THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 36
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.
To be continued
