THE MYTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 29
CHAPTER IX
Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,
For many a long month lost in snow profound,
When Sol from Cancer sends the seasons bland,
And in their northern cave the storms hath
bound;
From silent mountains, straight, with
startling sound,
Torrents are hurl'd, green hills emerge, and
lo,
The trees with foliage, cliffs with flow'rs
are crown'd;
Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling
go;
And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart
o'erflow.
BEATTIE
Several
of her succeeding days passed in suspense, for Ludovico could only learn from
the soldiers, that there was a prisoner in the apartment, described to him by
Emily, and that he was a Frenchman, whom they had taken in one of their
skirmishes, with a party of his countrymen. During this interval, Emily escaped
the persecutions of Bertolini, and Verezzi, by confining herself to her
apartment; except that sometimes, in an evening, she ventured to walk in the
adjoining corridor. Montoni appeared to respect his last promise, though he had
prophaned his first; for to his protection only could she attribute her present
repose; and in this she was now so secure, that she did not wish to leave the
castle, till she could obtain some certainty concerning Valancourt; for which
she waited, indeed, without any sacrifice of her own comfort, since no
circumstance had occurred to make her escape probable.
On the
fourth day, Ludovico informed her, that he had hopes of being admitted to the
presence of the prisoner; it being the turn of a soldier, with whom he had been
for some time familiar, to attend him on the following night. He was not
deceived in his hope; for, under pretence of carrying in a pitcher of water, he
entered the prison, though, his prudence having prevented him from telling the
sentinel the real motive of his visit, he was obliged to make his conference
with the prisoner a very short one.
Emily
awaited the result in her own apartment, Ludovico having promised to accompany
Annette to the corridor, in the evening; where, after several hours impatiently
counted, he arrived. Emily, having then uttered the name of Valancourt, could
articulate no more, but hesitated in trembling expectation. 'The Chevalier
would not entrust me with his name, Signora,' replied Ludovico; 'but, when I
just mentioned yours, he seemed overwhelmed with joy, though he was not so much
surprised as I expected.' 'Does he then remember me?' she exclaimed.
'O! it is
Mons. Valancourt,' said Annette, and looked impatiently at Ludovico, who
understood her look, and replied to Emily: 'Yes, lady, the Chevalier does,
indeed, remember you, and, I am sure, has a very great regard for you, and I
made bold to say you had for him. He then enquired how you came to know he was
in the castle, and whether you ordered me to speak to him. The first question I
could not answer, but the second I did; and then he went off into his ecstasies
again. I was afraid his joy would have betrayed him to the sentinel at the
door.'
'But how
does he look, Ludovico?' interrupted Emily: 'is he not melancholy and ill with
this long confinement?'—'Why, as to melancholy, I saw no symptom of that, lady,
while I was with him, for he seemed in the finest spirits I ever saw any body
in, in all my life. His countenance was all joy, and, if one may judge from
that, he was very well; but I did not ask him.' 'Did he send me no message?'
said Emily. 'O yes, Signora, and something besides,' replied Ludovico, who
searched his pockets. 'Surely, I have not lost it,' added he. 'The Chevalier
said, he would have written, madam, if he had had pen and ink, and was going to
have sent a very long message, when the sentinel entered the room, but not
before he had give me this.' Ludovico then drew forth a miniature from his
bosom, which Emily received with a trembling hand, and perceived to be a
portrait of herself—the very picture, which her mother had lost so strangely in
the fishing-house at La Vallee.
Tears of
mingled joy and tenderness flowed to her eyes, while Ludovico
proceeded—'"Tell your lady," said the Chevalier, as he gave me the
picture, "that this has been my companion, and only solace in all my
misfortunes. Tell her, that I have worn it next my heart, and that I sent it
her as the pledge of an affection, which can never die; that I would not part
with it, but to her, for the wealth of worlds, and that I now part with it,
only in the hope of soon receiving it from her hands. Tell her"—Just then,
Signora, the sentinel came in, and the Chevalier said no more; but he had
before asked me to contrive an interview for him with you; and when I told him,
how little hope I had of prevailing with the guard to assist me, he said, that
was not, perhaps, of so much consequence as I imagined, and bade me contrive to
bring back your answer, and he would inform me of more than he chose to do
then. So this, I think, lady, is the whole of what passed.'
'How,
Ludovico, shall I reward you for your zeal?' said Emily: 'but, indeed, I do not
now possess the means. When can you see the Chevalier again?' 'That is
uncertain, Signora,' replied he. 'It depends upon who stands guard next: there
are not more than one or two among them, from whom I would dare to ask
admittance to the prison-chamber.'
'I need
not bid you remember, Ludovico,' resumed Emily, 'how very much interested I am
in your seeing the Chevalier soon; and, when you do so, tell him, that I have
received the picture, and, with the sentiments he wished. Tell him I have
suffered much, and still suffer—' She paused. 'But shall I tell him you will
see him, lady?' said Ludovico. 'Most certainly I will,' replied Emily. 'But
when, Signora, and where?' 'That must depend upon circumstances,' returned
Emily. 'The place, and the hour, must be regulated by his opportunities.'
'As to
the place, mademoiselle,' said Annette, 'there is no other place in the castle,
besides this corridor, where WE can see him in safety, you know; and, as for
the hour,—it must be when all the Signors are asleep, if that ever happens!'
'You may mention these circumstances to the Chevalier, Ludovico,' said she,
checking the flippancy of Annette, 'and leave them to his judgment and
opportunity. Tell him, my heart is unchanged. But, above all, let him see you
again as soon as possible; and, Ludovico, I think it is needless to tell you I
shall very anxiously look for you.' Having then wished her good night, Ludovico
descended the staircase, and Emily retired to rest, but not to sleep, for joy
now rendered her as wakeful, as she had ever been from grief. Montoni and his
castle had all vanished from her mind, like the frightful vision of a
necromancer, and she wandered, once more, in fairy scenes of unfading
happiness:
As when, beneath the beam
Of summer moons, the distant woods among,
Or by some flood, all silver'd with the gleam,
The soft embodied Fays thro' airy portals
stream.
