THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 28
CHAPTER VIII
My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.
I play the torturer, by small and small,
To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken.
RICHARD II
We now
return, for a moment, to Venice, where Count Morano was suffering under an
accumulation of misfortunes. Soon after his arrival in that city, he had been
arrested by order of the Senate, and, without knowing of what he was suspected,
was conveyed to a place of confinement, whither the most strenuous enquiries of
his friends had been unable to trace him. Who the enemy was, that had
occasioned him this calamity, he had not been able to guess, unless, indeed, it
was Montoni, on whom his suspicions rested, and not only with much apparent
probability, but with justice.
In the
affair of the poisoned cup, Montoni had suspected Morano; but, being unable to
obtain the degree of proof, which was necessary to convict him of a guilty
intention, he had recourse to means of other revenge, than he could hope to
obtain by prosecution. He employed a person, in whom he believed he might
confide, to drop a letter of accusation into the DENUNZIE SECRETE, or lions'
mouths, which are fixed in a gallery of the Doge's palace, as receptacles for
anonymous information, concerning persons, who may be disaffected towards the
state. As, on these occasions, the accuser is not confronted with the accused,
a man may falsely impeach his enemy, and accomplish an unjust revenge, without
fear of punishment, or detection. That Montoni should have recourse to these
diabolical means of ruining a person, whom he suspected of having attempted his
life, is not in the least surprising. In the letter, which he had employed as
the instrument of his revenge, he accused Morano of designs against the state,
which he attempted to prove, with all the plausible simplicity of which he was
master; and the Senate, with whom a suspicion was, at that time, almost equal
to a proof, arrested the Count, in consequence of this accusation; and, without
even hinting to him his crime, threw him into one of those secret prisons,
which were the terror of the Venetians, and in which persons often languished,
and sometimes died, without being discovered by their friends.
Morano
had incurred the personal resentment of many members of the state; his habits
of life had rendered him obnoxious to some; and his ambition, and the bold
rivalship, which he discovered, on several public occasions,—to others; and it
was not to be expected, that mercy would soften the rigour of a law, which was
to be dispensed from the hands of his enemies.
Montoni,
meantime, was beset by dangers of another kind. His castle was besieged by
troops, who seemed willing to dare every thing, and to suffer patiently any
hardships in pursuit of victory. The strength of the fortress, however, withstood
their attack, and this, with the vigorous defence of the garrison and the
scarcity of provision on these wild mountains, soon compelled the assailants to
raise the siege.
When
Udolpho was once more left to the quiet possession of Montoni, he dispatched
Ugo into Tuscany for Emily, whom he had sent from considerations of her
personal safety, to a place of greater security, than a castle, which was, at
that time, liable to be overrun by his enemies. Tranquillity being once more
restored to Udolpho, he was impatient to secure her again under his roof, and
had commissioned Ugo to assist Bertrand in guarding her back to the castle.
Thus compelled to return, Emily bade the kind Maddelina farewell, with regret,
and, after about a fortnight's stay in Tuscany, where she had experienced an
interval of quiet, which was absolutely necessary to sustain her long-harassed
spirits, began once more to ascend the Apennines, from whose heights she gave a
long and sorrowful look to the beautiful country, that extended at their feet,
and to the distant Mediterranean, whose waves she had so often wished would
bear her back to France. The distress she felt, on her return towards the place
of her former sufferings, was, however, softened by a conjecture, that
Valancourt was there, and she found some degree of comfort in the thought of
being near him, notwithstanding the consideration, that he was probably a
prisoner.
It was
noon, when she had left the cottage, and the evening was closed, long before
she came within the neighbourhood of Udolpho. There was a moon, but it shone
only at intervals, for the night was cloudy, and, lighted by the torch, which
Ugo carried, the travellers paced silently along, Emily musing on her
situation, and Bertrand and Ugo anticipating the comforts of a flask of wine
and a good fire, for they had perceived for some time the difference between
the warm climate of the lowlands of Tuscany and the nipping air of these upper
regions. Emily was, at length, roused from her reverie by the far-off sound of
the castle clock, to which she listened not without some degree of awe, as it
rolled away on the breeze. Another and another note succeeded, and died in
sullen murmur among the mountains:—to her mournful imagination it seemed a
knell measuring out some fateful period for her.
'Aye,
there is the old clock,' said Bertrand, 'there he is still; the cannon have not
silenced him!'
'No,'
answered Ugo, 'he crowed as loud as the best of them in the midst of it all.
There he was roaring out in the hottest fire I have seen this many a day! I
said that some of them would have a hit at the old fellow, but he escaped, and
the tower too.'
The road
winding round the base of a mountain, they now came within view of the castle,
which was shewn in the perspective of the valley by a gleam of moon-shine, and
then vanished in shade; while even a transient view of it had awakened the
poignancy of Emily's feelings. Its massy and gloomy walls gave her terrible
ideas of imprisonment and suffering: yet, as she advanced, some degree of hope
mingled with her terror; for, though this was certainly the residence of
Montoni, it was possibly, also, that of Valancourt, and she could not approach
a place, where he might be, without experiencing somewhat of the joy of hope.
