THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 35
CHAPTER VII
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.
To be
continued