A week
elapsed, before Ludovico again visited the prison; for the sentinels, during
that period, were men, in whom he could not confide, and he feared to awaken
curiosity, by asking to see their prisoner. In this interval, he communicated
to Emily terrific reports of what was passing in the castle; of riots,
quarrels, and of carousals more alarming than either; while from some
circumstances, which he mentioned, she not only doubted, whether Montoni meant
ever to release her, but greatly feared, that he had designs, concerning
her,—such as she had formerly dreaded. Her name was frequently mentioned in the
conversations, which Bertolini and Verezzi held together, and, at those times,
they were frequently in contention. Montoni had lost large sums to Verezzi, so
that there was a dreadful possibility of his designing her to be a substitute
for the debt; but, as she was ignorant, that he had formerly encouraged the
hopes of Bertolini also, concerning herself, after the latter had done him some
signal service, she knew not how to account for these contentions between
Bertolini and Verezzi. The cause of them, however, appeared to be of little
consequence, for she thought she saw destruction approaching in many forms, and
her entreaties to Ludovico to contrive an escape and to see the prisoner again,
were more urgent than ever.
At
length, he informed her, that he had again visited the Chevalier, who had
directed him to confide in the guard of the prison, from whom he had already
received some instances of kindness, and who had promised to permit his going
into the castle for half an hour, on the ensuing night, when Montoni and his
companions should be engaged at their carousals. 'This was kind, to be sure,'
added Ludovico: 'but Sebastian knows he runs no risque in letting the Chevalier
out, for, if he can get beyond the bars and iron doors of the castle, he must
be cunning indeed. But the Chevalier desired me, Signora, to go to you immediately,
and to beg you would allow him to visit you, this night, if it was only for a
moment, for that he could no longer live under the same roof, without seeing
you; the hour, he said, he could not mention, for it must depend on
circumstances (just as you said, Signora); and the place he desired you would
appoint, as knowing which was best for your own safety.'
Emily was
now so much agitated by the near prospect of meeting Valancourt, that it was
some time, before she could give any answer to Ludovico, or consider of the
place of meeting; when she did, she saw none, that promised so much security,
as the corridor, near her own apartment, which she was checked from leaving, by
the apprehension of meeting any of Montoni's guests, on their way to their
rooms; and she dismissed the scruples, which delicacy opposed, now that a
serious danger was to be avoided by encountering them. It was settled,
therefore, that the Chevalier should meet her in the corridor, at that hour of
the night, which Ludovico, who was to be upon the watch, should judge safest:
and Emily, as may be imagined, passed this interval in a tumult of hope and
joy, anxiety and impatience. Never, since her residence in the castle, had she
watched, with so much pleasure, the sun set behind the mountains, and twilight
shade, and darkness veil the scene, as on this evening. She counted the notes
of the great clock, and listened to the steps of the sentinels, as they changed
the watch, only to rejoice, that another hour was gone. 'O, Valancourt!' said she,
'after all I have suffered; after our long, long separation, when I thought I
should never—never see you more—we are still to meet again! O! I have endured
grief, and anxiety, and terror, and let me, then, not sink beneath this joy!'
These were moments, when it was impossible for her to feel emotions of regret,
or melancholy, for any ordinary interests;—even the reflection, that she had
resigned the estates, which would have been a provision for herself and
Valancourt for life, threw only a light and transient shade upon her spirits.
The idea of Valancourt, and that she should see him so soon, alone occupied her
heart.
At length
the clock struck twelve; she opened the door to listen, if any noise was in the
castle, and heard only distant shouts of riot and laughter, echoed feebly along
the gallery. She guessed, that the Signor and his guests were at the banquet.
'They are now engaged for the night,' said she; 'and Valancourt will soon be
here.' Having softly closed the door, she paced the room with impatient steps,
and often went to the casement to listen for the lute; but all was silent, and,
her agitation every moment increasing, she was at length unable to support
herself, and sat down by the window. Annette, whom she detained, was, in the
meantime, as loquacious as usual; but Emily heard scarcely any thing she said,
and having at length risen to the casement, she distinguished the chords of the
lute, struck with an expressive hand, and then the voice, she had formerly
listened to, accompanied it.
Now rising love they fann'd, now pleasing
dole
They breath'd in tender musings through the
heart;
And now a graver, sacred strain they stole,
As when seraphic hands an hymn impart!
Emily
wept in doubtful joy and tenderness; and, when the strain ceased, she
considered it as a signal, that Valancourt was about to leave the prison. Soon
after, she heard steps in the corridor;—they were the light, quick steps of
hope; she could scarcely support herself, as they approached, but opening the
door of the apartment, she advanced to meet Valancourt, and, in the next
moment, sunk in the arms of a stranger. His voice—his countenance instantly
convinced her, and she fainted away.
On
reviving, she found herself supported by the stranger, who was watching over
her recovery, with a countenance of ineffable tenderness and anxiety. She had
no spirits for reply, or enquiry; she asked no questions, but burst into tears,
and disengaged herself from his arms; when the expression of his countenance
changed to surprise and disappointment, and he turned to Ludovico, for an
explanation; Annette soon gave the information, which Ludovico could not. 'O,
sir!' said she, in a voice, interrupted with sobs; 'O, sir! you are not the
other Chevalier. We expected Monsieur Valancourt, but you are not he! O
Ludovico! how could you deceive us so? my poor lady will never recover
it—never!' The stranger, who now appeared much agitated, attempted to speak,
but his words faltered; and then striking his hand against his forehead, as if
in sudden despair, he walked abruptly to the other end of the corridor.
