upon you to tell the name of the chevalier, whom you thought so
deserving of the Marchioness.'

Dorothee, however, steadily refused to do this, and then returned to the
notice of Emily's likeness to the late Marchioness. 'There is another
picture of her,' added she, 'hanging in a room of the suite, which was
shut up. It was drawn, as I have heard, before she was married, and is
much more like you than the miniature.' When Emily expressed a strong
desire to see this, Dorothee replied, that she did not like to open
those rooms; but Emily reminded her, that the Count had talked the other
day of ordering them to be opened; of which Dorothee seemed to consider
much, and then she owned, that she should feel less, if she went into
them with Emily first, than otherwise, and at length promised to shew
the picture.

The night was too far advanced and Emily was too much affected by the
narrative of the scenes, which had passed in those apartments, to wish
to visit them at this hour, but she requested that Dorothee would return
on the following night, when they were not likely to be observed, and
conduct her thither. Besides her wish to examine the portrait, she felt
a thrilling curiosity to see the chamber, in which the Marchioness had
died, and which Dorothee had said remained, with the bed and furniture,
just as when the corpse was removed for interment. The solemn emotions,
which the expectation of viewing such a scene had awakened, were
in unison with the present tone of her mind, depressed by severe
disappointment. Cheerful objects rather added to, than removed this
depression; but, perhaps, she yielded too much to her melancholy
inclination, and imprudently lamented the misfortune, which no virtue of
her own could have taught her to avoid, though no effort of reason could
make her look unmoved upon the self-degradation of him, whom she had
once esteemed and loved.

Dorothee promised to return, on the following night, with the keys of
the chambers, and then wished Emily good repose, and departed. Emily,
however, continued at the window, musing upon the melancholy fate of
the Marchioness and listening, in awful expectation, for a return of the
music. But the stillness of the night remained long unbroken, except by
the murmuring sounds of the woods, as they waved in the breeze, and then
by the distant bell of the convent, striking one. She now withdrew
from the window, and, as she sat at her bed-side, indulging melancholy
reveries, which the loneliness of the hour assisted, the stillness was
suddenly interrupted not by music, but by very uncommon sounds, that
seemed to come either from the room, adjoining her own, or from one
below. The terrible catastrophe, that had been related to her, together
with the mysterious circumstances, said to have since occurred in the
chateau, had so much shocked her spirits, that she now sunk, for a
moment, under the weakness of superstition. The sounds, however, did not
return, and she retired, to forget in sleep the disastrous story she had
heard.



CHAPTER IV


 Now it is the time of night,
 That, the graves all gaping wide,
 Every one lets forth his spite,
 In the church-way path to glide.
     SHAKESPEARE

On the next night, about the same hour as before, Dorothee came to
Emily's chamber, with the keys of that suite of rooms, which had been
particularly appropriated to the late Marchioness. These extended along
the north side of the chateau, forming part of the old building; and, as
Emily's room was in the south, they had to pass over a great extent
of the castle, and by the chambers of several of the family, whose
observations Dorothee was anxious to avoid, since it might excite
enquiry, and raise reports, such as would displease the Count. She,
therefore, requested, that Emily would wait half an hour, before they
ventured forth, that they might be certain all the servants were gone
to bed. It was nearly one, before the chateau was perfectly still, or
Dorothee thought it prudent to leave the chamber. In this interval, her
spirits seemed to be greatly affected by the remembrance of past events,
and by the prospect of entering again upon places, where these had
occurred, and in which she had not been for so many years. Emily too was
affected, but her feelings had more of solemnity, and less of fear.
From the silence, into which reflection and expectation had thrown them,
they, at length, roused themselves, and left the chamber. Dorothee, at
first, carried the lamp, but her hand trembled so much with infirmity
and alarm, that Emily took it from her, and offered her arm, to support
her feeble steps.

They had to descend the great stair-case, and, after passing over a
wide extent of the chateau, to ascend another, which led to the suite
of rooms they were in quest of. They stepped cautiously along the open
corridor, that ran round the great hall, and into which the chambers
of the Count, Countess, and the Lady Blanche, opened, and, from
thence, descending the chief stair-case, they crossed the hall itself.
Proceeding through the servants hall, where the dying embers of a wood
fire still glimmered on the hearth, and the supper table was surrounded
by chairs, that obstructed their passage, they came to the foot of the
back stair-case. Old Dorothee here paused, and looked around; 'Let us
listen,' said she, 'if any thing is stirring; Ma'amselle, do you hear
any voice?' 'None,' said Emily, 'there certainly is no person up in the
chateau, besides ourselves.'--'No, ma'amselle,' said Dorothee, 'but I
have never been here at this hour before, and, after what I know,
my fears are not wonderful.'--'What do you know?' said Emily.--'O,
ma'amselle, we have no time for talking now; let us go on. That door on
the left is the one we must open.'

They proceeded, and, having reached the top of the stair-case, Dorothee
applied the key to the lock. 'Ah,' said she, as she endeavoured to turn
it, 'so many years have passed since this was opened, that I fear it
will not move.' Emily was more successful, and they presently entered a
spacious and ancient chamber.

'Alas!' exclaimed Dorothee, as she entered, 'the last time I passed
through this door--I followed my poor lady's corpse!'

Emily, struck with the circumstance, and affected by the dusky and
solemn air of the apartment, remained silent, and they passed on through
a long suite of rooms, till they came to one more spacious than the
rest, and rich in the remains of faded magnificence.

'Let us rest here awhile, madam,' said Dorothee faintly, 'we are going
into the chamber, where my lady died! that door opens into it. Ah,
ma'amselle! why did you persuade me to come?'

Emily drew one of the massy arm-chairs, with which the apartment was
furnished, and begged Dorothee would sit down, and try to compose her
spirits.

'How the sight of this place brings all that passed formerly to my
mind!' said Dorothee; 'it seems as if it was but yesterday since all
that sad affair happened!'

'Hark! what noise is that?' said Emily.

Dorothee, half starting from her chair, looked round the apartment, and
they listened--but, every thing remaining still, the old woman spoke
again upon the subject of her sorrow. 'This saloon, ma'amselle, was in
my lady's time the finest apartment in the chateau, and it was fitted
up according to her own taste. All this grand furniture, but you can
now hardly see what it is for the dust, and our light is none of the
best--ah! how I have seen this room lighted up in my lady's time!--all
this grand furniture came from Paris, and was made after the fashion of
some in the Louvre there, except those large glasses, and they came from
some outlandish place, and that rich tapestry. How the colours are faded
already!--since I saw it last!'

'I understood, that was twenty years ago,' observed Emily.

'Thereabout, madam,' said Dorothee, 'and well remembered, but all the
time between then and now seems as nothing. That tapestry used to be
greatly admired at, it tells the stories out of some famous book, or
other, but I have forgot the name.'

Emily now rose to examine the figures it exhibited, and discovered, by
verses in the Provencal tongue, wrought underneath each scene, that it
exhibited stories from some of the most celebrated ancient romances.

Dorothee's spirits being now more composed, she rose, and unlocked the
door that led into the late Marchioness's apartment, and Emily passed
into a lofty chamber, hung round with dark arras, and so spacious, that
the lamp she held up did not shew its extent; while Dorothee, when she
entered, had dropped into a chair, where, sighing deeply, she scarcely
trusted herself with the view of a scene so affecting to her. It was
some time before Emily perceived, through the dusk, the bed on which the
Marchioness was said to have died; when, advancing to the upper end of
the room, she discovered the high canopied tester of dark green damask,
with the curtains descending to the floor in the fashion of a tent,
half drawn, and remaining apparently, as they had been left twenty years
before; and over the whole bedding was thrown a counterpane, or pall, of
black velvet, that hung down to the floor. Emily shuddered, as she held
the lamp over it, and looked within the dark curtains, where she almost
expected to have seen a human face, and, suddenly remembering the
horror she had suffered upon discovering the dying Madame Montoni in the
turret-chamber of Udolpho, her spirits fainted, and she was turning from
the bed, when Dorothee, who had now reached it, exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin!
methinks I see my lady stretched upon that pall--as when last I saw
her!'

Emily, shocked by this exclamation, looked involuntarily again within
the curtains, but the blackness of the pall only appeared; while
Dorothee was compelled to support herself upon the side of the bed, and
presently tears brought her some relief.

'Ah!' said she, after she had wept awhile, 'it was here I sat on that
terrible night, and held my lady's hand, and heard her last words, and
saw all her sufferings--HERE she died in my arms!'

'Do not indulge these painful recollections,' said Emily, 'let us go.
Shew me the picture you mentioned, if it will not too much affect you.'

'It hangs in the oriel,' said Dorothee rising, and going towards a small
door near the bed's head, which she opened, and Emily followed with the
light, into the closet of the late Marchioness.

'Alas! there she is, ma'amselle,' said Dorothee, pointing to a portrait
of a lady, 'there is her very self! just as she looked when she came
first to the chateau. You see, madam, she was all blooming like you,
then--and so soon to be cut off!'

While Dorothee spoke, Emily was attentively examining the picture, which
bore a strong resemblance to the miniature, though the expression of the
countenance in each was somewhat different; but still she thought she
perceived something of that pensive melancholy in the portrait, which so
strongly characterised the miniature.

'Pray, ma'amselle, stand beside the picture, that I may look at you
together,' said Dorothee, who, when the request was complied with,
exclaimed again at the resemblance. Emily also, as she gazed upon it,
thought that she had somewhere seen a person very like it, though she
could not now recollect who this was.

In this closet were many memorials of the departed Marchioness; a robe
and several articles of her dress were scattered upon the chairs, as if
they had just been thrown off. On the floor were a pair of black satin
slippers, and, on the dressing-table, a pair of gloves and a long black
veil, which, as Emily took it up to examine, she perceived was dropping
to pieces with age.

'Ah!' said Dorothee, observing the veil, 'my lady's hand laid it there;
it has never been moved since!'

Emily, shuddering, immediately laid it down again. 'I well remember
seeing her take it off,' continued Dorothee, 'it was on the night before
her death, when she had returned from a little walk I had persuaded her
to take in the gardens, and she seemed refreshed by it. I told her how
much better she looked, and I remember what a languid smile she gave me;
but, alas! she little thought, or I either, that she was to die, that
night.'

Dorothee wept again, and then, taking up the veil, threw it suddenly
over Emily, who shuddered to find it wrapped round her, descending even
to her feet, and, as she endeavoured to throw it off, Dorothee intreated
that she would keep it on for one moment. 'I thought,' added she, 'how
like you would look to my dear mistress in that veil;--may your life,
ma'amselle, be a happier one than hers!'

Emily, having disengaged herself from the veil, laid it again on the
dressing-table, and surveyed the closet, where every object, on which
her eye fixed, seemed to speak of the Marchioness. In a large oriel
window of painted glass, stood a table, with a silver crucifix, and a
prayer-book open; and Emily remembered with emotion what Dorothee had
mentioned concerning her custom of playing on her lute in this window,
before she observed the lute itself, lying on a corner of the table, as
if it had been carelessly placed there by the hand, that had so often
awakened it.

'This is a sad forlorn place!' said Dorothee, 'for, when my dear lady
died, I had no heart to put it to rights, or the chamber either; and my
lord never came into the rooms after, so they remain just as they did
when my lady was removed for interment.'

While Dorothee spoke, Emily was still looking on the lute, which was a
Spanish one, and remarkably large; and then, with a hesitating hand,
she took it up, and passed her fingers over the chords. They were out
of tune, but uttered a deep and full sound. Dorothee started at their
well-known tones, and, seeing the lute in Emily's hand, said, 'This is
the lute my lady Marchioness loved so! I remember when last she played
upon it--it was on the night that she died. I came as usual to undress
her, and, as I entered the bed-chamber, I heard the sound of music from
the oriel, and perceiving it was my lady's, who was sitting there, I
stepped softly to the door, which stood a little open, to listen; for
the music--though it was mournful--was so sweet! There I saw her, with
the lute in her hand, looking upwards, and the tears fell upon her
cheeks, while she sung a vesper hymn, so soft, and so solemn! and her
voice trembled, as it were, and then she would stop for a moment, and
wipe away her tears, and go on again, lower than before. O! I had often
listened to my lady, but never heard any thing so sweet as this; it made
me cry, almost, to hear it. She had been at prayers, I fancy, for there
was the book open on the table beside her--aye, and there it lies open
still! Pray, let us leave the oriel, ma'amselle,' added Dorothee, 'this
is a heart-breaking place!'

Having returned into the chamber, she desired to look once more upon
the bed, when, as they came opposite to the open door, leading into
the saloon, Emily, in the partial gleam, which the lamp threw into it,
thought she saw something glide along into the obscurer part of the
room. Her spirits had been much affected by the surrounding scene, or it
is probable this circumstance, whether real or imaginary, would not have
affected her in the degree it did; but she endeavoured to conceal her
emotion from Dorothee, who, however, observing her countenance change,
enquired if she was ill.

'Let us go,' said Emily, faintly, 'the air of these rooms is
unwholesome;' but, when she attempted to do so, considering that she
must pass through the apartment where the phantom of her terror had
appeared, this terror increased, and, too faint to support herself, she
sat down on the side of the bed.

Dorothee, believing that she was only affected by a consideration of the
melancholy catastrophe, which had happened on this spot, endeavoured
to cheer her; and then, as they sat together on the bed, she began to
relate other particulars concerning it, and this without reflecting,
that it might increase Emily's emotion, but because they were
particularly interesting to herself. 'A little before my lady's death,'
said she, 'when the pains were gone off, she called me to her, and
stretching out her hand to me, I sat down just there--where the curtain
falls upon the bed. How well I remember her look at the time--death
was in it!--I can almost fancy I see her now.--There she lay,
ma'amselle--her face was upon the pillow there! This black counterpane
was not upon the bed then; it was laid on, after her death, and she was
laid out upon it.'

Emily turned to look within the dusky curtains, as if she could have
seen the countenance of which Dorothee spoke. The edge of the white
pillow only appeared above the blackness of the pall, but, as her eyes
wandered over the pall itself, she fancied she saw it move. Without
speaking, she caught Dorothee's arm, who, surprised by the action, and
by the look of terror that accompanied it, turned her eyes from Emily to
the bed, where, in the next moment she, too, saw the pall slowly lifted,
and fall again.

Emily attempted to go, but Dorothee stood fixed and gazing upon the bed;
and, at length, said--'It is only the wind, that waves it, ma'amselle;
we have left all the doors open: see how the air waves the lamp,
too.--It is only the wind.'

She had scarcely uttered these words, when the pall was more violently
agitated than before; but Emily, somewhat ashamed of her terrors,
stepped back to the bed, willing to be convinced that the wind only had
occasioned her alarm; when, as she gazed within the curtains, the
pall moved again, and, in the next moment, the apparition of a human
countenance rose above it.

Screaming with terror, they both fled, and got out of the chamber as
fast as their trembling limbs would bear them, leaving open the doors
of all the rooms, through which they passed. When they reached the
stair-case, Dorothee threw open a chamber door, where some of the female
servants slept, and sunk breathless on the bed; while Emily, deprived of
all presence of mind, made only a feeble attempt to conceal the occasion
of her terror from the astonished servants; and, though Dorothee, when
she could speak, endeavoured to laugh at her own fright, and was joined
by Emily, no remonstrances could prevail with the servants, who had
quickly taken the alarm, to pass even the remainder of the night in a
room so near to these terrific chambers.

Dorothee having accompanied Emily to her own apartment, they then began
to talk over, with some degree of coolness, the strange circumstance,
that had just occurred; and Emily would almost have doubted her own
perceptions, had not those of Dorothee attested their truth. Having
now mentioned what she had observed in the outer chamber, she asked the
housekeeper, whether she was certain no door had been left unfastened,
by which a person might secretly have entered the apartments? Dorothee
replied, that she had constantly kept the keys of the several doors
in her own possession; that, when she had gone her rounds through the
castle, as she frequently did, to examine if all was safe, she had tried
these doors among the rest, and had always found them fastened. It
was, therefore, impossible, she added, that any person could have
got admittance into the apartments; and, if they could--it was very
improbable they should have chose to sleep in a place so cold and
forlorn.

Emily observed, that their visit to these chambers had, perhaps, been
watched, and that some person, for a frolic, had followed them into
the rooms, with a design to frighten them, and, while they were in the
oriel, had taken the opportunity of concealing himself in the bed.

Dorothee allowed, that this was possible, till she recollected, that, on
entering the apartments, she had turned the key of the outer door, and
this, which had been done to prevent their visit being noticed by any
of the family, who might happen to be up, must effectually have
excluded every person, except themselves, from the chambers; and she now
persisted in affirming, that the ghastly countenance she had seen was
nothing human, but some dreadful apparition.

Emily was very solemnly affected. Of whatever nature might be the
appearance she had witnessed, whether human or supernatural, the fate
of the deceased Marchioness was a truth not to be doubted; and
this unaccountable circumstance, occurring in the very scene of her
sufferings, affected Emily's imagination with a superstitious awe, to
which, after having detected the fallacies at Udolpho, she might not
have yielded, had she been ignorant of the unhappy story, related by the
housekeeper. Her she now solemnly conjured to conceal the occurrence of
this night, and to make light of the terror she had already betrayed,
that the Count might not be distressed by reports, which would certainly
spread alarm and confusion among his family. 'Time,' she added, 'may
explain this mysterious affair; meanwhile let us watch the event in
silence.'

Dorothee readily acquiesced; but she now recollected that she had left
all the doors of the north suite of rooms open, and, not having courage
to return alone to lock even the outer one, Emily, after some effort,
so far conquered her own fears, that she offered to accompany her to the
foot of the back stair-case, and to wait there while Dorothee ascended,
whose resolution being re-assured by this circumstance, she consented to
go, and they left Emily's apartment together.

No sound disturbed the stillness, as they passed along the halls and
galleries; but, on reaching the foot of the back stair-case, Dorothee's
resolution failed again; having, however, paused a moment to listen,
and no sound being heard above, she ascended, leaving Emily below,
and, scarcely suffering her eye to glance within the first chamber,
she fastened the door, which shut up the whole suite of apartments, and
returned to Emily.

As they stepped along the passage, leading into the great hall, a sound
of lamentation was heard, which seemed to come from the hall itself, and
they stopped in new alarm to listen, when Emily presently distinguished
the voice of Annette, whom she found crossing the hall, with another
female servant, and so terrified by the report, which the other maids
had spread, that, believing she could be safe only where her lady was,
she was going for refuge to her apartment. Emily's endeavours to
laugh, or to argue her out of these terrors, were equally vain, and, in
compassion to her distress, she consented that she should remain in her
room during the night.



CHAPTER V


  Hail, mildly-pleasing Solitude!
 Companion of the wise and good--

 This is the balmy breath of morn,
 Just as the dew-bent rose is born.

 But chief when evening scenes decay
 And the faint landscape swims away,
 Thine is the doubtful, soft decline,
 And that best hour of musing thine.
     THOMSON

Emily's injunctions to Annette to be silent on the subject of her terror
were ineffectual, and the occurrence of the preceding night spread such
alarm among the servants, who now all affirmed, that they had frequently
heard unaccountable noises in the chateau, that a report soon reached
the Count of the north side of the castle being haunted. He treated
this, at first, with ridicule, but, perceiving, that it was productive
of serious evil, in the confusion it occasioned among his household, he
forbade any person to repeat it, on pain of punishment.

The arrival of a party of his friends soon withdrew his thoughts
entirely from this subject, and his servants had now little leisure to
brood over it, except, indeed, in the evenings after supper, when they
all assembled in their hall, and related stories of ghosts, till they
feared to look round the room; started, if the echo of a closing door
murmured along the passage, and refused to go singly to any part of the
castle.

On these occasions Annette made a distinguished figure. When she told
not only of all the wonders she had witnessed, but of all that she
had imagined, in the castle of Udolpho, with the story of the strange
disappearance of Signora Laurentini, she made no trifling impression on
the mind of her attentive auditors. Her suspicions, concerning Montoni,
she would also have freely disclosed, had not Ludovico, who was now in
the service of the Count, prudently checked her loquacity, whenever it
pointed to that subject.

Among the visitors at the chateau was the Baron de Saint Foix, an old
friend of the Count, and his son, the Chevalier St. Foix, a sensible
and amiable young man, who, having in the preceding year seen the Lady
Blanche, at Paris, had become her declared admirer. The friendship,
which the Count had long entertained for his father, and the equality
of their circumstances made him secretly approve of the connection; but,
thinking his daughter at this time too young to fix her choice for
life, and wishing to prove the sincerity and strength of the Chevalier's
attachment, he then rejected his suit, though without forbidding his
future hope. This young man now came, with the Baron, his father,
to claim the reward of a steady affection, a claim, which the Count
admitted and which Blanche did not reject.

While these visitors were at the chateau, it became a scene of gaiety
and splendour. The pavilion in the woods was fitted up and frequented,
in the fine evenings, as a supper-room, when the hour usually concluded
with a concert, at which the Count and Countess, who were scientific
performers, and the Chevaliers Henri and St. Foix, with the Lady Blanche
and Emily, whose voices and fine taste compensated for the want of more
skilful execution, usually assisted. Several of the Count's servants
performed on horns and other instruments, some of which, placed at
a little distance among the woods, spoke, in sweet response, to the
harmony, that proceeded from the pavilion.

At any other period, these parties would have been delightful to
Emily; but her spirits were now oppressed with a melancholy, which
she perceived that no kind of what is called amusement had power to
dissipate, and which the tender and, frequently, pathetic, melody of
these concerts sometimes increased to a very painful degree.

She was particularly fond of walking in the woods, that hung on a
promontory, overlooking the sea. Their luxuriant shade was soothing to
her pensive mind, and, in the partial views, which they afforded of
the Mediterranean, with its winding shores and passing sails, tranquil
beauty was united with grandeur. The paths were rude and frequently
overgrown with vegetation, but their tasteful owner would suffer little
to be done to them, and scarcely a single branch to be lopped from the
venerable trees. On an eminence, in one of the most sequestered parts
of these woods, was a rustic seat, formed of the trunk of a decayed oak,
which had once been a noble tree, and of which many lofty branches still
flourishing united with beech and pines to over-canopy the spot. Beneath
their deep umbrage, the eye passed over the tops of other woods, to the
Mediterranean, and, to the left, through an opening, was seen a ruined
watch-tower, standing on a point of rock, near the sea, and rising from
among the tufted foliage.

Hither Emily often came alone in the silence of evening, and, soothed
by the scenery and by the faint murmur, that rose from the waves, would
sit, till darkness obliged her to return to the chateau. Frequently,
also, she visited the watch-tower, which commanded the entire
prospect, and, when she leaned against its broken walls, and thought of
Valancourt, she not once imagined, what was so true, that this tower had
been almost as frequently his resort, as her own, since his estrangement
from the neighbouring chateau.

One evening, she lingered here to a late hour. She had sat on the steps
of the building, watching, in tranquil melancholy, the gradual effect
of evening over the extensive prospect, till the gray waters of the
Mediterranean and the massy woods were almost the only features of the
scene, that remained visible; when, as she gazed alternately on these,
and on the mild blue of the heavens, where the first pale star of
evening appeared, she personified the hour in the following lines:--

  SONG OF THE EVENING HOUR

 Last of the Hours, that track the fading Day,
 I move along the realms of twilight air,
 And hear, remote, the choral song decay
 Of sister-nymphs, who dance around his car.

 Then, as I follow through the azure void,
 His partial splendour from my straining eye
 Sinks in the depth of space; my only guide
 His faint ray dawning on the farthest sky;

 Save that sweet, lingering strain of gayer Hours,
 Whose close my voice prolongs in dying notes,
 While mortals on the green earth own its pow'rs,
 As downward on the evening gale it floats.

 When fades along the West the Sun's last beam,
 As, weary, to the nether world he goes,
 And mountain-summits catch the purple gleam,
 And slumbering ocean faint and fainter glows,

 Silent upon the globe's broad shade I steal,
 And o'er its dry turf shed the cooling dews,
 And ev'ry fever'd herb and flow'ret heal,
 And all their fragrance on the air diffuse.

 Where'er I move, a tranquil pleasure reigns;
 O'er all the scene the dusky tints I send,
 That forests wild and mountains, stretching plains
 And peopled towns, in soft confusion blend.

 Wide o'er the world I waft the fresh'ning wind,
 Low breathing through the woods and twilight vale,
 In whispers soft, that woo the pensive mind
 Of him, who loves my lonely steps to hail.

 His tender oaten reed I watch to hear,
 Stealing its sweetness o'er some plaining rill,
 Or soothing ocean's wave, when storms are near,
 Or swelling in the breeze from distant hill!

 I wake the fairy elves, who shun the light;
 When, from their blossom'd beds, they slily peep,
 And spy my pale star, leading on the night,--
 Forth to their games and revelry they leap;

 Send all the prison'd sweets abroad in air,
 That with them slumber'd in the flow'ret's cell;
 Then to the shores and moon-light brooks repair,
 Till the high larks their matin-carol swell.

 The wood-nymphs hail my airs and temper'd shade,
 With ditties soft and lightly sportive dance,
 On river margin of some bow'ry glade,
 And strew their fresh buds as my steps advance:

 But, swift I pass, and distant regions trace,
 For moon-beams silver all the eastern cloud,
 And Day's last crimson vestige fades apace;
 Down the steep west I fly from Midnight's shroud.

The moon was now rising out of the sea. She watched its gradual
progress, the extending line of radiance it threw upon the waters, the
sparkling oars, the sail faintly silvered, and the wood-tops and the
battlements of the watch-tower, at whose foot she was sitting, just
tinted with the rays. Emily's spirits were in harmony with this scene.
As she sat meditating, sounds stole by her on the air, which she
immediately knew to be the music and the voice she had formerly heard at
midnight, and the emotion of awe, which she felt, was not unmixed with
terror, when she considered her remote and lonely situation. The sounds
drew nearer. She would have risen to leave the place, but they seemed
to come from the way she must have taken towards the chateau, and she
awaited the event in trembling expectation. The sounds continued to
approach, for some time, and then ceased. Emily sat listening, gazing
and unable to move, when she saw a figure emerge from the shade of the
woods and pass along the bank, at some little distance before her. It
went swiftly, and her spirits were so overcome with awe, that, though
she saw, she did not much observe it.

Having left the spot, with a resolution never again to visit it alone,
at so late an hour, she began to approach the chateau, when she heard
voices calling her from the part of the wood, which was nearest to it.
They were the shouts of the Count's servants, who were sent to search
for her; and when she entered the supper-room, where he sat with Henri
and Blanche, he gently reproached her with a look, which she blushed to
have deserved.

This little occurrence deeply impressed her mind, and, when she withdrew
to her own room, it recalled so forcibly the circumstances she had
witnessed, a few nights before, that she had scarcely courage to remain
alone. She watched to a late hour, when, no sound having renewed
her fears, she, at length, sunk to repose. But this was of short
continuance, for she was disturbed by a loud and unusual noise, that
seemed to come from the gallery, into which her chamber opened. Groans
were distinctly heard, and, immediately after, a dead weight fell
against the door, with a violence, that threatened to burst it open. She
called loudly to know who was there, but received no answer, though,
at intervals, she still thought she heard something like a low moaning.
Fear deprived her of the power to move. Soon after, she heard footsteps
in a remote part of the gallery, and, as they approached, she called
more loudly than before, till the steps paused at her door. She then
distinguished the voices of several of the servants, who seemed too
much engaged by some circumstance without, to attend to her calls; but,
Annette soon after entering the room for water, Emily understood, that
one of the maids had fainted, whom she immediately desired them to bring
into her room, where she assisted to restore her. When this girl had
recovered her speech, she affirmed, that, as she was passing up the back
stair-case, in the way to her chamber, she had seen an apparition on the
second landing-place; she held the lamp low, she said, that she might
pick her way, several of the stairs being infirm and even decayed, and
it was upon raising her eyes, that she saw this appearance. It stood for
a moment in the corner of the landing-place, which she was approaching,
and then, gliding up the stairs, vanished at the door of the apartment,
that had been lately opened. She heard afterwards a hollow sound.

'Then the devil has got a key to that apartment,' said Dorothee, 'for it
could be nobody but he; I locked the door myself!'

The girl, springing down the stairs and passing up the great stair-case,
had run, with a faint scream, till she reached the gallery, where she
fell, groaning, at Emily's door.

Gently chiding her for the alarm she had occasioned, Emily tried to make
her ashamed of her fears; but the girl persisted in saying, that she
had seen an apparition, till she went to her own room, whither she
was accompanied by all the servants present, except Dorothee, who,
at Emily's request, remained with her during the night. Emily was
perplexed, and Dorothee was terrified, and mentioned many occurrences
of former times, which had long since confirmed her superstitions; among
these, according to her belief, she had once witnessed an appearance,
like that just described, and on the very same spot, and it was the
remembrance of it, that had made her pause, when she was going to ascend
the stairs with Emily, and which had increased her reluctance to open
the north apartments. Whatever might be Emily's opinions, she did
not disclose them, but listened attentively to all that Dorothee
communicated, which occasioned her much thought and perplexity.

From this night the terror of the servants increased to such an excess,
that several of them determined to leave the chateau, and requested
their discharge of the Count, who, if he had any faith in the subject of
their alarm, thought proper to dissemble it, and, anxious to avoid the
inconvenience that threatened him, employed ridicule and then argument
to convince them they had nothing to apprehend from supernatural agency.
But fear had rendered their minds inaccessible to reason; and it was
now, that Ludovico proved at once his courage and his gratitude for the
kindness he had received from the Count, by offering to watch, during a
night, in the suite of rooms, reputed to be haunted. He feared, he said,
no spirits, and, if any thing of human form appeared--he would prove
that he dreaded that as little.

The Count paused upon the offer, while the servants, who heard it,
looked upon one another in doubt and amazement, and Annette, terrified
for the safety of Ludovico, employed tears and entreaties to dissuade
him from his purpose.

'You are a bold fellow,' said the Count, smiling, 'Think well of what
you are going to encounter, before you finally determine upon it.
However, if you persevere in your resolution, I will accept your offer,
and your intrepidity shall not go unrewarded.'

'I desire no reward, your excellenza,' replied Ludovico, 'but your
approbation. Your excellenza has been sufficiently good to me already;
but I wish to have arms, that I may be equal to my enemy, if he should
appear.'

'Your sword cannot defend you against a ghost,' replied the Count,
throwing a glance of irony upon the other servants, 'neither can bars,
or bolts; for a spirit, you know, can glide through a keyhole as easily
as through a door.'

'Give me a sword, my lord Count,' said Ludovico, 'and I will lay all the
spirits, that shall attack me, in the red sea.'

'Well,' said the Count, 'you shall have a sword, and good cheer, too;
and your brave comrades here will, perhaps, have courage enough to
remain another night in the chateau, since your boldness will certainly,
for this night, at least, confine all the malice of the spectre to
yourself.'

Curiosity now struggled with fear in the minds of several of his fellow
servants, and, at length, they resolved to await the event of Ludovico's
rashness.

Emily was surprised and concerned, when she heard of his intention, and
was frequently inclined to mention what she had witnessed in the north
apartments to the Count, for she could not entirely divest herself of
fears for Ludovico's safety, though her reason represented these to be
absurd. The necessity, however, of concealing the secret, with which
Dorothee had entrusted her, and which must have been mentioned, with the
late occurrence, in excuse for her having so privately visited the north
apartments, kept her entirely silent on the subject of her apprehension;
and she tried only to sooth Annette, who held, that Ludovico was
certainly to be destroyed; and who was much less affected by Emily's
consolatory efforts, than by the manner of old Dorothee, who often, as
she exclaimed Ludovico, sighed, and threw up her eyes to heaven.



CHAPTER VI


  Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound!
 Whose soft dominion o'er this castle sways,
 And all the widely-silent places round,
 Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays
 What never yet was sung in mortal lays.
     THOMSON

The Count gave orders for the north apartments to be opened and prepared
for the reception of Ludovico; but Dorothee, remembering what she
had lately witnessed there, feared to obey, and, not one of the other
servants daring to venture thither, the rooms remained shut up till the
time when Ludovico was to retire thither for the night, an hour, for
which the whole household waited with impatience.

After supper, Ludovico, by the order of the Count, attended him in his
closet, where they remained alone for near half an hour, and, on leaving
which, his Lord delivered to him a sword.

'It has seen service in mortal quarrels,' said the Count, jocosely, 'you
will use it honourably, no doubt, in a spiritual one. Tomorrow, let me
hear that there is not one ghost remaining in the chateau.'

Ludovico received it with a respectful bow. 'You shall be obeyed, my
Lord,' said he; 'I will engage, that no spectre shall disturb the peace
of the chateau after this night.'

They now returned to the supper-room, where the Count's guests awaited
to accompany him and Ludovico to the door of the north apartments, and
Dorothee, being summoned for the keys, delivered them to Ludovico, who
then led the way, followed by most of the inhabitants of the chateau.
Having reached the back stair-case, several of the servants shrunk back,
and refused to go further, but the rest followed him to the top of the
stair-case, where a broad landing-place allowed them to flock round him,
while he applied the key to the door, during which they watched him with
as much eager curiosity as if he had been performing some magical rite.

Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it, and Dorothee, who
had lingered far behind, was called forward, under whose hand the door
opened slowly, and, her eye glancing within the dusky chamber, she
uttered a sudden shriek, and retreated. At this signal of alarm, the
greater part of the crowd hurried down the stairs, and the Count, Henri
and Ludovico were left alone to pursue the enquiry, who instantly rushed
into the apartment, Ludovico with a drawn sword, which he had just time
to draw from the scabbard, the Count with the lamp in his hand, and
Henri carrying a basket, containing provisions for the courageous
adventurer.

Having looked hastily round the first room, where nothing appeared to
justify alarm, they passed on to the second; and, here too all being
quiet, they proceeded to a third with a more tempered step. The Count
had now leisure to smile at the discomposure, into which he had been
surprised, and to ask Ludovico in which room he designed to pass the
night.

'There are several chambers beyond these, your excellenza,' said
Ludovico, pointing to a door, 'and in one of them is a bed, they say.
I will pass the night there, and when I am weary of watching, I can lie
down.'

'Good;' said the Count; 'let us go on. You see these rooms shew nothing,
but damp walls and decaying furniture. I have been so much engaged
since I came to the chateau, that I have not looked into them till now.
Remember, Ludovico, to tell the housekeeper, to-morrow, to throw open
these windows. The damask hangings are dropping to pieces, I will have
them taken down, and this antique furniture removed.'

'Dear sir!' said Henri, 'here is an arm-chair so massy with gilding,
that it resembles one of the state chairs at the Louvre, more then any
thing else.'

'Yes,' said the Count, stopping a moment to survey it, 'there is a
history belonging to that chair, but I have not time to tell it.--Let us
pass on. This suite runs to a greater extent than I had imagined; it is
many years since I was in them. But where is the bed-room you speak of,
Ludovico?--these are only anti-chambers to the great drawing-room. I
remember them in their splendour!'

'The bed, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'they told me, was in a room that
opens beyond the saloon, and terminates the suite.'

'O, here is the saloon,' said the Count, as they entered the spacious
apartment, in which Emily and Dorothee had rested. He here stood for
a moment, surveying the reliques of faded grandeur, which it
exhibited--the sumptuous tapestry--the long and low sophas of velvet,
with frames heavily carved and gilded--the floor inlaid with small
squares of fine marble, and covered in the centre with a piece of
very rich tapestry-work--the casements of painted glass, and the large
Venetian mirrors, of a size and quality, such as at that period France
could not make, which reflected, on every side, the spacious apartment.
These had formerly also reflected a gay and brilliant scene, for this
had been the state-room of the chateau, and here the Marchioness had
held the assemblies, that made part of the festivities of her nuptials.
If the wand of a magician could have recalled the vanished groups, many
of them vanished even from the earth! that once had passed over these
polished mirrors, what a varied and contrasted picture would they have
exhibited with the present! Now, instead of a blaze of lights, and
a splendid and busy crowd, they reflected only the rays of the one
glimmering lamp, which the Count held up, and which scarcely served to
shew the three forlorn figures, that stood surveying the room, and the
spacious and dusky walls around them.