They
continued to wind along the valley, and, soon after, she saw again the old
walls and moon-lit towers, rising over the woods: the strong rays enabled her,
also, to perceive the ravages, which the siege had made,—with the broken walls,
and shattered battlements, for they were now at the foot of the steep, on which
Udolpho stood. Massy fragments had rolled down among the woods, through which
the travellers now began to ascend, and there mingled with the loose earth, and
pieces of rock they had brought with them. The woods, too, had suffered much
from the batteries above, for here the enemy had endeavoured to screen
themselves from the fire of the ramparts. Many noble trees were levelled with
the ground, and others, to a wide extent, were entirely stripped of their upper
branches. 'We had better dismount,' said Ugo, 'and lead the mules up the hill,
or we shall get into some of the holes, which the balls have left. Here are
plenty of them. Give me the torch,' continued Ugo, after they had dismounted,
'and take care you don't stumble over any thing, that lies in your way, for the
ground is not yet cleared of the enemy.'
'How!'
exclaimed Emily, 'are any of the enemy here, then?'
'Nay, I
don't know for that, now,' he replied, 'but when I came away I saw one or two
of them lying under the trees.'
As they
proceeded, the torch threw a gloomy light upon the ground, and far among the
recesses of the woods, and Emily feared to look forward, lest some object of
horror should meet her eye. The path was often strewn with broken heads of arrows,
and with shattered remains of armour, such as at that period was mingled with
the lighter dress of the soldiers. 'Bring the light hither,' said Bertrand, 'I
have stumbled over something, that rattles loud enough.' Ugo holding up the
torch, they perceived a steel breastplate on the ground, which Bertrand raised,
and they saw, that it was pierced through, and that the lining was entirely
covered with blood; but upon Emily's earnest entreaties, that they would
proceed, Bertrand, uttering some joke upon the unfortunate person, to whom it
had belonged, threw it hard upon the ground, and they passed on.
At every
step she took, Emily feared to see some vestige of death. Coming soon after to
an opening in the woods, Bertrand stopped to survey the ground, which was
encumbered with massy trunks and branches of the trees, that had so lately
adorned it, and seemed to have been a spot particularly fatal to the besiegers;
for it was evident from the destruction of the trees, that here the hottest
fire of the garrison had been directed. As Ugo held again forth the torch,
steel glittered between the fallen trees; the ground beneath was covered with
broken arms, and with the torn vestments of soldiers, whose mangled forms Emily
almost expected to see; and she again entreated her companions to proceed, who
were, however, too intent in their examination, to regard her, and she turned
her eyes from this desolated scene to the castle above, where she observed
lights gliding along the ramparts. Presently, the castle clock struck twelve,
and then a trumpet sounded, of which Emily enquired the occasion.
'O! they
are only changing watch,' replied Ugo. 'I do not remember this trumpet,' said
Emily, 'it is a new custom.' 'It is only an old one revived, lady; we always
use it in time of war. We have sounded it, at midnight, ever since the place
was besieged.'
'Hark!'
said Emily, as the trumpet sounded again; and, in the next moment, she heard a
faint clash of arms, and then the watchword passed along the terrace above, and
was answered from a distant part of the castle; after which all was again
still. She complained of cold, and begged to go on. 'Presently, lady,' said
Bertrand, turning over some broken arms with the pike he usually carried. 'What
have we here?'
'Hark!'
cried Emily, 'what noise was that?'
'What
noise was it?' said Ugo, starting up and listening.
'Hush!'
repeated Emily. 'It surely came from the ramparts above:' and, on looking up,
they perceived a light moving along the walls, while, in the next instant, the
breeze swelling, the voice sounded louder than before.
'Who goes
yonder?' cried a sentinel of the castle. 'Speak or it will be worse for you.'
Bertrand uttered a shout of joy. 'Hah! my brave comrade, is it you?' said he,
and he blew a shrill whistle, which signal was answered by another from the
soldier on watch; and the party, then passing forward, soon after emerged from
the woods upon the broken road, that led immediately to the castle gates, and
Emily saw, with renewed terror, the whole of that stupendous structure. 'Alas!'
said she to herself, 'I am going again into my prison!'
'Here has
been warm work, by St. Marco!' cried Bertrand, waving a torch over the ground;
'the balls have torn up the earth here with a vengeance.'
'Aye,'
replied Ugo, 'they were fired from that redoubt, yonder, and rare execution
they did. The enemy made a furious attack upon the great gates; but they might
have guessed they could never carry it there; for, besides the cannon from the
walls, our archers, on the two round towers, showered down upon them at such a
rate, that, by holy Peter! there was no standing it. I never saw a better sight
in my life; I laughed, till my sides aked, to see how the knaves scampered.
Bertrand, my good fellow, thou shouldst have been among them; I warrant thou
wouldst have won the race!'
'Hah! you
are at your old tricks again,' said Bertrand in a surly tone. 'It is well for
thee thou art so near the castle; thou knowest I have killed my man before
now.' Ugo replied only by a laugh, and then gave some further account of the
siege, to which as Emily listened, she was struck by the strong contrast of the
present scene with that which had so lately been acted here.