Suddenly,
Annette dried her tears, and spoke to Ludovico. 'But, perhaps,' said she,
'after all, the other Chevalier is not this: perhaps the Chevalier Valancourt
is still below.' Emily raised her head. 'No,' replied Ludovico, 'Monsieur
Valancourt never was below, if this gentleman is not he.' 'If you, sir,' said
Ludovico, addressing the stranger, 'would but have had the goodness to trust me
with your name, this mistake had been avoided.' 'Most true,' replied the
stranger, speaking in broken Italian, 'but it was of the utmost consequence to
me, that my name should be concealed from Montoni. Madam,' added he then,
addressing Emily in French, 'will you permit me to apologize for the pain I
have occasioned you, and to explain to you alone my name, and the circumstance,
which has led me into this error? I am of France;—I am your countryman;—we are
met in a foreign land.' Emily tried to compose her spirits; yet she hesitated
to grant his request. At length, desiring, that Ludovico would wait on the
stair-case, and detaining Annette, she told the stranger, that her woman
understood very little Italian, and begged he would communicate what he wished
to say, in that language.—Having withdrawn to a distant part of the corridor,
he said, with a long-drawn sigh, 'You, madam, are no stranger to me, though I
am so unhappy as to be unknown to you.—My name is Du Pont; I am of France, of
Gascony, your native province, and have long admired,—and, why should I affect
to disguise it?—have long loved you.' He paused, but, in the next moment,
proceeded. 'My family, madam, is probably not unknown to you, for we lived
within a few miles of La Vallee, and I have, sometimes, had the happiness of
meeting you, on visits in the neighbourhood. I will not offend you by repeating
how much you interested me; how much I loved to wander in the scenes you
frequented; how often I visited your favourite fishing-house, and lamented the
circumstance, which, at that time, forbade me to reveal my passion. I will not
explain how I surrendered to temptation, and became possessed of a treasure,
which was to me inestimable; a treasure, which I committed to your messenger, a
few days ago, with expectations very different from my present ones. I will say
nothing of these circumstances, for I know they will avail me little; let me
only supplicate from you forgiveness, and the picture, which I so unwarily
returned. Your generosity will pardon the theft, and restore the prize. My
crime has been my punishment; for the portrait I stole has contributed to
nourish a passion, which must still be my torment.'
Emily now
interrupted him. 'I think, sir, I may leave it to your integrity to determine,
whether, after what has just appeared, concerning Mons. Valancourt, I ought to
return the picture. I think you will acknowledge, that this would not be
generosity; and you will allow me to add, that it would be doing myself an
injustice. I must consider myself honoured by your good opinion, but'—and she
hesitated,—'the mistake of this evening makes it unnecessary for me to say
more.'
'It does,
madam,—alas! it does!' said the stranger, who, after a long pause,
proceeded.—'But you will allow me to shew my disinterestedness, though not my
love, and will accept the services I offer. Yet, alas! what services can I
offer? I am myself a prisoner, a sufferer, like you. But, dear as liberty is to
me, I would not seek it through half the hazards I would encounter to deliver
you from this recess of vice. Accept the offered services of a friend; do not
refuse me the reward of having, at least, attempted to deserve your thanks.'
'You
deserve them already, sir,' said Emily; 'the wish deserves my warmest thanks.
But you will excuse me for reminding you of the danger you incur by prolonging
this interview. It will be a great consolation to me to remember, whether your
friendly attempts to release me succeed or not, that I have a countryman, who
would so generously protect me.'—Monsieur Du Pont took her hand, which she but
feebly attempted to withdraw, and pressed it respectfully to his lips. 'Allow
me to breathe another fervent sigh for your happiness,' said he, 'and to
applaud myself for an affection, which I cannot conquer.' As he said this,
Emily heard a noise from her apartment, and, turning round, saw the door from
the stair-case open, and a man rush into her chamber. 'I will teach you to
conquer it,' cried he, as he advanced into the corridor, and drew a stiletto,
which he aimed at Du Pont, who was unarmed, but who, stepping back, avoided the
blow, and then sprung upon Verezzi, from whom he wrenched the stiletto. While
they struggled in each other's grasp, Emily, followed by Annette, ran further
into the corridor, calling on Ludovico, who was, however, gone from the
stair-case, and, as she advanced, terrified and uncertain what to do, a distant
noise, that seemed to arise from the hall, reminded her of the danger she was
incurring; and, sending Annette forward in search of Ludovico, she returned to
the spot where Du Pont and Verezzi were still struggling for victory. It was
her own cause which was to be decided with that of the former, whose conduct,
independently of this circumstance, would, however, have interested her in his
success, even had she not disliked and dreaded Verezzi. She threw herself in a
chair, and supplicated them to desist from further violence, till, at length,
Du Pont forced Verezzi to the floor, where he lay stunned by the violence of
his fall; and she then entreated Du Pont to escape from the room, before
Montoni, or his party, should appear; but he still refused to leave her
unprotected; and, while Emily, now more terrified for him, than for herself,
enforced the entreaty, they heard steps ascending the private stair-case.
'O you
are lost!' cried she, 'these are Montoni's people.' Du Pont made no reply, but
supported Emily, while, with a steady, though eager, countenance, he awaited
their appearance, and, in the next moment, Ludovico, alone, mounted the
landing-place. Throwing an hasty glance round the chamber, 'Follow me,' said
he, 'as you value your lives; we have not an instant to lose!'
Emily
enquired what had occurred, and whither they were to go?
'I cannot
stay to tell you now, Signora,' replied Ludovico: 'fly! fly!'
She
immediately followed him, accompanied by Mons. Du Pont, down the stair-case,
and along a vaulted passage, when suddenly she recollected Annette, and
enquired for her. 'She awaits us further on, Signora,' said Ludovico, almost
breathless with haste; 'the gates were open, a moment since, to a party just
come in from the mountains: they will be shut, I fear, before we can reach
them! Through this door, Signora,' added Ludovico, holding down the lamp, 'take
care, here are two steps.'
Emily
followed, trembling still more, than before she had understood, that her escape
from the castle, depended upon the present moment; while Du Pont supported her,
and endeavoured, as they passed along, to cheer her spirits.
'Speak
low, Signor,' said Ludovico, 'these passages send echoes all round the castle.'
'Take
care of the light,' cried Emily, 'you go so fast, that the air will extinguish
it.'