'Ah!' said the Count to Henri, awaking from his deep reverie, 'how the
scene is changed since last I saw it! I was a young man, then, and the
Marchioness was alive and in her bloom; many other persons were here,
too, who are now no more! There stood the orchestra; here we tripped in
many a sprightly maze--the walls echoing to the dance! Now, they resound
only one feeble voice--and even that will, ere long, be heard no more!
My son, remember, that I was once as young as yourself, and that you
must pass away like those, who have preceded you--like those, who, as
they sung and danced in this once gay apartment, forgot, that years are
made up of moments, and that every step they took carried them nearer
to their graves. But such reflections are useless, I had almost
said criminal, unless they teach us to prepare for eternity, since,
otherwise, they cloud our present happiness, without guiding us to a
future one. But enough of this; let us go on.'

Ludovico now opened the door of the bed-room, and the Count, as he
entered, was struck with the funereal appearance, which the dark arras
gave to it. He approached the bed, with an emotion of solemnity, and,
perceiving it to be covered with the pall of black velvet, paused; 'What
can this mean?' said he, as he gazed upon it.

'I have heard, my Lord,' said Ludovico, as he stood at the feet, looking
within the canopied curtains, 'that the Lady Marchioness de Villeroi
died in this chamber, and remained here till she was removed to be
buried; and this, perhaps, Signor, may account for the pall.'

The Count made no reply, but stood for a few moments engaged in thought,
and evidently much affected. Then, turning to Ludovico, he asked him
with a serious air, whether he thought his courage would support him
through the night? 'If you doubt this,' added the Count, 'do not be
ashamed to own it; I will release you from your engagement, without
exposing you to the triumphs of your fellow-servants.'

Ludovico paused; pride, and something very like fear, seemed struggling
in his breast; pride, however, was victorious;--he blushed, and his
hesitation ceased.

'No, my Lord,' said he, 'I will go through with what I have begun; and
I am grateful for your consideration. On that hearth I will make a fire,
and, with the good cheer in this basket, I doubt not I shall do well.'

'Be it so,' said the Count; 'but how will you beguile the tediousness of
the night, if you do not sleep?'

'When I am weary, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'I shall not fear to
sleep; in the meanwhile, I have a book, that will entertain me.'

'Well,' said the Count, 'I hope nothing will disturb you; but if you
should be seriously alarmed in the night, come to my apartment. I have
too much confidence in your good sense and courage, to believe you will
be alarmed on slight grounds; or suffer the gloom of this chamber, or
its remote situation, to overcome you with ideal terrors. To-morrow, I
shall have to thank you for an important service; these rooms shall then
be thrown open, and my people will be convinced of their error. Good
night, Ludovico; let me see you early in the morning, and remember what
I lately said to you.'

'I will, my Lord; good night to your excellenza; let me attend you with
the light.'

He lighted the Count and Henri through the chambers to the outer door;
on the landing-place stood a lamp, which one of the affrighted servants
had left, and Henri, as he took it up, again bade Ludovico good night,
who, having respectfully returned the wish, closed the door upon them,
and fastened it. Then, as he retired to the bed-chamber, he examined the
rooms, through which he passed, with more minuteness than he had done
before, for he apprehended, that some person might have concealed
himself in them, for the purpose of frightening him. No one, however,
but himself, was in these chambers, and, leaving open the doors,
through which he passed, he came again to the great drawing-room, whose
spaciousness and silent gloom somewhat awed him. For a moment he stood,
looking back through the long suite of rooms he had quitted, and, as he
turned, perceiving a light and his own figure, reflected in one of the
large mirrors, he started. Other objects too were seen obscurely on its
dark surface, but he paused not to examine them, and returned hastily
into the bed-room, as he surveyed which, he observed the door of the
oriel, and opened it. All within was still. On looking round, his eye
was arrested by the portrait of the deceased Marchioness, upon which he
gazed, for a considerable time, with great attention and some surprise;
and then, having examined the closet, he returned into the bed-room,
where he kindled a wood fire, the bright blaze of which revived his
spirits, which had begun to yield to the gloom and silence of the place,
for gusts of wind alone broke at intervals this silence. He now drew a
small table and a chair near the fire, took a bottle of wine, and some
cold provision out of his basket, and regaled himself. When he had
finished his repast, he laid his sword upon the table, and, not feeling
disposed to sleep, drew from his pocket the book he had spoken of.--It
was a volume of old Provencal tales. Having stirred the fire upon the
hearth, he began to read, and his attention was soon wholly occupied by
the scenes, which the page disclosed.

The Count, meanwhile, had returned to the supper-room, whither those of
the party, who had attended him to the north apartment, had retreated,
upon hearing Dorothee's scream, and who were now earnest in their
enquiries concerning those chambers. The Count rallied his guests on
their precipitate retreat, and on the superstitious inclination which
had occasioned it, and this led to the question, Whether the spirit,
after it has quitted the body, is ever permitted to revisit the earth;
and if it is, whether it was possible for spirits to become visible to
the sense. The Baron was of opinion, that the first was probable, and
the last was possible, and he endeavoured to justify this opinion by
respectable authorities, both ancient and modern, which he quoted.
The Count, however, was decidedly against him, and a long conversation
ensued, in which the usual arguments on these subjects were on both
sides brought forward with skill, and discussed with candour, but
without converting either party to the opinion of his opponent. The
effect of their conversation on their auditors was various. Though the
Count had much the superiority of the Baron in point of argument, he
had considerably fewer adherents; for that love, so natural to the
human mind, of whatever is able to distend its faculties with wonder and
astonishment, attached the majority of the company to the side of the
Baron; and, though many of the Count's propositions were unanswerable,
his opponents were inclined to believe this the consequence of their
own want of knowledge, on so abstracted a subject, rather than that
arguments did not exist, which were forcible enough to conquer his.

Blanche was pale with attention, till the ridicule in her father's
glance called a blush upon her countenance, and she then endeavoured
to forget the superstitious tales she had been told in her convent.
Meanwhile, Emily had been listening with deep attention to the
discussion of what was to her a very interesting question, and,
remembering the appearance she had witnessed in the apartment of the
late Marchioness, she was frequently chilled with awe. Several times she
was on the point of mentioning what she had seen, but the fear of giving
pain to the Count, and the dread of his ridicule, restrained her; and,
awaiting in anxious expectation the event of Ludovico's intrepidity, she
determined that her future silence should depend upon it.

When the party had separated for the night, and the Count retired to
his dressing-room, the remembrance of the desolate scenes he had lately
witnessed in his own mansion deeply affected him, but at length he
was aroused from his reverie and his silence. 'What music is that I
hear?'--said he suddenly to his valet, 'Who plays at this late hour?'

The man made no reply, and the Count continued to listen, and then
added, 'That is no common musician; he touches the instrument with a
delicate hand; who is it, Pierre?'

'My lord!' said the man, hesitatingly.

'Who plays that instrument?' repeated the Count.

'Does not your lordship know, then?' said the valet.

'What mean you?' said the Count, somewhat sternly.

'Nothing, my Lord, I meant nothing,' rejoined the man
submissively--'Only--that music--goes about the house at midnight often,
and I thought your lordship might have heard it before.'

'Music goes about the house at midnight! Poor fellow!--does nobody dance
to the music, too?'

'It is not in the chateau, I believe, my Lord; the sounds come from the
woods, they say, though they seem so near;--but then a spirit can do any
thing!'

'Ah, poor fellow!' said the Count, 'I perceive you are as silly as the
rest of them; to-morrow, you will be convinced of your ridiculous error.
But hark!--what voice is that?'

'O my Lord! that is the voice we often hear with the music.'

'Often!' said the Count, 'How often, pray? It is a very fine one.'

'Why, my Lord, I myself have not heard it more than two or three times,
but there are those who have lived here longer, that have heard it often
enough.'

'What a swell was that!' exclaimed the Count, as he still listened, 'And
now, what a dying cadence! This is surely something more than mortal!'

'That is what they say, my Lord,' said the valet; 'they say it is
nothing mortal, that utters it; and if I might say my thoughts'--

'Peace!' said the Count, and he listened till the strain died away.

'This is strange!' said he, as he turned from the window, 'Close the
casements, Pierre.'

Pierre obeyed, and the Count soon after dismissed him, but did not so
soon lose the remembrance of the music, which long vibrated in his fancy
in tones of melting sweetness, while surprise and perplexity engaged his
thoughts.

Ludovico, meanwhile, in his remote chamber, heard, now and then, the
faint echo of a closing door, as the family retired to rest, and then
the hall clock, at a great distance, strike twelve. 'It is midnight,'
said he, and he looked suspiciously round the spacious chamber. The fire
on the hearth was now nearly expiring, for his attention having been
engaged by the book before him, he had forgotten every thing besides;
but he soon added fresh wood, not because he was cold, though the night
was stormy, but because he was cheerless; and, having again trimmed
his lamp, he poured out a glass of wine, drew his chair nearer to the
crackling blaze, tried to be deaf to the wind, that howled mournfully
at the casements, endeavoured to abstract his mind from the melancholy,
that was stealing upon him, and again took up his book. It had been lent
to him by Dorothee, who had formerly picked it up in an obscure corner
of the Marquis's library, and who, having opened it and perceived
some of the marvels it related, had carefully preserved it for her own
entertainment, its condition giving her some excuse for detaining it
from its proper station. The damp corner into which it had fallen, had
caused the cover to be disfigured and mouldy, and the leaves to be so
discoloured with spots, that it was not without difficulty the letters
could be traced. The fictions of the Provencal writers, whether drawn
from the Arabian legends, brought by the Saracens into Spain, or
recounting the chivalric exploits performed by the crusaders, whom the
Troubadors accompanied to the east, were generally splendid and always
marvellous, both in scenery and incident; and it is not wonderful, that
Dorothee and Ludovico should be fascinated by inventions, which had
captivated the careless imagination in every rank of society, in a
former age. Some of the tales, however, in the book now before Ludovico,
were of simple structure, and exhibited nothing of the magnificent
machinery and heroic manners, which usually characterized the fables of
the twelfth century, and of this description was the one he now happened
to open, which, in its original style, was of great length, but which
may be thus shortly related. The reader will perceive, that it is
strongly tinctured with the superstition of the times.


THE PROVENCAL TALE

'There lived, in the province of Bretagne, a noble Baron, famous for
his magnificence and courtly hospitalities. His castle was graced with
ladies of exquisite beauty, and thronged with illustrious knights; for
the honour he paid to feats of chivalry invited the brave of distant
countries to enter his lists, and his court was more splendid than those
of many princes. Eight minstrels were retained in his service, who used
to sing to their harps romantic fictions, taken from the Arabians, or
adventures of chivalry, that befel knights during the crusades, or the
martial deeds of the Baron, their lord;--while he, surrounded by his
knights and ladies, banqueted in the great hall of his castle, where the
costly tapestry, that adorned the walls with pictured exploits of
his ancestors, the casements of painted glass, enriched with armorial
bearings, the gorgeous banners, that waved along the roof, the sumptuous
canopies, the profusion of gold and silver, that glittered on the
sideboards, the numerous dishes, that covered the tables, the number and
gay liveries of the attendants, with the chivalric and splendid attire
of the guests, united to form a scene of magnificence, such as we may
not hope to see in these DEGENERATE DAYS.

'Of the Baron, the following adventure is related. One night, having
retired late from the banquet to his chamber, and dismissed his
attendants, he was surprised by the appearance of a stranger of a noble
air, but of a sorrowful and dejected countenance. Believing, that this
person had been secreted in the apartment, since it appeared impossible
he could have lately passed the anti-room, unobserved by the pages in
waiting, who would have prevented this intrusion on their lord, the
Baron, calling loudly for his people, drew his sword, which he had not
yet taken from his side, and stood upon his defence. The stranger slowly
advancing, told him, that there was nothing to fear; that he came with
no hostile design, but to communicate to him a terrible secret, which it
was necessary for him to know.

'The Baron, appeased by the courteous manners of the stranger, after
surveying him, for some time, in silence, returned his sword into the
scabbard, and desired him to explain the means, by which he had obtained
access to the chamber, and the purpose of this extraordinary visit.

'Without answering either of these enquiries, the stranger said, that he
could not then explain himself, but that, if the Baron would follow him
to the edge of the forest, at a short distance from the castle walls,
he would there convince him, that he had something of importance to
disclose.

'This proposal again alarmed the Baron, who could scarcely believe, that
the stranger meant to draw him to so solitary a spot, at this hour of
the night, without harbouring a design against his life, and he refused
to go, observing, at the same time, that, if the stranger's purpose
was an honourable one, he would not persist in refusing to reveal the
occasion of his visit, in the apartment where they were.

'While he spoke this, he viewed the stranger still more attentively than
before, but observed no change in his countenance, or any symptom, that
might intimate a consciousness of evil design. He was habited like
a knight, was of a tall and majestic stature, and of dignified and
courteous manners. Still, however, he refused to communicate the subject
of his errand in any place, but that he had mentioned, and, at the same
time, gave hints concerning the secret he would disclose, that awakened
a degree of solemn curiosity in the Baron, which, at length, induced him
to consent to follow the stranger, on certain conditions.

'"Sir knight," said he, "I will attend you to the forest, and will take
with me only four of my people, who shall witness our conference."

'To this, however, the Knight objected.

'"What I would disclose," said he, with solemnity, "is to you alone.
There are only three living persons, to whom the circumstance is known;
it is of more consequence to you and your house, than I shall now
explain. In future years, you will look back to this night with
satisfaction or repentance, accordingly as you now determine. As you
would hereafter prosper--follow me; I pledge you the honour of a
knight, that no evil shall befall you;--if you are contented to dare
futurity--remain in your chamber, and I will depart as I came."

'"Sir knight," replied the Baron, "how is it possible, that my future
peace can depend upon my present determination?"

'"That is not now to be told," said the stranger, "I have explained
myself to the utmost. It is late; if you follow me it must be
quickly;--you will do well to consider the alternative."

'The Baron mused, and, as he looked upon the knight, he perceived his
countenance assume a singular solemnity.'

[Here Ludovico thought he heard a noise, and he threw a glance round the
chamber, and then held up the lamp to assist his observation; but, not
perceiving any thing to confirm his alarm, he took up the book again and
pursued the story.]

'The Baron paced his apartment, for some time, in silence, impressed by
the last words of the stranger, whose extraordinary request he feared to
grant, and feared, also, to refuse. At length, he said, "Sir knight, you
are utterly unknown to me; tell me yourself,--is it reasonable, that I
should trust myself alone with a stranger, at this hour, in a solitary
forest? Tell me, at least, who you are, and who assisted to secrete you
in this chamber."

'The knight frowned at these latter words, and was a moment silent;
then, with a countenance somewhat stern, he said,

'"I am an English knight; I am called Sir Bevys of Lancaster,--and my
deeds are not unknown at the Holy City, whence I was returning to my
native land, when I was benighted in the neighbouring forest."

'"Your name is not unknown to fame," said the Baron, "I have heard of
it." (The Knight looked haughtily.) "But why, since my castle is known
to entertain all true knights, did not your herald announce you? Why
did you not appear at the banquet, where your presence would have been
welcomed, instead of hiding yourself in my castle, and stealing to my
chamber, at midnight?"

'The stranger frowned, and turned away in silence; but the Baron
repeated the questions.

'"I come not," said the Knight, "to answer enquiries, but to reveal
facts. If you would know more, follow me, and again I pledge the
honour of a Knight, that you shall return in safety.--Be quick in your
determination--I must be gone."

'After some further hesitation, the Baron determined to follow the
stranger, and to see the result of his extraordinary request; he,
therefore, again drew forth his sword, and, taking up a lamp, bade the
Knight lead on. The latter obeyed, and, opening the door of the chamber,
they passed into the anti-room, where the Baron, surprised to find
all his pages asleep, stopped, and, with hasty violence, was going to
reprimand them for their carelessness, when the Knight waved his hand,
and looked so expressively upon the Baron, that the latter restrained
his resentment, and passed on.

'The Knight, having descended a stair-case, opened a secret door,
which the Baron had believed was known only to himself, and, proceeding
through several narrow and winding passages, came, at length, to a small
gate, that opened beyond the walls of the castle. Meanwhile, the Baron
followed in silence and amazement, on perceiving that these secret
passages were so well known to a stranger, and felt inclined to return
from an adventure, that appeared to partake of treachery, as well as
danger. Then, considering that he was armed, and observing the courteous
and noble air of his conductor, his courage returned, he blushed, that
it had failed him for a moment, and he resolved to trace the mystery to
its source.

'He now found himself on the heathy platform, before the great gates of
his castle, where, on looking up, he perceived lights glimmering in
the different casements of the guests, who were retiring to sleep; and,
while he shivered in the blast, and looked on the dark and desolate
scene around him, he thought of the comforts of his warm chamber,
rendered cheerful by the blaze of wood, and felt, for a moment, the full
contrast of his present situation.'

[Here Ludovico paused a moment, and, looking at his own fire, gave it a
brightening stir.]

'The wind was strong, and the Baron watched his lamp with anxiety,
expecting every moment to see it extinguished; but, though the flame
wavered, it did not expire, and he still followed the stranger, who
often sighed as he went, but did not speak.

'When they reached the borders of the forest, the Knight turned, and
raised his head, as if he meant to address the Baron, but then, closing
his lips in silence, he walked on.

'As they entered, beneath the dark and spreading boughs, the Baron,
affected by the solemnity of the scene, hesitated whether to proceed,
and demanded how much further they were to go. The Knight replied only
by a gesture, and the Baron, with hesitating steps and a suspicious eye,
followed through an obscure and intricate path, till, having proceeded a
considerable way, he again demanded whither they were going, and refused
to proceed unless he was informed.

'As he said this, he looked at his own sword, and at the Knight
alternately, who shook his head, and whose dejected countenance disarmed
the Baron, for a moment, of suspicion.

'"A little further is the place, whither I would lead you," said the
stranger; "no evil shall befall you--I have sworn it on the honour of a
knight."

'The Baron, re-assured, again followed in silence, and they soon arrived
at a deep recess of the forest, where the dark and lofty chesnuts
entirely excluded the sky, and which was so overgrown with underwood,
that they proceeded with difficulty. The Knight sighed deeply as he
passed, and sometimes paused; and having, at length, reached a spot,
where the trees crowded into a knot, he turned, and, with a terrific
look, pointing to the ground, the Baron saw there the body of a man,
stretched at its length, and weltering in blood; a ghastly wound was
on the forehead, and death appeared already to have contracted the
features.

'The Baron, on perceiving the spectacle, started in horror, looked at
the Knight for explanation, and was then going to raise the body and
examine if there were yet any remains of life; but the stranger, waving
his hand, fixed upon him a look so earnest and mournful, as not only
much surprised him, but made him desist.

'But, what were the Baron's emotions, when, on holding the lamp near
the features of the corpse, he discovered the exact resemblance of the
stranger his conductor, to whom he now looked up in astonishment and
enquiry? As he gazed, he perceived the countenance of the Knight change,
and begin to fade, till his whole form gradually vanished from his
astonished sense! While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice was
heard to utter these words:--'

[Ludovico started, and laid down the book, for he thought he heard a
voice in the chamber, and he looked toward the bed, where, however, he
saw only the dark curtains and the pall. He listened, scarcely daring
to draw his breath, but heard only the distant roaring of the sea in the
storm, and the blast, that rushed by the casements; when, concluding,
that he had been deceived by its sighings, he took up his book to finish
the story.]

'While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice was heard to utter
these words:--*

(* This repetition seems to be intentional. Ludovico is picking up the
thread.)


'The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaster, a noble knight of England, lies
before you. He was, this night, waylaid and murdered, as he journeyed
from the Holy City towards his native land. Respect the honour of
knighthood and the law of humanity; inter the body in christian ground,
and cause his murderers to be punished. As ye observe, or neglect this,
shall peace and happiness, or war and misery, light upon you and your
house for ever!'

'The Baron, when he recovered from the awe and astonishment, into which
this adventure had thrown him, returned to his castle, whither he caused
the body of Sir Bevys to be removed; and, on the following day, it was
interred, with the honours of knighthood, in the chapel of the castle,
attended by all the noble knights and ladies, who graced the court of
Baron de Brunne.'

Ludovico, having finished this story, laid aside the book, for he felt
drowsy, and, after putting more wood on the fire and taking another
glass of wine, he reposed himself in the arm-chair on the hearth. In
his dream he still beheld the chamber where he really was, and, once or
twice, started from imperfect slumbers, imagining he saw a man's face,
looking over the high back of his armchair. This idea had so strongly
impressed him, that, when he raised his eyes, he almost expected to
meet other eyes, fixed upon his own, and he quitted his seat and looked
behind the chair, before he felt perfectly convinced, that no person was
there.

Thus closed the hour.



CHAPTER VII


  Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber;
 Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies,
 Which busy care draws in the brains of men;
 Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.
     SHAKESPEARE

The Count, who had slept little during the night, rose early, and,
anxious to speak with Ludovico, went to the north apartment; but, the
outer door having been fastened, on the preceding night, he was obliged
to knock loudly for admittance. Neither the knocking, or his voice was
heard; but, considering the distance of this door from the bed-room, and
that Ludovico, wearied with watching, had probably fallen into a deep
sleep, the Count was not surprised on receiving no answer, and, leaving
the door, he went down to walk in his grounds.

It was a gray autumnal morning. The sun, rising over Provence, gave only
a feeble light, as his rays struggled through the vapours that ascended
from the sea, and floated heavily over the wood-tops, which were now
varied with many a mellow tint of autumn. The storm was passed, but the
waves were yet violently agitated, and their course was traced by long
lines of foam, while not a breeze fluttered in the sails of the vessels,
near the shore, that were weighing anchor to depart. The still gloom of
the hour was pleasing to the Count, and he pursued his way through the
woods, sunk in deep thought.

Emily also rose at an early hour, and took her customary walk along the
brow of the promontory, that overhung the Mediterranean. Her mind was
now not occupied with the occurrences of the chateau, and Valancourt
was the subject of her mournful thoughts; whom she had not yet taught
herself to consider with indifference, though her judgment constantly
reproached her for the affection, that lingered in her heart, after her
esteem for him was departed. Remembrance frequently gave her his parting
look and the tones of his voice, when he had bade her a last farewel;
and, some accidental associations now recalling these circumstances
to her fancy, with peculiar energy, she shed bitter tears to the
recollection.

Having reached the watch-tower, she seated herself on the broken steps,
and, in melancholy dejection, watched the waves, half hid in vapour,
as they came rolling towards the shore, and threw up their light spray
round the rocks below. Their hollow murmur and the obscuring mists, that
came in wreaths up the cliffs, gave a solemnity to the scene, which was
in harmony with the temper of her mind, and she sat, given up to
the remembrance of past times, till this became too painful, and
she abruptly quitted the place. On passing the little gate of the
watch-tower, she observed letters, engraved on the stone postern, which
she paused to examine, and, though they appeared to have been rudely
cut with a pen-knife, the characters were familiar to her; at length,
recognizing the hand-writing of Valancourt, she read, with trembling
anxiety the following lines, entitled

SHIPWRECK

 'Til solemn midnight!  On this lonely steep,
 Beneath this watch-tow'r's desolated wall,
 Where mystic shapes the wonderer appall,
 I rest; and view below the desert deep,
 As through tempestuous clouds the moon's cold light
 Gleams on the wave.  Viewless, the winds of night
 With loud mysterious force the billows sweep,
 And sullen roar the surges, far below.
 In the still pauses of the gust I hear
 The voice of spirits, rising sweet and slow,
 And oft among the clouds their forms appear.
 But hark! what shriek of death comes in the gale,
 And in the distant ray what glimmering sail
 Bends to the storm?--Now sinks the note of fear!
 Ah! wretched mariners!--no more shall day
 Unclose his cheering eye to light ye on your way!

From these lines it appeared, that Valancourt had visited the tower;
that he had probably been here on the preceding night, for it was such
an one as they described, and that he had left the building very lately,
since it had not long been light, and without light it was impossible
these letters could have been cut. It was thus even probable, that he
might be yet in the gardens.

As these reflections passed rapidly over the mind of Emily, they called
up a variety of contending emotions, that almost overcame her spirits;
but her first impulse was to avoid him, and, immediately leaving the
tower, she returned, with hasty steps, towards the chateau. As she
passed along, she remembered the music she had lately heard near the
tower, with the figure, which had appeared, and, in this moment of
agitation, she was inclined to believe, that she had then heard and seen
Valancourt; but other recollections soon convinced her of her error.
On turning into a thicker part of the woods, she perceived a person,
walking slowly in the gloom at some little distance, and, her mind
engaged by the idea of him, she started and paused, imagining this to
be Valancourt. The person advanced with quicker steps, and, before she
could recover recollection enough to avoid him, he spoke, and she then
knew the voice of the Count, who expressed some surprise, on finding her
walking at so early an hour, and made a feeble effort to rally her on
her love of solitude. But he soon perceived this to be more a subject of
concern than of light laughter, and, changing his manner, affectionately
expostulated with Emily, on thus indulging unavailing regret; who,
though she acknowledged the justness of all he said, could not restrain
her tears, while she did so, and he presently quitted the topic.
Expressing surprise at not having yet heard from his friend, the
Advocate at Avignon, in answer to the questions proposed to him,
respecting the estates of the late Madame Montoni, he, with friendly
zeal, endeavoured to cheer Emily with hopes of establishing her claim
to them; while she felt, that the estates could now contribute little to
the happiness of a life, in which Valancourt had no longer an interest.

When they returned to the chateau, Emily retired to her apartment, and
Count De Villefort to the door of the north chambers. This was still
fastened, but, being now determined to arouse Ludovico, he renewed his
calls more loudly than before, after which a total silence ensued, and
the Count, finding all his efforts to be heard ineffectual, at length
began to fear, that some accident had befallen Ludovico, whom terror
of an imaginary being might have deprived of his senses. He, therefore,
left the door with an intention of summoning his servants to force it
open, some of whom he now heard moving in the lower part of the chateau.

To the Count's enquiries, whether they had seen or heard Ludovico, they
replied in affright, that not one of them had ventured on the north side
of the chateau, since the preceding night.

'He sleeps soundly then,' said the Count, 'and is at such a distance
from the outer door, which is fastened, that to gain admittance to the
chambers it will be necessary to force it. Bring an instrument, and
follow me.'

The servants stood mute and dejected, and it was not till nearly all the
household were assembled, that the Count's orders were obeyed. In the
mean time, Dorothee was telling of a door, that opened from a gallery,
leading from the great stair-case into the last anti-room of the saloon,
and, this being much nearer to the bed-chamber, it appeared probable,
that Ludovico might be easily awakened by an attempt to open it.
Thither, therefore, the Count went, but his voice was as ineffectual
at this door as it had proved at the remoter one; and now, seriously
interested for Ludovico, he was himself going to strike upon the door
with the instrument, when he observed its singular beauty, and with-held
the blow. It appeared, on the first glance, to be of ebony, so dark and
close was its grain and so high its polish; but it proved to be only of
larch wood, of the growth of Provence, then famous for its forests
of larch. The beauty of its polished hue and of its delicate carvings
determined the Count to spare this door, and he returned to that leading
from the back stair-case, which being, at length, forced, he entered the
first anti-room, followed by Henri and a few of the most courageous of
his servants, the rest awaiting the event of the enquiry on the stairs
and landing-place.

All was silent in the chambers, through which the Count passed, and,
having reached the saloon, he called loudly upon Ludovico; after which,
still receiving no answer, he threw open the door of the bed-room, and
entered.

The profound stillness within confirmed his apprehensions for Ludovico,
for not even the breathings of a person in sleep were heard; and his
uncertainty was not soon terminated, since the shutters being all
closed, the chamber was too dark for any object to be distinguished in
it.

The Count bade a servant open them, who, as he crossed the room to
do so, stumbled over something, and fell to the floor, when his cry
occasioned such panic among the few of his fellows, who had ventured
thus far, that they instantly fled, and the Count and Henri were left to
finish the adventure.

Henri then sprung across the room, and, opening a window-shutter, they
perceived, that the man had fallen over a chair near the hearth, in
which Ludovico had been sitting;--for he sat there no longer, nor could
any where be seen by the imperfect light, that was admitted into the
apartment. The Count, seriously alarmed, now opened other shutters, that
he might be enabled to examine further, and, Ludovico not yet appearing,
he stood for a moment, suspended in astonishment and scarcely trusting
his senses, till, his eyes glancing on the bed, he advanced to examine
whether he was there asleep. No person, however, was in it, and he
proceeded to the oriel, where every thing remained as on the preceding
night, but Ludovico was no where to be found.

The Count now checked his amazement, considering, that Ludovico might
have left the chambers, during the night, overcome by the terrors, which
their lonely desolation and the recollected reports, concerning them,
had inspired. Yet, if this had been the fact, the man would naturally
have sought society, and his fellow servants had all declared they had
not seen him; the door of the outer room also had been found fastened,
with the key on the inside; it was impossible, therefore, for him to
have passed through that, and all the outer doors of this suite were
found, on examination, to be bolted and locked, with the keys also
within them. The Count, being then compelled to believe, that the lad
had escaped through the casements, next examined them, but such as
opened wide enough to admit the body of a man were found to be carefully
secured either by iron bars, or by shutters, and no vestige appeared of
any person having attempted to pass them; neither was it probable, that
Ludovico would have incurred the risque of breaking his neck, by leaping
from a window, when he might have walked safely through a door.

The Count's amazement did not admit of words; but he returned once more
to examine the bed-room, where was no appearance of disorder, except
that occasioned by the late overthrow of the chair, near which had stood
a small table, and on this Ludovico's sword, his lamp, the book he had
been reading, and the remnant of his flask of wine still remained.
At the foot of the table, too, was the basket with some fragments of
provision and wood.

Henri and the servant now uttered their astonishment without reserve,
and, though the Count said little, there was a seriousness in his
manner, that expressed much. It appeared, that Ludovico must have
quitted these rooms by some concealed passage, for the Count could not
believe, that any supernatural means had occasioned this event, yet, if
there was any such passage, it seemed inexplicable why he should retreat
through it, and it was equally surprising, that not even the smallest
vestige should appear, by which his progress could be traced. In the
rooms every thing remained as much in order as if he had just walked out
by the common way.

The Count himself assisted in lifting the arras, with which the
bed-chamber, saloon and one of the anti-rooms were hung, that he
might discover if any door had been concealed behind it; but, after
a laborious search, none was found, and he, at length, quitted the
apartments, having secured the door of the last anti-chamber, the key of
which he took into his own possession. He then gave orders, that strict
search should be made for Ludovico not only in the chateau, but in the
neighbourhood, and, retiring with Henri to his closet, they remained
there in conversation for a considerable time, and whatever was the
subject of it, Henri from this hour lost much of his vivacity, and his
manners were particularly grave and reserved, whenever the topic, which
now agitated the Count's family with wonder and alarm, was introduced.

On the disappearing of Ludovico, Baron St. Foix seemed strengthened
in all his former opinions concerning the probability of apparitions,
though it was difficult to discover what connection there could possibly
be between the two subjects, or to account for this effect otherwise
than by supposing, that the mystery attending Ludovico, by exciting
awe and curiosity, reduced the mind to a state of sensibility, which
rendered it more liable to the influence of superstition in general. It
is, however, certain, that from this period the Baron and his adherents
became more bigoted to their own systems than before, while the terrors
of the Count's servants increased to an excess, that occasioned many of
them to quit the mansion immediately, and the rest remained only till
others could be procured to supply their places.

The most strenuous search after Ludovico proved unsuccessful, and, after
several days of indefatigable enquiry, poor Annette gave herself up to
despair, and the other inhabitants of the chateau to amazement.

Emily, whose mind had been deeply affected by the disastrous fate of the
late Marchioness and with the mysterious connection, which she fancied
had existed between her and St. Aubert, was particularly impressed
by the late extraordinary event, and much concerned for the loss of
Ludovico, whose integrity and faithful services claimed both her
esteem and gratitude. She was now very desirous to return to the quiet
retirement of her convent, but every hint of this was received with real
sorrow by the Lady Blanche, and affectionately set aside by the Count,
for whom she felt much of the respectful love and admiration of a
daughter, and to whom, by Dorothee's consent, she, at length, mentioned
the appearance, which they had witnessed in the chamber of the deceased
Marchioness. At any other period, he would have smiled at such a
relation, and have believed, that its object had existed only in the
distempered fancy of the relater; but he now attended to Emily with
seriousness, and, when she concluded, requested of her a promise, that
this occurrence should rest in silence. 'Whatever may be the cause and
the import of these extraordinary occurrences,' added the Count, 'time
only can explain them. I shall keep a wary eye upon all that passes in
the chateau, and shall pursue every possible means of discovering the
fate of Ludovico. Meanwhile, we must be prudent and be silent. I will
myself watch in the north chambers, but of this we will say nothing,
till the night arrives, when I purpose doing so.'

The Count then sent for Dorothee, and required of her also a promise of
silence, concerning what she had already, or might in future witness of
an extraordinary nature; and this ancient servant now related to him the
particulars of the Marchioness de Villeroi's death, with some of which
he appeared to be already acquainted, while by others he was evidently
surprised and agitated. After listening to this narrative, the Count
retired to his closet, where he remained alone for several hours;
and, when he again appeared, the solemnity of his manner surprised and
alarmed Emily, but she gave no utterance to her thoughts.

On the week following the disappearance of Ludovico, all the Count's
guests took leave of him, except the Baron, his son Mons. St. Foix, and
Emily; the latter of whom was soon after embarrassed and distressed by
the arrival of another visitor, Mons. Du Pont, which made her determine
upon withdrawing to her convent immediately. The delight, that appeared
in his countenance, when he met her, told that he brought back the
same ardour of passion, which had formerly banished him from
Chateau-le-Blanc. He was received with reserve by Emily, and with
pleasure by the Count, who presented him to her with a smile, that
seemed intended to plead his cause, and who did not hope the less for
his friend, from the embarrassment she betrayed.

But M. Du Pont, with truer sympathy, seemed to understand her manner,
and his countenance quickly lost its vivacity, and sunk into the languor
of despondency.

On the following day, however, he sought an opportunity of declaring
the purport of his visit, and renewed his suit; a declaration, which was
received with real concern by Emily, who endeavoured to lessen the pain
she might inflict by a second rejection, with assurances of esteem
and friendship; yet she left him in a state of mind, that claimed and
excited her tenderest compassion; and, being more sensible than ever
of the impropriety of remaining longer at the chateau, she immediately
sought the Count, and communicated to him her intention of returning to
the convent.

'My dear Emily,' said he 'I observe, with extreme concern, the illusion
you are encouraging--an illusion common to young and sensible minds.
Your heart has received a severe shock; you believe you can never
entirely recover it, and you will encourage this belief, till the habit
of indulging sorrow will subdue the strength of your mind, and discolour
your future views with melancholy and regret. Let me dissipate this
illusion, and awaken you to a sense of your danger.'

Emily smiled mournfully, 'I know what you would say, my dear sir,' said
she, 'and am prepared to answer you. I feel, that my heart can never
know a second affection; and that I must never hope even to recover its
tranquillity--if I suffer myself to enter into a second engagement.'

'I know, that you feel all this,' replied the Count; 'and I know, also,
that time will overcome these feelings, unless you cherish them in
solitude, and, pardon me, with romantic tenderness. Then, indeed, time
will only confirm habit. I am particularly empowered to speak on this
subject, and to sympathize in your sufferings,' added the Count, with
an air of solemnity, 'for I have known what it is to love, and to lament
the object of my love. Yes,' continued he, while his eyes filled with
tears, 'I have suffered!--but those times have passed away--long passed!
and I can now look back upon them without emotion.'

'My dear sir,' said Emily, timidly, 'what mean those tears?--they speak,
I fear, another language--they plead for me.'

'They are weak tears, for they are useless ones,' replied the Count,
drying them, 'I would have you superior to such weakness. These,
however, are only faint traces of a grief, which, if it had not been
opposed by long continued effort, might have led me to the verge
of madness! Judge, then, whether I have not cause to warn you of an
indulgence, which may produce so terrible an effect, and which must
certainly, if not opposed, overcloud the years, that otherwise might
be happy. M. Du Pont is a sensible and amiable man, who has long
been tenderly attached to you; his family and fortune are
unexceptionable;--after what I have said, it is unnecessary to add, that
I should rejoice in your felicity, and that I think M. Du Pont would
promote it. Do not weep, Emily,' continued the Count, taking her hand,
'there IS happiness reserved for you.'

He was silent a moment; and then added, in a firmer voice, 'I do not
wish, that you should make a violent effort to overcome your feelings;
all I, at present, ask, is, that you will check the thoughts, that would
lead you to a remembrance of the past; that you will suffer your mind to
be engaged by present objects; that you will allow yourself to believe
it possible you may yet be happy; and that you will sometimes think
with complacency of poor Du Pont, and not condemn him to the state of
despondency, from which, my dear Emily, I am endeavouring to withdraw
you.'

