THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 20
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.