Ludovico
now opened another door, where they found Annette, and the party then descended
a short flight of steps into a passage, which, Ludovico said, led round the
inner court of the castle, and opened into the outer one. As they advanced,
confused and tumultuous sounds, that seemed to come from the inner court,
alarmed Emily. 'Nay, Signora,' said Ludovico, 'our only hope is in that tumult;
while the Signor's people are busied about the men, who are just arrived, we
may, perhaps, pass unnoticed through the gates. But hush!' he added, as they
approached the small door, that opened into the outer court, 'if you will
remain here a moment, I will go to see whether the gates are open, and any body
is in the way. Pray extinguish the light, Signor, if you hear me talking,'
continued Ludovico, delivering the lamp to Du Pont, 'and remain quite still.'
Saying
this, he stepped out upon the court, and they closed the door, listening
anxiously to his departing steps. No voice, however, was heard in the court,
which he was crossing, though a confusion of many voices yet issued from the
inner one. 'We shall soon be beyond the walls,' said Du Pont softly to Emily,
'support yourself a little longer, Madam, and all will be well.'
But soon
they heard Ludovico speaking loud, and the voice also of some other person, and
Du Pont immediately extinguished the lamp. 'Ah! it is too late!' exclaimed
Emily, 'what is to become of us?' They listened again, and then perceived, that
Ludovico was talking with a sentinel, whose voices were heard also by Emily's
favourite dog, that had followed her from the chamber, and now barked loudly.
'This dog will betray us!' said Du Pont, 'I will hold him.' 'I fear he has
already betrayed us!' replied Emily. Du Pont, however, caught him up, and,
again listening to what was going on without, they heard Ludovico say, 'I'll
watch the gates the while.'
'Stay a
minute,' replied the sentinel, 'and you need not have the trouble, for the
horses will be sent round to the outer stables, then the gates will be shut,
and I can leave my post.' 'I don't mind the trouble, comrade,' said Ludovico,
'you will do such another good turn for me, some time. Go—go, and fetch the
wine; the rogues, that are just come in, will drink it all else.'
The
soldier hesitated, and then called aloud to the people in the second court, to
know why they did not send out the horses, that the gates might be shut; but
they were too much engaged, to attend to him, even if they had heard his voice.
'Aye—aye,'
said Ludovico, 'they know better than that; they are sharing it all among them;
if you wait till the horses come out, you must wait till the wine is drunk. I
have had my share already, but, since you do not care about yours, I see no
reason why I should not have that too.'
'Hold,
hold, not so fast,' cried the sentinel, 'do watch then, for a moment: I'll be
with you presently.'
'Don't
hurry yourself,' said Ludovico, coolly, 'I have kept guard before now. But you
may leave me your trombone,* that, if the castle should be attacked, you know,
I may be able to defend the pass, like a hero.'
(* A kind
of blunderbuss. [A. R.])
'There,
my good fellow,' returned the soldier, 'there, take it—it has seen service,
though it could do little in defending the castle. I'll tell you a good story,
though, about this same trombone.'
'You'll
tell it better when you have had the wine,' said Ludovico. 'There! they are
coming out from the court already.'
'I'll
have the wine, though,' said the sentinel, running off. 'I won't keep you a
minute.'
'Take
your time, I am in no haste,' replied Ludovico, who was already hurrying across
the court, when the soldier came back. 'Whither so fast, friend—whither so
fast?' said the latter. 'What! is this the way you keep watch! I must stand to
my post myself, I see.'
'Aye,
well,' replied Ludovico, 'you have saved me the trouble of following you
further, for I wanted to tell you, if you have a mind to drink the Tuscany
wine, you must go to Sebastian, he is dealing it out; the other that Federico
has, is not worth having. But you are not likely to have any, I see, for they
are all coming out.'
'By St.
Peter! so they are,' said the soldier, and again ran off, while Ludovico, once
more at liberty, hastened to the door of the passage, where Emily was sinking
under the anxiety this long discourse had occasioned; but, on his telling them
the court was clear, they followed him to the gates, without waiting another
instant, yet not before he had seized two horses, that had strayed from the
second court, and were picking a scanty meal among the grass, which grew
between the pavement of the first.
They
passed, without interruption, the dreadful gates, and took the road that led
down among the woods, Emily, Monsieur Du Pont and Annette on foot, and
Ludovico, who was mounted on one horse, leading the other. Having reached them,
they stopped, while Emily and Annette were placed on horseback with their two
protectors, when, Ludovico leading the way, they set off as fast as the broken
road, and the feeble light, which a rising moon threw among the foliage, would
permit.
Emily was
so much astonished by this sudden departure, that she scarcely dared to believe
herself awake; and she yet much doubted whether this adventure would terminate
in escape,—a doubt, which had too much probability to justify it; for, before
they quitted the woods, they heard shouts in the wind, and, on emerging from
them, saw lights moving quickly near the castle above. Du Pont whipped his
horse, and with some difficulty compelled him to go faster.
'Ah! poor
beast,' said Ludovico, 'he is weary enough;—he has been out all day; but,
Signor, we must fly for it, now; for yonder are lights coming this way.'
Having
given his own horse a lash, they now both set off on a full gallop; and, when
they again looked back, the lights were so distant as scarcely to be discerned,
and the voices were sunk into silence. The travellers then abated their pace,
and, consulting whither they should direct their course, it was determined they
should descend into Tuscany, and endeavour to reach the Mediterranean, where
they could readily embark for France. Thither Du Pont meant to attend Emily, if
he should learn, that the regiment he had accompanied into Italy, was returned
to his native country.
They were
now in the road, which Emily had travelled with Ugo and Bertrand; but Ludovico,
who was the only one of the party, acquainted with the passes of these
mountains, said, that, a little further on, a bye-road, branching from this,
would lead them down into Tuscany with very little difficulty; and that, at a
few leagues distance, was a small town, where necessaries could be procured for
their journey.
'But, I
hope,' added he, 'we shall meet with no straggling parties of banditti; some of
them are abroad, I know. However, I have got a good trombone, which will be of
some service, if we should encounter any of those brave spirits. You have no
arms, Signor?' 'Yes,' replied Du Pont, 'I have the villain's stilletto, who
would have stabbed me—but let us rejoice in our escape from Udolpho, nor
torment ourselves with looking out for dangers, that may never arrive.'