'Ah! my dear sir,' said Emily, while her tears still fell, 'do not
suffer the benevolence of your wishes to mislead Mons. Du Pont with
an expectation that I can ever accept his hand. If I understand my own
heart, this never can be; your instruction I can obey in almost every
other particular, than that of adopting a contrary belief.'

'Leave me to understand your heart,' replied the Count, with a faint
smile. 'If you pay me the compliment to be guided by my advice in
other instances, I will pardon your incredulity, respecting your future
conduct towards Mons. Du Pont. I will not even press you to remain
longer at the chateau than your own satisfaction will permit; but though
I forbear to oppose your present retirement, I shall urge the claims of
friendship for your future visits.'

Tears of gratitude mingled with those of tender regret, while Emily
thanked the Count for the many instances of friendship she had received
from him; promised to be directed by his advice upon every subject but
one, and assured him of the pleasure, with which she should, at some
future period, accept the invitation of the Countess and himself--If
Mons. Du Pont was not at the chateau.

The Count smiled at this condition. 'Be it so,' said he, 'meanwhile the
convent is so near the chateau, that my daughter and I shall often
visit you; and if, sometimes, we should dare to bring you another
visitor--will you forgive us?'

Emily looked distressed, and remained silent.

'Well,' rejoined the Count, 'I will pursue this subject no further, and
must now entreat your forgiveness for having pressed it thus far. You
will, however, do me the justice to believe, that I have been urged only
by a sincere regard for your happiness, and that of my amiable friend
Mons. Du Pont.'

Emily, when she left the Count, went to mention her intended departure
to the Countess, who opposed it with polite expressions of regret; after
which, she sent a note to acquaint the lady abbess, that she should
return to the convent; and thither she withdrew on the evening of the
following day. M. Du Pont, in extreme regret, saw her depart, while the
Count endeavoured to cheer him with a hope, that Emily would sometimes
regard him with a more favourable eye.

She was pleased to find herself once more in the tranquil retirement
of the convent, where she experienced a renewal of all the maternal
kindness of the abbess, and of the sisterly attentions of the nuns. A
report of the late extraordinary occurrence at the chateau had already
reached them, and, after supper, on the evening of her arrival, it
was the subject of conversation in the convent parlour, where she was
requested to mention some particulars of that unaccountable event. Emily
was guarded in her conversation on this subject, and briefly related a
few circumstances concerning Ludovico, whose disappearance, her auditors
almost unanimously agreed, had been effected by supernatural means.

'A belief had so long prevailed,' said a nun, who was called sister
Frances, 'that the chateau was haunted, that I was surprised, when I
heard the Count had the temerity to inhabit it. Its former possessor,
I fear, had some deed of conscience to atone for; let us hope, that the
virtues of its present owner will preserve him from the punishment due
to the errors of the last, if, indeed, he was a criminal.'

'Of what crime, then, was he suspected?' said a Mademoiselle Feydeau, a
boarder at the convent.

'Let us pray for his soul!' said a nun, who had till now sat in silent
attention. 'If he was criminal, his punishment in this world was
sufficient.'

There was a mixture of wildness and solemnity in her manner of
delivering this, which struck Emily exceedingly; but Mademoiselle
repeated her question, without noticing the solemn eagerness of the nun.

'I dare not presume to say what was his crime,' replied sister Frances;
'but I have heard many reports of an extraordinary nature, respecting
the late Marquis de Villeroi, and among others, that, soon after the
death of his lady, he quitted Chateau-le-Blanc, and never afterwards
returned to it. I was not here at the time, so I can only mention it
from report, and so many years have passed since the Marchioness died,
that few of our sisterhood, I believe, can do more.'

'But I can,' said the nun, who had before spoke, and whom they called
sister Agnes.

'You then,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, 'are possibly acquainted with
circumstances, that enable you to judge, whether he was criminal or not,
and what was the crime imputed to him.'

'I am,' replied the nun; 'but who shall dare to scrutinize my
thoughts--who shall dare to pluck out my opinion? God only is his judge,
and to that judge he is gone!'

Emily looked with surprise at sister Frances, who returned her a
significant glance.

'I only requested your opinion,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, mildly; 'if
the subject is displeasing to you, I will drop it.'

'Displeasing!'--said the nun, with emphasis.--'We are idle talkers;
we do not weigh the meaning of the words we use; DISPLEASING is a poor
word. I will go pray.' As she said this she rose from her seat, and with
a profound sigh quitted the room.

'What can be the meaning of this?' said Emily, when she was gone.

'It is nothing extraordinary,' replied sister Frances, 'she is often
thus; but she had no meaning in what she says. Her intellects are at
times deranged. Did you never see her thus before?'

'Never,' said Emily. 'I have, indeed, sometimes, thought, that there was
the melancholy of madness in her look, but never before perceived it in
her speech. Poor soul, I will pray for her!'

'Your prayers then, my daughter, will unite with ours,' observed the
lady abbess, 'she has need of them.'

'Dear lady,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, addressing the abbess, 'what is
your opinion of the late Marquis? The strange circumstances, that have
occurred at the chateau, have so much awakened my curiosity, that I
shall be pardoned the question. What was his imputed crime, and what the
punishment, to which sister Agnes alluded?'

'We must be cautious of advancing our opinion,' said the abbess, with
an air of reserve, mingled with solemnity, 'we must be cautious of
advancing our opinion on so delicate a subject. I will not take upon me
to pronounce, that the late Marquis was criminal, or to say what was
the crime of which he was suspected; but, concerning the punishment our
daughter Agnes hinted, I know of none he suffered. She probably alluded
to the severe one, which an exasperated conscience can inflict. Beware,
my children, of incurring so terrible a punishment--it is the purgatory
of this life! The late Marchioness I knew well; she was a pattern to
such as live in the world; nay, our sacred order need not have blushed
to copy her virtues! Our holy convent received her mortal part; her
heavenly spirit, I doubt not, ascended to its sanctuary!'

As the abbess spoke this, the last bell of vespers struck up, and
she rose. 'Let us go, my children,' said she, 'and intercede for the
wretched; let us go and confess our sins, and endeavour to purify our
souls for the heaven, to which SHE is gone!'

Emily was affected by the solemnity of this exhortation, and,
remembering her father, 'The heaven, to which HE, too, is gone!' said
she, faintly, as she suppressed her sighs, and followed the abbess and
the nuns to the chapel.



CHAPTER VIII


 Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,
 Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,
 Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,

 I will speak to thee.
     HAMLET

Count de Villefort, at length, received a letter from the advocate at
Avignon, encouraging Emily to assert her claim to the estates of the
late Madame Montoni; and, about the same time, a messenger arrived from
Monsieur Quesnel with intelligence, that made an appeal to the law on
this subject unnecessary, since it appeared, that the only person, who
could have opposed her claim, was now no more. A friend of Monsieur
Quesnel, who resided at Venice, had sent him an account of the death
of Montoni who had been brought to trial with Orsino, as his supposed
accomplice in the murder of the Venetian nobleman. Orsino was found
guilty, condemned and executed upon the wheel, but, nothing being
discovered to criminate Montoni, and his colleagues, on this charge,
they were all released, except Montoni, who, being considered by the
senate as a very dangerous person, was, for other reasons, ordered again
into confinement, where, it was said, he had died in a doubtful and
mysterious manner, and not without suspicion of having been poisoned.
The authority, from which M. Quesnel had received this information,
would not allow him to doubt its truth, and he told Emily, that she had
now only to lay claim to the estates of her late aunt, to secure them,
and added, that he would himself assist in the necessary forms of this
business. The term, for which La Vallee had been let being now also
nearly expired, he acquainted her with the circumstance, and advised her
to take the road thither, through Tholouse, where he promised to meet
her, and where it would be proper for her to take possession of the
estates of the late Madame Montoni; adding, that he would spare her
any difficulties, that might occur on that occasion from the want of
knowledge on the subject, and that he believed it would be necessary for
her to be at Tholouse, in about three weeks from the present time.

An increase of fortune seemed to have awakened this sudden kindness in
M. Quesnel towards his niece, and it appeared, that he entertained more
respect for the rich heiress, than he had ever felt compassion for the
poor and unfriended orphan.

The pleasure, with which she received this intelligence, was clouded
when she considered, that he, for whose sake she had once regretted
the want of fortune, was no longer worthy of sharing it with her; but,
remembering the friendly admonition of the Count, she checked this
melancholy reflection, and endeavoured to feel only gratitude for
the unexpected good, that now attended her; while it formed no
inconsiderable part of her satisfaction to know, that La Vallee, her
native home, which was endeared to her by it's having been the residence
of her parents, would soon be restored to her possession. There she
meant to fix her future residence, for, though it could not be compared
with the chateau at Tholouse, either for extent, or magnificence, its
pleasant scenes and the tender remembrances, that haunted them, had
claims upon her heart, which she was not inclined to sacrifice to
ostentation. She wrote immediately to thank M. Quesnel for the active
interest he took in her concerns, and to say, that she would meet him at
Tholouse at the appointed time.

When Count de Villefort, with Blanche, came to the convent to give
Emily the advice of the advocate, he was informed of the contents of
M. Quesnel's letter, and gave her his sincere congratulations, on
the occasion; but she observed, that, when the first expression
of satisfaction had faded from his countenance, an unusual gravity
succeeded, and she scarcely hesitated to enquire its cause.

'It has no new occasion,' replied the Count; 'I am harassed and
perplexed by the confusion, into which my family is thrown by their
foolish superstition. Idle reports are floating round me, which I can
neither admit to be true, or prove to be false; and I am, also, very
anxious about the poor fellow, Ludovico, concerning whom I have not been
able to obtain information. Every part of the chateau and every part of
the neighbourhood, too, has, I believe, been searched, and I know not
what further can be done, since I have already offered large rewards
for the discovery of him. The keys of the north apartment I have not
suffered to be out of my possession, since he disappeared, and I mean to
watch in those chambers, myself, this very night.'

Emily, seriously alarmed for the Count, united her entreaties with those
of the Lady Blanche, to dissuade him from his purpose.

'What should I fear?' said he. 'I have no faith in supernatural combats,
and for human opposition I shall be prepared; nay, I will even promise
not to watch alone.'

'But who, dear sir, will have courage enough to watch with you?' said
Emily.

'My son,' replied the Count. 'If I am not carried off in the night,'
added he, smiling, 'you shall hear the result of my adventure,
tomorrow.'

The Count and Lady Blanche, shortly afterwards, took leave of Emily, and
returned to the chateau, where he informed Henri of his intention, who,
not without some secret reluctance, consented to be the partner of his
watch; and, when the design was mentioned after supper, the Countess was
terrified, and the Baron, and M. Du Pont joined with her in entreating,
that he would not tempt his fate, as Ludovico had done. 'We know not,'
added the Baron, 'the nature, or the power of an evil spirit; and
that such a spirit haunts those chambers can now, I think, scarcely be
doubted. Beware, my lord, how you provoke its vengeance, since it has
already given us one terrible example of its malice. I allow it may be
probable, that the spirits of the dead are permitted to return to the
earth only on occasions of high import; but the present import may be
your destruction.'

The Count could not forbear smiling; 'Do you think then, Baron,' said
he, 'that my destruction is of sufficient importance to draw back
to earth the soul of the departed? Alas! my good friend, there is no
occasion for such means to accomplish the destruction of any individual.
Wherever the mystery rests, I trust I shall, this night, be able to
detect it. You know I am not superstitious.'

'I know that you are incredulous,' interrupted the Baron.

'Well, call it what you will, I mean to say, that, though you know I am
free from superstition--if any thing supernatural has appeared, I doubt
not it will appear to me, and if any strange event hangs over my house,
or if any extraordinary transaction has formerly been connected with it,
I shall probably be made acquainted with it. At all events I will invite
discovery; and, that I may be equal to a mortal attack, which in good
truth, my friend, is what I most expect, I shall take care to be well
armed.'

The Count took leave of his family, for the night, with an assumed
gaiety, which but ill concealed the anxiety, that depressed his spirits,
and retired to the north apartments, accompanied by his son and followed
by the Baron, M. Du Pont and some of the domestics, who all bade him
good night at the outer door. In these chambers every thing appeared
as when he had last been here; even in the bed-room no alteration was
visible, where he lighted his own fire, for none of the domestics could
be prevailed upon to venture thither. After carefully examining the
chamber and the oriel, the Count and Henri drew their chairs upon the
hearth, set a bottle of wine and a lamp before them, laid their swords
upon the table, and, stirring the wood into a blaze, began to converse
on indifferent topics. But Henri was often silent and abstracted, and
sometimes threw a glance of mingled awe and curiosity round the gloomy
apartment; while the Count gradually ceased to converse, and sat either
lost in thought, or reading a volume of Tacitus, which he had brought to
beguile the tediousness of the night.



CHAPTER IX


 Give thy thoughts no tongue.
     SHAKESPEARE

The Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for his friend had kept awake, rose
early to enquire the event of the night, when, as he passed the Count's
closet, hearing steps within, he knocked at the door, and it was opened
by his friend himself. Rejoicing to see him in safety, and curious to
learn the occurrences of the night, he had not immediately leisure to
observe the unusual gravity, that overspread the features of the Count,
whose reserved answers first occasioned him to notice it. The Count,
then smiling, endeavoured to treat the subject of his curiosity with
levity, but the Baron was serious, and pursued his enquiries so closely,
that the Count, at length, resuming his gravity, said, 'Well, my friend,
press the subject no further, I entreat you; and let me request
also, that you will hereafter be silent upon any thing you may think
extraordinary in my future conduct. I do not scruple to tell you, that I
am unhappy, and that the watch of the last night has not assisted me to
discover Ludovico; upon every occurrence of the night you must excuse my
reserve.'

'But where is Henri?' said the Baron, with surprise and disappointment
at this denial.

'He is well in his own apartment,' replied the Count. 'You will not
question him on this topic, my friend, since you know my wish.'

'Certainly not,' said the Baron, somewhat chagrined, 'since it would
be displeasing to you; but methinks, my friend, you might rely on my
discretion, and drop this unusual reserve. However, you must allow me to
suspect, that you have seen reason to become a convert to my system, and
are no longer the incredulous knight you lately appeared to be.'

'Let us talk no more upon this subject,' said the Count; 'you may be
assured, that no ordinary circumstance has imposed this silence upon me
towards a friend, whom I have called so for near thirty years; and
my present reserve cannot make you question either my esteem, or the
sincerity of my friendship.'

'I will not doubt either,' said the Baron, 'though you must allow me to
express my surprise, at this silence.'

'To me I will allow it,' replied the Count, 'but I earnestly entreat
that you will forbear to notice it to my family, as well as every thing
remarkable you may observe in my conduct towards them.'

The Baron readily promised this, and, after conversing for some time on
general topics, they descended to the breakfast-room, where the Count
met his family with a cheerful countenance, and evaded their enquiries
by employing light ridicule, and assuming an air of uncommon gaiety,
while he assured them, that they need not apprehend any evil from the
north chambers, since Henri and himself had been permitted to return
from them in safety.

Henri, however, was less successful in disguising his feelings. From his
countenance an expression of terror was not entirely faded; he was
often silent and thoughtful, and when he attempted to laugh at the eager
enquiries of Mademoiselle Bearn, it was evidently only an attempt.

In the evening, the Count called, as he had promised, at the convent,
and Emily was surprised to perceive a mixture of playful ridicule and
of reserve in his mention of the north apartment. Of what had occurred
there, however, he said nothing, and, when she ventured to remind him
of his promise to tell her the result of his enquiries, and to ask if
he had received any proof, that those chambers were haunted, his look
became solemn, for a moment, then, seeming to recollect himself, he
smiled, and said, 'My dear Emily, do not suffer my lady abbess to infect
your good understanding with these fancies; she will teach you to expect
a ghost in every dark room. But believe me,' added he, with a profound
sigh, 'the apparition of the dead comes not on light, or sportive
errands, to terrify, or to surprise the timid.' He paused, and fell into
a momentary thoughtfulness, and then added, 'We will say no more on this
subject.'

Soon after, he took leave, and, when Emily joined some of the nuns, she
was surprised to find them acquainted with a circumstance, which she
had carefully avoided to mention, and expressing their admiration of
his intrepidity in having dared to pass a night in the apartment, whence
Ludovico had disappeared; for she had not considered with what rapidity
a tale of wonder circulates. The nuns had acquired their information
from peasants, who brought fruit to the monastery, and whose whole
attention had been fixed, since the disappearance of Ludovico, on what
was passing in the castle.

Emily listened in silence to the various opinions of the nuns,
concerning the conduct of the Count, most of whom condemned it as rash
and presumptuous, affirming, that it was provoking the vengeance of an
evil spirit, thus to intrude upon its haunts.

Sister Frances contended, that the Count had acted with the bravery of a
virtuous mind. He knew himself guiltless of aught, that should provoke a
good spirit, and did not fear the spells of an evil one, since he could
claim the protection of an higher Power, of Him, who can command the
wicked, and will protect the innocent.

'The guilty cannot claim that protection!' said sister Agnes, 'let the
Count look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim! Yet who is
he, that shall dare to call himself innocent!--all earthly innocence is
but comparative. Yet still how wide asunder are the extremes of guilt,
and to what an horrible depth may we fall! Oh!'--

The nun, as she concluded, uttered a shuddering sigh, that startled
Emily, who, looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixed on hers,
after which the sister rose, took her hand, gazed earnestly upon her
countenance, for some moments, in silence, and then said,

'You are young--you are innocent! I mean you are yet innocent of any
great crime!--But you have passions in your heart,--scorpions; they
sleep now--beware how you awaken them!--they will sting you, even unto
death!'

Emily, affected by these words and by the solemnity, with which they
were delivered, could not suppress her tears.

'Ah! is it so?' exclaimed Agnes, her countenance softening from its
sternness--'so young, and so unfortunate! We are sisters, then indeed.
Yet, there is no bond of kindness among the guilty,' she added, while
her eyes resumed their wild expression, 'no gentleness,--no peace, no
hope! I knew them all once--my eyes could weep--but now they burn, for
now, my soul is fixed, and fearless!--I lament no more!'

'Rather let us repent, and pray,' said another nun. 'We are taught to
hope, that prayer and penitence will work our salvation. There is hope
for all who repent!'

'Who repent and turn to the true faith,' observed sister Frances.

'For all but me!' replied Agnes solemnly, who paused, and then abruptly
added, 'My head burns, I believe I am not well. O! could I strike from
my memory all former scenes--the figures, that rise up, like furies, to
torment me!--I see them, when I sleep, and, when I am awake, they are
still before my eyes! I see them now--now!'

She stood in a fixed attitude of horror, her straining eyes moving
slowly round the room, as if they followed something. One of the nuns
gently took her hand, to lead her from the parlour. Agnes became calm,
drew her other hand across her eyes, looked again, and, sighing deeply,
said, 'They are gone--they are gone! I am feverish, I know not what I
say. I am thus, sometimes, but it will go off again, I shall soon be
better. Was not that the vesper-bell?'

'No,' replied Frances, 'the evening service is passed. Let Margaret lead
you to your cell.'

'You are right,' replied sister Agnes, 'I shall be better there. Good
night, my sisters, remember me in your orisons.'

When they had withdrawn, Frances, observing Emily's emotion, said, 'Do
not be alarmed, our sister is often thus deranged, though I have not
lately seen her so frantic; her usual mood is melancholy. This fit has
been coming on, for several days; seclusion and the customary treatment
will restore her.'

'But how rationally she conversed, at first!' observed Emily, 'her ideas
followed each other in perfect order.'

'Yes,' replied the nun, 'this is nothing new; nay, I have sometimes
known her argue not only with method, but with acuteness, and then, in a
moment, start off into madness.'

'Her conscience seems afflicted,' said Emily, 'did you ever hear what
circumstance reduced her to this deplorable condition?'

'I have,' replied the nun, who said no more till Emily repeated the
question, when she added in a low voice, and looking significantly
towards the other boarders, 'I cannot tell you now, but, if you think it
worth your while, come to my cell, to-night, when our sisterhood are at
rest, and you shall hear more; but remember we rise to midnight prayers,
and come either before, or after midnight.'

Emily promised to remember, and, the abbess soon after appearing, they
spoke no more of the unhappy nun.

The Count meanwhile, on his return home, had found M. Du Pont in one
of those fits of despondency, which his attachment to Emily frequently
occasioned him, an attachment, that had subsisted too long to be easily
subdued, and which had already outlived the opposition of his friends.
M. Du Pont had first seen Emily in Gascony, during the lifetime of his
parent, who, on discovering his son's partiality for Mademoiselle St.
Aubert, his inferior in point of fortune, forbade him to declare it to
her family, or to think of her more. During the life of his father, he
had observed the first command, but had found it impracticable to obey
the second, and had, sometimes, soothed his passion by visiting her
favourite haunts, among which was the fishing-house, where, once or
twice, he addressed her in verse, concealing his name, in obedience to
the promise he had given his father. There too he played the pathetic
air, to which she had listened with such surprise and admiration; and
there he found the miniature, that had since cherished a passion fatal
to his repose. During his expedition into Italy, his father died; but
he received his liberty at a moment, when he was the least enabled to
profit by it, since the object, that rendered it most valuable, was
no longer within the reach of his vows. By what accident he discovered
Emily, and assisted to release her from a terrible imprisonment, has
already appeared, and also the unavailing hope, with which he then
encouraged his love, and the fruitless efforts, that he had since made
to overcome it.

The Count still endeavoured, with friendly zeal, to sooth him with a
belief, that patience, perseverance and prudence would finally obtain
for him happiness and Emily: 'Time,' said he, 'will wear away the
melancholy impression, which disappointment has left on her mind, and
she will be sensible of your merit. Your services have already awakened
her gratitude, and your sufferings her pity; and trust me, my friend, in
a heart so sensible as hers, gratitude and pity lead to love. When
her imagination is rescued from its present delusion, she will readily
accept the homage of a mind like yours.'

Du Pont sighed, while he listened to these words; and, endeavouring to
hope what his friend believed, he willingly yielded to an invitation to
prolong his visit at the chateau, which we now leave for the monastery
of St. Claire.

When the nuns had retired to rest, Emily stole to her appointment with
sister Frances, whom she found in her cell, engaged in prayer, before a
little table, where appeared the image she was addressing, and, above,
the dim lamp that gave light to the place. Turning her eyes, as the door
opened, she beckoned to Emily to come in, who, having done so, seated
herself in silence beside the nun's little mattress of straw, till
her orisons should conclude. The latter soon rose from her knees, and,
taking down the lamp and placing it on the table, Emily perceived
there a human scull and bones, lying beside an hour-glass; but the nun,
without observing her emotion, sat down on the mattress by her, saying,
'Your curiosity, sister, has made you punctual, but you have nothing
remarkable to hear in the history of poor Agnes, of whom I avoided
to speak in the presence of my lay-sisters, only because I would not
publish her crime to them.'

'I shall consider your confidence in me as a favour,' said Emily, 'and
will not misuse it.'

'Sister Agnes,' resumed the nun, 'is of a noble family, as the dignity
of her air must already have informed you, but I will not dishonour
their name so much as to reveal it. Love was the occasion of her crime
and of her madness. She was beloved by a gentleman of inferior fortune,
and her father, as I have heard, bestowing her on a nobleman, whom
she disliked, an ill-governed passion proved her destruction.--Every
obligation of virtue and of duty was forgotten, and she prophaned her
marriage vows; but her guilt was soon detected, and she would have
fallen a sacrifice to the vengeance of her husband, had not her father
contrived to convey her from his power. By what means he did this,
I never could learn; but he secreted her in this convent, where he
afterwards prevailed with her to take the veil, while a report was
circulated in the world, that she was dead, and the father, to save his
daughter, assisted the rumour, and employed such means as induced her
husband to believe she had become a victim to his jealousy. You look
surprised,' added the nun, observing Emily's countenance; 'I allow the
story is uncommon, but not, I believe, without a parallel.'

'Pray proceed,' said Emily, 'I am interested.'

'The story is already told,' resumed the nun, 'I have only to mention,
that the long struggle, which Agnes suffered, between love, remorse
and a sense of the duties she had taken upon herself in becoming of our
order, at length unsettled her reason. At first, she was frantic and
melancholy by quick alternatives; then, she sunk into a deep and settled
melancholy, which still, however, has, at times, been interrupted by
fits of wildness, and, of late, these have again been frequent.'

Emily was affected by the history of the sister, some parts of whose
story brought to her remembrance that of the Marchioness de Villeroi,
who had also been compelled by her father to forsake the object of her
affections, for a nobleman of his choice; but, from what Dorothee had
related, there appeared no reason to suppose, that she had escaped the
vengeance of a jealous husband, or to doubt for a moment the innocence
of her conduct. But Emily, while she sighed over the misery of the
nun, could not forbear shedding a few tears to the misfortunes of the
Marchioness; and, when she returned to the mention of sister Agnes, she
asked Frances if she remembered her in her youth, and whether she was
then beautiful.

'I was not here at the time, when she took the vows,' replied Frances,
'which is so long ago, that few of the present sisterhood, I believe,
were witnesses of the ceremony; nay, ever our lady mother did not then
preside over the convent: but I can remember, when sister Agnes was a
very beautiful woman. She retains that air of high rank, which always
distinguished her, but her beauty, you must perceive, is fled; I can
scarcely discover even a vestige of the loveliness, that once animated
her features.'

'It is strange,' said Emily, 'but there are moments, when her
countenance has appeared familiar to my memory! You will think me
fanciful, and I think myself so, for I certainly never saw sister Agnes,
before I came to this convent, and I must, therefore, have seen
some person, whom she strongly resembles, though of this I have no
recollection.'

'You have been interested by the deep melancholy of her countenance,'
said Frances, 'and its impression has probably deluded your imagination;
for I might as reasonably think I perceive a likeness between you and
Agnes, as you, that you have seen her any where but in this convent,
since this has been her place of refuge, for nearly as many years as
make your age.'

'Indeed!' said Emily.

'Yes,' rejoined Frances, 'and why does that circumstance excite your
surprise?'

Emily did not appear to notice this question, but remained thoughtful,
for a few moments, and then said, 'It was about that same period that
the Marchioness de Villeroi expired.'

'That is an odd remark,' said Frances.

Emily, recalled from her reverie, smiled, and gave the conversation
another turn, but it soon came back to the subject of the unhappy nun,
and Emily remained in the cell of sister Frances, till the mid-night
bell aroused her; when, apologizing for having interrupted the sister's
repose, till this late hour, they quitted the cell together. Emily
returned to her chamber, and the nun, bearing a glimmering taper, went
to her devotion in the chapel.

Several days followed, during which Emily saw neither the Count, or any
of his family; and, when, at length, he appeared, she remarked, with
concern, that his air was unusually disturbed.

'My spirits are harassed,' said he, in answer to her anxious enquiries,
'and I mean to change my residence, for a little while, an experiment,
which, I hope, will restore my mind to its usual tranquillity. My
daughter and myself will accompany the Baron St. Foix to his chateau. It
lies in a valley of the Pyrenees, that opens towards Gascony, and I have
been thinking, Emily, that, when you set out for La Vallee, we may go
part of the way together; it would be a satisfaction to me to guard you
towards your home.'

She thanked the Count for his friendly consideration, and lamented, that
the necessity for her going first to Tholouse would render this plan
impracticable. 'But, when you are at the Baron's residence,' she added,
'you will be only a short journey from La Vallee, and I think, sir, you
will not leave the country without visiting me; it is unnecessary to say
with what pleasure I should receive you and the Lady Blanche.'

'I do not doubt it,' replied the Count, 'and I will not deny myself and
Blanche the pleasure of visiting you, if your affairs should allow you
to be at La Vallee, about the time when we can meet you there.'

When Emily said that she should hope to see the Countess also, she was
not sorry to learn that this lady was going, accompanied by Mademoiselle
Bearn, to pay a visit, for a few weeks, to a family in lower Languedoc.

The Count, after some further conversation on his intended journey and
on the arrangement of Emily's, took leave; and many days did not succeed
this visit, before a second letter from M. Quesnel informed her, that he
was then at Tholouse, that La Vallee was at liberty, and that he wished
her to set off for the former place, where he awaited her arrival, with
all possible dispatch, since his own affairs pressed him to return
to Gascony. Emily did not hesitate to obey him, and, having taken an
affecting leave of the Count's family, in which M. Du Pont was still
included, and of her friends at the convent, she set out for Tholouse,
attended by the unhappy Annette, and guarded by a steady servant of the
Count.



CHAPTER X


 Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain,
 Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain:
 Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise!
 Each stamps its image as the other flies!
     PLEASURES OF MEMORY

Emily pursued her journey, without any accident, along the plains of
Languedoc towards the north-west; and, on this her return to Tholouse,
which she had last left with Madame Montoni, she thought much on the
melancholy fate of her aunt, who, but for her own imprudence, might now
have been living in happiness there! Montoni, too, often rose to her
fancy, such as she had seen him in his days of triumph, bold, spirited
and commanding; such also as she had since beheld him in his days of
vengeance; and now, only a few short months had passed--and he had
no longer the power, or the will to afflict;--he had become a clod of
earth, and his life was vanished like a shadow! Emily could have wept at
his fate, had she not remembered his crimes; for that of her unfortunate
aunt she did weep, and all sense of her errors was overcome by the
recollection of her misfortunes.

Other thoughts and other emotions succeeded, as Emily drew near the
well-known scenes of her early love, and considered, that Valancourt was
lost to her and to himself, for ever. At length, she came to the brow of
the hill, whence, on her departure for Italy, she had given a farewell
look to this beloved landscape, amongst whose woods and fields she had
so often walked with Valancourt, and where he was then to inhabit,
when she would be far, far away! She saw, once more, that chain of the
Pyrenees, which overlooked La Vallee, rising, like faint clouds, on the
horizon. 'There, too, is Gascony, extended at their feet!' said she,
'O my father,--my mother! And there, too, is the Garonne!' she added,
drying the tears, that obscured her sight,--'and Tholouse, and my aunt's
mansion--and the groves in her garden!--O my friends! are ye all lost
to me--must I never, never see ye more!' Tears rushed again to her eyes,
and she continued to weep, till an abrupt turn in the road had nearly
occasioned the carriage to overset, when, looking up, she perceived
another part of the well-known scene around Tholouse, and all the
reflections and anticipations, which she had suffered, at the moment,
when she bade it last adieu, came with recollected force to her heart.
She remembered how anxiously she had looked forward to the futurity,
which was to decide her happiness concerning Valancourt, and what
depressing fears had assailed her; the very words she had uttered, as
she withdrew her last look from the prospect, came to her memory. 'Could
I but be certain,' she had then said, 'that I should ever return, and
that Valancourt would still live for me--I should go in peace!'

Now, that futurity, so anxiously anticipated, was arrived, she was
returned--but what a dreary blank appeared!--Valancourt no longer
lived for her! She had no longer even the melancholy satisfaction of
contemplating his image in her heart, for he was no longer the same
Valancourt she had cherished there--the solace of many a mournful
hour, the animating friend, that had enabled her to bear up against the
oppression of Montoni--the distant hope, that had beamed over her gloomy
prospect! On perceiving this beloved idea to be an illusion of her own
creation, Valancourt seemed to be annihilated, and her soul sickened at
the blank, that remained. His marriage with a rival, even his death, she
thought she could have endured with more fortitude, than this discovery;
for then, amidst all her grief, she could have looked in secret upon the
image of goodness, which her fancy had drawn of him, and comfort would
have mingled with her suffering!

Drying her tears, she looked, once more, upon the landscape, which had
excited them, and perceived, that she was passing the very bank, where
she had taken leave of Valancourt, on the morning of her departure from
Tholouse, and she now saw him, through her returning tears, such as
he had appeared, when she looked from the carriage to give him a last
adieu--saw him leaning mournfully against the high trees, and remembered
the fixed look of mingled tenderness and anguish, with which he had then
regarded her. This recollection was too much for her heart, and she sunk
back in the carriage, nor once looked up, till it stopped at the gates
of what was now her own mansion.

These being opened, and by the servant, to whose care the chateau had
been entrusted, the carriage drove into the court, where, alighting,
she hastily passed through the great hall, now silent and solitary, to
a large oak parlour, the common sitting room of the late Madame Montoni,
where, instead of being received by M. Quesnel, she found a letter from
him, informing her that business of consequence had obliged him to leave
Tholouse two days before. Emily was, upon the whole, not sorry to be
spared his presence, since his abrupt departure appeared to indicate the
same indifference, with which he had formerly regarded her. This letter
informed her, also, of the progress he had made in the settlement of
her affairs, and concluded with directions, concerning the forms of
some business, which remained for her to transact. But M. Quesnel's
unkindness did not long occupy her thoughts, which returned the
remembrance of the persons she had been accustomed to see in this
mansion, and chiefly of the ill-guided and unfortunate Madame Montoni.
In the room, where she now sat, she had breakfasted with her on the
morning of their departure for Italy; and the view of it brought most
forcibly to her recollection all she had herself suffered, at that time,
and the many gay expectations, which her aunt had formed, respecting
the journey before her. While Emily's mind was thus engaged, her eyes
wandered unconsciously to a large window, that looked upon the garden,
and here new memorials of the past spoke to her heart, for she saw
extended before her the very avenue, in which she had parted with
Valancourt, on the eve of her journey; and all the anxiety, the tender
interest he had shewn, concerning her future happiness, his earnest
remonstrances against her committing herself to the power of Montoni,
and the truth of his affection, came afresh to her memory. At this
moment, it appeared almost impossible, that Valancourt could have become
unworthy of her regard, and she doubted all that she had lately heard to
his disadvantage, and even his own words, which had confirmed Count De
Villefort's report of him. Overcome by the recollections, which the view
of this avenue occasioned, she turned abruptly from the window, and
sunk into a chair beside it, where she sat, given up to grief, till the
entrance of Annette, with coffee, aroused her.

'Dear madam, how melancholy this place looks now,' said Annette, 'to
what it used to do! It is dismal coming home, when there is nobody to
welcome one!'

This was not the moment, in which Emily could bear the remark; her tears
fell again, and, as soon as she had taken the coffee, she retired to
her apartment, where she endeavoured to repose her fatigued spirits. But
busy memory would still supply her with the visions of former times: she
saw Valancourt interesting and benevolent, as he had been wont to appear
in the days of their early love, and, amidst the scenes, where she had
believed that they should sometimes pass their years together!--but, at
length, sleep closed these afflicting scenes from her view.

On the following morning, serious occupation recovered her from such
melancholy reflections; for, being desirous of quitting Tholouse, and of
hastening on to La Vallee, she made some enquiries into the condition of
the estate, and immediately dispatched a part of the necessary business
concerning it, according to the directions of Mons. Quesnel. It
required a strong effort to abstract her thoughts from other interests
sufficiently to attend to this, but she was rewarded for her exertions
by again experiencing, that employment is the surest antidote to sorrow.

This day was devoted entirely to business; and, among other concerns,
she employed means to learn the situation of all her poor tenants, that
she might relieve their wants, or confirm their comforts.

In the evening, her spirits were so much strengthened, that she thought
she could bear to visit the gardens, where she had so often walked with
Valancourt; and, knowing, that, if she delayed to do so, their scenes
would only affect her the more, whenever they should be viewed, she took
advantage of the present state of her mind, and entered them.

Passing hastily the gate leading from the court into the gardens, she
hurried up the great avenue, scarcely permitting her memory to dwell for
a moment on the circumstance of her having here parted with Valancourt,
and soon quitted this for other walks less interesting to her heart.
These brought her, at length, to the flight of steps, that led from the
lower garden to the terrace, on seeing which, she became agitated,
and hesitated whether to ascend, but, her resolution returning, she
proceeded.