The
mingled uproar of cannon, drums, and trumpets, the groans of the conquered, and
the shouts of the conquerors were now sunk into a silence so profound, that it
seemed as if death had triumphed alike over the vanquished and the victor. The
shattered condition of one of the towers of the great gates by no means
confirmed the VALIANT account just given by Ugo of the scampering party, who,
it was evident, had not only made a stand, but had done much mischief before
they took to flight; for this tower appeared, as far as Emily could judge by
the dim moon-light that fell upon it, to be laid open, and the battlements were
nearly demolished. While she gazed, a light glimmered through one of the lower
loop-holes, and disappeared; but, in the next moment, she perceived through the
broken wall, a soldier, with a lamp, ascending the narrow staircase, that wound
within the tower, and, remembering that it was the same she had passed up, on
the night, when Barnardine had deluded her with a promise of seeing Madame
Montoni, fancy gave her somewhat of the terror she had then suffered. She was
now very near the gates, over which the soldier having opened the door of the
portal-chamber, the lamp he carried gave her a dusky view of that terrible
apartment, and she almost sunk under the recollected horrors of the moment,
when she had drawn aside the curtain, and discovered the object it was meant to
conceal.
'Perhaps,'
said she to herself, 'it is now used for a similar purpose; perhaps, that
soldier goes, at this dead hour, to watch over the corpse of his friend!' The
little remains of her fortitude now gave way to the united force of remembered
and anticipated horrors, for the melancholy fate of Madame Montoni appeared to
foretell her own. She considered, that, though the Languedoc estates, if she
relinquished them, would satisfy Montoni's avarice, they might not appease his
vengeance, which was seldom pacified but by a terrible sacrifice; and she even
thought, that, were she to resign them, the fear of justice might urge him
either to detain her a prisoner, or to take away her life.
They were
now arrived at the gates, where Bertrand, observing the light glimmer through a
small casement of the portal-chamber, called aloud; and the soldier, looking
out, demanded who was there. 'Here, I have brought you a prisoner,' said Ugo,
'open the gate, and let us in.'
'Tell me
first who it is, that demands entrance,' replied the soldier. 'What! my old
comrade,' cried Ugo, 'don't you know me? not know Ugo? I have brought home a
prisoner here, bound hand and foot—a fellow, who has been drinking Tuscany
wine, while we here have been fighting.'
'You will
not rest till you meet with your match,' said Bertrand sullenly. 'Hah! my
comrade, is it you?' said the soldier—'I'll be with you directly.'
Emily
presently heard his steps descending the stairs within, and then the heavy
chain fall, and the bolts undraw of a small postern door, which he opened to
admit the party. He held the lamp low, to shew the step of the gate, and she
found herself once more beneath the gloomy arch, and heard the door close, that
seemed to shut her from the world for ever. In the next moment, she was in the
first court of the castle, where she surveyed the spacious and solitary area,
with a kind of calm despair; while the dead hour of the night, the gothic gloom
of the surrounding buildings, and the hollow and imperfect echoes, which they
returned, as Ugo and the soldier conversed together, assisted to increase the
melancholy forebodings of her heart. Passing on to the second court, a distant
sound broke feebly on the silence, and gradually swelling louder, as they advanced,
Emily distinguished voices of revelry and laughter, but they were to her far
other than sounds of joy. 'Why, you have got some Tuscany wine among you,
HERE,' said Bertrand, 'if one may judge by the uproar that is going forward.
Ugo has taken a larger share of that than of fighting, I'll be sworn. Who is
carousing at this late hour?'
'His
excellenza and the Signors,' replied the soldier: 'it is a sign you are a
stranger at the castle, or you would not need to ask the question. They are
brave spirits, that do without sleep—they generally pass the night in good
cheer; would that we, who keep the watch, had a little of it! It is cold work,
pacing the ramparts so many hours of the night, if one has no good liquor to
warm one's heart.'
'Courage,
my lad, courage ought to warm your heart,' said Ugo. 'Courage!' replied the
soldier sharply, with a menacing air, which Ugo perceiving, prevented his
saying more, by returning to the subject of the carousal. 'This is a new
custom,' said he; 'when I left the castle, the Signors used to sit up
counselling.'
'Aye, and
for that matter, carousing too,' replied the soldier, 'but, since the siege,
they have done nothing but make merry: and if I was they, I would settle
accounts with myself, for all my hard fighting, the same way.'
They had
now crossed the second court, and reached the hall door, when the soldier,
bidding them good night, hastened back to his post; and, while they waited for
admittance, Emily considered how she might avoid seeing Montoni, and retire
unnoticed to her former apartment, for she shrunk from the thought of
encountering either him, or any of his party, at this hour. The uproar within
the castle was now so loud, that, though Ugo knocked repeatedly at the hall
door, he was not heard by any of the servants, a circumstance, which increased
Emily's alarm, while it allowed her time to deliberate on the means of retiring
unobserved; for, though she might, perhaps, pass up the great stair-case
unseen, it was impossible she could find the way to her chamber, without a
light, the difficulty of procuring which, and the danger of wandering about the
castle, without one, immediately struck her. Bertrand had only a torch, and she
knew, that the servants never brought a taper to the door, for the hall was
sufficiently lighted by the large tripod lamp, which hung in the vaulted roof;
and, while she should wait till Annette could bring a taper, Montoni, or some
of his companions, might discover her.