The moon
was now risen high over the woods, that hung upon the sides of the narrow glen,
through which they wandered, and afforded them light sufficient to distinguish
their way, and to avoid the loose and broken stones, that frequently crossed
it. They now travelled leisurely, and in profound silence; for they had
scarcely yet recovered from the astonishment, into which this sudden escape had
thrown them.—Emily's mind, especially, was sunk, after the various emotions it
had suffered, into a kind of musing stillness, which the reposing beauty of the
surrounding scene and the creeping murmur of the night-breeze among the foliage
above contributed to prolong. She thought of Valancourt and of France, with
hope, and she would have thought of them with joy, had not the first events of
this evening harassed her spirits too much, to permit her now to feel so lively
a sensation. Meanwhile, Emily was alone the object of Du Pont's melancholy
consideration; yet, with the despondency he suffered, as he mused on his recent
disappointment, was mingled a sweet pleasure, occasioned by her presence,
though they did not now exchange a single word. Annette thought of this
wonderful escape, of the bustle in which Montoni and his people must be, now
that their flight was discovered; of her native country, whither she hoped she
was returning, and of her marriage with Ludovico, to which there no longer
appeared any impediment, for poverty she did not consider such. Ludovico, on
his part, congratulated himself, on having rescued his Annette and Signora Emily
from the danger, that had surrounded them; on his own liberation from people,
whose manners he had long detested; on the freedom he had given to Monsieur Du
Pont; on his prospect of happiness with the object of his affections, and not a
little on the address, with which he had deceived the sentinel, and conducted
the whole of this affair.
Thus
variously engaged in thought, the travellers passed on silently, for above an
hour, a question only being, now and then, asked by Du Pont, concerning the
road, or a remark uttered by Annette, respecting objects, seen imperfectly in
the twilight. At length, lights were perceived twinkling on the side of a
mountain, and Ludovico had no doubt, that they proceeded from the town he had
mentioned, while his companions, satisfied by this assurance, sunk again into
silence. Annette was the first who interrupted this. 'Holy Peter!' said she,
'What shall we do for money on our journey? for I know neither I, or my lady,
have a single sequin; the Signor took care of that!'
This remark
produced a serious enquiry, which ended in as serious an embarrassment, for Du
Pont had been rifled of nearly all his money, when he was taken prisoner; the
remainder he had given to the sentinel, who had enabled him occasionally to
leave his prison-chamber; and Ludovico, who had for some time found a
difficulty, in procuring any part of the wages due to him, had now scarcely
cash sufficient to procure necessary refreshment at the first town, in which
they should arrive.
Their
poverty was the more distressing, since it would detain them among the
mountains, where, even in a town, they could scarcely consider themselves safe
from Montoni. The travellers, however, had only to proceed and dare the future;
and they continued their way through lonely wilds and dusky vallies, where the
overhanging foliage now admitted, and then excluded the moon-light;—wilds so
desolate, that they appeared, on the first glance, as if no human being had
ever trode them before. Even the road, in which the party were, did but slightly
contradict this error, for the high grass and other luxuriant vegetation, with
which it was overgrown, told how very seldom the foot of a traveller had passed
it.
At
length, from a distance, was heard the faint tinkling of a sheep-bell; and,
soon after, the bleat of flocks, and the party then knew, that they were near
some human habitation, for the light, which Ludovico had fancied to proceed
from a town, had long been concealed by intervening mountains. Cheered by this
hope, they quickened their pace along the narrow pass they were winding, and it
opened upon one of those pastoral vallies of the Apennines, which might be
painted for a scene of Arcadia, and whose beauty and simplicity are finely
contrasted by the grandeur of the snow-topt mountains above.
The
morning light, now glimmering in the horizon, shewed faintly, at a little
distance, upon the brow of a hill, which seemed to peep from 'under the opening
eye-lids of the morn,' the town they were in search of, and which they soon
after reached. It was not without some difficulty, that they there found a
house, which could afford shelter for themselves and their horses; and Emily
desired they might not rest longer than was necessary for refreshment. Her
appearance excited some surprise, for she was without a hat, having had time
only to throw on her veil before she left the castle, a circumstance, that
compelled her to regret again the want of money, without which it was
impossible to procure this necessary article of dress.
Ludovico,
on examining his purse, found it even insufficient to supply present
refreshment, and Du Pont, at length, ventured to inform the landlord, whose
countenance was simple and honest, of their exact situation, and requested,
that he would assist them to pursue their journey; a purpose, which he promised
to comply with, as far as he was able, when he learned that they were prisoners
escaping from Montoni, whom he had too much reason to hate. But, though he
consented to lend them fresh horses to carry them to the next town, he was too
poor himself to trust them with money, and they were again lamenting their
poverty, when Ludovico, who had been with his tired horses to the hovel, which
served for a stable, entered the room, half frantic with joy, in which his
auditors soon participated. On removing the saddle from one of the horses, he
had found beneath it a small bag, containing, no doubt, the booty of one of the
condottieri, who had returned from a plundering excursion, just before Ludovico
left the castle, and whose horse having strayed from the inner court, while his
master was engaged in drinking, had brought away the treasure, which the
ruffian had considered the reward of his exploit.
On
counting over this, Du Pont found, that it would be more than sufficient to
carry them all to France, where he now determined to accompany Emily, whether
he should obtain intelligence of his regiment, or not; for, though he had as
much confidence in the integrity of Ludovico, as his small knowledge of him
allowed, he could not endure the thought of committing her to his care for the
voyage; nor, perhaps, had he resolution enough to deny himself the dangerous
pleasure, which he might derive from her presence.
He now
consulted them, concerning the sea-port, to which they should direct their way,
and Ludovico, better informed of the geography of the country, said, that
Leghorn was the nearest port of consequence, which Du Pont knew also to be the
most likely of any in Italy to assist their plan, since from thence vessels of
all nations were continually departing. Thither, therefore, it was determined,
that they should proceed.