'Ah!' said Emily, as she ascended, 'these are the same high trees, that
used to wave over the terrace, and these the same flowery thickets--the
liburnum, the wild rose, and the cerinthe--which were wont to grow
beneath them! Ah! and there, too, on that bank, are the very plants,
which Valancourt so carefully reared!--O, when last I saw them!'--she
checked the thought, but could not restrain her tears, and, after
walking slowly on for a few moments, her agitation, upon the view of
this well-known scene, increased so much, that she was obliged to stop,
and lean upon the wall of the terrace. It was a mild, and beautiful
evening. The sun was setting over the extensive landscape, to which his
beams, sloping from beneath a dark cloud, that overhung the west,
gave rich and partial colouring, and touched the tufted summits of the
groves, that rose from the garden below, with a yellow gleam. Emily and
Valancourt had often admired together this scene, at the same hour; and
it was exactly on this spot, that, on the night preceding her departure
for Italy, she had listened to his remonstrances against the journey,
and to the pleadings of passionate affection. Some observations, which
she made on the landscape, brought this to her remembrance, and with it
all the minute particulars of that conversation;--the alarming doubts he
had expressed concerning Montoni, doubts, which had since been fatally
confirmed; the reasons and entreaties he had employed to prevail with
her to consent to an immediate marriage; the tenderness of his love,
the paroxysms of this grief, and the conviction that he had repeatedly
expressed, that they should never meet again in happiness! All these
circumstances rose afresh to her mind, and awakened the various emotions
she had then suffered. Her tenderness for Valancourt became as powerful
as in the moments, when she thought, that she was parting with him and
happiness together, and when the strength of her mind had enabled her to
triumph over present suffering, rather than to deserve the reproach
of her conscience by engaging in a clandestine marriage.--'Alas!' said
Emily, as these recollections came to her mind, 'and what have I gained
by the fortitude I then practised?--am I happy now?--He said, we should
meet no more in happiness; but, O! he little thought his own misconduct
would separate us, and lead to the very evil he then dreaded!'

Her reflections increased her anguish, while she was compelled to
acknowledge, that the fortitude she had formerly exerted, if it had
not conducted her to happiness, had saved her from irretrievable
misfortune--from Valancourt himself! But in these moments she could not
congratulate herself on the prudence, that had saved her; she could only
lament, with bitterest anguish, the circumstances, which had conspired
to betray Valancourt into a course of life so different from that,
which the virtues, the tastes, and the pursuits of his early years had
promised; but she still loved him too well to believe, that his
heart was even now depraved, though his conduct had been criminal. An
observation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubert more than once, now
occurred to her. 'This young man,' said he, speaking of Valancourt, 'has
never been at Paris;' a remark, that had surprised her at the time
it was uttered, but which she now understood, and she exclaimed
sorrowfully, 'O Valancourt! if such a friend as my father had been with
you at Paris--your noble, ingenuous nature would not have fallen!'

The sun was now set, and, recalling her thoughts from their melancholy
subject, she continued her walk; for the pensive shade of twilight was
pleasing to her, and the nightingales from the surrounding groves began
to answer each other in the long-drawn, plaintive note, which always
touched her heart; while all the fragrance of the flowery thickets, that
bounded the terrace, was awakened by the cool evening air, which floated
so lightly among their leaves, that they scarcely trembled as it passed.

Emily came, at length, to the steps of the pavilion, that terminated
the terrace, and where her last interview with Valancourt, before her
departure from Tholouse, had so unexpectedly taken place. The door was
now shut, and she trembled, while she hesitated whether to open it; but
her wish to see again a place, which had been the chief scene of her
former happiness, at length overcoming her reluctance to encounter the
painful regret it would renew, she entered. The room was obscured by a
melancholy shade; but through the open lattices, darkened by the
hanging foliage of the vines, appeared the dusky landscape, the Garonne
reflecting the evening light, and the west still glowing. A chair was
placed near one of the balconies, as if some person had been sitting
there, but the other furniture of the pavilion remained exactly as
usual, and Emily thought it looked as if it had not once been moved
since she set out for Italy. The silent and deserted air of the place
added solemnity to her emotions, for she heard only the low whisper
of the breeze, as it shook the leaves of the vines, and the very faint
murmur of the Garonne.

She seated herself in a chair, near the lattice, and yielded to the
sadness of her heart, while she recollected the circumstances of her
parting interview with Valancourt, on this spot. It was here too, that
she had passed some of the happiest hours of her life with him, when
her aunt favoured the connection, for here she had often sat and worked,
while he conversed, or read; and she now well remembered with what
discriminating judgment, with what tempered energy, he used to repeat
some of the sublimest passages of their favourite authors; how often he
would pause to admire with her their excellence, and with what tender
delight he would listen to her remarks, and correct her taste.

'And is it possible,' said Emily, as these recollections returned--'is
it possible, that a mind, so susceptible of whatever is grand and
beautiful, could stoop to low pursuits, and be subdued by frivolous
temptations?'

She remembered how often she had seen the sudden tear start in his eye,
and had heard his voice tremble with emotion, while he related any great
or benevolent action, or repeated a sentiment of the same character.
'And such a mind,' said she, 'such a heart, were to be sacrificed to the
habits of a great city!'

These recollections becoming too painful to be endured, she abruptly
left the pavilion, and, anxious to escape from the memorials of her
departed happiness, returned towards the chateau. As she passed along
the terrace, she perceived a person, walking, with a slow step, and a
dejected air, under the trees, at some distance. The twilight, which
was now deep, would not allow her to distinguish who it was, and she
imagined it to be one of the servants, till, the sound of her steps
seeming to reach him, he turned half round, and she thought she saw
Valancourt!

Whoever it was, he instantly struck among the thickets on the left, and
disappeared, while Emily, her eyes fixed on the place, whence he
had vanished, and her frame trembling so excessively, that she could
scarcely support herself, remained, for some moments, unable to quit the
spot, and scarcely conscious of existence. With her recollection, her
strength returned, and she hurried toward the house, where she did not
venture to enquire who had been in the gardens, lest she should betray
her emotion; and she sat down alone, endeavouring to recollect the
figure, air and features of the person she had just seen. Her view of
him, however, had been so transient, and the gloom had rendered it
so imperfect, that she could remember nothing with exactness; yet the
general appearance of his figure, and his abrupt departure, made her
still believe, that this person was Valancourt. Sometimes, indeed, she
thought, that her fancy, which had been occupied by the idea of him,
had suggested his image to her uncertain sight: but this conjecture was
fleeting. If it was himself whom she had seen, she wondered much, that
he should be at Tholouse, and more, how he had gained admittance into
the garden; but as often as her impatience prompted her to enquire
whether any stranger had been admitted, she was restrained by an
unwillingness to betray her doubts; and the evening was passed in
anxious conjecture, and in efforts to dismiss the subject from her
thoughts. But, these endeavours were ineffectual, and a thousand
inconsistent emotions assailed her, whenever she fancied that Valancourt
might be near her; now, she dreaded it to be true, and now she feared it
to be false; and, while she constantly tried to persuade herself, that
she wished the person, whom she had seen, might not be Valancourt, her
heart as constantly contradicted her reason.

The following day was occupied by the visits of several neighbouring
families, formerly intimate with Madame Montoni, who came to condole
with Emily on her death, to congratulate her upon the acquisition of
these estates, and to enquire about Montoni, and concerning the strange
reports they had heard of her own situation; all which was done with the
utmost decorum, and the visitors departed with as much composure as they
had arrived.

Emily was wearied by these formalities, and disgusted by the subservient
manners of many persons, who had thought her scarcely worthy of common
attention, while she was believed to be a dependant on Madame Montoni.

'Surely,' said she, 'there is some magic in wealth, which can thus make
persons pay their court to it, when it does not even benefit themselves.
How strange it is, that a fool or a knave, with riches, should be
treated with more respect by the world, than a good man, or a wise man
in poverty!'

It was evening, before she was left alone, and she then wished to have
refreshed her spirits in the free air of her garden; but she feared to
go thither, lest she should meet again the person, whom she had seen on
the preceding night, and he should prove to be Valancourt. The suspense
and anxiety she suffered, on this subject, she found all her efforts
unable to controul, and her secret wish to see Valancourt once more,
though unseen by him, powerfully prompted her to go, but prudence and
a delicate pride restrained her, and she determined to avoid the
possibility of throwing herself in his way, by forbearing to visit the
gardens, for several days.

When, after near a week, she again ventured thither, she made Annette
her companion, and confined her walk to the lower grounds, but often
started as the leaves rustled in the breeze, imagining, that some person
was among the thickets; and, at the turn of every alley, she looked
forward with apprehensive expectation. She pursued her walk thoughtfully
and silently, for her agitation would not suffer her to converse with
Annette, to whom, however, thought and silence were so intolerable, that
she did not scruple at length to talk to her mistress.

'Dear madam,' said she, 'why do you start so? one would think you knew
what has happened.'

'What has happened?' said Emily, in a faltering voice, and trying to
command her emotion.

'The night before last, you know, madam'--

'I know nothing, Annette,' replied her lady in a more hurried voice.

'The night before last, madam, there was a robber in the garden.'

'A robber!' said Emily, in an eager, yet doubting tone.

'I suppose he was a robber, madam. What else could he be?'

'Where did you see him, Annette?' rejoined Emily, looking round her, and
turning back towards the chateau.

'It was not I that saw him, madam, it was Jean the gardener. It was
twelve o'clock at night, and, as he was coming across the court to go
the back way into the house, what should he see--but somebody walking in
the avenue, that fronts the garden gate! So, with that, Jean guessed how
it was, and he went into the house for his gun.'

'His gun!' exclaimed Emily.

'Yes, madam, his gun; and then he came out into the court to watch him.
Presently, he sees him come slowly down the avenue, and lean over the
garden gate, and look up at the house for a long time; and I warrant he
examined it well, and settled what window he should break in at.'

'But the gun,' said Emily--'the gun!'

'Yes, madam, all in good time. Presently, Jean says, the robber opened
the gate, and was coming into the court, and then he thought proper to
ask him his business: so he called out again, and bade him say who he
was, and what he wanted. But the man would do neither; but turned upon
his heel, and passed into the garden again. Jean knew then well enough
how it was, and so he fired after him.'

'Fired!' exclaimed Emily.

'Yes, madam, fired off his gun; but, Holy Virgin! what makes you look
so pale, madam? The man was not killed,--I dare say; but if he was, his
comrades carried him off: for, when Jean went in the morning, to look
for the body, it was gone, and nothing to be seen but a track of blood
on the ground. Jean followed it, that he might find out where the man
got into the garden, but it was lost in the grass, and'--

Annette was interrupted: for Emily's spirits died away, and she would
have fallen to the ground, if the girl had not caught her, and supported
her to a bench, close to them.

When, after a long absence, her senses returned, Emily desired to be
led to her apartment; and, though she trembled with anxiety to enquire
further on the subject of her alarm, she found herself too ill at
present, to dare the intelligence which it was possible she might
receive of Valancourt. Having dismissed Annette, that she might weep
and think at liberty, she endeavoured to recollect the exact air of the
person, whom she had seen on the terrace, and still her fancy gave her
the figure of Valancourt. She had, indeed, scarcely a doubt, that it was
he whom she had seen, and at whom the gardener had fired: for the manner
of the latter person, as described by Annette, was not that of a robber;
nor did it appear probable, that a robber would have come alone, to
break into a house so spacious as this.

When Emily thought herself sufficiently recovered, to listen to what
Jean might have to relate, she sent for him; but he could inform her of
no circumstance, that might lead to a knowledge of the person, who
had been shot, or of the consequence of the wound; and, after severely
reprimanding him, for having fired with bullets, and ordering diligent
enquiry to be made in the neighbourhood for the discovery of the wounded
person, she dismissed him, and herself remained in the same state of
terrible suspense. All the tenderness she had ever felt for Valancourt,
was recalled by the sense of his danger; and the more she considered the
subject, the more her conviction strengthened, that it was he, who
had visited the gardens, for the purpose of soothing the misery of
disappointed affection, amidst the scenes of his former happiness.

'Dear madam,' said Annette, when she returned, 'I never saw you so
affected before! I dare say the man is not killed.'

Emily shuddered, and lamented bitterly the rashness of the gardener in
having fired.

'I knew you would be angry enough about that, madam, or I should have
told you before; and he knew so too; for, says he, "Annette, say nothing
about this to my lady. She lies on the other side of the house, so did
not hear the gun, perhaps; but she would be angry with me, if she knew,
seeing there is blood. But then," says he, "how is one to keep the
garden clear, if one is afraid to fire at a robber, when one sees him?"'

'No more of this,' said Emily, 'pray leave me.'

Annette obeyed, and Emily returned to the agonizing considerations, that
had assailed her before, but which she, at length, endeavoured to sooth
by a new remark. If the stranger was Valancourt, it was certain he had
come alone, and it appeared, therefore, that he had been able to quit
the gardens, without assistance; a circumstance which did not seem
probable, had his wound been dangerous. With this consideration, she
endeavoured to support herself, during the enquiries, that were making
by her servants in the neighbourhood; but day after day came, and still
closed in uncertainty, concerning this affair: and Emily, suffering in
silence, at length, drooped, and sunk under the pressure of her anxiety.
She was attacked by a slow fever, and when she yielded to the persuasion
of Annette to send for medical advice, the physicians prescribed little
beside air, gentle exercise and amusement: but how was this last to be
obtained? She, however, endeavoured to abstract her thoughts from the
subject of her anxiety, by employing them in promoting that happiness in
others, which she had lost herself; and, when the evening was fine, she
usually took an airing, including in her ride the cottages of some of
her tenants, on whose condition she made such observations, as often
enabled her, unasked, to fulfil their wishes.

Her indisposition and the business she engaged in, relative to this
estate, had already protracted her stay at Tholouse, beyond the period
she had formerly fixed for her departure to La Vallee; and now she
was unwilling to leave the only place, where it seemed possible, that
certainty could be obtained on the subject of her distress. But the time
was come, when her presence was necessary at La Vallee, a letter from
the Lady Blanche now informing her, that the Count and herself, being
then at the chateau of the Baron St. Foix, purposed to visit her at La
Vallee, on their way home, as soon as they should be informed of her
arrival there. Blanche added, that they made this visit, with the hope
of inducing her to return with them to Chateau-le-Blanc.

Emily, having replied to the letter of her friend, and said that she
should be at La Vallee in a few days, made hasty preparations for the
journey; and, in thus leaving Tholouse, endeavoured to support herself
with a belief, that, if any fatal accident had happened to Valancourt,
she must in this interval have heard of it.

On the evening before her departure, she went to take leave of the
terrace and the pavilion. The day had been sultry, but a light shower,
that fell just before sun-set, had cooled the air, and given that soft
verdure to the woods and pastures, which is so refreshing to the eye;
while the rain drops, still trembling on the shrubs, glittered in the
last yellow gleam, that lighted up the scene, and the air was filled
with fragrance, exhaled by the late shower, from herbs and flowers and
from the earth itself. But the lovely prospect, which Emily beheld from
the terrace, was no longer viewed by her with delight; she sighed deeply
as her eye wandered over it, and her spirits were in a state of such
dejection, that she could not think of her approaching return to La
Vallee, without tears, and seemed to mourn again the death of her
father, as if it had been an event of yesterday. Having reached the
pavilion, she seated herself at the open lattice, and, while her
eyes settled on the distant mountains, that overlooked Gascony, still
gleaming on the horizon, though the sun had now left the plains below,
'Alas!' said she, 'I return to your long-lost scenes, but shall meet
no more the parents, that were wont to render them delightful!--no
more shall see the smile of welcome, or hear the well-known voice of
fondness:--all will now be cold and silent in what was once my happy
home.'

Tears stole down her cheek, as the remembrance of what that home had
been, returned to her; but, after indulging her sorrow for some time,
she checked it, accusing herself of ingratitude in forgetting the
friends, that she possessed, while she lamented those that were
departed; and she, at length, left the pavilion and the terrace, without
having observed a shadow of Valancourt or of any other person.



CHAPTER XI


  Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!
 Ah fields belov'd in vain!
 Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
 A stranger yet to pain!
 I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
 A momentary bliss bestow,
 As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
 My weary soul they seem to sooth.
     GRAY

On the following morning, Emily left Tholouse at an early hour, and
reached La Vallee about sun-set. With the melancholy she experienced on
the review of a place which had been the residence of her parents, and
the scene of her earliest delight, was mingled, after the first shock
had subsided, a tender and undescribable pleasure. For time had so far
blunted the acuteness of her grief, that she now courted every scene,
that awakened the memory of her friends; in every room, where she had
been accustomed to see them, they almost seemed to live again; and
she felt that La Vallee was still her happiest home. One of the first
apartments she visited, was that, which had been her father's
library, and here she seated herself in his arm-chair, and, while she
contemplated, with tempered resignation, the picture of past times,
which her memory gave, the tears she shed could scarcely be called those
of grief.

Soon after her arrival, she was surprised by a visit from the venerable
M. Barreaux, who came impatiently to welcome the daughter of his late
respected neighbour, to her long-deserted home. Emily was comforted by
the presence of an old friend, and they passed an interesting hour in
conversing of former times, and in relating some of the circumstances,
that had occurred to each, since they parted.

The evening was so far advanced, when M. Barreaux left Emily, that she
could not visit the garden that night; but, on the following morning,
she traced its long-regretted scenes with fond impatience; and, as she
walked beneath the groves, which her father had planted, and where
she had so often sauntered in affectionate conversation with him, his
countenance, his smile, even the accents of his voice, returned
with exactness to her fancy, and her heart melted to the tender
recollections.

This, too, was his favourite season of the year, at which they had often
together admired the rich and variegated tints of these woods and the
magical effect of autumnal lights upon the mountains; and now, the view
of these circumstances made memory eloquent. As she wandered pensively
on, she fancied the following address

 TO AUTUMN

 Sweet Autumn! how thy melancholy grace
 Steals on my heart, as through these shades I wind!
 Sooth'd by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace
 Each lonely image of the pensive mind!
 Lov'd scenes, lov'd friends--long lost! around me rise,
 And wake the melting thought, the tender tear!
 That tear, that thought, which more than mirth I prize--
 Sweet as the gradual tint, that paints thy year!
 Thy farewel smile, with fond regret, I view,
 Thy beaming lights, soft gliding o'er the woods;
 Thy distant landscape, touch'd with yellow hue
 While falls the lengthen'd gleam; thy winding floods,
 Now veil'd in shade, save where the skiff's white sails
 Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming ray.
 But now, e'en now!--the partial vision fails,
 And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away!
 Emblem of life!--Thus checquer'd is its plan,
 Thus joy succeeds to grief--thus smiles the varied man!

One of Emily's earliest enquiries, after her arrival at La Vallee, was
concerning Theresa, her father's old servant, whom it may be remembered
that M. Quesnel had turned from the house when it was let, without
any provision. Understanding that she lived in a cottage at no great
distance, Emily walked thither, and, on approaching, was pleased to see,
that her habitation was pleasantly situated on a green slope, sheltered
by a tuft of oaks, and had an appearance of comfort and extreme
neatness. She found the old woman within, picking vine-stalks, who, on
perceiving her young mistress, was nearly overcome with joy.

'Ah! my dear young lady!' said she, 'I thought I should never see
you again in this world, when I heard you was gone to that outlandish
country. I have been hardly used, since you went; I little thought they
would have turned me out of my old master's family in my old age!'

Emily lamented the circumstance, and then assured her, that she would
make her latter days comfortable, and expressed satisfaction, on seeing
her in so pleasant an habitation.

Theresa thanked her with tears, adding, 'Yes, mademoiselle, it is a
very comfortable home, thanks to the kind friend, who took me out of
my distress, when you was too far off to help me, and placed me here! I
little thought!--but no more of that--'

'And who was this kind friend?' said Emily: 'whoever it was, I shall
consider him as mine also.'

'Ah, mademoiselle! that friend forbad me to blazon the good deed--I must
not say, who it was. But how you are altered since I saw you last! You
look so pale now, and so thin, too; but then, there is my old master's
smile! Yes, that will never leave you, any more than the goodness, that
used to make him smile. Alas-a-day! the poor lost a friend indeed, when
he died!'

Emily was affected by this mention of her father, which Theresa
observing, changed the subject. 'I heard, mademoiselle,' said she,
'that Madame Cheron married a foreign gentleman, after all, and took you
abroad; how does she do?'

Emily now mentioned her death. 'Alas!' said Theresa, 'if she had not
been my master's sister, I should never have loved her; she was always
so cross. But how does that dear young gentleman do, M. Valancourt? he
was an handsome youth, and a good one; is he well, mademoiselle?'

Emily was much agitated.

'A blessing on him!' continued Theresa. 'Ah, my dear young lady, you
need not look so shy; I know all about it. Do you think I do not know,
that he loves you? Why, when you was away, mademoiselle, he used to
come to the chateau and walk about it, so disconsolate! He would go into
every room in the lower part of the house, and, sometimes, he would
sit himself down in a chair, with his arms across, and his eyes on
the floor, and there he would sit, and think, and think, for the hour
together. He used to be very fond of the south parlour, because I
told him it used to be yours; and there he would stay, looking at the
pictures, which I said you drew, and playing upon your lute, that hung
up by the window, and reading in your books, till sunset, and then he
must go back to his brother's chateau. And then--'

'It is enough, Theresa,' said Emily.--'How long have you lived in this
cottage--and how can I serve you? Will you remain here, or return and
live with me?'

'Nay, mademoiselle,' said Theresa, 'do not be so shy to your poor
old servant. I am sure it is no disgrace to like such a good young
gentleman.'

A deep sigh escaped from Emily.

'Ah! how he did love to talk of you! I loved him for that. Nay, for that
matter, he liked to hear me talk, for he did not say much himself. But I
soon found out what he came to the chateau about. Then, he would go
into the garden, and down to the terrace, and sit under that great tree
there, for the day together, with one of your books in his hand; but he
did not read much, I fancy; for one day I happened to go that way, and I
heard somebody talking. Who can be here? says I: I am sure I let nobody
into the garden, but the Chevalier. So I walked softly, to see who it
could be; and behold! it was the Chevalier himself, talking to himself
about you. And he repeated your name, and sighed so! and said he had
lost you for ever, for that you would never return for him. I thought he
was out in his reckoning there, but I said nothing, and stole away.'

'No more of this trifling,' said Emily, awakening from her reverie: 'it
displeases me.'

'But, when M. Quesnel let the chateau, I thought it would have broke the
Chevalier's heart.'

'Theresa,' said Emily seriously, 'you must name the Chevalier no more!'

'Not name him, mademoiselle!' cried Theresa: 'what times are come
up now? Why, I love the Chevalier next to my old master and you,
mademoiselle.'

'Perhaps your love was not well bestowed, then,' replied Emily, trying
to conceal her tears; 'but, however that might be, we shall meet no
more.'

'Meet no more!--not well bestowed!' exclaimed Theresa. 'What do I hear?
No, mademoiselle, my love was well bestowed, for it was the Chevalier
Valancourt, who gave me this cottage, and has supported me in my old
age, ever since M. Quesnel turned me from my master's house.'

'The Chevalier Valancourt!' said Emily, trembling extremely.

'Yes, mademoiselle, he himself, though he made me promise not to tell;
but how could one help, when one heard him ill spoken of? Ah! dear young
lady, you may well weep, if you have behaved unkindly to him, for a more
tender heart than his never young gentleman had. He found me out in my
distress, when you was too far off to help me; and M. Quesnel refused
to do so, and bade me go to service again--Alas! I was too old for
that!--The Chevalier found me, and bought me this cottage, and gave me
money to furnish it, and bade me seek out another poor woman to live
with me; and he ordered his brother's steward to pay me, every quarter,
that which has supported me in comfort. Think then, mademoiselle,
whether I have not reason to speak well of the Chevalier. And there are
others, who could have afforded it better than he: and I am afraid he
has hurt himself by his generosity, for quarter day is gone by long
since, and no money for me! But do not weep so, mademoiselle: you are
not sorry surely to hear of the poor Chevalier's goodness?'

'Sorry!' said Emily, and wept the more. 'But how long is it since you
have seen him?'

'Not this many a day, mademoiselle.'

'When did you hear of him?' enquired Emily, with increased emotion.

'Alas! never since he went away so suddenly into Languedoc; and he was
but just come from Paris then, or I should have seen him, I am sure.
Quarter day is gone by long since, and, as I said, no money for me; and
I begin to fear some harm has happened to him: and if I was not so far
from Estuviere and so lame, I should have gone to enquire before this
time; and I have nobody to send so far.'

Emily's anxiety, as to the fate of Valancourt, was now scarcely
endurable, and, since propriety would not suffer her to send to the
chateau of his brother, she requested that Theresa would immediately
hire some person to go to his steward from herself, and, when he asked
for the quarterage due to her, to make enquiries concerning Valancourt.
But she first made Theresa promise never to mention her name in this
affair, or ever with that of the Chevalier Valancourt; and her
former faithfulness to M. St. Aubert induced Emily to confide in her
assurances. Theresa now joyfully undertook to procure a person for this
errand, and then Emily, after giving her a sum of money to supply her
with present comforts, returned, with spirits heavily oppressed, to her
home, lamenting, more than ever, that an heart, possessed of so much
benevolence as Valancourt's, should have been contaminated by the vices
of the world, but affected by the delicate affection, which his kindness
to her old servant expressed for herself.



CHAPTER XII


  Light thickens, and the crow
 Makes wing to the rooky wood:
 Good things of day begin to droop, and drowze;
 While night's black agents to their preys do rouze.
     MACBETH

Meanwhile Count De Villefort and Lady Blanche had passed a pleasant
fortnight at the chateau de St. Foix, with the Baron and Baroness,
during which they made frequent excursions among the mountains, and were
delighted with the romantic wildness of Pyrenean scenery. It was with
regret, that the Count bade adieu to his old friends, although with the
hope of being soon united with them in one family; for it was settled
that M. St. Foix, who now attended them into Gascony, should receive the
hand of the Lady Blanche, upon their arrival at Chateau-le-Blanc. As
the road, from the Baron's residence to La Vallee, was over some of
the wildest tract of the Pyrenees, and where a carriage-wheel had never
passed, the Count hired mules for himself and his family, as well as a
couple of stout guides, who were well armed, informed of all the passes
of the mountains, and who boasted, too, that they were acquainted with
every brake and dingle in the way, could tell the names of all the
highest points of this chain of Alps, knew every forest, that spread
along their narrow vallies, the shallowest part of every torrent they
must cross, and the exact distance of every goat-herd's and hunter's
cabin they should have occasion to pass,--which last article of learning
required no very capacious memory, for even such simple inhabitants were
but thinly scattered over these wilds.

The Count left the chateau de St. Foix, early in the morning, with an
intention of passing the night at a little inn upon the mountains, about
half way to La Vallee, of which his guides had informed him; and, though
this was frequented chiefly by Spanish muleteers, on their route into
France, and, of course, would afford only sorry accommodation, the Count
had no alternative, for it was the only place like an inn, on the road.

After a day of admiration and fatigue, the travellers found themselves,
about sun-set, in a woody valley, overlooked, on every side, by abrupt
heights. They had proceeded for many leagues, without seeing a human
habitation, and had only heard, now and then, at a distance, the
melancholy tinkling of a sheep-bell; but now they caught the notes of
merry music, and presently saw, within a little green recess among the
rocks, a group of mountaineers, tripping through a dance. The Count,
who could not look upon the happiness, any more than on the misery
of others, with indifference, halted to enjoy this scene of simple
pleasure. The group before him consisted of French and Spanish peasants,
the inhabitants of a neighbouring hamlet, some of whom were performing a
sprightly dance, the women with castanets in their hands, to the sounds
of a lute and a tamborine, till, from the brisk melody of France, the
music softened into a slow movement, to which two female peasants danced
a Spanish Pavan.

The Count, comparing this with the scenes of such gaiety as he had
witnessed at Paris, where false taste painted the features, and, while
it vainly tried to supply the glow of nature, concealed the charms
of animation--where affectation so often distorted the air, and vice
perverted the manners--sighed to think, that natural graces and innocent
pleasures flourished in the wilds of solitude, while they drooped amidst
the concourse of polished society. But the lengthening shadows reminded
the travellers, that they had no time to lose; and, leaving this joyous
group, they pursued their way towards the little inn, which was to
shelter them from the night.

The rays of the setting sun now threw a yellow gleam upon the forests of
pine and chesnut, that swept down the lower region of the mountains, and
gave resplendent tints to the snowy points above. But soon, even this
light faded fast, and the scenery assumed a more tremendous appearance,
invested with the obscurity of twilight. Where the torrent had been
seen, it was now only heard; where the wild cliffs had displayed
every variety of form and attitude, a dark mass of mountains now alone
appeared; and the vale, which far, far below had opened its dreadful
chasm, the eye could no longer fathom. A melancholy gleam still lingered
on the summits of the highest Alps, overlooking the deep repose of
evening, and seeming to make the stillness of the hour more awful.

Blanche viewed the scene in silence, and listened with enthusiasm to the
murmur of the pines, that extended in dark lines along the mountains,
and to the faint voice of the izard, among the rocks, that came at
intervals on the air. But her enthusiasm sunk into apprehension, when,
as the shadows deepened, she looked upon the doubtful precipice, that
bordered the road, as well as on the various fantastic forms of danger,
that glimmered through the obscurity beyond it; and she asked her
father, how far they were from the inn, and whether he did not consider
the road to be dangerous at this late hour. The Count repeated the first
question to the guides, who returned a doubtful answer, adding, that,
when it was darker, it would be safest to rest, till the moon rose.
'It is scarcely safe to proceed now,' said the Count; but the guides,
assuring him that there was no danger, went on. Blanche, revived by
this assurance, again indulged a pensive pleasure, as she watched the
progress of twilight gradually spreading its tints over the woods and
mountains, and stealing from the eye every minuter feature of the scene,
till the grand outlines of nature alone remained. Then fell the silent
dews, and every wild flower, and aromatic plant, that bloomed among the
cliffs, breathed forth its sweetness; then, too, when the mountain-bee
had crept into its blossomed bed, and the hum of every little insect,
that had floated gaily in the sun-beam, was hushed, the sound of many
streams, not heard till now, murmured at a distance.--The bats alone,
of all the animals inhabiting this region, seemed awake; and, while
they flitted across the silent path, which Blanche was pursuing, she
remembered the following lines, which Emily had given her:

 TO THE BAT

 From haunt of man, from day's obtrusive glare,
 Thou shroud'st thee in the ruin's ivy'd tow'r.
 Or in some shadowy glen's romantic bow'r,
 Where wizard forms their mystic charms prepare,
 Where Horror lurks, and ever-boding Care!
 But, at the sweet and silent ev'ning hour,
 When clos'd in sleep is ev'ry languid flow'r,
 Thou lov'st to sport upon the twilight air,
 Mocking the eye, that would thy course pursue,
 In many a wanton-round, elastic, gay,
 Thou flit'st athwart the pensive wand'rer's way,
 As his lone footsteps print the mountain-dew.
 From Indian isles thou com'st, with Summer's car,
 Twilight thy love--thy guide her beaming star!

To a warm imagination, the dubious forms, that float, half veiled in
darkness, afford a higher delight, than the most distinct scenery, that
the sun can shew. While the fancy thus wanders over landscapes partly of
its own creation, a sweet complacency steals upon the mind, and

 Refines it all to subtlest feeling,
 Bids the tear of rapture roll.

The distant note of a torrent, the weak trembling of the breeze among
the woods, or the far-off sound of a human voice, now lost and heard
again, are circumstances, which wonderfully heighten the enthusiastic
tone of the mind. The young St. Foix, who saw the presentations of a
fervid fancy, and felt whatever enthusiasm could suggest, sometimes
interrupted the silence, which the rest of the party seemed by mutual
consent to preserve, remarking and pointing out to Blanche the most
striking effect of the hour upon the scenery; while Blanche, whose
apprehensions were beguiled by the conversation of her lover, yielded
to the taste so congenial to his, and they conversed in a low restrained
voice, the effect of the pensive tranquillity, which twilight and the
scene inspired, rather than of any fear, that they should be heard.
But, while the heart was thus soothed to tenderness, St. Foix gradually
mingled, with his admiration of the country, a mention of his affection;
and he continued to speak, and Blanche to listen, till the mountains,
the woods, and the magical illusions of twilight, were remembered no
more.

The shadows of evening soon shifted to the gloom of night, which was
somewhat anticipated by the vapours, that, gathering fast round the
mountains, rolled in dark wreaths along their sides; and the guides
proposed to rest, till the moon should rise, adding, that they thought a
storm was coming on. As they looked round for a spot, that might afford
some kind of shelter, an object was perceived obscurely through the
dusk, on a point of rock, a little way down the mountain, which they
imagined to be a hunter's or a shepherd's cabin, and the party, with
cautious steps, proceeded towards it. Their labour, however, was not
rewarded, or their apprehensions soothed; for, on reaching the object of
their search, they discovered a monumental cross, which marked the spot
to have been polluted by murder.

The darkness would not permit them to read the inscription; but the
guides knew this to be a cross, raised to the memory of a Count de
Beliard, who had been murdered here by a horde of banditti, that had
infested this part of the Pyrenees, a few years before; and the uncommon
size of the monument seemed to justify the supposition, that it was
erected for a person of some distinction. Blanche shuddered, as she
listened to some horrid particulars of the Count's fate, which one of
the guides related in a low, restrained tone, as if the sound of his own
voice frightened him; but, while they lingered at the cross, attending
to his narrative, a flash of lightning glanced upon the rocks, thunder
muttered at a distance, and the travellers, now alarmed, quitted this
scene of solitary horror, in search of shelter.

Having regained their former track, the guides, as they passed on,
endeavoured to interest the Count by various stories of robbery, and
even of murder, which had been perpetrated in the very places they
must unavoidably pass, with accounts of their own dauntless courage
and wonderful escapes. The chief guide, or rather he, who was the most
completely armed, drawing forth one of the four pistols, that were
tucked into his belt, swore, that it had shot three robbers within the
year. He then brandished a clasp-knife of enormous length, and was
going to recount the wonderful execution it had done, when St. Foix,
perceiving, that Blanche was terrified, interrupted him. The Count,
meanwhile, secretly laughing at the terrible histories and extravagant
boastings of the man, resolved to humour him, and, telling Blanche in
a whisper, his design, began to recount some exploits of his own, which
infinitely exceeded any related by the guide.

To these surprising circumstances he so artfully gave the colouring of
truth, that the courage of the guides was visibly affected by them,
who continued silent, long after the Count had ceased to speak. The
loquacity of the chief hero thus laid asleep, the vigilance of his eyes
and ears seemed more thoroughly awakened, for he listened, with much
appearance of anxiety, to the deep thunder, which murmured at intervals,
and often paused, as the breeze, that was now rising, rushed among the
pines. But, when he made a sudden halt before a tuft of cork trees,
that projected over the road, and drew forth a pistol, before he would
venture to brave the banditti which might lurk behind it, the Count
could no longer refrain from laughter.

Having now, however, arrived at a level spot, somewhat sheltered from
the air, by overhanging cliffs and by a wood of larch, that rose over
the precipice on the left, and the guides being yet ignorant how far
they were from the inn, the travellers determined to rest, till the moon
should rise, or the storm disperse. Blanche, recalled to a sense of the
present moment, looked on the surrounding gloom, with terror; but giving
her hand to St. Foix, she alighted, and the whole party entered a kind
of cave, if such it could be called, which was only a shallow cavity,
formed by the curve of impending rocks. A light being struck, a fire was
kindled, whose blaze afforded some degree of cheerfulness, and no
small comfort, for, though the day had been hot, the night air of this
mountainous region was chilling; a fire was partly necessary also to
keep off the wolves, with which those wilds were infested.

Provisions being spread upon a projection of the rock, the Count and his
family partook of a supper, which, in a scene less rude, would certainly
have been thought less excellent. When the repast was finished, St.
Foix, impatient for the moon, sauntered along the precipice, to a point,
that fronted the east; but all was yet wrapt in gloom, and the silence
of night was broken only by the murmuring of woods, that waved far
below, or by distant thunder, and, now and then, by the faint voices of
the party he had quitted. He viewed, with emotions of awful sublimity,
the long volumes of sulphureous clouds, that floated along the upper and
middle regions of the air, and the lightnings that flashed from them,
sometimes silently, and, at others, followed by sullen peals of thunder,
which the mountains feebly prolonged, while the whole horizon, and the
abyss, on which he stood, were discovered in the momentary light. Upon
the succeeding darkness, the fire, which had been kindled in the cave,
threw a partial gleam, illumining some points of the opposite rocks, and
the summits of pine-woods, that hung beetling on the cliffs below, while
their recesses seemed to frown in deeper shade.

St. Foix stopped to observe the picture, which the party in the cave
presented, where the elegant form of Blanche was finely contrasted by
the majestic figure of the Count, who was seated by her on a rude stone,
and each was rendered more impressive by the grotesque habits and strong
features of the guides and other attendants, who were in the back ground
of the piece. The effect of the light, too, was interesting; on the
surrounding figures it threw a strong, though pale gleam, and glittered
on their bright arms; while upon the foliage of a gigantic larch, that
impended its shade over the cliff above, appeared a red, dusky tint,
deepening almost imperceptibly into the blackness of night.