The door
was now opened by Carlo; and Emily, having requested him to send Annette
immediately with a light to the great gallery, where she determined to await
her, passed on with hasty steps towards the stair-case; while Bertrand and Ugo,
with the torch, followed old Carlo to the servants' hall, impatient for supper
and the warm blaze of a wood fire. Emily, lighted only by the feeble rays,
which the lamp above threw between the arches of this extensive hall,
endeavoured to find her way to the stair-case, now hid in obscurity; while the
shouts of merriment, that burst from a remote apartment, served, by heightening
her terror, to increase her perplexity, and she expected, every instant, to see
the door of that room open, and Montoni and his companions issue forth. Having,
at length, reached the stair-case, and found her way to the top, she seated
herself on the last stair, to await the arrival of Annette; for the profound
darkness of the gallery deterred her from proceeding farther, and, while she
listened for her footstep, she heard only distant sounds of revelry, which rose
in sullen echoes from among the arcades below. Once she thought she heard a low
sound from the dark gallery behind her; and, turning her eyes, fancied she saw
something luminous move in it; and, since she could not, at this moment, subdue
the weakness that caused her fears, she quitted her seat, and crept softly down
a few stairs lower.
Annette
not yet appearing, Emily now concluded, that she was gone to bed, and that
nobody chose to call her up; and the prospect, that presented itself, of
passing the night in darkness, in this place, or in some other equally forlorn
(for she knew it would be impracticable to find her way through the intricacies
of the galleries to her chamber), drew tears of mingled terror and despondency
from her eyes.
While
thus she sat, she fancied she heard again an odd sound from the gallery, and
she listened, scarcely daring to breathe, but the increasing voices below
overcame every other sound. Soon after, she heard Montoni and his companions
burst into the hall, who spoke, as if they were much intoxicated, and seemed to
be advancing towards the stair-case. She now remembered, that they must come
this way to their chambers, and, forgetting all the terrors of the gallery,
hurried towards it with an intention of secreting herself in some of the
passages, that opened beyond, and of endeavouring, when the Signors were
retired, to find her way to her own room, or to that of Annette, which was in a
remote part of the castle.
With
extended arms, she crept along the gallery, still hearing the voices of persons
below, who seemed to stop in conversation at the foot of the stair-case, and
then pausing for a moment to listen, half fearful of going further into the
darkness of the gallery, where she still imagined, from the noise she had heard,
that some person was lurking, 'They are already informed of my arrival,' said
she, 'and Montoni is coming himself to seek me! In the present state of his
mind, his purpose must be desperate.' Then, recollecting the scene, that had
passed in the corridor, on the night preceding her departure from the castle,
'O Valancourt!' said she, 'I must then resign you for ever. To brave any longer
the injustice of Montoni, would not be fortitude, but rashness.' Still the
voices below did not draw nearer, but they became louder, and she distinguished
those of Verezzi and Bertolini above the rest, while the few words she caught
made her listen more anxiously for others. The conversation seemed to concern
herself; and, having ventured to step a few paces nearer to the stair-case, she
discovered, that they were disputing about her, each seeming to claim some
former promise of Montoni, who appeared, at first, inclined to appease and to
persuade them to return to their wine, but afterwards to be weary of the
dispute, and, saying that he left them to settle it as they could, was
returning with the rest of the party to the apartment he had just quitted.
Verezzi then stopped him. 'Where is she? Signor,' said he, in a voice of
impatience: 'tell us where she is.' 'I have already told you that I do not
know,' replied Montoni, who seemed to be somewhat overcome with wine; 'but she
is most probably gone to her apartment.' Verezzi and Bertolini now desisted
from their enquiries, and sprang to the stair-case together, while Emily, who, during
this discourse, had trembled so excessively, that she had with difficulty
supported herself, seemed inspired with new strength, the moment she heard the
sound of their steps, and ran along the gallery, dark as it was, with the
fleetness of a fawn. But, long before she reached its extremity, the light,
which Verezzi carried, flashed upon the walls; both appeared, and, instantly
perceiving Emily, pursued her. At this moment, Bertolini, whose steps, though
swift, were not steady, and whose impatience overcame what little caution he
had hitherto used, stumbled, and fell at his length. The lamp fell with him,
and was presently expiring on the floor; but Verezzi, regardless of saving it,
seized the advantage this accident gave him over his rival, and followed Emily,
to whom, however, the light had shown one of the passages that branched from
the gallery, and she instantly turned into it. Verezzi could just discern the
way she had taken, and this he pursued; but the sound of her steps soon sunk in
distance, while he, less acquainted with the passage, was obliged to proceed
through the dark, with caution, lest he should fall down a flight of steps,
such as in this extensive old castle frequently terminated an avenue. This
passage at length brought Emily to the corridor, into which her own chamber
opened, and, not hearing any footstep, she paused to take breath, and consider
what was the safest design to be adopted. She had followed this passage, merely
because it was the first that appeared, and now that she had reached the end of
it, was as perplexed as before. Whither to go, or how further to find her way
in the dark, she knew not; she was aware only that she must not seek her
apartment, for there she would certainly be sought, and her danger increased
every instant, while she remained near it. Her spirits and her breath, however,
were so much exhausted, that she was compelled to rest, for a few minutes, at
the end of the passage, and still she heard no steps approaching. As thus she
stood, light glimmered under an opposite door of the gallery, and, from its
situation, she knew, that it was the door of that mysterious chamber, where she
had made a discovery so shocking, that she never remembered it but with the
utmost horror. That there should be light in this chamber, and at this hour,
excited her strong surprise, and she felt a momentary terror concerning it,
which did not permit her to look again, for her spirits were now in such a
state of weakness, that she almost expected to see the door slowly open, and
some horrible object appear at it. Still she listened for a step along the
passage, and looked up it, where, not a ray of light appearing, she concluded,
that Verezzi had gone back for the lamp; and, believing that he would shortly
be there, she again considered which way she should go, or rather which way she
could find in the dark.