Emily,
having purchased a little straw hat, such as was worn by the peasant girls of
Tuscany, and some other little necessary equipments for the journey, and the
travellers, having exchanged their tired horses for others better able to carry
them, re-commenced their joyous way, as the sun was rising over the mountains,
and, after travelling through this romantic country, for several hours, began
to descend into the vale of Arno. And here Emily beheld all the charms of
sylvan and pastoral landscape united, adorned with the elegant villas of the
Florentine nobles, and diversified with the various riches of cultivation. How
vivid the shrubs, that embowered the slopes, with the woods, that stretched
amphitheatrically along the mountains! and, above all, how elegant the outline
of these waving Apennines, now softening from the wildness, which their
interior regions exhibited! At a distance, in the east, Emily discovered
Florence, with its towers rising on the brilliant horizon, and its luxuriant
plain, spreading to the feet of the Apennines, speckled with gardens and
magnificent villas, or coloured with groves of orange and lemon, with vines,
corn, and plantations of olives and mulberry; while, to the west, the vale
opened to the waters of the Mediterranean, so distant, that they were known
only by a blueish line, that appeared upon the horizon, and by the light marine
vapour, which just stained the aether above.
With a
full heart, Emily hailed the waves, that were to bear her back to her native
country, the remembrance of which, however, brought with it a pang; for she had
there no home to receive, no parents to welcome her, but was going, like a
forlorn pilgrim, to weep over the sad spot, where he, who WAS her father, lay
interred. Nor were her spirits cheered, when she considered how long it would
probably be before she should see Valancourt, who might be stationed with his
regiment in a distant part of France, and that, when they did meet, it would be
only to lament the successful villany of Montoni; yet, still she would have
felt inexpressible delight at the thought of being once more in the same
country with Valancourt, had it even been certain, that she could not see him.
The
intense heat, for it was now noon, obliged the travellers to look out for a
shady recess, where they might rest, for a few hours, and the neighbouring
thickets, abounding with wild grapes, raspberries, and figs, promised them
grateful refreshment. Soon after, they turned from the road into a grove, whose
thick foliage entirely excluded the sun-beams, and where a spring, gushing from
the rock, gave coolness to the air; and, having alighted and turned the horses
to graze, Annette and Ludovico ran to gather fruit from the surrounding
thickets, of which they soon returned with an abundance. The travellers, seated
under the shade of a pine and cypress grove and on turf, enriched with such a
profusion of fragrant flowers, as Emily had scarcely ever seen, even among the
Pyrenees, took their simple repast, and viewed, with new delight, beneath the
dark umbrage of gigantic pines, the glowing landscape stretching to the sea.
Emily and
Du Pont gradually became thoughtful and silent; but Annette was all joy and
loquacity, and Ludovico was gay, without forgetting the respectful distance,
which was due to his companions. The repast being over, Du Pont recommended
Emily to endeavour to sleep, during these sultry hours, and, desiring the
servants would do the same, said he would watch the while; but Ludovico wished
to spare him this trouble; and Emily and Annette, wearied with travelling,
tried to repose, while he stood guard with his trombone.
When
Emily, refreshed by slumber, awoke, she found the sentinel asleep on his post
and Du Pont awake, but lost in melancholy thought. As the sun was yet too high
to allow them to continue their journey, and as it was necessary, that
Ludovico, after the toils and trouble he had suffered, should finish his sleep,
Emily took this opportunity of enquiring by what accident Du Pont became
Montoni's prisoner, and he, pleased with the interest this enquiry expressed
and with the excuse it gave him for talking to her of himself, immediately
answered her curiosity.
'I came
into Italy, madam,' said Du Pont, 'in the service of my country. In an
adventure among the mountains our party, engaging with the bands of Montoni,
was routed, and I, with a few of my comrades, was taken prisoner. When they
told me, whose captive I was, the name of Montoni struck me, for I remembered,
that Madame Cheron, your aunt, had married an Italian of that name, and that
you had accompanied them into Italy. It was not, however, till some time after,
that I became convinced this was the same Montoni, or learned that you, madam,
was under the same roof with myself. I will not pain you by describing what
were my emotions upon this discovery, which I owed to a sentinel, whom I had so
far won to my interest, that he granted me many indulgences, one of which was
very important to me, and somewhat dangerous to himself; but he persisted in
refusing to convey any letter, or notice of my situation to you, for he justly
dreaded a discovery and the consequent vengeance of Montoni. He however enabled
me to see you more than once. You are surprised, madam, and I will explain
myself. My health and spirits suffered extremely from want of air and exercise,
and, at length, I gained so far upon the pity, or the avarice of the man, that
he gave me the means of walking on the terrace.'
Emily now
listened, with very anxious attention, to the narrative of Du Pont, who
proceeded:
'In
granting this indulgence, he knew, that he had nothing to apprehend from a chance
of my escaping from a castle, which was vigilantly guarded, and the nearest
terrace of which rose over a perpendicular rock; he shewed me also,' continued
Du Pont, 'a door concealed in the cedar wainscot of the apartment where I was
confined, which he instructed me how to open; and which, leading into a
passage, formed within the thickness of the wall, that extended far along the
castle, finally opened in an obscure corner of the eastern rampart. I have
since been informed, that there are many passages of the same kind concealed
within the prodigious walls of that edifice, and which were, undoubtedly,
contrived for the purpose of facilitating escapes in time of war. Through this
avenue, at the dead of night, I often stole to the terrace, where I walked with
the utmost caution, lest my steps should betray me to the sentinels on duty in
distant parts; for this end of it, being guarded by high buildings, was not
watched by soldiers. In one of these midnight wanderings, I saw light in a
casement that overlooked the rampart, and which, I observed, was immediately
over my prison-chamber. It occurred to me, that you might be in that apartment,
and, with the hope of seeing you, I placed myself opposite to the window.'