While St. Foix contemplated the scene, the moon, broad and yellow, rose
over the eastern summits, from among embattled clouds, and shewed dimly
the grandeur of the heavens, the mass of vapours, that rolled half way
down the precipice beneath, and the doubtful mountains.

 What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime,
 Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast,
 And view th'enormous waste of vapour, tost
 In billows length'ning to th'horizon round!
     THE MINSTREL

From this romantic reverie he was awakened by the voices of the guides,
repeating his name, which was reverbed from cliff to cliff, till an
hundred tongues seemed to call him; when he soon quieted the fears of
the Count and the Lady Blanche, by returning to the cave. As the storm,
however, seemed approaching, they did not quit their place of shelter;
and the Count, seated between his daughter and St. Foix, endeavoured to
divert the fears of the former, and conversed on subjects, relating to
the natural history of the scene, among which they wandered. He spoke
of the mineral and fossile substances, found in the depths of these
mountains,--the veins of marble and granite, with which they abounded,
the strata of shells, discovered near their summits, many thousand
fathom above the level of the sea, and at a vast distance from its
present shore;--of the tremendous chasms and caverns of the rocks, the
grotesque form of the mountains, and the various phaenomena, that seem
to stamp upon the world the history of the deluge. From the natural
history he descended to the mention of events and circumstances,
connected with the civil story of the Pyrenees; named some of the most
remarkable fortresses, which France and Spain had erected in the passes
of these mountains; and gave a brief account of some celebrated sieges
and encounters in early times, when Ambition first frightened Solitude
from these her deep recesses, made her mountains, which before had
echoed only to the torrent's roar, tremble with the clang of arms, and,
when man's first footsteps in her sacred haunts had left the print of
blood!

As Blanche sat, attentive to the narrative, that rendered the
scenes doubly interesting, and resigned to solemn emotion, while she
considered, that she was on the very ground, once polluted by these
events, her reverie was suddenly interrupted by a sound, that came
in the wind.--It was the distant bark of a watch-dog. The travellers
listened with eager hope, and, as the wind blew stronger, fancied, that
the sound came from no great distance; and, the guides having little
doubt, that it proceeded from the inn they were in search of, the Count
determined to pursue his way. The moon now afforded a stronger, though
still an uncertain light, as she moved among broken clouds; and the
travellers, led by the sound, recommenced their journey along the brow
of the precipice, preceded by a single torch, that now contended with
the moon-light; for the guides, believing they should reach the inn soon
after sun-set, had neglected to provide more. In silent caution they
followed the sound, which was heard but at intervals, and which, after
some time entirely ceased. The guides endeavoured, however, to point
their course to the quarter, whence it had issued, but the deep roaring
of a torrent soon seized their attention, and presently they came to
a tremendous chasm of the mountain, which seemed to forbid all further
progress. Blanche alighted from her mule, as did the Count and St.
Foix, while the guides traversed the edge in search of a bridge, which,
however rude, might convey them to the opposite side, and they, at
length, confessed, what the Count had begun to suspect, that they had
been, for some time, doubtful of their way, and were now certain only,
that they had lost it.

At a little distance, was discovered a rude and dangerous passage,
formed by an enormous pine, which, thrown across the chasm, united the
opposite precipices, and which had been felled probably by the hunter,
to facilitate his chace of the izard, or the wolf. The whole party,
the guides excepted, shuddered at the prospect of crossing this alpine
bridge, whose sides afforded no kind of defence, and from which to fall
was to die. The guides, however, prepared to lead over the mules, while
Blanche stood trembling on the brink, and listening to the roar of the
waters, which were seen descending from rocks above, overhung with lofty
pines, and thence precipitating themselves into the deep abyss, where
their white surges gleamed faintly in the moon-light. The poor animals
proceeded over this perilous bridge with instinctive caution, neither
frightened by the noise of the cataract, or deceived by the gloom, which
the impending foliage threw athwart their way. It was now, that the
solitary torch, which had been hitherto of little service, was found
to be an inestimable treasure; and Blanche, terrified, shrinking,
but endeavouring to re-collect all her firmness and presence of mind,
preceded by her lover and supported by her father, followed the red
gleam of the torch, in safety, to the opposite cliff.

As they went on, the heights contracted, and formed a narrow pass, at
the bottom of which, the torrent they had just crossed, was heard to
thunder. But they were again cheered by the bark of a dog, keeping
watch, perhaps, over the flocks of the mountains, to protect them
from the nightly descent of the wolves. The sound was much nearer than
before, and, while they rejoiced in the hope of soon reaching a place
of repose, a light was seen to glimmer at a distance. It appeared at a
height considerably above the level of their path, and was lost and seen
again, as if the waving branches of trees sometimes excluded and then
admitted its rays. The guides hallooed with all their strength, but the
sound of no human voice was heard in return, and, at length, as a more
effectual means of making themselves known, they fired a pistol. But,
while they listened in anxious expectation, the noise of the explosion
was alone heard, echoing among the rocks, and it gradually sunk into
silence, which no friendly hint of man disturbed. The light, however,
that had been seen before, now became plainer, and, soon after, voices
were heard indistinctly on the wind; but, upon the guides repeating the
call, the voices suddenly ceased, and the light disappeared.

The Lady Blanche was now almost sinking beneath the pressure of anxiety,
fatigue and apprehension, and the united efforts of the Count and St.
Foix could scarcely support her spirits. As they continued to advance,
an object was perceived on a point of rock above, which, the strong rays
of the moon then falling on it, appeared to be a watch-tower. The Count,
from its situation and some other circumstances, had little doubt, that
it was such, and believing, that the light had proceeded from thence, he
endeavoured to re-animate his daughter's spirits by the near prospect
of shelter and repose, which, however rude the accommodation, a ruined
watch-tower might afford.

'Numerous watch-towers have been erected among the Pyrenees,' said the
Count, anxious only to call Blanche's attention from the subject of her
fears; 'and the method, by which they give intelligence of the approach
of the enemy, is, you know, by fires, kindled on the summits of these
edifices. Signals have thus, sometimes, been communicated from post to
post, along a frontier line of several hundred miles in length. Then,
as occasion may require, the lurking armies emerge from their fortresses
and the forests, and march forth, to defend, perhaps, the entrance of
some grand pass, where, planting themselves on the heights, they assail
their astonished enemies, who wind along the glen below, with fragments
of the shattered cliff, and pour death and defeat upon them. The ancient
forts, and watch-towers, overlooking the grand passes of the Pyrenees,
are carefully preserved; but some of those in inferior stations have
been suffered to fall into decay, and are now frequently converted into
the more peaceful habitation of the hunter, or the shepherd, who, after
a day of toil, retires hither, and, with his faithful dogs, forgets,
near a cheerful blaze, the labour of the chace, or the anxiety of
collecting his wandering flocks, while he is sheltered from the nightly
storm.'

'But are they always thus peacefully inhabited?' said the Lady Blanche.

'No,' replied the Count, 'they are sometimes the asylum of French and
Spanish smugglers, who cross the mountains with contraband goods from
their respective countries, and the latter are particularly numerous,
against whom strong parties of the king's troops are sometimes sent. But
the desperate resolution of these adventurers, who, knowing, that, if
they are taken, they must expiate the breach of the law by the most
cruel death, travel in large parties, well armed, often daunts the
courage of the soldiers. The smugglers, who seek only safety, never
engage, when they can possibly avoid it; the military, also, who
know, that in these encounters, danger is certain, and glory almost
unattainable, are equally reluctant to fight; an engagement, therefore,
very seldom happens, but, when it does, it never concludes till after
the most desperate and bloody conflict. You are inattentive, Blanche,'
added the Count: 'I have wearied you with a dull subject; but see,
yonder, in the moon-light, is the edifice we have been in search of, and
we are fortunate to be so near it, before the storm bursts.'

Blanche, looking up, perceived, that they were at the foot of the cliff,
on whose summit the building stood, but no light now issued from it; the
barking of the dog too had, for some time, ceased, and the guides began
to doubt, whether this was really the object of their search. From the
distance, at which they surveyed it, shewn imperfectly by a cloudy moon,
it appeared to be of more extent than a single watch-tower; but the
difficulty was how to ascend the height, whose abrupt declivities seemed
to afford no kind of pathway.

While the guides carried forward the torch to examine the cliff, the
Count, remaining with Blanche and St. Foix at its foot, under the shadow
of the woods, endeavoured again to beguile the time by conversation,
but again anxiety abstracted the mind of Blanche; and he then consulted,
apart with St. Foix, whether it would be advisable, should a path be
found, to venture to an edifice, which might possibly harbour banditti.
They considered, that their own party was not small, and that several of
them were well armed; and, after enumerating the dangers, to be incurred
by passing the night in the open wild, exposed, perhaps, to the effects
of a thunder-storm, there remained not a doubt, that they ought to
endeavour to obtain admittance to the edifice above, at any hazard
respecting the inhabitants it might harbour; but the darkness, and the
dead silence, that surrounded it, appeared to contradict the probability
of its being inhabited at all.

A shout from the guides aroused their attention, after which, in a few
minutes, one of the Count's servants returned with intelligence, that a
path was found, and they immediately hastened to join the guides, when
they all ascended a little winding way cut in the rock among thickets
of dwarf wood, and, after much toil and some danger, reached the summit,
where several ruined towers, surrounded by a massy wall, rose to their
view, partially illumined by the moon-light. The space around the
building was silent, and apparently forsaken, but the Count was
cautious; 'Step softly,' said he, in a low voice, 'while we reconnoitre
the edifice.'

Having proceeded silently along for some paces, they stopped at a
gate, whose portals were terrible even in ruins, and, after a moment's
hesitation, passed on to the court of entrance, but paused again at the
head of a terrace, which, branching from it, ran along the brow of a
precipice. Over this, rose the main body of the edifice, which was now
seen to be, not a watch-tower, but one of those ancient fortresses,
that, from age and neglect, had fallen to decay. Many parts of it,
however, appeared to be still entire; it was built of grey stone, in
the heavy Saxon-gothic style, with enormous round towers, buttresses of
proportionable strength, and the arch of the large gate, which seemed
to open into the hall of the fabric, was round, as was that of a window
above. The air of solemnity, which must so strongly have characterized
the pile even in the days of its early strength, was now considerably
heightened by its shattered battlements and half-demolished walls, and
by the huge masses of ruin, scattered in its wide area, now silent and
grass grown. In this court of entrance stood the gigantic remains of an
oak, that seemed to have flourished and decayed with the building, which
it still appeared frowningly to protect by the few remaining branches,
leafless and moss-grown, that crowned its trunk, and whose wide extent
told how enormous the tree had been in a former age. This fortress was
evidently once of great strength, and, from its situation on a point of
rock, impending over a deep glen, had been of great power to annoy, as
well as to resist; the Count, therefore, as he stood surveying it, was
somewhat surprised, that it had been suffered, ancient as it was, to
sink into ruins, and its present lonely and deserted air excited in
his breast emotions of melancholy awe. While he indulged, for a moment,
these emotions, he thought he heard a sound of remote voices steal upon
the stillness, from within the building, the front of which he again
surveyed with scrutinizing eyes, but yet no light was visible. He now
determined to walk round the fort, to that remote part of it, whence he
thought the voices had arisen, that he might examine whether any light
could be discerned there, before he ventured to knock at the gate; for
this purpose, he entered upon the terrace, where the remains of cannon
were yet apparent in the thick walls, but he had not proceeded many
paces, when his steps were suddenly arrested by the loud barking of a
dog within, and which he fancied to be the same, whose voice had been
the means of bringing the travellers thither. It now appeared certain,
that the place was inhabited, and the Count returned to consult again
with St. Foix, whether he should try to obtain admittance, for its wild
aspect had somewhat shaken his former resolution; but, after a
second consultation, he submitted to the considerations, which before
determined him, and which were strengthened by the discovery of the dog,
that guarded the fort, as well as by the stillness that pervaded it.
He, therefore, ordered one of his servants to knock at the gate, who was
advancing to obey him, when a light appeared through the loop-hole
of one of the towers, and the Count called loudly, but, receiving no
answer, he went up to the gate himself, and struck upon it with an
iron-pointed pole, which had assisted him to climb the steep. When
the echoes had ceased, that this blow had awakened, the renewed
barking,--and there were now more than one dog,--was the only sound,
that was heard. The Count stepped back, a few paces, to observe whether
the light was in the tower, and, perceiving, that it was gone, he
returned to the portal, and had lifted the pole to strike again, when
again he fancied he heard the murmur of voices within, and paused to
listen. He was confirmed in the supposition, but they were too remote,
to be heard otherwise than in a murmur, and the Count now let the pole
fall heavily upon the gate; when almost immediately a profound silence
followed. It was apparent, that the people within had heard the sound,
and their caution in admitting strangers gave him a favourable opinion
of them. 'They are either hunters or shepherds,' said he, 'who, like
ourselves, have probably sought shelter from the night within these
walls, and are fearful of admitting strangers, lest they should prove
robbers. I will endeavour to remove their fears.' So saying, he called
aloud, 'We are friends, who ask shelter from the night.' In a few
moments, steps were heard within, which approached, and a voice then
enquired--'Who calls?' 'Friends,' repeated the Count; 'open the gates,
and you shall know more.'--Strong bolts were now heard to be undrawn,
and a man, armed with a hunting spear, appeared. 'What is it you want
at this hour?' said he. The Count beckoned his attendants, and then
answered, that he wished to enquire the way to the nearest cabin. 'Are
you so little acquainted with these mountains,' said the man, 'as not to
know, that there is none, within several leagues? I cannot shew you the
way; you must seek it--there's a moon.' Saying this, he was closing the
gate, and the Count was turning away, half disappointed and half afraid,
when another voice was heard from above, and, on looking up, he saw a
light, and a man's face, at the grate of the portal. 'Stay, friend, you
have lost your way?' said the voice. 'You are hunters, I suppose, like
ourselves: I will be with you presently.' The voice ceased, and the
light disappeared. Blanche had been alarmed by the appearance of the
man, who had opened the gate, and she now entreated her father to quit
the place; but the Count had observed the hunter's spear, which he
carried; and the words from the tower encouraged him to await the event.
The gate was soon opened, and several men in hunters' habits, who had
heard above what had passed below, appeared, and, having listened some
time to the Count, told him he was welcome to rest there for the night.
They then pressed him, with much courtesy, to enter, and to partake of
such fare as they were about to sit down to. The Count, who had
observed them attentively while they spoke, was cautious, and somewhat
suspicious; but he was also weary, fearful of the approaching storm, and
of encountering alpine heights in the obscurity of night; being likewise
somewhat confident in the strength and number of his attendants, he,
after some further consideration, determined to accept the invitation.
With this resolution he called his servants, who, advancing round
the tower, behind which some of them had silently listened to this
conference, followed their Lord, the Lady Blanche, and St. Foix into the
fortress. The strangers led them on to a large and rude hall, partially
seen by a fire that blazed at its extremity, round which four men, in
the hunter's dress, were seated, and on the hearth were several dogs
stretched in sleep. In the middle of the hall stood a large table,
and over the fire some part of an animal was boiling. As the Count
approached, the men arose, and the dogs, half raising themselves, looked
fiercely at the strangers, but, on hearing their masters' voices, kept
their postures on the hearth.

Blanche looked round this gloomy and spacious hall; then at the men, and
to her father, who, smiling cheerfully at her, addressed himself to the
hunters. 'This is an hospitable hearth,' said he, 'the blaze of a fire
is reviving after having wandered so long in these dreary wilds. Your
dogs are tired; what success have you had?' 'Such as we usually have,'
replied one of the men, who had been seated in the hall, 'we kill our
game with tolerable certainty.' 'These are fellow hunters,' said one of
the men who had brought the Count hither, 'that have lost their way,
and I have told them there is room enough in the fort for us all.' 'Very
true, very true,' replied his companion, 'What luck have you had in the
chace, brothers? We have killed two izards, and that, you will say,
is pretty well.' 'You mistake, friend,' said the Count, 'we are not
hunters, but travellers; but, if you will admit us to hunters' fare, we
shall be well contented, and will repay your kindness.' 'Sit down then,
brother,' said one of the men: 'Jacques, lay more fuel on the fire, the
kid will soon be ready; bring a seat for the lady too. Ma'amselle, will
you taste our brandy? it is true Barcelona, and as bright as ever flowed
from a keg.' Blanche timidly smiled, and was going to refuse, when her
father prevented her, by taking, with a good humoured air, the glass
offered to his daughter; and Mons. St. Foix, who was seated next her,
pressed her hand, and gave her an encouraging look, but her attention
was engaged by a man, who sat silently by the fire, observing St. Foix,
with a steady and earnest eye.

'You lead a jolly life here,' said the Count. 'The life of a hunter is
a pleasant and a healthy one; and the repose is sweet, which succeeds to
your labour.'

'Yes,' replied one of his hosts, 'our life is pleasant enough. We live
here only during the summer, and autumnal months; in winter, the place
is dreary, and the swoln torrents, that descend from the heights, put a
stop to the chace.'

''Tis a life of liberty and enjoyment,' said the Count: 'I should like
to pass a month in your way very well.'

'We find employment for our guns too,' said a man who stood behind the
Count: 'here are plenty of birds, of delicious flavour, that feed upon
the wild thyme and herbs, that grow in the vallies. Now I think of it,
there is a brace of birds hung up in the stone gallery; go fetch them,
Jacques, we will have them dressed.'

The Count now made enquiry, concerning the method of pursuing the
chace among the rocks and precipices of these romantic regions, and
was listening to a curious detail, when a horn was sounded at the gate.
Blanche looked timidly at her father, who continued to converse on the
subject of the chace, but whose countenance was somewhat expressive of
anxiety, and who often turned his eyes towards that part of the hall
nearest the gate. The horn sounded again, and a loud halloo succeeded.
'These are some of our companions, returned from their day's labour,'
said a man, going lazily from his seat towards the gate; and in a
few minutes, two men appeared, each with a gun over his shoulder, and
pistols in his belt. 'What cheer, my lads? what cheer?' said they,
as they approached. 'What luck?' returned their companions: 'have you
brought home your supper? You shall have none else.'

'Hah! who the devil have you brought home?' said they in bad Spanish,
on perceiving the Count's party, 'are they from France, or Spain?--where
did you meet with them?'

'They met with us, and a merry meeting too,' replied his companion aloud
in good French. 'This chevalier, and his party, had lost their way,
and asked a night's lodging in the fort.' The others made no reply, but
threw down a kind of knapsack, and drew forth several brace of birds.
The bag sounded heavily as it fell to the ground, and the glitter
of some bright metal within glanced on the eye of the Count, who now
surveyed, with a more enquiring look, the man, that held the knapsack.
He was a tall robust figure, of a hard countenance, and had short black
hair, curling in his neck. Instead of the hunter's dress, he wore a
faded military uniform; sandals were laced on his broad legs, and a kind
of short trowsers hung from his waist. On his head he wore a leathern
cap, somewhat resembling in shape an ancient Roman helmet; but the
brows that scowled beneath it, would have characterized those of the
barbarians, who conquered Rome, rather than those of a Roman soldier.
The Count, at length, turned away his eyes, and remained silent and
thoughtful, till, again raising them, he perceived a figure standing in
an obscure part of the hall, fixed in attentive gaze on St. Foix, who
was conversing with Blanche, and did not observe this; but the Count,
soon after, saw the same man looking over the shoulder of the soldier as
attentively at himself. He withdrew his eye, when that of the Count met
it, who felt mistrust gathering fast upon his mind, but feared to betray
it in his countenance, and, forcing his features to assume a smile,
addressed Blanche on some indifferent subject. When he again looked
round, he perceived, that the soldier and his companion were gone.

The man, who was called Jacques, now returned from the stone gallery. 'A
fire is lighted there,' said he, 'and the birds are dressing; the table
too is spread there, for that place is warmer than this.'

His companions approved of the removal, and invited their guests to
follow to the gallery, of whom Blanche appeared distressed, and remained
seated, and St. Foix looked at the Count, who said, he preferred the
comfortable blaze of the fire he was then near. The hunters, however,
commended the warmth of the other apartment, and pressed his removal
with such seeming courtesy, that the Count, half doubting, and half
fearful of betraying his doubts, consented to go. The long and ruinous
passages, through which they went, somewhat daunted him, but the
thunder, which now burst in loud peals above, made it dangerous to
quit this place of shelter, and he forbore to provoke his conductors by
shewing that he distrusted them. The hunters led the way, with a
lamp; the Count and St. Foix, who wished to please their hosts by some
instances of familiarity, carried each a seat, and Blanche followed,
with faltering steps. As she passed on, part of her dress caught on a
nail in the wall, and, while she stopped, somewhat too scrupulously,
to disengage it, the Count, who was talking to St. Foix, and neither of
whom observed the circumstance, followed their conductor round an abrupt
angle of the passage, and Blanche was left behind in darkness. The
thunder prevented them from hearing her call but, having disengaged her
dress, she quickly followed, as she thought, the way they had taken.
A light, that glimmered at a distance, confirmed this belief, and she
proceeded towards an open door, whence it issued, conjecturing the room
beyond to be the stone gallery the men had spoken of. Hearing voices
as she advanced, she paused within a few paces of the chamber, that she
might be certain whether she was right, and from thence, by the light
of a lamp, that hung from the ceiling, observed four men, seated round
a table, over which they leaned in apparent consultation. In one of them
she distinguished the features of him, whom she had observed, gazing
at St. Foix, with such deep attention; and who was now speaking in an
earnest, though restrained voice, till, one of his companions seeming
to oppose him, they spoke together in a loud and harsher tone. Blanche,
alarmed by perceiving that neither her father, or St. Foix were there,
and terrified at the fierce countenances and manners of these men, was
turning hastily from the chamber, to pursue her search of the gallery,
when she heard one of the men say:

'Let all dispute end here. Who talks of danger? Follow my advice,
and there will be none--secure THEM, and the rest are an easy prey.'
Blanche, struck with these words, paused a moment, to hear more. 'There
is nothing to be got by the rest,' said one of his companions, 'I am
never for blood when I can help it--dispatch the two others, and our
business is done; the rest may go.'

'May they so?' exclaimed the first ruffian, with a tremendous
oath--'What! to tell how we have disposed of their masters, and to
send the king's troops to drag us to the wheel! You was always a choice
adviser--I warrant we have not yet forgot St. Thomas's eve last year.'

Blanche's heart now sunk with horror. Her first impulse was to retreat
from the door, but, when she would have gone, her trembling frame
refused to support her, and, having tottered a few paces, to a more
obscure part of the passage, she was compelled to listen to the dreadful
councils of those, who, she was no longer suffered to doubt, were
banditti. In the next moment, she heard the following words, 'Why you
would not murder the whole GANG?'

'I warrant our lives are as good as theirs,' replied his comrade. 'If
we don't kill them, they will hang us: better they should die than we be
hanged.'

'Better, better,' cried his comrades.

'To commit murder, is a hopeful way of escaping the gallows!' said the
first ruffian--'many an honest fellow has run his head into the noose
that way, though.' There was a pause of some moments, during which they
appeared to be considering.

'Confound those fellows,' exclaimed one of the robbers impatiently,
'they ought to have been here by this time; they will come back
presently with the old story, and no booty: if they were here, our
business would be plain and easy. I see we shall not be able to do the
business to-night, for our numbers are not equal to the enemy, and in
the morning they will be for marching off, and how can we detain them
without force?'

'I have been thinking of a scheme, that will do,' said one of his
comrades: 'if we can dispatch the two chevaliers silently, it will be
easy to master the rest.'

'That's a plausible scheme, in good faith,' said another with a smile
of scorn--'If I can eat my way through the prison wall, I shall be at
liberty!--How can we dispatch them SILENTLY?'

'By poison,' replied his companions.

'Well said! that will do,' said the second ruffian, 'that will give a
lingering death too, and satisfy my revenge. These barons shall take
care how they again tempt our vengeance.'

'I knew the son, the moment I saw him,' said the man, whom Blanche had
observed gazing on St. Foix, 'though he does not know me; the father I
had almost forgotten.'

'Well, you may say what you will,' said the third ruffian, 'but I don't
believe he is the Baron, and I am as likely to know as any of you, for I
was one of them, that attacked him, with our brave lads, that suffered.'

'And was not I another?' said the first ruffian, 'I tell you he is the
Baron; but what does it signify whether he is or not?--shall we let all
this booty go out of our hands? It is not often we have such luck at
this. While we run the chance of the wheel for smuggling a few pounds of
tobacco, to cheat the king's manufactory, and of breaking our necks
down the precipices in the chace of our food; and, now and then, rob a
brother smuggler, or a straggling pilgrim, of what scarcely repays us
the powder we fire at them, shall we let such a prize as this go? Why
they have enough about them to keep us for--'

'I am not for that, I am not for that,' replied the third robber, 'let
us make the most of them: only, if this is the Baron, I should like to
have a flash the more at him, for the sake of our brave comrades, that
he brought to the gallows.'

'Aye, aye, flash as much as you will,' rejoined the first man, 'but I
tell you the Baron is a taller man.'

'Confound your quibbling,' said the second ruffian, 'shall we let them
go or not? If we stay here much longer, they will take the hint, and
march off without our leave. Let them be who they will, they are rich,
or why all those servants? Did you see the ring, he, you call the Baron,
had on his finger?--it was a diamond; but he has not got it on now: he
saw me looking at it, I warrant, and took it off.'

'Aye, and then there is the picture; did you see that? She has not taken
that off,' observed the first ruffian, 'it hangs at her neck; if it had
not sparkled so, I should not have found it out, for it was almost hid
by her dress; those are diamonds too, and a rare many of them there must
be, to go round such a large picture.'

'But how are we to manage this business?' said the second ruffian: 'let
us talk of that, there is no fear of there being booty enough, but how
are we to secure it?'

'Aye, aye,' said his comrades, 'let us talk of that, and remember no
time is to be lost.'


'I am still for poison,' observed the third, 'but consider their number;
why there are nine or ten of them, and armed too; when I saw so many at
the gate, I was not for letting them in, you know, nor you either.'

'I thought they might be some of our enemies,' replied the second, 'I
did not so much mind numbers.'

'But you must mind them now,' rejoined his comrade, 'or it will be worse
for you. We are not more than six, and how can we master ten by open
force? I tell you we must give some of them a dose, and the rest may
then be managed.'

'I'll tell you a better way,' rejoined the other impatiently, 'draw
closer.'

Blanche, who had listened to this conversation, in an agony, which it
would be impossible to describe, could no longer distinguish what was
said, for the ruffians now spoke in lowered voices; but the hope, that
she might save her friends from the plot, if she could find her way
quickly to them, suddenly re-animated her spirits, and lent her strength
enough to turn her steps in search of the gallery. Terror, however,
and darkness conspired against her, and, having moved a few yards, the
feeble light, that issued from the chamber, no longer even contended
with the gloom, and, her foot stumbling over a step that crossed the
passage, she fell to the ground.

The noise startled the banditti, who became suddenly silent, and then
all rushed to the passage, to examine whether any person was there, who
might have overheard their councils. Blanche saw them approaching, and
perceived their fierce and eager looks: but, before she could raise
herself, they discovered and seized her, and, as they dragged her
towards the chamber they had quitted, her screams drew from them
horrible threatenings.

Having reached the room, they began to consult what they should do with
her. 'Let us first know what she had heard,' said the chief robber. 'How
long have you been in the passage, lady, and what brought you there?'

'Let us first secure that picture,' said one of his comrades,
approaching the trembling Blanche. 'Fair lady, by your leave that
picture is mine; come, surrender it, or I shall seize it.'

Blanche, entreating their mercy, immediately gave up the miniature,
while another of the ruffians fiercely interrogated her, concerning what
she had overheard of their conversation, when, her confusion and terror
too plainly telling what her tongue feared to confess, the ruffians
looked expressively upon one another, and two of them withdrew to a
remote part of the room, as if to consult further.

'These are diamonds, by St. Peter!' exclaimed the fellow, who had been
examining the miniature, 'and here is a very pretty picture too, 'faith;
as handsome a young chevalier, as you would wish to see by a summer's
sun. Lady, this is your spouse, I warrant, for it is the spark, that was
in your company just now.'

Blanche, sinking with terror, conjured him to have pity on her, and,
delivering him her purse, promised to say nothing of what had passed, if
he would suffer her to return to her friends.

He smiled ironically, and was going to reply, when his attention was
called off by a distant noise; and, while he listened, he grasped the
arm of Blanche more firmly, as if he feared she would escape from him,
and she again shrieked for help.

The approaching sounds called the ruffians from the other part of the
chamber. 'We are betrayed,' said they; 'but let us listen a moment,
perhaps it is only our comrades come in from the mountains, and if so,
our work is sure; listen!'

A distant discharge of shot confirmed this supposition for a moment,
but, in the next, the former sounds drawing nearer, the clashing of
swords, mingled with the voices of loud contention and with heavy
groans, were distinguished in the avenue leading to the chamber. While
the ruffians prepared their arms, they heard themselves called by some
of their comrades afar off, and then a shrill horn was sounded without
the fortress, a signal, it appeared, they too well understood; for three
of them, leaving the Lady Blanche to the care of the fourth, instantly
rushed from the chamber.

While Blanche, trembling, and nearly fainting, was supplicating for
release, she heard amid the tumult, that approached, the voice of St.
Foix, and she had scarcely renewed her shriek, when the door of the
room was thrown open, and he appeared, much disfigured with blood, and
pursued by several ruffians. Blanche neither saw, or heard any more; her
head swam, her sight failed, and she became senseless in the arms of the
robber, who had detained her.

When she recovered, she perceived, by the gloomy light, that trembled
round her, that she was in the same chamber, but neither the Count, St.
Foix, or any other person appeared, and she continued, for some time,
entirely still, and nearly in a state of stupefaction. But, the dreadful
images of the past returning, she endeavoured to raise herself, that
she might seek her friends, when a sullen groan, at a little distance,
reminded her of St. Foix, and of the condition, in which she had seen
him enter this room; then, starting from the floor, by a sudden effort
of horror, she advanced to the place whence the sound had proceeded,
where a body was lying stretched upon the pavement, and where, by the
glimmering light of a lamp, she discovered the pale and disfigured
countenance of St. Foix. Her horrors, at that moment, may be easily
imagined. He was speechless; his eyes were half closed, and, on the
hand, which she grasped in the agony of despair, cold damps had settled.
While she vainly repeated his name, and called for assistance, steps
approached, and a person entered the chamber, who, she soon perceived,
was not the Count, her father; but, what was her astonishment, when,
supplicating him to give his assistance to St. Foix, she discovered
Ludovico! He scarcely paused to recognise her, but immediately bound
up the wounds of the Chevalier, and, perceiving, that he had fainted
probably from loss of blood, ran for water; but he had been absent only
a few moments, when Blanche heard other steps approaching, and, while
she was almost frantic with apprehension of the ruffians, the light of a
torch flashed upon the walls, and then Count De Villefort appeared, with
an affrighted countenance, and breathless with impatience, calling upon
his daughter. At the sound of his voice, she rose, and ran to his arms,
while he, letting fall the bloody sword he held, pressed her to his
bosom in a transport of gratitude and joy, and then hastily enquired for
St. Foix, who now gave some signs of life. Ludovico soon after returning
with water and brandy, the former was applied to his lips, and the
latter to his temples and hands, and Blanche, at length, saw him unclose
his eyes, and then heard him enquire for her; but the joy she felt,
on this occasion, was interrupted by new alarms, when Ludovico said it
would be necessary to remove Mons. St. Foix immediately, and added, 'The
banditti, that are out, my Lord, were expected home, an hour ago, and
they will certainly find us, if we delay. That shrill horn, they know,
is never sounded by their comrades but on most desperate occasions, and
it echoes among the mountains for many leagues round. I have known them
brought home by its sound even from the Pied de Melicant. Is any body
standing watch at the great gate, my Lord?'

'Nobody,' replied the Count; 'the rest of my people are now scattered
about, I scarcely know where. Go, Ludovico, collect them together, and
look out yourself, and listen if you hear the feet of mules.'

Ludovico then hurried away, and the Count consulted as to the means of
removing St. Foix, who could not have borne the motion of a mule, even
if his strength would have supported him in the saddle.

While the Count was telling, that the banditti, whom they had found
in the fort, were secured in the dungeon, Blanche observed that he was
himself wounded, and that his left arm was entirely useless; but he
smiled at her anxiety, assuring her the wound was trifling.

The Count's servants, except two who kept watch at the gate, now
appeared, and, soon after, Ludovico. 'I think I hear mules coming along
the glen, my Lord,' said he, 'but the roaring of the torrent below
will not let me be certain; however, I have brought what will serve the
Chevalier,' he added, shewing a bear's skin, fastened to a couple of
long poles, which had been adapted for the purpose of bringing home such
of the banditti as happened to be wounded in their encounters. Ludovico
spread it on the ground, and, placing the skins of several goats upon
it, made a kind of bed, into which the Chevalier, who was however now
much revived, was gently lifted; and, the poles being raised upon the
shoulders of the guides, whose footing among these steeps could best
be depended upon, he was borne along with an easy motion. Some of the
Count's servants were also wounded--but not materially, and, their
wounds being bound up, they now followed to the great gate. As they
passed along the hall, a loud tumult was heard at some distance, and
Blanche was terrified. 'It is only those villains in the dungeon, my
Lady,' said Ludovico. 'They seem to be bursting it open,' said the
Count. 'No, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'it has an iron door; we have
nothing to fear from them; but let me go first, and look out from the
rampart.'

They quickly followed him, and found their mules browsing before the
gates, where the party listened anxiously, but heard no sound, except
that of the torrent below and of the early breeze, sighing among the
branches of the old oak, that grew in the court; and they were now glad
to perceive the first tints of dawn over the mountain-tops. When they
had mounted their mules, Ludovico, undertaking to be their guide, led
them by an easier path, than that by which they had formerly ascended,
into the glen. 'We must avoid that valley to the east, my Lord,'
said he, 'or we may meet the banditti; they went out that way in the
morning.'

The travellers, soon after, quitted this glen, and found themselves in
a narrow valley that stretched towards the north-west. The morning light
upon the mountains now strengthened fast, and gradually discovered the
green hillocks, that skirted the winding feet of the cliffs, tufted with
cork tree, and ever-green oak. The thunder-clouds being dispersed, had
left the sky perfectly serene, and Blanche was revived by the fresh
breeze, and by the view of verdure, which the late rain had brightened.
Soon after, the sun arose, when the dripping rocks, with the shrubs that
fringed their summits, and many a turfy slope below, sparkled in his
rays. A wreath of mist was seen, floating along the extremity of the
valley, but the gale bore it before the travellers, and the sun-beams
gradually drew it up towards the summit of the mountains. They had
proceeded about a league, when, St. Foix having complained of extreme
faintness, they stopped to give him refreshment, and, that the men, who
bore him, might rest. Ludovico had brought from the fort some flasks of
rich Spanish wine, which now proved a reviving cordial not only to
St. Foix but to the whole party, though to him it gave only temporary
relief, for it fed the fever, that burned in his veins, and he could
neither disguise in his countenance the anguish he suffered, or suppress
the wish, that he was arrived at the inn, where they had designed to
pass the preceding night.

While they thus reposed themselves under the shade of the dark green
pines, the Count desired Ludovico to explain shortly, by what means he
had disappeared from the north apartment, how he came into the hands of
the banditti, and how he had contributed so essentially to serve him and
his family, for to him he justly attributed their present deliverance.
Ludovico was going to obey him, when suddenly they heard the echo of
a pistol-shot, from the way they had passed, and they rose in alarm,
hastily to pursue their route.



CHAPTER XIII


  Ah why did Fate his steps decoy
 In stormy paths to roam,
 Remote from all congenial joy!
     BEATTIE

Emily, mean while, was still suffering anxiety as to the fate of
Valancourt; but Theresa, having, at length, found a person, whom she
could entrust on her errand to the steward, informed her, that the
messenger would return on the following day; and Emily promised to be at
the cottage, Theresa being too lame to attend her.