A faint
ray still glimmered under the opposite door, but so great, and, perhaps, so
just was her horror of that chamber, that she would not again have tempted its
secrets, though she had been certain of obtaining the light so important to her
safety. She was still breathing with difficulty, and resting at the end of the
passage, when she heard a rustling sound, and then a low voice, so very near
her, that it seemed close to her ear; but she had presence of mind to check her
emotions, and to remain quite still; in the next moment, she perceived it to be
the voice of Verezzi, who did not appear to know, that she was there, but to
have spoken to himself. 'The air is fresher here,' said he: 'this should be the
corridor.' Perhaps, he was one of those heroes, whose courage can defy an enemy
better than darkness, and he tried to rally his spirits with the sound of his
own voice. However this might be, he turned to the right, and proceeded, with
the same stealing steps, towards Emily's apartment, apparently forgetting,
that, in darkness, she could easily elude his search, even in her chamber; and,
like an intoxicated person, he followed pertinaciously the one idea, that had
possessed his imagination.
The
moment she heard his steps steal away, she left her station and moved softly to
the other end of the corridor, determined to trust again to chance, and to quit
it by the first avenue she could find; but, before she could effect this, light
broke upon the walls of the gallery, and, looking back, she saw Verezzi
crossing it towards her chamber. She now glided into a passage, that opened on
the left, without, as she thought, being perceived; but, in the next instant,
another light, glimmering at the further end of this passage, threw her into
new terror. While she stopped and hesitated which way to go, the pause allowed
her to perceive, that it was Annette, who advanced, and she hurried to meet
her: but her imprudence again alarmed Emily, on perceiving whom, she burst into
a scream of joy, and it was some minutes, before she could be prevailed with to
be silent, or to release her mistress from the ardent clasp, in which she held
her. When, at length, Emily made Annette comprehend her danger, they hurried
towards Annette's room, which was in a distant part of the castle. No
apprehensions, however, could yet silence the latter. 'Oh dear ma'amselle,'
said she, as they passed along, 'what a terrified time have I had of it! Oh! I
thought I should have died an hundred times! I never thought I should live to
see you again! and I never was so glad to see any body in my whole life, as I
am to see you now.' 'Hark!' cried Emily, 'we are pursued; that was the echo of
steps!' 'No, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'it was only the echo of a door
shutting; sound runs along these vaulted passages so, that one is continually
deceived by it; if one does but speak, or cough, it makes a noise as loud as a
cannon.' 'Then there is the greater necessity for us to be silent,' said Emily:
'pr'ythee say no more, till we reach your chamber.' Here, at length, they
arrived, without interruption, and, Annette having fastened the door, Emily sat
down on her little bed, to recover breath and composure. To her enquiry,
whether Valancourt was among the prisoners in the castle, Annette replied, that
she had not been able to hear, but that she knew there were several persons
confined. She then proceeded, in her tedious way, to give an account of the
siege, or rather a detail of her terrors and various sufferings, during the
attack. 'But,' added she, 'when I heard the shouts of victory from the
ramparts, I thought we were all taken, and gave myself up for lost, instead of
which, WE had driven the enemy away. I went then to the north gallery, and saw
a great many of them scampering away among the mountains; but the rampart walls
were all in ruins, as one may say, and there was a dismal sight to see down
among the woods below, where the poor fellows were lying in heaps, but were
carried off presently by their comrades. While the siege was going on, the
Signor was here, and there, and every where, at the same time, as Ludovico told
me, for he would not let me see any thing hardly, and locked me up, as he has
often done before, in a room in the middle of the castle, and used to bring me
food, and come and talk with me as often as he could; and I must say, if it had
not been for Ludovico, I should have died outright.'
'Well,
Annette,' said Emily, 'and how have affairs gone on, since the siege?'
'O! sad hurly
burly doings, ma'amselle,' replied Annette; 'the Signors have done nothing but
sit and drink and game, ever since. They sit up, all night, and play among
themselves, for all those riches and fine things, they brought in, some time
since, when they used to go out a-robbing, or as good, for days together; and
then they have dreadful quarrels about who loses, and who wins. That fierce
Signor Verezzi is always losing, as they tell me, and Signor Orsino wins from
him, and this makes him very wroth, and they have had several hard set-to's
about it. Then, all those fine ladies are at the castle still; and I declare I
am frighted, whenever I meet any of them in the passages.'—
'Surely,
Annette,' said Emily starting, 'I heard a noise: listen.' After a long pause,
'No, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'it was only the wind in the gallery; I often
hear it, when it shakes the old doors, at the other end. But won't you go to
bed, ma'amselle? you surely will not sit up starving, all night.' Emily now
laid herself down on the mattress, and desired Annette to leave the lamp
burning on the hearth; having done which, the latter placed herself beside
Emily, who, however, was not suffered to sleep, for she again thought she heard
a noise from the passage; and Annette was again trying to convince her, that it
was only the wind, when footsteps were distinctly heard near the door. Annette
was now starting from the bed, but Emily prevailed with her to remain there,
and listened with her in a state of terrible expectation. The steps still
loitered at the door, when presently an attempt was made on the lock, and, in
the next instant, a voice called. 'For heaven's sake, Annette, do not answer,'
said Emily softly, 'remain quite still; but I fear we must extinguish the lamp,
or its glare will betray us.' 'Holy Virgin!' exclaimed Annette, forgetting her
discretion, 'I would not be in darkness now for the whole world.' While she
spoke, the voice became louder than before, and repeated Annette's name;
'Blessed Virgin!' cried she suddenly, 'it is only Ludovico.' She rose to open
the door, but Emily prevented her, till they should be more certain, that it
was he alone; with whom Annette, at length, talked for some time, and learned,
that he was come to enquire after herself, whom he had let out of her room to
go to Emily, and that he was now returned to lock her in again. Emily, fearful
of being overheard, if they conversed any longer through the door, consented
that it should be opened, and a young man appeared, whose open countenance
confirmed the favourable opinion of him, which his care of Annette had already
prompted her to form. She entreated his protection, should Verezzi make this
requisite; and Ludovico offered to pass the night in an old chamber, adjoining,
that opened from the gallery, and, on the first alarm, to come to their
defence.