Emily,
remembering the figure that had formerly appeared on the terrace, and which had
occasioned her so much anxiety, exclaimed, 'It was you then, Monsieur Du Pont,
who occasioned me much foolish terror; my spirits were, at that time, so much
weakened by long suffering, that they took alarm at every hint.' Du Pont, after
lamenting, that he had occasioned her any apprehension, added, 'As I rested on
the wall, opposite to your casement, the consideration of your melancholy
situation and of my own called from me involuntary sounds of lamentation, which
drew you, I fancy, to the casement; I saw there a person, whom I believed to be
you. O! I will say nothing of my emotion at that moment; I wished to speak, but
prudence restrained me, till the distant foot-step of a sentinel compelled me
suddenly to quit my station.
'It was
some time, before I had another opportunity of walking, for I could only leave
my prison, when it happened to be the turn of one man to guard me; meanwhile I
became convinced from some circumstances related by him, that your apartment was
over mine, and, when again I ventured forth, I returned to your casement, where
again I saw you, but without daring to speak. I waved my hand, and you suddenly
disappeared; then it was, that I forgot my prudence, and yielded to
lamentation; again you appeared—you spoke—I heard the well-known accent of your
voice! and, at that moment, my discretion would have forsaken me again, had I
not heard also the approaching steps of a soldier, when I instantly quitted the
place, though not before the man had seen me. He followed down the terrace and
gained so fast upon me, that I was compelled to make use of a stratagem,
ridiculous enough, to save myself. I had heard of the superstition of many of
these men, and I uttered a strange noise, with a hope, that my pursuer would
mistake it for something supernatural, and desist from pursuit. Luckily for
myself I succeeded; the man, it seems, was subject to fits, and the terror he
suffered threw him into one, by which accident I secured my retreat. A sense of
the danger I had escaped, and the increased watchfulness, which my appearance
had occasioned among the sentinels, deterred me ever after from walking on the
terrace; but, in the stillness of night, I frequently beguiled myself with an
old lute, procured for me by a soldier, which I sometimes accompanied with my
voice, and sometimes, I will acknowledge, with a hope of making myself heard by
you; but it was only a few evenings ago, that this hope was answered. I then
thought I heard a voice in the wind, calling me; yet, even then I feared to
reply, lest the sentinel at the prison door should hear me. Was I right, madam,
in this conjecture—was it you who spoke?'
'Yes,'
said Emily, with an involuntary sigh, 'you was right indeed.'
Du Pont,
observing the painful emotions, which this question revived, now changed the
subject. 'In one of my excursions through the passage, which I have mentioned,
I overheard a singular conversation,' said he.
'In the
passage!' said Emily, with surprise.
'I heard
it in the passage,' said Du Pont, 'but it proceeded from an apartment,
adjoining the wall, within which the passage wound, and the shell of the wall
was there so thin, and was also somewhat decayed, that I could distinctly hear
every word, spoken on the other side. It happened that Montoni and his
companions were assembled in the room, and Montoni began to relate the
extraordinary history of the lady, his predecessor, in the castle. He did,
indeed, mention some very surprising circumstances, and whether they were
strictly true, his conscience must decide; I fear it will determine against
him. But you, madam, have doubtless heard the report, which he designs should
circulate, on the subject of that lady's mysterious fate.'
'I have,
sir,' replied Emily, 'and I perceive, that you doubt it.'
'I
doubted it before the period I am speaking of,' rejoined Du Pont;—'but some
circumstances, mentioned by Montoni, greatly contributed to my suspicions. The
account I then heard, almost convinced me, that he was a murderer. I trembled
for you;—the more so that I had heard the guests mention your name in a manner,
that threatened your repose; and, knowing, that the most impious men are often
the most superstitious, I determined to try whether I could not awaken their
consciences, and awe them from the commission of the crime I dreaded. I
listened closely to Montoni, and, in the most striking passages of his story, I
joined my voice, and repeated his last words, in a disguised and hollow tone.'
'But was
you not afraid of being discovered?' said Emily.
'I was
not,' replied Du Pont; 'for I knew, that, if Montoni had been acquainted with
the secret of this passage, he would not have confined me in the apartment, to
which it led. I knew also, from better authority, that he was ignorant of it.
The party, for some time, appeared inattentive to my voice; but, at length,
were so much alarmed, that they quitted the apartment; and, having heard
Montoni order his servants to search it, I returned to my prison, which was
very distant from this part of the passage.' 'I remember perfectly to have
heard of the conversation you mention,' said Emily; 'it spread a general alarm
among Montoni's people, and I will own I was weak enough to partake of it.'
Monsieur
Du Pont and Emily thus continued to converse of Montoni, and then of France,
and of the plan of their voyage; when Emily told him, that it was her intention
to retire to a convent in Languedoc, where she had been formerly treated with
much kindness, and from thence to write to her relation Monsieur Quesnel, and
inform him of her conduct. There, she designed to wait, till La Vallee should
again be her own, whither she hoped her income would some time permit her to
return; for Du Pont now taught her to expect, that the estate, of which Montoni
had attempted to defraud her, was not irrecoverably lost, and he again
congratulated her on her escape from Montoni, who, he had not a doubt, meant to
have detained her for life. The possibility of recovering her aunt's estates
for Valancourt and herself lighted up a joy in Emily's heart, such as she had
not known for many months; but she endeavoured to conceal this from Monsieur Du
Pont, lest it should lead him to a painful remembrance of his rival.
They
continued to converse, till the sun was declining in the west, when Du Pont awoke
Ludovico, and they set forward on their journey. Gradually descending the lower
slopes of the valley, they reached the Arno, and wound along its pastoral
margin, for many miles, delighted with the scenery around them, and with the
remembrances, which its classic waves revived. At a distance, they heard the
gay song of the peasants among the vineyards, and observed the setting sun tint
the waves with yellow lustre, and twilight draw a dusky purple over the
mountains, which, at length, deepened into night. Then the LUCCIOLA, the
fire-fly of Tuscany, was seen to flash its sudden sparks among the foliage,
while the cicala, with its shrill note, became more clamorous than even during
the noon-day heat, loving best the hour when the English beetle, with less offensive
sound,
winds
His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.*
(*
Collins. [A. R.])