In the evening, therefore, Emily set out alone for the cottage, with a
melancholy foreboding, concerning Valancourt, while, perhaps, the gloom
of the hour might contribute to depress her spirits. It was a grey
autumnal evening towards the close of the season; heavy mists partially
obscured the mountains, and a chilling breeze, that sighed among the
beech woods, strewed her path with some of their last yellow leaves.
These, circling in the blast and foretelling the death of the year,
gave an image of desolation to her mind, and, in her fancy, seemed to
announce the death of Valancourt. Of this she had, indeed, more than
once so strong a presentiment, that she was on the point of returning
home, feeling herself unequal to an encounter with the certainty she
anticipated, but, contending with her emotions, she so far commanded
them, as to be able to proceed.

While she walked mournfully on, gazing on the long volumes of vapour,
that poured upon the sky, and watching the swallows, tossed along the
wind, now disappearing among tempestuous clouds, and then emerging,
for a moment, in circles upon the calmer air, the afflictions and
vicissitudes of her late life seemed pourtrayed in these fleeting
images;--thus had she been tossed upon the stormy sea of misfortune for
the last year, with but short intervals of peace, if peace that could be
called, which was only the delay of evils. And now, when she had escaped
from so many dangers, was become independent of the will of those, who
had oppressed her, and found herself mistress of a large fortune, now,
when she might reasonably have expected happiness, she perceived that
she was as distant from it as ever. She would have accused herself
of weakness and ingratitude in thus suffering a sense of the various
blessings she possessed to be overcome by that of a single misfortune,
had this misfortune affected herself alone; but, when she had wept for
Valancourt even as living, tears of compassion had mingled with those
of regret, and while she lamented a human being degraded to vice, and
consequently to misery, reason and humanity claimed these tears, and
fortitude had not yet taught her to separate them from those of love; in
the present moments, however, it was not the certainty of his guilt, but
the apprehension of his death (of a death also, to which she herself,
however innocently, appeared to have been in some degree instrumental)
that oppressed her. This fear increased, as the means of certainty
concerning it approached; and, when she came within view of Theresa's
cottage, she was so much disordered, and her resolution failed her so
entirely, that, unable to proceed, she rested on a bank, beside her
path; where, as she sat, the wind that groaned sullenly among the lofty
branches above, seemed to her melancholy imagination to bear the sounds
of distant lamentation, and, in the pauses of the gust, she still
fancied she heard the feeble and far-off notes of distress. Attention
convinced her, that this was no more than fancy; but the increasing
gloom, which seemed the sudden close of day, soon warned her to depart,
and, with faltering steps, she again moved toward the cottage. Through
the casement appeared the cheerful blaze of a wood fire, and Theresa,
who had observed Emily approaching, was already at the door to receive
her.

'It is a cold evening, madam,' said she, 'storms are coming on, and I
thought you would like a fire. Do take this chair by the hearth.'

Emily, thanking her for this consideration, sat down, and then, looking
in her face, on which the wood fire threw a gleam, she was struck with
its expression, and, unable to speak, sunk back in her chair with a
countenance so full of woe, that Theresa instantly comprehended the
occasion of it, but she remained silent. 'Ah!' said Emily, at length,
'it is unnecessary for me to ask the result of your enquiry, your
silence, and that look, sufficiently explain it;--he is dead!'

'Alas! my dear young lady,' replied Theresa, while tears filled her
eyes, 'this world is made up of trouble! the rich have their share
as well as the poor! But we must all endeavour to bear what Heaven
pleases.'

'He is dead, then!'--interrupted Emily--'Valancourt is dead!'

'A-well-a-day! I fear he is,' replied Theresa.

'You fear!' said Emily, 'do you only fear?'

'Alas! yes, madam, I fear he is! neither the steward, or any of the
Epourville family, have heard of him since he left Languedoc, and
the Count is in great affliction about him, for he says he was always
punctual in writing, but that now he has not received a line from him,
since he left Languedoc; he appointed to be at home, three weeks ago,
but he has neither come, or written, and they fear some accident has
befallen him. Alas! that ever I should live to cry for his death! I am
old, and might have died without being missed, but he'--Emily was faint,
and asked for some water, and Theresa, alarmed by the voice, in which
she spoke, hastened to her assistance, and, while she held the water to
Emily's lips, continued, 'My dear young mistress, do not take it so to
heart; the Chevalier may be alive and well, for all this; let us hope
the best!'

'O no! I cannot hope,' said Emily, 'I am acquainted with circumstances,
that will not suffer me to hope. I am somewhat better now, and can hear
what you have to say. Tell me, I entreat, the particulars of what you
know.'

'Stay, till you are a little better, mademoiselle, you look sadly!'

'O no, Theresa, tell me all, while I have the power to hear it,' said
Emily, 'tell me all, I conjure you!'

'Well, madam, I will then; but the steward did not say much, for Richard
says he seemed shy of talking about Mons. Valancourt, and what he
gathered was from Gabriel, one of the servants, who said he had heard it
from my lord's gentleman.'

'What did he hear?' said Emily.

'Why, madam, Richard has but a bad memory, and could not remember half
of it, and, if I had not asked him a great many questions, I should have
heard little indeed. But he says that Gabriel said, that he and all the
other servants were in great trouble about M. Valancourt, for that he
was such a kind young gentleman, they all loved him, as well as if he
had been their own brother--and now, to think what was become of him!
For he used to be so courteous to them all, and, if any of them had been
in fault, M. Valancourt was the first to persuade my lord to forgive
them. And then, if any poor family was in distress, M. Valancourt was
the first, too, to relieve them, though some folks, not a great way off,
could have afforded that much better than he. And then, said Gabriel, he
was so gentle to every body, and, for all he had such a noble look with
him, he never would command, and call about him, as some of your quality
people do, and we never minded him the less for that. Nay, says Gabriel,
for that matter, we minded him the more, and would all have run to obey
him at a word, sooner than if some folks had told us what to do at full
length; aye, and were more afraid of displeasing him, too, than of them,
that used rough words to us.'

Emily, who no longer considered it to be dangerous to listen to praise,
bestowed on Valancourt, did not attempt to interrupt Theresa, but sat,
attentive to her words, though almost overwhelmed with grief. 'My Lord,'
continued Theresa, 'frets about M. Valancourt sadly, and the more,
because, they say, he had been rather harsh against him lately. Gabriel
says he had it from my Lord's valet, that M. Valancourt had COMPORTED
himself wildly at Paris, and had spent a great deal of money, more
a great deal than my Lord liked, for he loves money better than M.
Valancourt, who had been led astray sadly. Nay, for that matter, M.
Valancourt had been put into prison at Paris, and my Lord, says Gabriel,
refused to take him out, and said he deserved to suffer; and, when old
Gregoire, the butler, heard of this, he actually bought a walking-stick
to take with him to Paris, to visit his young master; but the next thing
we hear is, that M. Valancourt is coming home. O, it was a joyful day
when he came; but he was sadly altered, and my Lord looked very cool
upon him, and he was very sad, indeed. And, soon after, he went away
again into Languedoc, and, since that time, we have never seen him.'

Theresa paused, and Emily, sighing deeply, remained with her eyes fixed
upon the floor, without speaking. After a long pause, she enquired what
further Theresa had heard. 'Yet why should I ask?' she added; 'what
you have already told is too much. O Valancourt! thou art gone--forever
gone! and I--I have murdered thee!' These words, and the countenance of
despair which accompanied them, alarmed Theresa, who began to fear, that
the shock of the intelligence Emily had just received, had affected her
senses. 'My dear young lady, be composed,' said she, 'and do not say
such frightful words. You murder M. Valancourt,--dear heart!' Emily
replied only by a heavy sigh.

'Dear lady, it breaks my heart to see you look so,' said Theresa, 'do
not sit with your eyes upon the ground, and all so pale and melancholy;
it frightens me to see you.' Emily was still silent, and did not
appear to hear any thing that was said to her. 'Besides, mademoiselle,'
continued Theresa, 'M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet, for what
we know.'

At the mention of his name, Emily raised her eyes, and fixed them, in a
wild gaze, upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to understand what
had been said. 'Aye, my dear lady,' said Theresa, mistaking the meaning
of this considerate air, 'M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet.'

On the repetition of these words, Emily comprehended their import, but,
instead of producing the effect intended, they seemed only to heighten
her distress. She rose hastily from her chair, paced the little room,
with quick steps, and, often sighing deeply, clasped her hands, and
shuddered.

Meanwhile, Theresa, with simple, but honest affection, endeavoured to
comfort her; put more wood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighter
blaze, swept the hearth, set the chair, which Emily had left, in a
warmer situation, and then drew forth from a cupboard a flask of wine.
'It is a stormy night, madam,' said she, 'and blows cold--do come nearer
the fire, and take a glass of this wine; it will comfort you, as it has
done me, often and often, for it is not such wine as one gets every day;
it is rich Languedoc, and the last of six flasks that M. Valancourt sent
me, the night before he left Gascony for Paris. They have served me,
ever since, as cordials, and I never drink it, but I think of him, and
what kind words he said to me when he gave them. Theresa, says he, you
are not young now, and should have a glass of good wine, now and then. I
will send you a few flasks, and, when you taste them, you will sometimes
remember me your friend. Yes--those were his very words--me your
friend!' Emily still paced the room, without seeming to hear what
Theresa said, who continued speaking. 'And I have remembered him, often
enough, poor young gentleman!--for he gave me this roof for a shelter,
and that, which has supported me. Ah! he is in heaven, with my blessed
master, if ever saint was!'

Theresa's voice faltered; she wept, and set down the flask, unable to
pour out the wine. Her grief seemed to recall Emily from her own, who
went towards her, but then stopped, and, having gazed on her, for a
moment, turned suddenly away, as if overwhelmed by the reflection, that
it was Valancourt, whom Theresa lamented.

While she yet paced the room, the still, soft note of an oboe, or flute,
was heard mingling with the blast, the sweetness of which affected
Emily's spirits; she paused a moment in attention; the tender tones,
as they swelled along the wind, till they were lost again in the ruder
gust, came with a plaintiveness, that touched her heart, and she melted
into tears.

'Aye,' said Theresa, drying her eyes, 'there is Richard, our neighbour's
son, playing on the oboe; it is sad enough, to hear such sweet music
now.' Emily continued to weep, without replying. 'He often plays of an
evening,' added Theresa, 'and, sometimes, the young folks dance to the
sound of his oboe. But, dear young lady! do not cry so; and pray take
a glass of this wine,' continued she, pouring some into a glass, and
handing it to Emily, who reluctantly took it.

'Taste it for M. Valancourt's sake,' said Theresa, as Emily lifted the
glass to her lips, 'for he gave it me, you know, madam.' Emily's hand
trembled, and she spilt the wine as she withdrew it from her lips. 'For
whose sake!--who gave the wine?' said she in a faltering voice. 'M.
Valancourt, dear lady. I knew you would be pleased with it. It is the
last flask I have left.'

Emily set the wine upon the table, and burst into tears, while Theresa,
disappointed and alarmed, tried to comfort her; but she only waved her
hand, entreated she might be left alone, and wept the more.

A knock at the cottage door prevented Theresa from immediately obeying
her mistress, and she was going to open it, when Emily, checking her,
requested she would not admit any person; but, afterwards, recollecting,
that she had ordered her servant to attend her home, she said it was
only Philippe, and endeavoured to restrain her tears, while Theresa
opened the door.

A voice, that spoke without, drew Emily's attention. She listened,
turned her eyes to the door, when a person now appeared, and immediately
a bright gleam, that flashed from the fire, discovered--Valancourt!

Emily, on perceiving him, started from her chair, trembled, and, sinking
into it again, became insensible to all around her.

A scream from Theresa now told, that she knew Valancourt, whom her
imperfect sight, and the duskiness of the place had prevented her from
immediately recollecting; but his attention was immediately called from
her to the person, whom he saw, falling from a chair near the fire;
and, hastening to her assistance,--he perceived, that he was supporting
Emily! The various emotions, that seized him upon thus unexpectedly
meeting with her, from whom he had believed he had parted for ever,
and on beholding her pale and lifeless in his arms--may, perhaps, be
imagined, though they could neither be then expressed, or now described,
any more than Emily's sensations, when, at length, she unclosed her
eyes, and, looking up, again saw Valancourt. The intense anxiety, with
which he regarded her, was instantly changed to an expression of mingled
joy and tenderness, as his eye met hers, and he perceived, that she was
reviving. But he could only exclaim, 'Emily!' as he silently watched her
recovery, while she averted her eye, and feebly attempted to withdraw
her hand; but, in these the first moments, which succeeded to the pangs
his supposed death had occasioned her, she forgot every fault, which had
formerly claimed indignation, and beholding Valancourt such as he had
appeared, when he won her early affection, she experienced emotions of
only tenderness and joy. This, alas! was but the sunshine of a few short
moments; recollections rose, like clouds, upon her mind, and, darkening
the illusive image, that possessed it, she again beheld Valancourt,
degraded--Valancourt unworthy of the esteem and tenderness she had once
bestowed upon him; her spirits faltered, and, withdrawing her hand, she
turned from him to conceal her grief, while he, yet more embarrassed and
agitated, remained silent.

A sense of what she owed to herself restrained her tears, and taught
her soon to overcome, in some degree, the emotions of mingled joy and
sorrow, that contended at her heart, as she rose, and, having thanked
him for the assistance he had given her, bade Theresa good evening. As
she was leaving the cottage, Valancourt, who seemed suddenly awakened
as from a dream, entreated, in a voice, that pleaded powerfully for
compassion, a few moments attention. Emily's heart, perhaps, pleaded as
powerfully, but she had resolution enough to resist both, together with
the clamorous entreaties of Theresa, that she would not venture home
alone in the dark, and had already opened the cottage door, when the
pelting storm compelled her to obey their requests.

Silent and embarrassed, she returned to the fire, while Valancourt, with
increasing agitation, paced the room, as if he wished, yet feared, to
speak, and Theresa expressed without restraint her joy and wonder upon
seeing him.

'Dear heart! sir,' said she, 'I never was so surprised and overjoyed in
my life. We were in great tribulation before you came, for we thought
you was dead, and were talking, and lamenting about you, just when you
knocked at the door. My young mistress there was crying, fit to break
her heart--'

Emily looked with much displeasure at Theresa, but, before she could
speak, Valancourt, unable to repress the emotion, which Theresa's
imprudent discovery occasioned, exclaimed, 'O my Emily! am I then
still dear to you! Did you, indeed, honour me with a thought--a tear? O
heavens! you weep--you weep now!'

'Theresa, sir,' said Emily, with a reserved air, and trying to conquer
her tears, 'has reason to remember you with gratitude, and she was
concerned, because she had not lately heard of you. Allow me to thank
you for the kindness you have shewn her, and to say, that, since I am
now upon the spot, she must not be further indebted to you.''

'Emily,' said Valancourt, no longer master of his emotions, 'is it thus
you meet him, whom once you meant to honour with your hand--thus you
meet him, who has loved you--suffered for you?--Yet what do I say?
Pardon me, pardon me, mademoiselle St. Aubert, I know not what I utter.
I have no longer any claim upon your remembrance--I have forfeited every
pretension to your esteem, your love. Yes! let me not forget, that I
once possessed your affections, though to know that I have lost them,
is my severest affliction. Affliction--do I call it!--that is a term of
mildness.'

'Dear heart!' said Theresa, preventing Emily from replying, 'talk of
once having her affections! Why, my dear young lady loves you now,
better than she does any body in the whole world, though she pretends to
deny it.'

'This is insupportable!' said Emily; 'Theresa, you know not what you
say. Sir, if you respect my tranquillity, you will spare me from the
continuance of this distress.'

'I do respect your tranquillity too much, voluntarily to interrupt it,'
replied Valancourt, in whose bosom pride now contended with tenderness;
'and will not be a voluntary intruder. I would have entreated a few
moments attention--yet I know not for what purpose. You have ceased to
esteem me, and to recount to you my sufferings will degrade me more,
without exciting even your pity. Yet I have been, O Emily! I am indeed
very wretched!' added Valancourt, in a voice, that softened from
solemnity into grief.

'What! is my dear young master going out in all this rain!' said
Theresa. 'No, he shall not stir a step. Dear! dear! to see how
gentlefolks can afford to throw away their happiness! Now, if you were
poor people, there would be none of this. To talk of unworthiness,
and not caring about one another, when I know there are not such a
kind-hearted lady and gentleman in the whole province, nor any that love
one another half so well, if the truth was spoken!'

Emily, in extreme vexation, now rose from her chair, 'I must be gone,'
said she, 'the storm is over.'

'Stay, Emily, stay, mademoiselle St. Aubert!' said Valancourt, summoning
all his resolution, 'I will no longer distress you by my presence.
Forgive me, that I did not sooner obey you, and, if you can, sometimes,
pity one, who, in losing you--has lost all hope of peace! May you be
happy, Emily, however wretched I remain, happy as my fondest wish would
have you!'

His voice faltered with the last words, and his countenance changed,
while, with a look of ineffable tenderness and grief, he gazed upon her
for an instant, and then quitted the cottage.

'Dear heart! dear heart!' cried Theresa, following him to the door,
'why, Monsieur Valancourt! how it rains! what a night is this to turn
him out in! Why it will give him his death; and it was but now you was
crying, mademoiselle, because he was dead. Well! young ladies do change
their mind in a minute, as one may say!'

Emily made no reply, for she heard not what was said, while, lost in
sorrow and thought, she remained in her chair by the fire, with her eyes
fixed, and the image of Valancourt still before them.

'M. Valancourt is sadly altered! madam,' said Theresa; 'he looks so thin
to what he used to do, and so melancholy, and then he wears his arm in a
sling.'

Emily raised her eyes at these words, for she had not observed this last
circumstance, and she now did not doubt, that Valancourt had received
the shot of her gardener at Tholouse; with this conviction her pity for
him returning, she blamed herself for having occasioned him to leave the
cottage, during the storm.

Soon after her servants arrived with the carriage, and Emily, having
censured Theresa for her thoughtless conversation to Valancourt, and
strictly charging her never to repeat any hints of the same kind to him,
withdrew to her home, thoughtful and disconsolate.

Meanwhile, Valancourt had returned to a little inn of the village,
whither he had arrived only a few moments before his visit to Theresa's
cottage, on the way from Tholouse to the chateau of the Count de
Duvarney, where he had not been since he bade adieu to Emily at
Chateau-le-Blanc, in the neighbourhood of which he had lingered for a
considerable time, unable to summon resolution enough to quit a place,
that contained the object most dear to his heart. There were times,
indeed, when grief and despair urged him to appear again before Emily,
and, regardless of his ruined circumstances, to renew his suit. Pride,
however, and the tenderness of his affection, which could not long
endure the thought of involving her in his misfortunes, at length, so
far triumphed over passion, that he relinquished this desperate design,
and quitted Chateau-le-Blanc. But still his fancy wandered among the
scenes, which had witnessed his early love, and, on his way to
Gascony, he stopped at Tholouse, where he remained when Emily arrived,
concealing, yet indulging his melancholy in the gardens, where he had
formerly passed with her so many happy hours; often recurring, with vain
regret, to the evening before her departure for Italy, when she had so
unexpectedly met him on the terrace, and endeavouring to recall to his
memory every word and look, which had then charmed him, the arguments
he had employed to dissuade her from the journey, and the tenderness
of their last farewel. In such melancholy recollections he had been
indulging, when Emily unexpectedly arrived to him on this very terrace,
the evening after her arrival at Tholouse. His emotions, on thus
seeing her, can scarcely be imagined; but he so far overcame the first
promptings of love, that he forbore to discover himself, and abruptly
quitted the gardens. Still, however, the vision he had seen haunted his
mind; he became more wretched than before, and the only solace of his
sorrow was to return in the silence of the night; to follow the paths
which he believed her steps had pressed, during the day; and, to watch
round the habitation where she reposed. It was in one of these mournful
wanderings, that he had received by the fire of the gardener, who
mistook him for a robber, a wound in his arm, which had detained him
at Tholouse till very lately, under the hands of a surgeon. There,
regardless of himself and careless of his friends, whose late unkindness
had urged him to believe, that they were indifferent as to his fate,
he remained, without informing them of his situation; and now, being
sufficiently recovered to bear travelling, he had taken La Vallee in
his way to Estuviere, the Count's residence, partly for the purpose of
hearing of Emily, and of being again near her, and partly for that of
enquiring into the situation of poor old Theresa, who, he had reason to
suppose, had been deprived of her stipend, small as it was, and which
enquiry had brought him to her cottage, when Emily happened to be there.

This unexpected interview, which had at once shewn him the tenderness of
her love and the strength of her resolution, renewed all the acuteness
of the despair, that had attended their former separation, and which
no effort of reason could teach him, in these moments, to subdue. Her
image, her look, the tones of her voice, all dwelt on his fancy, as
powerfully as they had late appeared to his senses, and banished from
his heart every emotion, except those of love and despair.

Before the evening concluded, he returned to Theresa's cottage, that
he might hear her talk of Emily, and be in the place, where she had so
lately been. The joy, felt and expressed by that faithful servant, was
quickly changed to sorrow, when she observed, at one moment, his wild
and phrensied look, and, at another, the dark melancholy, that overhung
him.

After he had listened, and for a considerable time, to all she had to
relate, concerning Emily, he gave Theresa nearly all the money he
had about him, though she repeatedly refused it, declaring, that her
mistress had amply supplied her wants; and then, drawing a ring of value
from his finger, he delivered it her with a solemn charge to present
it to Emily, of whom he entreated, as a last favour, that she would
preserve it for his sake, and sometimes, when she looked upon it,
remember the unhappy giver.

Theresa wept, as she received the ring, but it was more from sympathy,
than from any presentiment of evil; and before she could reply,
Valancourt abruptly left the cottage. She followed him to the door,
calling upon his name and entreating him to return; but she received no
answer, and saw him no more.



CHAPTER XIV


  Call up him, that left half told
 The story of Cambuscan bold.
     MILTON

On the following morning, as Emily sat in the parlour adjoining the
library, reflecting on the scene of the preceding night, Annette rushed
wildly into the room, and, without speaking, sunk breathless into a
chair. It was some time before she could answer the anxious enquiries of
Emily, as to the occasion of her emotion, but, at length, she exclaimed,
'I have seen his ghost, madam, I have seen his ghost!'

'Who do you mean?' said Emily, with extreme impatience.

'It came in from the hall, madam,' continued Annette, 'as I was crossing
to the parlour.'

'Who are you speaking of?' repeated Emily, 'Who came in from the hall?

'It was dressed just as I have seen him, often and often,' added
Annette. 'Ah! who could have thought--'

Emily's patience was now exhausted, and she was reprimanding her for
such idle fancies, when a servant entered the room, and informed her,
that a stranger without begged leave to speak with her.

It immediately occurred to Emily, that this stranger was Valancourt, and
she told the servant to inform him, that she was engaged, and could not
see any person.

The servant, having delivered his message, returned with one from the
stranger, urging the first request, and saying, that he had something of
consequence to communicate; while Annette, who had hitherto sat
silent and amazed, now started up, and crying, 'It is Ludovico!--it is
Ludovico!' ran out of the room. Emily bade the servant follow her, and,
if it really was Ludovico, to shew him into the parlour.

In a few minutes, Ludovico appeared, accompanied by Annette, who, as
joy rendered her forgetful of all rules of decorum towards her mistress,
would not suffer any person to be heard, for some time, but herself.
Emily expressed surprise and satisfaction, on seeing Ludovico in safety,
and the first emotions increased, when he delivered letters from
Count De Villefort and the Lady Blanche, informing her of their late
adventure, and of their present situation at an inn among the Pyrenees,
where they had been detained by the illness of Mons. St. Foix, and the
indisposition of Blanche, who added, that the Baron St. Foix was just
arrived to attend his son to his chateau, where he would remain till the
perfect recovery of his wounds, and then return to Languedoc, but that
her father and herself purposed to be at La Vallee, on the following
day. She added, that Emily's presence would be expected at the
approaching nuptials, and begged she would be prepared to proceed, in
a few days to Chateau-le-Blanc. For an account of Ludovico's adventure,
she referred her to himself; and Emily, though much interested,
concerning the means, by which he had disappeared from the north
apartments, had the forbearance to suspend the gratification of her
curiosity, till he had taken some refreshment, and had conversed with
Annette, whose joy, on seeing him in safety, could not have been more
extravagant, had he arisen from the grave.

Meanwhile, Emily perused again the letters of her friends, whose
expressions of esteem and kindness were very necessary consolations
to her heart, awakened as it was by the late interview to emotions of
keener sorrow and regret.

The invitation to Chateau-le-Blanc was pressed with so much kindness by
the Count and his daughter, who strengthened it by a message from the
Countess, and the occasion of it was so important to her friend, that
Emily could not refuse to accept it, nor, though she wished to remain
in the quiet shades of her native home, could she avoid perceiving the
impropriety of remaining there alone, since Valancourt was again in the
neighbourhood. Sometimes, too, she thought, that change of scenery and
the society of her friends might contribute, more than retirement, to
restore her to tranquillity.

When Ludovico again appeared, she desired him to give a detail of his
adventure in the north apartments, and to tell by what means he became a
companion of the banditti, with whom the Count had found him.

He immediately obeyed, while Annette, who had not yet had leisure to
ask him many questions, on the subject, prepared to listen, with a
countenance of extreme curiosity, venturing to remind her lady of her
incredulity, concerning spirits, in the castle of Udolpho, and of
her own sagacity in believing in them; while Emily, blushing at the
consciousness of her late credulity, observed, that, if Ludovico's
adventure could justify Annette's superstition, he had probably not been
here to relate it.

Ludovico smiled at Annette, and bowed to Emily, and then began as
follows:

'You may remember, madam, that, on the night, when I sat up in the north
chamber, my lord, the Count, and Mons. Henri accompanied me thither, and
that, while they remained there, nothing happened to excite any alarm.
When they were gone I made a fire in the bed-room, and, not being
inclined to sleep, I sat down on the hearth with a book I had brought
with me to divert my mind. I confess I did sometimes look round the
chamber, with something like apprehension--'

'O very like it, I dare say,' interrupted Annette, 'and I dare say too,
if the truth was known, you shook from head to foot.'

'Not quite so bad as that,' replied Ludovico, smiling, 'but several
times, as the wind whistled round the castle, and shook the old
casements, I did fancy I heard odd noises, and, once or twice, I got up
and looked about me; but nothing was to be seen, except the grim figures
in the tapestry, which seemed to frown upon me, as I looked at them.
I had sat thus for above an hour,' continued Ludovico, 'when again I
thought I heard a noise, and glanced my eyes round the room, to discover
what it came from, but, not perceiving any thing, I began to read
again, and, when I had finished the story I was upon, I felt drowsy, and
dropped asleep. But presently I was awakened by the noise I had heard
before, and it seemed to come from that part of the chamber, where the
bed stood; and then, whether it was the story I had been reading that
affected my spirits, or the strange reports, that had been spread of
these apartments, I don't know, but, when I looked towards the bed
again, I fancied I saw a man's face within the dusky curtains.'

At the mention of this, Emily trembled, and looked anxiously,
remembering the spectacle she had herself witnessed there with Dorothee.

'I confess, madam, my heart did fail me, at that instant,' continued
Ludovico, 'but a return of the noise drew my attention from the bed, and
I then distinctly heard a sound, like that of a key, turning in a lock,
but what surprised me more was, that I saw no door where the sound
seemed to come from. In the next moment, however, the arras near the
bed was slowly lifted, and a person appeared behind it, entering from
a small door in the wall. He stood for a moment as if half retreating,
with his head bending under the arras which concealed the upper part of
his face except his eyes scowling beneath the tapestry as he held it;
and then, while he raised it higher, I saw the face of another man
behind, looking over his shoulder. I know not how it was, but, though
my sword was upon the table before me, I had not the power just then to
seize it, but sat quite still, watching them, with my eyes half shut as
if I was asleep. I suppose they thought me so, and were debating what
they should do, for I heard them whisper, and they stood in the same
posture for the value of a minute, and then, I thought I perceived other
faces in the duskiness beyond the door, and heard louder whispers.'

'This door surprises me,' said Emily, 'because I understood, that
the Count had caused the arras to be lifted, and the walls examined,
suspecting, that they might have concealed a passage through which you
had departed.'

'It does not appear so extraordinary to me, madam,' replied Ludovico,
'that this door should escape notice, because it was formed in a narrow
compartment, which appeared to be part of the outward wall, and, if the
Count had not passed over it, he might have thought it was useless to
search for a door where it seemed as if no passage could communicate
with one; but the truth was, that the passage was formed within the
wall itself.--But, to return to the men, whom I saw obscurely beyond the
door, and who did not suffer me to remain long in suspense, concerning
their design. They all rushed into the room, and surrounded me, though
not before I had snatched up my sword to defend myself. But what could
one man do against four? They soon disarmed me, and, having fastened my
arms, and gagged my mouth, forced me through the private door, leaving
my sword upon the table, to assist, as they said, those who should come
in the morning to look for me, in fighting against the ghosts. They then
led me through many narrow passages, cut, as I fancied, in the walls,
for I had never seen them before, and down several flights of steps,
till we came to the vaults underneath the castle; and then opening
a stone door, which I should have taken for the wall itself, we went
through a long passage, and down other steps cut in the solid rock, when
another door delivered us into a cave. After turning and twining about,
for some time, we reached the mouth of it, and I found myself on the
sea-beach at the foot of the cliffs, with the chateau above. A boat was
in waiting, into which the ruffians got, forcing me along with them,
and we soon reached a small vessel, that was at anchor, where other men
appeared, when setting me aboard, two of the fellows who had seized me,
followed, and the other two rowed back to the shore, while we set sail.
I soon found out what all this meant, and what was the business of these
men at the chateau. We landed in Rousillon, and, after lingering
several days about the shore, some of their comrades came down from the
mountains, and carried me with them to the fort, where I remained till
my Lord so unexpectedly arrived, for they had taken good care to prevent
my running away, having blindfolded me, during the journey, and, if they
had not done this, I think I never could have found my road to any town,
through the wild country we traversed. After I reached the fort I was
watched like a prisoner, and never suffered to go out, without two or
three companions, and I became so weary of life, that I often wished to
get rid of it.'

'Well, but they let you talk,' said Annette, 'they did not gagg you
after they got you away from the chateau, so I don't see what reason
there was to be so very weary of living; to say nothing about the chance
you had of seeing me again.'

Ludovico smiled, and Emily also, who enquired what was the motive of
these men for carrying him off.

'I soon found out, madam,' resumed Ludovico, 'that they were pirates,
who had, during many years, secreted their spoil in the vaults of the
castle, which, being so near the sea, suited their purpose well. To
prevent detection they had tried to have it believed, that the chateau
was haunted, and, having discovered the private way to the north
apartments, which had been shut up ever since the death of the lady
marchioness, they easily succeeded. The housekeeper and her husband, who
were the only persons, that had inhabited the castle, for some years,
were so terrified by the strange noises they heard in the nights, that
they would live there no longer; a report soon went abroad, that it
was haunted, and the whole country believed this the more readily, I
suppose, because it had been said, that the lady marchioness had died
in a strange way, and because my lord never would return to the place
afterwards.'

'But why,' said Emily, 'were not these pirates contented with the
cave--why did they think it necessary to deposit their spoil in the
castle?'

'The cave, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'was open to any body, and their
treasures would not long have remained undiscovered there, but in the
vaults they were secure so long as the report prevailed of their being
haunted. Thus then, it appears, that they brought at midnight, the
spoil they took on the seas, and kept it till they had opportunities of
disposing of it to advantage. The pirates were connected with Spanish
smugglers and banditti, who live among the wilds of the Pyrenees, and
carry on various kinds of traffic, such as nobody would think of; and
with this desperate horde of banditti I remained, till my lord arrived.
I shall never forget what I felt, when I first discovered him--I almost
gave him up for lost! but I knew, that, if I shewed myself, the banditti
would discover who he was, and probably murder us all, to prevent their
secret in the chateau being detected. I, therefore, kept out of my
lord's sight, but had a strict watch upon the ruffians, and determined,
if they offered him or his family violence, to discover myself, and
fight for our lives. Soon after, I overheard some of them laying a most
diabolical plan for the murder and plunder of the whole party, when I
contrived to speak to some of my lord's attendants, telling them what
was going forward, and we consulted what was best to be done; meanwhile
my lord, alarmed at the absence of the Lady Blanche, demanded her, and
the ruffians having given some unsatisfactory answer, my lord and Mons.
St. Foix became furious, so then we thought it a good time to discover
the plot, and rushing into the chamber, I called out, "Treachery! my
lord count, defend yourself!" His lordship and the chevalier drew their
swords directly, and a hard battle we had, but we conquered at last, as,
madam, you are already informed of by my Lord Count.'

'This is an extraordinary adventure,' said Emily, 'and much praise
is due, Ludovico, to your prudence and intrepidity. There are some
circumstances, however, concerning the north apartments, which still
perplex me; but, perhaps, you may be able to explain them. Did you ever
hear the banditti relate any thing extraordinary of these rooms?'

'No, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'I never heard them speak about the
rooms, except to laugh at the credulity of the old housekeeper, who
once was very near catching one of the pirates; it was since the Count
arrived at the chateau, he said, and he laughed heartily as he related
the trick he had played off.'

A blush overspread Emily's cheek, and she impatiently desired Ludovico
to explain himself.

'Why, my lady,' said he, 'as this fellow was, one night in the bed-room,
he heard somebody approaching through the next apartment, and not having
time to lift up the arras, and unfasten the door, he hid himself in
the bed just by. There he lay for some time in as great a fright, I
suppose--'

'As you was in,' interrupted Annette, 'when you sat up so boldly to
watch by yourself.'

'Aye,' said Ludovico, 'in as great a fright as he ever made any body
else suffer; and presently the housekeeper and some other person came up
to the bed, when he, thinking they were going to examine it, bethought
him, that his only chance of escaping detection, was by terrifying them;
so he lifted up the counterpane, but that did not do, till he raised his
face above it, and then they both set off, he said, as if they had seen
the devil, and he got out of the rooms undiscovered.'

Emily could not forbear smiling at this explanation of the deception,
which had given her so much superstitious terror, and was surprised,
that she could have suffered herself to be thus alarmed, till she
considered, that, when the mind has once begun to yield to the weakness
of superstition, trifles impress it with the force of conviction. Still,
however, she remembered with awe the mysterious music, which had been
heard, at midnight, near Chateau-le-Blanc, and she asked Ludovico if he
could give any explanation of it; but he could not.

'I only know, madam,' he added, 'that it did not belong to the pirates,
for I have heard them laugh about it, and say, they believed the devil
was in league with them there.'

'Yes, I will answer for it he was,' said Annette, her countenance
brightening, 'I was sure all along, that he or his spirits had something
to do with the north apartments, and now you see, madam, I am right at
last.'

'It cannot be denied, that his spirits were very busy in that part of
the chateau,' replied Emily, smiling. 'But I am surprised, Ludovico,
that these pirates should persevere in their schemes, after the arrival
of the Count; what could they expect but certain detection?'

'I have reason to believe, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'that it was their
intention to persevere no longer than was necessary for the removal of
the stores, which were deposited in the vaults; and it appeared, that
they had been employed in doing so from within a short period after the
Count's arrival; but, as they had only a few hours in the night for
this business, and were carrying on other schemes at the same time, the
vaults were not above half emptied, when they took me away. They gloried
exceedingly in this opportunity of confirming the superstitious reports,
that had been spread of the north chambers, were careful to leave every
thing there as they had found it, the better to promote the deception,
and frequently, in their jocose moods, would laugh at the consternation,
which they believed the inhabitants of the castle had suffered upon
my disappearing, and it was to prevent the possibility of my betraying
their secret, that they had removed me to such a distance. From that
period they considered the chateau as nearly their own; but I found from
the discourse of their comrades, that, though they were cautious, at
first, in shewing their power there, they had once very nearly betrayed
themselves. Going, one night, as was their custom, to the north chambers
to repeat the noises, that had occasioned such alarm among the servants,
they heard, as they were about to unfasten the secret door, voices in
the bed-room. My lord has since told me, that himself and M. Henri
were then in the apartment, and they heard very extraordinary sounds of
lamentation, which it seems were made by these fellows, with their usual
design of spreading terror; and my lord has owned, he then felt somewhat
more, than surprise; but, as it was necessary to the peace of his
family, that no notice should be taken, he was silent on the subject,
and enjoined silence to his son.'

Emily, recollecting the change, that had appeared in the spirits of
the Count, after the night, when he had watched in the north room, now
perceived the cause of it; and, having made some further enquiries upon
this strange affair, she dismissed Ludovico, and went to give orders for
the accommodation of her friends, on the following day.