Emily was
much soothed by this proposal; and Ludovico, having lighted his lamp, went to
his station, while she, once more, endeavoured to repose on her mattress. But a
variety of interests pressed upon her attention, and prevented sleep. She
thought much on what Annette had told her of the dissolute manners of Montoni
and his associates, and more of his present conduct towards herself, and of the
danger, from which she had just escaped. From the view of her present situation
she shrunk, as from a new picture of terror. She saw herself in a castle,
inhabited by vice and violence, seated beyond the reach of law or justice, and
in the power of a man, whose perseverance was equal to every occasion, and in
whom passions, of which revenge was not the weakest, entirely supplied the
place of principles. She was compelled, once more, to acknowledge, that it
would be folly, and not fortitude, any longer to dare his power; and, resigning
all hopes of future happiness with Valancourt, she determined, that, on the
following morning, she would compromise with Montoni, and give up her estates,
on condition, that he would permit her immediate return to France. Such
considerations kept her waking for many hours; but, the night passed, without
further alarm from Verezzi.
On the
next morning, Emily had a long conversation with Ludovico, in which she heard
circumstances concerning the castle, and received hints of the designs of
Montoni, that considerably increased her alarms. On expressing her surprise,
that Ludovico, who seemed to be so sensible of the evils of his situation,
should continue in it, he informed her, that it was not his intention to do so,
and she then ventured to ask him, if he would assist her to escape from the
castle. Ludovico assured her of his readiness to attempt this, but strongly
represented the difficulty of the enterprise, and the certain destruction which
must ensure, should Montoni overtake them, before they had passed the
mountains; he, however, promised to be watchful of every circumstance, that
might contribute to the success of the attempt, and to think upon some plan of
departure.
Emily now
confided to him the name of Valancourt, and begged he would enquire for such a
person among the prisoners in the castle; for the faint hope, which this
conversation awakened, made her now recede from her resolution of an immediate
compromise with Montoni. She determined, if possible, to delay this, till she
heard further from Ludovico, and, if his designs were found to be
impracticable, to resign the estates at once. Her thoughts were on this
subject, when Montoni, who was now recovered from the intoxication of the
preceding night, sent for her, and she immediately obeyed the summons. He was
alone. 'I find,' said he, 'that you were not in your chamber, last night; where
were you?' Emily related to him some circumstances of her alarm, and entreated
his protection from a repetition of them. 'You know the terms of my
protection,' said he; 'if you really value this, you will secure it.' His open
declaration, that he would only conditionally protect her, while she remained a
prisoner in the castle, shewed Emily the necessity of an immediate compliance
with his terms; but she first demanded, whether he would permit her immediately
to depart, if she gave up her claim to the contested estates. In a very solemn
manner he then assured her, that he would, and immediately laid before her a
paper, which was to transfer the right of those estates to himself.
She was,
for a considerable time, unable to sign it, and her heart was torn with
contending interests, for she was about to resign the happiness of all her
future years—the hope, which had sustained her in so many hours of adversity.
After
hearing from Montoni a recapitulation of the conditions of her compliance, and
a remonstrance, that his time was valuable, she put her hand to the paper; when
she had done which, she fell back in her chair, but soon recovered, and
desired, that he would give orders for her departure, and that he would allow
Annette to accompany her. Montoni smiled. 'It was necessary to deceive you,'
said he,—'there was no other way of making you act reasonably; you shall go,
but it must not be at present. I must first secure these estates by possession:
when that is done, you may return to France if you will.'
The
deliberate villany, with which he violated the solemn engagement he had just
entered into, shocked Emily as much, as the certainty, that she had made a
fruitless sacrifice, and must still remain his prisoner. She had no words to
express what she felt, and knew, that it would have been useless, if she had.
As she looked piteously at Montoni, he turned away, and at the same time
desired she would withdraw to her apartment; but, unable to leave the room, she
sat down in a chair near the door, and sighed heavily. She had neither words
nor tears.
'Why will
you indulge this childish grief?' said he. 'Endeavour to strengthen your mind,
to bear patiently what cannot now be avoided; you have no real evil to lament;
be patient, and you will be sent back to France. At present retire to your
apartment.'