The
travellers crossed the Arno by moon-light, at a ferry, and, learning that Pisa
was distant only a few miles down the river, they wished to have proceeded
thither in a boat, but, as none could be procured, they set out on their
wearied horses for that city. As they approached it, the vale expanded into a
plain, variegated with vineyards, corn, olives and mulberry groves; but it was
late, before they reached its gates, where Emily was surprised to hear the busy
sound of footsteps and the tones of musical instruments, as well as to see the
lively groups, that filled the streets, and she almost fancied herself again at
Venice; but here was no moon-light sea—no gay gondolas, dashing the waves,—no
PALLADIAN palaces, to throw enchantment over the fancy and lead it into the
wilds of fairy story. The Arno rolled through the town, but no music trembled
from balconies over its waters; it gave only the busy voices of sailors on
board vessels just arrived from the Mediterranean; the melancholy heaving of
the anchor, and the shrill boatswain's whistle;—sounds, which, since that
period, have there sunk almost into silence. They then served to remind Du
Pont, that it was probable he might hear of a vessel, sailing soon to France
from this port, and thus be spared the trouble of going to Leghorn. As soon as
Emily had reached the inn, he went therefore to the quay, to make his
enquiries; but, after all the endeavours of himself and Ludovico, they could
hear of no bark, destined immediately for France, and the travellers returned
to their resting-place. Here also, Du Pont endeavoured to learn where his
regiment then lay, but could acquire no information concerning it. The
travellers retired early to rest, after the fatigues of this day; and, on the
following, rose early, and, without pausing to view the celebrated antiquities
of the place, or the wonders of its hanging tower, pursued their journey in the
cooler hours, through a charming country, rich with wine, and corn and oil. The
Apennines, no longer awful, or even grand, here softened into the beauty of
sylvan and pastoral landscape; and Emily, as she descended them, looked down
delighted on Leghorn, and its spacious bay, filled with vessels, and crowned
with these beautiful hills.
She was
no less surprised and amused, on entering this town, to find it crowded with
persons in the dresses of all nations; a scene, which reminded her of a
Venetian masquerade, such as she had witnessed at the time of the Carnival; but
here, was bustle, without gaiety, and noise instead of music, while elegance
was to be looked for only in the waving outlines of the surrounding hills.
Monsieur
Du Pont, immediately on their arrival, went down to the quay, where he heard of
several French vessels, and of one, that was to sail, in a few days, for Marseilles,
from whence another vessel could be procured, without difficulty, to take them
across the gulf of Lyons towards Narbonne, on the coast not many leagues from
which city he understood the convent was seated, to which Emily wished to
retire. He, therefore, immediately engaged with the captain to take them to
Marseilles, and Emily was delighted to hear, that her passage to France was
secured. Her mind was now relieved from the terror of pursuit, and the pleasing
hope of soon seeing her native country—that country which held Valancourt,
restored to her spirits a degree of cheerfulness, such as she had scarcely
known, since the death of her father. At Leghorn also, Du Pont heard of his
regiment, and that it had embarked for France; a circumstance, which gave him
great satisfaction, for he could now accompany Emily thither, without reproach
to his conscience, or apprehension of displeasure from his commander. During
these days, he scrupulously forbore to distress her by a mention of his
passion, and she was compelled to esteem and pity, though she could not love
him. He endeavoured to amuse her by shewing the environs of the town, and they
often walked together on the sea-shore, and on the busy quays, where Emily was
frequently interested by the arrival and departure of vessels, participating in
the joy of meeting friends, and, sometimes, shedding a sympathetic tear to the
sorrow of those, that were separating. It was after having witnessed a scene of
the latter kind, that she arranged the following stanzas:
THE
MARINER
Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow'd
the tide;
And blue the heaven in its mirror smil'd;
The white sail trembled, swell'd, expanded
wide,
The busy sailors at the anchor toil'd.
With anxious friends, that shed the parting
tear,
The deck was throng'd—how swift the moments
fly!
The vessel heaves, the farewel signs appear;
Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!
The last dread moment comes!—The sailor-youth
Hides the big drop, then smiles amid his pain,
Sooths his sad bride, and vows eternal truth,
'Farewel, my love—we shall—shall meet again!'
Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood;
The crowded shore sinks, lessening, from his
view,
As gradual glides the bark along the flood;
His bride is seen no more—'Adieu!—adieu!'
The breeze of Eve moans low, her smile is
o'er,
Dim steals her twilight down the crimson'd
west,
He climbs the top-most mast, to seek once more
The far-seen coast, where all his wishes rest.
He views its dark line on the distant sky,
And Fancy leads him to his little home,
He sees his weeping love, he hears her sigh,
He sooths her griefs, and tells of joys to
come.
Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry
gales,
In one vast shade the seas and shores repose;
He turns his aching eyes,—his spirit fails,
The chill tear falls;—sad to the deck he goes!
The storm of midnight swells, the sails are
furl'd,
Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly
shore,
Fast o'er the waves the wretched bark is
hurl'd,
'O Ellen, Ellen! we must meet no more!'
Lightnings, that shew the vast and foamy deep,
The rending thunders, as they onward roll,
The loud, loud winds, that o'er the billows
sweep—
Shake the firm nerve, appall the bravest soul!
Ah! what avails the seamen's toiling care!
The straining cordage bursts, the mast is
riv'n;
The sounds of terror groan along the air,
Then sink afar;—the bark on rocks is driv'n!
Fierce o'er the wreck the whelming waters
pass'd,
The helpless crew sunk in the roaring main!
Henry's faint accents trembled in the blast—
'Farewel, my love!—we ne'er shall meet again!'
Oft, at the calm and silent evening hour,
When summer-breezes linger on the wave,
A melancholy voice is heard to pour
Its lonely sweetness o'er poor Henry's grave!
And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard
Around the grove, where Ellen's form is laid;
Nor is the dirge by village-maidens fear'd,
For lovers' spirits guard the holy shade!