In the evening, Theresa, lame as she was, came to deliver the ring, with
which Valancourt had entrusted her, and, when she presented it, Emily
was much affected, for she remembered to have seen him wear it often
in happier days. She was, however, much displeased, that Theresa had
received it, and positively refused to accept it herself, though to
have done so would have afforded her a melancholy pleasure. Theresa
entreated, expostulated, and then described the distress of Valancourt,
when he had given the ring, and repeated the message, with which he had
commissioned her to deliver it; and Emily could not conceal the extreme
sorrow this recital occasioned her, but wept, and remained lost in
thought.

'Alas! my dear young lady!' said Theresa, 'why should all this be? I
have known you from your infancy, and it may well be supposed I love
you, as if you was my own, and wish as much to see you happy. M.
Valancourt, to be sure, I have not known so long, but then I have reason
to love him, as though he was my own son. I know how well you love one
another, or why all this weeping and wailing?' Emily waved her hand for
Theresa to be silent, who, disregarding the signal, continued, 'And
how much you are alike in your tempers and ways, and, that, if you were
married, you would be the happiest couple in the whole province--then
what is there to prevent your marrying? Dear dear! to see how some
people fling away their happiness, and then cry and lament about it,
just as if it was not their own doing, and as if there was more pleasure
in wailing and weeping, than in being at peace. Learning, to be sure,
is a fine thing, but, if it teaches folks no better than that, why I had
rather be without it; if it would teach them to be happier, I would say
something to it, then it would be learning and wisdom too.'

Age and long services had given Theresa a privilege to talk, but
Emily now endeavoured to check her loquacity, and, though she felt
the justness of some of her remarks, did not choose to explain the
circumstances, that had determined her conduct towards Valancourt. She,
therefore, only told Theresa, that it would much displease her to hear
the subject renewed; that she had reasons for her conduct, which she did
not think it proper to mention, and that the ring must be returned, with
an assurance, that she could not accept it with propriety; and, at
the same time, she forbade Theresa to repeat any future message
from Valancourt, as she valued her esteem and kindness. Theresa was
afflicted, and made another attempt, though feeble, to interest her
for Valancourt, but the unusual displeasure, expressed in Emily's
countenance, soon obliged her to desist, and she departed in wonder and
lamentation.

To relieve her mind, in some degree, from the painful recollections,
that intruded upon it, Emily busied herself in preparations for the
journey into Languedoc, and, while Annette, who assisted her, spoke with
joy and affection of the safe return of Ludovico, she was considering
how she might best promote their happiness, and determined, if it
appeared, that his affection was as unchanged as that of the simple and
honest Annette, to give her a marriage portion, and settle them on some
part of her estate. These considerations led her to the remembrance of
her father's paternal domain, which his affairs had formerly compelled
him to dispose of to M. Quesnel, and which she frequently wished to
regain, because St. Aubert had lamented, that the chief lands of his
ancestors had passed into another family, and because they had been his
birth-place and the haunt of his early years. To the estate at Tholouse
she had no peculiar attachment, and it was her wish to dispose of this,
that she might purchase her paternal domains, if M. Quesnel could be
prevailed on to part with them, which, as he talked much of living in
Italy, did not appear very improbable.



CHAPTER XV


  Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,
 The bees' collected treasures sweet,
 Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet
 The still, small voice of gratitude.
     GRAY

On the following day, the arrival of her friend revived the drooping
Emily, and La Vallee became once more the scene of social kindness and
of elegant hospitality. Illness and the terror she had suffered had
stolen from Blanche much of her sprightliness, but all her affectionate
simplicity remained, and, though she appeared less blooming, she was not
less engaging than before. The unfortunate adventure on the Pyrenees had
made the Count very anxious to reach home, and, after little more than a
week's stay at La Vallee, Emily prepared to set out with her friends
for Languedoc, assigning the care of her house, during her absence,
to Theresa. On the evening, preceding her departure, this old servant
brought again the ring of Valancourt, and, with tears, entreated her
mistress to receive it, for that she had neither seen, or heard of M.
Valancourt, since the night when he delivered it to her. As she said
this, her countenance expressed more alarm, than she dared to utter;
but Emily, checking her own propensity to fear, considered, that he had
probably returned to the residence of his brother, and, again refusing
to accept the ring, bade Theresa preserve it, till she saw him, which,
with extreme reluctance, she promised to do.

On the following day, Count De Villefort, with Emily and the Lady
Blanche, left La Vallee, and, on the ensuing evening, arrived at the
Chateau-le-Blanc, where the Countess, Henri, and M. Du Pont, whom
Emily was surprised to find there, received them with much joy and
congratulation. She was concerned to observe, that the Count still
encouraged the hopes of his friend, whose countenance declared, that
his affection had suffered no abatement from absence; and was much
distressed, when, on the second evening after her arrival, the Count,
having withdrawn her from the Lady Blanche, with whom she was walking,
renewed the subject of M. Du Pont's hopes. The mildness, with which
she listened to his intercessions at first, deceiving him, as to her
sentiments, he began to believe, that, her affection for Valancourt
being overcome, she was, at length, disposed to think favourably of
M. Du Pont; and, when she afterwards convinced him of his mistake, he
ventured, in the earnestness of his wish to promote what he considered
to be the happiness of two persons, whom he so much esteemed, gently
to remonstrate with her, on thus suffering an ill-placed affection to
poison the happiness of her most valuable years.

Observing her silence and the deep dejection of her countenance, he
concluded with saying, 'I will not say more now, but I will still
believe, my dear Mademoiselle St. Aubert, that you will not always
reject a person, so truly estimable as my friend Du Pont.'

He spared her the pain of replying, by leaving her; and she strolled on,
somewhat displeased with the Count for having persevered to plead for a
suit, which she had repeatedly rejected, and lost amidst the melancholy
recollections, which this topic had revived, till she had insensibly
reached the borders of the woods, that screened the monastery of St.
Clair, when, perceiving how far she had wandered, she determined to
extend her walk a little farther, and to enquire about the abbess and
some of her friends among the nuns.

Though the evening was now drawing to a close, she accepted the
invitation of the friar, who opened the gate, and, anxious to meet some
of her old acquaintances, proceeded towards the convent parlour. As she
crossed the lawn, that sloped from the front of the monastery towards
the sea, she was struck with the picture of repose, exhibited by some
monks, sitting in the cloisters, which extended under the brow of the
woods, that crowned this eminence; where, as they meditated, at this
twilight hour, holy subjects, they sometimes suffered their attention to
be relieved by the scene before them, nor thought it profane to look at
nature, now that it had exchanged the brilliant colours of day for the
sober hue of evening. Before the cloisters, however, spread an
ancient chesnut, whose ample branches were designed to screen the full
magnificence of a scene, that might tempt the wish to worldly pleasures;
but still, beneath the dark and spreading foliage, gleamed a wide extent
of ocean, and many a passing sail; while, to the right and left, thick
woods were seen stretching along the winding shores. So much as this had
been admitted, perhaps, to give to the secluded votary an image of the
dangers and vicissitudes of life, and to console him, now that he had
renounced its pleasures, by the certainty of having escaped its evils.
As Emily walked pensively along, considering how much suffering she
might have escaped, had she become a votaress of the order, and remained
in this retirement from the time of her father's death, the vesper-bell
struck up, and the monks retired slowly toward the chapel, while she,
pursuing her way, entered the great hall, where an unusual silence
seemed to reign. The parlour too, which opened from it, she found
vacant, but, as the evening bell was sounding, she believed the nuns had
withdrawn into the chapel, and sat down to rest, for a moment, before
she returned to the chateau, where, however, the increasing gloom made
her now anxious to be.

Not many minutes had elapsed, before a nun, entering in haste, enquired
for the abbess, and was retiring, without recollecting Emily, when
she made herself known, and then learned, that a mass was going to be
performed for the soul of sister Agnes, who had been declining, for some
time, and who was now believed to be dying.

Of her sufferings the sister gave a melancholy account, and of the
horrors, into which she had frequently started, but which had now
yielded to a dejection so gloomy, that neither the prayers, in which she
was joined by the sisterhood, or the assurances of her confessor, had
power to recall her from it, or to cheer her mind even with a momentary
gleam of comfort.

To this relation Emily listened with extreme concern, and, recollecting
the frenzied manners and the expressions of horror, which she had
herself witnessed of Agnes, together with the history, that sister
Frances had communicated, her compassion was heightened to a very
painful degree. As the evening was already far advanced, Emily did not
now desire to see her, or to join in the mass, and, after leaving many
kind remembrances with the nun, for her old friends, she quitted the
monastery, and returned over the cliffs towards the chateau, meditating
upon what she had just heard, till, at length she forced her mind upon
less interesting subjects.

The wind was high, and as she drew near the chateau, she often paused
to listen to its awful sound, as it swept over the billows, that beat
below, or groaned along the surrounding woods; and, while she rested on
a cliff at a short distance from the chateau, and looked upon the wide
waters, seen dimly beneath the last shade of twilight, she thought of
the following address:

 TO THE WINDS

 Viewless, through heaven's vast vault your course ye steer,
 Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go!
 Mysterious pow'rs! I hear ye murmur low,
 Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear,
 And, awful! seems to say--some God is near!
 I love to list your midnight voices float
 In the dread storm, that o'er the ocean rolls,
 And, while their charm the angry wave controuls,
 Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote.
 Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note,
 The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail,
 A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the gale!
 But soon, ye sightless pow'rs! your rest is o'er,
 Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air,
 Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear,
 And the faint-warbled dirge--is heard no more!
  Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign!
 The loud lament yet bear not on your breath!
 Bear not the crash of bark far on the main,
 Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain,
 The crew's dread chorus sinking into death!
 Oh! give not these, ye pow'rs!  I ask alone,
 As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps,
 The elemental war, the billow's moan;
 I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy weeps!



CHAPTER XVI


  Unnatural deeds
 Do breed unnatural troubles:  infected minds
 To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
 More needs she the divine, than the physician.
     MACBETH

On the following evening, the view of the convent towers, rising among
the shadowy woods, reminded Emily of the nun, whose condition had so
much affected her; and, anxious to know how she was, as well as to see
some of her former friends, she and the Lady Blanche extended their walk
to the monastery. At the gate stood a carriage, which, from the heat
of the horses, appeared to have just arrived; but a more than common
stillness pervaded the court and the cloisters, through which Emily
and Blanche passed in their way to the great hall, where a nun, who was
crossing to the stair-case, replied to the enquiries of the former, that
sister Agnes was still living, and sensible, but that it was thought she
could not survive the night. In the parlour, they found several of
the boarders, who rejoiced to see Emily, and told her many little
circumstances that had happened in the convent since her departure, and
which were interesting to her only because they related to persons, whom
she had regarded with affection. While they thus conversed the abbess
entered the room, and expressed much satisfaction at seeing Emily, but
her manner was unusually solemn, and her countenance dejected. 'Our
house,' said she, after the first salutations were over, 'is truly a
house of mourning--a daughter is now paying the debt of nature.--You
have heard, perhaps, that our daughter Agnes is dying?'

Emily expressed her sincere concern.

'Her death presents to us a great and awful lesson,' continued the
abbess; 'let us read it, and profit by it; let it teach us to prepare
ourselves for the change, that awaits us all! You are young, and have
it yet in your power to secure "the peace that passeth all
understanding"--the peace of conscience. Preserve it in your youth, that
it may comfort you in age; for vain, alas! and imperfect are the good
deeds of our latter years, if those of our early life have been evil!'

Emily would have said, that good deeds, she hoped, were never vain;
but she considered that it was the abbess who spoke, and she remained
silent.

'The latter days of Agnes,' resumed the abbess, 'have been exemplary;
would they might atone for the errors of her former ones! Her sufferings
now, alas! are great; let us believe, that they will make her peace
hereafter! I have left her with her confessor, and a gentleman, whom she
has long been anxious to see, and who is just arrived from Paris.
They, I hope, will be able to administer the repose, which her mind has
hitherto wanted.'

Emily fervently joined in the wish.

'During her illness, she has sometimes named you,' resumed the abbess;
'perhaps, it would comfort her to see you; when her present visitors
have left her, we will go to her chamber, if the scene will not be
too melancholy for your spirits. But, indeed, to such scenes, however
painful, we ought to accustom ourselves, for they are salutary to the
soul, and prepare us for what we are ourselves to suffer.'

Emily became grave and thoughtful; for this conversation brought to her
recollection the dying moments of her beloved father, and she wished
once more to weep over the spot, where his remains were buried.
During the silence, which followed the abbess' speech, many minute
circumstances attending his last hours occurred to her--his emotion on
perceiving himself to be in the neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc--his
request to be interred in a particular spot in the church of this
monastery--and the solemn charge he had delivered to her to destroy
certain papers, without examining them.--She recollected also the
mysterious and horrible words in those manuscripts, upon which her eye
had involuntarily glanced; and, though they now, and, indeed, whenever
she remembered them, revived an excess of painful curiosity, concerning
their full import, and the motives for her father's command, it was
ever her chief consolation, that she had strictly obeyed him in this
particular.

Little more was said by the abbess, who appeared too much affected by
the subject she had lately left, to be willing to converse, and her
companions had been for some time silent from the same cause, when this
general reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, Monsieur
Bonnac, who had just quitted the chamber of sister Agnes. He appeared
much disturbed, but Emily fancied, that his countenance had more the
expression of horror, than of grief. Having drawn the abbess to a
distant part of the room, he conversed with her for some time, during
which she seemed to listen with earnest attention, and he to speak
with caution, and a more than common degree of interest. When he had
concluded, he bowed silently to the rest of the company, and quitted the
room. The abbess, soon after, proposed going to the chamber of sister
Agnes, to which Emily consented, though not without some reluctance, and
Lady Blanche remained with the boarders below.

At the door of the chamber they met the confessor, whom, as he lifted
up his head on their approach, Emily observed to be the same that had
attended her dying father; but he passed on, without noticing her, and
they entered the apartment, where, on a mattress, was laid sister Agnes,
with one nun watching in the chair beside her. Her countenance was so
much changed, that Emily would scarcely have recollected her, had she
not been prepared to do so: it was ghastly, and overspread with gloomy
horror; her dim and hollow eyes were fixed on a crucifix, which she
held upon her bosom; and she was so much engaged in thought, as not to
perceive the abbess and Emily, till they stood at the bed-side. Then,
turning her heavy eyes, she fixed them, in wild horror, upon Emily, and,
screaming, exclaimed, 'Ah! that vision comes upon me in my dying hours!'

Emily started back in terror, and looked for explanation to the abbess,
who made her a signal not to be alarmed, and calmly said to Agnes,
'Daughter, I have brought Mademoiselle St. Aubert to visit you: I
thought you would be glad to see her.'

Agnes made no reply; but, still gazing wildly upon Emily, exclaimed, 'It
is her very self! Oh! there is all that fascination in her look, which
proved my destruction! What would you have--what is it you came to
demand--Retribution?--It will soon be yours--it is yours already.
How many years have passed, since last I saw you! My crime is but as
yesterday.--Yet I am grown old beneath it; while you are still young and
blooming--blooming as when you forced me to commit that most abhorred
deed! O! could I once forget it!--yet what would that avail?--the deed
is done!'

Emily, extremely shocked, would now have left the room; but the abbess,
taking her hand, tried to support her spirits, and begged she would stay
a few moments, when Agnes would probably be calm, whom now she tried to
sooth. But the latter seemed to disregard her, while she still fixed
her eyes on Emily, and added, 'What are years of prayers and repentance?
they cannot wash out the foulness of murder!--Yes, murder! Where is
he--where is he?--Look there--look there!--see where he stalks along
the room! Why do you come to torment me now?' continued Agnes, while her
straining eyes were bent on air, 'why was not I punished before?--O!
do not frown so sternly! Hah! there again! 'til she herself! Why do you
look so piteously upon me--and smile, too? smile on me! What groan was
that?'

Agnes sunk down, apparently lifeless, and Emily, unable to support
herself, leaned against the bed, while the abbess and the attendant nun
were applying the usual remedies to Agnes. 'Peace,' said the abbess,
when Emily was going to speak, 'the delirium is going off, she will soon
revive. When was she thus before, daughter?'

'Not of many weeks, madam,' replied the nun, 'but her spirits have been
much agitated by the arrival of the gentleman she wished so much to
see.'

'Yes,' observed the abbess, 'that has undoubtedly occasioned this
paroxysm of frenzy. When she is better, we will leave her to repose.'

Emily very readily consented, but, though she could now give little
assistance, she was unwilling to quit the chamber, while any might be
necessary.

When Agnes recovered her senses, she again fixed her eyes on Emily, but
their wild expression was gone, and a gloomy melancholy had succeeded.
It was some moments before she recovered sufficient spirits to speak;
she then said feebly--'The likeness is wonderful!--surely it must
be something more than fancy. Tell me, I conjure you,' she added,
addressing Emily, 'though your name is St. Aubert, are you not the
daughter of the Marchioness?'

'What Marchioness?' said Emily, in extreme surprise; for she had
imagined, from the calmness of Agnes's manner, that her intellects were
restored. The abbess gave her a significant glance, but she repeated the
question.

'What Marchioness?' exclaimed Agnes, 'I know but of one--the Marchioness
de Villeroi.'

Emily, remembering the emotion of her late father, upon the unexpected
mention of this lady, and his request to be laid near to the tomb of
the Villerois, now felt greatly interested, and she entreated Agnes to
explain the reason of her question. The abbess would now have withdrawn
Emily from the room, who being, however, detained by a strong interest,
repeated her entreaties.

'Bring me that casket, sister,' said Agnes; 'I will shew her to you; yet
you need only look in that mirror, and you will behold her; you surely
are her daughter: such striking resemblance is never found but among
near relations.'

The nun brought the casket, and Agnes, having directed her how to unlock
it, she took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the exact
resemblance of the picture, which she had found among her late father's
papers. Agnes held out her hand to receive it; gazed upon it earnestly
for some moments in silence; and then, with a countenance of deep
despair, threw up her eyes to Heaven, and prayed inwardly. When she had
finished, she returned the miniature to Emily. 'Keep it,' said she,
'I bequeath it to you, for I must believe it is your right. I have
frequently observed the resemblance between you; but never, till this
day, did it strike upon my conscience so powerfully! Stay, sister, do
not remove the casket--there is another picture I would shew.'

Emily trembled with expectation, and the abbess again would have
withdrawn her. 'Agnes is still disordered,' said she, 'you observe how
she wanders. In these moods she says any thing, and does not scruple, as
you have witnessed, to accuse herself of the most horrible crimes.'

Emily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness in
the inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Marchioness,
and production of her picture, had interested her so much, that she
determined to obtain further information, if possible, respecting the
subject of it.

The nun returned with the casket, and, Agnes pointing out to her a
secret drawer, she took from it another miniature. 'Here,' said Agnes,
as she offered it to Emily, 'learn a lesson for your vanity, at least;
look well at this picture, and see if you can discover any resemblance
between what I was, and what I am.'

Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcely
glanced upon, before her trembling hands had nearly suffered it to
fall--it was the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini,
which she had formerly seen in the castle of Udolpho--the lady, who
had disappeared in so mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had been
suspected of having caused to be murdered.

In silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon the
picture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance between
them, which no longer existed.

'Why do you look so sternly on me?' said Agnes, mistaking the nature of
Emily's emotion.

'I have seen this face before,' said Emily, at length; 'was it really
your resemblance?'

'You may well ask that question,' replied the nun,--'but it was once
esteemed a striking likeness of me. Look at me well, and see what guilt
has made me. I then was innocent; the evil passions of my nature slept.
Sister!' added she solemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp hand
to Emily, who shuddered at its touch--'Sister! beware of the first
indulgence of the passions; beware of the first! Their course, if not
checked then, is rapid--their force is uncontroulable--they lead us we
know not whither--they lead us perhaps to the commission of crimes, for
which whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone!--Such may be the
force of even a single passion, that it overcomes every other, and sears
up every other approach to the heart. Possessing us like a fiend, it
leads us on to the acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity and
to conscience. And, when its purpose is accomplished, like a fiend,
it leaves us to the torture of those feelings, which its power had
suspended--not annihilated,--to the tortures of compassion, remorse, and
conscience. Then, we awaken as from a dream, and perceive a new
world around us--we gaze in astonishment, and horror--but the deed
is committed; not all the powers of heaven and earth united can
undo it--and the spectres of conscience will not fly! What are
riches--grandeur--health itself, to the luxury of a pure conscience, the
health of the soul;--and what the sufferings of poverty, disappointment,
despair--to the anguish of an afflicted one! O! how long is it since
I knew that luxury! I believed, that I had suffered the most agonizing
pangs of human nature, in love, jealousy, and despair--but these pangs
were ease, compared with the stings of conscience, which I have since
endured. I tasted too what was called the sweet of revenge--but it was
transient, it expired even with the object, that provoked it. Remember,
sister, that the passions are the seeds of vices as well as of virtues,
from which either may spring, accordingly as they are nurtured. Unhappy
they who have never been taught the art to govern them!'

'Alas! unhappy!' said the abbess, 'and ill-informed of our holy
religion!' Emily listened to Agnes, in silent awe, while she still
examined the miniature, and became confirmed in her opinion of its
strong resemblance to the portrait at Udolpho. 'This face is familiar to
me,' said she, wishing to lead the nun to an explanation, yet fearing to
discover too abruptly her knowledge of Udolpho.

'You are mistaken,' replied Agnes, 'you certainly never saw that picture
before.'

'No,' replied Emily, 'but I have seen one extremely like it.'
'Impossible,' said Agnes, who may now be called the Lady Laurentini.

'It was in the castle of Udolpho,' continued Emily, looking stedfastly
at her.

'Of Udolpho!' exclaimed Laurentini, 'of Udolpho in Italy!' 'The same,'
replied Emily.

'You know me then,' said Laurentini, 'and you are the daughter of the
Marchioness.' Emily was somewhat surprised at this abrupt assertion. 'I
am the daughter of the late Mons. St. Aubert,' said she; 'and the lady
you name is an utter stranger to me.'

'At least you believe so,' rejoined Laurentini.

Emily asked what reasons there could be to believe otherwise.

'The family likeness, that you bear her,' said the nun. 'The
Marchioness, it is known, was attached to a gentleman of Gascony, at the
time when she accepted the hand of the Marquis, by the command of her
father. Ill-fated, unhappy woman!'

Emily, remembering the extreme emotion which St. Aubert had betrayed on
the mention of the Marchioness, would now have suffered something more
than surprise, had her confidence in his integrity been less; as it
was, she could not, for a moment, believe what the words of Laurentini
insinuated; yet she still felt strongly interested, concerning them, and
begged, that she would explain them further.

'Do not urge me on that subject,' said the nun, 'it is to me a terrible
one! Would that I could blot it from my memory!' She sighed deeply,
and, after the pause of a moment, asked Emily, by what means she had
discovered her name?

'By your portrait in the castle of Udolpho, to which this miniature
bears a striking resemblance,' replied Emily.

'You have been at Udolpho then!' said the nun, with great emotion.
'Alas! what scenes does the mention of it revive in my fancy--scenes of
happiness--of suffering--and of horror!'

At this moment, the terrible spectacle, which Emily had witnessed in a
chamber of that castle, occurred to her, and she shuddered, while she
looked upon the nun--and recollected her late words--that 'years of
prayer and penitence could not wash out the foulness of murder.' She
was now compelled to attribute these to another cause, than that of
delirium. With a degree of horror, that almost deprived her of sense,
she now believed she looked upon a murderer; all the recollected
behaviour of Laurentini seemed to confirm the supposition, yet Emily was
still lost in a labyrinth of perplexities, and, not knowing how to ask
the questions, which might lead to truth, she could only hint them in
broken sentences.

'Your sudden departure from Udolpho'--said she.

Laurentini groaned.

'The reports that followed it,' continued Emily--'The west chamber--the
mournful veil--the object it conceals!--when murders are committed--'

The nun shrieked. 'What! there again!' said she, endeavouring to raise
herself, while her starting eyes seemed to follow some object round
the room--'Come from the grave! What! Blood--blood too!--There was
no blood--thou canst not say it!--Nay, do not smile,--do not smile so
piteously!'

Laurentini fell into convulsions, as she uttered the last words; and
Emily, unable any longer to endure the horror of the scene, hurried from
the room, and sent some nuns to the assistance of the abbess.

The Lady Blanche, and the boarders, who were in the parlour, now
assembled round Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and affrighted
countenance, asked a hundred questions, which she avoided answering
further, than by saying, that she believed sister Agnes was dying. They
received this as a sufficient explanation of her terror, and had then
leisure to offer restoratives, which, at length, somewhat revived Emily,
whose mind was, however, so much shocked with the terrible surmises, and
perplexed with doubts by some words from the nun, that she was unable
to converse, and would have left the convent immediately, had she not
wished to know whether Laurentini would survive the late attack. After
waiting some time, she was informed, that, the convulsions having
ceased, Laurentini seemed to be reviving, and Emily and Blanche were
departing, when the abbess appeared, who, drawing the former aside, said
she had something of consequence to say to her, but, as it was late,
she would not detain her then, and requested to see her on the following
day.

Emily promised to visit her, and, having taken leave, returned with the
Lady Blanche towards the chateau, on the way to which the deep gloom of
the woods made Blanche lament, that the evening was so far advanced; for
the surrounding stillness and obscurity rendered her sensible of fear,
though there was a servant to protect her; while Emily was too much
engaged by the horrors of the scene she had just witnessed, to be
affected by the solemnity of the shades, otherwise than as they served
to promote her gloomy reverie, from which, however, she was at length
recalled by the Lady Blanche, who pointed out, at some distance, in
the dusky path they were winding, two persons slowly advancing. It was
impossible to avoid them without striking into a still more secluded
part of the wood, whither the strangers might easily follow; but all
apprehension vanished, when Emily distinguished the voice of Mons. Du
Pont, and perceived, that his companion was the gentleman, whom she
had seen at the monastery, and who was now conversing with so much
earnestness as not immediately to perceive their approach. When Du Pont
joined the ladies, the stranger took leave, and they proceeded to the
chateau, where the Count, when he heard of Mons. Bonnac, claimed him for
an acquaintance, and, on learning the melancholy occasion of his visit
to Languedoc, and that he was lodged at a small inn in the village,
begged the favour of Mons. Du Pont to invite him to the chateau.

The latter was happy to do so, and the scruples of reserve, which made
M. Bonnac hesitate to accept the invitation, being at length overcome,
they went to the chateau, where the kindness of the Count and the
sprightliness of his son were exerted to dissipate the gloom, that
overhung the spirits of the stranger. M. Bonnac was an officer in the
French service, and appeared to be about fifty; his figure was tall
and commanding, his manners had received the last polish, and there was
something in his countenance uncommonly interesting; for over features,
which, in youth, must have been remarkably handsome, was spread a
melancholy, that seemed the effect of long misfortune, rather than of
constitution, or temper.

The conversation he held, during supper, was evidently an effort of
politeness, and there were intervals in which, unable to struggle
against the feelings, that depressed him, he relapsed into silence and
abstraction, from which, however, the Count, sometimes, withdrew him in
a manner so delicate and benevolent, that Emily, while she observed him,
almost fancied she beheld her late father.

The party separated, at an early hour, and then, in the solitude of her
apartment, the scenes, which Emily had lately witnessed, returned to
her fancy, with dreadful energy. That in the dying nun she should have
discovered Signora Laurentini, who, instead of having been murdered by
Montoni, was, as it now seemed, herself guilty of some dreadful crime,
excited both horror and surprise in a high degree; nor did the hints,
which she had dropped, respecting the marriage of the Marchioness de
Villeroi, and the enquiries she had made concerning Emily's birth,
occasion her a less degree of interest, though it was of a different
nature.

The history, which sister Frances had formerly related, and had said to
be that of Agnes, it now appeared, was erroneous; but for what purpose
it had been fabricated, unless the more effectually to conceal the true
story, Emily could not even guess. Above all, her interest was excited
as to the relation, which the story of the late Marchioness de Villeroi
bore to that of her father; for, that some kind of relation existed
between them, the grief of St. Aubert, upon hearing her named, his
request to be buried near her, and her picture, which had been found
among his papers, certainly proved. Sometimes it occurred to Emily, that
he might have been the lover, to whom it was said the Marchioness was
attached, when she was compelled to marry the Marquis de Villeroi; but
that he had afterwards cherished a passion for her, she could not suffer
herself to believe, for a moment. The papers, which he had so solemnly
enjoined her to destroy, she now fancied had related to this connection,
and she wished more earnestly than before to know the reasons, that
made him consider the injunction necessary, which, had her faith in
his principles been less, would have led to believe, that there was
a mystery in her birth dishonourable to her parents, which those
manuscripts might have revealed.

Reflections, similar to these, engaged her mind, during the greater part
of the night, and when, at length, she fell into a slumber, it was only
to behold a vision of the dying nun, and to awaken in horrors, like
those she had witnessed.

On the following morning, she was too much indisposed to attend her
appointment with the abbess, and, before the day concluded, she heard,
that sister Agnes was no more. Mons. Bonnac received this intelligence,
with concern; but Emily observed, that he did not appear so much
affected now, as on the preceding evening, immediately after quitting
the apartment of the nun, whose death was probably less terrible to him,
than the confession he had been then called upon to witness. However
this might be, he was perhaps consoled, in some degree, by a knowledge
of the legacy bequeathed him, since his family was large, and the
extravagance of some part of it had lately been the means of involving
him in great distress, and even in the horrors of a prison; and it was
the grief he had suffered from the wild career of a favourite son, with
the pecuniary anxieties and misfortunes consequent upon it, that
had given to his countenance the air of dejection, which had so much
interested Emily.

To his friend Mons. Du Pont he recited some particulars of his late
sufferings, when it appeared, that he had been confined for several
months in one of the prisons of Paris, with little hope of release,
and without the comfort of seeing his wife, who had been absent in the
country, endeavouring, though in vain, to procure assistance from his
friends. When, at length, she had obtained an order for admittance, she
was so much shocked at the change, which long confinement and sorrow had
made in his appearance, that she was seized with fits, which, by their
long continuance, threatened her life.

'Our situation affected those, who happened to witness it,' continued
Mons. Bonnac, 'and one generous friend, who was in confinement at the
same time, afterwards employed the first moments of his liberty in
efforts to obtain mine. He succeeded; the heavy debt, that oppressed
me, was discharged; and, when I would have expressed my sense of the
obligation I had received, my benefactor was fled from my search. I have
reason to believe he was the victim of his own generosity, and that he
returned to the state of confinement, from which he had released me;
but every enquiry after him was unsuccessful. Amiable and unfortunate
Valancourt!'

'Valancourt!' exclaimed Mons. Du Pont. 'Of what family?'

'The Valancourts, Counts Duvarney,' replied Mons. Bonnac.

The emotion of Mons. Du Pont, when he discovered the generous benefactor
of his friend to be the rival of his love, can only be imagined; but,
having overcome his first surprise, he dissipated the apprehensions of
Mons. Bonnac by acquainting him, that Valancourt was at liberty, and had
lately been in Languedoc; after which his affection for Emily prompted
him to make some enquiries, respecting the conduct of his rival, during
his stay at Paris, of which M. Bonnac appeared to be well informed. The
answers he received were such as convinced him, that Valancourt had been
much misrepresented, and, painful as was the sacrifice, he formed the
just design of relinquishing his pursuit of Emily to a lover, who, it
now appeared, was not unworthy of the regard, with which she honoured
him.

The conversation of Mons. Bonnac discovered, that Valancourt, some
time after his arrival at Paris, had been drawn into the snares, which
determined vice had spread for him, and that his hours had been chiefly
divided between the parties of the captivating Marchioness and those
gaming assemblies, to which the envy, or the avarice, of his brother
officers had spared no art to seduce him. In these parties he had lost
large sums, in efforts to recover small ones, and to such losses the
Count De Villefort and Mons. Henri had been frequent witnesses. His
resources were, at length, exhausted; and the Count, his brother,
exasperated by his conduct, refused to continue the supplies necessary
to his present mode of life, when Valancourt, in consequence of
accumulated debts, was thrown into confinement, where his brother
suffered him to remain, in the hope, that punishment might effect a
reform of conduct, which had not yet been confirmed by long habit.

In the solitude of his prison, Valancourt had leisure for reflection,
and cause for repentance; here, too, the image of Emily, which, amidst
the dissipation of the city had been obscured, but never obliterated
from his heart, revived with all the charms of innocence and beauty, to
reproach him for having sacrificed his happiness and debased his talents
by pursuits, which his nobler faculties would formerly have taught him
to consider were as tasteless as they were degrading. But, though his
passions had been seduced, his heart was not depraved, nor had habit
riveted the chains, that hung heavily on his conscience; and, as he
retained that energy of will, which was necessary to burst them, he, at
length, emancipated himself from the bondage of vice, but not till after
much effort and severe suffering.

Being released by his brother from the prison, where he had witnessed
the affecting meeting between Mons. Bonnac and his wife, with whom he
had been for some time acquainted, the first use of his liberty formed a
striking instance of his humanity and his rashness; for with nearly all
the money, just received from his brother, he went to a gaming-house,
and gave it as a last stake for the chance of restoring his friend to
freedom, and to his afflicted family. The event was fortunate, and,
while he had awaited the issue of this momentous stake, he made a solemn
vow never again to yield to the destructive and fascinating vice of
gaming.

Having restored the venerable Mons. Bonnac to his rejoicing family, he
hurried from Paris to Estuviere; and, in the delight of having made the
wretched happy, forgot, for a while, his own misfortunes. Soon, however,
he remembered, that he had thrown away the fortune, without which he
could never hope to marry Emily; and life, unless passed with her,
now scarcely appeared supportable; for her goodness, refinement, and
simplicity of heart, rendered her beauty more enchanting, if possible,
to his fancy, than it had ever yet appeared. Experience had taught
him to understand the full value of the qualities, which he had before
admired, but which the contrasted characters he had seen in the world
made him now adore; and these reflections, increasing the pangs of
remorse and regret, occasioned the deep dejection, that had accompanied
him even into the presence of Emily, of whom he considered himself no
longer worthy. To the ignominy of having received pecuniary obligations
from the Marchioness Chamfort, or any other lady of intrigue, as the
Count De Villefort had been informed, or of having been engaged in the
depredating schemes of gamesters, Valancourt had never submitted; and
these were some of such scandals as often mingle with truth, against the
unfortunate. Count De Villefort had received them from authority which
he had no reason to doubt, and which the imprudent conduct he had
himself witnessed in Valancourt, had certainly induced him the more
readily to believe. Being such as Emily could not name to the Chevalier,
he had no opportunity of refuting them; and, when he confessed
himself to be unworthy of her esteem, he little suspected, that he was
confirming to her the most dreadful calumnies. Thus the mistake had been
mutual, and had remained so, when Mons. Bonnac explained the conduct of
his generous, but imprudent young friend to Du Pont, who, with severe
justice, determined not only to undeceive the Count on this subject, but
to resign all hope of Emily. Such a sacrifice as his love rendered
this, was deserving of a noble reward, and Mons. Bonnac, if it had been
possible for him to forget the benevolent Valancourt, would have wished
that Emily might accept the just Du Pont.

When the Count was informed of the error he had committed, he was
extremely shocked at the consequence of his credulity, and the account
which Mons. Bonnac gave of his friend's situation, while at Paris,
convinced him, that Valancourt had been entrapped by the schemes of a
set of dissipated young men, with whom his profession had partly obliged
him to associate, rather than by an inclination to vice; and, charmed
by the humanity, and noble, though rash generosity, which his conduct
towards Mons. Bonnac exhibited, he forgave him the transient errors,
that had stained his youth, and restored him to the high degree of
esteem, with which he had regarded him, during their early acquaintance.
But, as the least reparation he could now make Valancourt was to
afford him an opportunity of explaining to Emily his former conduct,
he immediately wrote, to request his forgiveness of the unintentional
injury he had done him, and to invite him to Chateau-le-Blanc. Motives
of delicacy with-held the Count from informing Emily of this letter,
and of kindness from acquainting her with the discovery respecting
Valancourt, till his arrival should save her from the possibility of
anxiety, as to its event; and this precaution spared her even severer
inquietude, than the Count had foreseen, since he was ignorant of the
symptoms of despair, which Valancourt's late conduct had betrayed.



CHAPTER XVII


  But in these cases,
 We still have judgment here; that we but teach
 Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
 To plague the inventor:  thus even-handed justice
 Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice
 To our own lips.
     MACBETH

Some circumstances of an extraordinary nature now withdrew Emily from
her own sorrows, and excited emotions, which partook of both surprise
and horror.