'I dare
not go, sir,' said she, 'where I shall be liable to the intrusion of Signor
Verezzi.' 'Have I not promised to protect you?' said Montoni. 'You have promised,
sir,'—replied Emily, after some hesitation. 'And is not my promise sufficient?'
added he sternly. 'You will recollect your former promise, Signor,' said Emily,
trembling, 'and may determine for me, whether I ought to rely upon this.' 'Will
you provoke me to declare to you, that I will not protect you then?' said
Montoni, in a tone of haughty displeasure. 'If that will satisfy you, I will do
it immediately. Withdraw to your chamber, before I retract my promise; you have
nothing to fear there.' Emily left the room, and moved slowly into the hall,
where the fear of meeting Verezzi, or Bertolini, made her quicken her steps,
though she could scarcely support herself; and soon after she reached once more
her own apartment. Having looked fearfully round her, to examine if any person
was there, and having searched every part of it, she fastened the door, and sat
down by one of the casements. Here, while she looked out for some hope to
support her fainting spirits, which had been so long harassed and oppressed, that,
if she had not now struggled much against misfortune, they would have left her,
perhaps, for ever, she endeavoured to believe, that Montoni did really intend
to permit her return to France as soon as he had secured her property, and that
he would, in the mean time, protect her from insult; but her chief hope rested
with Ludovico, who, she doubted not, would be zealous in her cause, though he
seemed almost to despair of success in it. One circumstance, however, she had
to rejoice in. Her prudence, or rather her fears, had saved her from mentioning
the name of Valancourt to Montoni, which she was several times on the point of
doing, before she signed the paper, and of stipulating for his release, if he
should be really a prisoner in the castle. Had she done this, Montoni's jealous
fears would now probably have loaded Valancourt with new severities, and have
suggested the advantage of holding him a captive for life.
Thus
passed the melancholy day, as she had before passed many in this same chamber.
When night drew on, she would have withdrawn herself to Annette's bed, had not
a particular interest inclined her to remain in this chamber, in spite of her
fears; for, when the castle should be still, and the customary hour arrived,
she determined to watch for the music, which she had formerly heard. Though its
sounds might not enable her positively to determine, whether Valancourt was
there, they would perhaps strengthen her opinion that he was, and impart the
comfort, so necessary to her present support.—But, on the other hand, if all
should be silent—! She hardly dared to suffer her thoughts to glance that way,
but waited, with impatient expectation, the approaching hour.
The night
was stormy; the battlements of the castle appeared to rock in the wind, and, at
intervals, long groans seemed to pass on the air, such as those, which often
deceive the melancholy mind, in tempests, and amidst scenes of desolation.
Emily heard, as formerly, the sentinels pass along the terrace to their posts,
and, looking out from her casement, observed, that the watch was doubled; a
precaution, which appeared necessary enough, when she threw her eyes on the
walls, and saw their shattered condition. The well-known sounds of the
soldiers' march, and of their distant voices, which passed her in the wind, and
were lost again, recalled to her memory the melancholy sensation she had
suffered, when she formerly heard the same sounds; and occasioned almost
involuntary comparisons between her present, and her late situation. But this
was no subject for congratulations, and she wisely checked the course of her
thoughts, while, as the hour was not yet come, in which she had been accustomed
to hear the music, she closed the casement, and endeavoured to await it in
patience. The door of the stair-case she tried to secure, as usual, with some
of the furniture of the room; but this expedient her fears now represented to
her to be very inadequate to the power and perseverance of Verezzi; and she
often looked at a large and heavy chest, that stood in the chamber, with wishes
that she and Annette had strength enough to move it. While she blamed the long
stay of this girl, who was still with Ludovico and some other of the servants,
she trimmed her wood fire, to make the room appear less desolate, and sat down
beside it with a book, which her eyes perused, while her thoughts wandered to
Valancourt, and her own misfortunes. As she sat thus, she thought, in a pause
of the wind, she distinguished music, and went to the casement to listen, but
the loud swell of the gust overcame every other sound. When the wind sunk
again, she heard distinctly, in the deep pause that succeeded, the sweet
strings of a lute; but again the rising tempest bore away the notes, and again
was succeeded by a solemn pause. Emily, trembling with hope and fear, opened
her casement to listen, and to try whether her own voice could be heard by the
musician; for to endure any longer this state of torturing suspense concerning
Valancourt, seemed to be utterly impossible. There was a kind of breathless
stillness in the chambers, that permitted her to distinguish from below the
tender notes of the very lute she had formerly heard, and with it, a plaintive
voice, made sweeter by the low rustling sound, that now began to creep along
the wood-tops, till it was lost in the rising wind. Their tall heads then began
to wave, while, through a forest of pine, on the left, the wind, groaning
heavily, rolled onward over the woods below, bending them almost to their
roots; and, as the long-resounding gale swept away, other woods, on the right,
seemed to answer the 'loud lament;' then, others, further still, softened it
into a murmur, that died into silence. Emily listened, with mingled awe and
expectation, hope and fear; and again the melting sweetness of the lute was
heard, and the same solemn-breathing voice. Convinced that these came from an
apartment underneath, she leaned far out of her window, that she might discover
whether any light was there; but the casements below, as well as those above,
were sunk so deep in the thick walls of the castle, that she could not see
them, or even the faint ray, that probably glimmered through their bars. She
then ventured to call; but the wind bore her voice to the other end of the
terrace, and then the music was heard as before, in the pause of the gust.