A few days followed that, on which Signora Laurentini died, her will
was opened at the monastery, in the presence of the superiors and Mons.
Bonnac, when it was found, that one third of her personal property was
bequeathed to the nearest surviving relative of the late Marchioness de
Villeroi, and that Emily was the person.

With the secret of Emily's family the abbess had long been acquainted,
and it was in observance of the earnest request of St. Aubert, who
was known to the friar, that attended him on his death-bed, that
his daughter had remained in ignorance of her relationship to the
Marchioness. But some hints, which had fallen from Signora Laurentini,
during her last interview with Emily, and a confession of a very
extraordinary nature, given in her dying hours, had made the abbess
think it necessary to converse with her young friend, on the topic she
had not before ventured to introduce; and it was for this purpose, that
she had requested to see her on the morning that followed her interview
with the nun. Emily's indisposition had then prevented the intended
conversation; but now, after the will had been examined, she received
a summons, which she immediately obeyed, and became informed of
circumstances, that powerfully affected her. As the narrative of the
abbess was, however, deficient in many particulars, of which the reader
may wish to be informed, and the history of the nun is materially
connected with the fate of the Marchioness de Villeroi, we shall omit
the conversation, that passed in the parlour of the convent, and mingle
with our relation a brief history of

 LAURENTINI DI UDOLPHO,

Who was the only child of her parents, and heiress of the ancient house
of Udolpho, in the territory of Venice. It was the first misfortune
of her life, and that which led to all her succeeding misery, that the
friends, who ought to have restrained her strong passions, and mildly
instructed her in the art of governing them, nurtured them by early
indulgence. But they cherished their own failings in her; for their
conduct was not the result of rational kindness, and, when they either
indulged, or opposed the passions of their child, they gratified their
own. Thus they indulged her with weakness, and reprehended her with
violence; her spirit was exasperated by their vehemence, instead of
being corrected by their wisdom; and their oppositions became contest
for victory, in which the due tenderness of the parents, and the
affectionate duties of the child, were equally forgotten; but, as
returning fondness disarmed the parents' resentment soonest, Laurentini
was suffered to believe that she had conquered, and her passions became
stronger by every effort, that had been employed to subdue them.

The death of her father and mother in the same year left her to her own
discretion, under the dangerous circumstances attendant on youth
and beauty. She was fond of company, delighted with admiration, yet
disdainful of the opinion of the world, when it happened to contradict
her inclinations; had a gay and brilliant wit, and was mistress of
all the arts of fascination. Her conduct was such as might have been
expected, from the weakness of her principles and the strength of her
passions.

Among her numerous admirers was the late Marquis de Villeroi, who, on
his tour through Italy, saw Laurentini at Venice, where she usually
resided, and became her passionate adorer. Equally captivated by the
figure and accomplishments of the Marquis, who was at that period one of
the most distinguished noblemen of the French court, she had the art so
effectually to conceal from him the dangerous traits of her character
and the blemishes of her late conduct, that he solicited her hand in
marriage.

Before the nuptials were concluded, she retired to the castle of
Udolpho, whither the Marquis followed, and, where her conduct, relaxing
from the propriety, which she had lately assumed, discovered to him
the precipice, on which he stood. A minuter enquiry than he had before
thought it necessary to make, convinced him, that he had been deceived
in her character, and she, whom he had designed for his wife, afterwards
became his mistress.

Having passed some weeks at Udolpho, he was called abruptly to France,
whither he returned with extreme reluctance, for his heart was still
fascinated by the arts of Laurentini, with whom, however, he had on
various pretences delayed his marriage; but, to reconcile her to this
separation, he now gave repeated promises of returning to conclude
the nuptials, as soon as the affair, which thus suddenly called him to
France, should permit.

Soothed, in some degree, by these assurances, she suffered him to
depart; and, soon after, her relative, Montoni, arriving at Udolpho,
renewed the addresses, which she had before refused, and which she now
again rejected. Meanwhile, her thoughts were constantly with the Marquis
de Villeroi, for whom she suffered all the delirium of Italian love,
cherished by the solitude, to which she confined herself; for she
had now lost all taste for the pleasures of society and the gaiety of
amusement. Her only indulgences were to sigh and weep over a miniature
of the Marquis; to visit the scenes, that had witnessed their happiness,
to pour forth her heart to him in writing, and to count the weeks, the
days, which must intervene before the period that he had mentioned as
probable for his return. But this period passed without bringing
him; and week after week followed in heavy and almost intolerable
expectation. During this interval, Laurentini's fancy, occupied
incessantly by one idea, became disordered; and, her whole heart being
devoted to one object, life became hateful to her, when she believed
that object lost.

Several months passed, during which she heard nothing from the Marquis
de Villeroi, and her days were marked, at intervals, with the phrensy
of passion and the sullenness of despair. She secluded herself from all
visitors, and, sometimes, remained in her apartment, for weeks
together, refusing to speak to every person, except her favourite female
attendant, writing scraps of letters, reading, again and again, those
she had received from the Marquis, weeping over his picture, and
speaking to it, for many hours, upbraiding, reproaching and caressing it
alternately.

At length, a report reached her, that the Marquis had married in France,
and, after suffering all the extremes of love, jealousy and indignation,
she formed the desperate resolution of going secretly to that country,
and, if the report proved true, of attempting a deep revenge. To her
favourite woman only she confided the plan of her journey, and she
engaged her to partake of it. Having collected her jewels, which,
descending to her from many branches of her family, were of immense
value, and all her cash, to a very large amount, they were packed in
a trunk, which was privately conveyed to a neighbouring town, whither
Laurentini, with this only servant, followed, and thence proceeded
secretly to Leghorn, where they embarked for France.

When, on her arrival in Languedoc, she found, that the Marquis de
Villeroi had been married, for some months, her despair almost deprived
her of reason, and she alternately projected and abandoned the horrible
design of murdering the Marquis, his wife and herself. At length she
contrived to throw herself in his way, with an intention of reproaching
him, for his conduct, and of stabbing herself in his presence; but,
when she again saw him, who so long had been the constant object of
her thoughts and affections, resentment yielded to love; her resolution
failed; she trembled with the conflict of emotions, that assailed her
heart, and fainted away.

The Marquis was not proof against her beauty and sensibility; all the
energy, with which he had first loved, returned, for his passion had
been resisted by prudence, rather than overcome by indifference; and,
since the honour of his family would not permit him to marry her, he had
endeavoured to subdue his love, and had so far succeeded, as to select
the then Marchioness for his wife, whom he loved at first with a
tempered and rational affection. But the mild virtues of that amiable
lady did not recompense him for her indifference, which appeared,
notwithstanding her efforts to conceal it; and he had, for some time,
suspected that her affections were engaged by another person, when
Laurentini arrived in Languedoc. This artful Italian soon perceived,
that she had regained her influence over him, and, soothed by the
discovery, she determined to live, and to employ all her enchantments to
win his consent to the diabolical deed, which she believed was necessary
to the security of her happiness. She conducted her scheme with deep
dissimulation and patient perseverance, and, having completely estranged
the affections of the Marquis from his wife, whose gentle goodness and
unimpassioned manners had ceased to please, when contrasted with the
captivations of the Italian, she proceeded to awaken in his mind the
jealousy of pride, for it was no longer that of love, and even pointed
out to him the person, to whom she affirmed the Marchioness had
sacrificed her honour; but Laurentini had first extorted from him a
solemn promise to forbear avenging himself upon his rival. This was
an important part of her plan, for she knew, that, if his desire of
vengeance was restrained towards one party, it would burn more fiercely
towards the other, and he might then, perhaps, be prevailed on to assist
in the horrible act, which would release him from the only barrier, that
with-held him from making her his wife.

The innocent Marchioness, meanwhile, observed, with extreme grief, the
alteration in her husband's manners. He became reserved and thoughtful
in her presence; his conduct was austere, and sometimes even rude; and
he left her, for many hours together, to weep for his unkindness, and to
form plans for the recovery of his affection. His conduct afflicted her
the more, because, in obedience to the command of her father, she had
accepted his hand, though her affections were engaged to another, whose
amiable disposition, she had reason to believe, would have ensured her
happiness. This circumstance Laurentini had discovered, soon after her
arrival in France, and had made ample use of it in assisting her designs
upon the Marquis, to whom she adduced such seeming proof of his wife's
infidelity, that, in the frantic rage of wounded honour, he consented to
destroy his wife. A slow poison was administered, and she fell a victim
to the jealousy and subtlety of Laurentini and to the guilty weakness of
her husband.

But the moment of Laurentini's triumph, the moment, to which she had
looked forward for the completion of all her wishes, proved only the
commencement of a suffering, that never left her to her dying hour.

The passion of revenge, which had in part stimulated her to the
commission of this atrocious deed, died, even at the moment when it was
gratified, and left her to the horrors of unavailing pity and remorse,
which would probably have empoisoned all the years she had promised
herself with the Marquis de Villeroi, had her expectations of an
alliance with him been realized. But he, too, had found the moment of
his revenge to be that of remorse, as to himself, and detestation, as
to the partner of his crime; the feeling, which he had mistaken for
conviction, was no more; and he stood astonished, and aghast, that no
proof remained of his wife's infidelity, now that she had suffered the
punishment of guilt. Even when he was informed, that she was dying, he
had felt suddenly and unaccountably reassured of her innocence, nor was
the solemn assurance she made him in her last hour, capable of affording
him a stronger conviction of her blameless conduct.

In the first horrors of remorse and despair, he felt inclined to deliver
up himself and the woman, who had plunged him into this abyss of guilt,
into the hands of justice; but, when the paroxysm of his suffering
was over, his intention changed. Laurentini, however, he saw only once
afterwards, and that was, to curse her as the instigator of his crime,
and to say, that he spared her life only on condition, that she
passed the rest of her days in prayer and penance. Overwhelmed with
disappointment, on receiving contempt and abhorrence from the man,
for whose sake she had not scrupled to stain her conscience with
human blood, and, touched with horror of the unavailing crime she had
committed, she renounced the world, and retired to the monastery of St.
Claire, a dreadful victim to unresisted passion.

The Marquis, immediately after the death of his wife, quitted
Chateau-le-Blanc, to which he never returned, and endeavoured to lose
the sense of his crime amidst the tumult of war, or the dissipations
of a capital; but his efforts were vain; a deep dejection hung over him
ever after, for which his most intimate friend could not account, and
he, at length, died, with a degree of horror nearly equal to that, which
Laurentini had suffered. The physician, who had observed the singular
appearance of the unfortunate Marchioness, after death, had been bribed
to silence; and, as the surmises of a few of the servants had proceeded
no further than a whisper, the affair had never been investigated.
Whether this whisper ever reached the father of the Marchioness, and,
if it did, whether the difficulty of obtaining proof deterred him from
prosecuting the Marquis de Villeroi, is uncertain; but her death was
deeply lamented by some part of her family, and particularly by her
brother, M. St. Aubert; for that was the degree of relationship, which
had existed between Emily's father and the Marchioness; and there is no
doubt, that he suspected the manner of her death. Many letters passed
between the Marquis and him, soon after the decease of his beloved
sister, the subject of which was not known, but there is reason to
believe, that they related to the cause of her death; and these were the
papers, together with some letters of the Marchioness, who had confided
to her brother the occasion of her unhappiness, which St. Aubert had so
solemnly enjoined his daughter to destroy: and anxiety for her peace had
probably made him forbid her to enquire into the melancholy story,
to which they alluded. Such, indeed, had been his affliction, on the
premature death of this his favourite sister, whose unhappy marriage had
from the first excited his tenderest pity, that he never could hear
her named, or mention her himself after her death, except to Madame St.
Aubert. From Emily, whose sensibility he feared to awaken, he had so
carefully concealed her history and name, that she was ignorant, till
now, that she ever had such a relative as the Marchioness de Villeroi;
and from this motive he had enjoined silence to his only surviving
sister, Madame Cheron, who had scrupulously observed his request.

It was over some of the last pathetic letters of the Marchioness, that
St. Aubert was weeping, when he was observed by Emily, on the eve of
her departure from La Vallee, and it was her picture, which he had so
tenderly caressed. Her disastrous death may account for the emotion he
had betrayed, on hearing her named by La Voisin, and for his request to
be interred near the monument of the Villerois, where her remains were
deposited, but not those of her husband, who was buried, where he died,
in the north of France.

The confessor, who attended St. Aubert in his last moments, recollected
him to be the brother of the late Marchioness, when St. Aubert, from
tenderness to Emily, had conjured him to conceal the circumstance, and
to request that the abbess, to whose care he particularly recommended
her, would do the same; a request, which had been exactly observed.

Laurentini, on her arrival in France, had carefully concealed her
name and family, and, the better to disguise her real history, had,
on entering the convent, caused the story to be circulated, which had
imposed on sister Frances, and it is probable, that the abbess, who did
not preside in the convent, at the time of her noviciation, was also
entirely ignorant of the truth. The deep remorse, that seized on
the mind of Laurentini, together with the sufferings of disappointed
passion, for she still loved the Marquis, again unsettled her
intellects, and, after the first paroxysms of despair were passed, a
heavy and silent melancholy had settled upon her spirits, which suffered
few interruptions from fits of phrensy, till the time of her death.
During many years, it had been her only amusement to walk in the woods
near the monastery, in the solitary hours of night, and to play upon
a favourite instrument, to which she sometimes joined the delightful
melody of her voice, in the most solemn and melancholy airs of her
native country, modulated by all the energetic feeling, that dwelt in
her heart. The physician, who had attended her, recommended it to the
superior to indulge her in this whim, as the only means of soothing her
distempered fancy; and she was suffered to walk in the lonely hours of
night, attended by the servant, who had accompanied her from Italy; but,
as the indulgence transgressed against the rules of the convent, it was
kept as secret as possible; and thus the mysterious music of Laurentini
had combined with other circumstances, to produce a report, that not
only the chateau, but its neighbourhood, was haunted.

Soon after her entrance into this holy community, and before she had
shewn any symptoms of insanity there, she made a will, in which, after
bequeathing a considerable legacy to the convent, she divided the
remainder of her personal property, which her jewels made very valuable,
between the wife of Mons. Bonnac, who was an Italian lady and her
relation, and the nearest surviving relative of the late Marchioness
de Villeroi. As Emily St. Aubert was not only the nearest, but the sole
relative, this legacy descended to her, and thus explained to her the
whole mystery of her father's conduct.

The resemblance between Emily and her unfortunate aunt had frequently
been observed by Laurentini, and had occasioned the singular behaviour,
which had formerly alarmed her; but it was in the nun's dying hour, when
her conscience gave her perpetually the idea of the Marchioness, that
she became more sensible, than ever, of this likeness, and, in her
phrensy, deemed it no resemblance of the person she had injured, but the
original herself. The bold assertion, that had followed, on the recovery
of her senses, that Emily was the daughter of the Marchioness de
Villeroi, arose from a suspicion that she was so; for, knowing that her
rival, when she married the Marquis, was attached to another lover, she
had scarcely scrupled to believe, that her honour had been sacrificed,
like her own, to an unresisted passion.

Of a crime, however, to which Emily had suspected, from her phrensied
confession of murder, that she had been instrumental in the castle of
Udolpho, Laurentini was innocent; and she had herself been deceived,
concerning the spectacle, that formerly occasioned her so much terror,
and had since compelled her, for a while, to attribute the horrors of
the nun to a consciousness of a murder, committed in that castle.

It may be remembered, that, in a chamber of Udolpho, hung a black
veil, whose singular situation had excited Emily's curiosity, and which
afterwards disclosed an object, that had overwhelmed her with horror;
for, on lifting it, there appeared, instead of the picture she had
expected, within a recess of the wall, a human figure of ghastly
paleness, stretched at its length, and dressed in the habiliments of
the grave. What added to the horror of the spectacle, was, that the face
appeared partly decayed and disfigured by worms, which were visible on
the features and hands. On such an object, it will be readily believed,
that no person could endure to look twice. Emily, it may be recollected,
had, after the first glance, let the veil drop, and her terror had
prevented her from ever after provoking a renewal of such suffering, as
she had then experienced. Had she dared to look again, her delusion and
her fears would have vanished together, and she would have perceived,
that the figure before her was not human, but formed of wax. The history
of it is somewhat extraordinary, though not without example in the
records of that fierce severity, which monkish superstition has
sometimes inflicted on mankind. A member of the house of Udolpho, having
committed some offence against the prerogative of the church, had been
condemned to the penance of contemplating, during certain hours of the
day, a waxen image, made to resemble a human body in the state, to which
it is reduced after death. This penance, serving as a memento of the
condition at which he must himself arrive, had been designed to
reprove the pride of the Marquis of Udolpho, which had formerly so
much exasperated that of the Romish church; and he had not only
superstitiously observed this penance himself, which, he had believed,
was to obtain a pardon for all his sins, but had made it a condition
in his will, that his descendants should preserve the image, on pain of
forfeiting to the church a certain part of his domain, that they
also might profit by the humiliating moral it conveyed. The figure,
therefore, had been suffered to retain its station in the wall of the
chamber, but his descendants excused themselves from observing the
penance, to which he had been enjoined.

This image was so horribly natural, that it is not surprising Emily
should have mistaken it for the object it resembled, nor, since she had
heard such an extraordinary account, concerning the disappearing of the
late lady of the castle, and had such experience of the character of
Montoni, that she should have believed this to be the murdered body of
the lady Laurentini, and that he had been the contriver of her death.

The situation, in which she had discovered it, occasioned her, at first,
much surprise and perplexity; but the vigilance, with which the doors
of the chamber, where it was deposited, were afterwards secured, had
compelled her to believe, that Montoni, not daring to confide the secret
of her death to any person, had suffered her remains to decay in this
obscure chamber. The ceremony of the veil, however, and the circumstance
of the doors having been left open, even for a moment, had occasioned
her much wonder and some doubts; but these were not sufficient to
overcome her suspicion of Montoni; and it was the dread of his terrible
vengeance, that had sealed her lips in silence, concerning what she had
seen in the west chamber.

Emily, in discovering the Marchioness de Villeroi to have been the
sister of Mons. St. Aubert, was variously affected; but, amidst the
sorrow, which she suffered for her untimely death, she was released from
an anxious and painful conjecture, occasioned by the rash assertion of
Signora Laurentini, concerning her birth and the honour of her parents.
Her faith in St. Aubert's principles would scarcely allow her to suspect
that he had acted dishonourably; and she felt such reluctance to
believe herself the daughter of any other, than her, whom she had always
considered and loved as a mother, that she would hardly admit such a
circumstance to be possible; yet the likeness, which it had frequently
been affirmed she bore to the late Marchioness, the former behaviour
of Dorothee the old housekeeper, the assertion of Laurentini, and the
mysterious attachment, which St. Aubert had discovered, awakened doubts,
as to his connection with the Marchioness, which her reason could
neither vanquish, or confirm. From these, however, she was now relieved,
and all the circumstances of her father's conduct were fully explained:
but her heart was oppressed by the melancholy catastrophe of her
amiable relative, and by the awful lesson, which the history of the
nun exhibited, the indulgence of whose passions had been the means of
leading her gradually to the commission of a crime, from the prophecy
of which in her early years she would have recoiled in horror, and
exclaimed--that it could not be!--a crime, which whole years of
repentance and of the severest penance had not been able to obliterate
from her conscience.



CHAPTER XVIII


  Then, fresh tears
 Stood on her cheek, as doth the honey-dew
 Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd
     SHAKESPEARE

After the late discoveries, Emily was distinguished at the chateau by
the Count and his family, as a relative of the house of Villeroi, and
received, if possible, more friendly attention, than had yet been shewn
her.

Count De Villefort's surprise at the delay of an answer to his letter,
which had been directed to Valancourt, at Estuviere, was mingled with
satisfaction for the prudence, which had saved Emily from a share of the
anxiety he now suffered, though, when he saw her still drooping under
the effect of his former error, all his resolution was necessary to
restrain him from relating the truth, that would afford her a momentary
relief. The approaching nuptials of the Lady Blanche now divided his
attention with this subject of his anxiety, for the inhabitants of the
chateau were already busied in preparations for that event, and the
arrival of Mons. St. Foix was daily expected. In the gaiety, which
surrounded her, Emily vainly tried to participate, her spirits being
depressed by the late discoveries, and by the anxiety concerning the
fate of Valancourt, that had been occasioned by the description of his
manner, when he had delivered the ring. She seemed to perceive in it
the gloomy wildness of despair; and, when she considered to what that
despair might have urged him, her heart sunk with terror and grief.
The state of suspense, as to his safety, to which she believed herself
condemned, till she should return to La Vallee, appeared insupportable,
and, in such moments, she could not even struggle to assume the
composure, that had left her mind, but would often abruptly quit the
company she was with, and endeavour to sooth her spirits in the deep
solitudes of the woods, that overbrowed the shore. Here, the faint roar
of foaming waves, that beat below, and the sullen murmur of the wind
among the branches around, were circumstances in unison with the temper
of her mind; and she would sit on a cliff, or on the broken steps of
her favourite watch-tower, observing the changing colours of the evening
clouds, and the gloom of twilight draw over the sea, till the white tops
of billows, riding towards the shore, could scarcely be discerned amidst
the darkened waters. The lines, engraved by Valancourt on this tower,
she frequently repeated with melancholy enthusiasm, and then would
endeavour to check the recollections and the grief they occasioned, and
to turn her thoughts to indifferent subjects.

One evening, having wandered with her lute to this her favourite spot,
she entered the ruined tower, and ascended a winding staircase, that
led to a small chamber, which was less decayed than the rest of the
building, and whence she had often gazed, with admiration, on the wide
prospect of sea and land, that extended below. The sun was now setting
on that tract of the Pyrenees, which divided Languedoc from Rousillon,
and, placing herself opposite to a small grated window, which, like the
wood-tops beneath, and the waves lower still, gleamed with the red glow
of the west, she touched the chords of her lute in solemn symphony, and
then accompanied it with her voice, in one of the simple and affecting
airs, to which, in happier days, Valancourt had often listened in
rapture, and which she now adapted to the following lines.

 TO MELANCHOLY

 Spirit of love and sorrow--hail!
 Thy solemn voice from far I hear,
 Mingling with ev'ning's dying gale:
 Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear!

 O! at this still, this lonely hour,
 Thine own sweet hour of closing day,
 Awake thy lute, whose charmful pow'r
 Shall call up Fancy to obey:

 To paint the wild romantic dream,
 That meets the poet's musing eye,
 As, on the bank of shadowy stream,
 He breathes to her the fervid sigh.

 O lonely spirit! let thy song
 Lead me through all thy sacred haunt;
 The minister's moon-light aisles along,
 Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt.

 I hear their dirges faintly swell!
 Then, sink at once in silence drear,
 While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell,
 Dimly their gliding forms appear!

 Lead where the pine-woods wave on high,
 Whose pathless sod is darkly seen,
 As the cold moon, with trembling eye,
 Darts her long beams the leaves between.

 Lead to the mountain's dusky head,
 Where, far below, in shade profound,
 Wide forests, plains and hamlets spread,
 And sad the chimes of vesper sound,

 Or guide me, where the dashing oar
 Just breaks the stillness of the vale,
 As slow it tracks the winding shore,
 To meet the ocean's distant sail:

 To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves,
 With measur'd surges, loud and deep,
 Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves,
 And wild the winds of autumn sweep.

 There pause at midnight's spectred hour,
 And list the long-resounding gale;
 And catch the fleeting moon-light's pow'r,
 O'er foaming seas and distant sail.

The soft tranquillity of the scene below, where the evening breeze
scarcely curled the water, or swelled the passing sail, that caught the
last gleam of the sun, and where, now and then, a dipping oar was all
that disturbed the trembling radiance, conspired with the tender melody
of her lute to lull her mind into a state of gentle sadness, and she
sung the mournful songs of past times, till the remembrances they
awakened were too powerful for her heart, her tears fell upon the
lute, over which she drooped, and her voice trembled, and was unable to
proceed.

Though the sun had now sunk behind the mountains, and even his reflected
light was fading from their highest points, Emily did not leave the
watch-tower, but continued to indulge her melancholy reverie, till a
footstep, at a little distance, startled her, and, on looking through
the grate, she observed a person walking below, whom, however, soon
perceiving to be Mons. Bonnac, she returned to the quiet thoughtfulness
his step had interrupted. After some time, she again struck her lute,
and sung her favourite air; but again a step disturbed her, and, as she
paused to listen, she heard it ascending the stair-case of the tower.
The gloom of the hour, perhaps, made her sensible to some degree of
fear, which she might not otherwise have felt; for, only a few minutes
before, she had seen Mons. Bonnac pass. The steps were quick and
bounding, and, in the next moment, the door of the chamber opened, and a
person entered, whose features were veiled in the obscurity of
twilight; but his voice could not be concealed, for it was the voice
of Valancourt! At the sound, never heard by Emily, without emotion, she
started, in terror, astonishment and doubtful pleasure, and had scarcely
beheld him at her feet, when she sunk into a seat, overcome by the
various emotions, that contended at her heart, and almost insensible to
that voice, whose earnest and trembling calls seemed as if endeavouring
to save her. Valancourt, as he hung over Emily, deplored his own rash
impatience, in having thus surprised her: for when he had arrived at
the chateau, too anxious to await the return of the Count, who, he
understood, was in the grounds, he went himself to seek him, when, as
he passed the tower, he was struck by the sound of Emily's voice, and
immediately ascended.

It was a considerable time before she revived, but, when her
recollection returned, she repulsed his attentions, with an air of
reserve, and enquired, with as much displeasure as it was possible she
could feel in these first moments of his appearance, the occasion of his
visit.

'Ah Emily!' said Valancourt, 'that air, those words--alas! I have, then,
little to hope--when you ceased to esteem me, you ceased also to love
me!'

'Most true, sir,' replied Emily, endeavouring to command her trembling
voice; 'and if you had valued my esteem, you would not have given me
this new occasion for uneasiness.'

Valancourt's countenance changed suddenly from the anxieties of doubt to
an expression of surprise and dismay: he was silent a moment, and then
said, 'I had been taught to hope for a very different reception! Is
it, then, true, Emily, that I have lost your regard forever? am I to
believe, that, though your esteem for me may return--your affection
never can? Can the Count have meditated the cruelty, which now tortures
me with a second death?'

The voice, in which he spoke this, alarmed Emily as much as his words
surprised her, and, with trembling impatience, she begged that he would
explain them.

'Can any explanation be necessary?' said Valancourt, 'do you not know
how cruelly my conduct has been misrepresented? that the actions of
which you once believed me guilty (and, O Emily! how could you so
degrade me in your opinion, even for a moment!) those actions--I hold in
as much contempt and abhorrence as yourself? Are you, indeed, ignorant,
that Count de Villefort has detected the slanders, that have robbed me
of all I hold dear on earth, and has invited me hither to justify to
you my former conduct? It is surely impossible you can be uninformed of
these circumstances, and I am again torturing myself with a false hope!'

The silence of Emily confirmed this supposition; for the deep twilight
would not allow Valancourt to distinguish the astonishment and doubting
joy, that fixed her features. For a moment, she continued unable to
speak; then a profound sigh seemed to give some relief to her spirits,
and she said,

'Valancourt! I was, till this moment, ignorant of all the circumstances
you have mentioned; the emotion I now suffer may assure you of the truth
of this, and, that, though I had ceased to esteem, I had not taught
myself entirely to forget you.'

'This moment,' said Valancourt, in a low voice, and leaning for support
against the window--'this moment brings with it a conviction that
overpowers me!--I am dear to you then--still dear to you, my Emily!'

'Is it necessary that I should tell you so?' she replied, 'is it
necessary, that I should say--these are the first moments of joy I have
known, since your departure, and that they repay me for all those of
pain I have suffered in the interval?'

Valancourt sighed deeply, and was unable to reply; but, as he pressed
her hand to his lips, the tears, that fell over it, spoke a language,
which could not be mistaken, and to which words were inadequate.

Emily, somewhat tranquillized, proposed returning to the chateau,
and then, for the first time, recollected that the Count had invited
Valancourt thither to explain his conduct, and that no explanation had
yet been given. But, while she acknowledged this, her heart would
not allow her to dwell, for a moment, on the possibility of his
unworthiness; his look, his voice, his manner, all spoke the noble
sincerity, which had formerly distinguished him; and she again permitted
herself to indulge the emotions of a joy, more surprising and powerful,
than she had ever before experienced.

Neither Emily, or Valancourt, were conscious how they reached the
chateau, whither they might have been transferred by the spell of a
fairy, for any thing they could remember; and it was not, till they had
reached the great hall, that either of them recollected there were other
persons in the world besides themselves. The Count then came forth
with surprise, and with the joyfulness of pure benevolence, to welcome
Valancourt, and to entreat his forgiveness of the injustice he had done
him; soon after which, Mons. Bonnac joined this happy group, in which he
and Valancourt were mutually rejoiced to meet.

When the first congratulations were over, and the general joy became
somewhat more tranquil, the Count withdrew with Valancourt to the
library, where a long conversation passed between them, in which
the latter so clearly justified himself of the criminal parts of the
conduct, imputed to him, and so candidly confessed and so feelingly
lamented the follies, which he had committed, that the Count was
confirmed in his belief of all he had hoped; and, while he perceived so
many noble virtues in Valancourt, and that experience had taught him
to detest the follies, which before he had only not admired, he did not
scruple to believe, that he would pass through life with the dignity of
a wise and good man, or to entrust to his care the future happiness of
Emily St. Aubert, for whom he felt the solicitude of a parent. Of this
he soon informed her, in a short conversation, when Valancourt had left
him. While Emily listened to a relation of the services, that Valancourt
had rendered Mons. Bonnac, her eyes overflowed with tears of pleasure,
and the further conversation of Count De Villefort perfectly dissipated
every doubt, as to the past and future conduct of him, to whom she now
restored, without fear, the esteem and affection, with which she had
formerly received him.

When they returned to the supper-room, the Countess and Lady Blanche
met Valancourt with sincere congratulations; and Blanche, indeed, was
so much rejoiced to see Emily returned to happiness, as to forget, for a
while, that Mons. St. Foix was not yet arrived at the chateau, though
he had been expected for some hours; but her generous sympathy was, soon
after, rewarded by his appearance. He was now perfectly recovered from
the wounds, received, during his perilous adventure among the Pyrenees,
the mention of which served to heighten to the parties, who had
been involved in it, the sense of their present happiness. New
congratulations passed between them, and round the supper-table appeared
a group of faces, smiling with felicity, but with a felicity, which had
in each a different character. The smile of Blanche was frank and gay,
that of Emily tender and pensive; Valancourt's was rapturous, tender and
gay alternately; Mons. St. Foix's was joyous, and that of the Count, as
he looked on the surrounding party, expressed the tempered complacency
of benevolence; while the features of the Countess, Henri, and Mons.
Bonnac, discovered fainter traces of animation. Poor Mons. Du Pont did
not, by his presence, throw a shade of regret over the company; for,
when he had discovered, that Valancourt was not unworthy of the esteem
of Emily, he determined seriously to endeavour at the conquest of
his own hopeless affection, and had immediately withdrawn from
Chateau-le-Blanc--a conduct, which Emily now understood, and rewarded
with her admiration and pity.

The Count and his guests continued together till a late hour, yielding
to the delights of social gaiety, and to the sweets of friendship. When
Annette heard of the arrival of Valancourt, Ludovico had some difficulty
to prevent her going into the supper-room, to express her joy, for she
declared, that she had never been so rejoiced at any ACCIDENT as this,
since she had found Ludovico himself.



CHAPTER XIX


  Now my task is smoothly done,
 I can fly, or I can run
 Quickly to the green earth's end,
 Where the bow'd welkin low doth bend,
 And, from thence, can soar as soon
 To the corners of the moon.
     MILTON

The marriages of the Lady Blanche and Emily St. Aubert were celebrated,
on the same day, and with the ancient baronial magnificence, at
Chateau-le-Blanc. The feasts were held in the great hall of the castle,
which, on this occasion, was hung with superb new tapestry, representing
the exploits of Charlemagne and his twelve peers; here, were seen the
Saracens, with their horrible visors, advancing to battle; and there,
were displayed the wild solemnities of incantation, and the necromantic
feats, exhibited by the magician JARL before the Emperor. The sumptuous
banners of the family of Villeroi, which had long slept in dust, were
once more unfurled, to wave over the gothic points of painted casements;
and music echoed, in many a lingering close, through every winding
gallery and colonnade of that vast edifice.

As Annette looked down from the corridor upon the hall, whose arches and
windows were illuminated with brilliant festoons of lamps, and gazed
on the splendid dresses of the dancers, the costly liveries of the
attendants, the canopies of purple velvet and gold, and listened to
the gay strains that floated along the vaulted roof, she almost fancied
herself in an enchanted palace, and declared, that she had not met with
any place, which charmed her so much, since she read the fairy tales;
nay, that the fairies themselves, at their nightly revels in this old
hall, could display nothing finer; while old Dorothee, as she surveyed
the scene, sighed, and said, the castle looked as it was wont to do in
the time of her youth.

After gracing the festivities of Chateau-le-Blanc, for some days,
Valancourt and Emily took leave of their kind friends, and returned to
La Vallee, where the faithful Theresa received them with unfeigned
joy, and the pleasant shades welcomed them with a thousand tender and
affecting remembrances; and, while they wandered together over the
scenes, so long inhabited by the late Mons. and Madame St. Aubert, and
Emily pointed out, with pensive affection, their favourite haunts, her
present happiness was heightened, by considering, that it would have
been worthy of their approbation, could they have witnessed it.

Valancourt led her to the plane-tree on the terrace, where he had first
ventured to declare his love, and where now the remembrance of the
anxiety he had then suffered, and the retrospect of all the dangers
and misfortunes they had each encountered, since last they sat together
beneath its broad branches, exalted the sense of their present felicity,
which, on this spot, sacred to the memory of St. Aubert, they solemnly
vowed to deserve, as far as possible, by endeavouring to imitate his
benevolence,--by remembering, that superior attainments of every sort
bring with them duties of superior exertion,--and by affording to their
fellow-beings, together with that portion of ordinary comforts, which
prosperity always owes to misfortune, the example of lives passed in
happy thankfulness to GOD, and, therefore, in careful tenderness to his
creatures.

Soon after their return to La Vallee, the brother of Valancourt came to
congratulate him on his marriage, and to pay his respects to Emily, with
whom he was so much pleased, as well as with the prospect of rational
happiness, which these nuptials offered to Valancourt, that he
immediately resigned to him a part of the rich domain, the whole of
which, as he had no family, would of course descend to his brother, on
his decease.

The estates, at Tholouse, were disposed of, and Emily purchased of
Mons. Quesnel the ancient domain of her late father, where, having given
Annette a marriage portion, she settled her as the housekeeper,
and Ludovico as the steward; but, since both Valancourt and herself
preferred the pleasant and long-loved shades of La Vallee to the
magnificence of Epourville, they continued to reside there, passing,
however, a few months in the year at the birth-place of St. Aubert, in
tender respect to his memory.

The legacy, which had been bequeathed to Emily by Signora Laurentini,
she begged Valancourt would allow her to resign to Mons. Bonnac;
and Valancourt, when she made the request, felt all the value of the
compliment it conveyed. The castle of Udolpho, also, descended to the
wife of Mons. Bonnac, who was the nearest surviving relation of the
house of that name, and thus affluence restored his long-oppressed
spirits to peace, and his family to comfort.

O! how joyful it is to tell of happiness, such as that of Valancourt
and Emily; to relate, that, after suffering under the oppression of the
vicious and the disdain of the weak, they were, at length, restored to
each other--to the beloved landscapes of their native country,--to the
securest felicity of this life, that of aspiring to moral and labouring
for intellectual improvement--to the pleasures of enlightened society,
and to the exercise of the benevolence, which had always animated their
hearts; while the bowers of La Vallee became, once more, the retreat of
goodness, wisdom and domestic blessedness!

O! useful may it be to have shewn, that, though the vicious can
sometimes pour affliction upon the good, their power is transient
and their punishment certain; and that innocence, though oppressed
by injustice, shall, supported by patience, finally triumph over
misfortune!

And, if the weak hand, that has recorded this tale, has, by its scenes,
beguiled the mourner of one hour of sorrow, or, by its moral, taught him
to sustain it--the effort, however humble, has not been vain, nor is the
writer unrewarded.





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