Suddenly, she thought she heard a noise in her chamber, and she drew herself
within the casement; but, in a moment after, distinguishing Annette's voice at
the door, she concluded it was her she had heard before, and she let her in.
'Move softly, Annette, to the casement,' said she, 'and listen with me; the
music is returned.' They were silent till, the measure changing, Annette
exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin! I know that song well; it is a French song, one of the
favourite songs of my dear country.' This was the ballad Emily had heard on a
former night, though not the one she had first listened to from the
fishing-house in Gascony. 'O! it is a Frenchman, that sings,' said Annette: 'it
must be Monsieur Valancourt.' 'Hark! Annette, do not speak so loud,' said
Emily, 'we may be overheard.' 'What! by the Chevalier?' said Annette. 'No,'
replied Emily mournfully, 'but by somebody, who may report us to the Signor.
What reason have you to think it is Monsieur Valancourt, who sings? But hark!
now the voice swells louder! Do you recollect those tones? I fear to trust my
own judgment.' 'I never happened to hear the Chevalier sing, Mademoiselle,'
replied Annette, who, as Emily was disappointed to perceive, had no stronger
reason for concluding this to be Valancourt, than that the musician must be a
Frenchman. Soon after, she heard the song of the fishing-house, and
distinguished her own name, which was repeated so distinctly, that Annette had
heard it also. She trembled, sunk into a chair by the window, and Annette
called aloud, 'Monsieur Valancourt! Monsieur Valancourt!' while Emily
endeavoured to check her, but she repeated the call more loudly than before,
and the lute and the voice suddenly stopped. Emily listened, for some time, in
a state of intolerable suspense; but, no answer being returned, 'It does not
signify, Mademoiselle,' said Annette; 'it is the Chevalier, and I will speak to
him.' 'No, Annette,' said Emily, 'I think I will speak myself; if it is he, he
will know my voice, and speak again.' 'Who is it,' said she, 'that sings at
this late hour?'
A long
silence ensued, and, having repeated the question, she perceived some faint
accents, mingling in the blast, that swept by; but the sounds were so distant,
and passed so suddenly, that she could scarcely hear them, much less
distinguish the words they uttered, or recognise the voice. After another
pause, Emily called again; and again they heard a voice, but as faintly as
before; and they perceived, that there were other circumstances, besides the
strength, and direction of the wind, to content with; for the great depth, at
which the casements were fixed in the castle walls, contributed, still more
than the distance, to prevent articulated sounds from being understood, though
general ones were easily heard. Emily, however, ventured to believe, from the
circumstance of her voice alone having been answered, that the stranger was
Valancourt, as well as that he knew her, and she gave herself up to speechless
joy. Annette, however, was not speechless.—She renewed her calls, but received
no answer; and Emily, fearing, that a further attempt, which certainly was, as
present, highly dangerous, might expose them to the guards of the castle, while
it could not perhaps terminate her suspense, insisted on Annette's dropping the
enquiry for this night; though she determined herself to question Ludovico, on
the subject, in the morning, more urgently than she had yet done. She was now
enabled to say, that the stranger, whom she had formerly heard, was still in
the castle, and to direct Ludovico to that part of it, in which he was
confined.
Emily,
attended by Annette, continued at the casement, for some time, but all remained
still; they heard neither lute or voice again, and Emily was now as much
oppressed by anxious joy, as she lately was by a sense of her misfortunes. With
hasty steps she paced the room, now half calling on Valancourt's name, then
suddenly stopping, and now going to the casement and listening, where, however,
she heard nothing but the solemn waving of the woods. Sometimes her impatience
to speak to Ludovico prompted her to send Annette to call him; but a sense of
the impropriety of this at midnight restrained her. Annette, meanwhile, as
impatient as her mistress, went as often to the casement to listen, and
returned almost as much disappointed. She, at length, mentioned Signor Verezzi,
and her fear, lest he should enter the chamber by the staircase, door. 'But the
night is now almost past, Mademoiselle,' said she, recollecting herself; 'there
is the morning light, beginning to peep over those mountains yonder in the
east.'
Emily had
forgotten, till this moment, that such a person existed as Verezzi, and all the
danger that had appeared to threaten her; but the mention of his name renewed
her alarm, and she remembered the old chest, that she had wished to place
against the door, which she now, with Annette, attempted to move, but it was so
heavy, that they could not lift it from the floor. 'What is in this great old
chest, Mademoiselle,' said Annette, 'that makes it so weighty?' Emily having
replied, 'that she found it in the chamber, when she first came to the castle,
and had never examined it.'—'Then I will, ma'amselle,' said Annette, and she
tried to lift the lid; but this was held by a lock, for which she had no key,
and which, indeed, appeared, from its peculiar construction, to open with a
spring. The morning now glimmered through the casements, and the wind had sunk
into a calm. Emily looked out upon the dusky woods, and on the twilight mountains,
just stealing in the eye, and saw the whole scene, after the storm, lying in
profound stillness, the woods motionless, and the clouds above, through which
the dawn trembled, scarcely appearing to move along the heavens. One soldier
was pacing the terrace beneath, with measured steps; and two, more distant,
were sunk asleep on the walls, wearied with the night's watch. Having inhaled,
for a while, the pure spirit of the air, and of vegetation, which the late
rains had called forth; and having listened, once more, for a note of music,
she now closed the casement, and retired to rest.
